Crash and Burn

by Michael Hassan

  Then she tells me, yes, she got my text messages and was sorry she didn’t call, that she was in the Hamptons for some family reunion thing and needed time to think.

  I’m wondering what there is to think about, given that we have a while before anyone comes home and the house is completely empty, and she asks:

  “I need to know. Did you have sex with any of the girls in the picture? I know you said that you didn’t, but I need to know the truth, Steven. Did you?”

  I wondered where this was coming from, given that I already answered this question from her. But I also know that I’m great at lying, so even if I thought that what I did with Claudia counted as sex, which I didn’t, then the answer would have been no anyways.

  “We went through this before, Christina. Me and Newman and Pete met them at the mall. I was winging for my friends is all.” Me, wondering why when I tell certain nontruths, they come out sounding all rhymy. Maybe I’m not as good at lying as I think I am, who could tell?

  “Winging for your friends? Well, that certainly backfired, didn’t it?” She snickered in her dramatic actressy way, with her hands flying up, and I agreed, laughing out loud and figuring that we were beyond this discussion. To be honest, I was actually a little uncomfortable with her on account of her witnessing the father-son breakdown firsthand (not the kind of thing you want a girl to see), so truth be told, I was feeling more than a little nervous this particular afternoon with her.

  And then she tells me that it’s time for a serious talk, because we both have been avoiding the obvious (of course, leave it to me not to have any clue as to what the “obvious” was), and she wants to know am I “in” or not, and I ask what does she mean by “in” and she says in a relationship with her.

  I’m thinking that the time is running down on the house being empty, and if “in” means IN, then maybe I’m IN, as in right now. Also, I am sure that if I don’t say “in,” then I lose this chance now and possibly forever. Let’s face it, at the end of the day, it’s all about how much you can get, so I say “in.” I say this pretty convincingly. But she just shakes her head, like she totally knows why I said “in” in the first place, so maybe I didn’t sound all that convincing after all.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” she says.

  “Am I supposed to?” I asked. “You know, get it?”

  “I thought you would be honest enough to admit it,” she answered.

  “OK, what, exactly, are we talking about?”

  “Love. Steven. As in, I’m in love with you. And you’re in love with me.”

  “You are? I am?”

  She had me so confused at that moment, I actually wondered if she was right. I mean, I did think about this girl all the time, and it felt good, for some odd reason, being with her. But you couldn’t exactly call that love, not the kind of love that I already knew about.

  That was one fucked-up word, and it didn’t apply here. Besides me, none of my close friends had actually been in love, had they? Not Newman or Pete or Kenny. Sure, we had girlfriends, but in the end it was always about hookups, not about the actual girls. And none of those hookups ever lasted that long, a few months maybe. And, sure, there were other guys, like Bosco for example, who was obsessed with Amanda Jenkins since like eighth grade, or Bobby and Ashley, who went virtually everywhere together. Or Mark Duncan, who never quite got over his brief period as Kelly’s boyfriend and then spent senior year brooding after she dumped him. And of course, Burn and Christina.

  These guys all were in love.

  And they were all losers.

  “Didn’t you understand that when we were talking the other night? When I was talking about connecting? Didn’t you see that in your father’s apartment? Can you really deny that we have something special?”

  Her eyes were watering up, and I noticed actual tears. I was not good at girl tears, and I most definitely needed to find a way out of this conversation.

  “Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “Your turn.”

  “Look, I’m not in love with you, Christina” is what I finally told her.

  “Of course you are” is what she said, smiling through her tears now, wiping them away.

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Because of the way you treat me. You never treat girls with respect, Steven, in case you haven’t noticed. Except for me. How do you explain that? And if I’m wrong, why do you always seem a little nervous around me? And why is it that you almost never look me in the eyes?”

  I looked into her eyes. What I saw there made me really uncomfortable for some reason. She had the same look that she had whenever she was up on stage singing to an audience, like she could, if she wanted to, suck them all in and make them her bitches. Well, I wasn’t going to be her bitch. Even if she had a few good points, which I will concede. And I definitely did treat her differently, but that was because she was fun in a different way, and I was always afraid that if I said the wrong thing, I would spoil that fun.

  “The point is,” she said, “you have feelings for me even if you’re not capable of acknowledging them out loud.”

  “OK, feelings,” I admitted. (I may have done an eye roll saying this, but it was mostly to avoid looking into her eyes, which tell you the truth were scaring me with the intensity of her gaze.)

  “Feelings,” she echoed. “What kind of feelings?”

  “Why do we have to call it anything?” I asked. “Why can’t they just be feelings?”

  “If I told you that you had to say it or I was going to leave and you would never see me again, would you let me leave?” This girl never failed to confuse me, as this seemed to be another SAT question in its complexity. And I didn’t exactly know the answer. Did I think I could say those words in all honesty and actually mean it at the risk of losing her forever?

  “If you could just walk away and never see me again because I didn’t give you the right response, then you must not actually be in love with me.” That is what I actually said, which was unbelievably quick thinking and totally a college-level answer for a Princeton girl because she actually laughed and said:

  “Good answer.”

  And then my mom came in with Jamie, and we were suddenly done with the entire conversation and having snacks. And Jamie being Jamie glanced at Christina, then, going over to the refrigerator, studied Christina more carefully from a greater distance, before going wordlessly to the family room, undoubtedly to watch more television.

  And before my mom could hook Christina into a conversation, which she was very clearly trying to do, I walked her to her car, where she gives me this really slow kiss, looking into my eyes with this new intensity, just to make sure that I got the point. I open the car door for her, all gentlemanly, and close it behind her. As she turns the ignition on, she rolls down the window and tells me:

  “You should know. I’m considering being with you.”

  Leave it to a dramagirl to make everything such a big production.

  “Then what about tonight?” I ask, not missing a single beat, without even considering that there is probably no place to go.

  “Not yet. It bothers me that you are always drunk or stoned when we see each other at night.” She suddenly snapped, “You’ve probably never been with a girl unless you were drunk or stoned or both. That’s not how it should be with us.”

  Fact was, as I quickly ran through my mental list of experiences, I was thinking that she may have a point—more or less, except for one girl. Even with Claudia, as casual as that was, I was high all three times. OK, so, except for the one, I was always fucked up. Thing is, I’m pretty much always fucked up anyways. This is who I am.

  “What’s the difference?” I asked her.

  “It’s not real that way, Steven, don’t you see that? You can have sex and still not have an intimate connection. That’s what you do. All the time.”

  “That’s just not true,” I answered hesitantly, not wanting to get into the truth,
which she wouldn’t understand anyways. “You know, being on weed doesn’t change anything. It just makes things better. Maybe you should try getting high instead of criticizing it all the time.”

  “OK. I will if you will.”

  “Will what?” Trying to follow this girl was sometimes an effort that my scattered mind just would not permit.

  “I will get high with you if you can stay straight until we are together. Do we have a deal?”

  “What are we waiting for exactly? Why can’t we be together tonight?” Still not giving up.

  “Not tonight . . .” She was deep in thought for a minute. “No weed for you until we’re together. And I choose where and when we’re together.”

  “OK, but it has to be like within the week,” I confirmed, knowing all the time that Jacob’s perfect weed was in my pocket and no way would I be able to last that long, but also there would be no way for her to check up on me either.

  “OK, then,” she said, turning all business, and about to shift her car into drive, like everything was completely solved. Only I was still confused, and so I had to ask just to be sure.

  “Just so we’re clear. You’re agreeing that in a week, we will be together, as in together?”

  “If you can stay straight, yes. I will be with you.”

  I nodded, still not sure. “We are talking sex, right?” I had to ask, better safe than sorry.

  “Yes,” she answered. “But I get to choose the place and the time.”

  Her car lurched forward. We were done talking, which was a good thing, because talking was definitely tiring me out.

  And she was gone, leaving me feeling both relief and an odd craving for her. Maybe she was right; I couldn’t tell. Whatever I was feeling, it didn’t necessarily feel good.

  I went back into the house and dropped down onto the couch next to Jamie, who was back to watching High School Musical again while Medusa crunched on the last bits of the pig ear. Good old Jamie. Good old Medusa.

  I make her switch to SpongeBob, which she does, reluctantly. So we watch in silence as we always do. But this time, I’m not watching at all, even though it’s one of my favorites, “Free Balloon Day,” with SpongeBob and Patrick stealing a balloon which was otherwise free anyways, but I’m not into it because all I can think of is, what if Christina is right about us? Given my experiences, wouldn’t I know?

  After the episode, I grab the clicker and channel surf. Jamie just starts talking out loud, not necessarily to me or anyone in particular (she does this sometimes as if she’s talking to the television).

  “It’ll never work.”

  She is somehow on my wavelength, because I was still thinking about whether a relationship was possible with Christina and if I even wanted one at all.

  I clicker-switched to Cartoon Network, then back to Nick.

  “Why not?” I ask her.

  “She’s too smart for you.”

  Usually Jamie will say these kinds of comments sarcastically to engage me in some kind of fight, which we always are doing with each other. But this time, I got the feeling that she was saying this to protect me, with the same amount of conviction in her voice that I usually have when I’m protecting her from something.

  “Maybe I should talk to Felicia” is what I tell her. “No one is smarter than Felicia.”

  Jamie nods. “I know you think so, but in the end, she married Dad, didn’t she?”

  SpongeBob is on again, so we are done talking.

  Two nights later, I break my promise to Christina, because me and the entire Club Crew, with the exception of Newman, end up meeting at the nature preserve. At first I decline when the bong is passed around, but then with the fragrant aroma wafting around me, I can no longer hold out, and as a compromise I decide on a few hits and out. Except since I have a small chunk of my father’s excellent weed with me, I drop a small nugg into the bowl, knowing that one bong hit of that stuff is the equivalent of like an entire blunt, perfect in aroma, taste, and effectiveness.

  Fully relaxed, we end up at Pinky’s, where we totally pig out on burgers and onion rings. A superpolished-looking guy, who I recognize as a reporter from one of the morning television shows I did, heads over to us supercasually. Immediately suspicious, I back away from the table, but he’s got no camera and just wants to introduce himself, or so he claims. I tell him I don’t do interviews, reach into my back pocket to hand him Olivia’s card, and instead feel the aluminum-foiled ball that encases a portion of Jacob’s most excellent weed. No cards in there anymore; I don’t even remember what I did with them.

  To make matters worse, my friends are all about meeting him as he’s a celebrity and all, so handshakes all around. And he ends up sitting with us, talking up the reporting business with Kenny and Evan and Bosco, all about who he’s met and who’s a bitch and who’s hotter in person. I’m wishing Newman was there, because Newman would spot the setup a mile away, but the rest of the Crew is eating up these stories and having fun, like it’s not obvious why the guy is there, at least not so obvious, until he casually mentions that one of the girls in the Post picture has just given an interview, and while I didn’t have to comment on it, if I wanted to, to set the record straight, he could arrange it.

  And while I’m sure that it’s not Claudia, because Claudia wouldn’t do that to me, my paranoia gets refocused in my mind, and the guy seems so friendly that I start to think what would it matter, me answering a few questions. Like he said, set the record straight.

  Next thing I know, we are all outside, in the back lot at Pinky’s, where he has this setup, two chairs and a series of floodlights set up over the chairs. He offers me a chocolate milk shake, and then suddenly I am sitting in this seat across from him in semidarkness as he leans over to me and asks, “Are you ready?”

  And before I can tell him, “Actually, no,” the lights are on me and the cameras are rolling.

  And this is how it goes:

  Newsguy: “You all remember Steven Crashinsky, who was a guest on our show earlier this year after dramatically negotiating a hostage crisis at his school in Westchester, New York, a sleepy suburb of New York City. For those of you who haven’t heard, Steven’s recently been in the news for a very different reason.”

  He turns to me.

  “Several photos have been published with you holding what appears to be a marijuana cigarette in hand with your arms around several unidentified women.” He is suddenly holding a giant poster version of the image.

  Me: “Girls. They’re in their teens. I don’t know if you can call them women.”

  Newsguy: “Are they friends of yours?”

  Me: “Acquaintances. I wouldn’t call them friends, no. Actually, I met them on Facebook, and that was the first time that we spent time together. And the last.” (No point in getting into the Claudia thing.)

  Newsguy: “How do you answer the charge that what you’re holding is marijuana?”

  Me, suddenly realizing that I couldn’t actually lie outright, even though I’m all about lying when it is necessary: “I deeply regret my actions that evening and recognize that they were irresponsible.” (Thinking in my ridiculously stoned mind that somehow Sally would be proud of me.) “I am now involved with a very important person in my life in a relationship that I believe will prevent this kind of mistake in the future.”

  Newsguy: “So you’re not denying it was marijuana, then?”

  Me: “No, I never said one way or the other. But I thought you said that we would talk about the future, not the past.”

  Newsguy: “But with all due respect, this incident happened just a week ago. We’re not talking several years or even months. And the point is, what people are asking is whether you were smoking marijuana.”

  Me (getting a little irritated, looking for my friends, who were out of my line of sight): “Yeah, it was marijuana.”

  Newsguy: “Was this a one-time event?”

  Me: “With these girls, sure.”

  Newsguy: “No, Steven, with all d
ue respect, I’m asking if you frequently smoke marijuana. If you smoked it before the night that these pictures were taken, if you have smoked since then.”

  I’m looking around, getting a little annoyed, thinking you know what, this guy probably gets high every night and now he’s acting like it’s such a major bad thing. I’m thinking about Felicia dropping the bag of Jacob’s perfect weed onto my father’s coffee table.

  Newsguy: “Steven?”

  Me: “You know what? Sure. Sure I’ve smoked before. Sure I’ve smoked since. We’re just talking about weed here, aren’t we? Am I missing the point or are you? Because frankly there is nothing wrong with smoking a little weed now and then. In fact, as you may remember from our last interview, the press made a big thing out of me having attention deficit disorder. So you know what? It is a known fact that marijuana helps people with ADD to focus. In fact, in case you’re forgetting, you can get medical marijuana legally in California. So yeah, I smoke weed. For medicinal purposes.”

  Newsguy (actually breaking into a smile for just a second, but then going back in the next instant to being a newsguy): “I’m not sure I understand. Are you saying that you have a prescription?”

  Me: “No, all’s I’m saying is that it helps me to focus sometimes. Is that such a bad thing?”

  Newsguy: “So then are you advocating that people with ADD smoke marijuana?”

  Me: “No, I’m not whatever-you-call-it for anything. Look, I’m just an eighteen-year-old kid looking to have a little fun in my last summer before college. Clearly, those pictures show a few people having a good time. When was the last time you had a good time?”

  Newsguy: “This isn’t about me.”

  Me: “Yeah, but when was the last time you smoked weed? The truth. If you’re gonna ask me that, then don’t I have a right to know about you?”

  Newsguy (definitely uncomfortable, so I’m thinking maybe I got him and he can be the news story instead of me): “Steven, what I’m hearing from you is that you’re making light of your use of what is currently an illegal substance. And that while you began this interview with apologies, it seems that you are unrepentant.”