Californium (25 page)

“Don't,” says a low voice.

My eyes haven't adjusted to the dark, but I can feel the voice coming from the beanbag chair by the window. And there, with just the glow of streetlights coming through, is the silhouette of Treat's Mohawk.

“Treat. We're ready to start.”

His voice comes through the dark just louder than a whisper. “I'm not.”

“Come on, everyone's waiting for us. Didn't you hear the sound check?”

The Mohawk drops a little and his face is so dark there's no telling what he's up to. “Let them wait.”

“Come on, Treat. Astrid's here and everything, just like you said.”

Nothing.

“Cherise is here too. Have you seen her? She looks so cool.”

“What the hell do I care?”

“I don't know. Just, come on.”

Treat takes a deep breath and lets it out with his words: “I can't.”

“What do you mean, you can't?”

He doesn't say anything and I start rubbing my hand along the wall again. My thumb finds the switch, and
bam,
the lights are on.

Treat is slung across the beanbag chair, his arms out to each side, his feet on the ground and knees up almost as high as his head. He's surrounded by stuffed animals, elephants and cartoon dogs, some of them falling over and resting on his arms like they crawled up to him. He squints at the light and right there on the floor by his boots is a lunar surface of barf.

“Are you sick? How many beers have you had?”

The Mohawk fans out sideways and Treat talks to the floor. “Go away.”

An ache shoots from my heart and through to my fingers and toes. “Everybody's here, Treat. Everybody. They're waiting for us.”

He throws Goofy at me but misses. “Get the fuck out of here, Reece.”

It's not real. It's that dream where your locker won't open and the bell's ringing and you're spinning the dial and the combo won't come. Your heart's rattling in your chest and then you're running and it's the wrong classroom, and the wrong classroom again, until finally it's the right one. You hit your desk and the teacher doesn't say a thing but there's a test waiting for you that's worth 150 percent of your complete high school career. Only then, at that very moment, do you remember that, yes, there was a test coming and, no, you haven't studied for it. It's all your fault. You're not ready, not even a little bit, but you pick up your pencil anyway and,
poof,
wake up.

Only, I'm not waking up. The murmur from the backyard
seeps into the house. The bathroom door shuts with a soft click and a girl giggles because she's not in there alone. It's all happening. Now. None of this seems real. Not when Treat yells, “Go! Get out of here!” Not when I'm walking through the hallway and toward the glass sliding door.

From the back patio, the deck/stage glows like sunrise. Everybody in the yard is a silhouette, staring at the stage, watching Keith pretend to tune his guitar.

I slip through a forest of people. When I get to the top of the three steps on the side of the deck/stage, a few people start chanting, “Nix-on, Nix-on.” More people notice and the chant grows nice and steady.

Keith grins and says, “What's
Cf?
” He sets down the bass, takes a sip of beer.

His words don't make sense. “I don't know, Keith.”

“Californium,” he says. “The element that keeps the state warm all year-round. Atomic number seventy-two.”

I don't laugh and Keith looks back at the steps. “Where's Treat?”

I step around him, set down the beer I haven't taken a single drink of, and pick up the bullhorn. It's heavy in my hand and when I step into the orb of light, everything goes quiet. I'm the center of the universe, and with the utility lights, I can't see anyone past the first couple feet. But this is almost how it was supposed to be: Astrid out there in the darkness with her cheerleading friends, Ted and Sergio and Petrakis ready to start a slam pit. And van Doren's below me for once, right there at the edge of the deck/stage and waiting to see what comes down on
his
head. Only, it feels more like I'm standing up in class about to recite the periodic table. If I get it perfect, nobody will care. If I get it wrong, I'll look stupid-times-everybody, squared.

“Check, check,” I say, and a couple people yell back, “Fuck, fuck,” and then everyone laughs. The voice coming through the bullhorn is not the me I know. “We just got some bad news,” I say and let the weight of the bullhorn make it sag. It's quieter now. Everyone listening. Nobody joking. The guys next to van Doren look like I'm about to tell them disco is back and they have to play it.

“We just found out,” I say and it sounds like me again until I pull the bullhorn closer. “We just found out we're not going to be able to play.”

Everyone groans and somebody yells out, “Bullshit!”

Keith looks at me, like,
What the hell?
and I need something better than
Our lead singer is yakking in his little sister's bedroom.
“The police said they'd shut the party down if we played.”

Everyone groans again, and van Doren says, “Fuck the pigs, man.”

I let the bullhorn drop and it's me again. “Yeah. F them.”

“No.” Van Doren shakes his head. He leans forward, one hand on the deck/stage, the other cupped around his mouth. Without making a sound, he mouths one word at a time:
Fuck. The. Pigs.

It's like I'm staring at him for five minutes before it hits me. Then the bullhorn is at my lips and I hear the other me say, “Fuck the pigs.”

“Yeah!” someone yells and everyone cheers.

“Fuck. The. Pigs.”

Everyone cheers again and van Doren says, “Go with it.”

“Fuck the fucking pigs!” I yell, and the cheers bounce back at me right away. I have the crowd. Everyone is waiting like the next thing out of my mouth is proof, not hypothesis. “The pigs can't handle DikNixon,” I say. Everyone cheers. “DikNixon is above the law.” Everyone screams. “You know why the pigs are scared of DikNixon?”

Van Doren turns to the crowd and raises his hands as he shouts out, “Why?”

“Because DikNixon
is
punk rock.”

Through the roar van Doren starts the chant, “Nix-on! Nix-on!”

Keith steps out next to me, his bass in his left hand, his other hand out like the pope on his balcony. The people at the front of the deck/stage slap the boards with their hands to the beat of “Nix-on, Nix-on.” Me and Keith lock arms. I hold up my other hand too, the bullhorn reaching up high, and we take it in, the whole backyard chanting, “Nix-on, Nix-on. Nix-on, Nix-on.”

I pull Keith down with me into a bow, rise back again and say, “Fuck you very much. Good night!” I fling the bullhorn down, letting it bounce off the planks, and shove Keith to the side.

As I'm leaping off the stage, van Doren hops up. He's got the bullhorn and he's keeping the chant going, “Nix-on, Nix-on.” A path opens for me through the middle of the yard. People reach out, shaking my hands, grabbing my shoulders, slapping my back the whole way to the glass sliding door. I get into the house alone, and I don't know if I'm going to walk straight down the hallway to tell Treat we saved DikNixon or if I'm going to slip into the bathroom and wipe off whatever is making my face
feel like it could bust out laughing and crying at the same time right now.

The bathroom door swings open and out steps Astrid. She's wearing Dr. Martens lace-up boots with black tights that have a cheetah pattern if you look real close. It all disappears into an oversize sweatshirt, and even if it doesn't quite go together with her hair, it all looks good, like she's one of the Go-Go's. Her eyes find me but it takes a second before they open up kind of wide and she says, “Reece?” She looks past me to the backyard, where the chanting is dying down. “Is it over?”

I can't believe she's missed it. The first time ever I've looked sort of cool in front of everyone who matters and she's looking at me like she just heard we landed on the moon. “You didn't hear any of that?” I say. She shakes her head.

Van Doren is still at the bullhorn. It's muffled through the door, but the word
Filibuster
comes through and everyone cheers. Then it goes quiet and Astrid gives me the school nurse smile, the closemouthed one that says it's all going to be okay. She puts a hand on my shoulder and looks at me, a little unsteady. “Listen, there's something I should tell you. I don't think people should ever lie, especially if other people could get hurt.” Her hand slips from my shoulder and she takes my right hand in both of hers. “That's a rule for me. There shouldn't ever be a reason to break it.”

Her eyes are more relaxed than I've ever seen, and even though I'm expecting her to say something more, she doesn't. She blinks too long, a tiny nap, and I guess that means I'm supposed to say something about lies. Then the list of my lies rolls
out in my head—the real reason we aren't playing, why we tried to be a band in the first place, our gig in San Diego, our gig in LA, and me the fake songwriter—which is fine until me in the bathroom with her panties makes the list. A surge of sick goes through me. My face heats up, and I start talking fast: “Remember how I told you I write the songs?” Astrid doesn't nod or anything, but I don't stop. “I had a little help . . .”

The glass sliding door rattles and swishes open. Astrid lets go of my hand as Sascha steps through and over to us, the door wide-open behind her. Astrid turns back to me and I finish, “From Neil Diamond.”

Sascha leans into her. “Neil? Is that the guy I kissed?”

Astrid thinks about it a second, then smiles and says, “Kar-en! Neil Diamond? The singer?”

“Karen?” I say.

Sascha/Karen puts her hand on my chest and pushes me back a step. “You know Neil Diamond? My mom's gonna shit when I tell her.”

I start explaining, but Astrid puts her hand in the middle of my chest and pets me. “Okay. It's okay.” She turns to Sascha/Karen. “What?”

Sascha/Karen shrugs. “I think this party's
finito.
”

Astrid nods. “Okay.” She breathes in, thinks, and says, “Del Taco, then that party by the Orange Circle.” Sascha/Karen nods and Astrid says, “Go tell everyone. I'll be out in a sec.”

“Okay, chick.” Sascha/Karen weaves her way back to the door. “I'm gonna go mark that little band boy one more time before we go.”

Astrid smiles and it's off a little, kind of crooked. “Sometimes Karen takes little vacations from her boyfriend and scams on other guys.”

“That's who Sascha is?” I say, and Astrid nods. She's still giving me that relaxed stare. “Is that what you're talking about? The lying stuff?”

Astrid stares at me, her eyes moving back and forth at each of mine. “I think so. Yes.” Her eyes get big for a second; then she takes another breath and says, “Definitely. Don't let your friend take Karen too seriously.”

“I think Keith's just happy somebody kissed him.”

Astrid nods, her eyes close too long again, and I know now where I've seen that. Uncle Ryan would do it when he was drunk. Astrid gives my jacket a tug by the zipper and it pulls tight around me for a second, like a hug. She leans forward and kisses my cheek. I can't take a breath in or let one out. This is it! Sort of. It's a little wetter, I think, than it should be. It's soft, but somehow too soft. Loose. I mean, it's not like a ton of girls I'm not related to have kissed me on the cheek before, but this feels sloppy and too long for a cheek kiss.

Astrid pulls back and says, “Stay sweet, trash buddy.”

“I will,” I say, because what do you say to that? I'm waiting for a tingle from the kiss to spread across my whole face. It doesn't. It's more like a good-bye kiss your mom gives you when she's going to the store. Astrid is out the door, not looking back, and I want to say,
Hang on, I need you to help me win a bet.
I don't. I just watch her walk across the patio, pull Sascha/Karen away from Keith, and head for the gate.

The yard's still full and more people slap me on the back as me and Keith go back to the deck/stage to start unplugging things. I'm winding up cords when Cherise and Edie come up. Cherise is panicked, asking if we know which police station they took Treat to.

“He got arrested?” Keith says.

“Yeah,” I say. “When you were doing the sound check.” Cherise is totally buying this. “It's okay. He's back now.”

Cherise puts her hands over her mouth the way Miss America does her happy cry. I tell her that Treat's inside, pretty sick over the whole thing, but if she doesn't mind a little barf he'd probably like to see her. She nods and Keith says he can walk her into the house and show her which room is Jewell's.

Once Cherise and Keith are out of sight, Edie sits down on the steps and says, “What were you talking to your girlfriend about?”

“Cherise?” I crouch down to put Keith's bass in its case.

“Astrid.”

“She's not my girlfriend.”

“You'd be her boyfriend if she let you.” When I don't say anything, Edie shakes her head. “You don't even know her.”

“I know her.”

“Do you know she calls the police on her own parties to break them up?”

“That's stupid. No one would call the cops on their own party.”

Edie stands up on the second step, taller than me now. “Are you playing dumb, or are you really just dumb? She calls the police so her parties won't go too late and she can pretend it's not her fault.”

That sounds like it would work, you know? Like it could be true. Like I just did something exactly like that.

“You're such a fraud, Reece.”

“Me?” I want to tell her all about the real Treat, or van Doren at the Whisky, or my parents ever since the night Uncle Ryan died. But Edie's looking at me like I'm so ugly and sad she can't figure out if I'm even human.