The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys

by Scott William Carter

  But I had seen something else on his face.

  I had seen how important being the Water Balloon Boys was to him.

  I had seen the face of the kid who had knelt next to me in that pine tree years ago, juicy water balloon in hand, eyes widening at the sound of an approaching car. It was the face of a kid living in a moment of pure happiness, a moment when there was no past and no future, only the great and glorious present that both of us had hoped would go on forever and ever without end. Somewhere in the passing years, I had left that moment behind me, but I realized Jake hadn’t. He was still there.

  chapter eight

  I didn’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I knew, Jake was shaking my shoulder, telling me we were there. I rubbed my eyes, blinking out into darkness, catching a whiff of the night breeze. It took me a moment to remember where there was.

  “Bend?” I said groggily. I had slept with my head on the side of the couch, and now my neck was sore.

  I smelled pine, but it could have just been the air freshener. I wondered if everything would smell like pine now. The van’s side door was open and Gabe was grabbing his duffle bag and hefting it onto his shoulder. Jake stood over me, his face shrouded in darkness.

  “Yep,” Jake said. “I think you fell asleep somewhere on the pass. I tried talking to you a few times, but you were really conked out.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s around eight o’clock. Maybe nine.”

  “That’s it?” It felt later.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Long day. And hey, it’s not over yet. Gabe says it looks like his roommates are having a party.”

  Still feeling disoriented, I followed Jake out of the van, keeping my backpack with me. My sneakers crunched on gravel and pine needles. We were parked in front of a little blue house on a street filled with other little houses and lots of tall pine trees. At least a dozen cars, most of them rusted-out jalopies, were parked around the house, some even on the lawn. The shades of all the windows were drawn, but light shone around the cracks, and I heard the steady pulsing of music.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I said, though I didn’t know where we would go as an alternative. I had never been comfortable at parties. Not that I had gone to any. My idea of a party came from movies like Animal House, which always seemed to playing somewhere on cable. I imagined going inside and some guy asking me where my keg was. I tried to think of a good excuse why I didn’t have a keg.

  “Relax,” Jake said.

  “Maybe we should go home,” I said.

  “Will you just quit?”

  Gabe opened the door and we followed him into a warm living room, a distinct haze in the air. It smelled something awful, and it wasn’t a smell I had ever smelled before, though I had a pretty good sense of what it was. The guys and girls lounging in the living room, passing a blue glass pipe between them, gave me a pretty good idea. There were three guys and two girls, all in their early twenties, all of them with the same glassy-eyed look about them. One of them, a black girl with dreadlocks, got up and turned off the stereo.

  “Hey, man,” one of them said, a pudgy guy with olive skin and slicked black hair. “How’s life in the valley?”

  “Satisfactory,” Gabe said. They all stood there nodding until Gabe finally remembered us. “Oh, this is . . . um . . .”

  “Jake and Charlie,” Jake said.

  “Riiiiight,” Gabe said. “My sister’s friends. They’re on a sort of quest.”

  “Quest!” one of the other guys exclaimed, a short Hispanic guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt. “Right on! I love quests!”

  One of the girls, a redhead, was currently using the pipe. She exhaled smoke from her nose, then closed her eyes and mumbled, “Quests are cool.”

  “Kind of like Gandalf,” the black girl said. She wore a white T-shirt with black lettering that read, YES, BUT WHAT ABOUT ME?

  “Gandalf is cool,” the girl with the pipe said.

  “Who’s Gandalf?” the guy with the olive complexion asked.

  “Lord of the Rings,” the girl said.

  “Lord of the what?”

  “The Rings, man, the Rings,” another guy said. He sat on a rocker in the corner, and he was dressed all in black, even wearing a black bandanna. His glasses made his eyes seem huge. “It’s like totally frickin’ awesome. There’s like frickin’ awesome special effects. There’s dragons and sword fights and magic stuff—frickin’ awesome. You really should see it.”

  “That’s the movie,” the girl with the pipe said.

  “Huh?”

  “It was a book first.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot. By that British dude.” He looked over at us. “Where you guys going?”

  “Colorado,” Jake said.

  “Colorado!” the guy exclaimed. “That’s frickin’ awesome. You guys got a ring?”

  “What?” Jake said.

  “You taking the ring and throwing it in the fire, like the movie? Like Frodo and Sam?”

  “No,” Jake said. “Charlie’s got a portrait.”

  “Don’t,” I whispered, but it was already too late.

  “A what?” the guy in black said.

  “A portrait,” Jake said. “You know, a picture he drew. Of his dad. He wants to give it him.”

  “Oh,” the guy in black said. He nodded thoughtfully, contemplating the floor for so long I thought the conversation was over, then looked back at me. “Why?”

  I wished I could disappear. “It’s just something to do,” I said.

  “Can we see it?” the black girl said.

  “Show it to them,” Jake said.

  “Aw, that’s okay,” I said.

  They all started begging and pleading for me to show it to them, and I put them off, but then Jake got down on his knees and made a fool of himself, so I had to give in. I took it out of the bag and opened it real quick, but they protested, so I opened it again and held it there while they all leaned in, squinting as if it was the size of a postage stamp. “It’s not finished yet,” I said.

  “Wow,” the black girl said.

  “It’s really, really good, dude,” the guy with olive skin said. “Like, really, really, really good.”

  They all chimed in how good it was, and even though it was embarrassing, and I wasn’t sure how well any of them could even see the picture in their current state of mind, I kind of liked it. I thanked them and put it back in the bag.

  “You going to art school?” the guy in black said.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “My cousin’s going to art school in California.” He paused. “At least I think it’s my cousin. It might be my roommate’s cousin. Not sure.”

  “Charlie’s going to be a lawyer,” Jake said.

  “A doctor,” I said, sighing.

  “Oh,” the black girl said. “Why?”

  “I hate lawyers,” the guy with olive skin said.

  “He said doctor, idiot,” the black girl said. She looked at me. “So why a doctor?”

  “Yeah man,” the Hispanic guy said. He was now smoking the pipe. “You could be an artist or something.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I thought about telling them that artists always ended up living in their parents’ basements, then thought better of it. They seemed like just the sort of people who lived in their parents’ basements.

  “His dad’s a doctor,” Jake said.

  I was beginning to get really pissed at Jake. They all stared at him for a long time, everybody nodding, though I wasn’t sure exactly what they were nodding about. The silence was getting unbearable.

  “So how about you guys?” I said. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  I regretted it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. It was such a kidlike thing to say, and these “kids” were in their twenties. I braced myself for their laughter, but nobody laughed. Instead they all looked kind of thoughtful, and then after a while they looked kind of sad, as if t
hey’d all just discovered that a bunch of friends had gone to the movies and not invited them. It was a moment I’d think about a lot, long after I left, how sad they all looked. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It made me kind of sad too, and I wasn’t sure why.

  “I’m working on a screenplay,” the black girl said.

  “I thought you finished it,” the Hispanic guy said.

  “Not yet,” the black girl said.

  “Maybe I’ll be a lawyer,” the guy with olive skin said, the one who had said he hated lawyers.

  They fell into silence. I suddenly had the urge to bolt out of the room. Maybe I wasn’t all that sure why I wanted to be a doctor, and maybe it was just because I wanted to be like Dad, but at least I wanted to do something. At least I had a direction. They didn’t seem to have a direction at all, and it was just the kind of thing Dad (and, to a lesser degree, Mom) had warned me about: If you didn’t stay focused on your future, you wouldn’t have one.

  On the other hand, it was like they weren’t letting all the little crap that bothers most people get to them. It seemed that all Mom did was worry about little crap, and if you were never around someone who didn’t, you got to thinking that there was no other way to be, that it was normal to spend most of your time worrying about stuff that didn’t matter all that much in the grand scheme of things.

  Gabe slid over next to the black girl, and she handed him the pipe. He took a good drag, then let out the smoke slowly. When he spoke, his voice sounded higher and more strained.

  “You dudes want to partake in the festivities?” he said, holding up the pipe.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” I said.

  “Hell yeah,” Jake said.

  Gabe handed him the pipe, and Jake sat cross-legged on the carpet. I couldn’t believe he’d actually do it, but Jake took a big drag, like he’d been doing it all his life. He closed his eyes and exhaled the smoke out his nose. Then he looked up at me.

  “Try it, man,” he said.

  “That’s all right.”

  “Come on. One hit won’t kill you.”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Come on, I promise it won’t hurt you. Live a little. How will you know if you never try it? At least try it.”

  He held up the pipe. I hated that everybody was staring at me, and I hated Jake for making them stare at me. I was scared to death to do any drugs. All those public-service messages kept running through my head, and I just knew if I took one little puff of that pipe, I’d end up climbing out of the cardboard box, wearing army fatigues and no shoes, and wondering what had happened to my life. This was one of those peer pressure moments they talked about. I was supposed to just say no. But that sounded dumb, just saying no. I didn’t want them to laugh at me. I just wanted them to stop staring.

  “Okay,” I said.

  I figured I would just pretend. I’d put the pipe up to my lips and pretend to smoke it, but I wouldn’t actually inhale. I realized this was what had gotten Bill Clinton in trouble years ago, but it seemed like the best choice. That made me wonder if Bill Clinton had done it for the same reason, just because he hadn’t wanted to lose face in front of others.

  “You really don’t have to,” the black girl said. “It’s not for everyone.”

  “No, I want to,” I said.

  “We understand if it’s a matter of principles,” Gabe said. “We don’t want you to violate any—”

  “I want to! I really want to!”

  It was strange, but the more they told me I didn’t have to do it, the more I felt I had to do it. I knelt next to Jake, sliding off my backpack and dropping it on the floor next to him. I kept repeating to myself, don’t inhale, don’t inhale, and that was probably a pretty stupid thing to do, because it was like how somebody in the movies tells somebody not to look down, and of course they do, that’s how it always works.

  He handed me the pipe, and I put it up to my lips. The glass was warm. I tried not to think about how many other mouths had been on it. I wasn’t going to inhale. I didn’t want to inhale. But as soon as I glanced up at everyone, I couldn’t stop myself. I sucked in a breath. It was just like how I got into the van with Jake, exactly the same way: I hadn’t wanted to do it, but I had found myself doing it anyway.

  It was like inhaling fire. I wanted to seem tough, like I could take it, but my throat was burning, and I coughed violently. My eyes filled with tears. I coughed and coughed, and when I finally stopped, I heard laughter.

  “Hey, man,” Jake said, “it’s all right. It’s always that way the first time. Try again. I don’t think you even got any in your lungs.”

  “No, that’s—” I began, and started coughing again. I handed him the pipe.

  “You sure?” Jake said. “It really does get better—”

  But I was already out of the room. I didn’t even have time to ask where the bathroom was. Luckily, it was the first door on the left down a short hall, and I just made it to the toilet, throwing up the day’s lunch into the porcelain bowl. It was only when I stopped that I saw how dirty the toilet was, a ring of yellow scum at the edge of the water, which made me throw up one more time.

  I stayed in there until I got a hold of myself, dashed some water on my face, reached for the towel, and, seeing how dirty and stained the yellow towel was, used some wadded up toilet paper to dry my face instead. When I walked slowly back into the room, I expected some questions of concern, or at least sympathetic looks, only to find them exactly as I had left them, sitting in a circle, passing the pipe among them.

  Jake looked up, eyes glazed. “You all right, man?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Hey,” the black girl said, “it’s all right. Sometimes you don’t even get high the first time.”

  I nodded. I certainly didn’t feel high. I just felt sick. A little stupid, too, since I had never wanted to smoke the pipe in the first place, only save myself a little embarrassment. Which, of course, had only led me to being more embarrassed. I wondered when I would ever learn.

  The smell in the room was making me queasy again, so I tried to breathe through my mouth. Standing there, I wondered what Mom would think if she saw me. Then I realized that Mom was probably thinking of me right at that minute, and I started feeling sick again, but this time because of the guilt. “Um, does anybody have a cell phone?” I asked.

  “Why?” Jake said.

  “I just need to call someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Just someone.”

  “You’re not calling your mom, are you?”

  I hated how he always seemed to guess what was going on with me. By this time, the guy with the olive skin had dug a silver phone out of his pocket, and he handed it to me. “Just don’t call any 1-900 numbers,” he said, chuckling.

  “Dude,” Jake said, “don’t call your mom.”

  “I’m not calling my mom,” I said.

  “Then who are you calling?”

  “I’m . . . all right, I’m calling my mom. But I just want her to know I’m okay.”

  “That’s so sweet,” the redheaded girl said, then took another puff from the pipe. “Maybe we should all call our moms. And wish them Happy Mother’s Day.”

  “That’s two months away,” the black girl said.

  “Still,” the redheaded girl said, “it’d be awfully nice.”

  “Charlie—” Jake began.

  “I’ll just be a second,” I said, and retreated around the corner, into the kitchen. I took my backpack with me. I’m sure that looked strange, me taking my backpack with me to the kitchen, but I wasn’t all that comfortable leaving it in the room with a bunch of potheads.

  The yellow linoleum floor was coming up at the edges, peeling away from the walls. Dirty dishes and pizza boxes were piled on the countertops and the sink. It wasn’t very private, so I crossed the room and opened the sliding glass door, stepping onto a wooden deck and closing the door behind me. A weak porch light lit up a small area of the gray-weathered boards. A high ch
ain-link fence surrounded a yard that was cloaked in darkness.

  The night was cool, a breeze swaying the tops of the pine trees. I flipped open the phone, took a few deep breaths, then dialed our home number. I was hoping she wasn’t home, so I could just leave a message. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?” she said.

  She sounded worried. I swallowed hard.

  “Mom?” I said.

  “Oh God, oh God, Charlie, oh God, I’ve been worried sick—where are you?” It all came out in one breathless rush, and she was already crying. There might have been more oh Gods in there. It was hard to keep track.

  “I’m okay, Mom,” I said.

  “Oh God, are you hurt? What happened? Oh God, I’ve been worried to death. Do you need me to come pick you up?”

  “No, I’m okay, Mom. I’m fine. I just . . . wanted to tell you I was okay.”

  “Did—Did that Tucker boy beat you up? Did he force you to get into the car with him? I knew you’d never do that on your own. Where—Where are you? I’ll come get you right away. You just tell me.” She was crying so much it was hard to understand her.

  “Jake didn’t force me,” I said. “He helped me. A guy named Leo—”

  “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re safe. Where are you? Oh God, we’ll get you out of this mess. Mr. Harkin has promised not to press charges if you agree to certain things. It’ll be fine. It won’t affect your school record. He promised me.” I heard her blow her nose into a handkerchief. “Now where are you? Who’s this Bernie Melman?”

  “Who?” I said.

  “The name on the caller I.D. Who is he?”

  I felt a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t thought about caller I.D. Now she had a name. With a little bit of work, she’d find out where that name lived, and then she’d pressure good old Bernie to tell her where I went.

  It meant our whole trip was doomed from the start.

  It meant there was no reason not to have her come get me right away.

  But, strange as it was, I still wasn’t ready to go home. I had every reason to go home, but I wanted to press on more than ever. It may have started as a lark, but somewhere along the line something had changed inside me. Was still changing. I couldn’t say what exactly, but something was definitely changing, and I didn’t want it to stop. I didn’t know if I was really going to make it all the way to Denver, but I didn’t want to go back to my old life. Not yet. Not now.