Burn just shrugs me off, like I don’t get it. And, all in all, he actually seems pretty happy for Burn. I watch him with his face up against the cage, making cooing sounds to this animal as he places it back into the cage, and I actually believe for a minute that he’s a normal kid, just like the rest of us.
So if you asked me, at that moment, how Burn was adjusting to life in Westchester and Meadows High School, I would have said, “Fine, just fine.” I mean, yeah, he had his problems, like Connelly, who was always riding him, and he still acted weird (like carrying a knife and saying weird shit), but mostly he sounded and acted normal. In fact, better than normal, as he was still spending all this time with April and bragging about the number of times he got head to kids who had never gotten any. And he was getting like all A’s except for Connelly’s class and he had all these friends, so I would have said, “Fine, just fine.” I mean, there were a whole lot of kids doing a whole lot worse.
It turns out that I was right and wrong at the same time.
Right, because I fucking knew the fox was going to be trouble.
The Monday after Thanksgiving, Burn didn’t show for Connelly’s class, and during math I get pulled into the principal’s office, where Pete was already waiting, looking nervous, like he failed something. The school nurse comes out, looks at me with an unhappy snarl, like she was going to bite me. As she comes over, Pete whispers, “They found the fox.”
“We are trying to reach your parents, Mr. Crashinsky.” Her voice over his.
“Where’s Burn?” I ask her and him at the same time.
“Apparently, Burn is having a meltdown,” Pete tells me. “I’m in deep shit. He’s gonna come after me, I know it.”
“Do you have any idea how to get in touch with your mother?” The nurse at me, again chiming in over Pete.
“Did you try her cell?” I already have my cell phone out, and I’m calling my mom as the nurse is standing over me.
“No luck.” My phone continues to ring.
“I might have to get the shots,” Pete is saying. “My parents are taking me. They’re on their way.”
“What shots?”
“Rabies.”
“What the fuck?” I say, and I realize that the nurse is still standing over me as I try to reach my mom again.
“Mr. Crashinsky, did you or did you not touch the animal.”
“No, ma’am, I did not.” Which was true. “Is it . . . Does it have . . . ?” I’m starting to think about those horror movies where people start foaming at the mouth and then turn into zombies. And then you die.
But I did not touch that animal, not for a second.
“So does the fox . . .” I ask again, “you know . . . have rabies?”
“They are testing it now.”
Pete looks at me on this, crosses his finger over his throat, and tells me, “Burn is going to kill me.” He is apparently more afraid of Burn than of rabies. This was all-out funny to me. Or it would have been, except for the fact that I truly was worried about whether or not I could have a dose of rabies.
Now Principal Singh was in the waiting room with us, asking the nurse if we are OK, but clearly neither of us is showing signs of rabies at that very moment, so why wouldn’t we be OK?
Then I think . . . Burn. Does he have it? Will I have to get the shots? Will my whole family? Then my phone rings. My mom. I hand it over to Singh, and he explains in front of me that he heard from a teacher that Pete happened to mention to someone in school that Burn had a fox in his garage, and during Thanksgiving break, the boys, Pete and me and Burn, played with it. And it also turns out that there were a number of reports in upper Westchester county involving rabies. He told my mom that he already spoke with the county animal protection unit, so to be on the safe side, they were recommending that the kids (as in Burn and Pete and me) be inoculated, which, according to him, we could do immediately. Or we could wait for the tests, but Pete’s parents were not going to wait, because better safe than sorry, and they were on their way to bring him to the doctor.
Singh wasn’t sure how long the tests on the animal would take, but the animal was now in the possession of the county health department and they would be euthanizing it to make a determination.
Pete again with his finger across his throat, in case I didn’t get the drift, which I did, as in they were killing Burn’s fox, even as we sat there.
When Burn found out it was Pete who gave him up, I wouldn’t want to be Pete.
But then again, with the prospect of rabies shots and testing looming in front of my eyes, I didn’t want to be me either. I kept thinking about how those shots were supposed to be the most painful shots ever, and I remembered hearing that they give them to you in your stomach, so I couldn’t help blurting out again and again, “I didn’t touch it. I didn’t even get close to it.”
Pete backed me up. “Swear to Christ, he didn’t. Just me and Burn.”
The tests were negative, which in medicine is a good thing, as in the fox, now dead, did not have rabies.
Not so much for Burn. He stopped going to classes, and no one heard from him. I wondered if this was another case of him not being able to cope and having to go off to one of his special schools again. Maddy told me that Sarah told her that he broke it off with April over the phone and he wasn’t doing good at all.
Meantime, Connelly had a field day when he heard the news about the fox and actually gave us a writing assignment that he thought was relevant. We had to write a short story about an animal that lived in our area. He even had Sarah stand at the blackboard and write down the names of each, with her new breasts bouncing up and down with every chalk stroke, as we called the names. Skunk, squirrel, raccoon, turkey, hawk, eagle, coyote, fox, rabbit. Someone yelled out bear, and someone else yelled out Mrs. Fincher, who was an old-lady teacher who taught the other freshman English class and was known to occasionally rip a fart when she was giving her lectures.
Someone, I think it was Newman, made a farting sound at the mention of her name. Connelly actually cracked a smile, and, for a second, I thought of him as human, instead of the monster that he was.
And then, on my way to gym, I saw Roxanne talking with some friends. Her hair was still jet-black, but she was back to wearing regular clothes, looking way less like a vampire. I waved to her, unsure whether I should ask about her brother or whether she would even talk to me at all. Instead of waving back, she nodded for me to approach her, which I did, cautiously.
“You’ve been a really good friend to my brother,” she said in a voice that had absolutely no trace of sarcasm in it. She was speaking to me quietly for the first time, and I was listening differently, reluctantly letting my guard down with her, which I knew was an incredibly stupid thing to do.
“Not so much” is all I ended up saying.
“Listen,” she said, hesitating before speaking, “I shouldn’t have said that thing that I said to you last week. You know, during Thanksgiving, about no one being interested in you anymore. Well, that’s just not true. I only said it because I frickin’ hate your sister, and I heard that you were struggling this year, so that was wrong of me. You shouldn’t let this place beat you, because you are so much better than that, and I don’t know if anyone else ever told you. So don’t stop being you just because it gets harder.”
She leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead, which was totally and completely unnerving, because of all things, Roxanne talking to me like a friend, like an older sister, was the very last thing in the world I would ever have expected.
“He’s coming back today,” she added. “Please watch over him. I don’t think he’s taking the whole fox thing well at all. He’s . . . fragile.”
The bell rang. I would never make it to class. I wouldn’t have moved, except Roxanne had already left, leaving me standing there alone.
So when I finally ran into Burn later that day, I was well prepared for him not to be the almost normal version of himself that I remembered from Thanksgiving.<
br />
“Murderer,” he mumbled at me as he passed me in the hall.
I should have said something back, but because of Roxanne, I just kept going.
When Burn ran into Pete, Pete was fully armed and ready, as he was apparently preparing for some kind of confrontation. So when Burn called him a murderer, Pete gave it right back to Burn, telling him that Burn had no one to blame but himself, that the fox was dead because of him, not because of me or Pete or anyone else. Because if Burn hadn’t caught it and tried to keep it, the fox might still be alive somewhere. This was in the cafeteria, so you couldn’t help but think back to middle school and the Panthers incident.
Only this time it ended differently. This time, Burn actually apologized to Pete and sat down quietly, by himself at one of the girls’ tables, and silently ate his lunch. Rumor had it that he was mumbling to himself, repeating the word “murderer” a few times.
When the new Burn settled back into his classes, he was like a pod person from a science fiction movie. This Burn had no emotions whatsoever, didn’t talk to anyone or even sound like himself.
Too Down.
I wanted to tell him, dude, it was only a fox. But, tell you the truth, I was afraid to say anything. I kept asking myself, what did Roxanne expect me to do, and couldn’t come up with an answer. So I backed off.
Even Connelly seemed to back off when it came to dealing with Burn.
Not so much when it came to me, but that was OK, because thanks to Roxanne talking to me in the hallway, I started to feel my spark coming back, and no bony middle-aged pointy-nosed English teacher was going to fuck with it again.
Chapter Twelve
The Really Bad Interview
About a week after the picture of me with the Westchester Mall girls and the blunt appeared in the New York Post, I got the all-clear signal that it was OK to go back home. Thankfully, Newman’s parents let me stay in their guest room, eat their food, and hang by their pool while a group of reporters were camping out at the edge of my mom’s property, waiting for me to show up.
I had very strict instructions from Jacob to avoid the press at all costs. More specifically, the morning after that shit went down, I had to sit through a meeting with his “experts” to talk about the impact of the weed-smoking photo on his business. My agent, Sally Levine, was there, joined by this superheavy woman with sunken eyes named Olivia, a publicist who worked with my dad’s firm. No one said anything until the lawyer showed up, the very same bald guy who handled my book deal.
He told the group that based on the photograph alone, it was unlikely for the authorities to pursue any criminal charges, although he couldn’t rule it out entirely. After all, while the image seemed relatively clear, it wasn’t conclusively marijuana, and possession of small amounts had been decriminalized in New York State, so there was not much they were going to do about it. Plus the images of the girl’s faces in the photograph had been blurred out, making it difficult for the police to identify the witnesses.
Then it was Olivia’s turn. She was convinced that in a few days it would blow over and the press would be on to the next story. “Let it die,” she kept saying, “just let it die,” which, in case there was any doubt on my part (not that that was possible), Sally interrupted and made extremely clear that “let it die” meant lay low, disappear, and no matter what, do not engage in any discussion or interact in any way with anyone who has a microphone or a camera. She added that while she was disappointed in me, the publishers did not expect me to be a saint. So she did not anticipate that they would invoke the morals clause in the agreement that would permit them to cancel the book.
No guarantees, but if I kept working hard and continued to deliver, I should be fine.
And to prevent any missteps, she spent a portion of the morning going through my plans for the next chapters, while my father worked it out with my mom to have my laptop and some of my stuff delivered to Newman’s house, which was absolutely fine with Alex’s mom, being as me and my boys stayed there often enough over the summer and she was used to cleaning up after us.
The four of them prepped me on ways to avoid any further controversy, to keep out of public places that I was known to frequent, not to answer my cell unless I recognized the number, and if cornered by a member of the press, to say nothing and hand them Olivia’s card, explaining that they should talk to my publicist.
So by the time I left, I had a pretty clear path as to what I should and should not do. Of course, leaving with my father’s bag of weed secured safely in my back pocket had to be among the “should not do’s.” But it seemed like a safe bet that he would never ask me about it. I felt like I needed a reward for getting through the night and the morning with him.
The next thing I know, I’m at the corner of Seventy-Second Street in my BMW, staring up at the red light and down at the palm of my hand, which contained a perfectly circular green and purple nugg, having gingerly removed it from the bag, just to examine the sparkling crystals in the daylight.
Ironically, just as a cop car pulls alongside me.
Green light. I let him go first and slip the nugg carefully back into the plastic bag. All except for a small piece, which I drop into a bowl and light up. Just a taste for the ride. And it is sweet, no burn going down even as deep as I inhale. Three hits later, I am actually thinking about pulling over because Jacob’s trees are so overwhelming, and instead take one more hit and keep going, most definitely another “should not do.” Also among the “should not do’s” was stopping off anywhere along the way to Newman’s. But after trying to reach Christina a bunch of times and getting no answer, I had to wonder whether I finally went over the line with her this time. Not so much me, but maybe Jacob scared her off for good. Or maybe her parents told her not to have anything to do with me after seeing the picture.
And being as Claudia had texted me more than a few times, promising that she had nothing to do with the picture being printed and that she would make it up to me, I pretty much had no choice but to make a pit stop at the Westchester Mall again, where I was the recipient of round two from her in the parking lot, in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by cars and oblivious shoppers. And while the first round a few nights before was excellent, after a few more hits from Jacob’s weed, I was literally in outer space. It was more than just Claudia (who unquestionably had the technique of a professional); it was more than the spontaneous gratification of getting exactly what you want almost immediately after you think of it. It was unquestionably Jacob’s weed, which fogged my mind and cleared my mental vision at the same time and got me to thinking, maybe for the first time, about my father and his wife, and did Felicia smoke too, I hadn’t thought about that earlier, which got me to thinking about her even more and during the moment of impact, it was like Claudia wasn’t even there.
And so, supremely relaxed in the backseat of my BMW, I held Claudia like she was special, and she asked me if she did good and I said that she did and she asked me if I forgave her because even though her friends released the picture of me to the press, she didn’t even know and she wouldn’t have let them because she really, really liked me.
And my phone buzzed so I picked it up. Christina texting me. “Where are you?”
It was almost like she knew that I was with another girl. This was the second time in a row that she broke into my buzz with Claudia.
Almost.
At least no pictures were taken this time, and I found it hard not to like Claudia at least a little, with her laughing and me laughing just like the first time, like everything in the world was a joke, and I knew that there was no way I was not going to forgive this girl. Plus, with the increasing odds that nothing was ever going to happen between me and Christina, I figured what was the harm? After all, there were five weeks left of summer. Christina was headed to Princeton, I was headed to Boston, and it wasn’t like we would actually be seeing each other when summer ended.
So I made it to Newman’s without committing any more �
��should not do’s” and stayed there for the week, writing, partying, and still not connecting with Christina. I mostly avoided “should not do’s” entirely, unless you count driving by my house a few times in the passenger seat of Alex’s car to taunt the few remaining reporters who were hoping to catch a glimpse of me. And OK, I will admit to another quick visit to see Claudia again.
And then, just like Olivia predicted, the reporters were all gone one morning, on to the next story, and I was free to return to my house without anyone being the wiser.
Medusa greets me at the door with a new pig ear, as if she anticipated my return, and I immediately head into the family room, where Jamie is engrossed in a Disney Channel movie.
“Christina Haines called for you” is all she says. I try to interrupt her to find out more, but she is quickly dismissive, telling me that our mom is coming home to take her shopping and she wants to finish the movie. I ask more questions, not understanding why Christina would call on the house phone when she wasn’t returning my texts. Something seems strange to me. But Jamie could not be distracted. No way could I compete with High School Musical, even if it was the sequel and even if she had already seen it like thirty times.
Well, at least Medusa was happy I was home.
Hours later, I finally get a text from Christina that she needed to see me. She shows up at my door minutes later in a bright yellow dress, all made up like she’s going to a party, and walks in like she knows the layout of my house, up the steps with me and Medusa watching her, leaving us to follow her into the living room. She asks whether anyone else is home, and I begin to wonder what exactly she has in mind. She sits down on the couch, pats the cushion like I’m supposed to sit next to her, which I do, with Medusa trailing us looking for attention, pig ear dangling from the corner of her mouth.
Crash and Burn Page 19
