Be More Chill (22 page)

“So I have to put something in his
ass
?” Christine says, horrified. “That’s what you want? I heard about that, the prostate—”

“No, I just meant…uh…”

“I don’t want to have to wear a strap-on, Jeremy!” And she leans down, unexpectedly, into my lap. I’m about to laugh because this is pretty stupid, but she’s far
from laughing, she’s choking in small gasps as if she’s been waiting all night for an excuse to cry. Her tears wet my pants. I put my hand down carefully.

H
AIR ONLY
.

I make light strokes. And instead of being derisive, I’m nice/funny. “You know, this whole millennium is going to be the Millennium of the Woman,” I say. (She sniffles.)
“So you’re not going to have to worry about guys like Jake.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I read about it in
Time
magazine. I’m very happy with it. I’d rather live in a world run by women.”

Christine smiles and the very beginning of a laugh ripples her throat.

“They could, like, lust after me and touch my butt while I was trying to photocopy stuff at my job and I’d be like, ‘Ha-ha, stop that, ladies.’”

“Yeah, right.”

“And then they’d hound me and try to get photographs of me in my underwear and I’d have to hire security and have them sign up for whenever they wanted to see me, like only on
Wednesday nights—”

“Jeremy, ‘Millennium of the Woman’ doesn’t mean that.”

“No?”

“No. It just means we get
paid
as much as you do.”

“Oh, you’re never gonna get paid as much as me. I got my sights set high in this world.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Photocopy guy.”

“Jeremy! That’s not a job!” Christine isn’t teary anymore. She lifts herself up.

“Course it is. My dad says that at every job there’s one guy who just messes around with the photocopy machine.”

“Jeremy, computers, remember? We’re not going to need copy machines soon.”

Y
ES
. D
UH
.

“Then I can hang around the
coffee
machine.”

“Those aren’t jobs, Jeremy.”

A
SK FOR HER NUMBER
.

Why now?

B
ECAUSE YOU
’
RE DOING WELL NOW
. A
ND IN A FEW SECONDS
, M
ICHAEL AND
N
ICOLE ARE
GOING TO COME OUT OF THAT BATHROOM AND YOU
’
RE ALL GOING TO GET IN YOUR CAR AND
C
HRISTINE WILL BE THE FIRST ONE WHO NEEDS TO BE DROPPED OFF
SINCE SHE LIVES IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION FROM EVERYONE ELSE, SO UNLESS YOU WANT TO ASK HER FOR HER NUMBER IN FRONT OF A CARLOAD OF PEOPLE
—

“Christine.” I shrug intensely. “Can I have your number so I can call you sometime? We can talk about the millennium and…whatever.” There’s an unfinished
gap. What didn’t I say? “Please.”

“Eh.” She shrugs and backs away, then leans forward just enough to give me hope. “You have to promise never to be a dick like Jake.”

“Okay.”

“And also not to call me all the time or embarrass me in school or treat me any different than you do now.”

“Right.”

“And when I give out a number, it’s not my signal that I’m going to have sex with you. We’re still friends, okay?”

“Agreed.”

“Really agreed?”

“Really. Agreed.”

“Then fine,” she says, and gives it to me. Over the squip’s protests, I write this precious piece of information down on an actual piece of paper.

We cram into Mom’s Maxima the way teenagers are supposed to cram into their parents’ cars. Michael and Nicole share a lap in the back (“Your butt is really
comfortable,” Michael says, “it’s too bad
you
can’t sit on it…wait”); she wears a kiddie-size T-shirt, bringing to the forefront some assets that
weren’t evident in the bathtub. Brock occupies two seats next to Michael, and Chloe lies on top of Brock with her head in Nicole’s lap, telling her how pretty she is. I look in the
rearview mirror and nod at Michael. She
is
pretty. She has a pretty face. He nods back at me. Christine rides shotgun. I start the car.

I
T
’
S TOO BAD THERE
’
S NO STICKSHIFT
. Y
OU COULD BRUSH YOUR HAND AGAINST HER IF YOU HAD A
STICKSHIFT
. S
HE
’
D NOTICE SUBCONSCIOUSLY
.

That’s a terrible idea. I power down my window so the cold air—black air—rushes over me, keeping me awake as we pull away from the Finderman house. The clock says 3:37, which
is not as late as I imagined, but I’m still tired as hell.

I
CAN STIMULATE PARTS OF YOUR BRAIN TO KEEP YOU UP
.

Really? Which parts?

R
ETICULAR FORMATION
. L
INES YOUR BRAINSTEM
.

Oh.

I
T
’
S EASY
. I
SEND IT A CONTROLLED ELECTRICAL SIGNAL
;
IT RELEASES NOREPINEPHRINE AND YOU STAY SCARED
AND AWAKE
.

Do it. I don’t feel anything, but my eyes spring open and stay that way. I drive fast but still in control. I wonder how fast I’m going; I look down to see a disappointing
50—

W
ATCH
!

I jerk my head up—a fire truck barrels past in the other direction. I get a flash of calm, burly men inside and watch in the mirror as the red lights fade to a distant spot.
“Jesus.”

H
OW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS
? N
OT
“J
ESUS
.” “F
U
_
K
.”

“Can we listen to music?” Michael whines, leaning forward.

“No. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“That’s because you never drove before,” Michael chuckles. He’s drunk. Y
ES
. “If you’d driven before, you might understand that music
helps you….” He reaches forward with a CD.

“No!” Nicole says to him. “C’mon, not rock!”

“Damn it, Michael!” I punch his wrist while gripping the wheel. C
AREFUL, CAREFUL
. A
ND
“
DAMN IT
?”
“I don’t want to
listen
to anything now!”

Eoooooowwwwww
—another fire truck rumbles past. Full speed. We almost hit it, and the car shifts to the left in its wake, sliding a foot toward the other side of the road. Everybody
shuts up. I keep my foot steady on the accelerator, putting a safe distance between us and the truck. Then I turn to Christine: “So, you want to go over those
Midsummer
lines
still?”

“Cue me,” she says mechanically. Her arms are folded over her seat belt. I’m not wearing my seat belt.

O
F COURSE NOT
.

“C’mon, cue me,” Christine insists.

“Uh…” I try to think of a cue for Puck.

I
T
’
S A TRAP
.

“You can’t, see?” she says. “Lysander doesn’t
cue
Puck. Ever. So I guess you should concentrate on driving.”

“Ur.”

For the next ten minutes, nobody says a word except Christine, mutely giving directions to her house. When we get there, I park as leisurely as I can in front of her lawn.

“Jeremy?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you pull up more so I don’t have to open the door into my own garbage?”

Plastic bins wait outside Christine’s house for the sanitation guys, who I guess will show up in an hour.

“Right, okay.” I pull the car up a little, stop again. “Is that good?” W
ALK HER IN
. “I’ll walk you in.”

Christine stays silent. I leave the car in neutral, step out and stride over to her side. She’s already out, walking around the edge of her lawn to her house. I start after her, rubbing my
arms. It’s
cold
out here.

S
TOP
. T
HERE ARE MOTION SENSORS
. Y
OU
’
LL TURN ON A BIG FLOODLIGHT IF YOU STEP ONTO THE
LAWN
.

I plant my feet. “Chri—”

W
HISPER
. A
ND SAY
“
TH
”
FOR
“
S
,”
LIKE YOU HAD A LISP
. T
HE SOUND DOESN
’
T CARRY SO FAR
.

“Uh…
Chrithtine
,” I hiss, feeling like an idiot. “I’ll call you…uh…thoon.”

“When you call me you’d better actually know how to drive,” she seethes, wisely picking a sentence with no s’s. Then she turns away in the night.

T
HIS GIRL
. V
ERY DIFFICULT
.

I stand and watch her, just a butt and legs and arms, receding into the black. How come they’re so compelling?

B
ECAUSE THEY PRODUCE CHILDREN
.

Come on.

A
ND THEY MOTIVATE YOU
. T
HEY DEFINE YOU, REALLY
. T
HEY MAKE YOU HUMAN
.

I trudge back to the car.

H
UMAN
!

And then the squip does something I haven’t heard before: it laughs. It’s horrible. Keanu Reeves laughing in your mind? Must be what schizos hear.

Everyone stays quiet as I drive to Chloe’s house next. I say cordial good-byes to her and Brock (Chloe kisses my cheek; Brock slaps my hand); then Michael and Nicole space out in back,
lounging for the final leg of the trip. When we pull up to my house, I notice with extreme horror that the kitchen light is on. That could mean Dad forgot to turn it off or it could mean he stayed
up two hours later than usual watching the History Channel
(Secrets of the Nazis, Nazis and the Occult, Hitler’s Last Nazis)
or it could mean he’s waiting for me with his fists
clenched. He’s never hit me, but I
am
in his wife’s car. How am I going to handle this?

T
AKE
M
ICHAEL
’
S CAR OUT OF THE DRIVEWAY YOURSELF, WITH NO ENGINE, AS YOU DID WITH YOUR
M
OM
’
S
CAR AT THE BEGINNING OF THE NIGHT
. T
HEN PUT YOUR
M
OM
’
S CAR BACK SLOWLY AND QUIETLY
.

“Give me your keys, man,” I reach back to Michael. He hands them over; I bunch them up in my fist, turn off the car and step out. I crawl on my hands and knees up my own driveway,
open the passenger door of Michael’s ride, squirm across the canyon between the two front seats, release the emergency brake and wait for his car to slide down the driveway. It
doesn’t.

I
T
’
S TOO HEAVY
. O
LDER CAR
. B
IGGER ENGINE UP FRONT
. Y
OU
’
RE GOING TO HAVE TO PUSH
.

_ _c_. I crawl back down the driveway and inform Michael. “Why can’t you just start it and back it up?” he asks.

“Because I can’t wake my dad, genius, and your car is noisy as hell. Get out and help.”

“I’ll help too,” Nicole offers. “This one’s too skinny.” She hits Michael.

“I’m good-skinny, though,” Michael says. We all sneak up the driveway; then, like a crack Olympic team in a new sport, we grab ahold of Michael’s front bumper in
synchronization. “What kind of car ith thith, anyway?” I whisper.

“Ford Crown Victoria. One of the heaviest, most gluttonous vehicles ever constructed. What’s wrong with your voice?”

“Nevermind.” I position myself in the middle of the fender, arch my fingers under it and try to brace my legs on the asphalt—I’m glad my driveway’s not gravel.
“All right, ready?” I turn right and then left, judging my compatriots. Nicole looks determined, like one of those people who have to move a car in the World’s Strongest Man
competition, but Michael’s arms (he rolled his sleeves up) are even scrawnier than I remembered.

“One…two…
Ungggh
.” I throw my weight forward, trying to pull the mass after me as I lean over the hood. The insides of my knuckles pinch the fender and burn.
My arms ripple. I think the car’s moving—

S
HIFT LEFT
.

I pull my hands off the fender for a second—the car dips noticeably toward me—and reapply them a foot to the left. There’s a little creak, like a hamster wheel, as the car
starts moving back, centimeter by centimeter. I can hear each tire tread contact the road with a squish.

T
HAT
’
S IT
! B
EFORE YOU HAD TOO MUCH FORCE ON THE RIGHT SIDE
;
NOW YOU
’
RE MAKING UP FOR
M
ICHAEL
! K
EEP GOING
!

Rrrrragh!
Blood vessels pound me from inside.

E
NDORPHIN RELEASE
. S
YMPATHETIC NERVOUS SYSTEM
.

I’m fiery and in control as I beat the car’s center of gravity and start it rolling down the driveway.

“Oh _ _ _ _,” Michael says as the car slips away. I abandon my post at left-center and scramble around the hood, trying to keep a hand on it at all times. I clang open the passenger
door, leap inside, sprawl across the two front seats and reach for the brake as the slope of the driveway pulls the car down. I hope I parked Mom’s car clear of the driveway—a collision
would mean certain death at the hands of Dad or Mom or both. I finally get the brake, the one you’re supposed to use your feet on, and flex my fingers as the car moves faster and
faster—