by Gordon Jack
“Did someone vandalize your car?” Dawn asked.
I nodded. I needed to regain the power of speech soon or risk complete social annihilation.
“A lot of people think you’re the one destroying the floats,” she said.
“But I’m not,” I choked out. “I swear.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?”
“The person who’s behind these attacks is obviously smart. And creative. And strong.”
Dawn must have registered the hurt look on my face because she added, almost as an afterthought, “And evil. I can tell you’re not evil.”
“Or smart, creative, and strong.”
“Well, you do have a reputation as kind of a burnout.”
“That’s true, I guess.” It was sad that this was the thing that exonerated me in Dawn’s eyes.
“You know, you don’t have to turn to drugs if you’re feeling depressed. I can help you.”
“Help me? How?”
“Wanna get some coffee?” Dawn asked.
I was too shocked to speak, so I simply nodded again. Dawn motioned for me to follow her to her car, a gleaming red Mercedes convertible. How was this happening? I asked myself as I opened the passenger door. Minutes ago I was getting bullied by a couple of ninth graders and now I was about to go for a ride with the most popular girl on campus. Life could be a fairy tale, just like our homecoming theme promised.
“You work for the animal shelter?” I asked, picking up a stack of pet adoption flyers from the floor.
“Just part time,” she said. “My mom demanded I cut back my hours because I brought home a stray after every shift. You should see our house. It’s like a zoo.”
“I love animals,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. Really, domesticated animals kind of annoyed me. And don’t get me started on chickens.
“I’ve got the cutest dog for you. His name’s Waffles and he needs a good home. Pets can really help if you’re feeling depressed.”
“I’m not feeling depressed.”
“Oh. Sorry. I just thought, you know, with the drugs and all.”
We buckled up and drove out of the student parking lot. I only wished there were more people milling about to see me with Dawn Bronson. People might be less suspicious of me if they saw me in the company of the senior class president/cheerleading captain/future benevolent overlord. Maybe I’d get lucky and Michelle Sharkley would see us at Starbucks and broadcast our coffee connection to the entire student body through her blog, I’m Just Sayin’.
We drove to the nearest Starbucks. On our way I texted Eddie and told him to be at the student parking lot at the end of lunch. I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but somehow I was going to prep Dawn for his homecoming proposal. At the very least, I could find out if she was already planning on going with Jerry and save him from any potential humiliation.
After getting our respective drinks (for Dawn, a vanilla latte; for me, a mocha Frappuccino), I directed us toward one of the more visible tables in the store. This place got a lot of traffic at lunch and I wanted as many people as possible to see me with the most popular girl on campus.
Dawn spent most of the time counseling me on alternatives to drugs and alcohol. I didn’t tell her I’d been sober for nearly a month for fear that she would lose interest in me and cut our meeting short. Instead, I nodded through her lectures on the healing power of exercise (“It’s all about the endorphins!”), the benefits of a regular sleep pattern (“Science has shown that teens need at least nine hours a night!”), and how to make avocado brownies (“Loaded with antioxidants!”). Maybe this was how she made such a speedy recovery from the pyramid fall at the game. Either that or she was a robot. But a robot’s skin wouldn’t be so tan and smooth and soft, unless scientists have gotten really good at disguising their robots.
On the way back to school, I tried to work our conversation around to her plans for the homecoming dance.
“So, you looking forward to Friday?” I asked.
“The game? Heck yeah. We’re totally going to KICK BUTT.” The caffeine and sugar had amped up Dawn’s natural enthusiasm for all things school spirited.
“And the dance?”
“It’s going to be AWESOME. The decorations are AMAZING. You’re going, right?”
“I think so.”
“You have to go! It’s HOMECOMING.”
“Who are you going with?”
“Oh, other people on the homecoming court. It’s kind of a requirement. We’re renting a limo.”
Before I could press her for details, we pulled into the student lot. Dawn parked her car near the football field and grabbed her backpack from the backseat. I scanned the lot for Eddie and found him waiting at the entrance to the main quad. I steered Dawn in that direction, trying my best to casually interrogate her.
“Is Jerry going with you?”
“He’s supposed to, but he’s being weird about the whole thing. He says it will depend how he feels after the game. I think he’s taking this losing season pretty hard.”
“But if he wins homecoming king?”
“Well, then he’ll have to go.”
“Hey, look. There’s Eddie,” I said, pointing.
Eddie stood with his hands dangling at his sides, staring at us like Dawn and I had switched heads or something. Clearly he was stumped trying to figure out what bend in the space-time continuum had brought us together. I waved to him but his body seemed to have entered a state of rigor mortis.
“Hey, Eddie,” I said, hoping to snap him back to reality. “I was just talking with Dawn about her plans for homecoming.”
“You going, Eddie?” Dawn asked.
Eddie stared at Dawn like a heavily sedated kid in front of a giant TV screen.
“Eddie’s weighing his options,” I answered for him.
“Ooh,” Dawn cooed. “Got a lot of dates lined up?” She nudged him in the shoulder and sent him wobbling like a toy punching bag.
I waited for Eddie to respond, but apparently he had lost the ability to speak or manage his saliva production.
“Dawn’s going with other court members,” I said. “With or without Jerry.”
I intended this information to kick-start Eddie’s brain functions, but he only responded by burping out something that sounded like “chowder.” We both waited for him to clarify, but he showed no compulsion to elaborate.
“Anyway,” Dawn said, turning to me. “I’m having some friends over to my house tonight to play some board games. Wanna come?”
“Sure,” I said. “Sounds fun.”
“You can come too if you want, Eddie.”
Eddie had now completed his zombie transition and moaned something neither of us could understand.
“Okay, some other time then,” Dawn said. “See you at my house at seven.” She bounced off to class, leaving me alone with the walking dead.
“What’s the matter with you?” I said, shaking my friend. “That was your big opportunity.”
“You heard her,” Eddie said, scowling. “Dawn didn’t want me there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“After she invited me. I said I’d love to come and did she want me to bring a snack, like my famous avocado brownies. They’re loaded with antioxidants.”
“When did you say all that?”
“What are you talking about? You were standing right next to me.”
I was beginning to think that my friend experienced reality a little differently from the rest of us. Maybe it was a coping mechanism he had developed to help him deal with three years of embarrassing conversations with the girl of his dreams, although if that were the case, I didn’t understand why he didn’t just imagine Dawn agreeing to marry him. I mean, if you’re going to break from reality, why not go all the way, right? In his imagined scenario, he still got dissed, which didn’t say much for his subconscious self-esteem.
“And then she says, ‘some other time then.’ It’s clear she
wants you all to herself.”
“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll make sure to talk you up tonight. She should be primed and ready for you to ask her out tomorrow.” Of course, all this depended on Eddie regaining the power of speech.
“Thanks, Lawrence,” Eddie said, slumping toward class. “You’re a good friend.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Many tribes initiate their young into adulthood through formal rites of passage. The Jews have their bar mitzvahs. The Mexicans have their quinceañeras. The Bushmen of Africa do something with face painting and circumcision. We don’t have any such formal ceremonies in white suburban culture. Where I come from, all you get is a warning—“You’re eighteen years old now and can be formally charged as an adult.”
Being invited to the Bronson estate was about as close as I was going to get to becoming a respected member of my community. Those who enter the hallowed grounds (mostly honor roll students and debutantes) are said to be forever changed by the experience. Dawn is one of the most respected and admired students at Meridian; the fact that she invited me to her little get-together proved that I made the right decision to lead a more moderate lifestyle.
When I texted my father the news of my invitation, he called me right away. I’d never heard him sound so happy. He’s idolized Dawn’s father ever since he managed to quad-ruple his family’s already significant fortune through savvy investing in high-tech start-ups. You know that device that allows your refrigerator to order groceries at the supermarket? He made that happen.
“That’s great news, son,” Dad said. “Go to Nordstrom and find something nice to wear.”
“I was going to wear the clothes you got me for Christmas,” I said. Dad had bought me a bunch of golfing attire, hoping the outfits might inspire me to take up the game. They didn’t.
“You sure this event is casual?”
“It’s not an event, Dad. It’s a get-together. It’s going to be small. Dawn mentioned something about board games.”
“Do you know which ones?”
“She didn’t say.”
“That’s too bad. I hope it’s not something over your head.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m just saying. I can see the Bronsons playing baccarat or mah-jongg or some shit like that.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“If you can, ask her father about possible summer internships,” Dad suggested.
“I will. Gotta go now.”
“I’m proud of you, son,” Dad said. I waited for him to ruin the moment. It only took him three seconds. “Don’t blow this,” he said, and hung up.
Estrella was in Los Angeles visiting relatives so I had to dress myself. I picked out the clothes that came closest to my understanding of church attire and ironed them even though they had never been worn. I polished my one pair of dress shoes and refamiliarized myself with how belts worked. After getting dressed and gelling my hair flat, I looked at myself in the mirror. I had transformed into Spencer. Without realizing it, I had channeled his look. For the first time, I wondered if my mentee might have his shit together more than me.
I could feel my anxiety increase with every passing minute. I might look like Spencer, but I couldn’t act like him. What if all Dawn’s friends wanted to talk about sports and software and stock options (oh my!). I couldn’t fake an interest in those things. What did that leave me with? I knew Dawn loved religion and animals. Maybe I should have a couple of Bible verses ready to quote. I could also ask Dawn to show me her petting zoo, as long as she didn’t have any chickens. Those things are evil.
If only this was a house party. At least then I’d know what to expect. You enter the parent-less home, grab a Solo cup, and crowd in with the other teenagers seeking social confidence from the keg. But this was something completely different.
I might have to get high.
I hated to break my sobriety streak, but I didn’t see any other way I could manage. Without pot, I wouldn’t be as funny or interesting or attractive to these people, most of whom probably went to Saint Anthony’s private school and only stepped on our campus to do community service.
I dug out the joint from my origami shoebox, tucked it in my pocket, and headed toward the door. Just as I was about to step outside, I got a FaceTime request from Mom. Against my better judgment, I accepted the call.
“We’ve never talked about masturbation,” Mom said as a way of greeting.
“Excuse me?”
“We should talk about it,” Mom said. “Lucy and Dashiel do.”
“Mom, I don’t have time for this right now. I’ve been invited to a get-together at the Bronsons’ and I’m hella nervous.”
“What do you have to be nervous about?”
“I don’t know them very well. I just don’t want to screw things up.”
“Just be yourself, honey. You’ll be fine.”
I hung up and got in my car. Be myself? That was the worst advice ever. I had to be like Dad if I wanted these people to accept me, just like I had to be like Alex to have Adam, Will, and the two Nates accept me. The only time I was myself was when I was with Spencer and Audrey and Eddie. I didn’t have to impress them. They accepted me for who I was. Or, they were so unpopular their opinion didn’t really matter. I hoped it was the former.
I debated lighting up on my way to Dawn’s place, but decided against it when the road started taking the kinds of twists and turns you see in a Mario Kart game. The überrich in my area purposefully build their estates on circuitous lanes in the hills so no one can find and rob them. The streetlights are dim and barely illuminate the signs, which are often nonexistent. I swear, at one point my GPS voice sighed in frustration at my ninth wrong turn.
Eventually I found the place. Her house sat at the end of a two-mile drive that took me past horse stables, an orange grove, and something that looked like an oil rig. I parked my car next to the other BMWs and Mercedes and held the joint to my lips. As much as I’d enjoy smoking on this warm fall evening, I hated to break my one-month sobriety streak. I hadn’t gone this long without inhaling since freshman year, and I was finally feeling quasi-good about myself. It wasn’t just that my body was rid of toxins (although it was nice to no longer be smelling like sweaty cheese and hocking malt-ball-size loogies), I had never resisted temptation for this long. Before this month, delayed gratification meant not getting high until lunch. Now I was living for the future, instead of the present, and it felt great. Maybe there was a little of Odysseus in me after all.
Besides, it would be rude to get high after Dawn treated me to an hour of free drug counseling at Starbucks. No, I could do this. I was smart, funny, and interesting. Spencer was right. I didn’t need to lie or get high to make people like me. I pocketed the joint and walked up to Dawn’s house.
In a normal house, finding the front door is as easy as following a brick or stone path through a lawn to a doorway lit by a porch light. At Dawn’s house, however, there were five gravel paths that led from her parking lot without any signage or lighting. Even with her three-story mansion looming in front of me, it was hard to tell which of the walkways led to the front and which led to various back doors and servant entrances on the estate. One of them was probably designed to help their rescue dogs find their condos in the back.
I took off down the widest path, which snaked through pink lilies and lavender bushes, their aroma so sweet I wanted to pinch the buds off, pop them into my mouth, and chew them like candy (I wasn’t stoned, I swear, just hungry). Halfway down the path, I realized I was headed toward the backyard instead of the front door. Just before turning back, I heard what sounded like scissors cutting through tinfoil. I spun around and immediately froze. A trio of chickens were standing behind me, their tiny heads twitching in silent communication. They ran their long talons against the gravel, sharpening their claws against the stones. All three fluffed their feathers, readying for a fight. It took every ounce of courage I had not to lay down and die. Instead, I just backed away slowly, never lett
ing them out of my sight.
I should probably explain why I hate chickens so much. It’s because they’re creepy. If you’ve ever seen one that’s not plucked and wrapped in cellophane, they have the twitchy aggressiveness we’ve come to associate with meth addicts. Who knows, maybe they’re pissed that we grind them into McNuggets. I totally get that. But being justifiably insane doesn’t make you any less dangerous. When I was a kid, one attacked me in a petting zoo after I was coaxed into feeding it a blueberry. Since then, I’ve come to believe that all chickens are out to kill me. I see them communicate this directive to each other through a Morse code of clucking, pecking, and scratching. The three standing before me now were just the latest soldiers sent to do me in.
The chickens saw me backing away and charged. Another thing that freaks me out about chickens is how fast they are. Chubby birds with skinny legs should not be able to stand on their own, let alone scuttle about the ground like crabs that have been tarred and feathered. These chickens launched both a ground and air offensive, pecking at my feet and launching themselves into the air to dive-bomb my head. I screamed in agony and ran blindly down the path, hoping to run into a pack of wolves roaming the Bronson estate.
What I ran into was a two-story-tall tower. The structure looked like it was made out of cut stone, but what I felt when I collided into it was wooden beams and tarp. I bounced off the wall and fell to the ground. Instinctively, I covered my face with my arms and screamed for someone to help me.
“Lawrence?” Dawn said. “Is that you?”
I looked up and saw Dawn standing a few feet away from me. She seemed unsure about approaching, probably because of the man-eating chickens. When I looked around, I didn’t see any sign of the fowl creatures (pun definitely intended). They had obviously called off their attack upon seeing Dawn. They were smart, those chickens. They weren’t about to risk alienating their food source by tearing me to shreds in front of her. This battle could be continued later.
