“Awesome,” said Liz, and plopped down on the ground. “Ouch! These needles aren’t as soft as they look.”
“Pillow,” said Quill, stretching out behind her and patting his stomach. She lay back resting her head on him.
DJ and I did the same. It was chilly under the trees, and I folded my arms across my chest.
“Here,” said DJ, sitting up, taking off his jean jacket, and spreading it over my bare legs.
Then we lay looking at the sky beyond the tops of the trees. A big gust of wind came shooshing through the needles, and the trees swayed.
I heard Liz and Quill kiss.
“We better get going,” she said, “or Gimli’s going to be on groundation for life.”
We climbed through the pines, springy needles beneath our feet, until we got back to the bike path. That fence had been repaired since I’d last been there, and we had to climb.
At the alley behind my house, we split up, the guys in a rush to get home on time. DJ and I hugged, his kiss missing by mouth and hitting my chin, and then the guys went up the alley.
“Call me, if you can!” I yelled. “Oh, wait, your jacket!” He’d made me put it on when we left the pines.
“Keep it,” he called back.
And they rounded the corner, walking fast.
I’m wearing the jacket now, and I like it. It smells faintly like laundry, like when you walk by someone’s house in the wintertime, and the dryer is venting a steamy cloud into the cold air.
At dinner, Mom and Dad wanted to know all about my “outing.” I caught just enough of the movie to tell them about it, and how we walked home—I skipped the pines detour.
“Are Liz and Quill,” Dad said, “going out or whatever you kids call it?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t really said anything.”
“What about you and DJ?”
“I don’t care for the term, ‘going out,’ Dad.”
“Are you dating?”
“We’re seeing each other.”
“Oh, seeing each other. So you look at each other, but you don’t go out, and you don’t date.”
“Please, Dad. Mom, can you get him to leave me alone?”
“I’m a bit curious too, honey. But don’t tease her, Gale.”
“I’m just trying to get the semantics straight.”
“Semantics?”
“The terminology.”
“Read my lips, then, Father: stop bugging me.”
“Just tell us a little about him,” Mom said. “And then we’ll leave you alone.”
I didn’t know what to say. Should I tell them that he wasn’t allowed to date? If I did, would they tell me I couldn’t see him?
“He’s in the writing group and the Tolkien lunch club,” I said.
“So you share some interests, that’s good. What else?”
What else? He wrote me a poem? He doesn’t say “like” as much as he used to? He asked for a lock of my hair?
“He’s just the sweetest guy I’ve ever met,” I blurted. Then I added, “Except for you and Sean, Dad. Is that enough? I thought so. Next subject, how’s the music going, Mom? Are things coming together well in your new ensemble? And Dad, what about you? How’s your new case going? The drunk guy who ran into the cop car with its lights on? Do you think the ‘moth effect’ defense is going to be effective on this one?”
“I’m glad he’s so sweet,” said Mom.
“There is no boy who could possibly be good enough for my daughter. But if her boyfriend is sweet to her, then I can’t complain.”
So I survived the parental cross-examination, Di.
The other news is that, as I feared, we are not going to the cabin this weekend. Mom and Dad are seeing each other, dating, and going out tomorrow night.
12 October
Morning, Di.
I hear Mom practicing, Dad’s probably in his office working, and I don’t have anything to do. I wish we were going to the mountains. I feel the need to do homework, to get all caught up, but I am not going to do that.
And I am not bored. I refuse to be bored. Cassie does not get bored. So why am I so bored? I used to love to be alone. I think I’m sick of myself.
In the pines:
Since I was going crazy in the house, I came up here with a blanket, some lunch, and my book. Frankenstein is getting good, but weird. Victor succeeds in creating his dæmon, and then as soon as it comes to life, he runs away from it. Because it’s ugly? Now he is sick from shock and horror.
This might not be the best place to read. I keep thinking of yesterday, and wishing DJ were here with me. It’s cold here in the shade, so I wrap up in my blanket.
In the pines, in the pines,
where the sun don’t ever shine …
If DJ were here, we would lean back against the old stonework, close together, and imagine ourselves in some glade in the Shire, discovering the ruins of an Elven palace. Some hint of magic remains in the glade, or not magic, but the essence of the Firstborn, their love of nature and dedication to their art.
That’s where Victor Frankenstein went wrong. Like Tolkien’s Fëanor, he was the most skilled in his art (or science), but he was too proud, wanting his creation to surpass God/Nature in beauty and power. And like Melkor—the original Dark Lord—he wanted to create, but all he could do was to twist and corrupt what already existed, producing a mockery of creation.
But art is not evil—science is not evil, not unless corrupted by pride and the lust for power. And is it always? Even when the Elves created the rings of power to deepen their art and their ability to preserve and protect beauty, they were betrayed by Sauron, who made his own ring to control the others.
Back to my fantasy: DJ and I discover the glade, where an essence of magic and love remains. Also sadness, for the undying Elves must witness the decay of all they create, and they must leave the lands they love. Then we hear fair singing, and a band of wandering Elves arrives, and welcomes us, singing songs of ages past, of those who built the walls and have since passed away, as they must also pass away, after a year or a century of reminiscent journeys before they board the ships, never to return.
When I got home, Dad said that DJ had called.
“Upon interrogation,” he said, “this DJ admitted that his intentions on my daughter—”
“Dad!”
“What?”
“You did not give him a hard time.”
“No, I guess I didn’t.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he’ll try to call you back.”
“That’s all?”
“He wanted to know if you were, like, going to the mountains, or were, like, going to be home this weekend.” He grinned. “And, like, that’s all.”
I can’t believe I missed DJ’s call. Here I was off daydreaming, and he finally gets a chance. I talked to Liz, who said that those guys want to get together on Monday. We’re meeting at her house, and then we’ll figure out what to do. I asked her if she could come over tonight, but she has to babysit her cousins.
“So, what’s going on with you and Quill?”
“So, what’s going on with you and DJ?”
“Asked you first.”
“It’s kind of bizarre, actually,” she said. “I’ve known him since kindergarten, like I have DJ. We’ve been friends forever. DJ had a big crush on me in sixth grade, but he was always like a little brother to me. Quill and I are just buds, or were. I guess it did cross my mind. I mean, it makes sense, he did turn hot last year—if you like the Dee-Dee Ramone hair.”
“DJ’s is hotter.”
“Longer maybe, more like Joey’s—but, you know, to me, he’s still DJ.”
“So what happened with you and Quill?”
�
��It was the night you came over to watch Lord of the Rings. After you and DJ and Kel left, we were watching the deleted scenes, and the next thing you know we’re in a total lip-lock.”
“Whoa.”
“It didn’t last long because after, like, one minute, my mom yelled down the stairs that it was time for him to go.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing. We didn’t say a word about it. And then it started happening again yesterday, and finally, we talked last night.”
“How was that?”
“Bizarre.”
“Because … ”
“You know Quill. Have you ever gotten a straight answer from him on anything? He was just acting silly.”
“What did he say?”
“A lot of nonsense, weird voices, song lyrics. Eventually, I said, ‘We’re not really going out or anything, are we?’ And he’s like, ‘Perish the thought.’ And I said, ‘Because this is just getting bizarre.’ And then he got more serious, saying maybe it was a little strange, but it was cool, right?
“I said it was cool with me, but it changes things. Then he’s silly again, ‘Life is change, the more things change, the more things stay the same,’ and a bunch of shit like that. I told him I didn’t want to mess up our friendship, that we were like best friends, so where did this leave us now, best friends with benefits or some kind of Alanis Morissette shit? Then he’s all, ‘Isn’t it ironic, I really do think, a little too ironic.’ And, ‘I’m drunk but I’m wasted, I’m gay but I’m really queer, I’m blind but I’m sightless, baby.’
“I was getting sick of his bullshit, so I told him to knock it off or I was hanging up.
“‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘You think it’s cool, I think it’s cool—let’s just see what happens.’”
“So, are you ‘cool’ with that?”
“Yeah. It’s not like I want to marry him, so—yeah, I think I am. Now,” she said. “What about you and DJ?”
“I think it’s easier because we haven’t been friends forever. But Mommy won’t even let him call me.”
“Not your mom … ”
“His. What’s her deal, anyway?”
“O-ver-pro-tec-tive.”
“As if he needs protecting—he’s so sweet, almost innocent.”
“Don’t you get it? She’s protecting him from hos like you. He is innocent; you are evil.”
“Now I get it.”
“But how romantic and cool.”
“Not really. It sucks. I’m not used to sneaking around.”
“Just be careful. If his mom does find out, he’ll get grounded or worse. And—don’t you dare tell him I told you this—but he is totally in love with you.”
“He said that?”
“Are you kidding? But it’s true. He says you’re so beautiful, so smart, so tuff—not t-o-u-g-h, but t-u-f-f. He even thinks your hairy legs make you cool. ‘She’s, like, the only true nonconformist in the whole school.’”
“Seriously?”
“I tried to get him to tell me what you guys were doing in that dark movie theater, but he got so embarrassed he almost hung up. So, what were you doing?”
“I think I’ll hang up now.”
“Come on! First base, I know. Did he hit a double?”
“Liz, you weren’t paying attention. The movie wasn’t about baseball. And don’t you have to go babysit your cousins or something?”
“Oh, my God, call me tomorrow. Bye.”
13 October
DJ never did call again, and I got myself in trouble last night. I spent a restless evening after Mom and Dad went out, wandering around the house, upstairs and down. Eventually, I settled in the living room, lying on the floor listening to Dad’s records. I tried one of his old Grateful Deads, then some Miles Davis. Sketches of Spain was too orchestrated, but In a Silent Way was perfect. The first side is all one piece, eighteen minutes long, very mellow and spacey, called “Shhh/Peaceful”—just what I needed. Two half-full bottles of wine tempted me from the kitchen counter (Drink me!), so I had half a glass of each, which I didn’t think they’d notice.
I set the turntable on repeat and got buzzed on the wine, floating along with the electric guitar, organ, and Miles’ trumpet so clear and smooth. Next thing I knew, I was waking up on the rug—I’d thought of it as my magic carpet—with the record still playing. Only now it was LOUD.
Mom and Dad were home.
Mom was sitting on the couch holding my wineglass, and Dad was cranking the volume to wake me up. Then he turned it way down.
“Hi,” I sort of moaned, still sleepy and foggy from the wine. “Did you guys have fun?”
“How much wine did you drink?” Mom said.
“Half a glass.” I sat up and looked at Dad, still standing by the stereo, then back at Mom. Neither one said anything, and neither one believed me. “Two half-glasses, I guess.”
“You guess,” said Mom.
“Pretty big half-glasses,” said Dad. “We checked out the bottles. What else did you drink?”
“That’s all.”
“Do you think I count the beer and mark the level on the liquor bottles?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long have you been drinking our booze?”
“Dad, never. Just tonight. Just this one time. I can’t believe this—one little glass of wine—”
“Two glasses, more like it.”
“It really wasn’t.” I took the glass from Mom. “It was just up to here.”
“That’s not the point,” she said. “It’s a matter of trust. Even if it wasn’t upsetting enough to come home and find your fourteen-year-old daughter passed out on the floor with a wineglass—”
“I wasn’t passed out, I was asleep.”
“Are you drunk?” said Dad.
“No!”
He gave me his best cross-examination glare. “You drank eight to ten ounces of wine, and you weigh, what? One-thirty? You didn’t have any dinner, from the looks of things, so it was on an empty stomach. You must be a regular drinker if you didn’t feel the effect.”
“Okay, I was a little buzzed, but I wasn’t passed out.”
I sat down across from Mom. Dad stood behind her. They looked at me.
“There are two issues here,” said Dad. “Your mother wanted to talk about trust.”
“Can this wait ’til morning—”
“No.”
“Can I get a glass of water? I’m really thirsty.”
“I’ll get it.” He went to the kitchen. “Dehydration is a side effect of alcohol,” he called back. “Did you know that?”
“Yes,” I said, “but not as well as you do. How much did you drink tonight?” I must have been a little buzzed because I don’t usually get lippy. Or was I just tired and dehydrated and cranky? Anyway, I didn’t stop there.
“This is bullshit,” I said. “How many times have I sat here and watched you polish off a bottle—”
“Trust!” Dad yelled from the kitchen.
“It’s simple, Cassie,” said Mom, before I could start again. “Now that you have broken our trust, we wonder if we can trust you again. And we wonder if you’ve lied to us before.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You said half a glass, then it was two half-glasses. I do believe that’s all it was, and I believe it was only this time, but … ”
“But we wonder,” said Dad, handing me the water. “And we’ll continue to wonder.”
“I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal out of this.” I drained my water.
“You don’t think our trust is important?” said Mom.
“I do, it’s just—it’s not like I was trying to hide it or anything.”
“Why not take a whole glass of wi
ne from one bottle, then? Why not leave a note: Dear Mother and Father, I felt the need to put a little buzz on, so I had a glass of wine. Don’t wake me up, I’ll need to sleep it off. Love, Cassie.”
“Sweetie,” Mom said. “You’re right—this is a fairly small thing. But it is not okay. We don’t want you doing it again. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“The second issue is alcohol.”
“I had a double Wild Turkey and two glasses of wine tonight,” said Dad. “Since you asked. With a meal, and over the course of a few hours. Your mother had two glasses of wine, and she drove.”
“After the movie.”
“And we are relatively responsible adults. You are a relatively responsible teenager—we want you to stay that way.”
“Alcohol is a dangerous drug,” Mom said. “Getting a taste for it too young, before you can make good decisions—”
“I can make good decisions.”
“Was this a good decision?”
“It wasn’t that bad—I didn’t steal your car and kill somebody. I didn’t … ” I struggled to add something. What is it that juvenile delinquents do when they get ripped? “I didn’t scratch your records.”
“And if you had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d be in a paddy wagon on your way downtown.”
“Cassie, you’re avoiding the issue. Alcohol is a dangerous drug. You are too young to drink.”
“Okay.”
The discussion ended with them telling me they were afraid they had given me the wrong message by letting me have the occasional sip, or few sips of wine on special occasions. They don’t want me to think that drinking is some cool thing for me to do. But they don’t want to pretend that I won’t ever drink, and so they want to keep it at home, under their supervision, and to keep it very limited until I’m older. I can earn their trust by my actions in the future, and if I ever do mess up and have too much to drink, or if I’m riding with someone who’s had too much, I can always call, and I will never be in trouble.
Is that reasonable, or does it make no sense at all? I sure felt like I was in trouble last night. I haven’t had a lecture like that in a long time.
Okay, Di. I’m weak. I wasn’t going to do it. I promised myself I was taking a break from homework. But Mom and Dad were awash in the Sunday paper, so I joined them, and I happened to find an article on climate change. It was perfect for my science article analysis, so I thought I might as well write it up.
Or Not Page 22