Edie asks if we heard about the awesome show DikNixon played at the old train station in Fullerton on Saturday. Me and Keith have no idea what she’s talking about. “I heard it,” she says and does this quick, sly smile. “I said it to myself, heard it, and then told everyone in first period what I’d heard.” She smiles again and I could hug her for making us sound so cool.
Cherise says she heard about it too and told everyone in her third-period class and someone there said they’d heard about it in World History and now they can’t wait until DikNixon comes here.
That makes me happy too. Not hug-happy with Cherise, but race-to-Treat’s-house-right-after-school-happy. Which me and Keith do.
Mr. Dumovitch meets us at the front door and says Treat will see us later in the week. He doesn’t say why or anything, only that Treat won’t be back at school until Wednesday or Thursday.
“You think Treat’s okay?” I ask Keith as soon as we’re heading back up the hill and I know Mr. Dumovitch can’t hear us even if he’s standing next to the Bug on the driveway.
“He’s probably dyeing his hair purple,” Keith says, “and doesn’t want us to see it until it’s just the right shade of weird.”
At the top of the hill, Keith says he’d better just go home; he’s got some catching up to do in Algebra. I tell him that sounds better than the bar project I have to work on. Keith looks at me like I’m speaking Russian so I explain what the project is and how embarrassing it is that it’s for Astrid’s dad.
Keith slaps his own head. “You know how lucky you are? Her house?” He stops walking. His face has gone serious, no smirk, just eyes rounding and tight lips as he waits for me to stop, step back, and hear something big, like maybe he knows where Jimmy Hoffa is buried big, or who really shot JFK big. “You should steal a pair of her panties.”
“Are you insane?” I start walking.
“No, listen.” He steps up next to me. “College guys do it all the time. A panty raid.”
“But I’m not a college guy, you perv.”
We stop and wait for a break in the traffic at Yorba Linda Boulevard. Keith has me trapped, so I have to hear him out. “It’s not a perv thing. You just steal the panties, slip them into a folder, write Top Secret across it, and then bring them to her at school. Tell her some guys in the locker room were trying to sell them and you went crazy with rage.”
“Like I saved her reputation.”
Keith nods, tight-lipped. Still no grin. “Exactly.”
The blur of cars passes and I give Keith a smack on the back of the head. “You’re a total perv.” Then I’m off, across five lanes of traffic, Keith right behind me, yelling, “The Wall! We must make it over the Wall!”
.
After dinner, my dad needs me to dig a metal filing out of his right thumb before we go to work on the bar project. It’s on the bottom side, the bendy part below the knuckle where everything is tighter and even the slightest touch of the needle has him wincing. I’m being careful but he’s jumpier than usual and we’re getting nowhere. Suddenly, so fast it even surprises me, I dig in deep with the needle, pushing the metal just enough to get the tip of it with the tweezers. A groan and gust of air comes flying out of my dad like somebody punched him in the stomach. There’s a lot of blood too, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve got that jagged little dagger in the tweezers and hold it up for him to see. His eyes are glasses of water about to spill, and he looks more tired than relieved, but that doesn’t bother me either. I just think, Good.
In the garage, on the wall over the workbench, is a piece of notebook paper with the bar drawn in top and side views. It looks like a simple L from the top. The side views are complicated, though, with shelves and cabinets and a little sink. We measure and cut more wood the whole time, me doing the measuring and my dad doing the cutting. We’re listening to an oldies radio station. Every time the saw stops screaming there’s another “Teen Angel” or “Johnny Angel” or “Teenager in Love” whining about his poor, desperate life. Finally, I say I need to go take a shower so I’m ready for school tomorrow and my dad says that’s fine, he’ll finish up a few things and see me inside, but I don’t see him inside. He’s still going at it when I crawl into bed a couple hours later.
.
Tuesday morning, me and Keith get obliterated by our first periodic table quiz. There was simple stuff like the definitions of atomic weight and numbers, protons and electrons, neutrons, and what it means when things bond, and I think I did okay there. But there was also an actual table with some parts left blank and we were supposed to fill that in, and, well, now I really know what it means when people say they blanked out.
So it’s kind of a relief to be back in the garage with my dad on Tuesday night, measuring and drilling little holes in the wood for the screws. He spent last night framing the spot in the counter where the sink will go and cutting all the cabinet doors to the right sizes. Now we just need to sand everything. Big surfaces with the power sander and a sanding board, corners and edges with little square sheets that get so hot they burn through and scald my fingers. We’re hardly talking because my dad is clueless about baseball right now and there’s no way I’m telling him anything about Astrid or DikNixon. Still, it’s not too bad until he starts talking about work. He’s making parts with the lathe for some satellite and he’s kind of excited about it. Keith’s dad works on the heat tiles that go on the space shuttles, which is better, only he doesn’t make the parts; he designs them. Somebody else makes them, somebody like my dad. I go from feeling bored to feeling embarrassed for my dad. Then I’m annoyed that songs like “Return to Sender” say the totally opposite thing of songs like “Please Mr. Postman.” How can anybody like this stuff? It’s all so sad.
.
Treat’s not at school Wednesday so I beg Keith to come by my house after dinner, and he does. He works in the garage with us for maybe half an hour, including the breaks he takes every couple minutes to let the sandpaper cool down. Then Keith dusts his hands off and says he’s got a lot of homework.
My dad thanks him for his work and I walk him to the driveway. Keith’s got good news: He told his mom how much Mr. Dumovitch was doing for us and she got all over his dad about it. Now his dad is taking him out this weekend to buy things for the band.
“Your dad didn’t see right through that?”
“Probably,” Keith says, “but he’s not in charge.”
Keith heads up the sidewalk and my dad steps out of the garage. We watch him walk all the way out of the cul-de-sac and across the street to his house. “That Keith’s a good kid,” my dad says.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s a teen angel.”
I don’t mean it as a joke for my dad but he laughs, the first time in a long time, so I go with it, fake a laugh of my own, then ask if maybe we can change the radio station for a little while.
At first my dad tries humming along with Adam and the Ants and Madness. Then the Dead Kennedys come on. “Is that guy saying, ‘Holiday in Cambodia’?” my dad says. He walks over to the radio and leans in like maybe that’ll make him understand. “Who are these guys?”
I stare at the dials like somebody just asked me to multiply the atomic weight of hydrogen by the atomic weight of helium. There’s no way I’m going to say the word Dead and then Kennedys, not one right after the other, not even in the same sentence, probably not in the same day. “It’s just a punk band.”
My dad clicks off the radio. “You got that right. Bunch of punks.”
“It’s just music.”
My dad’s shaking his head. “That’s not music, Reece. I’ve seen these guys on the news with their army boots and hair standing up every which way. They scream just like that,” he says, flicking his thumb at the radio, “and get everyone in the room crazy, running into each other. It’s not normal.”
I want to explain how it’s antiwar and anti-imperialism and really a
good thing. That’s what Treat says. But I can’t imagine my dad seeing it that way, so we work a little longer in the quiet until we call it a night. My dad says it should all be dry and ready to install on Saturday, which means I’ve got to start figuring out some work clothes that don’t make me look like a plumber or something.
.
Treat’s back in English on Thursday, only he’s at the front of the room until the bell rings, busy getting all the handouts and homework he missed. After class, he pats me on the Packy patch, says, “See you at lunch,” and barrels out the door.
Edie and Cherise are in the cafeteria, the first time all week we don’t see them in the Bog, and me and Keith are already sitting on the edge of the planter and eating by the time Treat gets to us.
“Hey,” Keith blurts out with his mouth full of chips. “Where you been?”
Treat steps up in front of us, a little out of breath. “Nowhere.” He pulls a couple cassette tapes out of his lunch bag and hands one to me and one to Keith: The Nixon Tapes.
“Get to know this stuff,” he says. “Then write some songs for Monday.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Keith says. “Writing songs?”
Treat starts pulling food out of his bag. “Something like that.”
“Maybe we should get together today,” Keith says and Treat shakes his head. “Then what about Friday?”
“I’ve got plans.” Treat takes a big bite of a sandwich with the thinnest, grainiest-looking bread you’ve ever seen.
Keith leans forward and looks at Treat. “I thought the band was our plan.”
Treat stares Keith down without saying anything, his eyes bulging and jaw flexing while he chews.
“We’ll get on it,” I say and change the subject to Guess who got in a fight with what’s his name and do you know about the book report we have to do?
I leave the tape in my pocket the rest of the day. The last thing I need is van Doren knocking it out of my hand with a book while I’m trying to put it in my locker and then the interrogation: Is this DikNixon? Wait, are you DikNixon? What a joke. But none of that happens. Right after school, he drops a pair of sweaty tube socks on me. Then he says, “I’m sorry.” When I hand them up, he fires a fastball into the closest trash can. “What’s the point?” he says and spins back to his locker. “Can somebody tell me? What’s the point?”
Since he asked twice I figure I’m supposed to answer. “I don’t know.”
“Who does?” he says and slams the locker shut and starts walking away. “It’s all bullshit. Complete bullshit.”
.
Mr. Krueger has the periodic table quizzes in his hand Friday morning. “I had these ready to go yesterday,” he says. “I’ve just been thinking about what to say.” He peels one off the top. “According to one of you, and I’m sure a few of you agree, the definition of a proton is as follows: ‘An explosive particle used often in the manufacturing of missiles.’” He leans on the podium. “I like Star Trek too. I know what a proton torpedo is. But if I had one, I’d shoot this person with it.” We all laugh, because who else bawls you out like that?
Keith looks over at me like he got caught eating dessert before dinner, and Mr. Krueger keeps going. “I know my quizzes aren’t easy, people. They’re not supposed to be.” He shakes his head, then nods, and it’s hard to tell if he’s agreeing with himself or saying no or just dizzy with all the information flying around in his head. “I could give you multiple choice and some of you would do well guessing, but science isn’t multiple choice. The answers don’t always present themselves.” He slides the quiz he talked about into the middle of the stack. “I gave partial credit to ‘Mr. Explosive Particle.’ He has no idea what he’s talking about, but he at least attacked the problem with creativity rather than leaving it blank. Better to try and fail than never try at all.” He begins handing the quizzes back. “I won’t be this generous next time. Charity is a rare and wonderful gift; don’t come to depend on it.”
My fourteen out of twenty on the quiz seems pretty good until I do the math. It’s a C–. Keith, or “Mr. Explosive Particle,” got a D. Instead of laughing it off, though, he gets serious after class. His dad said that once he sinks some cash into this band project, none of it better come between Keith and good grades. Keith says he needs the band, so now he needs the grades too. Right now, I don’t know if my parents would even notice my grades, but I definitely need the band. And who knows what Treat needs. Hopefully the band too.
Solitary Man
Saturday morning there’s bacon and eggs in the air, but it’s all wrong because only my dad is up. It almost feels like one of those Tuesdays back in Paterson where I’d come out of my bedroom and Uncle Ryan would be there in the kitchen, a huge breakfast ready to go as soon as everyone woke up.
I’m wearing my best ripped jeans and Property of New York Yankees T-shirt, and my hair’s done so it’s perfectly messed up and my dad will think that’s how I slept on it. “I’m not having anything,” I say.
“Eat,” he says. “I scrambled the eggs the way you like.”
My stomach feels quivery, like the first at bat of the season, so I pick up the bacon. My dad sips his coffee and explains how we’ll carry everything in so that it’s laid out in the order we’ll put it together. I nibble the bacon long enough that the eggs are still sitting there when my dad stands up. He looks down at them, sighs, and says, “Let’s go.”
Mr. Thompson’s excited when we get to the front door, and he takes us straight back to the family room. Everything’s cleared out and the floor feels spongy and reeks of new carpet. Mr. Thompson’s going on about stain-resistant chemicals and my dad’s nodding like that’s the most amazing thing ever.
“I guess you won’t know when Astrid has parties now,” my dad jokes.
“Well, that’s what neighbors are for,” Mr. Thompson says, and they laugh. “Seriously, though,” he says. “She always tells us.”
Mrs. Thompson comes in the room wearing her silky robe, carrying a tray with cups on it. “Breakfast shake?” she says and holds the tray out to my dad.
He grabs two, shoving one into my hand without asking. “Thanks, Ashley. You’re too good to us.”
The stuff in the cup really looks like a shake, kind of frosty and thick, and it’s nice until the smell hits you. My dad tips his back and powers the whole thing down in three chugs.
Mr. Thompson grins. “One of my fraternity brothers could do that.”
“Do you like it, Pat?” Mrs. Thompson says.
My dad wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh yeah. You’ll have to give Eileen the recipe.”
“Oh, it’s easy,” Mrs. Thompson says. “Plain yogurt, skim milk, brewer’s yeast, whey protein, soy, lecithin, and a little vanilla extract.”
My dad nods, like, Yes, I thought I detected a little vanilla extract in there.
Mr. Thompson pats his belly. “I’m starting to get rid of this flat tire here. Diet and exercise.”
“Honey,” Mrs. Thompson says. “Why don’t you help out today?”
My dad is straight-faced, nodding. “We could use an extra hand, Alex. If you’ve got time.” He pulls out the plans he sketched and hands them over and you’d think it was Lou Gehrig’s autograph the way Mr. Thompson takes the notebook paper so gentle, studying every last pencil scratch.
“Wonderful,” he says.
“Great,” my dad says. He wrinkles his forehead and nods the same way he does when Brendan wants to help change a spark plug or Colleen wants to pour her own milk.
We get started and Mr. Thompson has a hundred questions for every task my dad gives him, then re-asks a minute later. It gives me a chance to go slow and time things so that I’m installing a hinge or lining up a cabinet every time I hear a noise somewhere else in the house. I’m thinking, If Astrid comes gliding into the room, I want her to know I can really sink a
screw, you know? Then I sink one at the wrong angle so it’s not totally flush and my dad’s all over me about staying focused. He looks at Mr. Thompson and at the exact same time they say, “Teenagers,” like they’re singing a duet. It’s the only thing I’ve done wrong in an hour. I’m not the one who tried to attach a hinge, which moves, where a joint, which does not move, was supposed to go. And when Mr. Thompson put one of the cabinet doors on backward, my dad didn’t get high-and-mighty on him. He just said, “Let me help you out, Alex. Those are tricky.”
If Uncle Ryan were here, we’d have been done in half an hour and he’d be at the new bar, grinning and saying, “Let’s test this thing out.”
When my dad starts explaining to Mr. Thompson, again, how we’ll putty all the screw holes and he won’t see the screws, and even shows him how he bought a shade of putty that matches the wood, I ask to use the bathroom.
“You’ll have to use the one upstairs,” Mr. Thompson says. “I just had tile laid in this one yesterday.” He stops working and tells my dad about “this thug” who laid the tile, and my dad’s shaking his head like it’s such a tragedy.
It’s quiet upstairs and Astrid’s shut door is right across from the bathroom. I walk soft, listening for Astrid’s sleep breathing and happy that even if I can’t hear it I don’t hear snoring, either.
The bathroom counter is a mad scientist’s laboratory, only with makeup and lotion and perfume bottles spread across it. I’m letting the diet shake go where it belongs, looking down at a basket full of magazines. There’s a Tiger Beat peeking out from the pile, but right on top is a Cosmopolitan. The woman on the front is staring so hard and so sexy it’s like she sees me. Her earrings look like they’re worth more than our house. And her dress has me needing a deep breath. It’s not just that it’s got no sleeves so you can see her creamy arms; the whole middle has been ripped out so you can see her belly button, and her cleavage, and her collarbone, and Oh my God she can’t be wearing a bra if I’m seeing all that. Astrid reads this? What does it tell her?
Californium Page 12