I know I should man up and toss him off my (mom’s) lawn.
I gulp instead.
“So I figured I’d go see the king of sympathy. Have a little talk.”
“A talk?”
“Actually, more like, hey, let’s do some whippets. You got any?”
“No.”
“Then let’s go get some, son.”
“I’m cash poor.”
“You don’t need cash for whippets, fag.”
“I better not.”
“C’mon,” he says, smiling like a wolf.
A wolf with braces.
A wolf with braces that have things a wolf has recently eaten stuck in the metal loops.
I wonder for a second if I have the stones to shut the door in his face.
Turns out I don’t.
He fires up the Mustang and leaves a patch forty yards long. We drive into town and take up two spaces diagonally in front of Scumbies.
Marshall Holt is at the register, this supermellow kid who graduated a bunch of years before us but still shows up at party spots to hang out by the fire. He’s always wearing dark prescription glasses and a ponytail, chuckling genially and handing out free beers.
“Handsome Holt!” Proffer says.
Marshall looks at me like, What’s with the Odd Couple? I shrug and follow Proffer down the aisle. There’re two cans of Reddi-wip on the shelf. Proffer grabs both and pops the cap off the first, holding it at an angle and sucking in the nitrous. I can see his bell being rung, like a cartoon bear clobbered with a skillet, hippos in tutus dancing in circles around his head. He rubs his eyes and does it again, then hands it to me.
I bend the nozzle, which makes a little pfft sound, nothing coming out. “It’s cashed,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved. Proffer caps the second one, does the hit, and hands it over.
“I don’t want it.”
He slams it into my gut.
I press the valve and get half a rush. It’s cheap and ugly, but for fifteen seconds blots everything else away.
“I’m calling the cops,” Marshall Holt says.
“Go ahead.” Proffer laughs, foam on his chin. “Just don’t plan on ever going anywhere outside by yourself ever again, okay, Marshall? I mean, go ahead and call them cops, but just don’t plan on ever swinging by the Grove and trying to pick up on sophomores anymore, you fucking perv.”
Marshall Holt puts down the phone. “You gotta pay for those Reddi-wips.”
“Who says we aren’t paying?”
Proffer kills off the second one. Some treadmill mom goes by and he tosses the spent can into her cart, then weaves back to the front and flings a handful of change at Marshall. “That about cover it, wuss? Or I still owe you tax?”
Marshall just blinks at us. There’s an eyelash stuck to the inside of one of his lenses, magnified to the size of a slug.
Proffer grabs a can of lighter fluid and a steak, sticking them down his shirt, and walks out.
“C’mon, Sudden.”
“Sorry, dude,” I say to Marshall, then get in the passenger side. The Mustang roars to life. Spence guns across town, past the trailer park and the remaining farms, finally driving down a long dirt road. I have no idea where we are.
He grins through a mouthful of braces, neck flexing and unflexing on its own.
“You pork Ravenna yet?”
“Huh?”
He puts his hand on my thigh, not looking at the road. “Man, I see how she looks at you.”
I knock his hand away. “Why the hell are you touching my leg?”
He puts his hand back where it was and squeezes. Hard. His fingers bore into muscle, through fascia, all the way down to bone. It’s excruciating.
“Clowns like you always get whatever they want. Why you think that is?”
I don’t answer.
“It’s almost like you need someone to show you.”
I don’t answer.
“That you don’t know how good you got it.”
I don’t answer.
He finally lets go and parks by a dirt path.
“C’mon.”
I limp after him, mostly because I don’t know what else to do.
He keeps spinning a KILL ’EM ALL AND LET GOD SORT ’EM OUT Zippo, then squeezes lighter fluid through the flame. It makes a mini flamethrower. He starts little fires here and there, aiming at trees and rocks and sometimes my sneakers.
“I’m going back.”
“Pretty long walk home.”
“I’ll make it.”
He steps off the path. “Check this out first.”
There’s a nest on the branch above us.
“Don’t.”
He squirts a jet of lighter fluid. The nest explodes into flames. A black bird rises up, screeching and flapping, then collapses to the ground, moving around some, but not for long. I turn to puke, but it comes out spit. Proffer tosses the empty can.
“That’s all? I think I overpaid.”
I stand there, waiting for whatever’s next.
“So, listen, the other thing?”
“What other thing?”
“Reason I’m in the woods with your pathetic ass?”
“Oh.”
“Your friend tried to bone my mom.”
“Tried?”
“Tried.”
“What friend?”
“Don’t play stupid. She told me. And I’m going to take him apart. Chunk by chunk.”
“He didn’t. I don’t think. I mean, it seems unlikely that—”
Proffer puts his finger over his lips, “Shhh,” then pulls the steak from Scumbies from the back of his belt. The bloody juice has all leaked to the edge and is starting to drip through the plastic.
“I’m gonna go home and cook this bad boy up.”
“Okay.”
“You wanna come?”
His face is totally serious.
“Not today.”
He shrugs and turns away, heading back up the path. I scoop some dirt over what’s left of the bird. In a minute, the Mustang’s huge engine roars. I walk back down the path. When I get to the lot, he’s sitting in the car, waiting.
“Do me a favor, Sudden?”
“Uh, sure.”
“You tell Hella that he is deader than fuck.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Yeah, make sure you do.”
Proffer slowly rolls the window back up, then peels away.
B’los and I step up to each other. We’re surrounded by kids, but I can’t see or hear any of them. There’s no recognition in B’los’s eyes. Like he’s never seen me before. His pupils are black. I wonder if he stayed up all night like I did, thinking about this exact minute, or if he always knew he could just turn his brain off, go pure animal. Survive.
He pushes me in the chest. I push him back.
He feints, and I duck.
All the kids jeer and laugh.
He’s fast. Faster than me.
He is going to beat me, and it pisses me off.
Not that it’ll hurt.
Pain don’t hurt.
Much.
What bothers me is how none of it seems to matter to him. The fact that I am not an asshole. That we are almost friends. The time in the library. He can still just plant his knuckles in my face, no problem at all.
I decide I am at least going to make him earn it.
But he has to hit me first.
If he swings, I am going to let loose.
Go feral.
If not, we can dance all night.
Peanut growls.
“Stop pussyfootin.’ ”
Conner laughs, throwing wads of paper down from his throne.
B’los closes in.
My fists feel like rocks.
Ready.
Part of me almost wants him to swing.
I stick out my chin, a dare.
Just as the circle parts and everyone fades toward the corners, pretending to be doing something else.
The couns
elors push through the crowd, carrying a DVD player and a stack of discs.
“Surprise movie night, and you assholes are fighting?” The Basilisk says.
“Aw, no one’s fighting,” Peanut drawls.
On cue, B’los puts his arm around me. I grin back.
“You guys girlfriends now?” Yunior asks, setting up the screen. Meatstick laughs.
“We were dancing,” B’los says, busting out the Dougie.
“Showing each other moves,” I say, busting out the Electric Slide.
“Whatever,” Yunior says, pounding the remote.
“Y’all can thank Dr. Benway,” Meatstick says. “She donated this gear.”
No one says thanks.
Instead, they sit in a semicircle to watch. It’s a movie about a huge St. Bernard named after a composer. It’s the stupidest movie ever made. But it’s a movie. Everyone laughs where they’re supposed to, just because it feels good to laugh, even if it’s not funny.
I can’t believe Dr. Benway pulled it off.
I’m sitting there with a surge of love for her and her genius.
And then, right where the dog opens the washing machine with his mouth and tons of suds pour out, Peanut comes and sits next to me.
“How you doin’, Sudden?” he whispers, all raspy in my ear. His breath smells like Doritos.
“Okay,” I say.
“I know.”
I can see The Basilisk watching us from the front, his arms crossed.
“Know what?”
“About you, son. And the lady doctor.”
My body freezes. Solid.
“I didn’t say shit.”
Peanut leans in and smiles. I can’t see it but I feel it.
“Did I say you did?”
“No.”
“Then why you botherin’ to deny it?”
Checkmate.
The dog farts. The dog barks. The dog saves a baby from falling down a well.
And then the credits roll and roll and roll.
Elliot rolls up on me, hard.
“Lacy Duplais can sing.”
“Sure she can.”
He’s standing at my locker, nodding like a mynah.
“For serious. Chick comes up and goes, ‘Hey, Elliot H, did you know that I sing?’ ”
“She called you Elliot H?”
“Says she’s been in chorus for years. Says she wants to get with the band. Wise Young Foolio. I think it’s a good idea.”
“Uh-uh. No way.”
“Dude, we need her, okay? Vocal-wise, you and me aren’t cutting shit for mustard.”
“Yeah, but I—”
“Yeah but you nothing. I already invited her. Gave her some lyrics to study.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“I get no say?”
“Sure you do. Say yes.”
“No.”
“Have you seen her new red hair? It’s wild. It’s the perfect look. It’s total album-cover action.”
“Curtains don’t match the drapes.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“Good, so it’s settled.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s completely unsettled. We only have two weeks left. There’s no way she can learn all the songs by then.”
“She thinks she can. Swears she’s gonna live and die Wise Young Fool. Besides, we’re practicing every day until go time. She doesn’t work out, she doesn’t work in.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“To win Hollyrock you got to be Hollyrock, homes. Everyone loves a cute girl singer, especially judges and producers. They particularly love someone can actually sing on key. And since we don’t have a pound of coke to hand out as bribes, she’s our next best bet.”
“True,” I admit. “But—”
He waves me off. “Bottom line, if Lacy’s got real chops, I’ll switch to bass. Then we got ourselves a full lineup.”
My jaw ratchets down to the tile. “You’re not playing guitar anymore?”
“I dig bass. But I had to wait until you figured your way out of the maze. And man, you so have.”
“What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is that you fucking shred now, Ritchie. Haven’t you heard yourself the last few practices? You play better leads than me. All that making out with The Paul? For once blood, sweat, and tears pays off for the lower classes.”
It’s the first time Elliot has ever complimented my guitar playing. In any way, shape, or form. Usually he just frowns and makes a face like he’s about to pass a kidney stone.
“Thanks.”
Five Things Our Band Needs (to win Rock Scene 2013):
1. A name
2. A drummer
3. A singer
4. A different singer.
5. Not Lacy, Not Duplais
“Good. So it’s you on guitar, me bass, Chowus Bongo Boy. We trade harmony, while Lacy overrides us both.”
“Or rides one of us.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“Cowboy the fuck up, Sudden. We are about to take the next step.”
“Into what?”
“Not into. Away from.”
“Away from what?”
He holds out his arms like he’s about to embrace all of Sackville. Or maybe the world.
“Saturday. The Black Widow’s. Be early.”
Ravenna Woods bobbles over as soon as Elliot is out of sight. She’s wearing a tight black stretch dress. Every part of her is lovingly supported by every other part of her. I go to swallow, get it on the second try.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I been thinking.”
“About what?”
“You.”
I fix my hair with one hand.
“Me?”
“How maybe we should hang out some.”
I decide that if I wake up and this is a dream, I am totally going to stab my mind.
“Um, okay.”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“I am. I’m not. When?”
“How about Saturday? How about the lake?”
“I got practice Saturday.”
She straightens her back and sort of shimmies with annoyance. It’s like being slapped in the jaw with a sock full of dimes.
But her frown is what’s really electric.
It takes in the world. And spits it back out. It knows exactly what’s wrong with all of us. And just doesn’t care.
“Practice what? Loser practice?”
“Ha. No, really. My band.”
“What band?”
“I told you about us.”
“You did?”
“Maybe not.”
“So what? Just cancel it.”
“Cancel it?”
“Cancel it,” she says.
I’m listening. I’m actually listening.
My phone buzzes. Buh-ringgg. It’s H.R. going, “We will not do what you say or do what you want! No more!” Three times.
“Hello?”
“Ritchie?”
Why did I answer, why did I answer, why did I answer?
“Hey, Lacy.”
“You’re pissed, aren’t you? About the band.”
“Getting right down to it, huh?”
“Would you rather play more games first?”
“No,” I say. “And I’m not pissed.”
“Liar. The question is, are you too cool to admit it, or too cool to care?”
“You mean about how you went behind my back?”
“Actually, I went over your head.”
I press the phone against my cheek until I’m positive it’s left a waffle pattern deep in the skin.
“Is this revenge for me not taking you to the hospital?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m bored. Can I go now?”
She laughs. “I still can’t believe I fell for the whole Ritchie Sudden act. The sensitive loner. The angry po
et.”
“Fell for? Did I hang around your locker? Come to your house? Take off your pants?”
“I gave you my virginity, idiot!”
“And I gave you mine!”
There’s a long pause.
“Wait, you did?”
“Um, maybe,” I say. “Possibly not.”
“Hey, you can’t take it back now.”
“I’m not. I didn’t.”
“But what about Beth’s friend? Star Petrosky and her black tights?”
“That was nothing.”
“Which means it was totally something.”
“What business is it of yours?”
It’s quiet for a while. She sighs.
“Listen, you’re right that I pushed way harder than you did, okay? So I don’t know what I expected or what I deserve.”
“Exactly.”
“But this isn’t some ploy. I just want to sing. So when Elliot asked—”
“Wait. He said you asked him.”
“Yeah, right. It would never occur to me that I could get between you two for a second, let alone a song.”
“Does he know?”
“Know what?”
“What do you think? Us.”
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
“I mean, you didn’t… tell anyone, either, did you?”
“Like get drunk at the Beak and toss your name around? Brag about what a sex machine I am?”
“Okay, okay, sorry. That’s not you.”
“The bragging part or the sex-machine part?”
“Ha. The drunk part, I guess.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“So I’m coming on Saturday. Is it a problem or no?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I need a favor. You want in Wise Young Fool, you got to pay your dues.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead.”
“Fine. What?”
I explain what I have in mind.
“Why don’t you get Elliot to do it?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“I don’t know, Ritchie.”
“It’s a prank, Lacy. We get caught, it’s detention at worst. You have to trust me. Do you trust me?”
“Not at all.”
“But are you going to help me?”
There’s a ticking on the line.
Wise Young Fool Page 14