I miss Astrid all day too, but I know how that happens. It’s hard to see anybody on the way to English, or Spanish, or on the way to lunch when you’re looking at your feet the whole time, and really, those are the only times I usually see her.
During practice in the Two-Car Studio, Mr. Dumovitch comes out with a box full of flyers. The cutout letters and huge picture of Treat look even fiercer with the little lines and blurriness the copier made. It looks like a ransom note, except across the top it says DIKNIXON / TERRORIZE YOUR NEIGHBOR TOUR.
Treat hands a bunch to Keith. “Give these to Edie and Cherise tomorrow, and make sure they tell people about the free beer.” He hands me just one flyer. “You don’t even have to talk to Astrid now; just say, ‘This is my band. There’s going to be free beer.’”
“That’s talking,” Keith says.
Treat keeps looking at me. “You know what I mean. The flyer will do the talking.”
On the way home, Keith’s going on and on about how great this is, how it’s all fitting together like Legos. I’m imagining Astrid at her locker, folding the flyer into a paper airplane and sailing it into the back of my head as I’m walking away. Then real life hits me: Tomorrow is trash day. I can hand Astrid a flyer in the morning before school, before anyone else is around. Even if she smiles and drops it right into the can, at least no one else will see.
.
The quiet wakes me up. I’m sitting straight up in bed, light pouring through my window, but my alarm isn’t blaring. I can’t think what day it is. It feels too early to be Saturday, and if it was Sunday my mom would already be getting after me to get ready for church. Then the whir and bang of the trash truck echoes into my room and my stomach squeezes with tickle pain. The alarm clock is blinking 12:00, 12:00, 12:00 and I throw on the dirty clothes draped over my chair, grab the flyer, and run downstairs.
The truck is next door and only the trash cans people put out last night are on the curb; everybody else is going to miss it. Even Astrid. I pull my cans out onto the driveway and then go for hers. The driver stops the truck between our houses, and while his partner’s dragging my cans to the truck, he jumps out to help me with Astrid’s. He’s got a red bandana like a headband and the rest of his black hair is braided into a thick rope going down his back. And even though his jumpsuit is baggy, like maybe he’s skinny, he carries a trash can in each hand while I drag one. His arms are brown and veiny and covered in tattoos, barbed wire wrapped up with a rosary and a bloody Jesus head with the crown of thorns. When we get to the truck, he dumps both his cans and slides one into the other before pulling mine from me. He dumps it real fast, slides it into the others, then puts out his gloved hand to me. “You throwing that out too?”
The flyer is crinkly in my hand. “No.”
The driver takes a good look at it and nods. “That’s a pretty scary dude,” he says, sliding the trash cans over to me.
“He’s cool.”
“Oh yeah,” he says as he’s walking around the front of the truck to get back in. “Guys like that, they already had their trouble.”
Astrid comes walking out onto her driveway, baggy sweatpants and a giant Go-Go’s T-shirt sagging from her shoulders. It’s kind of funny because all the girls on the shirt have their hair in towels and cream all over their faces and you can tell they’re probably pretty but this isn’t them at their best. And here’s Astrid, her hair messy and eyes squinty and she might as well have on face cream and a towel too. It makes her sort of real.
“Reece?” she says, her arms folded and goose bumps all across them. “Did you pull out our trash cans?”
“Yeah,” I say, nice and slow. “There wasn’t time to get you—”
“You’re so sweet,” she says and touches my arm. Her eyes go to the flyer and she tugs it from my hand soft and slow. “What’s this?”
My body is so warm even though it’s cold outside and kind of relaxed because all the excitement is over. For the first time ever, talking to Astrid feels normal. “Oh. That’s for you.”
While she reads it, she keeps one arm folded across her chest, her hand tucked into her armpit. “Do you know DikNixon?”
“I’m in DikNixon. Me and some other guys.”
Her mouth opens and she looks up. “That’s you?”
“Yeah. I write the songs.”
“Wow.” She smiles and it’s so big it has to be real. “That’s very cool.”
I’m nodding and have to actually think Stop nodding to make myself stop, but it doesn’t go on too long and I say, “You should come to the gig. There’s going to be free beer.”
She studies the flyer for a second more. “Maybe. It depends on what my friends are doing Saturday.” She looks up and gives me this uneven, almost dirty grin that takes out my knees like a game-saving tackle. “You’re DikNixon,” she says and folds up the flyer. “Okay.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep from smiling. “And if you can’t make it, we’ll have other shows.”
“Okay,” she says and backs away.
“Okay,” I say, wondering now if I’ve just undone what I’ve done. Then I notice my dad’s truck still in the driveway. “Happy Wednesday,” I say and take off running.
.
When he looks at his watch on the nightstand, my dad says, “Damn,” and heads straight to the bathroom. My mom says to get Brendan and Colleen going while she writes their late notes for school.
With everyone running around fast and a little frantic, I leave my hair sticking up in every direction, throw on some clothes quick, grab my backpack, and get out the front door without a jacket.
It feels colder now that I’m not dragging around trash cans, my face getting tight and tingly in the air, so I’m happy to see Treat walking foot over foot on top of the wall between my yard and Astrid’s. His arms are out sideways, his face concentrating. He thuds down on our driveway, glances up, then yells past me, “Morning, Mr. Houghton!”
My dad is almost to his truck, keys in hand, and staring past me. “Morning.” He gets a really good look at Treat before unlocking the door and climbing in. He looks at me, says, “See you tonight, Reece,” and closes the door.
Treat steps up next to me. “This is kind of late for your dad, isn’t it?”
My dad backs out of the driveway, his head turned away and eyes on the street. He doesn’t have any reason to look back now, but as soon as the truck’s pointing in the right direction, he takes one more peek before driving off.
“We had a blackout,” I say. “Didn’t you?”
Treat pulls my jacket out of his satchel and hands it to me. “Nope. We must be on a different grid.”
Keith’s been up for about five minutes when we get there, so we sit in his room while he scrambles to get ready, yelling from the bathroom that maybe he should just have his mom call him in sick since he doesn’t have time to shower.
“Are you kidding me?” Treat says, lying back on Keith’s unmade bed. “Look at Reece. His hair looks bitchin’ today. Maybe a little Echo and the Bunnymen, but kind of Joe Strummer too.”
Keith sticks his head in the room and looks me over. “Okay, two minutes.”
I tell Treat about what happened with Astrid, how I was so panicked about the trash cans that I was kind of relaxed when I gave her the flyer, which seemed good at first, but then she said the thing about only trying to make it and hadn’t totally promised.
“She’ll come,” Treat says. “She knows it’s a big spotlight now and she needs to be in it.”
Keith comes back in the room, one whole side of his head soaking wet. “I told you,” he says. “The less you care, the more they like you.”
“Just like Cherise,” I say, and want it back as soon as it’s out of my mouth.
“Cherise?” Treat sits up.
Keith’s eyes bulge for an instant as he grabs his backpack off the floor. “Co
me on, we’re gonna be late.”
Treat grabs Keith’s backpack, stopping him right where he is. “We’re already late, Turbo. What’s this about Cherise?”
“You idiot,” Keith says to me.
Treat lets go of the backpack. “Does Cherise have a crush on one of you guys?”
Keith slips on his backpack. “She has a crush on you.”
“Me?” Treat says. He stands up the way a cowboy in a Clint Eastwood movie does when he knows he’s about to get shot, kind of slow and stunned and looking around like he doesn’t recognize anything around him.
Keith heads to the stairs. “Don’t tell Edie you know. It’s been a secret.”
“Been?” Treat says as he gets to the top of the stairs. “For how long?”
Keith’s at the bottom now, so Treat stops and waits for me. “How long have you known?”
“I just found out,” I say and fly past Treat.
The whole way to school, Treat grills Keith for more answers, completely forgetting that Astrid may come to the party, that all the best people might be coming to hear us play.
As we set foot on campus, Treat makes us swear to keep secret what is already supposed to be kept secret, shakes his head, then takes off for his locker.
“He’s mad,” Keith says.
“And angry,” I say, and we both laugh. “I’d be so stupid happy if anyone liked me.”
Keith pets my arm. “I like you.”
“Yeah. But that only makes me feel stupid. And gay.”
Keith rubs his chin. “Gay means happy, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, I’m just so gay about the fact that I can make you feel gay.” I’m busting up, so Keith isn’t about to stop: “We should wish everyone to have a gay day today. And gay birthdays, and a Gay New Year, and a gay old time, and . . .”
Judas with Pom-poms
Treat’s so angry with me and Keith that he won’t talk to us at lunch the rest of the week except to say something about new songs he’s heard by bands we’ve never heard of, or what time to be at the Two-Car Studio for practice. At practice, he’ll only talk about the songs we’re working on. It’s still fun, though. Between songs, while Treat fiddles with the drum machine or changes a lyric, me and Keith study our periodic table flash cards or joke around a little. Then Treat says to focus, which we do, and we get going again.
We’re getting pretty good. Our songs sound like songs most of the time now, and by Saturday afternoon, a week before the party, Treat holds his hands up in the middle of a song that’s going pretty good and we stop. It’s quiet for a second, just the hum of the amps, and then he says, “I’m giving you both a pardon.” He doesn’t say for what, but it’s got to be the whole Cherise cover-up. Keith looks at me like maybe he’s going to start explaining what happened but I shake him off and say, “Thanks. Let’s get back to the music.” Treat nods, says, “Walk Like a Man,” then hits start on the drum machine and we’re back at it.
We don’t practice on Sunday, though. Treat says it’s so we’ll be fresh for Monday and not so he can stay home to give out candy while his parents take Jewell trick-or-treating. Keith comes over to my house to jump out of the bushes and scare kids while I work the door, and it’s pretty fun until my parents come back with Brendan and Colleen. Keith has to go home then, so it just feels like a normal Sunday night after that. At least, as normal as things have been in California.
We’re back to practicing Monday after school, and again Tuesday, and by Wednesday night I’m feeling pretty good about DikNixon and write a letter to Uncle Ryan. I tell him all about what happened last week with Astrid and the trash guy. I even draw the barbed-wire Jesus tattoo for him in the middle of the page. I tell him how good DikNixon is sounding, how it’s just in time with the party in a few days, and I give him the set list we’re thinking about using. Then I tell him how Keith and Edie and Cherise have been passing out flyers all week to freshmen and sophomores, and how Treat says we’ll hit the upperclassmen tomorrow. Astrid’s had a week to get them all talking about DikNixon, so Treat thinks one last push will have them all in a frenzy for the party. I finish the letter by drawing the >I< logo at the bottom, tell Uncle Ryan I wish he could be here to see the band even though I know he can’t, and then go to bed with the glow of Astrid’s room as my night-light.
.
Thursday morning my mom’s at the front door, the Yankees jacket in her hand. When I take it without a fight, she opens the front door and tells me to have a good day.
Treat thuds down from the wall and meets me at the sidewalk. His satchel is bulging with my Packy jacket stuffed inside. When I go to reach for it, he looks past me and snaps his hand to his forehead like a salute, “Good morning, Mrs. Houghton.”
The front door is still open, my mom fiddling around with the lock like maybe there’s something wrong with it, which there isn’t. She stands up and folds her arms over her work blouse. “Good morning.” She touches the lock again, gives it a humph, and shuts the door.
“Nice lady,” Treat says.
“She’s okay, for a spy.”
On the way to school, Treat gives me and Keith each a fresh stack of flyers for the upperclassmen. He won’t pass any out himself because he says Mr. Marshall is just looking for an excuse to bust him again. I believe him and try not to think about how me and Keith will have to take the fall if we get caught.
When we get to campus, Treat reminds us, “Just be smart about it.” Then he takes off for his locker. Keith takes off too, saying he’s going to go give some flyers to Edie before Mr. Krueger’s class.
I’m stuffing the flyers in my locker when van Doren comes walking up with a few other guys. He’s laughing and saying how maybe they should go up to Santa Monica Saturday night and party at his cousin’s place. I’m a tenth of a second from getting out of there, my General Science book in my hand, when van Doren’s calculus book smashes down on top of it, knocking it out of my hand and both books flopping open on the ground. Van Doren’s hand drops down next to my face and he says all casual, “Do you mind getting that?”
He turns around to his buddies and keeps talking. “His parents are out of town for the weekend . . .”
As I grab van Doren’s book, I pull a DikNixon flyer out of my locker, fold it in half, and tuck it into the calculus book with all the other papers.
“Here.” I hold up the book and van Doren puts his hand back, nowhere near it. I stand up and look right at him. “Right here.”
Van Doren turns and his eyes go a little round as he gives me a half smile and takes the book. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
When I see van Doren later in the morning, he’s talking to Astrid after third period. He’s got the flyer in his hand and looks like he might actually say something to me. Then Astrid says, “Happy Thursday,” and van Doren looks at her, kind of surprised.
At lunch, me and Keith walk to the edge of the Senior Circle and get Petrakis to come over. As soon as he sees Treat on the flyer, he says to give him the rest of the stack. “We’ll make this party go off, little dudes.”
Petrakis slips back into the circle and right away he’s showing people the flyer. Treat’s watching from the Bog and when he asks how it went, Keith says, “Legos.”
Treat looks at me, so I translate: “Everything’s fitting together perfectly.”
.
Edie’s at my locker after school, her arms folded and foot tapping. “Where have you been?” she says and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Look what somebody did.”
She hands me a flyer, only it’s on yellow paper now and DikNixon is gone. It says Ted, and Treat’s address is covered over with a new one. It’s almost my house, just off by two numbers.
Keith and Treat come walking up with yellow Ted flyers. “She screwed us,” Keith says.
“Who?” Edie says.
“Astrid.�
� Keith flicks the address at the bottom. “This is her house.”
Treat shakes the Mohawk at me. “Fucking Judas with pompoms.”
“Maybe it’s the house on the other side,” I say, because how could Astrid do this? She said “Happy Thursday” to me.
Edie looks at me like I said the earth is flat.
Treat crumples the flyer in his hand. “We should rip the fucking ribbons out of her hair and choke her with them.”
Keith crumples the flyer in his hand. “I hope she chokes on her pom-poms.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “Besides, how do we know Astrid’s even connected to this? Are we going to dust it for fingerprints?”
Everyone glares at me. Treat snatches the flyer and holds it an inch from my nose. “It’s her address, Reece. Connect the dots.”
“It doesn’t mean she did it.” I look at Treat. “Maybe it’s a conspiracy.”
“Are you serious?” Edie says. “She does stuff like this all the time.”
“Like this?”
“Devious stuff.” Edie looks around, then lets her voice go a little lower. We close in to hear and she says, “Not obvious things, but secret things so she can still look sweet in public when she’s really not.”
“How do you know?”
“People talk. You think you guys are my only friends?”
Treat steps back. “Emergency band meeting at three thirty.”
“Let’s do it right now,” Keith says.
“No,” Treat says. “At three thirty. After I rake leaves.”
Keith folds his arms. “Okay. But then we come up with a plan that gets right in Astrid’s face and says, ‘You know what, you bitch? You’re a . . . a . . . you’re a bitch.’”
“Yeah, something like that,” Treat says, “but something that’s actually good.”
Californium Page 18