Crash and Burn

by Michael Hassan

Tommy Leeds: Guitar Hero. Need I say more?

  Pat: A die-hard Patriots fan, New England above all. Not surprisingly, he is headed to Boston University.

  Then there’s the group of super-straights. They will have, like, one beer, walk around for, like, forty-five minutes, talking mostly to each other, and then they head home by themselves. Mostly guys, like Scott Ginsberg, Richie Krane, Neil Blei (the super-straight girls almost never show up to our parties).

  Madelaine Brancato: Was once everybody’s mom. Super-responsible. But of course, thanks to me, as some people say—and I’m not gonna lie, they’re probably right—now the superslut of our graduating class.

  Gerry Earnshaw: The official gay guy of our grade. There are others, but Gerry was king queen, being as we all knew he was gay from, like, the McAllister days. He is, of course, hanging with the hotgirls. He thinks that he is, in his own way, one of them.

  Which brings us to “Cheerleader City,” a cluster of the school’s hottest girls—all of whom are dating college guys. A few are there with them, and they all have Coronas with limes, like our normal cheap brew is not good enough for them. The cheerleaders never hung with any of us, as they were previously committed to the Prime Time Players, which is what the football guys have called themselves since ninth grade. Will, Terry, James, Tyler, Danny Greenberg—they’re OK, I guess. We will occasionally hang with a few of them, especially when one of us has a new supply of weed, or if we need guys for b-ball after school or in the summers.

  Then the next group, the outsiders:

  Nicole Weinstein: Pierced eyebrow. Pierced tongue. Pierced navel. Pierced eyebrow. That says more than any other piercings. Oh yeah, do I need to mention jet-black hair? She used to be the straightest kid in middle school until she started hanging with Roxanne’s friends and trying to imitate her in every way possible, but always missing the actual point about Roxanne.

  Mark Duncan: “Sandler” is what we call him, not because he looks like Adam Sandler, but because he has seen every single Sandler movie from the Airheads days on. If you name a year—say, 1999—he can tell you what Sandler movie was out (this includes all of the Rob Schneider movies, as Adam Sandler had a small part in each of them). Duncan sometimes hung with the Club Crew when we let him. Most times, he was superquiet.

  Franklin Hawkings: World of Warcraft—need I say more?

  Caitlin Lewis: Newman whispered “one word” and I got it straight out. The word was “iPod.” You never saw her without it. Even tonight, she was plugged in. She brought the iPod not only to listen to music, even though there was music playing by the pool, but because she (and many other people at school, including me) firmly believed that her iPod could predict the future. It was one of the megamemory old-fashioned iPods, like 160 gigs, and it was all LimeWired up with everything she could download.

  Sometimes at parties, when we were tripping balls, we would circle around her, and she would switch it to shuffle, and we would ask her questions, one at a time, then wait for the song to respond.

  Marisa said that she once asked it what college she would go to, and the song that came up was something by a group called Kansas. And guess what? She’s going to some school in, guess where? Kansas. OK, not conclusive in my mind, as I am usually skeptical of everything. But this thing was scary accurate, no question, better than the Magic Eight Ball.

  Also, no one will forget about the party that we had one Saturday night some weeks before 4/21 when someone (I think it was Kelly) asked about what was going on with Burnett, who had taken to showing up to school only occasionally and then always hidden under a massive hooded sweatshirt. And the song that came up was “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper. We thought it was weird enough that the selection had the word “school” in it. But then, the day after 4/21, we fucking totally knew.

  When you think about it, you have to wonder, what were the chances? Out of like twelve thousand songs. She didn’t even know she had that song. Spooky, huh?

  My own iPod Touch sucks at this. I have tried time and time again to get it to give me answers to questions with no luck at all, but I only have like 500 songs. Pete has thousands of songs on his and could do no better.

  We cross the bridge over the pool (did I mention that Kelly has an awesome house?) and get to the Herd, which is what they call themselves. The girls in the Herd mostly hang with us and include Annie Russo, Natalie, Marisa, Sarah, and of course Kelly. I look beyond them to the area around the pool house, where a bunch of people are hanging, searching for Christina.

  “Crash. Alex, what happened to you guys? You’re sooooo late.” Annie puts her arm around mine. She once gave me head when we were both drunk. Then, after, she said it was a mistake, and it would never happen again, but she always acts likes it’s a possibility for another time.

  Kelly says that her friends from camp are up for the weekend from New Jersey, and Newman is all smiles as she points them out, because he knows, like I know, that New Jersey girls are easy. Trashy, but easy.

  The drinks and the weed are definitely hitting, and I’m feeling pretty good again, because if Christina was not going to leave with me, I know it has to be a lock for some head from one of the NJ girls. After all, I’m still celeb material to them. It’s becoming clear to me that my star power is dwindling in my hometown, but it is apparently untarnished with girls everywhere else.

  That is, of course, unless they catch notice of Ruiz first. Which makes me think, Where is Christina anyways?

  And then there is Newman again, as we pass the drama group, and he whispers in my ear, “Christina Haines,” nodding that I should turn around. Then, from him: “One word.”

  I run through the possibilities in my mind and come across a few choices. “Smart.” No, not good enough. She’s more than smart—what she is, is “accomplished,” being in the National Honor Society and being part of some sort of special volunteer program and winning some kind of special town award. “Athletic.” No, not that either, although she was captain of the girls’ field hockey team, plus a scholarship swimmer, plus tennis. “Political,” because she organized the High Schoolers for Obama campaign before any of us had even heard of him, and also her work with some orphans in, like, Nicaragua or Guatemala or somewhere starting a food and clothing drive. “Talented.” She had all kinds of training, art, music, as in she played the piano and sung (sang? I forgot which word . . . ).

  “Star,” says Newman, not waiting any longer for a response from me. In addition to all the rest, she was in, like, every school production, playing mostly leads. She had done other performances, musicals, throughout Westchester. Went to summer camp for actors. Appeared in an actual off-Broadway play. Plus she was the only kid in town (other than me, of course) ever to be on television, in a sitcom that didn’t last for more than a few weeks and she didn’t have a major part. But still. Plus she has a true presence, a glow that makes her look prettier than she actually is, which isn’t to say that she isn’t hot, which she definitely is.

  So as we finally cross over to where she’s hanging with her group, I recognize that in Newman’s mind, “star” is probably as close as you can get in one word.

  “Steven. You are so late. Are you high again?” She kisses me with full-on lips against lips, glossy wet, and a taste like beer and flowers. Warm and cool at the same time. I am now fairly certain that I will not be going off with any Jersey girls tonight, even though I am also certain that Christina, like always, will tease me and not get me off. Still, maybe on this night, at this party. I am already thinking about the ways this could happen.

  “Well, are you?” And she sounds, like she always sounds, like she is on stage and reciting lines perfectly, like some character from another time.

  “Well, you are definitely wasted,” I tell her.

  “So are you.” Lots of touches with her hand, on my chest and arms. Now, in closer, so I can smell the beer and flowers again. I definitely want to experience another one of those kisses. She is, I keep telling myself, not the hott
est girl at the party. No doubt I could do better physically, get way hotter. Annie Russo, for example, is probably hotter, has a better body. I look at Annie, then back at Christina. Annie, all made up like a model. Christina, almost no makeup at all, looks like she doesn’t care how she looks. Still, Annie moves like she’s stuck up and desperate at the same time, and Christina moves like she is a dancer and music is always playing for her.

  But Annie is looking at me, like, why have I been paying so much attention to Christina this entire summer? Only a week before, Annie commented to me that me and Christina had never had anything in common, since she wasn’t a member of the Herd and since we never really spent any time together, not in McAllister (other than the one grade when she was in my class), not in middle school (except for one particular night), not in high school. And I’m not going to lie, I never thought too much about her on my own before junior year. Never paid that much attention to her, except for when she was in plays and shit and then only because of Burnett. And then, of course, there was that Massachusetts thing.

  Which was my answer to Newman, who had already dis-appeared into the crowd. I was pretty sure that he was headed in the direction of the Jersey girls.

  One word to describe Christina: “Burnett.”

  After all, David was obsessed with her ever since he saw her play Maria in the middle school production of West Side Story. Everybody knew about his obsession, because he told every person he talked to: kids, teachers, parents, Christina, Christina’s friends, the janitors, even the waitresses at Pinky’s. So this was certainly no secret.

  In fact, he once sent her a DVD of Beauty and the Beast with a note that said, “Love, the Beast.” Plus the whole “destiny” thing, like, during sophomore year, he kept telling people that they were destined to be together forever.

  So Annie had it all wrong that me and Christina had nothing in common. We were both, in our own ways, terrorized by David Burnett for a good portion of our lives.

  Now, standing there with her close up breathing into me, all I could think was that it was a good thing that Burn was safely locked away. Because if he saw me with her and the way she was looking at me, he would try to kill me all over again if he could.

  “How far did you get since last Thursday?”

  Last Thursday we were at another party, at Natalie’s house, and Christina and her drama group friends were there for a while. We got to talking, and I told her, actually lied to her then, that I was making progress with my book.

  “Doing good.” I found myself saying as little as possible to her, figuring the more I say, the less opportunity I might have to get with her.

  “Did you get to my part yet?”

  “Getting there soon,” I told her, even though I was nowhere near the point at which she first factored into the story.

  “When are you going to let me read it?”

  “Soon, I guess.” I didn’t really want her to read anything that I wrote.

  “Alex said he thought it would be a good idea if you, you know, interviewed me.”

  I knew what Newman was up to with that line. Winging for me, no doubt. I stood there for a long second (maybe like a minute) thinking, Am I actually nervous with a girl I’ve known, well kind of known, virtually my whole life? And never actually thought was all that?

  “You look hot tonight” is what I said to break the silence, which was definitely off my game, but definitely going for it. Fuck, if it didn’t work, there was always the Jersey girls.

  “So do you,” she says, and leans in and does another perfect lip-kiss, this time pressing her body against mine. Then she moves backward slowly, and I’m feeling hypnotized, dizzy. And way buzzed now.

  “Dude, Duncan brought shrooms.”

  Suddenly, Evan gets between us, like he has no clue as to what’s going on. “We’re shrooming. Are you in?” He opens his hands and shows that he already got some. “Sweeeeeeeeeeeettt,” he says, popping a bunch into his mouth and walking off.

  “I hate when he says that,” Christina whispers. So we have another thing in common.

  And then we are crowded with people around us: the Crew, the Herd, the Drama Group, even Prime Time, talking, mingling, laughing, like it was a coordinated attack to keep me and Christina apart, and it feels like I already dropped a shroom, as if somehow Burnett has orchestrated the disconnect.

  Even Evan notices. “Good thing Burn isn’t here to see you two together.”

  Richie Krane adds, “Remember, dawg, he’s not actually in prison. Just a psych ward upstate. Everyone knows he’s gonna escape one day.”

  “Plus he’s probably got his spies,” says World of Warcraft Franklin, sounding very much like he could be one of Burn’s spies. Rumor had it that Franklin had been iChatting with Burn, from wherever he was. No one wanted to ask whether it was true, probably for fear that it was.

  Tyler starts telling everyone to leave me the fuck alone about Burn, and I realize that here, in this last summer of our high school careers, everyone is hanging together because of me and because of what I managed to do on 4/21, as in save everyone’s life. That feels pretty good.

  Except, I also know that Richie Krane is right about Burn escaping.

  “Fuck Burn,” says Bobby. He has Duncan’s shroom bag and is handing out pieces all around and then yelling “Candyman,” distracting us all from thinking about Burn (except maybe not me with that reference—if he says it three times, will Burn show up?).

  Now I am faced with a dilemma, as in (1) my rep pretty much requires that I take some shrooms, since I am known not to turn down any chance to get fucked up, and (2) Christina is equally known for not getting high. Plus, she told me at the last party that she kind of resents that I do when I’m with her.

  So I’m thinking about Morpheus from The Matrix: “This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill: the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill: you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

  For me, I am wondering, which one is the red pill, Christina or the shrooms?

  I pass on the bag, not so much to impress Christina (which is partially true), but because now I am thinking about Burn escaping from wherever he is and it is freaking me a little, and the last thing you wanna do is do shrooms if you’re freaking.

  Me rejecting the bag did not go unnoticed, both by Christina (who smiled at me), and by the rest of the group, which was getting increasingly larger.

  “What’s up with that?” Bosco, on my left, takes his share, passes it back to me. I move it across to Tyler; let the Prime Timers get lit. Tyler takes this as a challenge, coming from me, with me knowing that Tyler won’t take it.

  “I will if you will,” he tells me, grabbing a few.

  Dare.

  Fuckme. Now, I am all in. I’m about to say “I will if Christina will,” but I know this is a real bad idea. I am going to just have to man up on this one. So I reach into the bag, not looking at her, and take the last few; if Tyler can handle it, no problem by me.

  We munch them down at the same time.

  Christina walks away. Or starts to, because the commotion is not done. Crazy Madelaine is pushing her way in through the crowd, looking heavier than I remembered. Coming right at me. Wobbling toward me, actually, as she was wasted, more wasted than she was ever known for being. Of course, she was not known for being wasted at all until after we went out during sophomore year, so everyone pretty much blamed me for the fact that she went from superprude to superslut, as I said before. Thing is, I did kind of like her at one point, even though I admitted it to absolutely nobody, so in my mind, blaming me seemed kind of unfair. But whatever. We had not talked at all since we stopped going out (well, since the last time we ended up going out).

  So this was not going to be good, her coming at me.

  “FUCK you, Steven Crashinsky.”

  I thought she was going to vomit on me or something. As it
turned out, I would have been better off. “FUCK you so much for ruining my life, Mr. Goddamned Hero of the School.”

  She was coming closer.

  “. . . and fuck everybody who stopped talking to me, all because you were done with me, and because you and your Crew boys are so fucking immature that you discard girls after you have sex with them.”

  OK, this actually made me feel good for a moment, because I had never publicly told anyone that I popped her cherry, which as it turned out I didn’t actually do anyways.

  “You made me drink and you made me smoke and you made me kiss girls, all because I liked you and I would have done anything you asked. So fuck you for taking advantage of that.”

  Gothy Nicole was behind her now, looking angry (and making me think about Roxanne), and also Nancy Deacon, and I wondered whether there was going to be a bitch stampede over me.

  Now Nancy: “What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Hero?”

  I did notice Christina walking away.

  What I was going to say was that I was younger then, which was true, but that didn’t matter, as the Club Crew kind of did that to girls, as did Prime Time, whenever we were done with them.

  And I’m not going to lie, I did kind of take advantage of Maddy, knowing that she liked me since, like, McAllister days. And I did go out with her just to use her, and my boys did stop talking to her after I stopped going out with her. But that’s just what we do.

  Plus it was way more complicated than that and Maddy knew it and I knew it and that was all that mattered to me. So if she really wanted to have a go at me, then there were a few things I could get into.

  Except I didn’t have to get into any of them for two reasons.

  The first reason was, her face was starting to bloat, and I could tell she was getting ready to go, so I stepped back. And she vomited at me. But not on me, because, like my namesake, the ever-ready Bandicoot, I remain quick on my feet, avoiding all obstacles and death traps.

  Which left the pool behind me, which is where she vomited.