The Boomerang Effect

by Gordon Jack

  “Hi, Dawn,” I said, trying to recover.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Your chickens . . .” I was about to explain how they’d attacked me, but I’ve learned that people always blame the victim when I tell them of the chickens’ assassination plot, so instead I just said, “I’m allergic.”

  “Oh gosh,” she said, now rushing to my aid. “I’m so sorry.”

  I couldn’t say for sure, but I swear I heard clucking laughter coming from behind the castle tower.

  “Let’s get you inside and cleaned up,” Dawn said, lifting me up and letting me use her as a soft, sweet-smelling crutch. I exaggerated my injury and leaned into her body, inhaling her perfume, which was like a mixture of fresh strawberries and caramel-coated popcorn.

  “Is that your doll house?” I said, pointing back to the castle I had run into. The lighted pool it sat before looked like the cleanest, most inviting moat I had ever seen.

  “No, silly, that’s our float,” Dawn said. “We’re doing Rapunzel. The homecoming queen will stand on the tower and the king will be below.”

  “Aren’t you worried about it being attacked?” I asked, looking around but not seeing any security, unless that’s what the chickens were for.

  “I invited you here, didn’t I?” Dawn said, smiling. “C’mon, let’s go inside. Everyone’s already here.”

  We walked through her backyard toward the house. Dawn showed me her dad’s helicopter pad and her mom’s Richard Serra sculpture. Strolling with Dawn through her estate, I came up with a theory about why her family was so religious: they had to have someone to thank for the untold riches generations of Bronsons had acquired. It must be easier to think that some deity had bestowed these blessings on them for their goodness rather than contemplate all the people they had to step on to reach these heights in the hills.

  We entered the house through the kitchen. Dawn introduced me to Lupe and Esperanza, the family’s cooks, who were seated at the table, enjoying a heaping bowl of pasta. “We’re all vegetarians in the house,” Dawn explained. “When you raise animals, it makes it impossible to eat them.”

  I could eat them, I thought. After this party, I’m heading straight to KFC and saluting the Colonel.

  We walked upstairs to what Dawn called the game room and what I called the happiest place on earth. The open space between hallways was designed around a ginormous flat-screen TV with every game console you could imagine. The bookcases surrounding the media center were filled with thousands of DVDs and game boxes. There were comfy couches loaded with giant pillows, which seemed a little redundant to me. In one corner of the room, there was a bar with a soda machine and popcorn maker. To my right, double doors led out to a small balcony within jumping distance of the backyard pool.

  The intensity of love I felt for this place quickly vanished when I saw who was sitting around the coffee table. This was not the crowd I was expecting. Rather than resembling the von Trapps, all healthy and singsongy from years of cycling through the Austrian countryside, the people sitting around the open box of Scattergories looked like the rejects from a Glee casting call. There was a heavily made-up boy, a Latina with a neck tattoo, an emaciated Asian girl, and some twitchy dude missing an eyebrow.

  “Everyone, this is Lawrence,” Dawn said. “Lawrence, this is Dijon, Angela, Jin Jin, and Austin.”

  “You can call me Scabby,” the boy with the missing eyebrow said.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Austin, we talked about this, remember?” Dawn said. “Use your Christian name.”

  “But I’m not Christian,” Scabby said.

  “You know what I mean,” Dawn said. “C’mon, let’s play.”

  In all my years of being a fuckup, this was easily the dumbest I’ve ever felt. I wasn’t being ushered into Dawn’s social circle. I was just another one of the misfit toys Dawn wanted to convert. I was nothing to her except a project, someone to mold and shape into a good Christian. I wanted to weep, but that would only make matters worse. At the first opportunity, I was sneaking away and smoking the joint in my pocket down to its nub.

  I fell into the space saved for me between Jin Jin and Scabby and stared at my Scattergories answer sheet. If the first letter we rolled was F, this piece of paper was going to look like the lyric sheet from a Geto Boys song.

  When you play Scattergories with people from different worlds, you quickly realize how little you know about other cultures and lifestyles. We spent most of the game arguing and looking things up on Wikipedia to confirm that people weren’t making shit up. Dijon knew a surprising number of Cuban singers, and Angela must be a budding geologist for all the stones and gems she could rattle off. Dawn used the game to preach scripture to us whenever she had the opportunity. At one point, we rolled a B and the category was “Things found in a purse,” and Dawn wrote “Bible verses.” When we challenged her, she actually pulled out a notepad from her purse, flipped open a page “at random” and read, “‘Let us behave properly as in the day, not in carousing and drunkenness, not in sexual promiscuity and sensuality,’ Romans 13:13.”

  “Why’d you write that verse down?” Dijon asked. “You need the reminder?”

  “I have a whole bunch written here,” Dawn said, ignoring the question. “Want to hear more?”

  The collective answer to this was “No fucking way,” but Dawn still worked in more scripture whenever she had the opportunity. For “U.S. cities” she chose “Saint Paul” and then read to us from the New Testament. For “Things at a football game” she wrote “prayer” and then praised Tim Tebow for sharing his faith with his fans. For “Things you throw away” she wrote “soul,” and then read us a verse from James 1:21 that said “Wherefore lay apart all filthiness and superfluity of naughtiness, and receive with meekness the engrafted word, which is able to save your souls.” At this point Dijon started fighting back by naming different (and I think largely made up) sexual positions whenever he got the opportunity.

  It was during Dijon’s rather detailed description of a Dooly Spring (trust me, you don’t want to know, especially if you’re a dog lover) that I excused myself to go to the bathroom so that I could get high. As I made my way toward the nearest Bronson lavatory, I happened to pass the double doors leading out to the balcony. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something moving around in the backyard near the Rapunzel float structure. I moved closer to the window, thinking it might be one of Dawn’s architects making some modification to the castle. What I saw next chilled me to the bone. There, down on Dawn’s lawn, was our Viking mascot.

  I shook my head to clear it of any possible hallucinogenic visions. Maybe this was like those times I thought the squirrels were talking to me. Could I be experiencing some weird kind of contact high just by having a joint in my pocket?

  The Viking parried and thrust like an expert swordsman. Or swordswoman.

  “Audrey?” I yelled down. “Is that you?”

  The Viking stopped performing, waved to me, and then removed a can of hairspray and a cigarette lighter from a shoulder bag on the lawn. “Oh my God,” I gasped, just as a streak of fire blazed from the can and licked the edges of Rapunzel’s braid. Audrey was going to torch the senior float. I had to stop her before she lit the thing on fire and I got blamed once again for being near the crime scene. I threw open the doors, stepped out on the balcony, and screamed, “Diablerie!”

  The Viking looked up at me and smiled. I know that’s impossible given that the Viking head is made out of polyfoam, but I swear, the mask smirked and shot a line of yellow fire right at me.

  “Release the hounds!” I screamed.

  That seemed to freak the Nordic prankster out a bit. The Viking looked around and then darted for cover behind the castle.

  Just then, Dawn and the others ran out to the balcony to see what all the commotion was about. “What’s going on?” Dawn asked.

  “The Viking,” I said, pointing down to the float. “He’s going to set the braid on fi
re.”

  We waited for the Viking to reappear, but nothing happened. “He’s hiding behind the float,” I said. “Let’s go get him.” I was being extra careful with my pronoun use in case Audrey wasn’t hiding behind the mask. I had been wrong about Zoe, after all, and didn’t want to accuse a girl I actually liked unless I was 100 percent positive.

  I dragged the others downstairs and into the backyard. We were a motley crew, but I felt confident we could take on Thor with his blowtorch if we had to. Angela was tough, and who knew what would happen if we unleashed Scabby on our foe. I ran to where I saw the mascot hide but there was no one there. I circled the structure yelling, “Come out, you spongy onion-eyed popinjay!” Those Shakespearian insults just fly out of you while pursuing Viking trespassers.

  Of course, Dawn and her crew looked at me as if I were some lunatic. “I swear. He was right here,” I said. “He was going to destroy the float.”

  “I’m outta here,” Dijon said.

  “Yo también,” Angela seconded.

  “Drop City!” Scabby thirded.

  Dawn approached and stood before me with her arms crossed. “Maybe it’s time for you to go too, Lawrence. Give me your keys.”

  “What?” I didn’t understand. These two requests seemed at odds with each other.

  “I’m not letting you drive in your condition. You’re obviously stoned and hallucinating. Are you even allergic to chickens?”

  “Yes, I . . .”

  “Give me your keys.”

  I dug in my pockets and pulled out my keys. In doing so, I also pulled out the joint, which landed on the ground in front of us.

  “Really, Lawrence? You have to get high to play a board game? That’s pathetic.”

  “But I didn’t smoke it,” I said, picking up the joint. “See? It’s still intact.”

  “Whatever,” Dawn said, snatching my keys out of my hand. “I’m done. Jin Jin, can you give Lawrence a ride home?”

  “But my car . . .”

  “You can come back for it tomorrow. When you’re sober.”

  “But I am sober.”

  “Goodnight, Lawrence.”

  Jin Jin turned out to be a kind, sympathetic chauffeur. “I believe you,” she said just before dropping me off. “What you saw was an oni.”

  “A what?”

  “Oni. A demon with horns. They visit me too. Just before I go to the hospital.”

  It wasn’t an oni. It was the boomerang effect. Dawn’s attempt to make me a better person only made me want to get wasted. I was going inside and getting high. Nothing was going to stop me now.

  Except my dad, who was waiting for me at the door, shaking his head.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Where’s your car, Lawrence?” Dad asked.

  “I left it at Dawn’s.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Think fast, Lawrence. Think fast. “Uh . . .”

  “Christ, Lawrence. What did you do?”

  “Why do you have to go there, Dad?”

  “Because it’s a familiar road, son.” My dad sighed. “Why is your car at the Bronsons’?”

  “Dawn didn’t want me driving home.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I got a little lost on my way up, maybe she was worried with it being dark and all . . .”

  Dad glared at me.

  “Are you drunk?” he asked.

  “What? No!”

  “High?”

  “You want me to do a sobriety test?” I said. I closed my eyes and put my finger to my nose.

  “Recite the alphabet backward,” Dad said.

  “Z, Y, X, uh . . . V? Dad, I’m tired, not wasted. I’ll pick up my car tomorrow.”

  “We’re getting your car now,” he said, reaching into his front pocket and pulling out his car keys. “I want to find out what happened.”

  There was no point arguing with Dad when he had made up his mind about something. My only hope was that I could convince him I was sober on the drive up to the Bronsons’. I started by telling him everything I’d learned about Cuban jazz singers from Dijon.

  “Who was at this party, exactly?” Dad asked as we snaked our way up to Shangri La.

  “Just some of Dawn’s friends.”

  “Dawn’s friends with someone named Dijon?”

  “What’s so weird about that?”

  Dad shrugged.

  “You know, your prejudices against people who are different are a bit antiquated.” Boom! If that sentence didn’t convince Dad I was sober, nothing would. He was silent for the rest of the trip, which I considered a major victory.

  Dad turned up the Bronsons’ long, private road just as Eddie texted me asking how the night went. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d blown it once again, so I put my phone away and rubbed my forehead, feeling for the word RESOL still imprinted on my skin.

  We reached their circular driveway and parked next to my waiting vehicle.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said, opening the door. “I got it from here.”

  My dad got out of the car and joined me on the driveway.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said. “I want to know what happened.”

  I approached the front door feeling like a prisoner being escorted to his execution. Hopefully, Dawn would be asleep and I could get my keys from one of the housekeepers. I rang the doorbell and waited.

  A tanned blond woman in her twenties answered the door. She was dressed in a tight-fitting crew-neck T-shirt and black sweatpants. Was this Dawn’s older sister or some second wife Mr. Bronson kept hidden from view? I introduced myself and saw the woman’s gracious host mask slip off. “Dawn!” she yelled, her words echoing in the cavernous house. “That guy’s here for his keys.” She quickly vanished behind the door without saying anything. I glanced over at my dad, who seemed to be standing before a judge who had just ruled against him.

  A few seconds later, Dawn appeared. When she saw my dad she jumped back a bit and dialed her expression down from pissed to annoyed.

  “Hi, Dawn,” I said. “Sorry to bother you so late, but my dad wanted me to get my car.”

  “Miss Bronson,” my dad said, extending a hand. “I’m Lawrence’s father. I apologize if my son behaved inappropriately at your get-together.”

  Dawn stood there with her arms folded. She didn’t appear ready to turn the other cheek. I racked my brain for something biblical to say but all I could come up with were the opening lines of The Odyssey. “The recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all,” I whispered.

  “Excuse me?” Dawn said.

  “Nothing.”

  Dawn seemed to finally register the trouble I was in and softened a bit. She held out my car keys like they were some leprous body part that had fallen off me, and spoke to my dad. “I just wanted him to get home safely.”

  “I appreciate that,” Dad said. “You’re obviously a good person.”

  Dawn smiled, accepting the compliment. “You know, most twelve-step programs recommend submitting yourself to a higher power,” she said. “I wanted Lawrence to know that he wasn’t alone.”

  “We’ll make sure Lawrence gets the help he needs,” Dad said, tightening his grip on the back of my neck. We said our good-byes and he escorted me back to the car. Dad wouldn’t scream at me as long as we were on the Bronson estate. Maybe I could set up camp somewhere near the fountain at the center of the Bronson circular driveway. Dawn and her family might take pity on me and offer me a home like the animals from the shelter.

  “Dad,” I said when we reached my car. “I’m not wasted. You can see that, right?”

  “Of course I see that,” he said. “I wouldn’t bring you up here to get your car if I thought you couldn’t drive it home.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Dad was on my side after all.

  “What I don’t understand,” he said. “Is why Dawn thinks you’re wasted. You obviously did something to disturb her.”<
br />
  “It was the Viking,” I began.

  “Lawrence, I’m tired and I want to go to sleep. I told you a recommendation from Dawn’s dad could open a lot of doors and you messed everything up. I don’t understand how this happened. Frankly, it would make more sense if you were wasted. The fact that you’re sober makes me think there really is something wrong with you.”

  Dad got in his car and disappeared into the night, leaving me alone by the gurgling fountain. I stared up at the night sky, so clear from on high, and cursed the gods for making me so weak and pathetic.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Without Estrella home to wake me, I overslept again and missed another morning meeting with Spencer. When I stumbled down to the kitchen, I found a note from Dad on the counter. Call Mom was all it said. He had obviously left early to avoid seeing me, his defective son. I ate a bowl of cereal and got dressed for school. Before leaving, I called Mom on the phone rather than use FaceTime. I had the feeling this conversation would be better without the visual.

  Despite her being three hours ahead, Mom sounded as groggy and tired as me. She listened to my explanation of what had happened, occasionally sighing in either exhaustion or disbelief. When I finished, she stayed quiet and serious, then said, “Your dad and I think it’s best if we enroll you in Langdon Military Academy.”

  “Mom, please,” I said.

  “You need discipline, Lawrence. Structure. You’re obviously not getting it with us. Maybe you’ll get it from Langdon.”

  “I’m—” I didn’t know what to say. I hung up the phone.

  My body started shaking and I couldn’t catch my breath. I’d never had a panic attack before but I recognized the signs from repeated viewings of The Sopranos. This was really happening. I was going to North Dakota. Say good-bye to rolling hills, bike lanes, and gourmet coffee. Say hello to a dull gray landscape broken only by trailer parks and mini malls. There would be bunk beds, twelve of us sleeping in a giant, unheated room with only a thin cotton blanket to keep us warm. Hazing rituals in which I’d be stripped naked and forced into a crowded pigpen. A drill sergeant forever yelling in my right ear. None of these images were in the school’s brochure, of course. Somehow, my imagination had conjured life at Langdon as a montage of scenes from movies about basic training, the Holocaust, and nuclear winter.