But all that changed once the end-of-class bell rang.
A massive, swirling sea of students consumed me. There were the wild-eyed boys I’d seen at the Third Lake every summer—the Bud-toting, joint-smoking, music-blasting rabble-rousers clad in wifebeaters and Birdwell Beach Britches. But like me, they were now clad in heavy army surplus jackets, rock T-shirts, and jeans—their bodies growing taller, thicker with muscle, raging hormones sparking wild. And the girls’ doughy baby flesh had slowly melted away like the winter snow to reveal radiant and wholesome catalog model types, future queens of the Second Lake come June. Other students—tweaked out on puppy love, acid, or family problems—wandered lost. The rest—student council members, junior ROTC, Home Ec experts, and the occasional dreary-eyed wannabe devil worshipper with Ozzy scrawled all over notebooks and inverted five-pointed pentagrams scribbled onto the white tips of their sneakers—walked with purpose, as though once they graduated they already knew their path in life: college, the military, getting married, having babies, starting a band.
Hazy Me wondered about my own path. For years, my old man had harped on me, giving me the same old speech about the importance of education, saying how college was my ticket out. Maybe he was right. But I wasn’t completely convinced education’s road would lead me far enough from Blackwater. I’d seen too many people leave high school, go on to complete JC, even college, then end up back in town working long, grueling shifts at the power plant as secretaries, maybe even passing their NRC licensing tests to become dispatchers, or full-fledged operators. No way was that for me. When I busted out of Blackwater I wanted to be released into wide-open, radiation-free spaces.
The only trouble was getting there.
I continued staring at the ebb and flow of students. Gradually emerging from that sea was Callie. In a plain black sweater and plaid wool skirt, she clutched her books to her chest as she hobbled from class.
Though out of it, I could still sense something was wrong with her. Much like that night I’d taken her out on our first official date in my Vega, her red-rimmed eyes were staring off into space, seeing something only she could see. I didn’t bother speaking French. Just got down to basics. I had to call her name twice before she spotted me.
When she did, she came back to life, but only a little. “Mark, where were you this morning?”
As the sea of students continued flooding past us, I fished the ring from my coat pocket.
I figured it would’ve dazzled her, just like it had dazzled me when Grandmother had first revealed it. But that wasn’t the case. Callie’s response barely registered a blip on the interest scale: “Where did you get it?” she asked vacantly.
I was just about to say from my grandmother when I was slammed with a sudden case of dry mouth, one of the common side effects of Mom’s pills. At first, all that fell from my mouth were huge verbal cotton balls, nothing that made any sense. Callie cocked her head from side to side, not knowing what to make of my behavior. It only got worse when I began licking my lips and the inside of my mouth, trying to build up enough saliva to speak. To Callie, and anyone else walking by, I must’ve looked like a dog that had been fed peanut butter. Lick, lick, lick. Just when Callie asked if she should get an administrator’s assistance, I’d built up enough spit juice to say, “The ring…my grandma…she died this morning.”
That’s when Callie—the Callie I knew and loved—reemerged, if only momentarily. She placed her books on the floor, took me in her arms, pulled me into her. “I’m so sorry.”
I nuzzled deeper into her, placed the ring in her hand. “It’s for you,” I said.
At first she admired it like she’d received the finest gift on earth, something she’d believed no one would ever care to give her. But then that rare and precious look wilted into her shaking her head no.
When I asked what was up, she released her hold on me and took a wobbly step back. In a small voice—far smaller than the booming intercom voice announcing the two-minute warning before the beginning of next class—all Callie said was, “I can’t.”
While those pills and Grandmother’s death had afforded me a certain numbness, Callie’s words hit me hard. Had I been straighter, maybe I would’ve stumbled upon the right question to ask, or the perfect thing to do to get to the root of her troubles. But given my lousy track record with girls back then, even being drug- and guilt-free probably wouldn’t have helped. Right then, I figured the only way to win Callie over was to confess everything—the deathbed promise I’d made; how she was the right girl; how I’d love, honor, and protect her. Everything. Yet when I opened my mouth to speak, cottonmouth free, all I did was say much louder than I’d wanted, “Just take the ring!”
A few students—some of the remaining members of that trickling sea—stopped and stared. While they’d become immune to me getting my ass kicked by Terry, it was a rare occurrence to witness me forcing a proposal upon my girlfriend.
The whole scene upset Callie even more. “Look,” she said, staring more at that grimy floor than me. “Maybe I should—”
I hate to say it now, but back then, amidst those noisy students, the harsh lights, and the slosh of Mr. Dixon’s mop, all I wanted to do was hurt Callie. “Fine,” I said. I snatched the ring from her hand, stormed off down the hall. Didn’t even look back when I heard her trembling voice call my name numerous times.
Chapter 16
I stormed out of school, hopped in my car, popped two more pills. From there, I continued floating through town past the gun and ammo store, the funeral home, and the Rainbow Casket Company. Some time around noon, when Mom’s pills had fully kicked in, and temporarily freed me from that tug-of-war with death, my head lifted off my shoulders. Gone Me. Helium Balloon Me. All that dizzy free-floating reminded me of Baby. Since she was working dayshift, I figured her to be onstage at that moment. Her pale flesh, crazily thrown hair, and grinding hips—a dizzy, slow-mo flow. In the smoky spotlight she’d be shining like the countless saints I’d seen on Mom’s prayer cards as a kid.
Truth was, I’d never stopped thinking about her, even with Callie. Baby’s brightness, I was drawn to it. I floated over to the Little Red Dollhouse.
Once there, I cut the Vega’s engine, but left the key turned in the ignition so I could listen to tunes.
I leaned into my seat, drifted away on my Vicodin flying carpet. But what I saw was not some euphoric floating dream. Just Grandmother in the hospital hooked up to all those hoses and wires. That disturbing image—a Code 10-40—kept breaking and entering my heart. Rearranging its furniture, knocking it over, knocking me out.
Knock, knock, knock.
I woke to hear someone knocking on my car window. Through all the fog, I spotted Hazy Baby. I clicked off the stereo and rolled down the window to get a better look. In jeans, boots, and a parka, she was brushing windblown strands of hair from her face. As she did so, I noticed a change in her appearance. All the drugs and alcohol she’d downed since high school had tarnished some of her illuminated beauty.
“What’re you doing here?” she asked, her words turning to spirits as they met with the cold air. “Wanna thank me again for saving you from Terry?”
“I wanted to see how you were doing.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Shouldn’t you be in school, kid?”
“I’m where I wanna be,” I said. I stuck a hand in my jacket pocket, touched the velvet pouch. It was smooth and warm, like how I’d imagined Baby’s flesh might feel. I must’ve fallen too far into that dream because the next thing I heard was, “Yo, wake up.”
I opened my eyes, was back in my car.
Baby fixed me with a solid stare. “What’re you on?”
“Downers.”
She pursed her lip-glossed lips, and cooed, “Got any for me, Sugar Smack?”
At least I was better at drug math. I ran the numbers in my head. Started with six pills. Dow
ned two. Two for later. Last two for another day. “Nope.”
Baby let fly an exasperated sound. “Hogging all your drugs. Reminds me of someone.”
Not really giving a shit about his well-being, but at least grateful he was no longer around school, I felt obliged to ask, “How’s Terry?”
Baby rolled her eyes. “Crazier than ever.”
I shook my head. Just like my old man would shake his head when thoroughly disappointed in me. “You deserve better.”
“Oh yeah, Sugar Smack? Like who? You?”
I shrugged a why not.
That one made Baby laugh. “Yeah, right, kid.” She grew quiet. All we could hear was the occasional car slushing by on Route 9. Then she motioned back behind her. “Look, I gotta get to work.”
Blame it on the pills, my teenage wasteland brain, or my on-again, off-again Terry rivalry, but all I wanted to do was prove myself to her. As she walked away, I produced the ring. “Bet Terry doesn’t have one of these,” I called out.
Baby glanced over her shoulder. Unlike Callie’s lukewarm response, Baby’s eyes lit up. She headed back to the car, scoped out the ring. “Nice rock. Looks about a carat.”
“Howdja know that?” I asked.
“Practice, Sugar Smack. You wouldn’t believe the stuff guys try to give me. Some’s legit. But a lot’s complete shit.” She cupped her hands, blew air into them. Then she stuck those hands into her coat pockets. “You steal it?” she asked.
“It was my grandmother’s. She just died.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Baby.
Again, she grew quiet. Winter Silence. Feels Like a Million Years Before Spring Silence.
Baby broke that silence by asking, “Why’d she give it to you?”
“To give to the right girl when I found her.”
Baby laughed.
“What?” I said. “It’s true.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said.
The next thing I knew she’d snatched away the ring.
I reached a hand out the window to grab it.
She pulled away. “What? I’m not the right girl? You just said I was.”
“Sure you are,” I said. “I mean maybe. I dunno.” I was way too pill-and-death jangled to fully get what I was saying. Later, though, I’d realize what was lying beneath my messed up words was that concept Grandmother had shared while on her deathbed: trust. Add to that: lust. While those two worked together, in some form or another, to create affection, I’ve always been pretty clueless as to how to untangle those emotions, and order them into a sensible equation that would equal true love.
Baby was about to try on the ring then stopped. “Why don’t you put it on me, Sugar Smack.”
Whether or not she was messing with me, that wasn’t happening. When I slipped that ring on a girl’s finger it would be for real.
Once Baby saw I wasn’t budging, she slipped it on, flashed it in my face. “Looks like I’m the right girl whether you like it or not, Sugar Smack.” Then she stuffed that hand, which had jade polish chipped off bitten nails, into her coat pocket.
Referring to the ring, I said, “Give it back.”
Baby began walking away.
I leapt from the car. But Cloud-Legged Me wasn’t prepared for touchdown on solid ground. My knees buckled. I fell against the hard, icy dirt. I struggled to my feet, stumbled after Baby. Caught her by the shoulder, spun her around.
She stared me down. Wisps of windblown hair streaked across her dim face. “Easy, Sugar Smack. I was just teasing.”
Blame it on the pills, the guilt, or that deathbed promise, but I was determined to give the ring to someone that day. Since Callie wanted nothing to do with it, Baby seemed the next best choice. Not only had she, in her own way, saved me from Terry, she also had a far hotter body. Not that that really mattered. But if Callie was going to blow me off, screw it. “Keep it,” I said.
Baby was far wiser than me when it came to knowing the score. She scoped out my eyes, my manner, my ratty jeans, and dirty coat; she was just as good as my old man in the Sizing People Up Department. “Look,” she said. “Get it straight, kid. You’re not thinking right. A pretty ring like that shouldn’t be for someone like me.”
“What’re you talking about? You’re beautiful.”
Baby shook her head. Slipped off the ring, placed it in the palm of my hand, closed my cold fingers around it. “You might be a mess, Sugar Smack. But not as big a mess as me.”
Chapter 17
Yet again:
I continued drifting through town, feeling more like the aimless spirit of some poor soul that had been wiped out by Satan’s Tree than my flesh-and-blood self. The whole drive around Blackwater, I kept a hand on the velvet pouch containing Grandmother’s ring. While the drugs kept trying to spin me off high into the sky like the Wilbur Brothers Family Circus Ferris wheel, that ring kept me grounded, steering me safely through the reckless wintry streets. So funny, I thought back then, how only a few hours prior I couldn’t even give that ring away. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking of Callie. Despite her odd behavior, she’d been the one and only girl I’d truly considered the right one. Maybe that’s why when the Vega’s dashboard clock read the end of the school day, I pulled myself together—the best I could at the time—and headed to her bus stop.
About Callie’s bus stop.
A funky, blood-red house that also served as the Blackwater Diner. Had rusty pots, pans, skillets, saws, and knives hanging from the exterior siding. A string of tattered Budweiser and Coors flags—around the size of church bingo cards—ran along the sill. Worn carpets of all shapes, colors, and sizes were scattered across the barely exposed dirt lawn. The blue front door was covered in laminated photos of various locals and tourists that had eaten there. But the most notable feature was a wheelchair sitting by that front door. Sure, it served a purpose: an elderly person could rest there while waiting for a table, a patron could slump down into it, sleep off a drunk. But I always thought that wheelchair especially odd since Callie had to see it every day. Twice: on the way to school and home. When told by school officials that she could receive special consideration, get a stop closer to her house, she said she didn’t mind the two-block walk. Said she didn’t mind any of it at all.
Her bus—a huge monstrosity of a bruised banana beast, almost as sputtery as my Vega, and spitting out dark clouds of noxious diesel fumes—emerged from around the bend in the road. It puttered to a halt in front of the diner, grinding brakes shriller than a battalion of dog whistles. I helped Callie off the bus.
She wasn’t as withdrawn as earlier, but she wasn’t that sweet girl with the clear hazel eyes and wobbly smile either. At least she had the presence to notice that my frazzled pants, mop of wild hair, and wanted-poster gaze had marked me far more fucked up than earlier. “Mark,” she said, “I’ve been worried about you.”
I told her I’d been feeling the same way about her. “Here,” I said. “Let’s go to my car.”
“Good,” she said, warming up a bit more. “We need to talk.”
The way she said talk seemed odd. Plus, her eyes appeared more red-rimmed than earlier. Had I been more with it, I would’ve immediately understood what she was getting at. Instead, I said, “Good. I like it when we talk.”
We got in my car. I clicked on the heater, then popped The Replacements into the tape deck: “Here Comes a Regular.” The clear chiming of an acoustic guitar, along with Paul Westerberg’s heart-strained vocals, hovered low and mournful around Callie and me. Again, I fished the ring from my coat pocket. Just when it seemed I could actually say those words I hadn’t been able to say earlier, Callie beat me to the punch.
“I’m leaving.”
At first, my fuzzed-out brain heard that as she was weaving. That was crazy, I thought. What did weaving have to do with not taking the ring? I let a laugh fly.
“
What’s so funny?” asked Callie.
“Nothing. Wait. What did you just say?”
That’s when I heard those words loud and clear. To those words, she added, “My family is heading to Arizona. My dad got a transfer.” Those familiar worry creases bloomed across Callie’s forehead. “You’re mad, aren’t you?”
I wasn’t sure how I felt. All I knew for certain was that those I’d loved only seemed to leave. Part of me wanted to cry, but another part of me had forgotten how. So I just sat there.
Callie, however, cried for the two of us. Her body shook. No amount of me holding her could make her stop. The windows began fogging. It became harder and harder to see the diner, and the rest of the outside world.
Once she’d collected herself, she wiped at her face with her sweater sleeve, then choked out a laugh. I asked her what was so funny.
“Here I am a one-legged girl getting out of Blackwater before you.” She paused. Maybe she was thinking of what to say next, or perhaps she’d detected a look on my face that made her add: “I’m sorry you’re not leaving, too.”
Just then, I caught sight of my eyes in the rearview mirror. Those numbed-out, broken eyes were like Mom’s eyes the day she left home. What I could never bring myself to say to her then, I found myself saying to Callie, “I’m glad you’re getting out.”
New Jersey Me Page 15
