Things Change

by Patrick Jones

  "So that's why you ran for office?" I asked.

  "Look, it was a joke. Brad put me up to it. He told me that I hadn't done anything for three years of school. No sports, no clubs, nothing; so in the yearbook there would be just my senior picture and white space. He sort of dared me. I ran against all those people who cared and I didn't, so it was too funny when I won. I ran against a stoner, a prep, and a jock; so I guess all those votes canceled each other out. I mean, the jocks hate the preps and the stoners hate everybody and everybody hates them. I'm not a part of any of those groups. I'm just a regular guy."

  "A guy who doesn't care."

  "Right, you're catching on. I got the apathy vote, so the people who don't care are my people. If I'm to represent their interests, then I have to just not care. By not caring, I am showing I care about the things they care about, or in this case, don't care about."

  I suddenly noticed my exit whiz past us at seventy-five miles per hour. "Paul, I'm sorry, but do you know where you're going?"

  "I guess I got lost." He then turned to look at me, and smiled. "Lost in conversation."

  I tried to hold it back, but the blush wouldn't be denied. If your own body won't let you keep secrets, then who can you trust? He moved his right hand, which he had been expertly hiding most of the trip, and put it down very close to the edge of my seat.

  I gently touched the top of his hand. Although the do-rag was wrapped around all of it, the damage looked the worst around the knuckles. "Are you okay?"

  "My hand? It's nothing," he said. "I had to change a tire on the Firebird and cut it up pretty bad."

  "Do you need stitches?"

  "No, I'll just buy some superglue," he said, and cranked the volume up one more notch. I sensed that Paul had heard these songs so many times they were practically part of him. "I hope it is the worst thing that happens this year. Lots of pressure in your senior year, you know?"

  "I guess," I said weakly. Although I was just a junior, I knew a little bit about pressure.

  "Did you have to read that poem 'Rime of the Ancient Mariner' in English class yet?" he said as his voice grew more serious.

  "Sure." We hadn't studied that poem in school yet, but I'd read it on my own when I got on this poetry-reading kick last summer.

  "I hated most of the stuff they make us read, but I got into that one. The whole thing about the albatross. I think that's what people's expectations are—just a big albatross hanging around your neck that you can't get rid of."

  "That's real interesting reading."

  "Hell, I don't know why I am telling you this."

  I took a deep breath. "I feel the same."

  "What? I bet you are like little Miss Responsible. You do what you should."

  "That word should is my albatross. All I ever hear from my parents is 'Johanna, you should do this.'"

  "No doubt, followed by the equally famous: 'Johanna, you shouldn't do that.'"

  "I could just scream," I said.

  "Then do it!" he said, bouncing his hand off my leg.

  "What?"

  "Look, all day, every day, we do things people tell us we should do. And we always get told at school to be quiet. I say to hell with that. Let's make some noise."

  While Springsteen wailed on in the background Paul shouted out the words and I just screamed. I was surprised we didn't blow our vocal cords out. I imagined what we must have looked like to anyone passing us on the interstate, two people screaming at the top of their lungs. They would have thought us lunatics, and they might just have been right. Somewhere in the middle of the song, screams turned to laughter. I'm not sure what we were laughing at, but it got so bad that Paul had to take an exit to get us off the interstate. At the top of the ramp, we took a second to get it together. He turned the volume down; our laughter was the only sound in the car.

  "Hey, where are we?" I asked, jolted back into reality when the car came to a stop.

  "I guess I missed the exit. I'll turn around here, or we could just keep driving. I got a full tank of gas and a lot of Springsteen songs I bet you've never heard."

  I was blushing again. "Paul, I—"

  "Look, about the other day," he said. Although hidden, yesterday had been hanging over both of us: No amount of confessing, laughing, or even screaming was taking that dark cloud away. "I'm sorry about that. Give me a chance to make it up to you. Why don't you come with me tonight to this party at Jackie's house?"

  I paused. I wanted to say yes instantly, but I was imagining the scene with my parents. Pam was always trying to get us to go to parties, but my parents kept me on a pretty tight leash.

  Paul smiled. "I was gonna take Vickie and—crap, I'm sorry, just never mind."

  He was trying to swallow the words back as he picked away at a hole in the green fatigues he was wearing, which I noticed for the first time also had some bloodstains on them. It was a mess: Everything was wrong about this. Everything was wrong in the details, but it was also exactly what I wanted. I swallowed hard, but the words came easy. "I would love to go."

  Paul took his injured right hand and put it under my chin.

  "So, Johanna, is it too late to change my answer to your ques­tion?" Paul asked as he leaned toward me and brought his lips against mine.

  EIGHT

  "You said you'd go?" Pam didn't sound happy. She was still upset with me for abandoning her at school. I can't say that I blamed her for that.

  "It was the right thing to do," I said, cradling the phone on my shoulder as I finished putting on my favorite pair of earrings. It was also my only pair of earrings, since despite my mother’s constant coaching, I was such a fashion idiot.

  "You let him put you down, then you go out with him? You reward him for making you feel bad?" Pam's interrogative style reminded me of my mother sometimes, although Mom had it down to a cold science. "Books, I don't understand you sometimes."

  "That's behind me, Pam. That was a mistake," I said in the calmest tone possible as I looked through the little bit of makeup I owned, trying to figure out how to use any of it. It wasn't something I had a lot of experience with and was yet another case where being smart didn't seem to matter. I looked in the mirror, something I rarely enjoyed doing.

  Surrounding my face in the mirror, like some sort of halo, are the report cards my parents put there: the As lined up in a perfect formation, just as expected. Everywhere I look I see some evi­dence: There is a best science project certificate from eighth grade; there is a math project award from last year. So if I am so smart, if out of the corner of my eye I can see my 4.0 from sophomore year, why can't I figure out how to apply eyeliner so I don't look like a raccoon?

  "Look, Pam, I've really got to get dressed." I had already tried on about twenty different outfits, but I looked hideous and fat in all of them. I finally decided I'd wear a simple black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I had never seen Paul wear anything but T-shirts and jeans or fatigues, so I thought it was a safe call. I'd throw on my long coat before I went downstairs so I didn't have to hear the expected criticism from my mother about my lack of fashion sense.

  "Why bother getting dressed? He's going to spend the night trying to get you undressed."

  "Pam, why do you say things like that?" I asked.

  "Johanna, why are you so naive?" Pam countered.

  I was burning now. Friends, more than enemies, really know how to wound you. "It's not like that."

  "Don't kid yourself, Books."

  "Pam, listen, please don't talk this way. I'm so sorry about today. Tomorrow we'll go to the bookstore, hang out all afternoon, just like always." Pam and I hung out at school, shared a locker, drove in together, worked on the newspaper, went to movies, IM'd, talked on the phone all the time; but our friendship centered on trips every Saturday to our local bookstore to look for new trashy reads; drink stupidly expensive, fattening beverages; and discuss our little parts of the world.

  "Fine. I'm sorry, Books. I just don't want to see you get hurt again," Pam said.


  "Look, we'll talk all about it tomorrow, okay?"

  "Okay, Books. You go have a great time, and don't do some thing that I hope to do some day." Pam laughed as she hung up the phone.

  I got up off the bed and slipped on my shoes. I couldn't catch a minute to relax, but I was used to it—being hauled every day after school to some lesson or to Girl Scouts or some other event. Constant motion was my normal state. Sometimes I think that my parents believe that if I slow down for a second, I'll stop all together. They are true believers in the laws of inertia.

  As I applied just a little bit of lipstick I had a muscle memory. As I pressed the lipstick on, my mouth could almost feel again the kisses Paul and I shared that afternoon. As I started toward the stairs I wasn't thinking about today, but what would happen tonight. Where was the crystal ball? Maybe creating one could be my entry in the district's science Olympics.

  The sound of the front-door chime never sounded so loud.

  "Jojo, get down here!" My father's unmistakable bellow roared up the stairs. Judging the level of impatience in my father's voice was an art I had been practicing since a very young age. I quickly grabbed my long coat, wrapping it tightly around me as I rushed down the stairs.

  "The young man's name again." My father rarely asked for information; it was a demand. He was a hard man to refuse: over six feet tall, with a crew cut that was just starting to show a gray touch and a pair of cold, penetrating eyes. He was, for him, in casual attire, meaning he had taken off his tie and replaced his jacket with a sweater. He believes casual-dress days at work are for losers and whiners, two groups he has little affection for in his professional or his personal life. My father isn't all macho, but he respects toughness above all else, even intelligence.

  "It's that boy Paul, isn't it, Johanna?" my mother called out. She was behind me, cigarette in hand and questions at the ready. My mother was also out of her tailored two-piece work getup; but per usual, she looked perfect in jeans and a sweater. Looking at the two of them standing there so emotionally self-confident and physically striking, it was clear to me—despite what the birth certificate, hundreds of baby photos, and the DNA proved as fact—I had to be adopted.

  "Yes," I replied. Just before I opened the door, I said a quick silent prayer that my parents wouldn't embarrass me in front of Paul.

  Just as Paul stepped inside, my father swept by me with his hand extended. "How do you do, son?"

  Paul held his right hand out, which I noticed was by now at least properly bandaged. My father didn't notice as his bear-sized mitt consumed Paul's damaged hand.

  "Sorry I'm late." Paul uttered the words pretty well considering the pain he must have been in.

  "I didn't notice you were," my father said, looking at his Rolex while releasing what was left of Paul's hand.

  "I was late getting off work at the restaurant," Paul said.

  "Where is it you work?" The first question, of course, came from my mother. I should have grabbed a chair and waited out the forthcoming nineteen inquiries. I was going to ask Paul to sit down, but it didn't look as if he had changed from work, because the jeans he was wearing were covered with grease stains. I was contemplating the size stroke my mother would have if he sat in any of the perfect chairs in any of the perfect rooms she perfectly agonized over.

  I caught the tail end of Paul's answer, and then tried to move us toward the door.

  "Did Jo tell you that her grandfather owned a restaurant in Chicago?" my father asked.

  Paul shook his head. He didn't know anything about my parents, and I hadn't told them much about Paul, other than he was a member of the student council. I neglected to mention he won on the apathy platform.

  "This was back in Chicago." My father loved to tell stories about growing up in Chicago, working in his father's kitchen by day, studying to be an engineer at night, then joining the marines before going to the University of Michigan to get his masters. These stories were always heavy on life lessons about the value of hard work, family, loyalty, and obedience. I heard these stories often. "Have you ever been to Chicago, son?"

  "No, I don't travel much, but I'm planning to go to Stanford for college next year," Paul replied. I'm glad no one was paying attention to me, because my head was exploding. I had not even walked out the door with Paul for my first of what I hoped would be many dates with him when I learned he was going away to school. This couldn't even last a year. Pam was right; I was so naive.

  "Well, that is a fine school. The school I went to in Chicago was the one they called the school of hard knocks. Heard of it?" My father loved cliches: They were simple, to the point, and easy to understand. And they didn't invite discussion.

  Paul smiled. It didn't look fake, but I didn't know his body language well enough yet. I was weighing in my mind how much of his body language I would learn about later this evening.

  "During high school, much like yourself, I had to work hard, but it toughened me. It made me a man." I knew what was coming next, and I wanted to hide. "That and the U.S. Marine Corps." My father rolled up his sleeve to reveal the marines-logo tattoo on his right arm.

  I thought my father was going to make Paul feel his arm and watch him flex his muscles. I had to end this. "Mom, Dad, we have to go now."

  "Well, you had better go then," my mother said while glancing at my father's watch. "So we will see you no later than eleven."

  "Mom, don't you think—"

  My father took a step toward me. "Your mother said eleven." He gave me a short, decisive head bob, furrowing his brow. I called this look "getting the brow beat into me."

  "I'll see you when you get home, okay, Johanna?" My mother was making sure I knew she would be there guarding the door and watching the clock. "You kids have a nice time."

  With that as our send-off, any time would be nice in comparison. As we walked outside I saw my parents standing together, like a united front. There would be no Hallmark moments taking place at my door. I would leave not knowing of their love or affection but only of how I could disappoint them by returning later than eleven.

  Paul went ahead of me and had already opened up the door to the Firebird. When I went to sit down, there was a single red rose on the seat. I picked it up by the stem, which was wrapped in tissue paper; it was so cold and so fresh.

  "Paul, this is really nice." I pressed the cold petals up against my blushing, warm face.

  "It is as beautiful as you." Paul leaned over, brushed his face up near mine, and whispered, "So, Johanna, what do you think your mother meant by a good time?"

  I just rolled my eyes and laughed as Paul peeled out of the driveway. I imagined my parents standing by the window, shaking their heads in unison, wondering where they went wrong. That thought, and the touch of Paul's hand against mine, made me smile.

  "Your parents are suits, right?"

  "Suits?" I had never heard the expression before.

  "Suits, you know, they work in an office or something."

  "My dad is a lead engineer at the Chrysler Tech Center, and my mom is a quality control manager there. So I guess you could say they're suits."

  I was lost with why he brought this up until I noticed where Paul had stopped. We were parked in front of a nondescript yellow trailer among a sea of other trailers. The kids at school who live in trailer parks are called trash bags. Whenever we drive by a trailer park, my father says, in what for him passes as a joke, that the reason tornadoes destroy trailer parks is because they have an attraction to welfare mothers, pickup trucks, and white trash. I never thought it was funny.

  "Just wait here, please. Listen to this Springsteen song while I'm gone; it's called 'Thunder Road.'" He gave my hand a little squeeze and dashed out of the car.

  I didn't know anyone who lived in a trailer. I assumed those were the boys who took shop or the girls who spent most of their days sneaking a joint. I guess I looked down on people like that because it made me feel superior. I was so wrong. I turned the volume down. My head was throbbing with tho
ughts; it didn't need a bass and drum accompaniment.

  I wasn't used to being wrong. My parents expected a lot from me, especially that I not make mistakes. I think they wanted those good grades even more than I did. They wanted me to be sensible, but when Paul touched my hand, it made me feel sexy.

  "Screw this!" I suddenly heard Paul yell as the door to the trailer slammed behind him.

  "You're not old enough to decide." I heard a woman's voice. Paul was standing on the bottom step, glaring up at the front door.

  "You're not young enough to know!" Paul shouted.

  "Why do you act this way, Paul? Why do you treat me this way?" the woman's voice shouted. I guess I should have tried not to listen, but I couldn't help myself.

  Paul stormed the three steps back up to the front door and ripped it open. I thought the door was going to go flying he jerked it with so much force. He rolled up the sleeves of his ratty black-hooded sweatshirt.

  "Do you see any needle marks? Do you?" he shouted, and thrust his arms toward the door. "I don't take drugs. I get okay grades in school. I work. So why don't you and Jesus just leave me the hell alone!" Paul slammed the door shut again and came charging out toward the car. A woman, his mother I presumed, pushed the door open and called out after him.

  "Because I love you," she yelled back at him, although there was no anger in her voice.

  Paul was looking into the car, but I don't think he saw me. I don't think he saw anything through the rage burning in his eyes. He took a deep breath and then pivoted back toward the door where his mother was standing. "Like that matters or means anything."

  I glued my eyes to the floor pretending I didn't witness any of it.

  Paul jumped in the car, slamming yet another door. Immedi- ately he put his arms around me and then kissed me. He squeezed me, held me tighter than I could ever imagine one person holding another. He took a deep breath and then spoke. "Everything is gonna be okay."

  I ran my hand along his face; his jaw was clenched tight with tension. "Are you sure?"