the hero?
I guess.
me and my friend Jodi want to meet you
She gives me Jodi’s full name and I friend her, and Jodi is mad hot. And also in like every picture she’s holding a drink.
where?
How’s the Westchester?
Which is a humongous mall not too far from my house. Not ideal for an immediate hookup, but being as I didn’t want to take a chance of scaring them off, I figured it would be as good a place as any to start off with.
brb
I am on the phone immediately, calling Newman, who I know is at work but will bail as I soon as he hears the news. He has been looking to ditch work and hang out because we hadn’t seen each other since the night at Kelly’s, who got into deep shit resulting from Maddy vomiting in her pool.
To my surprise, pretty much no one blamed me for what happened. No one except maybe Christina, who I didn’t hear a word from even though I texted her like five times. Also, I expected that I would see her pop up on my Facebook wall or at least IM me a few times when I was on as we usually did every day, but that wasn’t happening. And being as it wasn’t, I had to guess that she was pretty much a blown opportunity. I didn’t feel all that good about it, given our history, but hey, I tried my best, and it was still summer and the Westchester girls would definitely make me forget about screwing it up with Christina. Plus, there were bound to be other parties; she would be there and I would approach her then and try to fix things. I’m much better in person anyways.
Also, as I said, the kids in my neighborhood were starting to take the hero thing for granted, so it was good to have someone remember in a good way.
Only Newman wasn’t answering his cell. I might need backup. Back to Nadine:
how many friends can you bring?
just me and Jodi
I look through her Facebook photos. Like three hundred. I come across a picture of two girls kissing as I scroll through her pics. I flash my mouse control over the picture and the tagged names pop up.
What about Claudia?
u no Claudia?
saw her tagged in your pics
Claudia is oh so wacky
is that bad?
I mean, wacked out.
That seems like a plus to me.
So?
So I’ll call her.
And we set it for six P.M., which gives me like six hours to get some of my boys together and figure out the plan.
Then I get an unexpected call.
It’s Jacob, and he wants me to drive into the city with Jamie because he is supposed to spend time with her, and I tell him I’m busy, which does not go over well. But truth is I don’t care. I tell him I’m writing, and to take it up with my agent, knowing that Sally will tell him that she actually got a bunch of chapters from me by email, thinking that should quiet him down. So I hang up quickly. I don’t want him to know I’m taking the day off.
Then he calls me again, this time using the more father-stern voice to tell me that it wasn’t a request, it was a requirement. And if I want my weekly money (which he puts onto my card from his online account), then I better take a break and drive my sister. And I ask him, does he want me to stop, knowing that the book is due soon? And he says cut the crap, Steven, you can take a few hours off. And I tell him, no, I can’t, I’m, like, in the middle of an important part. I hang up again, knowing that he doesn’t believe me one bit. And knowing that we are not done and that he will be calling again.
And sure enough, the phone rings, only this time, it’s Newman. He got my message about the girls from White Plains and will most definitely bail on work, so we are most definitely on. We talk over the list of candidates, as in which of the Club Crew should join us. We both agree that Pete has to come if he is around, as Pete has had virtually no hookups this summer and is counting on me to provide, based on my hero status, and has been severely disappointed in me as I have been focusing all my attention on Christina. Plus, Pete, better than Evan or Bobby, can wing for us, not that I need it with new girls. And besides I have my Beamer.
Except, as Newman reminds me, this is Westchester; virtually everyone’s got a BMW in Westchester.
So I’m IMing back to this girl, “six is good,” but my cell phone buzzes, another call and, thinking it’s my dad, I ignore. And then the home phone rings. I know this trick all too well.
I am not caring; I am not going to the city.
And Jamie comes in. “It’s for you,” she says as I wave her off. “It’s Felicia.”
Felicia, it turns out, is . . . she’s the only reason that me and Jacob are still talking at all, and since Jacob is now my business manager (did I have a choice?) and investment adviser (again, what choice?), as well as being my dad (again, no choice), I do have to deal with him. And since neither of us can deal and since we both love Felicia, whenever it breaks down between us, it’s Felicia to the rescue.
I take the phone.
“Cresh,” she says (I told her from the beginning that my friends called me that, well not exactly that, but “Crash,” and being as she wanted an informal relationship with me, she had to call me that too). “Cresh, I fookedup.”
In the five years since that Thanksgiving dinner, her accent hasn’t really changed. Everything else, however, is a different story.
Brief history: There was a lot more yelling between my parents in the days after Thanksgiving. Between the holidays that year, you did not want to be at my house at all, trust me on this. Then, around Hanukkah/Christmas, there was this family discussion, all of us sitting in the dining room (ironically, the scene of the original crime) with my father telling us, “You should know your parents still love each other, but neither of us is happy anymore, and happiness is very important, more important than living together and fighting all the time” (which wasn’t actually the case, since they hardly talked). Then my mom, “Your father will be taking an apartment in Manhattan.”
And the three of us said nothing.
I expected Jamie to cry, but she just stared beyond them, like there was an invisible TV on the opposite wall.
I expected Lindsey to ask all kinds of questions, which she didn’t, so I figure she must have been briefed before the official family meeting.
As for me, it seemed like a good thing. I only had one question and couldn’t just ask it, but I also couldn’t not ask it, so I tried to be patient. I was more than patient ever since my father told me he was going to send me away, and so I had to know: What about boarding school?
Actually I had another equally pressing question: How did Burn figure out about my dad and the Woman?
The first question was answered right after the family meeting, when my father put his hand on my shoulder and walked me into the living room.
As to the second question, it turns out that Burn may not have been as perceptive as I gave him credit for, because I later found out that my mom had been confiding to his mom that things were bad, that she never believed that his increasingly late hours at work were completely work related. Plus she apparently had caught him cheating before, which she apparently forgave on a one-time basis only. So my guess is that Burn must have overheard his mom talking to my mom and figured that if a woman like Felicia was offering, then no way could a man like Jack Crashinsky resist, especially given his prior misconduct.
In the weeks after Christmas, in one of his random IM updates from boarding school, Burn told me as much, as in, according to his mom, no way was Caroline Crashinsky out to forgive and forget again, not this time, not with things being as bad as they were, not with my father making it intolerable to live in the same house.
But, oh yeah, back to question one and the father-son chat in the living room, away from the other family members, with him telling me that now I was my mother’s problem, not his, and it was up to her to decide whether or not I should stay at home or go to school somewhere else, that he was officially giving up on me, and also not to expect him to continue to support me until I learned
to shape up and respect him and the things he stood for. Which I didn’t actually understand, I mean, what exactly did he “stand for”—mentally abusing his kids and manwhoring on his wife?
And, again, he’s telling me all this with his arm around my shoulder, like he’s my Little League coach and we’re talking about getting the last batter in the last inning out. Then he released his hand, moved toward the window, and said:
“I hope you understand that this is all your fault. Your mother and I would never have started fighting if you had learned the proper respect.”
And I was not about to take it: “Was it my fault that you decided to fuck some ho and Mom found out?” (Thank you Eminem and Snoop for teaching me the right words to say.)
He came at me.
“You spoiled little bastard.” His hot breath, right in my face, spitwords hitting me with the spray and all. “Don’t expect anything from me. Ever!”
I pretty much didn’t expect anything from him before, so that wasn’t much of a threat.
Also, since Jacob had pretty much been out of the house most of the time anyways, given that he worked in the city, took the early train in and then the late train home most days (increasingly later trains), we were used to him not being around, so it didn’t feel like it was going to be much of a change.
After he moved out, Jamie went back to Nickelodeon, Lindsey went back to being a supercunt to me, and my mom was the same exact mom she was before, overly concerned about every small thing.
And for the first time in my life, I went to sleep at night without worrying that something I did during the day would trigger a screaming match the following morning.
It actually felt good to be home, something I had never experienced before. I started having friends come to my house instead of escaping to theirs. I started to believe in my ability to produce magic when it was absolutely necessary to do so. After all, in spite of my father’s threats to get rid of me, he was the one living in exile.
And he came over every other weekend for visitation, but he was drastically different. He would pull into the driveway to pick us up, honking the horn, and my mom would remind me that I had to go, so I did, along with my sisters. We usually went to movies, or he took us all to the Westchester Mall for lunch and shopping, sometimes with my aunt Randi, sometimes not, and there were times when he secretly agreed to drop me off with one of my friends instead of actually spending time with me, which suited me just fine.
So it wasn’t until the summer of that year that we found out that Felicia had moved in with him. Which I didn’t get at all, her being supermodel hot and him being, well . . . Jacob. Since then, I have asked her more than a few times what she sees in him, and she reminds me that she sees things in me that others may not, so maybe my father has some redeeming qualities that I may have overlooked.
She is, and has always been, the only adult who understood that I had the ability to produce magic. She wasn’t at all surprised when I told her that I could. In fact, she even admitted, on the promise that I would never tell anyone else, she has some magic in her too. She stares at me sometimes like she knows something about me, something that even I don’t know, but we never talk about it. Point is, she gets me.
“Cresh, I totally fookedup.”
I know as she says this, before she says anything else, that I will now be driving Jamie into Manhattan. I know this because there is nothing that I would not do for this woman, being as she was always there for me. So I don’t actually need to hear the rest of what she’s going to say.
“I mate plans wees your seester and was goink to tek the tren to Wide Plens.” (It takes a minute for me to think . . . White Plains.) “But I just now gut home from deecee.”
I’m not sure how this translates to me driving into the city. But I am already gone.
“And we have tickets to Gris. On Brotway.” Finally, the payoff. “The mateenay.”
OK, is what I tell her, wondering what a mateenay could be.
“Do you vant to calm wid us? I’m sure your father ken git another tiket.”
I tell her that Broadway shows are not my thing. What the hell is Gris?
I also tell her I’m on my way.
Jamie is dressed and ready even before I am off the phone. She is holding her overnight bag for a sleepover. She is also literally holding the answer to my question, the soundtrack for the show Grease.
“No way we’re listening to that on the way in,” I tell her.
“Please, Steven. I wanna know the music.”
“Isn’t it on your iPod?”
“Oh yeah.”
Newman comes along for the drive. We will be going straight to the mall and meeting Pete there. We talk in code, as Jamie is with us and we don’t want her to know our evil plans, but she is busy singing over the music, white earbuds in her ears, and doesn’t hear us anyways.
Drop-off time, like over an hour later, bad traffic, in front of my dad’s building. I have Jamie call, not wanting to talk to Jacob, and Felicia tells her that we should park and come up. Instinct tells me no, but like I said, I cannot refuse her anything. Also Newman is hot to see what she looks like these days.
He is not disappointed. Slinky black dress, bright red lipstick, like she’s made up for a club night out even though they are only going to a show. I’m thinking that I have never actually seen her in, like, sweats; in fact, I’ve never even seen her dress like a regular girl.
She gives me a squeeze and a kiss, which no doubt makes Newman wish, at least for a second, that he was me.
“Steven, you’re late, as usual.” The Voice from the other room. Good old Jacob, never changes.
“Jack, liff the boy alone,” Felicia yells back. Then to me, “What he mins is thenkew for drivink Jemmie.” Then, back at him, “Isn’t dat right, Jack?”
Now emerges Jacob, looking younger than ever. And shiny. I’m thinking, is my dad actually getting work done? I know this look from some of the moms in our neighborhood. Botox. He is dressed typical Jacob, casual version: boots, jeans, sports jacket, hair slicked back.
“Thank you, Steven.” He holds his hand out military style. I’m overwhelmed by all the affection (not). He knows that the only reason I’m there is Felicia, and I tell him so.
“Thank her.”
“Boyz,” Felicia says. “Rilly, you two.”
We both actually smile at her, breaking our own concentration on hating each other. “Progress,” brought to you by Felicia Crashinsky. She went from an unusually long name with lots of consonants stuck together—multiple Zs and Cs—to an equally vulgar last name (thank you, Roxanne, for pointing that out to me), when she finally married my father last year.
My father then greets Newman more warmly—“Good to see you again, Alex”—like maybe he’s going to offer Newman a drink, then talking it up about Newman’s choice of film school and what it’s like to be going to a college in the city. Then he turns his attention to me, and here comes the talk, which we both knew was coming the second that I agreed to come up.
“You are overdrawn again.” He is referring to my debit card. I am, admittedly, not that good at money.
“Gas,” I tell him. “It’s like five dollars a gallon.”
“I can’t keep putting money in your account to cover you,” he says. “You’re spending way too much for a kid your age.” Then, suspiciously, he adds, “What are you doing with the money?”
“Everything is superexpensive, Mr. Crashinsky.” Newman to the rescue. Newman knows that I cannot conserve any cash, ever, and that I’m always out, no matter how much I get. According to my mom, it is just another symptom of my ADHD. Well, OK then, all is forgiven, part of my disease.
“Besides, it’s my money,” I tell him defiantly.
“Don’t!” One word from Jacob; he’s beginning to turn red. Time to go. We have plans at the mall, and we’re going to cruise the city first.
Felicia gives me another hug and I feel her hand on my back pocket as she whispers, “For degaz
.”
Another kiss on the cheek and we are out of there.
On the way down, I count the cash. $300. I am thinking, how do I even thank her?
“Wow,” Newman says, shaking his head. “Motherfucking wow. Wowweeeeee!” he screams in the confines of the elevator. “Did you see that body? Did you see what she was wearing? Dude, your father must have made a deal with the devil.”
“What do you mean?” I am only half listening, still thinking of her.
“Pot of gold at the end of the fucking rainbow, is what I mean. Face it, no matter what you think of the guy, you gotta give it to him. Your father is living the great American dream.” Newman has it all analyzed. “Made enough money to trade up from ordinary family to a trophy wife. Apartment in the city, summer in the Hamptons. Give it a year, you will have a new half brother or half sister. Mark my words, dude. Mr. Crashinsky is a master. I bow to him.” Newman is suddenly twirling a blunt, the first of many we will be smoking before this day is done.
I am now thinking about my potential new siblings. Newman had a point.
I add to it. “And, having already fucked up one family, he can probably learn from his mistakes and create a really good one. Or at least with a new family to concentrate on, he’ll have less time to fuck us up.” I was also thinking about Felicia with a kid, and her having a kid with my father would definitely mean that she would be around for a while. Which was just fine with me. I have previously imagined that she would wake up one morning and question her existence as she turned to watch my very humorless father snoring away, as he did when he lived with us. In this vision, I always pictured her in the next scene, at the airport, holding tickets and looking for the next flight back to whatever Slovakia she is from.
Now I have another image. It would serve him right to get like an autistic baby or some kind of real retard, karma for the way he treated me growing up. I think this and immediately try to freeze out my thoughts. After all, because of my ability with magic, what if my wish turns out to be true? I have, in the past, had these random thoughts that turned out to be real.
Crash and Burn Page 12
