by Josh Berk
“The first ace goes to … Derrick Jonker! You didn’t think I’d forget you, buddy!” Pat starts laughing like this is hilarious.
Devon writes, “Pat kept telling Derrick that he wasn’t getting one.” The chair. The cafeteria. A kitty playing with his mousie.
Even though he is sitting right next to Pat, Derrick stands up to receive his invitation. He waves to everyone and wipes pretend sweat off his forehead in mock relief. While Travis cracks up, I notice Leigha look out the window. We are passing a farm, and something about the look in her eyes tells me that she wishes she was there, or anywhere, instead of here.
Devon writes, “I knew Jonker would get one!!”
I write, “Duh.”
Pat slowly pulls out the next playing card invitation. “The second ace goes to … Mindy Spark. Come on over here, Minder.” Mindy Spark’s eyes open so wide I think they are going to fall out of their overwhelmed sockets. She hugs her seat-mate, Marie Stepcoat, who cringes at this horrifying display of enthusiasm.
Mindy composes herself enough so she can make it down the aisle without bursting into flames. She does, however, almost fall over when Jimmy Porkrinds accelerates for no reason at all on a long stretch of open road. Good timing, J.P.!
Mindy literally curtsies to Pat as she accepts her card. I keep sneaking glances at Leigha, who is now looking like she is going to puke. She mouths something, but I can’t make out the words. Her lips seem puffy and heavily lipsticked. Did she fall? Was she in a fight?
It takes a lot of energy to not miss a word, but I am getting madder and madder. I write another note to Devon: “Did you see in history class the other day when Spark was telling everyone how cool Pat is and how his dad is ‘way famous’?”
“Totally low-class to campaign,” Devon writes back, but he is distracted as he writes, looking past me to the back of the bus to see how the rest of the ceremony plays out. Does he wish he had launched a full-scale campaign? Am I any better?
“Now for the third ace …,” Pat says, pausing for dramatic effect. “(Something something) age over beauty?” he asks. What? “Well, what if someone has both? To make sure that the party is educational as well as a blast, the third choice goes to our mistress of math, Miss Prefontaine.”
I am pretty sure that a stunned silence is sweeping the bus. Heads swivel from Pat to Prefontaine. Quizzical glances are shared. Giggles are stifled.
“We have to have a chaperone,” Pat says, winking. “Come get your ace, Claire.”
Miss Prefontaine is blushing, embarrassed, yet obviously excited. I try to check Leigha’s reaction, but she has turned her head and buried her face in her hands. My poor baby.
Pat gives the ace to Derrick, who walks it over to “Claire.” She clutches it like it’s a rare and delicate flower. Mrs. Stepcoat looks appalled. Mr. Arterberry is sort of giggling but then composes himself and forces a disapproving glare.
Before the impact of this improbable choice sinks in, without a pause or dramatic speech or anything, Pat holds up the final card and says, “The fourth and final ace goes to Chuck Escapone.”
Escapone, zoning out with his headphones on, has to be jostled awake by his default trip buddy, Dwight Carlson. At first he seems annoyed and confused, like a napping toddler startled out of slumber. Then Dwight explains what is going on, and Chuck grins and in true Escapone style actually climbs over the seats in giant, loping steps. Why would Pat choose Escapone for the final card?
I shield the page in my notebook from Devon. This is just for me: (1) DOES PAT KNOW ESCAPONE CAN BE COUNTED ON TO BRING THAT CERTAIN SOMETHING SURE TO MAKE THE PARTY EXTRA-PHARMACEUTICALLY-SPECIAL (AND I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT HIS SPARKLING PERSONALITY)? OR (2) DID PAT INTENTIONALLY PICK THE WEIRDEST PERSON HE COULD THINK OF TO MAKE IT CLEAR TO A.J. HOW FAR HE HAS FALLEN? Hey, with that logic at work, maybe Devon and I were closer to being invited than we thought! If spiting A.J. was the goal, we might have honestly been considered. And isn’t that the true unspoken story of the ace ceremony? That A.J. has not received an invitation? I reread my notes on the subject, tapping my pencil in thought. Just a few weeks ago, they were something like best friends, and now Escapone is laughing with an ace in his hand while A.J. stares out the window at the sign indicating that the coal mine is a quarter of a mile ahead.
Jimmy Porkrinds takes about a quarter of a second to go a quarter mile, and so we are there in the blink of an eye. Let the Happy Memories begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The first weird thing that happens at Happy Memory Coal Mine is this: Jimmy Porkrinds is coming on the tour! Did his pod parents have to sign a permission slip? After the back-of-the-bus cool kids depart, Jimmy Porkrinds hops off like a happy field tripper. He just closes up the bus and joins the end of the line, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets like it is totally normal. But it isn’t totally normal. I write in my notebook: IS JIMMY PORKRINDS A SECRET SCHOLAR? A COAL BUFF FASCINATED BY THE HISTORY OF EARLY MINE LIFE? Let’s find out, shall we?
The second weird thing that happens is this: Chuck Escapone licks a rat. They have these stuffed rats on barrels as you walk into the visitors center that very much remind me of Derrick Jonker. Escapone makes a big show out of licking one on the nose. Why? Why, newly popular psycho, why? A placard explains the purpose of the rats:
OH, RATS!
You are probably not too happy to see these creepy critters, but they were actually a welcome sight for miners. Miners believed that an absence of rats was a bad omen, a sign that an accident was about to occur. Turns out that there might have been some truth to this old mine tale. Scientists now theorize that the rats were sensitive to movements in the rocks that miners could not feel. If they were fleeing, it would be a good idea to follow them before the roof caved in!
Devon stands next to me reading the sign. He gives me a commiserating look, as if to apologize for the cave-in. I want to say, “It’s OK, Dev. You didn’t cause Dummy Halpin’s death.” Is he going to give me a hug? Zoinks. I step back, acting suddenly really interested in the tour guide who has emerged to lead our group.
“Miner Carl” is dressed in real period garb, with old-timey overalls, a miner’s lantern helmet, and coal grime on his face. He shows us to a bin so we can each take a piece of coal for ourselves. The girls don’t like that it messes up their hands. There is a nervous energy in the room. It is clear that something is going to happen, and everybody is waiting for “the moment.”
Carl hands out miner helmets for everyone and then starts his speech.
“The history of coal mining is interesting and enlightening,” he says, looking like he might weep from boredom. Is that a pun? En-light-ening because coal powers lamps? Is this going to be one of those tour guides who try to be funny? Then M.C. turns his back to me and speaks the rest of the tour into a little microphone. I am left, as it were, in the dark. My mind wanders, thinking about how Leigha looks beautiful even in a coal miner hat and Pat’s too-big jacket. Would she be hot dressed as a nun? A lunch lady? A crossing guard?
This diverting train of thought is interrupted when I suddenly feel about seventy eyes turning on me at once. Despite the cool chill in the subterranean air, I am flushed. Then Pat Chambers raises his hand and says something like, “Excuse me, Miner Carl. I didn’t realize ghosts could be, like, weird fat kids.”
What the hell did I miss? Why can’t ghosts be fat? And why is everybody … Oh crap. Miner Carl must’ve said something about the ghost of William Halpin, prompting Pat’s brilliant comment. Leigha sort of covers her mouth like she knows she isn’t supposed to laugh at the poor deaf kid. It is obvious that the highlight of this trip, the thing everyone will talk about afterward, is how funny Pat is, how ballsy and awesome it was that he actually raised his hand and made that crack about Halpin to Miner Freaking Carl. Hilarious!
With Arterberry’s help, Miner Carl regains order and leads us to what literally is the end of the line. The path dead-ends where a wall of rock forms a cavernous room. Here stan
ds a boulder so thick that even dynamite was useless. It is the spot where, all those years ago, the coal company couldn’t go any farther in. They decided the only way to go was down, blasting precipitously into the nether reaches of the now-abandoned shaft. It is off-limits these days, carefully roped off, deemed way too dangerous. I see Pat leave his buddy on the other side of the room so he can teeter close to the edge with a smirk and pretend to lose his footing. Leigha has a weird look on her face as she watches him across the crowd. Panic? Fear that her ex might hurt himself? Why does she still care? C’mon, Leigha, there are other dudes, other options.
I lose her in the milling crowd.
A sick grin cracks the fake grime on M.C.’s face as he turns off the light on his helmet and introduces the finale. “Now it is the (something something something) to please shut your lanterns off on the count of three. I’ll keep the light (something something)—-just one minute will feel like an eternity. Imagine what it was like for these men every day of their lives (blah blah blah). Your eyes play tricks with you down here.” I shut my light off early in case I can’t pick up his count. I don’t want to be the only one standing stupidly with mine on. A. J. Fischels does the same. … Hmm. Devon fiddles with his camera, then signals to me that he is going to climb one of the boulders jutting out of the side so he can get a good angle for his photo of total darkness. The rest of the class spreads with their buddies to the corners of the large, spooky room, milling around in excited anticipation.
“It will be the darkest thing you have ever seen or ever will see,” Miner Carl declares.
Poof. There is a flash from Devon’s camera and then total blackness. A chunk of time gone, like coal ripped from the earth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The lack of light immediately lowers the temperature. When the lights come back on, I am shivering under my sweater and gloves but feeling charged up. Even though the trip has not been good for me, the experience of standing in the dark was actually exciting. I am realizing that light itself is a gift, that I am lucky to live where I live, when I do. What hell those miners lived through. Everything looks different after seeing nothing at all. I think I can see this realization in the gaze of some of my classmates—even Travis Bickerstokes seems subdued, looking around in squinty brightness, whispering about the lack-of-light show.
Miner Carl lets us soak it in for a few moments, then leads us back to the top of the path, where a strategically placed gift shop beckons. Most of the souvenirs are tacky pieces of crap like I SAW THE DARK T-shirts and pieces of coal labeled FUTURE DIAMOND. Since they already gave us those magnificent lumps at the beginning of the trip, why would anyone spend money on something like that?
Devon buys two.
After we pay for our stuff, Arterberry and Prefontaine gather us up for the bus. We say a deeply heartfelt “Thank you, Miner Carl,” and start to line up in the parking lot. The mood seems calm, maybe quieted by the cool and the dark. The weather is cooperating too. The sun ducks behind long bars of cloud, effectively letterboxing the sky. A bipolar breeze alternately whips us with frozen northern air and then suddenly turns as soft and warm as a kitten.
“Does everyone have their buddy (something something something)?” Miss Prefontaine is asking. Yes, Devon Smiley is standing so close that he’s basically in my hip pocket. He is smiling and wearing his I SAW THE DARK mesh trucker hat. But it seems that two half sets of buddies are missing. Purple Phimmul indicates that Leigha Pennington is AWOL, and Derrick Jonker issues a similar report about Pat Chambers.
Devon nudges me with a suggestive elbow and wiggles his eyebrows beneath his dumb hat. I pick up on whispers, giggles, oohs and aahs. Planders blurts out, “No sex on game day!” Yeah, Planders, they are totally off doing it in the bottom of the mine. I had been hoping that the school’s most famous on-again, off-again romance would remain off forever. Did Pat reseduce Leigha in the thrilling darkness? Jimmy Porkrinds—who knows why?—is grinning like a happy pumpkin. Even Chuck Escapone nods his hairy head as if in silent agreement with the crowd. This is news.
Prefontaine crosses her arms sharply and hangs her head like a toddler in time-out. Hmm … Then her eyes light up, and she points “There!” She actually signs it (although not on purpose—the real sign for “there” is just pointing at something). Indeed, Leigha is coming around the corner from the back of the gift shop. A sort of pale green and shifty embarrassment masks her face, and also … What is it? Her lipstick—when did she start wearing so much makeup?—is smeared.
“Where were you, young lady?” Prefontaine snaps. “We are all (something something something), and you’ve been, been …”
Apparently, she can’t guess what Leigha had been doing. But I can. I am pretty sure it doesn’t involve Pat Chambers. That look on her face is the look I had when I ate too much ice cream or, once, a whole bag of Baker’s chocolate. The same look I had that day the cafeteria served fried ravioli.
Lovely Leigha’s guts are in a full-on twist.
I want to shield my Leigha from the bad math whore. But I can’t. So I just stand by, watching.
Leigha whispers to Miss Prefontaine. Prefontaine looks a little smirky, then gestures that Leigha should get in the back of the line.
The balloon of salacious excitement is popped. We turn to get on the bus—but where is Pat Chambers?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next weird thing that happens: Miner Carl comes flying out of the Happy Memory Coal Mine emergency exit, screaming maniacally, a hyperball of panic. I can’t tell what he is yelling, but it must be something like “Call the police” or “Dial 911” because dozens of people begin tapping their cell phones.
Devon, one of the many trying to get his cell phone to work, grabs me by the shoulders and explains with a look of serious concentration on his face.
“P-A-T I-SA-T T-H-E B-O-T-T-O-M O-F T-H-E M-I-N-E,” he signs with shaking hands. “M-I-N-E-R C-A-R-L T-H-I-N-K-S H-E M-I-G-H-T B-E D-E-A-D.“ For a lip-reader like me, a real emergency is quite literally like losing my mind. I catch fragmented bits of conversations, everyone on the cell phone at once, everyone panicking and running as if a sudden tornado of acid rain has opened over our heads. It is a madhouse. The Happy Memory employees—only used to pretending to work at a mine—turn to their leader, a panic-stricken bald man who just keeps running in circles yelling, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”
Miss Prefontaine has collapsed like a punctured implant, becoming a weeping puddle of makeup and tears, still clutching her oversize playing card. Mr. Arterberry is a dead ringer for a fish out of water, his big mouth gasping, his wide eyes staring in every direction.
A whirlwind of emergency vehicles whips into the parking lot—police cars, ambulances, and even fire trucks from several townships. Shouting into their shoulders, the EMTs run like a descending army into the mouth of the mine. I stand baffled and bathed in the colored strobe of the revolving lights. People next to me are hugging one another, crying. I feel dizzy.
Next: platoons of reporters, TV vans, even a helicopter, descend in a blink of an eye, like rats sniffing out a meal. They jab cameras and microphones in all directions, training their zoom lenses on tearstained faces. What should I do if they ask me for an interview? If they stick their cameras in my face? I decide that I will give them the finger. Solves the language issue and also makes my point. I hate it when newspeople ask someone how it feels when something tragic happens. How do they think it feels?
When the first wave of EMTs emerges from the mouth of the mine, I can tell that the news is grim. Though their faces wear masks of seen-it-all tough guys, the shock is clear in every one of their twitching eyes. Finally, like the exclamation point at the end of the sentence, the last group of workers emerges carrying a body bag. Pat Chambers is dead!
Fancy SUVs and Jaguars and pickup trucks cruise into the Happy Memory parking lot. Is it on the news already? No, of course: all those cell phone calls to Ma and Pa. Mom does have an old pager and always tells me to
call “if there is ever any problem ever.” I didn’t even think to call.
I start to panic, because now how am I going to get home? Is Porkrinds driving us back to school? Do we have afternoon classes? What the hell is going on? I turn to Devon, who is looking in the other direction, toward the police cars. I can tell that he has recognized one of them. Duh … It is Mr. Smiley. Devon walks toward him.
Smiley Senior is not what I expect. Seeing him next to Devon makes me think not about genetics but about adoption. Bald except for a bushy mustache of epic proportions, he has a short, thick body and a face of sharp angles—the polar opposite of his son’s features. It is clear that they are related, however, as he runs over and says to Devon, “Tell me what on earth is going on, my good man.”
Devon fills Señor Smiley in on the details. Smiley the Elder nods quickly, like a dog trying to shake something off his head.
“Come on,” he says, reaching up to throw an arm around Devon. “Let’s get you out of this (something something something).”
Apparently, Devon has read my mind and said something to his father, because in a moment I am met by two somber Smileys gesturing toward the cruiser. They are offering me a ride home. I accept, feeling relieved. It is bizarre sliding into the back of a police car. I feel sort of important and tough. From fatass to badass. Mr. Smiley sits in the front with the officer who drove him there, a young guy who seems annoyed that he has to play chauffeur.
Devon and I sit hunched in the cramped seat. A row of scabbed metal bars and a sheet of Plexiglas separate us from the Law. There are no handles on the inside (of course), and the smell is a mix of sweat and steel and criminality. I start to feel claustrophobic and fear a panic attack coming on, a hyperventilation spell that would be the perfect cap to this fabulous field trip.