Too Soon for Jeff

by Marilyn Reynolds

  Jeremy has started listening to jazz in preparation for being in New Orleans for the national debate tournament. How’s that for confidence? He hasn’t even qualified for nationals yet and he’s preparing for the trip. He keeps stopping by my house and leaving tapes of John Coltrane and Duke Ellington, whoever they are. I’m not into them yet. Maybe I will be if it turns out that for sure I’m going to New Orleans in June.

  The first night I’m back home, Sunday night, Mom brings in pizza and Stacy comes over. We don’t talk much. After dinner Mom says, “I’m meeting with my study group tonight. See you later.” She pats me on the shoulder on her way out. “I’m happy you’re home again, Jeff,” she says. But her voice sounds flat, not happy.

  As soon as mom leaves, Stacy says, “I hear you broke up with Christy.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Kim was going on and on about it in gym on Friday—how everybody thought you were such a good guy and you turned out to be a jerk.”

  “I don’t give a shit what Kim says,” I say.

  “Kim’s acting like the great protector right now. ‘Christy, be careful, don’t strain yourself . . . Did you eat a good breakfast this morning, little mommie?’ It’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah, well . . . Kim’s always been sort of weird.”

  “You’d think she was the dad,” Stacy says.

  “I wish!”

  We talk for a while, getting caught up with each other. I’ve hardly seen Stacy for the past three weeks, while I’ve been at Steve’s. She tells me how Frankie got fired again. Frankie’s had about eighteen jobs since she first started going around with him.

  “What was it for this time?”

  “He was handing out free donuts to his friends.”

  “Isn’t that how he got fired from Wendy’s, only for handing out hamburgers?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “Your boyfriend’s a slow learner,” I say.

  “I’m not pregnant,” she says, laughing. “But, speaking of Frankie, he’s coming over tonight. See ya.”

  “Bye,” I say, following her out the door.

  I get in the car and head for Jeremy’s house. One thing about having a really brainy friend—he’s always at home. I walk around to the back of his house and tap on his bedroom window. He opens it.

  “Hey, J.B. Come on in.”

  He opens the window and I climb through. It’s easier than walking through the house. Jeremy’s mom always wants to talk to me for about an hour, and his dad always looks at me like he can’t quite remember who I am. They’re strange. I mean, they’re Jeremy’s parents and I guess he likes them okay. He never says anything one way or the other about them. They’re nice enough. But I can skip seeing them.

  “What’s that smell?” I ask.

  “Smell? I don’t smell anything,” Jeremy says.

  “God, it’s rank in here.”

  “It’s just my room,” Jeremy says, puzzled.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here. Maybe I’ve just forgotten how a budding zoologist’s room smells.”

  “If I were budding, it would be a botanist’s room,” Jeremy laughs.

  I look around. There are three separate hamster cages, and two cages for rats. They all look alike to me, but Jeremy knows each one by name.

  “I had to isolate Olivia,” Jeremy says, pointing to the smallest rat, curled in the corner of a cage. “Byron was eating her tail.”

  “That’s gross!”

  “Nature, my man. Simply nature. I’ll probably feed her to Beatrice in a few days, anyway. The fact that her tail is shorter than it was is not important.”

  Beatrice is the boa that Jeremy’s had for about five years now. Most of the time it lives curled up in a big glass cage, but sometimes he wears it around his neck while he’s sitting at his desk. His mom freaks out when she sees that.

  Besides the snake and the hamsters, Jeremy has a tortoise, a chameleon and an aquarium full of bright-colored tropical fish. Oh, yeah, and a white rabbit with pink eyes. The rabbit uses a kitty litter box. That’s one thing in here that doesn’t smell so good.

  “I liked your D.I. the other day,” Jeremy says.

  ‘Yeah, well, thanks a lot,” I say, sarcastically. “Why didn’t you say that in class?”

  “I don’t like to talk in class unless it’s official. You know that.”

  “But you’re my friend. You should have stood up for me.”

  “I’m your friend,” Jeremy says. “But I’m not like this guy.” He picks the chameleon up from the drab rock it’s been sitting on and puts it down in a nest of bright green leaves. We watch it slowly change color.

  “I am who I am, and I don’t talk in class unless called upon.”

  “Have you finished writing your speech for San Diego?” I ask.

  “I’ve just got to gather a few statistics to prove my point.”

  “What is your point?”

  “The crime rate would drop dramatically if all drugs were legalized.”

  “Yeah,” I say, laughing. “Everyone would be so spaced out, no one could figure out how to do a crime.”

  Jeremy gives his rationale. Crime rates are much lower in Denmark, where there is a very lenient approach to drug use. People don’t have to steal to get drugs because so much is available through government programs. Instead of all the money going into “the war on drugs,” money could be going into rehabilitation, and so forth. Then he says, “I’m sorry, my man, I should have said something the other day in debate—backed you up.”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” I say. “Everyone’s talking to me again, anyway, except Kim and Christy. In fact, Dashan and Cassie both called that evening to tell me they thought it went well.”

  “Yeah, well, after you walked out, Rogers really chewed us out.”

  “He did?”

  “Seriously. He said if anyone in that class had a personal problem with you, or anyone else for that matter, they’d better work it out because our group has to pull together no matter what—we’ve got to support each other or we’re lost.”

  “The usual winning’s not as important as being decent people stuff?”

  “Yeah, but what started it was how no one gave you any response to your presentation. He also gave us a mini­lecture about not judging someone until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins.”

  About eleven o’clock we go over to Benny’s. He and his brother, Gilbert, are in the garage, working on Benny’s car, which hasn’t run for the past six months.

  Gilbert looks up. “It’s your two smart friends,” he says to Benny, who still has his head under the hood, examining some pump or something. He stands and looks at us, smiling.

  “One smart friend and one not as smart as we used to think,” he says, laughing and wiping grease from his hands.

  “Time to call it a night,” Gilbert says, waving and walking toward the house.

  “Hey, thanks, Gil. Maybe tomorrow night we can start her up?”

  “Maybe.”

  I reach down and pick up a triangular shaped, shiny chrome part to something.

  “What’s this?” I say, holding it out toward Benny.

  He takes it from me, turns it over in his hand several times, grins, and says, “It’s a knick-knack, Patty Wack, give the frog a loan.”

  Jeremy and I both groan in unison, then we all start laughing.

  “God, I’m still in trouble for that with my old man,” Ben says. “Practically every day he leaves some AA pamphlet sitting around where I have to see it. Like on my dresser, or taped to the refrigerator.”

  “My mother spoke with fervor about how I shouldn’t hang around people of low caliber,” Jeremy says.

  “I thought she liked me,” I say.

  “She was probably talking about Benny,” Jeremy laughs.

  “I got lectured from my mom and Steve,” I say. “But I guess they’re not mad anymore.”

  “We ought to go up there again. Maybe tomorrow,” Benny says. “I
can always buy beer, and we just need to go up a little farther past the ranger station.”

  Jeremy and I both stare at him. I know I don’t want a repeat experience of that Friday night. I don’t think Jer­emy does either.

  “Just an idea,” Benny says. “Don’t take life so serious. Lighten up . . . Hey, how about shooting some pool?”

  We move the car parts out of the way so we won’t stumble on stuff, and set up the pool table. We’re pretty evenly matched. After a while we put up the cue sticks and get some sodas from the old refrigerator at the back of the garage.

  “Things are going to be really different without you guys around here next year,” Benny says. “All I’ll have left are my low-life friends.”

  “What do you think you’ll end up doing next year?” Jeremy asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe graduating from high school.”

  We all laugh at that.

  “Really?” Jeremy says.

  “Nah. I’m failing history right now, but I can pull it out at the last minute—that’s probably what you thought, too, huh Jeff? Pull out at the last minute?”

  Ben laughs so hard he starts to choke.

  “No, you bozo comedian, I didn’t pull out. Damn it! Christy said she was on the pill!”

  “You know the only sure way the pill works?” Benny says, still sputtering. “It’s if the girl always holds the pill between her knees.”

  “Geez, Benny,” I say, throwing a grease rag at him. He just keeps laughing. Jeremy stands back watching us, as if he’s an anthropologist observing weird tribal behavior. We go back to pool.

  After a while Benny says, “I may join the Army after graduation.”

  “How primitive,” Jeremy says.

  “No. Let’s face it, I’ve screwed up all through school. You guys both are set for college and jobs. The only skill I’ve developed is how to get by.”

  “But the Army?” Jeremy says. “Why not go to Hamilton Heights City College? They’d take you.”

  “Nah. I hate school. Really, I’d rather go to Basic Train­ing than sit in some boring class. Besides, I want to be all that I can be,” he says, quoting the standard recruiting line.

  We play more pool, talk, laugh and horse around until Benny’s dad comes out.

  “It’s after one, you guys. Time to break it up.” He eyes us suspiciously, picks up Benny’s can of soda and sniffs it, as if expecting to find something other than Pepsi, then he turns and goes back into the house. Benny laughs.

  “My old man thinks just because he was a big time alcoholic, I’m gonna be the same.”

  On the way home Jeremy asks me, “How does it feel not to be with Christy anymore?”

  “It’s great. Like tonight. If I’d still been with Christy there would have been a big hassle about why wasn’t I at her place on a Sunday night, or she’d be calling my house, wanting to know why I was out so late. I don’t want to have to answer to anyone again, ever.”

  “I know what you mean,” Jeremy says. “My brief foray into the world of relationships with Trish last year left me knowing I was not yet ready for the trappings of love.”

  “Trappings is right,” I say.

  So here I am, back in my own bed, the stereo turned down low, ready for sleep. It felt good, being with Ben and Jeremy tonight, laughing and messing around. Free. I feel free. But there’s this other feeling, too—a feeling of emp­tiness inside—a feeling I don’t want to think about. I wonder if there will ever be a time in my life when I’m not confused?

  Chapter

  11

  March 14. It’s finally here. The debate tournament in which I will qualify for nationals, or not—receive a schol­arship, or not. Usually I don’t get nervous, but this tourna­ment is a different story.

  Last night, when I finally got to sleep after about four hours of tossing and turning, I had this very weird dream. Hundreds of people were watching me give my D.I. I was getting to the really sad, intense part, the part where everybody usually gets very quiet, and I heard people in the audience giggling. I tried to put more emotion into it, make them see how sad it was, but they laughed all the more. Then I looked down. I wasn’t wearing any pants. I was naked from the waist down. I tried to cover myself, but the whole audience was laughing uproariously. I tried to run from the room, but I couldn’t get the door open. I awoke, shaking and drenched with sweat, glad it was nearly time to get up.

  Mr. Rogers blasts the horn on the rented van, and I grab my backpack and duffle bag and run out. We’ve each had to contribute thirty-two dollars to pay for the van. Every now and then Mr. Rogers climbs on his soapbox and carries on about how the football team, which hasn’t won a game since WWII, gets thousands of dollars worth of bus trans­portation at the expense of the school district, and the debate team, which is one of the top-rated teams in the state, has to take up collections to get to tournaments.

  Jeremy is already in the back seat, along with Hung and Dashan. I take the middle seat, behind Mr. Rogers. We stop for Trin, then go on to Christy’s.

  At first the principal, Mr. Hill, told Rogers that Christy couldn’t go on any official school trips because she was pregnant. Something about school liability. To tell the truth, I was secretly relieved when I first heard that piece of news, but then I changed my mind.

  Rogers went nuts when Mr. Hill tried to keep Christy off the debate trip. He said the school was discriminating against pregnant students. Then everyone in the class worked on a petition, which cited Supreme Court cases upholding the rights of pregnant students, and we got over six hundred student, teacher, and parent signatures on it. So Mr. Hill decided to let Christy go. Rogers said it was an example of democracy in action.

  I worked on getting the petition signed, too. Even though I feel really awkward around Christy now, and she doesn’t speak to me, and neither do her girlfriends, I know it’s not right to keep her from participating in debate tournaments just because she’s pregnant.

  Christy grabs the rail by the door to help herself up the van steps. The baby’s not due until July, but Christy is now obviously pregnant.

  “Take this front seat, Christy,” Mr. Rogers says. “It’s the most comfortable seat in the van, besides mine.”

  The plan is to get to our motel by two, do a last minute practice of our debate material, and go to dinner at some little place Mr. Rogers knows about on Coronado Island.

  There aren’t really any rough spots, though. We all seri­ously want to go to nationals, and we all seriously have been working hard on our presentations.

  We are on the freeway and singing kiddy camp songs by ten in the morning. We do “She’ll Be Comin’ ’Round the Mountain When She Comes,” and “Old McDonald Had a Farm,” complete with sound effects for the first hour or so, then Dashan starts us on “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” That lasts until we’re down to thirty-seven bottles of beer on the wall.

  Mr. Rogers pulls to the side of the road and shuts off the ignition.

  “I can’t stand it! I’m not driving another inch unless you guys stop singing that stupid song!”

  We sing down to twenty-six bottles of beer, sitting at the side of the road. Then I guess Trin decides it’s time for us to move on because she starts “Down in the Valley.” Hung and Dashan join in. They must still remember the harmo­nies from when choir did that number last year, because they sound really good together.

  It’s funny how a song, or a smell, or the warm sun on your shoulders, can take you back to another time. “Down in the Valley” does that to me. The first time I ever heard that song, Christy and I were sitting close, holding hands, in the auditorium. It was the choir’s fall concert and Christy and I had only been hanging around together for a month or so. But when the combined choirs had sung the part that goes, “Angels in heaven, know I love you,” we had squeezed hands and looked at each other in a way that we both knew meant something. After that, to the very end, one of us would say “Angels in heaven,” and the other would know it meant “I l
ove you,” only more.

  “Know I love you, dear, know I love you,” they’re singing now. “Angels in heaven, know I love you.” I feel it, some­thing lost, an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I turn my face to the window and look out at patches of wildflowers blooming on the hills north of the freeway. I don’t want to get back with Christy. What we had is past. But I steal a look at her and see that she too has turned her head toward the window next to her, so that no one can see her face. I wonder, can she still feel my hand in hers, as I can feel her hand in mine? Does she still know the taste of my lips, as I know hers?

  “Lunch time!” Mr. Rogers says.

  We pull off the freeway and into a rest stop that over­looks the ocean. We buy sodas from a catering truck, then climb down steps which lead to picnic tables in the sand. The sun is bright, reflecting off the blue water. We’ve all brought sack lunches for the occasion. After we eat, Rogers brings out his ancient frisbee. He claims he went to a school that had a top-rated frisbee team. No football team, just a frisbee team. He says someday, when the world’s a better place to live, we’ll be sitting around on New Year’s Day watching championship frisbee playoffs in the Rose Bowl, in all of the Bowls, instead of watching guys mutilate one another.

  “Jeff!” he calls to me.

  I jump to catch the frisbee Rogers has thrown my way, then throw it to Dashan. We take our shoes off and play around in the sand, all except Christy who sits watching, for about twenty minutes, then we get back on the road.

  It’s still dark out when I awaken in the Best Western motel in San Diego. In the bed across from me, Jeremy is sound asleep. I start with my Dramatic Interpretation piece, saying it in my head, reviewing gestures, reminding myself of the rules I’ve known by heart since my first tournament in the ninth grade. Then I review the facts for Policy Debate. What if I mess up? I won’t mess up. I know it. But the competition is going to be so tough!

  If it weren’t for the scholarship, I could relax. Get to nationals, don’t get to nationals, no big deal. But tuition and books paid, room and board paid—and Brooker Uni­versity! From the pictures in the catalog it looks beauti­ful—brick buildings surrounded by huge trees. No smog. No traffic. No earthquakes or drive-by shootings. I’ll be a college man, living in a dorm, totally on my own.