Someday Jennifer

by Risto Pakarinen

  “Hello, friend,” she said.

  “Hello, friend,” I replied. “What’s up?”

  “I know you said that if anybody was going to fall flat on his face, it’d be you, but you didn’t have to do it just for me,” she said, and smiled.

  “Oh, please. You know I’m a man of my word. It was the least I could do.”

  “What a fun night, right?” she said. “Look at you, all handsome in a tuxedo and everything. I was almost jealous of Sara, snapping you up like that.”

  Almost jealous? Was she for real? Was she teasing me?

  I realized that I hadn’t seen Sara since the end of the dance; I briefly wondered who she’d snuck off with.

  “Ugh, I want to get changed,” I said. “Whoever designed the tuxedo obviously never had to sit down.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “Was I pretty?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Of course.”

  “Ally Sheedy pretty?”

  She knew Ms. Sheedy, star of WarGames and The Breakfast Club, was one of my favourite actresses.

  “For sure.”

  “What more can a girl ask for?” Jennifer said as she took me by my wrist and led me toward the couch in the lobby, where a group of friends, including Mikke and Sami, were sitting and chatting. Mikke and Sami made room for Jennifer on the couch; I found a seat on the windowsill.

  Sami was the cool kid, the leader of the pack, the king of school, the Fonz and Sonny Crockett all in one. (Well, in his opinion, at least.) He was tall, dark, handsome. He was also one of the few boys with a moustache, even if it was nothing like Magnum’s cookie duster.

  “What’s up, Oddjob?” he said. This was his latest nickname for me, a reference to the Bond villain (or the Bond villain’s assistant; however you want to see it). Sami called everybody names. He said it was his way of showing affection. I’m not sure AJ would have appreciated being called “Conan the Destroyer” behind his back—but then again, he did take a lot of pride in his physique.

  “Hi, Sami,” I said, but he wasn’t paying any attention to me.

  “Having fun, Jenny?” he asked.

  I grunted. Of all Sami’s nicknames, “Jenny” was my least favourite. Who was he to give her a pet name?

  “Of course she’s having fun now,” Mikke chimed in. “She doesn’t have to stand next to you anymore.”

  “Funny,” said Sami flatly. “God, I can’t wait to get out of this shitty place in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It’s not even in the middle of nowhere,” I said. “It’s on the outskirts of nowhere.”

  Everybody chuckled.

  “Right on!” said Sami. “Hey, have some of my special apple juice.” He sent his flask my way.

  I took a sniff. It was sickly sweet and strong. I tipped it up as if for a hearty swig but only let a little into my mouth. It burned. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand.

  “Attaboy,” Sami said. I passed the flask back to him, and he held it up for Jennifer. From her look of disdain I thought she was going to decline, but instead she grabbed it and took a few long glugs. “Steady,” said Sami. “Save some for the rest of us!”

  A COUPLE OF HOURS into the party, the few that looked old enough to get served at a bar—and the few more that had convincing fake IDs—left the school; some others took advantage of the empty classrooms to get better acquainted.

  I was leaning against the door in the physics room, where the buffet tables had been pushed aside to create a dance floor. A lonely DJ was sitting in the corner, surrounded by three crates filled with records. I knew him; he’d graduated from our high school together with Tina two years earlier. Though the music was loud, people were just standing around in clusters, boys on one side and girls on the other. Nobody was dancing to “We Built This City,” because, really, how can you?

  The DJ spotted me and beckoned me over.

  “Hey, you,” he said. “Tina’s brother. Come here.” I went. “Want to do me a gigantic favour and play these two records while I run to the bathroom?” He pointed at two vinyl singles on his side table.

  Before I’d even said yes, he was halfway out the door. I took my place behind the record player. He had lined up “YMCA” by the Village People and Paul Hardcastle’s n-n-n-n-“19.” I didn’t even consider whether the DJ might be offended as I politely slipped the records back into their sleeves and then thumbed through the crates to find some decent floor-fillers. Twenty seconds later, the snappy synth intro of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” was echoing off the physics classroom walls, and a “Whoop!” went up from the girls, who stormed the dance floor, their hands in the air. When David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” came on, the boys found something they could strut to, and pretty soon the dance floor was full.

  I was on my third song—“Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood—when the DJ came back and waved at me to leave the seat. By then, my schoolmates were so excited about my work behind the turntable that they loudly heckled him. Sami put his arm around the guy and walked him toward the door. Just before they walked out, I saw Sami pull his flask from his pocket.

  Mikke jumped to the middle of the crowd and threw himself on his back on the floor, like a break dancer, only he needed a couple of other boys to spin him around. He looked like a turtle stranded on his back. Everyone went wild.

  Somebody handed me a baseball cap, which I put on backwards. I looked at Jennifer dancing and having fun on the floor—I couldn’t really keep my eyes off her—and I realized that I was creating the perfect mix-tape for her, right there and then. There were a couple dozen kids in the crowd, but she was the only one I was playing for.

  Next up: “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease, a good song to dance to, and with the right message. As it kicked off, she laughed and winked at me. Was she showing appreciation for the tunes, or that she understood my hidden message? I made a not-so-smooth transition to Rainbow’s “I Surrender” and let Ritchie Blackmore’s guitar (and Joe Lynn Turner’s voice) say what I couldn’t. She rocked out to that one, hair wild, singing along. Then I took the beat down a notch with Hanoi Rocks’ “Don’t You Ever Leave Me.” Any real DJ could’ve told you it was way too early for such a smoochy glam-rock ballad, and when our DJ returned to the classroom, he was shaking his head. All that mattered to me was that Jennifer was still on the dance floor, her arms crossed, moving a little like the Back to the Future Jennifer had done at Marty McFly’s audition.

  When I put on Madonna’s “Crazy for You” and let the DJ have his seat again, Jennifer was gesturing for me to come to the dance floor, and—possibly fuelled by Sami’s special apple juice, possibly by the adrenaline pumping through my veins—I couldn’t resist the pull of her curled index finger. Not that I tried.

  “Surely I get at least one dance with you tonight,” she said.

  I swallowed, my mouth dry.

  “Of course, and don’t call me Sh—”

  “Shh. No jokes,” Jennifer said and closed her eyes.

  And we danced. We swayed and moved around the classroom floor in small circles, my hands around her waist, her arms around my neck. Before the song was over, Jennifer took me by the hand and walked me out of the classroom.

  “You leavin’? We’re just getting the party started!” I heard Sami shout to me.

  “I’ll be right back, Biff . . . um . . . have a great night!”

  Jennifer led me to a doorway next to the cafeteria, where nobody could see us. She was a bit tipsy.

  “I can’t believe we’re going to be seniors next year. And then we graduate. Everything’s going to change. You’ll be just fine though, friend, because you’re so smart.”

  “And you’re so . . .” I tried to think of a nice adjective that would describe her. Funny, intelligent, brave . . . I wanted to say she was beautiful, but couldn’t.

  “. . . much better than you at finishing sentences?”

  “Yes, that.”

  She kept her deep-blue eyes
on me for so long that I started to worry I might fall into them.

  We heard a honk from outside, and then another.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said finally, with something like a shrug. “Can’t keep Dad waiting.”

  I didn’t want her to go. Didn’t know what to say to make her stay.

  “You’re something else,” she said.

  She flicked her hair away from her shoulder, stood on her tiptoes, and gave me a kiss on my left cheek. Then she turned around and, walking backwards, she waved, wiggling her fingers. I waved back and watched her walk out the door. I waited a minute and then left the party as well.

  I hummed Madonna’s “Crazy for You” all the way to the bus stop, my left cheek burning. I was confused, but also elated and happy.

  She’d kissed me.

  Jennifer had kissed me.

  Chapter 10

  Who Can It Be Now?

  I STARED AT the photo in my hand, shaking my head slightly at the memories it had unleashed. Of course I’d instantly recognized those kids, even though I hadn’t seen the photo in decades. On closer inspection, its glossy finish showed considerable signs of passing time. It had faded a little, and there were scratches and grease marks on it, but most of them were on the boy’s face. Jennifer’s smile, eyes, cheekbones, and hair were flawless; she was just as perfect as she had been on the fourteenth of February 1986. Frozen in time.

  And the young man in the photo, the one with the moustache? Not me. That was Sami, Jennifer’s dance partner that day.

  The photographer behind the Agfamatic 3008—the guy pressing the magic red button? That was me. Why I’d kept the photo, and not given it to Jennifer, I didn’t remember, but I was happy I’d found it.

  “Hello, friend,” I said to the Jennifer in the photo.

  That was our standard greeting. Mikke overheard Jennifer say it once and immediately launched into a long speech about how I’d “never get anywhere” with her. She’d pegged me as a friend, he said, and that was all I’d ever be.

  “Girls can be friends with guys without wanting more,” he said, as if he were an expert on the subject or something. “It’s weird, but that’s how they are. Just remember that once she’s told you she wants to be your friend, that’s all you’ll ever be.” He added: “In case you ever thought you’d be more than that.”

  I stood the photo on the shelf, leaning against the tape player. As the mournful opening piano bars of Lionel Richie’s “Hello” crackled through the speakers, a knock sounded on the door. I turned down the volume, and immediately regretted giving the person outside such an obvious confirmation that I was in here.

  My only hope was that Mrs. Hellgren was too deaf to notice such things. If there was one person in the world I definitely didn’t want to talk to right now, it was her. I held my breath, trying to be as quiet as a mouse at the back of the garage.

  Knock, knock. Again.

  “Hey, open up,” I heard Tina shout.

  For a second, I considered staying put, but I knew Tina wouldn’t give up. She was going to stand outside the garage banging on the door and yelling until Mrs. Hellgren joined her.

  I pulled the handle, and Tina slunk in under the door almost as soon as I could see light.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Just doing some cleaning,” I said, as matter-of-factly as I could. I walked to the tape player and pretended to be turning the tape over while I knocked down the photo of Jennifer (and Sami).

  “I was worried. I called you a dozen times.”

  “Oh, I must have left my phone upstairs.”

  “Nice T-shirt.”

  Tina sat down on a stool. She folded her arms, leaned forward, and looked me straight in the eye.

  “I’m sorry about the way we argued,” she said. “It was just silly.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not exactly the first time.”

  I rearranged some boxes and, with my hands on my hips, looked around the garage as if deciding what to do next.

  “I heard you bumped into Tim,” Tina said.

  “Yeah, he was coming home from work.”

  “We both know he’s not at the office. It’s just that . . . it’s hard for him. It’s complicated.”

  “What is? Does he not like me?”

  “Actually, he does like you, which is what makes it complicated. It’s not fun to feel unwanted, and when he sees you and me together, he feels like an outsider, so he’d rather just stay outside.”

  Tina sighed and got up.

  “Anyway, Tim said you seemed a little upset. He thought maybe you needed to talk to somebody. Call it male intuition—it’s possible such a thing could exist. What do I know? Anyway, here I am.” She took a few steps and picked up an old blue Adidas sports bag with white ends.

  “What’s in this, I wonder?” She unzipped the bag, pulled out an old grey sweatshirt, and dropped it on the floor.

  “Eww.”

  Apology over, she was back to the old business of antagonizing me. I smiled and passed her a beer.

  “It’s just old clothes. Probably from when I moved from the university dorm to my first apartment. I moved everything on public transit, so I probably just stuffed some of my clothes in that bag,” I said.

  “And you haven’t opened it since?”

  “It’s possible,” I said, sheepishly.

  Tina laughed.

  “What else have you got here?” She peeked inside the box where I’d found Jennifer’s photo. “Photos!”

  There were half a dozen other photos at the bottom of the box. One was from the Bryan Adams concert we’d gone to together; it had been taken from so far back in the stands that it was basically a ball of light in a sea of blackness. The rest painted a picture of a pleasant small-town upbringing. There was the family outside the high school after Tina’s graduation; the family outside the same school after my graduation—Dad wearing the same suit and tie; Mikke and me sitting on the floor in my room with album covers all around us, acid-wash and big hair; me sitting with my feet on my desk, the Spectrum on my lap, grinning stupidly; Tina and me in front of the Christmas tree, my arm around her neck.

  They weren’t the exact six photos I would have chosen to represent my life, but they weren’t a bad selection.

  “How on earth did Dad let us wear those clothes?” Tina said.

  “I wonder where that Boomtown Rats album is . . .”

  “The school’s the same, but look at the cars. They’re so boxy!”

  “I loved that Spectrum. I loved it.”

  “See how you have your arm around me, but I don’t have mine around you?”

  “Mikke’s mullet, man . . .”

  “I bet he’s bald now. All the guys with the best mullets are now bald.”

  “Look at the posters on my wall: Ghostbusters, Purple Rain, Back to the Future.”

  “You used to love Back to the Future.”

  “Best film ever.”

  She was about to say something—presumably to contradict me—but caught herself.

  “Hey, remember that time we fought over a poster? On one side, there was Axel Foley from Beverly Hills Cop, but on the other side was Kajagoogoo. I totally wanted that,” Tina said.

  “Yeah. Who got it?”

  “Nobody.” She dropped the photos back into the box. “The poster ripped.”

  “You know, I really would love to go back there. I would love to be back in that time.”

  “I wouldn’t, but I think I understand you. I really do.”

  She walked back to the sports bag and put it on the stool in the middle of the garage.

  She pulled the clothes out of the bag, piece by piece, and with each new shirt or pair of pants, she grinned, and she giggled, and then she laughed—until I started to laugh too. And then, between bursts of laughter, Tina whispered, “You know what would make you feel better? A makeover. I know it’s nonsense girly therapy, but it really does work. Please?”

  I laughed even harder. Ti
na picked up a green sun visor and put it on, and then, looking through the transparent green plastic, said, “Pleeeeease?”

  “Really? Come on! I’m not a doll you can dress up. Not anymore.”

  “It’ll be fun! It’ll be like taking a trip back, like you were saying. Come on. Just one outfit?” She held out a bundle of clothes. “For old times’ sake?”

  “Fine!” I said, in mock annoyance.

  I built a dressing screen out of a few boxes and disappeared behind it. Three seconds later, I walked out in my acid-washed jeans and Frankie Says Relax T-shirt.

  “Nailed it!” Tina said, with a surprised chuckle—generously ignoring the fact that I couldn’t do up the top buttons on my jeans.

  She rummaged through the bag and threw me another pile of clothes.

  “Now let’s go for something similar but distinct.”

  I’d told myself I was going to draw the line at one outfit, but when I saw what she’d found I couldn’t help myself.

  I disappeared behind the boxes and put on a black-and-white three-quarter-sleeve shirt with black sleeves. On the chest, it said FINISHED the FAB 5K: 1986.

  Tina threw a pair of Nike sneakers over the boxes, narrowly missing my head.

  “These too!” she shouted.

  When I walked out, Tina gave me an appraising look.

  “Perfect. This would be your street-casual look, a.k.a. Alex Keaton casual.”

  In the time I’d taken to change, she’d prepared the next outfit, and soon I was in blue jeans with a loud Hawaiian shirt and white tennis shoes.

  “Not so sure about this one,” I said.

  “Me neither.” Tina laughed. “And you still wouldn’t be able to grow a Magnum P.I. moustache.”

  “What’s next? Is there a Maverick flight suit in there?”

  “Listen, I’m in charge, and don’t you fargin’ forget it,” Tina said. By the tone of her voice and the fake swear words from Johnny Dangerously, I could tell she was really getting into it.

  “Get back in there,” she said, tossing me another outfit. It wasn’t quite a flight suit, but the leather bomber jacket and fake Ray-Ban Aviators made me a pretty slick Maverick.

  Next up was the Springsteen look: faded blue jeans, bandana, a (tucked-in) plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and boots.