I fumble into the kitchen, pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“Jonathan? You okay, son?”
“Who is this?”
“Chester. From the Blues Note Tavern. You okay?”
“Oh. Right. Hi. Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”
“It’s two in the morning. You comin’? Should I call someone?”
“No, no. Sorry. I’ll be right there.”
“See you in a bit, kiddo.”
I hang up the phone, slip on my Chucks, and walk the thirty-seven blocks into town to pick up Dad.
8.
Tuesday, May 22, 1973
THE NEXT MORNING: “Come on, baby, we’re gonna be late,” Starla yells, parked on her gold Schwinn Stingray outside her front gate. (Normally a boys’ bike, but she defies any gender stereotype every chance she can get.) She looks like a Sears catalog ad, poised in her bell-bottom jeans and halter top she made from a Josie and the Pussycats T-shirt.
I pedal faster. Her fluorescent pink lips: two flares guiding me in the morning fog.
“Long night again?” she asks.
“Guess so, yeah.” I grab a few poofs from PeterPaulandMary, tracing another one of her freckle constellations in my head.
“Asshole,” she says, looking toward my house.
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
We ride in silence as we always do. The only sound: Starla’s newly woven hair beads tinkling through the morning breeze.
Minutes later, we turn the corner. The football field looms in the distance.
“Hey, you ever think about going to prom?” she asks. Her head tilts back.
“No. Why?”
“It’s coming up. Just curious. Lindsey called last night after we talked.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, she’s looking for a few girls to go with. Thought it could be fun. Oh, and she’s my English partner, I guess—”
“Oh no. Really?”
“Don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine. I’m sure he’s— Wait, is that him?”
It is. Sitting in the shade of an oak tree by the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. Alone.
“Oh, honey, he’s not just cute. He’s a damn fox. Come on, I wanna meet him.”
“No, we should just—”
“Come on . . .”
Oh man. We park our bikes; she pulls me forward.
“Hey, I’m Starla.”
“Hey,” he says, still looking at the dirt. He’s wearing the same thing as yesterday, but his hair is parted in two braids.
“Hey, Web.”
He looks up and lifts that dimpled smile. “Oh, hey, man.”
“I . . . uh . . . like your red bandanna . . .” I say. “It’s funky.”
“Thanks, man.”
We don’t move. I look at Starla, Starla looks at Web, and Web looks back down at . . . the anthill.
“So . . . I guess—”
“You’re Native American, right?” Starla asks.
He nods and squints up. “The Oglala Lakota Nation, yeah.”
“Right on . . . Were you at Wounded Knee?”
He nods again. “You know about that?”
“You kiddin’? We watched it every night on TV. My old man almost drove us there to help you out. What’s happening to your people—it’s a travesty, brother.”
They stare at each other.
For a long time.
He stands, brushing dirt off the back of his jeans. Takes another drag of his cigarette. “You black or somethin’?” he asks her.
“Yeah,” she says. “Dad is. Momma’s white.”
“Cool.”
Her eyelashes, thickly coated with mascara, batbatbat, closing and opening like a Venus flytrap. Why is she looking at him like that? Maybe he likes her. My body tightens. What the hell am I feeling? Never felt this before.
“Is that where you’re from?” I ask. “Wounded Knee?”
He turns to me. Seriously, his eyes are like two tiny Milky Ways that spin you to another dimension and—
“Nearby,” he says.
“Ah. Cool,” I say.
“Ever been?” he asks.
“No . . .”
“It’s beautiful . . . Big, open plains. Rolling hills and ridges. Sunsets are otherworldly, man.”
“Really? I love watching sunsets . . .”
“Me too . . .”
“Well, the bell’s about to ring,” Starla says, “so I’ll catch you boys on the flip. See you inside, Jonny-boo.” She winks at me, squeezes my shoulder, and walks away.
Oh.
Uh.
I try to follow her up the stairs. Nope. Seems my legs have a mind of their own these days. They’re stuck to this spot. Web kicks a few pebbles under his feet. He stubs his cigarette out. I should say something. What else do people say to each other to make friends? Can’t be that hard. Boy, weather sure is strange, isn’t it? Going to be a long summer. No. My palms are sweating, shaking, even. God. My pockets! I shove them in my pockets.
“You only talk when there’s a bathroom stall around?” he finally asks, laughing.
“Oh. Ha-ha. Sorry. Yes—NO, I mean—” God, Collins, so not good at this making friends thing. So not good.
“I had a dream about you last night,” he says.
“You . . . what?”
“I know. Crazy, right? I was thinking about what you said in front of class yesterday. About that quote in the book.”
“Oh.” What did I say?! “It’s a book, you know—a cool book, I mean. The seagull one. You’re right— Oh! That reminds me—” I reach into my satchel and push the book in his face; he flinches back.
“What?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to—you don’t have a copy, so I thought you could have mine. Since we’re going to be partners and all, for the presentation, I mean—”
“Cool, man. Thanks.”
“Sure . . . sure . . .”
He flips through the pages, smiling. His braids dangle on his shoulders. His golden skin . . . still glistens. His thick lips are so red it looks like— He’s staring at me.
This time, I don’t look away.
He closes the book. “It really is beautiful, isn’t it . . .”
“Yeah . . . it really is . . .” My wrists twinge.
The first bell rings, making us both jump.
“So . . .” I say.
“Guess I’ll see you in there,” he says.
“Yeah, see you . . .”
I run inside. My legs actually move, but my brain definitely does not, and oh man, I take it back. His eyes aren’t two Milky Ways; they’re black hole vortices and apparently they spaghetti my brain.
Oh man, oh man, oh man, this is not good. Not good at all.
9.
“WHAT IS YOUR DEFINITION of love?”
This guy. If the earth isn’t going to kill us in five years, Mr. Dulick surely will before then. He reads each word as he writes on the blackboard, another quote from Jonathan Livingston Seagull:
His sorrow was not solitude, it was that other gulls refused to believe the glory of flight that awaited them; they refused to open their eyes and see.
“Man, that’s some gorgeous poetry right there,” he says, lost in the chalk swirls.
Please don’t cry again.
He claps his hands, snapping everyone back to attention. Scotty, asleep on his arm, pops up.
“Love,” Mr. Dulick says. “What does it look like to you?”
Suzanna Levine raises her hand high in the air.
“Miss Levine, yes!”
“My brother,” she says. “When I visit my brother.”
Mr. Dulick walks down the aisle, placing his hand over his heart. He stops in front of her. Her bugged-out eyes blink through her glasses.
“Oh my, yes,” he says. “Yes. Your brother, Suzanna. Yes. A few different kinds of love right there, sister. Tell us more.” He looks up, still holding his heart, and now her hand. Can’t tell if he’s crying yet. From this angle, it’s hard to see through his thick sideburn bushes.
“Well . . . he . . . loved our country,” she says. “Like a service. He loved to serve . . .” She twists the silver dog tags hanging around her neck.
“Yes, yes, that’s right, sister, he did . . . and . . . what else . . .” His eyes swoop around the classroom. It’s like watching an evangelical baptism, I swear.
“And . . . and . . . when we visit him . . . at his grave . . . I love him . . . I miss . . . him . . .” And there she goes. Floating down her river of tears. Starla rubs her back. She does not support the Vietnam War. None of us do. And Suzanna is one of the many reasons why. Last year she was all hippie smiles and sunshine. Then her brother was killed somewhere in Vietnam, and her smile began to fade into blackness. Sometimes she’ll start crying for no reason, and rumor has it she sleepwalks through her house at night looking for her dead brother.
Mr. Dulick closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.
I quickly glance over at Web, who sits with his hands folded in his lap. He stares ahead motionless. Either he’s praying or contemplating world domination. Can’t really tell.
“Who else?” Mr. Dulick says, gliding around the room.
Scotty shoots his hand up.
“Mr. Danforth?”
“Playboy,” he says. Cretin. I swear he speaks only in two-syllable increments.
The Apes grunt and girls squeal, but Mr. Dulick doesn’t skip a beat.
“Ah yes, a very different kind of love. Tell us more, my man.” He props himself against his desk and folds his arms. His polyester shirt bulges a bit in the middle so you can see tufts of chest hair peeking through.
“Uh . . . I guess . . . you know, man . . . come on . . .”
“You brought it up. And a good answer at that. Why does that mean love to you?”
“I mean . . . you know . . . the women, man.” He acts like he’s holding two big boobies in front of his chest. “There’s so much to love.” He high-fives an Ape sitting next to him. Some girls giggle nearby.
“Okay, Mr. Danforth, I’ll interpret: sexual love. An important aspect of human development. Stimulation is good, but sexual love is deeper, more sensual . . . connected . . .”
Two more seconds and I’m out the door like the Flash. I hate this crap.
“What is it about sexual love that makes it deeper?” Dulick asks.
Scotty looks confused. Like Poppa Ape’s taken his toy away and he doesn’t know what to do anymore. Firecrotch raises her hand.
“Yes?”
“Like when a boy looks deep in your eyes as he moves in to kiss you, and he slides his hand underneath your bra, and you know you’re the only one in the world at that moment?” Jesus. She asks the question innocently, but come on. Even Scotty whips around to see if this chick’s for real.
“Yes, Miss Halstead,” Dulick says without skipping a beat. “A true sexual love knows no boundaries. It is limitless beyond the stars. Into the heavens. Where time disappears and everything falls away . . .” He throws his head back to look up at the ceiling.
And he’s crying.
Here we go again. We stare back, lost, wondering and waiting, when:
“That’s it!” he yells. Everyone jumps. “Get together with your partners and talk about this quote.” He runs behind his desk, slapping his hand on the blackboard. “What is the one love that’s bigger than any love we’ve talked about today?” He throws his arms in the air and croons like a preacher. “And this weekend I want you to take your partner to the one place that makes you feel that love to use in your presentation!” Oh no. “Oh yes, this is going to be good, kids, so so good.”
“Come on, Dulick, it’s prom this weekend!” sings the room in almost perfect harmony.
“Even better. Lots of opportunities outside of school, then. And don’t think for a second you can skip out on this one—you’ll tell us all about it on Monday.”
“Come. On!” I almost join in on the chorus this time.
“Chop-chop, beautiful people, only a few minutes left of class.”
Chairs scrape the floor as everyone mills about, grumbling. Starla’s already rapping with Lindsey: They both love Jesus, so that’s a no-brainer.
Web doesn’t move, so I plop down in Samantha’s seat. It’s still warm and makes me gooey-gross inside. Warm chairs. I don’t know, like I’m sitting on someone’s leftover germs. Anyway.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” He flips through the seagull book. Sweat beads on his forehead. Up close he looks tired. Too tired for someone his age. Too tired, like me . . .
“Do you use Irish Spring soap?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?”
“Oh . . .” No. I’ve had all day to think about what I would say to him next, and that was not it. “I mean, I meant to thank you for the note in health class yesterday, I thought it was far-out!” Huzzah!
He lifts a smile. “Glad you got it.”
“Yeah—”
“They’re assholes,” he says, still flipping.
“I know.”
“All of ’em.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuckin’ cops.”
“What?”
“White cops. They’re all goons.”
Oh. Something’s shifted. Not sure what. His cheeks flush as red as his bandanna. His Chucks bounce to holy hell. I don’t know what to do with this, so I say the first thing that pops into my head: “Navigate the negative!”
Definitely did not mean to say that out loud.
“Huh?”
“I mean—” God. I want to slap myself. Don’t. Instead, I look down and shuffle my shoes on the linoleum, hoping I can dig a hole to fall into. “My, uh, doc told me that once, so I . . . kinda look at it as being a mapmaker, you know, never mind.” Oh man. I can’t believe I just told him that.
“What do you mean?” His Chucks stop bouncing, so . . . I keep going! Have no idea why. Like someone pulled a string on my back. I can’t control my mouth.
“If something negative pops up in my life, I look at it as a chance to, you know, discover a new direction to take, or find a different feeling to think about so I don’t let it win—kinda like a game. It’s stupid, never mind. Never told anyone that before, heh-heh . . .” My shoes seriously can’t dig fast enough.
“Neat,” he says.
“Huh?” I glance up.
“It’s a neat trick. I dig it.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool . . .” God, those eyes. Fierce but soft. Like his voice. They definitely scramble my mind, which is not a good thing, all things considered. I look down, drum my fingers on the desk. “So, anyway, I guess we should talk about love or whatever.”
He starts jiggling his Chucks again.
“I mean, it’s a crazy assignment, but Dulick said we—”
“Not really good at it, man,” he says.
“What?”
“Talking around other people.”
“Oh, well, it’s okay. Me—”
“Or love.”
“—neither.”
Oh.
“We could start off easy,” I say. “Like, what’s your favorite album?”
“Dark Side of the Moon.”
“Sweet. Pink Floyd totally gets it. Ever hear Meddle?”
“No.”
“Some don’t like it. I do.”
“Is that your favorite?”
“Oh no. Mine’s Ziggy Stardust anything.”
“Cool, man, Ziggy’s far-out.”
“You know Ziggy?”
“This is ground control to Major Tom . . .” he sings softl
y.
“You’ve really made the graaaddee . . .” I whisper. We laugh quietly. “Yeah, I definitely feel like some space oddity who’s landed here on Earth and—” I stop myself. Damn. Said that out loud, too.
“I feel ya, man,” he says.
“You do?”
“All the time . . .” He leans on his elbow, drawing figure eights on the book cover with his finger. “But my dad used to say, ‘The things that make you different are your superpowers,’ so . . . anyway . . .”
“Huh . . .” Wish I could believe it . . .
“Yeah. And I never told anyone that before, so now we’re even.” Two dimples poke in his cheeks, but he still looks down at the book.
“Okay, we’re even,” I say.
“So, hey, man.” He sits up suddenly. “I don’t really have a place of love to show you for the presentation or whatever. Here, I mean.”
“Yeah, I don’t either.”
“Where should we go, then?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t know. There aren’t many places around here. We definitely can’t meet at my house.”
“We can’t meet at mine either,” he says.
“Oh.” Didn’t expect that answer. Makes me instantly curious why.
“Wanna just meet at the lake?” he asks.
“No!”
“Okay . . .” He flips through his book.
“I mean—” Damn. “I don’t know . . . let me think.” But I can’t. Like, at all. “I mean . . .” Oh man oh man oh man. “I guess that’s the only place—”
“Saturday?”
“Uh, I guess, yeah. Oh, but not in the morning, I’m with Starla. Later in the day?”
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
My chest is hammering. I’m surprised he can’t hear it. Maybe he can. His bouncing feet match its rhythm. And I know for sure he’s casting a spell on me with those eyes: I’m getting dizzy and sweaty and twitchy and—
“Ow!” My wrists zing. No. Dammit.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Stupid treatments. I knew it. I can’t do this. I can’t think of him like that. How’s this ever going to work? I throw my hands in my lap. Rub them together. Look at the clock above the blackboard. I think it’s broken: stuck in a tick-tick-click on the same second over and over again.
Ziggy, Stardust and Me Page 5
