Crash and Burn

by Michael Hassan

  The play goes on and Burn is still snorting. Bunch of talking, then rooftops, and Annie Russo moving like a stripper with her boobs practically popping out.

  Go, Annie. I am into this song. And looking at Annie in a whole new light.

  Now comes Billy, prancing around the stage yelling, “Maria, Maria,” well, you know, and now Christina comes out, and she’s got this gleam that you could see in the audience, all the way to the back end of the auditorium, and then the two of them get closer and closer and Billy doesn’t seem so gay anymore because he and Christina are suddenly in each other’s arms, singing “Tonight, Tonight” together like magic, real magic, in perfect harmony.

  And Christina’s voice is so absolutely incredible that songs should be made just for it, songs that are sung so loudly and clearly that it would break mirrors with its absolute brilliance.

  So brilliant that it practically stopped time.

  And then I noticed Burn.

  Burn was sitting there, completely and utterly captivated by Christina’s unquestioned brilliance, just like the rest of us. Except he was crying.

  Not just crying. Weeping.

  Get it? Absolutely weeping. Out loud. OK, some of the adults were getting a little teary-eyed, and the kids, but no one moved. It was absolutely quiet, not a sound.

  Except for Burn’s snort and his absolute weeping.

  They almost stopped the show from the sound, except that everyone in the audience started clapping, not just clapping, but standing and clapping and stomping and whistling. So they finally did stop the show until we all stopped and they started up again.

  First talking:

  “Te adoro, Tony.”

  “Te adoro, Maria.”

  And then, real quiet. And back to singing:

  Tonight

  Tooooooniiiiiggggghhhhhhhhhtt.

  Intermission.

  People are standing and clapping as the curtain comes down and the lights go up.

  And Burn has his face buried in his hands, still uncontrollably weeping, folded into his chair like a newborn. Sunken into it.

  I was, tell you the truth, more than a little freaked out by the sight of this. I have not seen a boy cry since, like, fifth grade, when Bosco lost it on the mound after giving up like nine runs in an inning. So I have no clue what I’m supposed to do, like, was I responsible for him?

  When did he become my pet?

  I look at Jamie, Jamie looks at me, and I can tell from her eyes she’s not in. It’s not going to be her problem; it’s all on me.

  Do I get a parent over to see this?

  I look at Pete and the others. They are moving out into the far aisle, looking at me like they are not in, not their problem either.

  I’m about to use my cell phone and call my mom when Burn looks up at me, all cried out, like everything is instantly back to normal, and says, “She understands what it means to be human.”

  Yeah, Burn, I am thinking, she understands everything, all right, whatever that means.

  “She’s the one, Crash,” he says. “You’ve got to make this happen.”

  I immediately reflect on the conversation in my room. If I could set him up with Christina, then I would owe him nothing else, which means freedom for me, nothing he could hold over my head, as we would be squared away even after making out with his sister.

  Except that from what I remembered, Christina didn’t exactly like me very much, given that I kind of publicly nicknamed her a kiss-ass and all.

  “Not doing it, Dave” is what I told him. “She hates me.”

  But then, I notice April Walker coming up the aisle, and it was obvious to me that she too has been moved to tears as she is clutching a handful of tissues and wiping her face. And I immediately remember how Felicia told my sisters that I had special talents, and while she didn’t say what those were, I understood that one of those talents is knowing when the universe presents me with an opportunity. And there, in the middle school auditorium, it was clear to me that the universe was up to its usual tricks, because, if April and Burn hit it off and he got what April has become famous for giving, then I’m guaranteed off the hook with him, like, forever.

  I move into the aisle, blocking her path. “April, that was really good, huh?”

  “It just got me, Steven, you know?”

  “It got my friend too. Do you remember Dave Burnett?” I point over to Burn, who had this glazed-over look. “He used to go to school here.” It was obvious that she didn’t know him, which meant that she also didn’t know about him either. Thank you, universe.

  “He was totally moved to tears,” I told her. “Just like you. Did you hear him crying?”

  She reached out and extended her hand to him. “That was you? Yes. Hi, I’m April. It made me so sad to hear you crying” is what she said.

  He reached up, took her hand. And, get this, they walk up the aisle together, talking. A few minutes later, the lights go down, Jamie comes back and the curtain goes up, and we wait for Burn but he doesn’t return.

  Finally, darkness.

  After a while, Jamie takes his seat and I finally have some room.

  And the rest of the play goes on fine, until the very end where Christina/Maria is on her knees, singing another song that absolutely rattles the audience.

  “There’s a place for us. Somewhere, a place for us.”

  And again, in the middle of the song, this time coming from the back of the auditorium, you could hear someone snorting and weeping, Burn going off again.

  Maria/Christina looked up, stunned for an instant, and went back to it.

  I was thinking: Yeah, it was touching and all when Tony died, but get over it, Burn.

  Burn wasn’t at the after-party. My mom picked up Jamie, as planned, and thanked me for taking care of her. Jamie thanked me too, which was nice, family stuff. And then I searched the gym for him. He was gone and so was April. Meanwhile, everyone was clapping like crazy when the cast came out into the gym, one by one, until only Christina was left to come through the doors. And like a bride, carrying flowers in both arms, she made this great entrance, like this wasn’t just middle school, it was opening night on Broadway.

  There was food, snacks, and drinks, no alcohol, but you still felt that you were in a special place and that something spectacular happened onstage that night. Later, after the group was thinning out, some kids started dancing, and so I did too, when Annie Russo asked.

  And then I bumped into Christina, who stopped me after my dance with Annie.

  “Thanks a lot, Steven,” she said, extrasarcastic. “Your friend almost ruined the entire night with those sounds.”

  “He’s not my friend,” I told her.

  “He was with you. Everyone told me.”

  “Yeah, well he was and he wasn’t. It was David Burnett, you know, from McAllister days, and he came with me, but he wasn’t, you know, with me. He lives here again.” Me, trying to justify, then switching gears. “Still, you were pretty good. I mean, Burn wasn’t the only one crying from your voice,” I told her. “You should be on American Idol or something.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” She was now distracted by someone, about to leave, but I stopped her.

  “No, really,” I continued, “you were beyond amazing.”

  “You mean, amazing for a kiss-ass?” So there it was, just in case I thought she had forgotten. “People still call me that.”

  “Not after tonight,” I told her. “People will call you a star after tonight.”

  This totally stopped her in her tracks and completely disarmed her. I knew this because her body shifted from defensive to relaxed and her face glowed with the compliment.

  And I saw the possibility of the universe presenting another opportunity, even if it was a long shot.

  “Hey, you wanna hook up?”

  Now she was standing in place, with this terrific smile, and I figured no way did she hear what I said. She shook her head like I was completely crazy, which I was, but given all the attention I had
been getting from older girls, I was pretty full of myself. Since I had set out to accomplish a goal, what better way to do it than with the celebrity of the moment?

  Still, she wouldn’t stop shaking her head in disapproval.

  So imagine my surprise when she said, “Yeah, sure.”

  Chapter Ten

  Christina and the Dark Night

  Friday, two days after my experience with Claudia at the Westchester Mall, I am on my way to New Roc City with Christina to see The Dark Knight, like everything is totally normal again. Christina is going on in that dramagirl way of talking, which is pretty much constantly, about Maddy and how she was just doing what Maddy does, as in looking for someone else to put it on instead of taking responsibility for herself, about having some self-respect as a girl, and then about preparing for college, was I nervous yet, because she was getting nervous, and how many more weeks did we have, was I counting.

  And my phone buzzes, another text from Claudia. She has been texting me ever since we hooked up. At first I was anxious to talk to her, but now, two days later, my patience was being stretched by the constant flow of texts and voice mails. So I stopped responding. Maybe she should have some self-respect and wait until I call her.

  I flick open my phone, just to make sure it’s not someone important. It’s from Claudia.

  Have you seen the picture yet?

  I’m wondering how she could possibly know that I’m going to the movies. Is she stalking me and will she somehow show up when I’m on line at the IMAX?

  I single-hand text her back while driving, Christina watching me with adult eyes that make it clear that she doesn’t approve of texting and driving. No surprise there.

  What picture?

  u no. The one.

  “The road, Steven” is what Christina says, and I realize that I am swerving into the oncoming lane and I also realize that it’s not the smartest thing texting a girl you just hooked up with in front of a girl you’re trying to hook up with. So I flip my phone closed and ditch it in the back pocket of my jeans.

  And Christina doesn’t miss a beat because she goes on and I try to listen, and now she’s talking about Heath Ledger and how good an actor he was and how sad it was that he died and I’m wondering what am I even doing with her. If I had asked Annie Russo out, she would have been looking all flashy, and definitely into smoking and drinking and not complaining about a few innocent text messages. Also, we might not even make it into the movies, which was OK, with me having seen The Dark Knight like five times already, no big.

  “So you never ever smoked weed?” I instinctively touch my stash, hidden inside the sunglasses case in the side pocket of the car door.

  “Steven, we already talked about this,” she says, like I’m supposed to remember. The answer is once, she didn’t like it.

  “Maybe you should try it again, for the movie?”

  “Steven, you already know the answer.” More than a little annoyed.

  “OK, OK, no weed” is what I say, relenting.

  I’m thinking of something else to say, planning to get to Burn, which is what we always end up talking about. But nothing is coming out. The dreaded silence. She’s done; I’m tapped. Even the BMW is too quiet. There was never any silence with Annie Russo. Or the Westchester Mall girl, Claudia. At least so far. My cell buzzed again through the fabric of my jeans. I fought the urge to find out who was texting me.

  How much longer to the movie theater? And how I am going to see The Dark Knight without blazing?

  Then . . .

  “Do you think David Burnett is right? About the three of us having this cosmic connection and all?” she asked me, like, out of nowhere. Whenever she referred to him, it was always by his full name. I wondered whether she did this to my name as well whenever she spoke about me to someone else.

  “Do I need to remind you that Burn had a theory about pretty much everything?” I told her, and she actually laughed. “But he never told me that one.”

  “David Burnett said that you and he were connected and that he and I were connected so it made sense to him that you and I were connected.”

  This felt more like an SAT question to me than something that someone would actually say. I was still trying to figure out the first part of the equation. Burn had said that before, about a connection between me and him, but Burn said a lot of truly crazy things, so I never thought about it in any legitimate way. Also, he described our relationship, as I recall, in a very Harry Potter way—as in Harry and Lord Voldemort—one must die so that the other could live.

  “Look, as far as I’m concerned, any connection was all in Burn’s mind,” I told her. “Plus, no way are you connected to Burn. Just because he stalked you throughout high school doesn’t make it a cosmic connection.”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “Remember, he and I did go out for a while during sophomore year, and he was perfectly normal then. And when he wasn’t stalking me, he did, on occasion, actually teach me a few things. Things that no one else could have taught me.”

  I made a mental note that I would have to interview her for the book, that she would have insights that I might have missed.

  “I don’t see how that connects you to him or that you and I are somehow connected. Are you saying that we are?” More importantly, I wondered, if she thinks we are connected, then do my odds increase with respect to getting with her?

  “Well, I did have the biggest crush on you in elementary school. Like insanely big. You were kind of my first love until you started calling me names. And then, after my first performance of West Side Story in middle school, you were there for me.”

  OK, I did find it strange that she would bring up the West Side Story thing, almost immediately after I had written about it, as she had no way of knowing this. I didn’t think that me getting to make out with her counted as “there for her,” but I wasn’t about to tell her that, given what the potential stakes were. I also didn’t want to tell her that I didn’t have any real recollection of her for a long time after we were in McAllister together, and I certainly had no idea that she was drawing hearts in her notebooks with my name filled in next to hers.

  “Still, we had pretty much nothing to do with each other in high school, or even middle school except for a while after you were in that play.”

  “And yet you were there for me whenever Burn got out-of-line crazy.”

  “It was just that one time, really.” I was referring to an incident in our junior year.

  “I’m not just talking about Massachusetts. Even before, I heard that you were always defending me whenever he talked about me.”

  “That doesn’t mean we’re connected.”

  “OK.” She tried to reason with me. “Why are you here now? I don’t believe that you came along just because you think I’m going to hook up with you. You know that’s not me, Steven. I’m not going to just have sex with you.”

  I turned off the highway, dismayed at this latest piece of information, even though part of me already knew this. I definitely should have called Annie Russo. Or spent the night with my boys.

  The movie theater was in my sights now. This was getting out of hand. Now I had only one choice left: I had to reel her in, show her my pimp hand. That’s what you had to do whenever a girl got all about herself and wanted to suck you in.

  “Maybe I just want to interview you on Burnett for the book. Or maybe you’re here because you’re finally giving me the opportunity to hook up when no one else is around.” Point for me.

  “You can interview me over the phone. And as for hooking up, you haven’t. Tried. Not all summer. And we’ve been alone more than a few times. And I have given you more than one opportunity. To try. And from what I know, you’re not shy.” Point for her.

  “Just waiting for the right time.” My point again.

  I pulled into a spot in the parking lot.

  “When is the right time? Is it right here, right now? Should we just do it?” She looked into my eyes with this
. It had me thinking, yeah, quite possibly, as it would not be the first time this week that I had hooked up in a parking lot. But looking back into her eyes, I knew this was not going to be the correct answer. Even as she moved closer to me.

  “C’mon, Steven, is that all you really want?” Now pressing against me, kissing my neck and moving her arms around my shoulders. “Well, then, go ahead.”

  Only it didn’t serve to get me off at all, but somehow made me feel exactly the opposite way, as in claustrophobic. I mean, I am used to aggressive girls, which to me is usually a good thing. Except the ones that I’m talking about were usually either drunk or stoned or both, and sloppy and sexy.

  “What’s the matter, Steven?” she said. “You look nervous.” Now squeezing me tighter. Then she lifted my hand up and placed it on her left boob, clamping down on my hand hard enough to lock it against her. “Here, does that make you happy? Isn’t this why you abandoned your friends on a Friday night? Or could it be that maybe you want to actually explore what we have?”

  I pushed her back, held my hands up to stop her. “OK, I get it” is what I said, but what I was thinking was that she was lucky I wasn’t drunk or high, because if I had been, I would have had to do something. But being as I was stone cold sober, I realized that this girl was looking for it in a different way.

  “You get what?” she asked.

  “That it’s different with you.” This surprised me as much as it surprised her when I said it.

  She backed off. “OK then, can we please see the movie?”

  So we’re sitting together, passing the popcorn, waiting for the movie to start, and I’m thinking about Burn again. Point was, after the night of the play, Burn was, at least for a time, eternally in my debt, as he claimed, because I was responsible for him getting his one true wish to come true, as he not only got to make out with April Walker, but then he got what he called the Ultimate Kiss, becoming the first kid I knew to get head before high school. Even still, he was upset with me when he found out that Christina and I had hooked up, but said he couldn’t be angry because he also believed beyond a doubt that if it wasn’t for me, he never would have met Christina, which of course made no sense with them being in the same school and all, but whatever.