by Jill Wolfson
As we walk he tells me he’s making progress on the violin tune that’s been stuck in his head, and he hums it for me. I still don’t like it. Something about the rhythm grates on me. I describe my first surfing lesson with Alix. He says that his mom misses having me stop by. I tell him I like his mom a lot. He wants to know what cute thing He-Cat did lately.
“And the Leech?” he asks.
“Some of our lesson has worn off. She’s not begging my forgiveness anymore. But it’s okay. She basically leaves me alone. That’s a big improvement. I can live with that.”
“Prepare yourself for my big news,” he says. “Wait for it … wait for it … I joined the color guard.”
“What?” My voice jumps an octave and at least ten decibels. “You hate marching-band music.”
“Ms. Pallas kept on me about it. She said I could even write a song for the band. You know how I’ve harbored a long, secret desire to wear a snappy electric-blue-and-white uniform with epaulettes. You should join, too.”
“No way.” I salute him and he snaps his heels together and returns the salute.
“But Meg, it’s got high-step marching. It’s got the John Philip Snooza version of music from Zorba the Greek. By Jove, it’s got flags. What more could you want?”
We reach the section of hallway where we split in different directions. “Correction,” he says. “I should say, ‘By Zeus, it’s got flags,’ considering the band’s Olympus theme this year, and your personal connection to all things ancient. Ms. Pallas said to encourage you to join.”
“The woman’s relentless. I swear she’s made it her personal mission to get me into the guard. Ms. Pallas is … you know what I’d like to tell her to do?”
He breaks in, takes me by the arm. “Ms. Pallas is not someone to mess with. Seriously, Meg. Don’t mess.”
“What do you know about her? Are you still snooping? What did you find out? Tell me what—”
I’m stopped short by the way he is squinting hard at me, like he can’t quite get me into focus.
“What?”
“You’re thin, but only in all the right places.”
“You’ve noticed. Yes, I am now the proud owner of hips and a waist.” I show them off by doing a fashion-model spin.
“And boobs! Sigh. How quickly you children grow up!”
“Boobs? Me?” I drop my head to my chin and peek down the unbuttoned top of my shirt. What I see there takes me by surprise. When did that happen?
I raise my eyes again to find Raymond’s pinky finger extended in my direction. “We’re okay, then? You and me?”
I hook my little finger to his. “Friends forever.” We pull and break.
“I have something for you, too.” He removes a couple of sheets of paper from his backpack and hands them over.
My eyes skim the first sentence: The law is reason, free from passion. And the second: The virtue of justice consists in moderation.
“Promise me you’ll read it.”
“What is this? Are you auditioning for a guest spot on Hunter High’s Thought for the Day?”
No snappy comeback, just an earnest “Promise?”
I make an X over my heart. I remember Brendon. “I have big news, too.”
His eyebrows lift with interest.
“Too late to go into it now,” I say. “There’s plenty of time later.”
Let me be blunt: The three of you are neither moderate nor free from passion.
What I have in my hands is Raymond’s official resignation as the manager of the Furies. It’s signed and dated, and clearly influenced by Ms. Pallas. I recognize the tone, which is even more pontificating than Raymond’s usual style. I’m surprised he didn’t get it notarized.
Don’t write me off as some super-naïve type who doesn’t understand that society would be a mess if nobody gets punished when they do something wrong. I get it: you can’t let everyone off the hook.
But who made three angry high school girls judge, jury, and prison guards? How do you know what’s right? How do you know when the punishment fits the crime? How do you judge people clearly when you’re all wrapped up in your own hate and delusions of world domination?
You say you want to punish people who abuse their power. Well, open your eyes, little missies! Guess who’s in danger of abusing their own power? Do I need to name names?
Be careful! You are messing with forces bigger and more powerful than yourselves.
I hereby give my notice. I am cutting all ties with your endeavors. I will be devoting more time to my studies, my violin, and color guard practice. I will, however, fulfill my obligation to our joint Western Civ project. Ms. Pallas is blackmailing me into it. My other option is to take an F, and I’ve never gotten below a B-plus in my life on anything. I am not about to let it happen now.
Sincerely, Your former manager
I read his resignation twice. The first time through, it annoys me so much I start to crumple up the paper. Raymond just won’t give up. What we did to Alix’s dad hardly qualifies as having delusions of world domination. And what’s wrong with passion?
I stew on his insults a little, but my mind quickly loses its grip on them. The warm feeling of having Raymond in my life rushes back to me. I don’t want to be mad at him. I don’t want to be mad at anyone. Life is too good right now for that. I have my best friend back. I have Alix and Stephanie, who are feeling more and more like the sisters I never had. Ambrosia looks out for me. My foster mother leaves me alone. He-Cat is the best pet ever. And, of course, I have my date with Brendon coming up.
The second time I read Raymond’s resignation, it’s a whole different experience. It’s weird how the same words that made me flash with anger a minute ago now make me smile tolerantly. This is classic Raymond—the Raymond I love and who loves me.
I flip to the second page, which is his promised contribution to our class project.
1. Our rage that patrolled the crimes of men, that stalked their rage, dissolves—we loose a lethal tide to sweep the world. Aeschylus
2. Oedipus was tortured by the Furies for killing his own father, even though it was in self-defense and he didn’t even know it was his dad. Fair?
3. The chorus swears to avenge themselves by setting loose all their evil powers on the land of Athens … They do not let up; they do not go home (Cliff Notes; Fourth Stasimon, Aeschylus, The Eumenides)
There are more quotes and ideas in a numbered list that fills the page. I flip it over looking for an explanation. It’s blank. We can use this stuff in our project somehow. Who knows? It could come in handy.
21
I hear my name and whirl to see Brendon running down the hall to catch up with me. He’s wearing his intense, serious expression, which, on the knee-buckling scale, comes in a close second to his grin. I order my heart to slow down and my books to stay in my arms.
“How about today?” he asks.
“Today?”
“After school. You and me.”
“You mean, our … like, getting together?” I can’t bring myself to say the D-word, because maybe that’s not what he has in mind. Maybe he just wants to hang out like I’m one of his surfer bros. Except for the fact that I’m a lousy surfer. I’m sure he noticed that.
“Yeah, our date,” he says. “But not surfing. I have a better idea.”
No neoprene! I want to pump my fist in the air, but I restrain myself. “Like what?”
“It’s a surprise. Meet me at—” He checks his wrist. He’s wearing one of those mammoth sports watches with enough buttons and dials to navigate a ship. “At 3:47. At the boardwalk in front of the roller coaster. Okay?”
“3:47?”
“3:48 is okay, too, but don’t be late. It has to be close to that time. You said you like secret places.”
Parrot Meg does her thing again: “I like secret places.”
His expression explodes into that grin. “It doesn’t get much more secret than this.”
* * *
In autumn on
a weekday afternoon, nothing much is going on at the boardwalk. I wonder why Brendon wants to meet me here, of all places. The shops selling tacky souvenirs and overpriced corn dogs are closed until spring, and so are the rides. At first I wonder if this is about mini-golf, but Poseidon’s Kingdom is closed, too.
A deserted boardwalk on a dreary, gray day like this one can be kind of eerie. Most people think it’s too lonely to hang out with games and rides that sit there doing nothing. They prefer the bustling summer crowd, to get lost in the energy, the pushing and laughing, the lines of hyper kids. I prefer the empty boardwalk. I guess I’m different that way. There’s the sound of waves smashing on the beach, something you can’t hear when there’s music blasting and summer crowds. Overhead, the bright red and blue cars of the gondola sit still in the sky. I pass the motionless Pirate Ship ride and then the mechanical gypsy fortune-teller machine, whose eyes seem to follow me as I head for our 3:47 meet-up. Is the gypsy looking at me with pity or with a laughing, mocking expression? Does she know something that I don’t?
What if Brendon doesn’t show up? How long should I wait? What if he’s playing me so he can laugh himself sick? I just know that’s it. He’s home, smirking to himself at the image of the pathetic, naïve girl waiting among all the boarded-up rides and games. He’s going to tell his friends what he did, and they’ll get a good laugh out of it, too. The perfect follow-up to my mini-golf humiliation.
Why did I agree to meet him? How could I have fallen for this? I am an idiot! Why don’t I learn? Ambrosia is right! Don’t trust him! Don’t trust anyone. Embarrassment and anger, they both start building inside of me.
But when I get to the roller coaster, I see a hand waving from a little farther down the boardwalk. The distrust drains away. He didn’t lie. He’s here. He walks faster, breaks into a little jog. I steady my nerves, steady my everything.
“Hey!” he says, rushing up a little too close to me, then backing away.
“Hey!”
“You made it!”
“I made it!”
“I’m glad you made it. And all that!”
“Me too!”
He beams at me. I beam back. I play with my hair a little. He looks at his hands. What happened to all the exclamation points in our greeting? It’s like they fell off a cliff. Could our date have turned any more flat and awkward so quickly? I’m a loser. He’s sorry that he ever suggested meeting me here, meeting me anywhere.
“Hey.” He starts again.
“Yeah,” I say.
Thank goodness, in that awkward moment there’s the sudden clickity-clank of the Giant Dipper behind us. It makes me start, and I have an attack of the nervous giggles. A workman must be putting the famous wooden roller coaster through its paces to find out what repairs are needed. Good distraction. Brendon and I study the train of cars inching up the tracks. When it reaches the high point and shoots over the edge and comes tearing down the first wild dip, I don’t know why—we aren’t even looking at each other—but we get the same reflex. We put our arms in the air and squeal, imitating all the thousands of summer and weekend riders.
That breaks the ice a little. We both like roller coasters. That’s interesting. We can talk about that.
“I like roller coasters a lot,” I say.
“I like roller coasters, too!”
“The boardwalk’s fun when everything’s open in the summer.”
“But it’s even better now.”
I jump on that. “I was just thinking that! I’m glad you suggested meeting here. There’s a certain feeling to the boardwalk when no one else is around, a sad happiness.”
“Or a happy sadness,” he quickly adds. “Most girls I know think it’s too boring in the off-season. They get depressed by the whole ghost-town feel.”
The cars make another loop, and I raise my voice almost to a shout to be heard over the rumble. “I don’t mind depressed at all. I’m more of a ghost-town kind of person than most.”
He’s studying me, really listening, which I take as encouragement to go on. “I like being the only thing moving here. When everything around me is still like this, I can almost feel the blood going through my veins. It makes me feel really alive.”
When he doesn’t respond—just more of his serious look—I want to take back my words. Why did I say something so bizarre? Blood through my veins? He doesn’t have a clue of what I’m talking about. It’s even worse when he does respond: “I can leave if you want to be the only thing moving.”
“Oh no! That’s not … I mean, I didn’t mean … not at all. I’m glad…”
“I’m just teasing you. I’m not going anywhere. What you said about feeling alive? I feel it here, too.”
He checks his watch and motions for me to follow him down the boardwalk. He has a high-spirited, skipping walk that I never noticed in school. Maybe he doesn’t have it in school. There he has to act cool and aloof to fit in with those Plagues. He dashes over to the Tsunami ride. “When I was eight, I threw up my entire guts on this ride. The centrifugal force on half-digested cotton candy was awesome.”
Well, that wasn’t the most romantic memory for him to share, but in a strange way it is romantic. It’s the sort of thing you tell someone that you don’t want to pretend with, a person that you want to know the real you, barf episodes and all. To reciprocate, I point to the Double Shot, a tube of metal with cages at both ends.
“And on our left, we are passing one of my worst memories. I came here with a group of…” I start to say kids in my group home, but leave out the group home part. “At the first drop, I cried so hard they had to stop the ride to let me off. I still cringe thinking about that walk of shame.”
“Care to indulge in some Dipping Dots?” He mimes purchasing a large bowl at the boarded-up stand, and as we walk we pretend to share the cold treat, oohing and aahing over the delicious flavors and chiding each other for being pigs and taking more than our half.
“Here’s something you can’t do in the summer!” Brendon makes a dash to a kiddie ride, a ring of wildly painted sea creatures that, when powered, go round and round and up and down. He scans for a security guard, then jumps into the seat of a purple-and-yellow whale with big green eyes. “Good old Bulgy!” He strokes the creature’s neck. “This dude rocked my world when I was five.”
Brendon looks totally ridiculous on that ride, a muscular surfer with his knees folded to his chin in order to squeeze in. But so cute. Playing with the steering wheel, making stupid little-boy driving sounds, he looks happy and open, just like the little kid he probably was in kindergarten. I wish I had known him back then.
I stand outside the gate of the ride and extend my hand in his direction. He slaps it like kids usually do with their parents. We touched. He gives me a sheepish look and hops out.
“What a dork. I haven’t done anything like that in forever.”
“It’s my bad influence. I bring out the dork in people.”
He thinks for a second. “That’s a good thing. I’m happier being a dork than a jerk.”
He checks his watch again. Why does he keep doing that? Does he have somewhere else to go? Is he bored with me? He must be bored. He doesn’t seem bored, but people can act one way and feel another. That’s happened to me before. It’s happened to me a lot. It embarrasses me to think that he’s bored and is looking for a way to dump me. Then I feel kind of mad about that. I’ll beat him to it. I’ll dump him first. I wish I had a watch to check, too.
“Well, this was fun,” I say, super peppy. “But I have to go now.”
“What?”
“Thanks and everything. I liked seeing your secret spot.”
It’s Brendon’s turn now to fumble for words. “But this isn’t … you have to go? I thought. When I said … I want to show you…”
I am so relieved. He looks too disappointed to be faking it, so I must have been wrong about the dumping part. I backpedal hard. “I guess I can stay a little longer. I mean, I do have something else to do, like
I said. I didn’t make that up. But if you want me to stay…”
“I want you to stay.”
“For real?”
He leans in closer and I think: He’s going to kiss me. It’s going to happen. He’s going to kiss me on the lips in front of the Ferris wheel. But instead of lips, his finger moves gently over the corner of my mouth. “You had a little crumb there. Must have been an escaped Dipping Dot.”
I blush. That was almost a kiss. It made my legs go weak. “I’m a messy eater.”
“It’s settled, then. You’re staying?”
I nod.
“Good. Because this isn’t the secret spot. This is just the boardwalk.”
Again he checks his watch. “It’s time.” He reaches out like he wants to take my hand and I start to give it to him, but we both change our minds at the same instant. He walks quickly, and I take giant steps to keep up.
“Come on,” he urges.
At the far end of the boardwalk, behind the Logger’s Revenge ride, there’s a hole in the chain-link fence that cordons off the boardwalk from the cliff above the river that empties into the ocean. Using both hands, Brendon widens the opening so it’s just big enough for me to squeeze though. When I’m on the other side I do the same for him, and then we’re both standing on a high, narrow cliff ledge.
“This is where you tell me, ‘Whatever you do, don’t look down,’ right?” I say.
“Not afraid of heights, are you?”
I shake my head and give a nonchalant smile, even though I am not thrilled about being suspended twenty feet above the water on a ridge that’s not much wider than my shoes.
“Don’t worry. It’s safe. I’ve done this a lot. Follow me.”
With Brendon in the lead, we inch along the cliff and follow the steady downhill slope toward the open ocean. I don’t look beneath my feet and I keep my back pressed against the solid rock wall for security. When we get close to the bottom, Brendon waits for a wave to recede and then he jumps onto the only small patch of sand that’s momentarily dry. Everywhere else, there are nasty-looking boulders.