by Robin Ray
“How’d you learn to punch like Tyson?”
“You need to stay woke, homes,” Chip chastises Bell before helping him to get up. “These cheerleaders lift weights these days.”
“So, I smell.”
The comedian turns to face the fast disappearing Beverly, cups his mouth, and yells, “See you at the County Fair tomorrow, aiight?”
“You know, Bell,” Chip warns him, “one of these days you’re gonna go too far.”
Bell adjusts his crooked glasses. “It’s all good. Everybody’s so serious. That’s what’s wrong with this city. Hey, I feel bad about Ellen, too.”
“Yeah. She was off the Richter.”
The two high five.
“You know, Bell,” Chip surmises, “you’ve been a high school student for, what, seven years? Don’t you think you should be concentrating on, I don’t know, graduating?”
“Nigga, please. You’re 18 and still in high school.”
“Yeah, but I was sick for a year.”
“Anyway, man. I’m not stressing. I have a tutor. Besides, where would CC be without me? Why do you think I always win at the Talent Show? I’m just trying to cheer everybody up.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Still, give people time to mourn, you know what I mean? Everybody rebounds differently when tragedy strikes. Anyway, I got some stuff I gotta do. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Chip runs down the block in Beverly’s direction. “Hey, Bev! Wait up!”
Bell watches him run off. “Yeah,” he utters. “Later.”
Julia Villa-Lobos, 17-year-old CCHS senior and piano prodigy, is practicing Chopin’s popular Op. 25, No. 1 ‘Shepherd Boy’ etude in the 2nd floor study of her parents’ house. It’s a cozy studio with a tropical feel. Posters of beaches adorn the walls as well has a handful of rectangular noise diffusers. A few chairs and a table are cleverly made from driftwood. On the shelves are various trophies & awards. There is a terra cotta bust of Beethoven on the piano, an instrument she inherited years ago from her grandmother and, because of diligent care, still looks and plays the same as it did since day one.
As the raven-haired Latina runs her fingers up and down the keyboard, a nervous chill sweeps through her body. Abandoning the instrument, she gets up and walks over to the thick drapes in front of the open sliding glass door blocking off the porch. Parting the drapes, she gasps and jumps back when Al Canyon, thin, 16-year-old HS junior, reveals himself with a pitiful “Rawrr!” Dressed as a vampire, his hair is slicked back in black. His fingernails and lips are painted black. Also wearing a black cape, black shirt, pants, shoes and large white, blood-stained fangs, he looks like Bela Lugosi in cosplay.
Laurel sulks. “You’re not funny, Al.”
He enters the study with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I was downstairs knocking on the door. I guess you didn’t hear me.”
Julia checks her watch. “It’s only 6:15. You’re fifteen minutes early anyway. And what’s with the wine?”
“Champagne. I’m not getting the hang of this piano bit, Julia. It’s too hard.”
“So, you came to celebrate your failure?”
“I was thinking, since my folks are in France this weekend, why don’t you spend the weekend at my place?”
“You stole the champagne from your folks? You never give up, do you? Wait till your father finds out you’ve been raiding his liquor cabinet. And take out those ridiculous fangs. You look like Elvira on acid.”
“You should talk.”
He lays the glasses on the piano, removes his fangs then tries to open the bottle of champagne. Struggle as he might, the cork proves difficult to remove.
“Don’t bother,” Julia sneers. “It’s child proof.”
“Har har. I go out on a limb for you, Jules, and you don’t notice me. It’s ‘cause I’m a junior and you’re a senior?
“What are you talking about?”
“You never notice me. What does it take?”
She shrugs. “Suicide?”
Laying the bottle aside, Al plops down dejectedly at the piano.
“What’s tonight’s lesson?”
Century City boasts, among other small town attractions, a real live drive-in. In an age where roller rinks, bowling lanes, pinball rooms, and pool halls are quickly disappearing, it’s refreshing to know one can travel out of one’s comfort zone to partake in these “old fashioned” activities.
Tonight, Beverly and Chip are sitting in a blue and white ‘58 Chevy Impala at the Century City drive-in watching the latest horror flick. Nestled amidst a sea of cars, most of them populated by teenagers, the scene looks like a throwback to Norman Rockwell’s 50’s.
Chip, his eyes attached to the screen, is absorbed in the movie. He barely turns his head or winces from the scary scenes. In fact, he’s so blindly eating his popcorn he doesn’t notice the buttery mess he’s making on his varsity jacket. Beverly, by contrast, barely looks at the screen. She is occupied applying make-up with the passenger mirror visor down.
“You’re missing the movie,” Chip notifies her. “It’s good.”
“Right. Like Sorority Massacre II is gonna win an Oscar.”
Chip, still looking ahead, sneakily reaches over and caresses Beverly’s thigh. She slaps his hand.
“Ouch!” he yells. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m still mad at you, you know.”
“Why? Because of Bell? He’s a reject. Don’t let him rent space in your head.”
“He’s your friend.”
“He’s harmless.”
“So’s a dog till it’s provoked.”
Clearly, she isn’t enjoying herself. Looking around at the other cars, she sees spectators reacting to the horror movie on screen.
“I don’t get it,” she continues. “Why would somebody wanna spend their hard-earned money and waste time watching some horror flick anyway?”
Chip opens his door.
“Where’re you going?” she asks.
“For some Goobers. Want some?”
“You know I don’t eat that junk.”
“Oh, right. Gotta watch your figure. I’ll just grab you a handful of leaves from the plants in the lobby on the way back.”
Chip exits. Beverly goes back to preening in the mirror. Seconds later, a loud tapping on her window makes her shriek and jump. Looking over, she sees it is Century City’s pony-tailed, 39-year-old baby-faced mayor, James Crenshaw. She winds the window down.
“Hi, Bev,” he greets her.
“Hey, Mayor Jim,” she practically sings. “What are you doing all the way out here in the desert? Don’t they need you back in Century City?”
“There are no council meetings tonight. Besides, you know what they say – all fun and no play make Jim a dull official. So, who are you here with anyway?”
“Chip the dip. What about you?”
“Alone tonight.”
“Oh?”
At a concession booth minutes later , Chip pays for two large sodas, a box of Goobers, and large popcorn. Grabbing his items, he leaves the counter and strolls back to his car, eyeing some of the pretty girls passing by. Approaching his vehicle, he realizes he can’t open the latch.
“Bev,” he requests, “open the door.”
He waits for the door to be pushed open but nothing happens.
“C’mon, Bev. My hands are full.”
Receiving no response, he bends to look in his window and sees the car is empty.
Julia, reclining on a couch, is listening in agony as Al maims Chopin as best as he could. Grabbing a pair of throw pillows, she places them against her ears. Her prayers are answered when Bell knocks on the entrance to the study and steps in.
“Hi, all,” he greets them.
Excited, Julia leaps up. “Bell!”
Al stops playing.
“Don’t stop on account of me,” Bell tells him.
Al almost resumes playing again, or rather, maligning the dead composer’s creation.
“No!” Julia
screams then puts her hands over her mouth.
“I mean,” she continues, “you did good, Al.”
“You’re just saying that,” the amateur piano student concedes after stopping.
“I can come back later,” Bell states.
“No,” Julia assures him. “Al was just leaving.”
Al protests. “Sez who?”
Julia leans into him. “Al, you were just leaving, right?”
Al surveys the moment, gets the hint, then gets up and trudges angrily to the door. He turns back to look at Julia.
“I don’t even know why I bother,” he admits.
“You just need to practice more,” she informs him. “Study your scales.”
“I am practicing.”
Bell stretches out his hand to the exasperated young man. “No hard feelings, Al.”
Blindly, Al takes Bell’s hand and is shocked by one of Bell’s gadgets. Julia stifles a giggle. Al storms out. She turns to the practical joker.
“Too funny!”
“So, I’ve heard. Ready to tutor me?”
“Are you kidding? Al wore me out with his playing tonight. Almost two hours of badgered notes and clashing passages. Ugh! Hey, how ‘bout some champagne?”
“I thought you were gonna tutor me in the arts? My GED exam’s coming up.”
“Geez, Bell. It’s Friday night. Why don’t we party instead? Wanna go out somewhere, like the roller rink?”
“Maybe Laurel’s not busy. She’s more edumacated anyway. See ya later.”
“Wait. I wrote a song for you.”
“You did?”
She sits down on the piano and starts playing something soft, something pretty. Bell sighs, plops down in a couch, grabs the photo album sitting there, and goes through it.
“You like it?” she asks.
“Sounds nice.”
He leafs through a few pages of the album and sees someone new.
“Who’s the guy with the cowboy