Dreamland (10 page)

“Yeah, well,” Rogerson said. “I'm here now.”

“Good,” the guy said. He had that classic All-American look, blond, blue-eyed, tall, creamy skin. “What you got for me?”

Rogerson reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of pot, then held it up and shook it, evening out its contents. I don't know why this surprised me, but it did: He was serving cookies at Senior Days for “something,” but I'd imagined parking tickets or ten miles over the speed limit. He put the bag on the desk and slid it across to the blond guy, who picked it up and examined it, flicking the small green buds with his finger through the plastic.

“How much?” he said.

“Seventy-five,” Rogerson told him. “And a pinch for me.”

The guy nodded. “Okay,” he said. Then he looked at the redheaded girl, who stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and hopped off the desk, reaching into her back pocket for a wad of money, which she handed to him. He counted a few bills off, folded them, and slid them across the desk to Rogerson, who counted them quickly himself before sliding them into his own pocket.

The guy sat back down, opened the Baggie, and started to pack the bowl.

The redheaded girl looked at me, smiled, and said, “I'm Lauren.”

“Caitlin,” I said. “Hi.”

“Rogerson's so polite,” she said sarcastically, reaching out to poke him with her finger. As I looked more closely at the pictures on the shelves I could see she was in several of them: one in a soccer uniform with a ball in her lap, another in a long white dress, sitting on a green stretch of grass, her arms full of roses. “Isn't he?”

“Sorry,” Rogerson said. “This is Caitlin. Caitlin, Lauren and Walter.”

“Hi,” Walter said to me, and I realized suddenly I recognized him from the Perkins football team, which had creamed us three weeks earlier at home.

Lauren lit another cigarette, blowing smoke toward the picture of her holding the roses, while Walter packed the bowl and handed it to Rogerson, a lighter balanced on top of it. He took a hit and handed it to me.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “She's a cheerleader,” he explained to Lauren as he handed her the bowl. She took a big hit and promptly started coughing, her face turning red. “She's got a reputation to protect.”

“And she's going out with you?” Lauren said, between hacks.

“I know,” Rogerson said. “Must be the hair.”

“Must be,” Lauren said, picking up her pack of cigarettes and shaking one out into her hand. “‘Cause we
know
it's not your charm.”

“Ha,” Rogerson said, his expression flat.

“Ha, ha,” she said, and smiled at me. I smiled back, still not quite sure I was in on the joke.

Later, after we'd left and gotten back into the car, I said, “So Walter plays for the football team, right? How long have you known him?”

He looked at me and half-smiled, then reached to shake a cigarette out of the pack wedged under the visor. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you ask a lot of questions.”

“I do not,” I said indignantly. I didn't even know why he bothered to ask me out. It was like I wasn't even there. “You, like, haven't even
talked
to me since you picked me up.”

“Talked?” he said. The lighter popped out with a click and he reached forward to grab it.

“Yes.”

He pressed the lighter to the cigarette. “Okay, then. What do you want to talk about?”

“I ... I don't know,” I said. “I mean it's not like I want sparkling conversation....”

He raised his eyebrows at me, replacing the lighter. There was something so striking about him. Even the smallest gesture or expression seemed important.

“But,” I added, getting back to the point, “I just wondered why you asked me out tonight, if you didn't really want me here. That's all.”

He thought about this. “You want to know why I asked you out?”

“Well,” I said, rethinking that. Now I wasn't so sure I wanted the answer to that particular question. “Not necessarily.”

He put out the cigarette in the ashtray, then turned a bit so he was facing me. “Do you want me to take you home?”

I looked back at the house. It was huge, the windows all lit up, shapes and bodies moving back and forth across the yellow light inside. Every other Saturday night I'd been at a party just like this with Rina, in another part of town, playing quarters and waiting for something to happen.

“No,” I said. “I'm fine.”

“All right then,” he said easily, starting up the engine. “I've gotta go by one more place, but that's it. Okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.” And he put his hand on my leg, his fingers spread across my knee, as he put the car in gear and drove us away.

 

The next place was a trailer, out in the country. We crossed over Topper Lake, past the radio towers and several cow pastures before finally turning onto a dirt road so riddled with potholes we slowed to a crawl navigating them.

“Lost my tailpipe here last spring,” Rogerson explained as we bumped along. “Real pain in the ass.”

I nodded as we crested a huge crater, my head rising up to whack the ceiling so hard it brought tears to my eyes. Finally we pulled into a short dirt driveway, parking right outside a white double-wide with a rusted swing set and a warped baby pool in the yard.

“You better stay here,” he said to me as I reached to open my door. “I'll be just a second, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, glancing around me. I could see only woods, a huge crescent moon overhead, and another trailer—this one yellow, and more rusted—through a few scrubby pines to my left.

The trailer door opened as Rogerson walked up the steps, revealing a stocky blond woman with a baby on her hip. She had her hair pulled up on top of her head, Pebbles Flintstone—style, and was wearing a faded Gucci T-shirt and jeans. The baby reached out for Rogerson as he stepped inside and she shifted him to her other hip, his pacifier falling out of his mouth and down the steps in the process. She didn't notice, and he was still reaching for it, his face twisted in a cry, as she let the door fall shut.

I sat there in the car for eighteen and a half minutes. I knew this because the glowing blue clock on the dash was right in front of me, and I felt like I was watching my life tick away, minute by minute, in a place where I could stay forever and no one could ever find me. I was so fixated on this that I jumped, my heart racing, when Rogerson tapped on the windshield in front of my face.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he got inside. “Got held up.”

“It's okay,” I said, “but I think I want to go—”

And then he leaned over and kissed me, hard, his hand reaching behind my neck and holding me there, his mouth smoky and sweet. I kissed him back with that huge moon shining down on us, and thought the whole time of that clock, still counting down, minute by minute, hour by hour, forever.

 

We ended up back in the Arbors, cutting through side streets and past the country club to pull up in front of another house, where cars were also lining the street. Rogerson parked behind a silver Lexus, then reached under his seat and fiddled around for something, his brow furrowed, until he found it.

“Bingo,” he said in a low voice, and as he opened his clenched fist I saw a ceramic bowl in his palm. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Baggie, packing the bowl quickly, then handed it to me.

“Oh, no thanks,” I said. “Reputation and all that.”

“It's your choice,” he said, shrugging. “But if I were you, I'd take a hit. You're gonna need it.”

“For what?” I said.

“Just trust me.” He reached in his pocket for a lighter and a flame jumped up between us, illuminating both our faces in a warm, yellow light. “Okay?”

I'd been taught since sixth grade about Peer Pressure and Bad Influences and Just Saying No. But for all he knew, I could be the kind of girl that smoked. I could be anything.

I lit the bowl and took a big drag, feeling the smoke tangle in my throat, making me cough hard, fast. Tears came to my eyes as I handed it back to him, already feeling something change in me, as if I was slowly falling into warm water, one inch at a time.

When we finished the bowl, Rogerson tapped it out, stuck it back under the seat, and leaned forward to kiss me again. It felt good, and I could have stayed there doing that forever, I was sure, but he pulled away and smiled at me.

“Ready?” he said.

“Sure,” I replied, not even knowing what I was getting into.

“Then look right here,” he said, holding up a finger, and when I did he squirted something in my mouth that tasted strange and fresh, surprising me so much it made me gag, then start coughing again.

“Whoa,” he said, pounding me on the back. “Watch out there. Sorry about that.”

“What is that?” I said, still coughing.

“Breath spray,” he said, shooting two quick squirts into his own mouth. “Breakfast of champions.”

“Next time,” I told him, still coughing, “warn me.”

“Gotcha,” he said. “Let's go.”

We got out of the car and started up the driveway, walking around three Mercedes and a Jaguar on the way. As we walked Rogerson was making fast business of tucking in his shirt and smoothing back his hair. This struck me as funny, for some reason.

“What are you doing?” I asked him. Everything seemed kind of fuzzy and mild, as if I was actually standing off to the side watching but not really involved.

“It's the hair,” he said seriously, pulling it back at the base of his neck and fastening it with something. “It scares them.”

I laughed out loud and it sounded strange, fast and sharp:
Ha!
“Scares who?” I said.

And at that moment he reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it just as above us, up the rolling curve of the thick green lawn, the huge front door opened and I saw Bobbi Biscoe, star of a million For Sale signs, standing there. Up close, I could see she had the same dark coloring as Rogerson—I found out later that she was Greek—and the same thick, curly hair.

“Rogerson Biscoe!” she called out. She was smiling but her voice sounded angry, irritated, and the contrast was strange. Rogerson pulled me close to him, locking his fingers tighter into mine. “Where have you
been?”

“Mom,” Rogerson said.

“You were supposed to be here to meet and greet,” she scolded him between clenched teeth—still smiling—as we got closer. She was in a short black cocktail dress and heels and in person she looked older than her picture. There was a half ring of pink lipstick on the mouth of the glass in her hand, which she took another big gulp of as she narrowed her eyes at Rogerson. “Your father is
not
pleased, and for once I do not feel like sticking up for you when—”

“Mom,” Rogerson said again, calmly, “this is Caitlin O'Koren.”

She looked at me quickly, as if she hadn't even noticed I was standing there, then made no secret of looking up and down once, as if sizing me up.

“Is Margaret O'Koren your mother?” she asked me, and I swallowed hard, aware of how dry my mouth was.

“Yes,” I said, standing up straighter. “She is.”

She nodded, finishing off her drink and reaching around her back to stick it on a small table behind her, then took her fingers and fluffed a small piece of hair over her forehead, drawing it out. “Well, come in, then,” she said to Rogerson in a tired voice, pushing the door the rest of the way open. “He's in there.”

The house was enormous, the entryway opening up into a huge room with high cathedral ceilings, where the voices of the fifty or so people chatting and eating canapes rose up and mingled overhead into one musical sort of buzz. There was a thick pack of people straight ahead of us, all centered around an older man with ruddy skin who was holding a drink and appeared to be telling a joke that hadn't yet reached the punch line.

“I'll be right back,” Rogerson said into my ear, then let go of my hand and started down the stairs, leaving me there. There was a sudden loud burst of laughter as the joke finished, and then his mother appeared at my elbow.

“Caitlin, honey, come help check on the spinach phyllo,” she said smoothly, hooking her arm in mine and walking me down a short hallway to the kitchen, where a group of people in white shirts and black ties were all bustling around arranging fruit and cheese on various platters. Everything seemed to be going in fast forward, while I felt like I was hardly moving, my feet and head heavy and thick. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Um,” I said. My tongue was sticking to my lips but I wasn't ready to risk having to do anything with my hands, so I said, “I'm fine.”

“Well,” she said, lowering her voice as if speaking to me confidentially, “
I
need another.” She walked to a counter, bypassing two caterers arguing over clam strips, and picked up a bottle of wine, pouring herself a big glass. “Ingrid, sweetheart, what's happening with the phyllo?”

“It's coming, ma'am,” a short woman in jeans, by the oven, said, twisting a dishtowel in her hand. “Just a minute or two.”

“Marvelous,” Mrs. Biscoe said dryly, taking a sip of her drink. “It's to die for, that phyllo,” she said to me. Under the bright lights of the kitchen I could see the tiny imperfections of her face: small lines by her eyes, the uneven slope of her nose. These things were fascinating, and I found myself completely unable to stop staring at them. “Costs an arm and a leg, but what are you going to do?”