Californium (26 page)

“The band conveniently doesn't play,” she says, “and you get to act like a hero. And you pass all those notes and pretend you never read them. Or even care.”

“I care,” I say, but I'm not sure what I'm saying I care about.

A few people around us are looking over and whispering. Keith's coming back from the house and stops when he gets close to the deck/stage. He looks at Edie, then me, then turns around and disappears into the crowd.

“If you cared about anyone but yourself,” Edie says, “you wouldn't be kissing the girl who tried to ruin your party.”

“She kissed me.”

“You let her. What's the difference?” Edie stares at me and waits, like maybe I'm hiding something behind my back. “Well?”

Edie's been with us the whole way. The fake San Diego gig was her idea. If I'm a fraud, what's she? “I don't understand why you're mad at me.”

“Of course you don't,” she says. “You never have the answers.” She goes down the steps and into the yard. “See you in math class,
friend.
” She slips past a couple people, then shoves through a group that's in her way.

This shouldn't matter, you know, not with all the good stuff that's happened with Astrid, but my stomach goes from
spinning to falling. It's like watching the string break and your kite fly away—you're stunned for maybe a second, maybe less, but that's all it takes. If you didn't go after it right away, you're not going to get it back now, so you don't even run.

Keith comes up to the steps a few minutes later, smiling. He says the guys in Filibuster want us to play a party with them in a couple weeks. “We're for real,” he says. “Our fourth gig and it's with Filibuster.”

“Fourth?”

Keith nods. He's doing what Mr. Tomita always warns us not to do, mix up the known with the unknown.
Then you do not solve for
x, he says and bounces on his toes.
You have to go back and solve for
why. Why
did I do that?
Why
won't the answer come out right?

When Keith heads back to talk to the guys from Filibuster, I go through the house and into the Two-Car Studio. I look around without turning on the light, the chairs and carpet and boxes, there but not there in the dark. Then I rip off my jacket and throw it out into the nothingness. I don't know why exactly. It's like it can't come home with me or something even though my parents know all about it now and what it all means and there's no taking any of that stuff back. But I leave without it anyway..

.

Walking home, I try not to think about Treat, or the band, or anything. You'd think having all those people cheer for you and a girl like Astrid Thompson kiss you would be the greatest thing ever. But Edie won't get out of my head, how great she looked, how mad she was. Angry too. And why is that all for me? Keith and Treat are frauds too.

I have a beer in me so I'm careful to stick to the sidewalks all the way through Treat's neighborhood. And even though there aren't that many cars around, I walk to the corner and wait for the
WALK
sign at Yorba Linda Boulevard before crossing. My eyes are wide-open the whole way, but all I can really see is that disgusted look on Edie's face.

My arms are chicken-skin cold and hurting a little by the time I get to the soccer fields. The dew is collecting again, the dampness hovering just above the grass, and my toes stiffen up and get achy inside my Converse. The fields glow in the park lights. They're smoothed over again like they haven't been trampled on all day. Like nothing's happened at all. Or maybe it's just that after everything that did happen all day, nothing has really changed.

C
olleen's voice is outside my door, this little chant, “Mom-mom-mom-mom? Is Reece going to church with us?”

“I'll be ready in two seconds!” I yell out, the covers still on me.

“We'll be in the car,” my mom says from just outside the door, her voice calm but loud enough for me to hear.

My hair is accidentally punk rock, sticking up everywhere and stiff even after I've splashed water on it. My shirt is melting paisleys and untucked. But as I'm walking across the lawn, my mom's standing next to the open car door with one of those closemouthed smiles.

Only Colleen talks to me on the ride. Do I want to see her watercolor that she brought home from school? She was going to show me yesterday because she thinks it's pretty only she hasn't hardly seen me and did I know it won third place and maybe should've been first but Holly Dirkson dropped a cup of blue
and some of it splashed up and got on the barn which was supposed to be just red except for the horse's head but now has some blue on it too, right there, and do I like it?

I do.

After church, Packy makes a big breakfast and Brendan wants to know if I knew that since the NFL is still on strike they're going to show Super Bowl III on TV today and that's the one with Joe Namath and the Jets and do I want to watch the game with him even though we already know who wins?

I do.

I spend the whole day with Brendan and Colleen, watching reruns of football, sewing tiny blankets for the dollhouse, making PB&Js for lunch. My mom keeps busy with laundry and stuff. Packy stays out in the yard and the garage, only coming in to get a drink or to ask how the game is going since Brendan looks so worried even though he knows the Jets win.

At dinner, Brendan pretty much retells the entire Super Bowl but says he didn't really like it because there was so much running and defense that it was kind of boring.

I'm focusing on getting four peas on my fork instead of just three, so I don't look up when I say, “It was a different time.” Uncle Ryan used to say that about baseball when Packy would complain that all the new players were too flashy or weren't loyal to their teams like the old days. I always liked that Uncle Ryan said that because it made it okay for me to like the new players without having to say there was anything wrong with the old guys.

“Reece is right,” Packy says, which isn't a surprise. Of course
he likes the old way. But then he says, “But I like the way they play now better too. It's more fun to watch.”

In my room, I catch up on a whole weekend's worth of homework. Between English and algebra, I pull out my notebook and flip to a new page to tell Uncle Ryan about last night. Only, the words won't come.

My mom does the knock-as-you-enter move where it seems like she's being polite but really she's trying to catch me doing something I shouldn't. She's got her nightgown on and her hair down, and even though she puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “Hi, sweetie,” her eyes go right past my algebra book to the open Uncle Ryan notebook. “I'm glad you made it to church today.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Well,” she says. “You had a late night.”

“It wasn't that late,” I say.

“Your father said it was after ten.”

I came home to a dark house, sort of shocked Packy wasn't waiting at the stairs like a border guard. “How would
he
know?”

My mom sits on the bed. “He wouldn't go to sleep until he heard you come in.”

I turn around in my chair to face her. “Did he think I wasn't coming home or something?”

“No. He loves you. We all love you.”

So this is it, you know. This is what they say right before adding,
And that's why we're sending you to St. Spartacus Military School
or
So we think you'll be better off helping your great uncle Gomer pick cotton this summer in Louisiana.
“Am I in trouble for something?”

“Should you be?” She grins, a real one that sends lines through the constellation of freckles on her cheeks.

Maybe,
I think.

She looks at the notebook again. “I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry. I never realized just how much you loved Uncle Ryan.”

I guess I didn't realize it either. Not until I started writing the letters.

Her arms are crossed, not in the angry way, though. She asks if it's okay to ask me something. I nod, and she says, “When did you start writing to Uncle Ryan?”

“Not until here,” I say. “After we moved.”

“So, almost a year after . . .” she says and doesn't have to finish the sentence. We both know what she's talking about. “Reece, we've all been unhappy here.”

I want to agree with her. I'm tired of arguing with Packy. Tired of being wrong, or having to explain the things I do or hide them so I don't have to explain. But I'm actually starting to like it here. I like my school. My teachers. I'm glad the secret element californium means I won't be shoveling the driveway this winter even if it does get colder than I would have guessed. I like Keith, and Cherise, and even van Doren. I like Edie more than I knew. And up until last night, I liked Treat. “I'm happy here,” I say. “I like everything about this place except . . .” and I don't finish because I don't want to have to say it.

“Except what?” she says, her head tilting a little.

“Well, Brendan and Colleen seem happy. And you even said your job here is better than the one in Jersey.” She closes her eyes with a slow nod. I look at my pillows for the last part. “But since
Uncle Ryan died and we came here, the Yankees could win the World Series and Dad would tell me to stop cheering so loud because he has work in the morning.”

She looks at the floor, then back at me, her face steady, and I can tell now that she doesn't think I've gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs with the letters and all. “Your father is still sad about Uncle Ryan,” she says. “But he loves you very much.”

“He has a hard time showing it.”

“I know. He's never been good with words, but he does love you, Reece. I don't doubt it for a second.” She leans forward and takes my hand in hers. “You shouldn't either.”

I know she wants me to say I know and I love him too. And even though I probably do, I just squeeze her hand, slip mine from hers, and say, “Okay. I need to get back to my homework.”

My mom waits a second, then stands up, kisses me on top of the head, and says not to stay up too late.

.

I've been rehearsing in my head what I'll say to Treat on the way to school Monday. In one version, I call him a dickweed for screwing over me and Keith like that. In another, I ask if he forgot what Dr. Andy said about talking straight and what's that all about anyway? There's also a version where I just say I hope he's feeling better and that we should work on some new songs this week.

He's taking forever to come over the wall, and I'm freezing without my jacket. When Keith appears behind me, I know we're running late and have to go. “Dickweed,” I say, and Keith, for once, totally gets it. “Treat?” he says.

Near my locker, van Doren's talking to one of the other guys from Filibuster. He doesn't look at me, but as soon as I'm hunching down and putting my books away he steps over. His locker door clicks, some books shuffle around, then something brushes my head and floats past. It's a sheet of orange paper that lands about a foot from me. Without looking up, I grab the sheet and hold it back up for van Doren.

“That's for you,” he says.

It's a flyer for Filibuster, Saturday night with four other bands at the Wonder Bowl banquet room.

“Check it out,” he says. “You guys might want to play there sometime.”

He slams his locker and the other guy says, “Good job Saturday, bud.”

“Reece,” van Doren says as they step away. “That guy's name is Reece.”

.

On the way to Mr. Krueger's class some sophomore tells me how great DikNixon is and asks if I know when Treat's getting out of jail. By the time first period's over and I'm walking to Algebra, the rumors have split a million ways: The cops broke up our show before it started, while we played, after we played; nobody got arrested, everybody got arrested, only Treat got arrested; they tried to arrest Treat and he got away by hitting a cop, by stealing a car, by hitting a cop with a car. I'm nodding and shrugging at the questions and backslaps. People I don't know, people who I don't think were even at the party, are saying how awesome DikNixon
is or asking about Treat. Sometimes both. I'm almost late to class, and seeing Edie there, already settled into her seat, gives my stomach a shot of Astrid-quality nervous.

“Hey,” I say. She barely gets a quiet “Hey” back before two people lean over and ask me if what they've heard is true. Who knows what they've heard, so I say they should ask Treat when he gets back to school. And that seals it. Confirming Treat hasn't made it to school makes everything else true.

The bell rings and Mr. Tomita has so much to tell us he's smiling and bouncing and he hopes we had a great weekend and got to play and play because now is the time to work. And since it is the time to work, Edie works. She doesn't tap me on the shoulder or whisper one thing to me the whole time.

We walk together after class, neither of us talking. It's different now. Her hair is new, a calmer version of the spikes she wore at the party, but that's not it. Her shampoo, or lotion, or whatever it is that makes me know it's Edie even with my eyes closed, is clouding my head, familiar, but since when did I know that I knew it? And has she always glided through each step as we're walking? Have I always waddled along next to her like an astronaut trying not to trip over a moon rock? I'm counting the silence in steps—ten, eleven, twelve—until we're at the stairs. “Sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“Saturday. Everything at the party.”

Edie hugs her book and folder. “Never happened.”

“Never happened?”

“Yeah,” she says and slugs me in the shoulder, a good one,
enough to be there a minute later but not so much she's starting a fight. “Isn't that what buddies do?” She smiles quick, all lines, no lips or teeth. “See you in math class,” she says and trouts up the stairs, fast, without bumping anyone.

Buddies.
It spreads through my ears to my cheeks and down to my throat, where it sticks. I carry it with me to English, and it doesn't matter that Treat's not there; I want to keep thinking about Edie even if it makes me ache.

Penny Martin asks if what she heard about Saturday is true. I nod and keep nodding to each thing she says because it doesn't matter what you say once the rumors get going.

When we get time to journal, I'm all set to write Edie a note except Mrs. Reisdorf comes down the aisle and asks me to step outside. She asks how Treat is and if I'll see him after school. It's not to give him the assignment, though; she wants me to tell him not to worry about anything he misses. “The important thing is that he's okay.”

“Okay,” I say.

When I get to Spanish, I realize I forgot to look for Astrid on the way. Halfway through class, I don't even know if we've gotten new vocabulary words and I'm not sure where we are in
Don Quixote.
Or where he is. I just want to get to the Bog. I'm going to ask Edie to meet me after school for help with algebra. And she knows she can; she always gets the right answer.

As quickly as I get to the Bog, Keith is already there, alone. I'm trying not to look around for Edie and it's impossible to tell if she's running late or if the clocks are melting and time is messed up. Keith is done with his sandwich and on to his potato
chips and how did that happen so fast? And has everybody in school stopped by to ask us about Saturday? Everyone except Edie.

At the bell, Keith says we've got to go to Treat's right after school. “DikNixon is going to rule as long as we can keep our story straight.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That and if our lead singer can actually make it to the gigs.”

.

The Two-Car Studio is shut, so me and Keith knock at the front door awhile. Nothing. We go through the side gate to get to Treat's window and Keith sees him out at the deck/stage. The lights and boards are all gone, the water back in the Jacuzzi. Treat's in there, the bubbles and steam going and his Mohawk soaking wet and clinging to his head sideways like a bald guy trying to hide it.

Keith pops right up to the deck/stage. “Cherise and Edie were asking about you.”

Treat sits up a little higher in the water. “Yeah?”

I come up the stairs. “When did you talk to them?”

“Before lunch.” Keith looks back at Treat. “Cherise said she'd call you.”

Treat stares down at the water to hide his grin. Keith tells him about all the rumors and Treat listens, calm and quiet. At the end of each rumor he looks back and forth between us and says, “What else?”

When he finishes the last one, Keith asks, “What do you think we should do?”

Treat looks at me. “What do you think, Reece?”

I shrug. “Pick one and go with it.”

“Maybe,” Treat says and leaves it hanging out there in the steam for a minute. “First, a Jacuzzi confessional.”

He doesn't mean us, though. He starts talking to the water, about how sometimes people aren't themselves and how hippies are such junkies and there are even hippie doctors now because what did we think, that Berkeley just let people in because they were good at sit-ins? Some of those people really were smart, and a few of them actually made it through and became doctors. He rambles off a bunch of names we don't know, his voice calm and steady like he's reading the Old Testament: This doctor referred that doctor and that doctor referred this one and he had seven associates and their names were this and this and the other. “And just because you get a little depressed they think taking pills will make it all better,” he says and looks up at us. “Would you take pills from a guy named Dr. Andy?”