The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine

by April Lurie

  My mom reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “This is my new address. While I was in Paris an apartment opened near Philippe’s place in the Village. I’m taking it. It’s got an extra bedroom and, well, I’d really love if you’d come stay with me on the weekends, or whenever you can. Randy, too.”

  She hands me the paper. I stare at the address. None of this makes sense. “But…I don’t get it. I thought you and Philippe were together.”

  She gives me a strange look. “Oh…no, honey. We’re friends. Good friends. I thought you knew that. He was helping me out until I could find a place of my own.”

  “Oh.” For some reason this makes me feel even worse. My mom’s not leaving us for someone else—she’s just…leaving. “Does Dad know that?” I ask.

  “Of course. Why? He didn’t lead you to believe something else, did he?”

  I think for a moment. My dad never came out and said my mom was having an affair with Philippe, but then again, he never said she wasn’t. “Um, no, he didn’t,” I say. “I guess…it was my mistake.”

  She shakes her head. “Wow, all this time you thought…Randy, too? Well, that explains a lot. I’m sorry, Dylan. I wish I’d known. I would have cleared it up right away.” Tentatively, she reaches over and takes my hand. “Anyway, I hope you’ll come and stay with me. You don’t have to answer right now, just think about it, okay? And maybe you can talk to Randy when he comes home? He won’t speak to me at all.”

  I stuff the paper into my back pocket. “Okay, Mom. I’ll think about it. I’ll talk to Randy, too.”

  “Thank you.” She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze. “Dylan? I saw the sketch of the girl hanging in the studio.” For a moment I think she’s mistaken the drawing for Randy’s, the same way Nick did. But I’m wrong. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “Your best piece yet. I was wondering if I might take it with me, to hang in my new place. I know it’s asking a lot, but I really love the piece.”

  I look at my mom. Her eyes are hopeful. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “I drew several of those, so it’s no problem. I…want you to have it.”

  “Thank you, Dylan.” We sit there together for a while, and when Tripod begins to screech again, my mother returns to the messy business of packing.

  Later, after I’ve had time to think, I find my dad. He’s in the family room watching TV. It’s Sunday, so as long as none of his patients go into labor, he’s got the day off. When I walk in, he pats the seat next to him. “You want to watch the game with me, Dylan? The Giants are leading fourteen to seven and—”

  “No, Dad. I need to ask you a question. An important one.”

  “All right.” He turns down the volume. “What is it?”

  “I talked to Mom. She explained to me that she and Philippe are just friends. Nothing more. I know you never came out and said they were having an affair, but you also never said they weren’t. This whole time, Randy and I thought she left you—left us—for him. Why didn’t you tell us the truth? Why did you let us believe that?”

  At first my dad looks stunned; then he looks ashamed. He lowers his head and sighs deeply. “I never meant to lie to you, Dylan. Or to Randy. But when your mom first left, I was so upset, so angry, and I guess it was easier that way. To let her take the blame. It was wrong. I should have told you and Randy the truth.”

  “Yeah, you should have.” I stare at my dad for a while. His head’s still down, his shoulders slumped. What he did was wrong, so I guess the question is: will I forgive him? Slowly I walk over and take a seat beside him. Maybe he hasn’t been around much lately, but he’s here now. That counts for something. I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Dad. Don’t beat yourself up. I understand. Really. What do you say we watch the rest of the game together?”

  So that’s what we do. Until the phone rings and he gets called in for a delivery. It’s a quick one—he’s home by five—and when he walks through the door he’s carrying an armful of groceries. He gives Vanya the night off and asks my mother to stay for dinner. She agrees. To my surprise, he whips up this really great-smelling gourmet meal. Shrimp scampi with asparagus and pine nuts. He even breaks out an expensive bottle of wine and pours us each a glass.

  “Before we begin, I have an announcement to make,” he says. He glances sadly at Randy’s empty chair. “I wish Randy was here too, but at least for now we know he’s safe. Anyway”—he lifts his cup in a toast—“I’ve hired a new partner. A young, well-respected doctor from Columbia Medical Center. He’ll be starting in a couple of weeks.”

  My mom looks stunned, but then she smiles at my father and lifts her glass. “That’s wonderful, Paul. I’m happy for you. For your new partner, too. He’s a lucky man.”

  When I get over my shock, I chime in, “That’s great, Dad. So does that mean…?” I’m about to say, no more housekeeper? But I don’t. It’s hard to admit, but I kind of like having Vanya around. Instead, I say, “…we can watch the playoffs together?”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  We clink glasses, and before my mother takes a sip of her wine, she smiles at my dad and mouths, Thank you.

  Eighteen

  RANDY KEEPS HIS WORD. He arrives in Brooklyn the following evening, but not in the way I expect. At 11 p.m., as I’m getting ready for bed, the phone rings. When I pick up, the person on the other end barks, “This is officer Greenwood calling from the Sixty-eighth Precinct police station. Is Dr. Fontaine home?”

  Greenwood. I cringe, remembering the way the dude so mercilessly slapped those handcuffs around my wrists outside Century 21. I can picture him now, scowling, grinding his teeth, sipping his poisoned coffee, untwisting the lid of the urine sample container. “Um…no,” I say. “My father got called in for a delivery at the hospital. Can I…take a message?”

  “Yeah. Tell him we found his missing son. Picked him up in the neighborhood, along with a few of his buddies. They’re all being charged with POM. Possession of marijuana. Your father’s going to have to come here to bail him out. Otherwise he’ll spend the night in jail.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say. “I’ll let him know. Thank you, sir. Thanks for finding him.”

  “Yeah, sure thing, kid.” He hangs up.

  Quickly I dial the hospital. It turns out my father is in the operating room performing an emergency C-section. I leave a message with the nurse at the desk. “Please tell my father I’ll meet him at the police station,” I say. Next I hang up and dial a car service. To be perfectly honest, I’m going to the Sixty-eighth Precinct police station for two reasons. One, to offer Randy moral support, and two, to see the imbeciles behind bars. It took a while, but finally, justice is served.

  “Well, well, look who it is,” Greenwood says when I arrive. He’s sitting at his desk, shuffling through a stack of paperwork. Officer Burns is in another room, talking to a guy with a huge bandage on his head. “Mr. Fruit of the Loom. Mr…. what was that again? Oh, yeah, Mr. Trans Fat. How’s it going?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Just fine.” Chloe is sitting on a stool in the hallway outside the holding cell. She waves to me. “Um, Officer Greenwood?” I say. “My dad will be here as soon as he can. I’d like to stay with my brother until he arrives.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Jeez, what’s your brother doing, inviting his whole fan club? This isn’t Grand Central Station, kid. And I ain’t no babysitter.”

  “Yes, sir, I know, but I won’t cause any trouble. I promise.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot. It’s the polite juvenile delinquent. All right, fine, whatever.”

  After Greenwood frisks me to make sure I’m not carrying a dangerous weapon, I walk over to the cell. Moser is sprawled out on the concrete bench reading Memoirs of a Pervert on the wall, while Headbone stares at the STD-infested toilet. Randy is pressed up against the bars, holding Chloe’s hand. “Hey, Dyl,” he says. “Glad you could make it.”

  Chloe turns to me and grins. “So the dopeheads finally got what was coming to them, hey, Dylan?”

 
; “Dylan!” Headbone bolts over, grasping the iron bars. “Dude, you got to get us out of here! That cop Greenwood called my parents and they actually told him to leave me here overnight. Moser’s did the same thing. They said it’ll teach us a lesson, whatever that means. Can you believe it? And now”—he lowers his voice and looks around—“I’m trying to flush the weed out of my system, you know, before the piss test, and the dude won’t even give me another glass of water. I mean, what is this, a fascist country? Oh, and the other guy, Officer Burns, when he found out that your father was the almighty Vagina Head, he whipped out his wallet and started showing us pictures of his kid. The one your father delivered. Like we really care at a time like this!”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Moser says, finally peeling his eyes away from the wall. “I thought Burns’s kid was kind of cute.”

  Headbone throws up his hands. “Dylan, dude, I’m surrounded by incompetents! You got to help me, man!”

  “Sure, Headbone,” I say. “I’ll help you. I’ll sit here and keep you company for a while.” I grin and take a seat next to Chloe. By far, this is the best show in town.

  When my father arrives about an hour later, he races to the cell. “Thanks for calling, Dylan. Randy, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine. Listen, I’m…sorry about all this. I shouldn’t have—”

  My dad holds up a hand. “We’ll talk about it later. I’m just glad you’re safe. Right now we need to get you out of here. I’ll speak to the officers.”

  “Dad? Um, hey…if it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay here for the night. Moser’s and Headbone’s parents aren’t coming, so the guys could use the company.”

  “Oh?” My dad looks around, surprised. Headbone and Moser hang their heads sheepishly.

  “I’ll keep an eye on them, Dr. Fontaine,” Chloe says. “Why don’t you go home and get a good night’s sleep? I’ll call you if there’s a problem.”

  My dad hems and haws for a while and finally gives in. “Well…okay. If that’s what you prefer.”

  Burns and Greenwood are waiting to talk to my father now, but before we leave, Randy holds out his hand. “Thanks for coming, Dad.”

  My dad pauses, looks at Randy, and takes his hand. Without a word, they shake. “Sure thing,” my dad says. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

  Burns and Greenwood and the judge at the courthouse are pretty tough on Randy, Headbone, and Moser. As expected, all three test positive for marijuana, and to atone for their crime they are each sentenced to a three-month class on the evils of substance abuse, along with a three-hundred-dollar fine, forty hours of community service, and drug testing to be done sporadically by a police officer at McKinley High. Nick, it turns out, will share his bandmates’ fate once he’s off house arrest.

  About a week after their court date, I come home from school and hear Randy playing a new song on his guitar. I head to the basement. Chloe is singing lyrics I’ve never heard before while Headbone drums out a beat and Moser plays a bass line. It’s rough, but it sounds pretty good. I listen for a few minutes, then go upstairs. As I’m whipping up a soy protein shake, Chloe joins me in the kitchen. “So what do you think?”

  “It’s good,” I say. “I like it.”

  She grins, pulls up a stool, and sits at the counter. “Randy and I have been talking. He wants to stop doing covers for parties—refocus the band, get some original songs together. If we work hard, we’ll eventually be able to record a demo, pass it around to clubs, maybe get some gigs.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “Honestly, it’s about time.”

  I pour part of my shake into a glass for Chloe. She takes a sip. “And the best part is Randy told me he would stay clean. Even after the drug testing. He’s going to talk to the guys. Nick, too. Finally, Randy’s getting serious about his music.”

  We finish the shake and go downstairs. Randy tosses me his old acoustic and says, “Come on, Dylan, play with us for a while. Show these guys how it’s done.”

  Meanwhile, the screening of The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine is drawing near. Angie and Jonathan have finished their edits and now Angie is busily working on promotion. She’s printed up invitations and I’ve agreed to help pass them out. On my way to art class Monday morning I see Val Knudsen standing in the hallway, gazing at something on the wall. I dig in my pocket and pull out an invitation. “Hey, Fontaine,” she says. “Come here. Get a load of this.”

  To my surprise, taped to the wall is my portrait of Val—the one with the ghosted-in background of a girl holding the Chinese symbols for life and death—and beside it is her drawing of me. At least, that’s what I think it is. “Looks like Wiseman liked our portraits,” she says. “They’re the only two he chose to display.”

  “Um,” I say, pointing to the wall. “Is that…me?”

  She grins and gives me a shove. “Yeah, of course it is, Fontaine. Can’t you tell?”

  “Well…” All I can say is that Val has made last year’s portrait of Mary Flannery—the one with the knife in her throat and one bloody eyeball hanging from its socket—look tame. Staring back at me is an AC/DC death demon with hissing snakes for teeth and a lightning bolt shooting through its skull.

  “It’s got your look of surprise, don’t you think?” Val says.

  I study the drawing a little more closely. Strangely, there is something that reminds me of myself. “Yeah, yeah, actually, I see what you mean.”

  “Anyway, Fontaine, I like the way you drew me.” She gazes at the wall. “You captured my essence, you know?”

  I shrug. “That’s what I was trying for. Oh, here,” I say, handing her the invitation. “Will you come?”

  She looks at the paper and a smile spreads across her face. “You better believe I’ll be there, Fontaine. A short film starring you? I wouldn’t miss it.”

  On the night of the screening, the auditorium at NYU is packed. A total of fifteen films will be shown, and by the luck of the draw, Angie’s is last. Jonathan and I take seats on either side of Angie, and I look around. Everyone we’ve invited is here. When the lights dim and the first film begins, Angie takes hold of my hand and Jonathan’s. Right away I can see that the competition is fierce. Each film is well crafted, visually appealing, and unique. The students have done their homework.

  Finally the announcer says, “Now we are pleased to present The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine, by Angie McCarthy.” Angie’s been very secretive about her editing, so I’m not sure what to expect. As the film begins I discover that she’s made a series of short action clips, and interspersed between them are interviews from that memorable night at the Beanery. I watch with wonder and horror as Toulouse-Lautrec announces, “Come on now, cats! Don’t leave this man hanging! Surely there’s someone out there who wants to cover my friend Bony Ass!” I laugh when I see my face as Taz falls to the subway floor after a fatal blow from the imaginary Mike Tyson. I feel the heat of the torches and the buzzing of the chain saws as the Aussie juggles them, one by one, over my head.

  After a while, everything becomes clear. The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine is a story about an ordinary dude, me, taking a few chances, finding humor in the world, discovering who he is. And as I glance around I can tell the audience is really into it. Halfway through, I turn to Angie. “Everyone likes it,” I whisper. She smiles and squeezes my hand more tightly. Suddenly, I realize that Angie’s not only made the movie for herself, for this screening, for the possible win; she’s made it for me.

  In the final scene I’m near the fountain at Washington Square Park. Loose Marbles is playing and I pull Angie into the dance circle. “Hey, wait a minute,” I say, leaning over in my chair. “You told me this wasn’t going to be in the film. You said—”

  “Shhh, quiet, Dylan. I changed my mind, all right? Just watch.”

  The tattooed girl sings “Send me to the ’lectric chair” while Angie and I begin to slow-dance. Next is our disastrous kiss. I can barely watch. Before I press my mouth to Angie’s, I
notice a faint smile on her lips. She closes her eyes and kisses me back. I brace myself for the next part—Angie pushing me away—but suddenly the movie ends. To my surprise, she’s cut it right there. The audience cheers. I could be wrong, but I think they’re cheering for me. Dylan Fontaine, the hero of the story, finally found the courage to go after the girl.

  I glance at Jonathan. He nods and whispers, “It’s time, Dylan. ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’”

  I’m not sure what he means at first, but soon I realize what I have to do. I stand up and pull Angie to her feet. The crowd cheers more loudly. And then I do it. I kiss her right in front of everyone. This time she doesn’t push me away. She wraps her arms around my neck and doesn’t let go.

  From the audience, Headbone calls out, “Dylan! Studmeister! Give us lessons!”

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my friends and members of my critique group: Varian Johnson, Julie Lake, Brian Yansky, and Frances Hill Yansky; my agent, Laura Rennert; my talented editor, Françoise Bui, who loved Dylan from the start; and my husband, Ed, who laughed at all the funny parts.

  About the Author

  April Lurie is a native New Yorker. She is the author of Brothers, Boyfriends & Other Criminal Minds and Dancing in the Streets of Brooklyn. She lives near Austin, Texas, with her husband and their four children. Visit her at www.aprillurie.com.

  ALSO BY APRIL LURIE

  Brothers, Boyfriends & Other Criminal Minds

  Dancing in the Streets of Brooklyn

  Published by Delacorte Press an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc.

  New York