After Dakota (18 page)

After the special rum cake dessert on New Year’s Eve, Claire walks over to the Vanzants’. The luminarias on the street are dark tonight, a battalion of paper bags awaiting orders. A few strange cars clog Steve and Bo’s driveway; laughter and voices trickle out from inside their house. She wishes she’d been invited over – Steve and Bo seem like they would have interesting friends who could talk about interesting things.

In the kitchen, Claire tears a slice of bologna in quarters, the new nightly treat for Noni’s dish. The fridge is bare except for a box of baking soda, half a stick of butter, and the pack of so-called meat. Mr. and Mrs. Vanzant certainly won’t miss it. “My baloney has a first name, it’s O-S-C-A-R,” she sings as Noni swallows without chewing. “My baloney has a second name, it’s M-A-Y-E-R.”

She calls Ricky on the kitchen phone. “Thom’s cousin is having a New Year’s party,” he tells her. “You have to come – it’ll be wicked.”

They haven’t seen each other since The Day. She closes her eyes and listens to his voice, each syllable pins and needles in her ear. The receiver becomes electric; she couldn’t let go if she wanted to. Her shoulders hunch against the shiver up her spine.

She says, “My grandparents are still here.”

“You don’t have to go to church again, do you?”

“No, but I can’t sneak out. They both have to pee like five hundred times a night. Last time, my grandpa wandered into my brother’s room by mistake, totally naked.”

“Nasty!”

“Sorry my life is so lame.”

After Claire’s phone call, she finds Noni wagging her tail outside Dakota’s bedroom door. Their routine takes place in there: dog curled up at the foot of the bed, Claire reading or just listening to the grandfather clock. She could go home now, probably should go home now. But she told Ricky the truth – her life is lame except for those times he helps her escape, and why would someone be in a hurry to return to that?

She pours herself a mug of vodka from the plastic bottle next to the coffee maker (because Mr. Vanzant likes it in his coffee?). The gasoline taste is exactly how she remembers from Portia McNiven’s sleepover, when all the girls passed a bottle around and whoever didn’t swallow had to back out of the circle.

In the bathroom, Claire bends in close to the mirror, to make sure she’s seeing things correctly. Yes, two new freckles, an inch above her left eyebrow – her forehead has finally been breached.

She wishes this year would hurry up and end.

Bryce sits in the den with his dad and grandpa on New Year’s Eve, watching on TV as a mob the people stands out in the cold to watch the big twinkling ball drop. Bryce doesn’t know what Cam’s doing but at least this way he doesn’t have to hear the bitching about not getting a call from England. Beyond that, he can’t think of a bright side to this situation.

Him sitting here like this, on this night, is fitting. He’s a loser. Back in third grade, Priscilla M. had a crush on him, would ambush him at the end of recess and pin him down just long enough for everyone else to go inside. The two of them would always have to walk in together, like a couple. At the time he’d reacted to her much the way he would have to a zombie or a bloodthirsty werewolf; now he’d like to send her a thank you note, wherever she is.

After Priscilla had been a long dry spell, until Sherry Lewis in ninth grade. Sherry and the kisses on the park bench after school while their bikes stood against a nearby tree like two grazing horses. Three weeks of heaven – she even let him put his hand on her knee, underneath her denim skirts – ended when she didn’t show up one day. She wasn’t at school the next day either, or any other; rumors abounded regarding some kind of psychotic breakdown.

After Sherry had been whatever this is.

Cam hasn’t gotten laid either, as far as Bryce knows, but maybe his friend is keeping it a secret out of pity. Maybe he doesn’t want to rub his charmed life in Bryce’s face. What does Cam have that Bryce doesn’t, other than a cool car, a job, and six inches of height? And his health.

On TV, the camera pans the crowd in their hats and scarves. How dumb do you have to be to willingly stand outside on a freezing night, just to watch a big ball slide down a pole? Grinning faces, gloved hands waving at the screen. Bryce sees a girl who looks like Liz, who may be Liz, now living in the big city. Who could have imagined the paths their lives would take after summer camp?

Bryce’s life is winding down and it’s been a series of failures. Knock knock. Who’s there? A seventeen year old nothing who’s going to die of ball cancer.

Unless…

Grandpa rips a single snore and sits upright. “How much time’s left?”

“Five minutes,” Bryce’s dad says. He goes to the kitchen, comes back with a bottle of champagne and three skinny glasses from the china cabinet. “Does everyone have a New Year’s resolution?”

“Start going to the YMCA,” Grandpa answers. “Work off this belly.”

Bryce’s dad says, “I’ve got two. Quit smoking, and for my boy to get into a good college.”

Both men look at Bryce.

Pause the world here.

He wants to tell them his resolution, made official ten seconds earlier, to not go down like this. He heard once not to sit back and wait for life to happen. He doesn’t know how much time he has – the how, not the when, has been provided – but he’s going to make that time count. He is going to get himself a girlfriend. He is going to go to prom. (Losing his virginity would be a bonus.) He is also going to get into art school.

He will do these things and redeem his whole worthless life. The mission begins Monday, when school is back. Nothing. Else. Matters.

Unpause the world.

Bryce says, “Not really.”

The ball drops and the crowd cheers and Grandpa raises his glass with a trembling hand. “Happy Nineteen Eighty-Four!”

Why do people make such a big deal out of New Year’s Eve? Things are exactly the same at 12:01 as they were at 11:59. Plus, with all the different time zones it doesn’t even happen simultaneously. What, New York is into the next year before New Mexico? They live in the future?

The whole thing is idiotic.

Cameron plays Pong on his new computer, watching the ball go back and forth.
Boop…Boop…Boop…Boop
. He refuses to look at Rosemary’s photo. Hopefully he’ll be asleep by the time his mom gets back from her party, so he can avoid her concern about his hermit-like existence on this whole break.

A lonely firecracker pops outside the window. Oh look, it’s midnight. Woo-hoo.

Somewhere, Spencer and Kirk are having fun tonight.

Chuck E. Cheese’s is dead on New Year’s Eve, 1981. Not much to clean or bus, the animals doing their routine to an empty dining room. You’ve come into the kitchen even though your busboy dish tub only has one plastic cup rolling around inside, to be near Spencer and Kirk, the college-age kings of this place. You currently aspire to two things outside of academics: being promoted to pizza maker, and being like these two. Kirk would be a Surf Preppie: tan, with spiky hair, he shows up for work in shorts and flip-flops before getting into the official uniform. Spencer looks like a wrestler, constantly scrunching his shoulders up to hide his neck.

“Don’t know why we’re even open,” Kirk says while scraping the oven’s conveyor belt.

Spencer sits on one of the metal counters, eating slices of pepperoni from the bin. “They’re probably breaking even tonight, what with paying us.”

“Hey, Sophomore, you got a girlfriend?” Kirk asks. Sophomore is their nickname for you because of your grade at school; even though you’re only three years younger than them, you feel like a little kid.

“No,” you say.

“Good. You don’t wanna be tied down.” Then, inexplicably, “Me and Spence are hanging out over at his place after this. You oughta come.”

You’re sure you misheard this. “Really?”

When you call home to report on this development, and your mom’s voice is so bright it almost sends sunlight beaming through the receiver.

“I’m happy you’re making new friends, baby,” she says. “You have fun.” No question of what time you’ll be home, where you’re going, nothing. She’s been strange since your dad left, but this is Strange.

After finally closing, you wedge yourself into the backseat of Spencer’s Mustang. The guys change out of their uniforms, into KISS and Evel Knievel shirts; you haven’t brought any other clothes, since your original plan was to hang out at Bryce’s, where Geoff and Trevor are coming for a sleepover. The car’s engine comes on like an angry dragon.

Kirk says, “Time for some Dio” as he pushes a cassette into the stereo. Spencer turns the music up loud and screeches out of the parking lot. Kirk drums his hands on the dashboard; yours are tucked under your thighs to keep from shivering in the winter wind.

Most places you pass are closed, dark: gas stations, the fancy Italian restaurant, Grand Central. Other than that, New Year’s Eve feels like any other night. Except it isn’t any other night – you’re going out! With college guys!

“You drive, Sophomore?” Kirk yells over his shoulder.

“Not yet. When I get my license I get my dad’s old Plymouth.”

“Hope you’re gonna race that baby!”

You haven’t ever thought of it until this moment and can’t imagine something more terrifying. You’ve heard the drag racing legends: the roads outside of town, old cars, hot girls to signal the start of each race. You say, “I don’t wanna get a ticket.”

“Cops have better things to do than worry about a bunch of dumb kids driving fast where there’s no one else around!”

Spencer in the rearview mirror: “We better see you out there sometime!”

They talk their car talk the rest of the way, sweet V8 engines and homemade nitrous systems.

The inside of Kirk’s house appears to be made of rock. You follow the guys down into a sunken den with a fireplace and a quadruple-decker stereo system inside a glass cabinet, like it is a thing to be seen but not touched. “I’ll make us some evening toddies,” Kirk says and goes to the bar. Spencer flips through the zillion records in the rack while ice cubes clink and liquor glugs. You realize you’re still on the bottom step, as though unworthy of actually setting foot on the fuzzy rug. Like it would be crossing a gateway into a place you don’t belong.

Music oozes from wall speakers the size of a fifth grader. This time you know the song so you say, “Pink Floyd, rad.”

Kirk comes around the bar with three glasses full to the brim of swirling tan. “To absent parents.”

“Chin chin,” Spencer says.
Clink
.

You take a sip and almost gag it up on them.

The Pink Floyd songs go on and on and on. Out comes a big glass bong. You know enough to take small tokes; you’ve tried pot once before – Geoff traded some nunchucks for a foil ball worth – and coughed your throat raw. Spencer lies on the couch; Kirk hangs his legs over the side of a chair; you sit Indian-style on the floor in this room full of smoke and song.

These guys are so great. This is all so great. You don’t even think about your dad, except to realize you’re not thinking about your dad.

The doorbell rings, great echoing chimes like a church bell. “Boys, the night is about to begin,” Kirk says, and walks unsteadily out of the room.

“Ready for this, Sophomore?” Spencer asks with half-open eyes.

You think back over the last hour. Have you missed some crucial information? How stoned are you, anyway? “I am so ready,” you reply.

Then Kirk is coming down the steps in front of three girls. “…and may I present Cameron, our new busboy.”

“That’s his party uniform,” Spencer adds. Did they bring you here to be the joke of the party? Of course they did! You think back to Health class at school: paranoia is a symptom of being high.

You pull yourself up by the chair and look eye to eye with your neighbor.

“I know this dude,” Dakota says.

Oh no. Now everyone on your street will hear about this.

“Is he cool?” Spencer asks.

“Totally.”

Kirk is already mixing more drinks. Spencer lights the bong for the girls, who sit facing it in a semicircle on their knees. The other two are named Natasha and Jenny. You think they’re cute but you can’t swear to it; all you know for sure is that they have hair like lion manes. When you have another drink in your hand you chug eagerly, not even tasting it. You’ve never been so thirsty before – a glass of gasoline would’ve been welcome.

At some point Pink Floyd morphs into the Eagles, and Dakota yells, “Happy New Year’s!”

Kirk and Natasha disappear. Spencer and Dakota slow dance in the middle of the floor, their mouths together. Jenny crawls over to where you lean against the wall. “Give me a tour,” she says into your ear.

“Uh, I don’t live here.”

“Then I’ll give
you
one.”

She leads you down the hall by the hand, to a room with two twin beds, dark except for a lit clock on the nightstand. 12:20. “What’s your name?” you ask.

“Jenny. What’s yours?”

“Cameron.”

“Nice to meet you, Cameron.” Her tongue tastes like alcohol when she shoves it in your mouth. You have the image of eighth grade Geoff demonstrating how to French kiss the air right after he’d eaten a popsicle, his blue tongue spinning and straining like some alien slug trying to escape his throat.

Jenny pushes you back onto one of the beds, climbs on top of your waist.

Holy. Shit.

She pulls your glasses off and you hear them hit the floor. “Wait,” you say. “I can’t lose those. Let me just…” You flail your arm in the dark until you click on the bedside lamp. Jenny is not good looking. She isn’t Rebecca Hall level, but her chin is peppered with pimples and she has a space between her two front teeth. You recover the glasses and put them on, which doesn’t improve matters. She’s a five. At most.

“What grade are you in?” you ask, hoping to buy time, to make the best of this opportunity.

She laughs and shows that space in her mouth. “Thirteenth. Are we getting to know each other?”

“Well, I was wondering, y’know, what you like to do for fun.”

“I like to hang out with cute boys.” She leans down to your ear. “Oh look, there’s one right here.” She bites your earlobe; you shudder, not in a good way.

“I have to go.” You wiggle out from under her. “Sorry, I really do.” You should’ve kept the lamp off. Stupid idiot. But also, you don’t even know her. Shouldn’t you like someone just a little bit to do it with them, especially your first time?

Back in the empty den the record player goes
shhh-bump, shhh-bump
. No sign of Spencer or Kirk. Of course not, because they’re normal guys who take advantage of opportunities, unlike you.

You go out the front door into the first freezing morning of 1982.

You wait for forty minutes at the nearest bus stop, stamping your feet to stay warm, then give up and start walking. Polyester is not the best material for weather like this. You pass Dairy Queen (the DQ where the Famous Two once walked into the drive-thru lane, ordered a whole bunch of food into the speaker, and then ran away). Chili fries sound good right now – you’re so, so hungry – but alas, all the lights are off.

You think you’re hallucinating the
Star Wars
theme until a white car sputters up alongside you. Dakota rolls down the passenger window, letting the music free, and asks, “Need a ride?” You’ve never been so happy to see anyone in your life and wonder if you ever will be again.

“The heater doesn’t work in here,” she says. She keeps wiping the windshield with her jacket sleeve.

“I didn’t know you like
Star Wars
,” you say.

“That belongs to someone who will never ride in this car again.” She looks down to eject the tape, which makes her swerve into the oncoming lane. “Here, take it.”

“Really?”

“Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukah. Think of me when you listen to it.”

She runs a red light, then almost runs the next one. Your sphincter tightens.

“Are you ok to drive?” you ask.

“Just distracted by your grumbling stomach. Grab those chips in the back seat.”

You find an open bag of nacho cheese Doritos, not normally a favorite (especially after Trevor’s orange loogie-in-the-retainer routine), but at this moment they are spectacularly tasty. You see the ghost pattern of a bare foot on the inside of the windshield, appearing and disappearing as the car passes under streetlights.

“Did you leave that party because of me?”

“I left to get as far away from a certain asshole as possible,” she says.

Dakota reaches into the bag when she finally does stop at a red light. “Don’t bogart, buddy.”

“Those guys will think I’m a total loser,” you say.

“So tell ‘em to fuck off.”

Oh, sure. Why not just suggest spinning the Earth backwards, like in the Superman movie?

“I wish I was a senior. I hate all this stuff.”

She says, “Senior year isn’t any better – you’re still dealing with the same shit, except people think you’re suddenly so mature.” She turns onto the dark cul-de-sac; the only lights on are at Steve and Bo’s. When she shuts off the engine the car rattles like it won’t ever start again. “Graduation’s in six months and I have no idea what I’m doing next year.”

“Where do you want to go to college?” you ask.

She shoots you with a finger pistol. “First, do me a favor and never ask that again. I get enough from my parents and my counselor. Like, with these college essays I just want to say to them, ‘Does it even matter what I write in this essay? You’re not gonna know me, you’re just gonna know the version of me I show you.’”

You look out at the dark yards and dark luminarias, and wonder what Bryce and the guys are doing next door at this moment. Dakota takes the empty Doritos bag, pours the orange powder into her mouth.

You try to think of something to say, but decide it best to not say anything at all; you generally look a lot cooler that way.

“Did you get with Jenny tonight?” she asks in a different voice. Thicker.

You shake your head and hope you won’t have to confess further.

“Poor baby.”

Her hair, or maybe her coat, smells like pot. You stare at the broken heater knob, then the empty tape deck.

“Cameron,” she says in a way that makes you turn. Her eyes glisten, almost like she’s been crying, but the thought evaporates and all you know is that your two faces are now really,
really
close.

The rest is dream logic.

The two of you are kissing; you hope you’re doing it well enough. You imagine a neighbor coming outside and seeing these shapes in the car. Her parents. Your mom. Bryce and the guys.

She reaches into your lap, into your pants. Her hand is so soft and you’re just the opposite. She squeezes and –

Holy. Shit. Again.

“Oh,” she says, pulling back.

You look only at a tear in the upholstery on the car’s ceiling. You can’t face her. The shame radiates off you like heat off asphalt. If you could die right then, sitting here with your pants undone, you would.

The rustling must be her wiping her hand off somewhere.

“Well, Cameron, thanks for keeping me company. I need to go in and pass out now.” Casual, like the two of you have been discussing something of the real world.

Then you’re on the sidewalk. As Dakota starts up her driveway she says, “Hey.” You turn and she adds, “You’re a really nice guy. Don’t ever change.”

The heater is blasting at what must be ninety degrees when you get inside your house. Your mom is asleep on the couch in her San Diego State T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Makeup perfect. A bottle of wine and an empty glass – her new habit – rest on the end table. When you asked why she suddenly started buying wine she said, “I’m tired of denying myself things.”

You go up to your room, take the
Star Wars
cassette from your coat pocket. There, in bed, after the humiliation dies down, you want another chance with Dakota in the car, in your bed, as her boyfriend, so badly that you feel dizzy.