“You’re cute,” says Mike sarcastically. The last few weeks he’s been testy with me and I’m not sure why.
“Why are you hanging out at Jabberjoke? That place is filled with zombies.”
“Oh yeah, you’re not jealous at all.”
“Fine, then invite me, I’d go.”
“Okay, but you’d need to act like an adult. Not like a brat. I saw Drew Barrymore there a few weeks ago, with Eric Erlandson, you know, from Hole?”
“Hole, what’s that, like a band?”
He rolls his eyes. I’m quiet and look out into the yard, or the world. I love Drew Barrymore. I don’t know what to do. Why is he being mean? He’s never been mean, just high. I talk because he listens. Not because I don’t care. Maybe I should complain less. Ask how he is doing more. I think about all the ways I can try to feel different and none of them seem wise or viable. “Do you feel like you’re never saying anything?”
“Someone left Nietzsche’s greatest hits at the bus stop?”
“What?”
“Never mind. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Everything,” he says, teasingly, but really I don’t like being teased and I didn’t say anything funny. Joey Kandarian walks by and smiles. I let out a moan and bury my face in my hands.
×
I stop by Mike’s house early the next day. “Did you have fun last night?” I ask, standing in the doorway to the garage. He’s playing video games and smoking a J and looks up startled, but then composes himself and looks bored.
“It was okay,” he shrugs. “How’d you sneak in?”
“There is literally no fence around your house. Your door is open. I heard music.”
He shrugs. Finally sets down the console and looks at me. “So what’s up? Why have you come to my garage of broken dreams and condoms?”
“Why do you do that?” I ask, sitting down. “Insult yourself.”
“Oh, don’t be so righteous all the time. What does it say about you that you always think I’m being serious? I don’t need you to babysit my feelings. If I wanted to be policed I’d leave the house.” And this shuts me up. He stands and walks to the clothing rack. He’s shirtless as usual and in a pair of boxer shorts. Sexy coffee colored. He takes a drag of the joint and stubs it out in the 1950s copper cowboy hat ashtray.
“I’m sorry,” he says, bowing gallantly before me, as if my servant. “Please speak. How dare I make a fool of the sensitive young darling, Darling.”
“Did I do something to you?”
“No,” he answers, turning away quickly and grabbing a shirt. “I’m in a bad mood. It’s my mother’s birthday, okay? You can psychoanalyze me later.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say genuinely and then I’m quiet.
“God, don’t be such a martyr. It’s better I tell you this now, before it haunts you into your twenties, but you can be real insufferable sometimes.”
“Why are you being such a bitch?”
“You don’t hang with me because you feel sorry for me, do you?”
“What? No way. How could you even ask me that?” I hang with you because you’re beautiful and I see your soul and you have good musicals and a VCR and weed and cool clothes and tell me about stuff I’ve never heard of before like the B-52’s Wild Planet. I hang with you because I’m in love with you. “Can I buy you Denny’s?”
“Case in point. Insufferable response. But yes. Only I want to go to the really old one out in San Bernardino, past the Ren Faire.”
“Off the 605?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll take us forever to get there.”
“I can drive.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got my mom’s car. Let’s go.”
“Okay,” he says quietly, pulling on his pants. “Thank you, but let’s get high first.”
×
He’s quiet on the ride and fiddles with the stations, trying to find a tune. Finally he settles on “Edge of Seventeen” and leans back, wraps his vintage OP shirt around his head like a blindfold, and loops his arms across his chest.
“Are you going to sleep?”
“Well, not exactly,” he says pulling the shirt up so I can see him. “This is a car. I’m resting my eyes.”
“Oh.”
“Why?” he coughs into his fist and moves his butt around like a cat trying to get comfortable.
“I don’t know. You don’t want to talk?”
“I knew it!” he says, sitting up. “You did come over to tell me something. I could sense it.” He rips the shirt off and smiles like a demented loon.
“God, so what?”
“We always talk about you!”
“Dude, that’s so not true! I’m surprised you remember anything we talk about, you’re high all the time.”
“Fine, you want to talk. Let’s talk. Is it about trying to make me feel shitty for being gay and not wanting to fuck you?”
“God, no! Why are you being so terrible?”
“Because my mom is dead and it’s her birthday and all you ever want to talk about are boys and crummy existential shit I just don’t care to listen to anymore.”
“Okay, fine.” I turn the radio up and he turns toward the window, balls up his shirt, and uses it as a pillow against the glass.
“I’m not your personal therapist, okay, your boring straight-girl gay monkey sidekick, okay?” The windows fog around his mouth. “Man, you were such a little bitch last night. You really pissed off Jules.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I embarrassed you in front of your cool friend. I’m sorry. Look, I’m really trying to be nice to you right now but you’re making it really freaking hard. However you have made a good point and I will try harder in the future to be less self-centered.”
He doesn’t say anything and moves his shoulders against the seat. I look to the left at the mountains. I have always lived in the shadow of them, looming dry and brown, moss green and white tipped, hawk circled and majestic, sitting always to my back, holding me.
“I talk about other things besides boys.”
He groans and sticks his fingers in his ears. “You are being really rotten! My mom is dead. Dead mom.”
I don’t say anything, roll down the window. “Can I have a cigarette?”
Finally he sighs. “I wish I could tape-record you. Only you would complain about how no one wants to date you when the best-looking guy at school is tripping all over himself to sniff your cat.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Your little dirty friend Dan. Have you looked at him?”
“Oh god. He is not trying to get with me.”
Mike groans. “I can’t listen to you anymore!”
“And he’s not the best-looking guy at school. You are.” He shakes his head and sighs, covers his face again.
We drive silently for about ten minutes. I see a 76 station and pull off the freeway. San Bernardino is all around us. I feel big-city girl, I feel obvious. “Hey,” I say, nudging him. “We’re in San Berdoo, get up.”
“That was fast. I feel like I just closed my eyes.”
“You did. Oh wow. That guy has boots on, like the cowboy kind.”
Mike rubs his eyes. “Don’t be such a Clay,” he says, meaning Less Than Zero. “Here,” he holds out five bucks and I wave it away.
“It’s cool.”
There’s a paper sign out front written with sharpie, advertising homemade jerky. I pull the glass door open, a little bell above my head rings, and in the distance, beyond the 76, through the register window, I see the emblem of Circle K and sigh relieved. Civilization. I’ll stop there on the way home for road snacks. Strange things are afoot.
All two sets of eyes are on me. An older guy, maybe in his twenties, dressed in baggy jeans and a black Raiders jersey, wearing white tube socks and chanclas, a pair of black sunglasses pushed back on his Brylled-up hair, glistening blue. His hands have dots and teardrops in the creases between his thumb and forefinger. He fo
llows me to the counter.
There’s a rack of Teen Angels magazines behind the register, near the cigarettes.
“Ten on five,” I say, handing over the money. Some zitty kid, twenty maybe, a blond side part and old-fashioned checkered-style cowboy shirt buttoned at the cuffs. Except it isn’t old, it says Joe Boxer on the chest pocket. Walmart cowboy.
“You from around here?” asks Chanclas.
“No,” I say as chill as I can, I tilt my head back just enough to show I’m not afraid but not a threat. And of course, as soon as I do, feel epically stupid.
“You white? What are you?” he asks.
“Mexican and white. Yeah.”
“Shit,” he says leaning back and laughing, he aw-shucks his arm and swats the air with an open hand. Real funny guy. “Man, that is far out.” He looks at me steady this time. We’re both stoned. He knows I know, and I try to pretend like I don’t, but I do. He insists on our druggy familiarity. “You’re real fine girl. I like your hair and makeup. Where y’all from?” Y’all.
“Los Angeles.”
“Shit, I knew,” he says. “It’s all over your face. Yeah, got a brother out in Carson. My daughter lives in Montebello.”
“Cool,” I say, backing away.
“Hey, get home safe,” he says. “It’s a long way back.”
×
“Who was that vato you were making friends with?” asks Mike, taking the bag of gummies from my hand as I slide back in and start the engine.
“Some weird hick cholo. But he was really nice.”
“Cholos are always nice,” he says matter-of-factly. “I never met a mean cholo, you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“My uncle’s a cholo.” He shoves gummies into his mouth. “He lives in Whittier.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. And he’s never said a mean thing to me once and I’m a baby fag.”
I head toward the dense green of the woods, Moons Over My Hammy beckoning, and we ascend.
×
Mike picks up the menu and flips it around. “Where’s hash browns?” he asks incredulously.
“Here, look. Under late-night snacks.”
“That’s insane. It’s a breakfast food.”
I shrug.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” he asks, and it shakes me into the moment.
“I’m sorry, what?” I look up, sounding like my father.
“Don’t you think it’s dumb that hash browns are on the stoner snack menu? Mozzarella sticks, sure, but fucking hash browns? What the hell?”
I set down my menu and look at him. Really, really look at him.
“What?” he asks raising his shoulders.
“I can’t decide if you are or you aren’t.”
“I am or I am not what?” he asks, screwing up his face.
“For real. Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re for real.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I think you say shit just to fuck with me.”
“Oh you get real,” he says, relaxing and tossing the menu on the table. “I thought you were going to say some for real shit. Earth to Nikki.” He picks up his straw and taps my head with it. “Not. Everything. Is. About. You. I thought we just went over this. I could smoke another bowl though.” He looks out the window toward the car.
“After,” I say.
“Let’s get it to go,” he says. “Let’s eat it in the mountains.”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Cool.” And he nods. “That would make me feel good.”
“Then it’s done,” I say. “Consider it done.”
×
Mike’s got the steamy plastic trays in his lap and my mom’s old Aerostar moans and scuttles over the loose rock that has fallen into the twisty road, tall fir trees jutting along the side. The entire San Berdoo and IE below us. It’s ten p.m. do you know where your children are?
“Ohmigod!” he shouts, craning his neck out the window. “Look! It’s fucking Raging Waters.”
I idle and turn my head. A giant net, like the kind in Vietnam movies, or M*A*S*H, flaps in the distance, attached to two long poles shooting hundreds of feet into the sky. “That’s a stupid golf course. Raging Waters is way, way behind us.”
“Oh.” And he pulls himself back in. “Oh, up there!” he shouts again, pointing in the distance at a little pull-off. “Let’s eat there.”
“Okay,” I say, heading toward it.
We park and get out, walk to the edge of the overhang. It is a beautiful thing, wide-open free-fall space, houses, swimming pools, trees, and smog. There’s hawk screeching and the quiet scurry of animals. I kick my feet, and small pebbles and sediment fall into the emptiness below. Mike pops the lids and the sweet smell of syrup hits my nose. I grab one of my sausage links, dip it in the syrup cup, and munch. It’s salty, sweet, and warm. Mike unwraps the little plastic spoons and forks and squirts ketchup on his hash browns. He spoons large bites into his mouth, wiping away little crumbs already on his lips.
“Sorry I was mean earlier,” he says, looking down at his food and dumping a packet of pepper on his scrambled eggs.
I shrug. “It’s true, I talk too much about myself.” He puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close and I stiffen.
“Is this weird?” he asks, meaning the hug.
“No.” I shake my head and hug back.
×
At school on Monday I am feeling good, jolly. And I don’t want to see anyone. I decide to wake up early and go to class. I shower and brush my hair into its proper bob, not letting it dry all fizzy-wisp curly-brains. I set it, sit on the toilet, flip through a copy of my mother’s newest issue of Sunset. At school, I park near the stairs, so I don’t drag my feet thinking before I ascend. I grab the handrail and walk myself up, one clippety-clip at a time. I’m early, me early, and the morning kids, the ones always in their seats when I bust through the door out of breath and dragging ass and mayhem behind, their eyes watching, judging as I bump into desks on my way toward the back, are at the cafeteria, ordering hash browns from the short-order cooks, getting iced coffees and looking at class notes. I want to cry.
This day is like a day that reminds me that I am missing. A face on a box of milk. That I am quiet, that I like Christmas dioramas and the art of Victorian children’s books, that I like cats and dogs and flower shops. The Huntington Library and Arboretum. The Lotus Blossom Festival, field trips, and colored pencils. That I love to see plays. That if you ask me to show you my work, I would love to show it to you. That I would love your time. That I was once this other person, that I used to be.
“Well you’re here early,” says Ms. Lavoi walking up behind me. I realize I’m standing in front of the door to King Hall, staring into space, mouth open. I shake my head and walk with her.
“You get here kind of on the dot, don’t you?” I ask, she opens the door to English and flips the lights, dumping her attaché and purse on the desk. She takes off her scarf and blazer, hangs them on the chair.
“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “I’ve got ten minutes, I was going to get a coffee, join me?”
“Sure.”
“Have you had a chance to read the Plath?”
“Was that the book you recommended?”
“Oh, come on now,” she says, sounding sassy, taking me to task. But all my nerves and emotions just want her to be nice, to be boring and a teacher. I want her to be something different, I don’t want her to be like me.
“No. Not yet.”
“Oh, well, when you do,” she says, sensing my hurt. “Are you okay?” she asks, stopping. I stop too.
“Yeah, I just want to walk with you, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.” And she starts up again. “What’s your favorite book?”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Probably Wuthering Heights.”
“Is that so? Did you read
it here?”
“Yeah, last year in Sorenson.”
“Well, what did you like about it?”
“The haunted vernacular.” And she stops again.
“What are your plans after you leave here?”
“To be on Broadway.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
“Did you go to the Juilliard conference in the lecture hall?”
“No.”
“How do you expect to get to New York?”
“I’m a junior, I still have next year.”
“You have three months next year, then applications are due. This is something you should have started last semester.”
Suddenly I don’t want her to be a teacher anymore.
“Well I didn’t. I haven’t.”
“What can I do to help you?” she asks, sounding so sincere it makes me uncomfortable.
“You can buy me coffee.”
“I can manage that. Are you hungry? Do you need money for food?”
“No, it’s not like that, I have stuff to eat. In my house, my mom, we’re okay, mostly. Here, see.” I pull out a bag of orange slices that I carefully cut and cleaned earlier. Brushing the seeds and juice into the trash, washing the cutting board and putting it back. Placing each one, piece by piece into the plastic bag, and twisting its top into a pigtail before dropping them into my purse.
I want to lie down in a large bed and be covered. I want someone to brush my hair behind my ear and temple with their fingers. I want someone to make me dinner, to be home when I get home, to live with me, around me, near me, to see me. I want to go back in time DeLorean-style, to a past I can’t remember but feel withering away inside my bones.
×
“Ms. Darling! You join us,” says Ms. Deaver, slapping her hand against today’s script. She walks across the length of the stage to where I’m tossing my clothes and books into the front-row seats.
“Yes.”
“Do you feel like singing?”
“I guess. Really?”
“Good, you’re singing. Get onstage.”
“Okay, sure,” I say, smiling. Last semester was the last time I was asked to sing and never to start with the lead.
“You warmed up?”
“No.”
“Warm up. Who else feels like getting up here? I’ve got both guys and gals in my hands people, come on let me hear some noise, everybody’s welcome, grab a song,” she holds out the music sheets, “don’t be shy!”
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