Then came the apple cider. In my excitement, I must have chugged a gallon. And when I came back from my first bathroom trip, everything was different. Yeah, people were talking, chuckling, joking. But Jennifer and Todd were in their own little private universe within our group.
“Hey, guys. Miss me?”
There were a few greetings and good-natured insults. But Jennifer and Todd didn’t even notice me. Soon they had backed away from our circle, forming a satellite conversation. The same invisible cocoon that kept us out seemed to crowd them in, so that Todd’s hand touched her arm every time he made a point, and Jennifer’s fingers brushed his chest as she responded.
I don’t remember being that devastated at first. Instead, I looked at them with an almost clinical interest. So this was how people got together. No official pronouncement of romance. Just a guy and a girl gravitating toward each other and away from everybody else. It was simple but unstoppable, like the advance of a glacier. I would have been fascinated if my world hadn’t been crumbling all around me.
When they took off together, it seemed totally natural. I actually gave them a wave and a “Have fun.” What could I have said that wouldn’t have made me look like an even bigger loser? As it was, everybody saw it happen.
I was so destroyed that I might have spent the whole day rooted to that spot. It was Dipsy who handed me the basket, and for the next four hours, we picked apples like it was a life-and-death struggle. We weren’t together, precisely. We didn’t talk much. But every time I turned around, there he was.
It wasn’t until I was sulking at the restaurant, all alone at a table reserved for two, that it came to me: if it hadn’t been for Dipsy, I probably would have fallen to pieces in front of my entire high school. I hadn’t done anything before or since to deserve his loyalty. He just saw a guy who needed support, and he gave it. I’d never forget that.
The Rick and Jennifer saga was dead before it started, but Todd and Jennifer didn’t last much longer. Todd subscribed to the Mount Everest school of womanizing. He went for Jennifer because she was there. Once she was back at St. Mary’s, he was with another girl within forty-eight hours. As for Jennifer, who knows what was going on in her head? Maybe I didn’t fully communicate to her that this was a real date. She never said a word to me about it, and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. It was almost as if it hadn’t happened.
I still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. If I’d told her what I thought of her back then, I might have had a little more self-respect. Then again, I probably wouldn’t be walking into Starbucks under the pseudonym Stud to greet my Warrior Princess.
She was at her favorite table, nursing a Venti Mocha, extra foamy.
“Hail, Princess. How goes the war?”
“Shut up and get yourself a coffee. I want the dirt on Jake Garrett.”
“Dirt?”
“You’re the one he’s wining and dining. Lakeshore Steakhouse—not too shabby.”
News traveled fast in the suburbs. Todd to Didi to Jennifer. The cell phone is a wonderful invention.
I bought the smallest decaf they had and slipped into the chair opposite hers. “You already know the dirt. He was her math tutor two years ago, and maybe something more. They lost touch, and they met again Friday night at the party. Why don’t you ask Didi?”
She frowned. “Didi won’t say much. And you know how she loves to talk.”
“Maybe she’s covering up something kinky,” I suggested. “Leather, chains, quadratic equations. Those polynomials can get pretty hot.”
“Not a chance. Didi did say that Jake tried to get close a couple of times, but she hosed him right down.” She added, “Hard as it is to imagine any girl saying no to Jake.”
“What’s he got that I don’t have?” I retorted, only half joking.
She was patient. “Don’t get all defensive. Even you have to admit Jake’s the place to be right now.”
“His parties are, sure.”
“No, he is. The guy is like a walking zone of happening, and everybody wants to breathe the rare air. Nobody has that, not even someone as good-looking as Todd.”
Thanks a lot, Jen. “So why did Didi say no?”
She shrugged. “She was already dating some senior—Jake was only a sophomore back then. Besides, he was her math tutor. I can’t even picture Jake being that.”
I thought back to the chess trophy in Jake’s desk drawer. “He’s smart.”
“Yeah, well, whatever the reason, she said no.” Jennifer dredged the bottom of her coffee with a stir stick. “I’ll bet it makes Didi feel weird to see girls drooling over him.”
I shrugged. “She’s got Todd. He treats her like crap, but that seems to come with the deal. And anyway, Jake’s over her.”
She gave me a motherly look. “Sometimes, Ricky, you’re like a hayseed in the big city. It’s totally obvious he’s still gaga about her.”
I shook my head. “You’re the one he always talks about,” I argued. “It was you he wanted me to bring to his party. Didi only tagged along, remember?”
She rolled her eyes with an exasperation that plainly said it was a burden to have to explain things to a moron like me. “Everyone knows Didi and I are a package. He asked for me to get to her.”
I sighed. “Jake may be the place to be, but he’s no better off than two years ago. He’s still nosing around someone else’s girlfriend.”
“When he could be nosing around me,” she concluded wistfully.
I must have blanched, because she added, “I’m kidding. Come on, Ricky. You know you’re the only man who’ll ever rock my world.”
Promises, promises.
chapter seven
“WHAT’S THIS I hear about you and that new Garrett boy throwing wild parties?”
Mom accosted me the minute I set foot in the house on Tuesday—short practice day. I’ve heard a lot about our generation having such a cool crop of parents—former hippies, Woodstock, peace and love, that kind of thing. I happen to be descended from the only two children of the sixties who thought hippies were all flakes.
“Don’t you think you’d notice if I had a party?” I countered. “For starters, there’d be a whole lot of bodies blocking the TV.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young man,” she said sharply. “Mrs. Appleford complained that the Garrett boy has been keeping her up every Friday night.”
“Mrs. Appleford complains every time the wind blows,” I reminded her. “You said so yourself. Remember the time she caught us watering the lawn on an odd-numbered day?”
“But she told me you were mixed up in it,” Mom protested.
“I’m the one she recognized,” I explained, “because Dad thinks it’s easier to be friends with her than to face the wrath of the sprinkler Gestapo. I was only at that party because Jake invited all the Broncos. It’s totally his thing.”
I could see I’d won her over. “I’m sorry, Rick. You know how awful Mrs. Appleford can be. She’s got me feeling guilty because I sold Pete Garrett that side-hall Colonial.”
Mom was in real estate, so she never used the word house. In her world, people lived in Colonials and Tudors and split-levels and ranches.
“You never told me you knew Jake and his dad,” I put in.
“Well, I don’t know them, really,” she replied. “I don’t think I exchanged three words with the father the whole time they were looking. He always seemed to be just back from one business trip and on his way to another. But the boy—he knew exactly what he wanted. I’ve never seen a high-school kid so determined. He absolutely insisted on being close to St. Mary’s. I told him St. Mary’s is an all-girls school, but he wouldn’t listen. They passed up a fabulous ranch in Irvington to live near a school he couldn’t go to—four bedrooms, absolutely charming, new windows, bucolic setting.”
Over the years I’ve learned to decode Mom’s real-estate speak. For example, charming meant small. Bucolic setting meant the yard was being choked by ancient trees that hadn’
t been pruned since World War II. That was still better than classic, which almost always indicated that the place was so old it was a miracle it hadn’t collapsed yet. I wondered how Mom would describe the Garrett home now. Maybe the beer stains on the carpet counted as “old-world Bavarian atmosphere.” If Dipsy happened to be lying around somewhere in his underwear, that would probably count as “delightful local color.”
“Well, I trust you, Rick,” my mother said finally. “And I trust your judgment.”
“Thanks, Mom.” And she trusted Mrs. Appleford, who had twenty-four-hour surveillance going on everybody in the neighborhood.
The doorbell rang. I looked out the peephole and found myself staring into the flawless features of Didi Ray. Even through that fish-eye view, distorted out of shape, she was still awesome.
I threw open the door and instinctively looked for Jennifer behind her, or maybe Todd. But Didi was alone.
“Hi, Rick! How are you?”
Since when did she care how I was?
“Uh, fine. How are you?”
She grasped my hand, running her index finger back and forth across my knuckles. Now, I realize this isn’t the most sexual gesture in the world, but Didi supercharged any atmosphere. The heat produced by a brief knuckle caress from her would have to be measured in bases with any other girl. I almost jumped out of my skin.
I had never seen Didi in my life without Jennifer or Todd around. We were friends—but only in a friend-of-a-friend kind of way. Now she was seeking me out, alone, for the first time ever, and I let myself think, just for a second, hey, why not? Maybe hell froze over, and it suddenly occurred to Didi that I was the man of her dreams. Maybe Todd needed to spend some quality time with his dear sick Aunt Sophie, now that the rest of the family had vacated her hospital room. It was a long shot, but so are lottery tickets, right?
“Come with me to the mall, okay, Rick?”
“Okay,” I began tentatively. “Uh—how’s Todd?”
“Great,” she said brightly, but she had nothing to add to that subject. “I need you to help me pick out something special for Jennifer’s birthday. She’s the first of all of us to turn eighteen.”
I frowned. “Yeah, in December.”
“Who wants to get caught in all that Christmas craziness?” she persisted. “Come on. I’ve got my car.”
As I climbed into the passenger seat of her Volkswagen Beetle, it still didn’t make sense to me. Yeah, Jennifer and I were old friends, but Didi was practically her sister. Jennifer knew personal stuff about Todd that even I, a denizen of the same locker room, didn’t know—and definitely didn’t want to know. What help could I possibly be?
“How about a sweater?” I asked as we squealed out of the driveway. Didi had a heavy foot for a size six-and-a-half.
She looked completely blank. “For what?”
“Jen’s present!”
“Hey!”
She stomped on the brakes. Only my seat belt kept me from going straight through the windshield.
“What is it?” I asked shakily.
“Isn’t that Jake’s house?” We had stopped at the Garrett’s side-hall Colonial with the old-world Bavarian charm on the living-room carpet, and the dead rosebushes out back. “You know, from the party?”
“This is the place.” I was kind of surprised she recognized it. Jake’s home blended into the neighborhood without eighty cars triple-parked in front. I’d lived here all my life, and I sometimes got it mixed up with a bunch of other houses in our subdivision.
“Let’s go say hi,” she urged. “I want to thank him for such a great party.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. I wasn’t sure Jake wanted to be thanked. Throwing parties was just sort of what he did. I couldn’t imagine him not doing it.
Didi was already out of the Beetle and halfway up the front walk. But when I rang the bell she hung back, like she was accompanying me on a tedious errand.
Jake appeared at the door. “Hey—”
When he saw Didi skulking behind me, his J. Crew smoothness evaporated, and his jaw dropped open and hung there. I turned to Didi, but all she could manage was a weak “Hi, Jake.”
Maybe Jennifer was right, and these two never got down and dirty sophomore year. But there was definitely something between them. Something big.
This was turning into a stupid afternoon that was destined to get stupider. We’re hemming and hawing on Jake’s doorstep. Jake, who has recovered, is hey, baby-ing at light speed. Somebody needed to make a move, and it seemed like it had to be me.
“We were just on our way to the mall. Want to come?”
You’d have thought we were inviting him to jam with the Rolling Stones.
We left Didi’s car at Jake’s and took the Beamer. The whole way there, Didi stared at Jake as if she’d never seen anybody drive before. Jake was as frazzled as a sixteen-year-old taking his road test. From my spot in the back, I could see his eyes in the rearview mirror, nervously darting over to the passenger seat.
I supplied all the conversation. “We’re looking for a birthday present for Jennifer. I’m thinking sweater. Jen’s into clothes. Any ideas, Jake?”
He barely heard me. “What was that, baby?”
“I really love this car,” ventured Didi, and Jake glowed all the way to underground parking.
It was the weirdest shopping trip I’ve ever been on. First of all, there wasn’t any shopping. To be honest, I’m not sure Jake and Didi even noticed they were in a mall. The place was packed with the after-school crowd, but the two of them were in their own private universe.
I pointed. “Want to hit Banana?”
They looked blank.
I was getting exasperated. “For Jen’s present!”
“I trust your taste,” Didi assured me. She plucked her Visa card out of her pocketbook and tossed it in my direction.
I snatched it out of the air. “Where are you guys going?”
“Take it easy, baby,” soothed Jake. “We’ll meet you back here.”
“When?” I cried.
But they had already melted into the crowd.
What could I do? I picked out a Banana Republic sweater and stuck it on Didi’s Visa—her dad’s account, so I didn’t sweat the price too much. It took about seven minutes. They weren’t back yet, so I settled on a bench.
An hour later, I was still sitting there.
I was fuming. What the hell was going on?
A middle school kid on a skateboard, slaloming through the crowded mall, gave me a sympathetic shrug as he rolled by.
This was unbelievable. Didi was Todd’s girlfriend. Yeah, I might let my imagination get ahead of me for about a millionth of a second when she’s stroking my hand. But I always knew that, in the real world, dissing Todd Buckley was something that just didn’t happen. Not even at the hands of Didi Ray.
By the time they got back, I was livid. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been sitting here?”
Jake looked at his watch in amazement. “Sorry, baby!” I knew he was a world-class liar, but I don’t think even he could fake such genuine surprise. “I thought it was more like—I don’t know—twenty minutes!”
“We were talking about our McKinley days,” added Didi with a conspiratorial smile at Jake.
“What part?” I muttered. “The Pythagorean theorem or the Cartesian geometry?”
When Jake fumbled for his wallet to pay the parking guy, a couple of ripped movie tickets popped out. One of them fluttered to the floor of the backseat. I squinted in the dim light of the underground garage. It was from that afternoon—the four-thirty showing of Seven Samurai.
They went to a movie? My bewilderment was the only thing keeping my rage in check. Who goes to see a fifty-year-old art flick that’s all in Japanese, and then leaves halfway through?
I assumed Jake would take Didi back to her car, but we drove right past the Garrett place to my house.
“Thanks for picking out the sweater, Rick,” Didi gushed. “Jennifer’s going to
love it.”
I was glad she liked it so much, considering she never even took it out of the bag. I might have bought Jennifer a bulletproof vest for all she knew.
I got out of the car. “The next time you need a fashion consultant, call Tommy Hilfiger.”
They didn’t rise to the bait. Or maybe they just didn’t notice it. The two of them were glowing.
“Good to see you, baby,” Jake added. “Catch you at school tomorrow.” And the Beamer whispered off back to Jake’s.
Jennifer was right. I was a hayseed in the big city. I should have cut out on that “shopping” expedition when we were still on Jake’s front stoop.
You don’t grow up in constant terror of Mrs. Appleford without learning a thing or two about the art of neighborhood espionage. A little after nine, I took a casual stroll around the block.
Didi’s car was still parked in Jake’s driveway.
chapter eight
ALL WEEK I waited for it to hit the fan. Todd Buckley gets dumped. That was the equivalent of a coup d’état at F. Scott Fitzgerald High. I couldn’t imagine a hotter story.
Every day I walked through the double doors expecting to hear an excited buzz, like the time Phil Braggett cracked up his old man’s Alfa Romeo and put himself in intensive care. Or the fake-sympathetic delighted whispering when everybody found out that Jerrie Javitz was pregnant—and the even juicier reprise a few weeks later, when they realized that she wasn’t anymore.
There was nothing. Just the delivery guy from 1-800-4BAGELS, camped out in front of my locker, bearing a Deluxe Breakfast on the Fly. A peace offering from Jake, I think.
I recognized the kid as he poured my O.J. “Throckmorton Hall, right?”
He seemed surprised. “How did you know?”
“And Jake did you a favor?”
“How happening is that guy?” the A.U. student marveled. “You should have seen the smoking chick at his other drop-off. Girlfriend or something.”
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