So Lyrical

by Trish Cook

  Grandpa grinned and chucked me on the shoulder. “I knew you’d come around.”

  At the cafeteria, we were joined by a couple of students named Caitlin and Pat. Father Joe had recruited them in the hopes that they’d give us a better idea of the wild and crazy life of a Beheaded Moose. He shouldn’t have wasted their time, I thought.

  We were all chowing down on some pretty decent food—the best we’d had since touching down in Newark two days ago, with no seafood in sight, praise the Lord—while Father Joe regaled us with funny stories about when he and my grandpa were Fairfield students way back during the crustacean period or whatever prehistoric era it was. I was pretty surprised to realize I was actually having a good time.

  Just as we were all finishing up, Father Joe excused himself. “Well, everyone, it looks like my time is up. I’ve got a meeting in five minutes.”

  Grandpa wiped his mouth with a napkin, tossed it on his tray, and delivered a frightening speech. “Kids, I’ve been worrying that this snowstorm is a bit much for the old station wagon to handle,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ve arranged for us all to camp out in Father Joe’s room tonight.”

  Zander, Brina, and I looked at each other in complete horror. Brina recovered first and plastered a big smile on her face. “Wow, won’t that be a blast?” she said.

  Caitlin practically choked on her Jell-O before coming to our rescue. “Mr. Tillingham, would you mind very much if Trace and her friends stayed at my beach house tonight? I’m sure it would give them a better picture of what college life is like.”

  I held my breath and nodded furiously. Who cares if I knew next to nothing about this girl? Anything had to be better than having a slumber party at a priest’s house.

  “Well,” Grandpa said, looking like he couldn’t quite believe we’d rather bunk with people our own age, “if they really want to.”

  “Oh, we do,” I said, squeezing Caitlin’s hand under the table. I turned to her and mouthed, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “I guess I’ll just mosey on over to the library for a while, then,” Grandpa said.

  “Here’s my phone number and address,” Caitlin said, handing Grandpa a piece of loose-leaf. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be by at eight o’clock sharp,” Grandpa said, wagging a finger at us. “Don’t make me wait.”

  “No problem,” I said as he walked out of sight.

  Caitlin and Pat got up from the table right after Gramps and Father Joe did, and the rest of us followed suit.

  “Hide the trays under your jackets,” Pat whispered. “This weather is too good to waste.”

  “What the hell?” Zander said under his breath.

  “Just do as you’re told,” I said. “Those two just saved us from a night of pin the nail on the cross, remember?”

  The five of us semi-inconspicuously shoved the bulky cafeteria trays into our coats and ran outside. A second later, Caitlin and Pat were halfway up Bellarmine Hill, whooping like maniacs.

  “Huh?” Zander said, still not getting it.

  As soon as our new friends reached the top, they whipped out the trays and came flying down the steep incline on their pseudosleds. It looked like a blast, so I started running uphill as fast as I could, leaving Zander and Brina eating my dust. Thirty or so tray rides later, everyone was whipped, cold, and totally content.

  “That rocked, you guys,” I told Caitlin and Pat. “I’m having more fun today than I’ve had in my entire senior year so far.”

  I looked at Zander’s expression and backpedaled. “Except for all those great times with you, Zander.”

  Now Brina looked hurt. “And you, too, of course, Brina,” I added. Caitlin put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed me tight. “So come here next year and let the good times roll.”

  I looked away, embarrassed that we were taking up all her time when I had no intention of ever becoming a Beheaded Deer. “That probably won’t happen, but I’m sure it would be fun.”

  “It would,” Caitlin said. “I guarantee it.”

  After we were all sledded out, Pat pulled the campus shuttle around and picked us up. “No one’s around today anyway. So I’m gonna blow off my regular runs and drive you guys down to Caity’s house.”

  “Great, we get to ride around in the sped bus,” griped Brina.

  “Stop being such a cynic,” I said, pinching her. “Just because this isn’t TRL doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.”

  She scowled back at me but did as she was told. While I was busy not speaking to that crabby friend of mine, I tried to make small talk with our saviors. “So, how did you end up at Fairfield?” I asked Caitlin.

  “I actually transferred here from Phoenix State sophomore year,” she said. “It was weird, because I was positive PSU was the place for me. I mean, who wouldn’t want to go to a college where there’s year-round great weather, plus wave pools and taco stands on campus? Fairfield seemed totally lame in comparison.”

  “I wonder if there’s still time to apply to PSU?” Brina mused, getting all excited at the thought of it.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Caitlin said, shaking her head. “All the freshman lectures were huge and taught by graduate students. And if you weren’t in the right sorority, forget about having a social life.”

  “Didn’t pledge well, huh?” Brina said.

  “Actually, I did,” Caitlin said softly. “I just didn’t like excluding other people because of it.”

  I really like this girl, I thought. I’ve always considered all that cliquey stuff the worst part of high school, and have steadfastly refused to align myself with any single group. That way, no one could think a catchphrase like “jock,” “brainiac,” or “goth” defined my entire existence.

  “Are you happy with how everything turned out?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. I only wish I’d spent my freshman year here, too,” she said as Pat pulled up to her house.

  “I’ll catch you guys later,” he called after us. “Be sure to tell everyone the party’s at the Stone Pony tonight.”

  “The Stone Pony?” I asked Caitlin as she wrestled to get her key in the nearly frozen lock. “As in the bar in Asbury Park?”

  “Nope. All the student beach houses have names,” Caitlin explained, finally prying the door open and escorting us in. “Pat and his rugby buddies are Bruce Springsteen fanatics, so theirs is called the Stone Pony. I swear, those guys know every ridiculous thing there is to know about that man. They go to all his concerts. Make an annual pilgrimage to Rumson to camp out in front of his house. Basically, they’re insane.”

  My heart started to race. I’d just have to corner Pat tonight and see what he had to say about my little secret.

  “What’s the name of your house, Caitlin?” Brina asked.

  “Home Away from Home,” she said, shaking snowflakes out of her hair. “HAH! for short.”

  “Sounds just about right,” Zander said, plunking himself down on the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table, and flicking on MTV.

  By eleven o’clock, the Stone Pony was wall-to-wall kids and the party was rockin’. Unfortunately, I was having a hard time cornering our host. Every time I got remotely close to him, he’d go do a keg stand or start making out with one chick or another. I had almost given up hope that I’d ever have a chance to pick his brain when I found myself standing next to him in line for the bathroom.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said, feeling a little shaky and nervous. After all, this guy might have some brilliant ideas about how to go about proving my dad’s true superstar identity.

  “Sure, Trace,” he said.

  I looked around at the other people in line, trying not to lose my nerve. “In private?” I asked. Pat nodded while some drunken dickhead made a crack about how sixteen would get Pat twenty. As in I was jailbait and was planning to let Pat violate me in some way, and then he’d have to spend some time in the slammer. As if any of that might happen.

 
; Pat took my hand and we pushed our way through throngs of kids until we were in his room. He got all comfy on the bed while I paced. “You’re going to think I’m totally weird, but I was wondering if you could help me find my dad.” The sea of words came spilling out of my mouth in a jumble. I was kind of surprised there wasn’t some sort of bizarre alphabet soup left floating on the bedspread in the aftermath.

  “Sure thing, baby,” Pat said, pulling me down next to him and wrapping a beefy arm around me. Oh, shit, I thought. This guy really did think I wanted him, and that I was using a lame excuse to get into his pants. I pulled the picture from my back pocket just before Pat swooped in for a kiss. “Check this out,” I said, popping back up off the bed.

  “No freakin’ way!” he yelled, standing up to high-five me. “You’ve met the Boss? In person? That fucking rocks, dude!”

  Though I’d never really thought about it before, I guess I do look a little bit like Bebe did at my age. “Actually, no,” I said, totally bursting his bubble. “That’s my mom in the picture with Bruce.”

  Pat flicked on the overhead light and examined the photo more closely. “Oh, cool,” he said. “She’s with the lead singer from that Springsteen cover band, too.”

  “She’s with who?”

  “The dude from Born to Run,” Pat told me. “They’re like that Neil Diamond tribute band Super Diamond. Totally reverent about the whole thing.”

  Now, there was an interesting piece of information. I had kind of ignored the other guy in the picture after Brina and I collectively decided he was nothing more than Bebe’s conduit to Bruce—I’d preferred to concentrate on the two lovebirds instead. “You know this guy’s name?” I asked, more interested now that I realized the dude might hold the key to Bebe’s secrets.

  “Hmmmmmm,” Pat said, tapping the side of his cheek. “I always hear people refer to him as the Boss-alike—he’s such a carbon copy of Bruce.”

  Think. Think! I mentally urged Pat. This Boss-alike guy might be able to get Mr. Springsteen to own up to being my dad. I stared into Pat’s eyes, trying to will him into coming up with a name. A moment later, he snapped his fingers.

  “If I remember correctly, it’s Mac. Mac Donald,” he said, sounding unsure. “No, that doesn’t sound right. Maybe it’s Mac Donnelly.”

  OK, I thought. Now I have a possible witness to interrogate. I couldn’t wait to get home and Google the guy and his band.

  “Or is it Mac Donohue?” Pat mused.

  So I’d have to try Born to Run plus all three names: the unlikely Mac Donald, Mac Donnelly, and Mac Donohue. At least I was headed in the right direction.

  “Do you happen to know where this guy is from?” Since Pat wasn’t even sure about the Boss-alike’s real name, I wasn’t expecting him to have the answer, but thought it was worth a shot, anyway.

  Pat cocked his head. “I think they’re based out of San Diego now.”

  “Now?” I asked. “Where were they before that?”

  He smiled and slung his arm around me again. “New Jersey, of course.”

  We walked out of the bedroom arm in arm, and I stood on my tip-toes and kissed Pat’s cheek in gratitude just before he took off down the hall. And that, of course, was the exact moment Zander spotted me. It seems he’d been searching high and low for quite a while.

  “Hey, Z,” I said, hoping he’d missed the suspicious-looking scene.

  “You really took to this place quickly, didn’t you?” he said, practically spitting the words through his teeth. OK, so apparently he’d seen everything and jumped to conclusions.

  “It’s not how it looks.”

  “How stupid do you think I am?”

  I grabbed his hand and held on tight, even though it was clear he wanted no part of me. “I don’t think you’re stupid at all. Pat’s a big doofus, and he did try to hit on me, but nothing happened,” I said, a hint of desperation creeping into my voice.

  “And that’s why you kissed him on the way out of a dark bedroom? To thank him for hitting on you and being a big doofus?” Zander finally broke his hand free from my vise grip.

  “No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head and wishing I was a little less buzzed so I could explain everything more clearly. “I took him aside to show him the picture of Bebe because he’s such a Springsteen fanatic. I thought he might have ideas about figuring out if Bruce is my dad or not.”

  “And?” Zander crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently.

  “And he actually knew who the other guy in the picture is, along with where to find him,” I said, still a little awestruck by the whole thing. “Now all I have to do is interrogate the guy and voilà! I’m bastard chick no more.”

  “Cool,” said Zander, seemingly ready to forgive and forget now. “Good work, Trace.”

  We rounded up Brina, who had attached herself to the brawniest, dumbest rugby man alive, and relayed my discovery. Everyone was in a celebratory mood: me, because I had one more lead in the search to find my dad; Zander, because he was now ninety-nine percent sure I hadn’t cheated on him with sweet but dopey Pat; and Brina, because she’d finally ended her scooping drought and was making out happily with Mr. Rugby Man.

  Around midnight, Pat and his buddies organized bat races on the beach. Zander and I somehow got separated and ended up on opposite teams, pitted against one another. True to form, Brina refused to participate, preferring to hang on to her dude’s arm and watch us make fools out of ourselves.

  “You’re going down,” Zander said to me before it was our turn to chug. Apparently he wasn’t completely over my imagined indiscretion quite yet.

  “Not if you do first,” I said, winking at him and trying to diffuse any leftover hurt feelings.

  We both slammed our beers equally fast and twirled ten times around the bat together. Zander kept his equilibrium despite the dizziness and ran straight across the finish line to seal his team’s victory. I, on the other hand, ended up stumbling into the freezing waves.

  “I kicked your ass!” Zander was whooping when I came up soaked to the gills.

  “Give her a break,” Pat said, wrapping me in a towel like a knight in shining armor. I tried to shrug him off so Zander wouldn’t get mad again, but Pat steadfastly stuck by my side.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Zander, patting my back and adding, “But I did whip your butt.”

  “Whatever,” I said, my teeth chattering nonstop.

  I sloshed my way back up the beach. After she high-fived me, Caitlin grabbed my hand and led me to her house a few doors down. “You look like you could use some warming up,” she said once we were inside, offering me some cozy sweats and a cup of tea.

  “You’re right,” I said, shivering uncontrollably. “Thanks.” I turned around and peeled off my wet, frozen things and replaced them with her warm, fuzzy ones. “Caitlin, what’s your favorite thing about Fairfield?”

  She started ticking reasons off her fingers. “Cool people, living at the beach, being close to New York City, small classes,” she said. “And other special stuff, like the outdoor mass during parents’ weekend. My father, especially, wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  I sighed. Just another thing I’d never share with my dad.

  “You don’t have to go to it, of course,” Caitlin added quickly, probably thinking I was anti-organized-religion.

  I don’t know why, but I started spilling my guts to her. She poured us cup after cup of steaming tea while I blabbed on and on about Bebe, my nonexistent dad, and how Brina was always in the spotlight and how I felt so damn hunchy next to her.

  “Trace, I want to change my answer,” Caitlin told me after I was done purging my soul. “My favorite thing about Fairfield is that it just feels like home.”

  I had to admit, she had a point. If this was the true Fairfield—traying, beach parties, bat races, and staying up half the night with potential lifelong friends—I could certainly think of worse places to end up. I fell asleep wrapped in the comfort of a warm blanket and kind words, thinki
ng I might have to give more serious consideration to my college choice.

  But when I woke in the morning to the ten-below gusts rattling the rafters, any fleeting thought I might have had about actually attending Fairfield flew out the window. Sun and sand, I thought. That’s where I’ll be spending my next four years.

  I shook Zander and Brina awake. On our way out, I wrote a note thanking Caitlin and Pat for their hospitality and left my e-mail address in case either one wanted to look me up in the future.

  “Yesterday was so much fun, wasn’t it?” I said as we hopped in Grandpa’s car.

  “If you like the clean-cut, boring variety,” Brina said, rolling her eyes.

  “It’s my favorite kind,” I said, feeling defensive, though I wasn’t quite sure why.

  “Moving right along,” Zander said, interrupting our little catfight. “Let’s decide what kind of a rockin’ New Year’s Eve we’re going to have tonight.”

  “Can’t we just stay in?” I whined. “I hate New Year’s.” And I have good reasons. Number one: Last New Year’s Eve, Brina threw up on my shoes. Number two: The one before that, Reece cried on my shoulder all night because stupid Stu the wrestler had broken up with her. Number three: The one before that, Brina made out with my boyfriend at midnight. She claimed she was so drunk, she thought he was someone else. It was a likely story.

  “Get your party shoes on, kids,” Grandpa said, beaming at us in the rearview. “Because we’re all going to the senior center’s multigenerational New Year’s party tonight, and it’s gonna be a doozy.”

  “Oh, my God, things are going from bad to worse,” Brina muttered under her breath.

  CHAPTER 11

  All day, Zander, Brina, and I tried to figure out a way to get out of the party. We considered feigning stomach poisoning from the cafeteria at Fairfield, but later rejected the idea when we realized Grandpa had eaten the exact same meal. We were still in the midst of a serious brain-storming session when Grandma called us to leave.