Dunk (25 page)

Corey, Mike, and Ellie stayed and watched. Corey had a video camera pointed at the tank. I guess they were making a tape to show Jason. That was cool.

After what seemed like no more than fifteen minutes, Malcolm said something to Bob, who nodded. Then Malcolm walked over to the side of the cage. “Hour's up,” he told me.

“So soon? You're kidding?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Time flies when you're getting dunked. But you're handling yourself just fine. Bob and I figure you can keep going until eight if you want.”

“Great.” I couldn't believe an hour had passed or that they were giving me another. “So I'm doing okay?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yup. But this is no time for chatting. You're letting marks escape.”

He stepped aside and motioned for me to get back to work.

I returned my attention to being a Bozo. After a while Malcolm flicked his fingers out three times. I guess he was letting me know I had thirty minutes left. He did it again for twenty.

When he gave me the ten-minute signal, I saw something that stopped me cold right when I was about to hook a new mark. I caught sight of a flash of red weaving through the boardwalk crowd. I followed the motion, remembering the thousand false trails my eyes had chased since the night of the party. But this time it wasn't a mistake. Gwen was walking past.

I
DIDN'T KNOW WHERE SHE WAS HEADED OR WHAT SHE WAS
doing. I just knew there might not be another chance to talk to her. All summer I'd screwed up every opportunity to tell her how I felt. I'd completely blown the simple act of asking her out. Was there any point in trying again?

I realized I had nothing to lose. It's not like she could think any worse of me than she already did.

First I had to keep her from slipping out of reach. “Hey, redhead!” I called. Oh, lord. I clamped my mouth shut as the words shot from the speakers. I was acting like a Bozo chasing a mark—a role I'd been playing for nearly two hours.

Gwen stopped in her tracks and glanced over her shoulder toward the tank. The cry had gotten her attention. My heart froze and my throat closed. She seemed puzzled as she looked at me. I realized she didn't have a clue who the moron was behind the makeup. She didn't know anything about my Bozo dreams. She shrugged and started walking. I couldn't let her go. I had to say something. But I knew it couldn't be an insult, no matter how clever or funny. That would just drive her away. It was time to be myself.

“Gwen,” I said, speaking with my own voice. The voice of Chad, not the snarl of the Bozo. “Wait.”

She slowed for an instant, but didn't stop.

“Gwen O'Sullivan,” I said, so she'd know beyond doubt that I was talking to her. “Don't go.”

The crowd stared. My friends stared. They must have wondered what was happening. I didn't care. I'd sought out the dunk tank from the very beginning so I could speak freely. I'd thought I'd only wanted to shout at the world. Now I knew I had other things to say. Quieter things.

I leaned closer to the microphone, desperate for her to hear every word.
Speak the truth
, I thought, as Gwen turned slowly back toward my cage. There was nothing more to lose. “I can't imagine a summer without you,” I said, looking straight at her. “Please. Don't walk off. Let me explain.”

She took a single step toward the tank.

“Please, Gwen.”

She walked past Bob. I slid off the ledge and waded through the water to the front of the cage, clutching the bars for support.

“Chad?” she asked, as if she needed to make sure that the clown who'd just revealed his heart to her was also the boy she knew from the boardwalk.

I nodded. “It wasn't me who called the cops. I didn't want you to go to that party, but I'd never do anything to get you in trouble. Honest. You have to believe me. Just the thought of you there—”

She held up a hand to stop the avalanche of explanations that burst from me. “Chad, I never went inside that house.”

“You didn't?”

“I knew Anthony could be kind of wild. But I figured I could handle things. Like a roller coaster. You know, a safe thrill.”

“So why'd you change your mind?”

“When we got there, I could see through the front window what was going on. Beer cans all over. A lot of older guys. You could smell the dope all the way out on the porch.” She shook her head. “I sure couldn't handle the stuff that was happening in that place. I didn't even want to try. And I thought about the look in your eyes when I mentioned the party. I got scared. I left as fast as I could.”

“I'm glad.”

“Me, too.” She reached out and put her hand on top of mine where I clenched the bars. Her touch sent a tremor through my body.

“I looked for you,” I told her.

“I had to take some time away from everything. My boss understood. I'm off until next week.”

I drew a deep breath. I could stay there forever, talking with her, and be happy. But I still hadn't said the things I needed to say the most. “I thought about you every day since we met last year. I couldn't wait to see you again.”

An odd smile touched her lips. “Was that so hard to say?” she asked.

“Yeah. No. I don't know. . . .” I realized it was hard—incredibly hard—to say what was in my heart. It had taken me a lifetime to speak those words. But afterward, it was wonderful to know they'd been said.

“I thought about you, too, Chad.”

I held on to the moment, feeling the warmth of her hand on mine. Gazing into her eyes. And she gazed back.

I'm not sure which of us was the first to realize how silly we looked. A wonderfully stunning red-haired girl standing at a dunk tank holding hands with a spike-haired clown who was chest deep in slimy water. But one of us snickered, then the other let out a small laugh, and the next thing I knew we were roaring.

“Sorry,” she said when she'd caught her breath. “I wasn't laughing at you.”

“Laugh at me,” I said. “Laugh with me. Doesn't matter, as long as you keep laughing. Please, don't ever stop laughing.”

Another voice entered our world. “I hate to break this up, but maybe you should turn the tank over to someone a bit less goofy,” Malcolm said as he joined us. He was already wearing his Bozo face.

“Good idea.” Reluctantly I slipped my hand from Gwen's and climbed out of the cage. “Don't go away,” I said to her as I headed off to remove my makeup.

“Don't worry, Chad,” she said. “I'm not running off with any other clowns.”

J
ASON CONTINUED TO HEAL DURING THE REST OF THE SUMMER
. His immune system was under control again, though it would take time for him to recover from all the damage his body had suffered. His doctor took the credit, but Jason and I knew the truth. His mom even started talking to me again. And I finally did get her to laugh, so I guess things healed between us, too. By the end of August, Jason was home and well enough to hang out on the beach. He was off most of the medicine by then and only had to see the doctor every couple weeks. Sick or not, he still had all the girls checking him out when they walked past.

According to Corey, who'd done a lot of research about this particular autoimmune disorder, there were “no known instances of relapse after remission.” In plain English, that meant the problem had gone away for good. Jason would have to work hard to get back into condition, but his doctors felt there was no reason he wouldn't be able to play volleyball again by next summer. Knowing Jason, he'd be in excellent shape way ahead of their schedule.

I was in good shape myself. Gwen and I spent nearly all of our free time together, mostly on the beach or on the boardwalk. I never grew tired of being with her. She got along great with Mike and Corey and Ellie. That was no surprise. And with Jason, too, of course. But she didn't look at him the way most girls did. Not even once.

I worked a couple hours as a Bozo almost every day, usually from five to seven, and also chased the balls at the busiest times. Bob paid me for both jobs. I couldn't believe I was making money as a Bozo. The truth is, I would have paid for the chance to be in the tank. Not that I'd ever admit anything like that to Bob.

But no matter what else was going on, I made sure I was home around four on weekdays so I could spend some time with Mom before she headed off to her classes. We threw a small party for her when she got her certificate. Everyone came. Doc was there, and Mom's friends from the diner. The next day she had an interview for a job with a local lawyer. She didn't get it, but she kept looking and two weeks later found a job she liked. She works all day now, but she's home at night—at least until she figures out what class she wants to take next.

Mom's told me more about her and Dad. It wasn't all bad. They'd had some good times. I know she doesn't want me to hate him. I'm trying not to. And I'm trying to accept that I won't turn out like him.

I think Malcolm healed some, too. But at a slower pace. His wounds were a lot deeper than Jason's or mine. I tried to make him laugh whenever I could. I believed it helped.

It was hard to laugh at anything on the day Gwen headed home, but we managed to smile. I knew I'd see her again. In the meantime I had her address and her phone number. I figured I'd be spending a lot of money on phone calls. That was fine with me. I even had her e-mail address. Corey said I could use his computer whenever I needed to. Maybe I'd even get a cheap one for me and Mom.

“Nice girl,” Malcolm said when we left the airport. He'd borrowed Doc's car and insisted on driving Gwen and me there so we could have a bit more time together. He even waited in the parking lot while I went inside with her. “Your excellent taste in girlfriends is nicely balanced by her lack of taste in boyfriends.”

I nodded and stared out the window at the underside of a jet rising above us.

To Malcolm's credit, he seemed to know that this wasn't the kind of wound that needed to be healed right away. He didn't try to cheer me up. Instead, he made a confession.

“I'm a little nervous about teaching,” he said as he merged onto the highway.

“You?”

“Yeah, me.”

“It's just another role,” I said. “And you've had plenty of practice. If you can teach me, you can teach anyone.”

“Speaking of which, I'd like to keep it up, if you don't mind,” he said.

“Aren't you ready for a break? The tank's closing for the season anyhow.”

“Not that. I want to try my lessons out on you. If you don't mind. Just to see how they work before I do them in class. Okay?”

“You mean you want me to act like a student?” I asked.

“Basically.”

“Talk about a rough role. But for you, I'll give it a shot.”

“Thanks.”

We drove back home and he dropped me off, then went to return the car to Doc. I wandered around by myself on the beach for a while, then hooked up with Jason. Just as the first night had started with a walk to the end of the boardwalk and back, the last night finished with one.

“Going to be a long school year,” I said to Jason. I sighed and slouched down on the bench by the Fifteenth Street ramp, putting my feet up on the rail and watching the ocean turn from blue to gray and then to black as the light faded. Behind us I could hear scattered sounds from the few remaining tourists.

Jason laughed and held out his hand. “Pay up, chump. You mentioned school.”

“No mercy?” I asked.

“None.”

“Give me a break,” I said. “I dragged you from the icy clutches of death.”

“And I appreciate it. But you still owe me a dollar.”

He owed me one, too, from back when he was in the hospital. But I didn't mention that. Instead, I dug into my pocket and handed him a buck. “Here. Put it in the California fund.”

“I thought you didn't want to go there.”

“Who knows?” I said. “It might be a good place to spend some time.”

“Think so?” Jason asked.

“Yeah. Be kind of weird, though. Watching the sun set into the ocean. Seems kind of unnatural.”

“Yeah, like putting cheese on the bottom of a burger. I suppose I could get used to it,” Jason said. “You really think you'd go?”

“Yeah. I think I might.” I thought about the world beyond the boardwalk. Malcolm had given me a taste for acting. Santa Monica was close to Hollywood, which was a good place to be if you wanted to work as an actor. Not that I was sure I was crazy enough to try something like that. I smiled as I thought how Mom would react. She wouldn't be thrilled about me making that kind of career choice. On the other hand, she'd let me work as a Bozo, so anything was possible.

And everything was possible.

I saw that now. You didn't have to live the rest of your life with your first choice. A choice isn't a tattoo. You can try things out, test the waters. Santa Monica didn't have to be forever.

A sense of peace settled over me as I watched the surf creep higher with the rising tide. Life wasn't a passing mark you had to hook or lose forever. I had time.

Maybe Mom could get a job out there. Maybe Gwen would go to college somewhere not too far away. Maybe I'd even go to college. Become a doctor or a lawyer. Or a scientist. Or maybe even a professor of dunkology.

Don't laugh. Stranger things have happened.

It's time for some thank-you notes.

This book had a long, strange odyssey from idea to reality, and there are many people who helped. During one of the lean years, Marilyn and Richard Gomes generously allowed my family to spend a week in their condo at the Jersey shore. It was there, on a boardwalk, that
Dunk
was born. Even then I had help. I tell people I'm the world's least-observant writer. It was my wife, Joelle, who pointed to a particularly sinister Bozo and said, “He's just like a character from one of your stories.” I'd recently published a collection that featured various dark and hungry creatures, carnival monsters, strange roadside attractions, and other horrors. She was right. The Bozo was compelling. When I got home, I wrote a chapter about a boy who is mesmerized by such a performance. I even volunteered to take a turn in a dunk tank at a local school carnival, just for the experience.