by Robin Reul
I take the letter back to my room and tear it open. It’s dated a week before Dad died. When I’m done reading it, it feels like someone has taken my brain and shaken it like a snow globe. It’s as if I’ve intruded on a private conversation. My dad was clearly hurting over everything that happened between them. He apologized for it and told Alex it was the hardest choice he ever had to make and asked his forgiveness. And yet, he never mailed it. Given how bad things were between them, it wasn’t entirely a surprise Alex didn’t show up for the funeral, though I half expected him to come waltzing in wasted to spite my parents and get the last word. But if he’d gotten this letter—would it have changed things?
I look up and spot the clock on my night table. Shit! It’s already three fifteen. Graduation starts in forty-five minutes. I stuff the letter into my backpack for safekeeping and then break the sound barrier driving to the high school. I wonder if Natasha has a statistic for how many valedictorians have been late to their graduation.
Chapter 4
Jack
Friday, June 4, 3:59 p.m.
The faculty does not look happy as they usher me toward the sea of white folding chairs I helped place six hours ago on the football field. “Excuse me, pardon me,” I say as I hurriedly nudge past the knees of the students in my row.
Ten minutes later, I’m delivering my valedictorian speech to a sea of glazed expressions impatient to get on with the main event. I get through most of it and then, out of nowhere, a red dragonfly buzzes in front of me and lands on the lectern for a second before taking off again. It distracts me.
Ever since my dad died, I see dragonflies all the time. Perhaps I did before, but I never noticed them the way I do now. Every time one appears, I can’t help but feel like it’s my dad saying hello and letting me know he’s still with me. Seeing one today, when I feel so completely alone, takes my breath away.
I clear my throat and try to recalibrate my focus back to finishing my speech, but my mind is suddenly blank. I look around nervously at the crowd, mentally rewinding to the last thing I said, but the words aren’t there. It’s like looking at an empty screen.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.
The audience must mistake my deafening silence for my having finished speaking, and they erupt into applause. I go with it and exit the stage. I get a few curious looks as I walk back toward my seat. As soon as the next speaker begins, I am forgotten. I look around at my fellow students and wonder how long it will be until we forget each other’s names. The likelihood is I will never see 99 percent of them again.
When they start handing out diplomas, I note the cheers from the crowd as each name is called. You can tell who was popular, whose entire family showed up. When it’s my turn, a smattering of whoops and applause erupts from the faculty and kids who know me, but otherwise the stands are quiet.
Afterward, I weave through the crowd in search of Ajay. Natasha appears behind him. Ajay shoves his iPhone in our faces. “C’mon, guys, obligatory graduation selfie for posterity.”
“If we’re all in it, isn’t that an us-ie?” I ask.
Ajay snaps the picture, and then shows it to us. Half of Ajay’s face is cut off and my eyes are mid-blink and my mouth is open midsentence, making me look drunk, but Natasha is perfect, of course. Her face lights up with delight. “Oh my god, I love it! Post it and tag me,” she says.
“Dude, there’s Matt Phillips!” Ajay bellows with excitement. Matt turns and lights up when he sees Ajay standing there as well. Ajay turns to us. “I have to give Matty some love.” And then he is swallowed into the sea of blue robes, and now it’s just Natasha and me standing there.
“My money’s on Ajay getting lucky at the party tonight,” Natasha says, putting her hand on her brow to shield her eyes from the sun, looking in the general direction Ajay went. “In fact, I predict Ajay gets the prom queen pregnant. In Carly Ginsburg’s dad’s Batmobile. You’re gonna be like ‘Natasha totally called that.’”
“That’s not even the most impossible part of that scenario. The prom queen is already pregnant,” I remind her. It’s true.
“Right. I knew that.” Natasha turns to me, and we share a laugh. And then it’s awkward because neither of us knows what to say. She waves her hand behind her in the general vicinity of the stands. “I should probably go find my parents before there’s bloodshed.”
I nod. “Right.” She hesitates for a second, and I catch an expression in her eyes as she remembers that I don’t have anyone to meet up with, and then she takes a step closer and hugs me.
“Congratulations, Jack. I don’t know how I would have gotten through these four years without you.” She holds on a beat longer than she needs to, and then she pulls away, probably not wanting me to get the wrong idea. “I’ll see you later?”
“Indeed.”
She points to the cut on my forehead from this morning. “Glad that stopped bleeding. Doesn’t look too bad, actually.”
“Yes, I think the tampon helped. Sheer genius.”
“Just doing my part to make sure you never forget me.” She cracks a smile and flashes me the peace sign as she heads toward the stands.
“Like I ever could,” I call after her in a playful way, but it’s probably the truth because the cut and she are bound to leave a scar.
I have no idea what one wears to a rager. I opt for casual: black jeans, my Subliminal Sunrise tee, and a plain, black hoodie, which I leave unzipped. I slip on a pair of black-on-black Vans high-tops Natasha talked me into buying at the mall a few weeks ago.
“I’m leaving in a minute,” I announce to no one, because it’s not as if anyone will notice if I decide not to come home tonight. I could literally go anywhere and do anything.
It’s grad night, my eighteenth birthday, I’m going to the party of the century on my last night in LA, I have a condom, a bottle opener, and a Target gift card, and I’m accountable to no one. It’d be a shame to waste that opportunity.
Before I go, I turn on the local news and listen for fire updates. It sounds like the wind has picked up and spot fires are starting in all new directions. A fire chief comments that they’ve not seen a fire this unpredictable since the Woolsey Fire several years ago. He talked about the importance of having a backpack filled with a day or two’s worth of essentials ready to go in case you have to leave quickly.
He succeeds in amplifying my worry. Maybe I should pack one just in case and leave it in the car. What if this thing takes off while I’m at the party and I can’t get back here for some reason? Or I’m told to evacuate in the middle of the night? What if my house burns down?
I’m letting myself get worked up. I know these are only possible scenarios, not probable ones. Still, like the fire chief says, it’s good to be prepared. I grab my blue JanSport backpack where I stashed Dad’s letter earlier. I don’t bother taking it out. I add the picture of us from my nightstand and stuff the rest of the bag with basic essentials. I throw in my Moleskine writing journal, two pens (in case one runs out), and a pack of gum, and I’m ready to roll.
I shove my backpack in the trunk of my car and plug Carly’s address into the GPS. It routes me to one of those giant mansions perched high in the Hollywood Hills. My family is well off, but Carly’s comes from a whole other stratosphere of wealth populated by celebrities, athletes, and heads of movie studios.
I take a cue from the abundance of cars and park on the street out front, then walk through the open gates up the very long, steep driveway to Carly’s house. There are statues of three Valkyries mounted over the front door. If the loud music spilling forth from inside isn’t telltale enough, the condom someone hooked over one of the Valkyrie’s wings confirms it’s the right house. Her parents are definitely not home.
Natasha and Ajay are already somewhere inside the bowels of the estate, along with literally everyone from the senior class of my high school. The marble ent
ryway is bigger than the entire computer lab at school. As I walk in, I overhear someone say that it’s not even fully dark yet and someone has already barfed inside Carly’s dad’s barbecue.
I carve my way awkwardly through a sea of semifamiliar faces and understand what it must feel like to be a salmon swimming upstream. The crowd moves me along to the back sliding-glass doors that lead to a backyard the size of Disneyland. All these different groups of people coexisted in the same place for four years and may never have interacted with the exception of the occasional teacher-chosen lab partnering or group project—until tonight.
Natasha is sitting by the edge of the pool, and by pool I mean small lake with a waterfall and center island with bar. Her feet are dipped in up to her ankles. Sitting much closer to her than necessary is Cade Krentzman, this asshat from the baseball team. Natasha’s laughing it up at something he’s saying, and he scoots even closer to her. He puts his hand on her lower back with a certain familiarity that makes me wonder if it might not be the first time. I hang back on the patio behind a potted palm and watch them for a minute.
Cade reaches behind him and takes a drink from a red cup he has there, his eyes scanning the party before settling back on her like she’s prey. She’s probably the only girl in our high school he hasn’t slept with yet. Would she actually consider hooking up with this jerk?
Reality check: I have no claim on her. She can hook up with anyone she wants to, but it doesn’t mean I have to watch.
I go back inside to look for Ajay, but I only get about two inches over the threshold when arms loop around my neck, and I stumble forward as a sloppy, wet kiss is planted on my cheek. I turn my head and there, practically touching noses with me, is Carly Ginsburg.
The way she’s slightly swaying betrays that she’s definitely indulged in some underage drinking. Her sheer, white top emblazoned with BITCH cuts off right above her navel, and I can see the outline of her black bra underneath.
“Heeeeey, Jake, right? Aren’t you like…going to Columbia?” She draws out the uhh and because her face is so close, I can smell whatever fruity drink she’s had too much of on her breath. She laughs at her own joke. Until the invite, I didn’t even know Carly Ginsburg knew my name, let alone my academic plans.
“It’s Jack, actually. And guilty as charged,” I reply with an awkward smile. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that she’s totally wasted.
Her eyes get wide as saucers, and she says louder than necessary, “Oh my god, wait—isn’t your mom Dr. Suzanne Freeman? Like as in the famous sex therapist to the stars?”
Ugh. “Yeah, she is.”
I smile awkwardly as she gives me the once-over like I’m a dessert she’s considering from a display case.
“My mother fucking loves her. Keeps her book on her nightstand. If you want, I could show you.” She smiles suggestively. Honestly, I’d rather see her dad’s Batmobile. Someone bumps her as they pass, and it throws her off-balance and straight into my receiving arms.
“Whoa, there. You okay?” I say as Carly steadies herself with one hand on my shoulder.
She leans in close to my ear and whispers, “I think smart guys are hot.” She bites at the air as she says the letter t. As I struggle to come up with a witty response to that, Drinkerbell’s attention is diverted as two other guys walk in the front door. She pounces on them without so much as a goodbye. I turn to look back toward the pool. Natasha and Cade aren’t sitting there anymore.
I wander outside and find a quiet vantage point to take in the scene inside a gazebo adorned with little twinkling white lights. People are taking turns going down the waterslide fully clothed, red cups of beer in hand. The music is loud, and everywhere, people are grinding up against each other, dancing and laughing. There’s a cutthroat game of beer pong happening on the patio. Not my scene.
I hear Natasha’s voice over my shoulder. “This place is a serious dump.”
I turn toward her. Thankfully, she’s solo. “The worst.”
She joins me under the gazebo, her flip-flops in one hand and a red cup in the other. Is she actually drinking beer? “I heard there’s a live band coming later, and I don’t think it’s the kind with a woodwind section. They’ve headlined at the Viper Room. And…wait for it…she’s having real snow delivered at midnight.”
“Seriously?”
She shakes her head and surveys the scene. “And get this: Cade Krentzman, who never gave me the time of day until he knew he’d never have to see me again, was totally hitting on me and trying to get me drunk. He kept calling me Kylie.”
Is she trying to make me jealous? I mean—why mention that if that’s not the endgame? I won’t give her the satisfaction. “Yeah, well, Carly Ginsburg just offered me a private tour of her mother’s bedroom,” I say, and I’m not even lying. “So, where’s Cade now? How’d you shake him finally?”
“I told him I had herpes, and it’s probably better that I don’t share his cup.”
I can’t help but crack a smile.
“Have you seen Ajay?” I dig my hands in my pockets and look around for him.
“Somebody told him about a free game room downstairs, so that’s all he had to hear.”
Not gonna lie: that gets my blood pumping too. As if on cue, Ajay comes beelining for me out of nowhere, an all-business expression on his face. He ignores Natasha altogether, looks me right in the eye, and rests both his hands on my shoulders as if he’s about to deliver life-changing news. “What if I told you that downstairs, in this very house, there is an actual 1990 Williams FunHouse pinball machine, and it is wired for unlimited play?”
“I’d say don’t tease.” Fun fact: I have always aspired to have my own pinball machine. I have a minor obsession with them. I find them fascinating, from the game play to the physics. My dad introduced me to them. We used to go to arcades and play for hours when I was a kid. In my opinion, the ability to play limitless pinball at will is truly the measure of living one’s best life. I’ve never seen an actual FunHouse machine in person.
“Oh—you know I would never tease about pinball.” Ajay loves it almost as much as I do.
“Why have I not befriended Carly Ginsburg sooner?”
“Follow me,” he says and disappears into the crush of people clustered at the entrance to the patio.
“Excuse me, I actually have to see this,” I explain to Natasha and keep my eyes trained on Ajay’s head as I navigate my way through the house and down a flight of gray shag-carpeted stairs.
“Get ready to have your mind blown,” Ajay warns as we spill out into a room the size of a six-car garage lined wall to wall with nothing but video game machines. In the center of the room is a foosball table. It’s like a true arcade, filled with an electronic chirping chorus of sound effects and music. It’s downright epic. And there in the corner stands the crown jewel—a vintage 1990 FunHouse pinball machine, possibly the creepiest game on the planet.
I walk up to it and run my hand over its surface. Holy shit.
There it is: the score gangway, the trapdoor, the talking Chucky-esque doll head in the upper right-hand corner who heckles players and whose eyes follow the ball when different targets are hit.
Natasha eyes the freaky doll head. “That is truly the stuff of nightmares.”
I disagree. “It’s beautiful.”
I pull back the plunger, set the first ball in motion, and enjoy a solid five minutes of game play before I drain my last one. I keep playing until enough of a crowd forms that I feel bad for monopolizing the machine, and I move on. It did not disappoint.
I spot an empty Galaga machine in the corner and smile. My high score of 278,330 is still on the machine at a pizza place off Sunset where Ajay and I like to go sometimes. He’s on the other side of the room ensconced midgame, but Natasha is still standing next to me.
“Galaga?” I challenge her to a game as she follows me tow
ard the machine.
“I’m not very good. I’ll watch.” She isn’t that into video games.
“That’s the beauty of these machines. You don’t even have to be good per se—you just have to find out the secret.” I press the button, and the familiar theme music starts up before launching into game play.
I teach her how it’s done. An hour passes. The party upstairs is raging, and at some point, Ajay disappears upstairs with everyone to check out the band, but Natasha and I opt to stay down here. Now it’s just the two of us.
I scan the room for a game I haven’t yet played and try to act casual. I’m not sure why she wants to keep hanging out with me down here instead of at the party of the century upstairs. She follows me to the foosball table in the center of the room, and I challenge her to battle. She accepts.
“You don’t have to stay down here, you know.”
“I know. I want to,” she tells me as I set the ball in motion. She sends it careening back at me, and it easily sails through my goal.
I put some shoulder into it, and it gets cutthroat for a minute as we go back and forth. Ultimately, I score.
She smirks. “Lucky shot.”
“More like master skill.”
Natasha proceeds to kick my ass for the rest of the match. She’s laughing, gloating over her victory, and then she elbows me playfully. “I think I found my game.”
“I was distracted.”
“Face it—I have superior foosball skills. And you hate to lose. But you know you love me too much to stay mad at me,” she jokes and bats her eyes.
“That’s probably true,” I say.
There’s an obvious moment here where if she wanted to—if she felt that way about me at all still and had reconsidered—she could take it all back. But she doesn’t. Instead, the expression on her face looks somewhere between sadness and cramps, and the words hang in the air between us like a piñata waiting to be cracked open.