Alva took a step towards him. “Wait a minute, now—”
Corn pushed him back in the middle of his chest. “And you, you’re the worst of all! All you do is ruin everyone’s lives with your stupid little inventions. Go to hell!” He turned to Grunt, sitting on his drum stool.
Grunt looked at Corn expectantly.
“And you… you… You can’t even keep your damn drum set together!” Corn stomped off stage and across the cafeteria, slamming the metal bar on the door so hard it banged into the brick wall.
Grunt shrugged. “Mine really wasn’t so bad.”
Alva faced the crowd gathered in front of the stage. “Sorry, show’s over,” he called out. The crowd started breaking up and Alva turned back to the band. “Let’s pack up.”
Friday, 4:46 p.m.
“I dropped it out here somewhere when he shoved me,” Barrow said to Alva in the hallway. “It slid across the floor near those lockers.”
“And you didn’t get it?” Alva said.
“Well, I was kind of in shock after being punched, and then Mrs. Glish was there, and then Corn was calling me a faggot…. I guess I forgot about it.”
“Don’t worry,” Alva said, checking under a wooden desk. “It can’t have gone too far.”
“Hey, maybe when you find it…”
“Yes?” Alva said.
“Maybe you should destroy the damn thing.”
“Destroy it?” Alva grimaced. Not before next Saturday night, I’m not.
“Absolutely. It’s been nothing but trouble,” Barrow said, kicking a trashcan to one side. “Even more than your other inventions.” He lifted the trashcan up and checked under it. “It’s odd, though, I thought it’d be right on the ground somewhere. Anyway, where’s Corn now?”
“Grunt gave him a ride home," Alva said. He squatted and peeked under a row of lockers. “Maybe give him a day or two. You know how he gets.”
“Sure,” Barrow said. “What about you?”
“Me?” Alva looked up.
“Yeah. We still friends?”
Alva put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up to stand. “The news is pretty shocking.”
“That sounds like a no to me.” Barrow’s tone was flat.
Seconds passed without words. Alva chewed the inside of his lip. Then his jaw set. “No, we are still friends. Definitely.” He smiled and punched Barrow in his arm. “But why Eric Cartwell? I mean, maybe hit on someone who wouldn’t kick your ass?”
Barrow grinned self-consciously. “I guess in retrospect it does look pretty dumb.”
“It doesn’t. It doesn’t look dumb.”
“C’mon,” Barrow said.
“Okay, maybe a little dumb,” Alva said. “Eric Cartwell. Dude. What did his face look like when he realized what you were doing?”
Barrow snorted. “Total shock. I’ve never seen anyone that surprised.” Barrow’s eyes lowered and he got quiet. “I don’t know. We hang out in trig together, you know, we joke around in there, he passes me little notes with funny comments on them. And he’s so gorgeous. I thought he might be…interested.”
“I guess not,” Alva said.
“So stupid. I can’t believe I thought it would work.” Barrow sighed and grimaced. “He knew what it was, of course. Everybody at school knows about the Love Machine by now.”
“Yeah,” Alva said. “Speaking of which, where the hell is it?”
“I don’t know, man,” Barrow said. “It’s gotta be around in the hallway somewhere. Where could it go?”
“Nowhere, by itself.” Alva thought a moment. “But anywhere, if someone took it.”
Alva and Barrow looked at each other.
“Oh, shit,” Alva said. What am I going to do about Mom’s date without the Love Machine?
Friday, 4:54 p.m.
Grunt pulled his Nissan up the driveway of his house and yanked the parking brake. He and Corn climbed out.
“Afternoon Gregory, afternoon Cornelius,” Grunt’s grandfather sang out from where he was watering a newly-planted dogwood tree with a hose.
“Hi, Mr. Hunt,” Corn said.
“How’re things going with you young men?”
“Not too good,” Grunt mumbled, slamming the car door.
“Close the door gently, Gregory. Let’s try to make the car last a while.” His grandfather squinted at the car’s side. “Son, what is wrong with your tires?”
“What? What do you mean?”
His grandfather dropped the hose and stepped towards the car. “I mean your tires are bald. I just put new tires on six months ago. How could they be bald already?” He leaned over and rubbed a finger across the top of the left front tire. “Smooth as a shot of whiskey. Gregory, how did you do this?”
“I dunno.” Grunt noticed something on his shoe and fixed his gaze there.
“You don’t know how this happened.” Grunt’s grandfather stared at him with incredulity.
“I just dunno, Granddad. Maybe they weren’t very good tires.”
His grandfather shook his head. “Well, you can’t drive this car until we get some new tires on it. It’s not safe.”
Corn broke into giggles. “Ha ha, Grunt lost his wheels!”
“I don’t know what you’re laughing at, asshole. I’m the one who drives you to school!”
“Watch your mouth!” Grunt’s grandfather looked over his shoulder at the house. “I hope to God your grandmother didn’t hear you say that.”
“Well, how long will it be until I can drive it again?” Grunt asked.
“I don’t know, son. I don’t have the money to buy new tires every six months. It could be a while.”
“Great.” Grunt sighed. “Well, help me unload the drums, Corn. Unless you wanna start walking home now.”
PART TWO:
PHILIA
Chapter Ten
Friday, 6:53 p.m.
“Ugh. That whole thing went to shit,” Alcie said, lying across Tina’s pink bedspread with her hands behind her head.
“It sure did,” Tina said, sitting in the big pink chair in front of her mirror and cleaning away her makeup with a cotton ball, brushing her cheeks with little swirling motions. “Also, I think you’ll have to kick Monica off the IBTC. She looked totally cute in that little dress of hers.”
“Yeah, she was smoking hot. I almost did too good a job. Well, we didn’t get to unleash her on Corn anyway.”
Tina glanced at Alcie. “It seemed like she was a lot more interested in Alva.”
“Shut up! She was not into him at all.”
“I don’t know. She was coming on to him pretty strong at those keyboards.”
Alcie sat herself up on her elbows and scowled at Tina’s grin.
“You are such a bitch.” She threw a pillow across the room. Tina dodged it, laughing.
Tina turned back to the mirror and dabbed moisturizer on her skin with a washcloth. “So we didn’t get revenge on Corn and we didn’t get the Love Machine. I’m not sure your plan really worked too well.”
“The plan was fine,” Alcie said quickly. “There was too much interference.”
“Well, anyway, Barrow must not have had the Love Machine in his backpack like you thought.”
“He did,” Alcie said. “I’m sure he did. Did you see the way he walked? Cradling his backpack like he had a carton of eggs in there. Why would he do that if the Love Machine wasn’t in it?”
“But it wasn’t there when we checked it in the hallway.”
Alcie didn’t say anything.
“So what do we do now?” Tina asked.
Alcie mused. “I’m not sure about that part.” She fell back on the bedspread with a huff and stared at the ceiling. Tina moved on to applying moisturizer to her face.
There was a knock on the half-open door and Tina’s dad leaned his head in. “You girls hungry in here? I got some chocolate chip cookies coming out of the oven.”
“You bake chocolate chip cookies, Mr. Barnett?” Alcie asked.
�
��Sure, what’s wrong with that?” he asked, stepping into the room.
“Nothing…” Alcie said.
Tina’s dad raised an eyebrow. “Now what does that mean?”
“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“Why, ’cause I’m a man?” Tina’s dad crossed his arms. “You think a man don’t know how to use the oven?”
Alcie smiled and held up a hand in protest. “I wasn’t saying that.”
“Don’t lie now. That’s what you were thinking.” Alcie was laughing too hard to respond. “I’ll have you know, Alcie, I’ve been making miracles in the kitchen since before you were wearing diapers.” He started miming his actions. “First, I put on some real old school music, the Reverend Al Green or somebody else you kids don’t know about, cut up some onions and peppers and potatoes and whatnot, get that frying pan out and cook up the best food you ever tasted. Ain’t that right, baby girl?”
“It sure is, Daddy,” Tina said.
“Okay, I believe you!” Alcie said. “I’ll eat your cookies!”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Tina’s dad said. “Whenever y’all are ready, they’ll be out downstairs on the island. So I’ll let you go and you girls can get on back to talking about boys.”
“We weren’t talking about boys, Mr. Barnett.” Alcie’s voice was a little indignant.
“Well, it didn’t sound like y’all were talking about football.”
“If men can use an oven, don’t you think women can talk about something besides boys?” Alcie said.
Mr. Barnett smiled. “Sure. So y’all talking politics? Church? The job market?”
“No, Daddy,” Tina said. “We’re discussing how to find…something that’s missing.”
“Ooh, something that’s missing,” he said. “have you checked under the couch cushions?”
“Be serious, Daddy.”
“Well, if it’s not there,” he said. “I tend to lose things ’cause other people moved them without telling me. Now I gotta go pull those cookies out before they burn.”
Alcie perked up as soon as the door closed. “That’s it! Somebody else moved it!”
“You know where the Love Machine is?” Tina said, turning around.
“Not exactly. But I know someone else got there before us and took it.”
“Who would do that?” Tina asked.
Alcie beamed. “Who else knew about it?”
“Monica? You think she took it?”
“I’m not sure, but she’s a damn good place to start checking. And we’re going to get our hands on it before Alva finds it. This plan isn’t through yet.”
Monday, May 13th, 8:05 a.m.
“Jimmy Page,” the ninth-grader said, pushing up his glasses with one finger.
Corn snorted. “So predictable.” He leaned back in the seat in the back of the bus and hooked his fingers behind his head. Heads poked into the aisle three rows in front of him, hoping to get into the conversation. Corn pointed at a kid wearing a black trenchcoat despite the afternoon warmth. “You.”
“Um, David Gilmour.”
“Who’s that?” Corn said.
“The guitarist for Pink Floyd,” Trenchcoat Kid said.
Corn rolled his eyes. “I don’t think so. Next. You’re up, Grunt. I hope you pick somebody from this century.”
“Zakk Wylde,” Grunt said.
“The guitarist for Ozzy?” a tenth-grader next to Trenchcoat Kid said. “He’s pretty awesome. That solo on No More Tears rocks so hard.”
“Yeah, it rocks a little,” Corn said. “It’s okay. But it doesn’t move me.” For a second he thought about Barrow. There’s a dude who can talk about music without sounding like an idiot. He shook his head to clear that thought from his mind.
“What about you, Corn?” Grunt asked.
“Me? One word: Prince.”
“Prince?” the ninth-grader said. “Are you kidding? Does he even play guitar?”
“Oh shit, son.” Corn clicked his tongue and flicked his head. “I know you didn’t just say that.”
“Dude, what?” the ninth-grader said.
“Dude, he plays all the instruments on all his songs. Let’s Go Crazy. Your homework tonight is go home and listen to the guitar solo in that song and tell me the answer’s not Prince. Right, Grunt?”
“I might give you Prince,” Grunt said. “Hey, there’s Alva.”
The bus pulled to a stop at the red light where Alva waited at the corner. Corn motioned to the ninth-grader to pull down the window and leaned over him to yell out. “Alva! Hey Alva!”
Alva looked up and waved.
“Who’s the best guitarist?” Corn yelled out.
Alva held his hand up to his ear.
“The! Best! Guitarist! Ever!”
Alva nodded and put his hands around his mouth. “John McLaughlin,” he shouted, his answer barely audible over the roar of the bus engine as the traffic light turned green.
“John McLaughlin? Whoever the hell that is,” the ninth-grader said.
“I think he’s one of those political guys,” Trenchcoat Kid said. “My dad watches his show on Sunday mornings.”
“And he plays guitar?” the tenth-grader asked.
“Forget it, Alva’s a nerd,” Grunt explained.
The ninth-grader started to push the window back up but Corn stopped him and put his head out again. “Screw yoouuuu, Alva!”
Alva just smiled ruefully and waved from halfway across the crosswalk, pulling his Tarheels cap down almost over his eyes.
Monday, 11:42 a.m.
Alva sat at his usual table in the cafeteria and pulled his brown bag lunch out from his backpack. He methodically unloaded the contents onto the table: an apple, carrot sticks, a dill pickle, and a turkey breast sandwich cut diagonally in halves. Not bad, Mom, not bad. No cookies though.
Barrow slid his tray on the table across from him and took a seat. “Dude, did you hear what happened in Frau Muller’s German class today?”
“No, what was—wait.” Alva held up a hand. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Barrow said.
“The girls at that table over there. I think one of them said something about the Love Machine.”
“You’re paranoid,” Barrow said. “How would they know about it? They’re freshmen.”
“Shh, listen.”
“But why the left ear?” one girl in a blue sweater asked.
“I don’t know,” the other said, a redhead with glasses. “That’s just how he did it.”
Barrow gave Alva a look. “Okay, you might have a point there. Let’s go ask them how they heard about it.”
“Wait.” Alva nodded at a table of football players in their letter jackets on their other side. They were guffawing over something and one of them high-fived another.
“And she fell in love with him, just like that? You’re shitting me!”
“No at all, dude! One hundred percent true. Craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”
And it wasn’t just those two tables. From all over the cafeteria came snatches of conversation. “Wrong ear and he got madder’n I’ve seen!” “He’ll let you use it for only five bucks.” “I think that nerd Alva invented it.” “What’s it called again?” “The Love Machine.” “The Love Machine.” “The Love Machine.”
Barrow took a bite of his pizza. “You okay, Alva? You’re kind of pale.”
“You know something?” Alva said, his stomach clenching. “I think we’re really in trouble.”
Monday, 4:15 p.m.
Alva banged the front door.
“Remember what I’ve told you about slamming the door, David,” his mother called from the kitchen.
“Sorry, Mom.”
“How was school today?”
“Okay, I guess,” Alva mumbled.
“Stop right there.”
Alva halted at the top of the stairs down to the basement. She came out and put a hand to his forehead. “You’re not warm. Is something wrong at school?”
&
nbsp; “School’s fine, Mom.” Alva kicked with his toe at an imaginary scuff on the floor.
His mom frowned. “Come on, David. What’s going on?”
Should I tell her? She might be able to help. He stared at her face for a moment. He noticed the anxious lines around her mouth, the gray hairs coming in along her temples. She’d aged a lot since Dad had—well, in the past three years. Going to work waitressing, earning just enough to cover food and the electric bill after paying for Mark’s tuition. And never complaining. The last thing she needed was more worries.
“What’s wrong, honey? Why are you staring at me? Did something happen?”
“Mom, are you free Saturday night?”
She smiled. “Well, I think so. Why do you ask that?”
“I thought maybe we could do something together.”
“That’s a surprise,” she said. “I’d like that, David. I’d really like that a lot.”
“But don’t forget and make another appointment or anything.”
“I’ll pencil you in, okay?”
“Okay, Mom.” It was nice to see her smile. She really deserved to have some happiness in her life. He’d make sure he found the damn Love Machine by Saturday if it killed him.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, 4:42 p.m.
Grunt laid down a disco beat on the high-hat and snare and Corn thumped out a burbling bass line. They kept it going for a couple minutes until Corn held up his hand.
“All right, that’s enough.”
“What’s the problem?” Grunt asked. “Sounds pretty good, don’t it?”
“Yeah, it sounds fine,” Corn said. “But it’s missing something.”
“Maybe you should sing. That falsetto thing you were doing earlier, try that.”
“That’s not it.” Corn kicked an empty Mountain Dew can against the wall. “It needs something more. A melody or something on top.”
Grunt laid down his drum sticks. “So? Should we give Barrow a call?”
“I don’t even wanna talk about that,” Corn said. “Don’t even bring his name up.”
“Alva? Get some keyboards going?”
The Love Machine Page 5