When my doorbell rang this morning it didn’t surprise me; I felt like the Egyptians must have when the rivers had already turned to blood and the cattle had all died: Ho hum, locusts. Guess Ahmed wins the plague pool. When I opened the door Douglas was standing there looking both sheepish and dashing in an off-white linen suit.
“Oh, Douglas, you didn’t get another one, did you?” I said. “I just can’t be late to homeroom anymore. This is an important semester, and some of us don’t have the classical-musician thing to put on our college applications.”
Douglas put a finger to his lips and smiled like an elf. With his other hand he held up a small bottle of greenish liquid, superimposing it over his face so he looked like a leprechaun.
“You found some!” I said. “Wherever did you find some?”
“Oh, let’s just say I managed to procure some in my travels in the underground,” he said.
I stood aside to let him in. “That’s right,” I said. “I forgot you live among the depraved now.”
“I have always lived among the depraved,” he said. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me?” He was twisting his voice like a wet towel, wringing it tight into casual tones. This takes practice, but it works on most people. I can spot it a mile away, though. It’s in the eyes. Douglas was scared.
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Come on in before you’re spotted with a controlled substance.”
“I told Lily,” he said, suddenly and too loudly. He finally took the bottle of absinthe down from his face. Now he just looked like a person.
“Come on in,” I said again, and he came on in and I hugged him. I felt his arms, warm through the linen. Suddenly there was a reason to leave the house and see other humans, because some of them were good.
“I’m proud of you,” I said.
He stood there and gestured emptily, five times. “I’m proud of me, too,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“How did she take it?”
“Well, you know Lily. She had to think about it. She told me she wanted to think about it for a few days.” He shrugged.
“Oh, Douglas,” I said.
“Everything’s messed up,” he said. “I messed everything up.”
Dr. Tert: We’ve found that a general feeling of helplessness often leads to experimentation with substances.
“Everything might be messed up,” I said, “but you didn’t do it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, looking at the carpet.
“I have to get to homeroom,” I said. “Are you going to give me a ride?”
“Proudly,” he said, suddenly grinning. “I mean, who cares if we’re seen together in the student parking lot, once it’s known that I, um, don’t worship at your church?”
“Don’t shop at my store,” I offered. Suddenly it was easy.
“Don’t eat at your salad bar.”
“Don’t play my board game.”
“Haven’t mastered your instrument,” he said, and we drove to school shrieking with laughter like happy-go-lucky teenagers on a joyride.
Felicia Vane: It’s a joyride. I can quit whenever I want to, but I don’t want to. It makes me feel–happy-go-lucky.
Mrs. Rule: That’s sad.
Peter Pusher: That’s not sad. That’s pathetic!
Winnie: Dr. Tert?
Dr. Tert: Well, I think we should try and be fair. It’s both sad and pathetic.
“So, when do you think we should do this?” Douglas the Leprechaun said. You know, leprechauns are neither sad nor pathetic. Think about that, honored guests and experts. Airline passengers, bookstore browsers. True-crime freaks.
I took the bottle from him and regarded it. The greenish liquid inside was iridescent and a little thick. I looked through it at everything: dear, brave Douglas; the dreary student parking lot; the fogged-in Lake Merced; the lanky, awkward figure of my Applied Economics teacher Gladys Tall carrying an overhead projector to the side entrance, the cord trailing behind her like something umbilical. Everything looked magical through this green liquid. It looked like a pastoral place, a better place.
Mrs. Rule: Of course, many teens use absinthe for escape. They see a drug-induced haze as a means of getting away from the pressures of everyday life.
Peter Pusher: What pressures do kids have nowadays? Which channel to watch? They don’t have any real pressures. You’re just making excuses for them.
“Friday night?” I said. “That feels really far away, but we don’t want to do drugs on a school night. Plus, all eight of us probably won’t be free until the weekend.” How’s that for self-responsibility, Peter? Incidentally, nice toupee you’ve got there.
“Maybe you and I should do a trial run,” Douglas said. He looked shyly at me and I realized suddenly that at least for now I was his only friend. “You know, try it ourselves before springing it on everyone.”
“Good idea,” I said. For the first time the prickly sensation of possibly doing something very stupid began its caterpillar walk down my spine. It was not an unpleasant feeling. “Tomorrow, after school?” I asked. “We could go to my house.”
“Great,” he said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I must have jumped, because then he jumped and looked at me like I was going to swat him across the nose with a newspaper.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything’s going to be OK.”
The first thing I saw when I entered my beloved high school was Kate, leaning against her locker and talking with Adam. Could I have just one easy day, here? Could I just get home one day and have nothing to write in this journal? And it’s Monday. What sort of cosmic deal do I have to make?
Peter Pusher: If kids got back to the Lord, they’d find that all of these so-called pressures would go up in smoke. And I’m not talking about the smoke of absinthe!
“Hey, kids,” I said, and I heard my voice sound perfectly unconcerned. I even caught myself looking over the tops of their heads so they’d suspect there was someone more interesting in the background. “What’s up?”
They were friendly, unruffled. Both of them. Adam.
“Same shit, different day,” Kate said, rolling her eyes heavenward. Adam smiled thinly at me and shoved his hands in my pockets. I mean, his pockets. There, did you hear it? Gurgling, clear as–oh, of course you can’t hear it. Maybe when this book is put on tape for carpooling commuters who can’t read without getting carsick they can add the gurgling, thick and loud.
“How was your weekend?” Kate asked. There was no guile in her voice or in her eyes, but you can’t see it in the face of the good Dr. Moprah, either.
“Oh, you know,” I said. “The sun came up; the sun came down. I think I had too much fun Saturday night.”
“Fun is an interesting choice of word,” Kate said. “I heard you and Natasha were out of control.”
That damn usher. I tried to clear my head rather than strangle my friend. “Speaking of which,” I said, “we need to meet vis-à-vis our upcoming activity on Friday night.”
“We certainly do,” Kate said, pretending to know what the hell I was talking about.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about,” I said, “but you will soon. Lunch, maybe?”
“We don’t have lunch at the same time,” she said, smiling. Her eyes met Adam’s for a second. “What’s the big secret?”
“Sorry,” I said, stage-glancing hurriedly at Adam, “members only.”
I should have known better than to attempt this game with Kate, so early in the morning. She could match me stroke for stroke. “Oh,” she said, in a resigned, indulgent voice. “Adam, would you excuse us?”
“Actually, I need to talk to Flan, too,” Adam said. His hands were still in his pockets and he was still looking at Kate. They looked at each other like two people pausing before an open door, negotiating who was going to enter first, not caring much.
“I’ll catch you later,” Kate said. “I need to copy over this French homework anyway or Millie will eat me for lunch.” She waved at
us and walked lazily off. Adam turned and considered me, like a waiter on break. Would he do me the favor of refilling my water glass?
“I have nothing to say to you,” I said. Paradoxical but true, like just about everything in this journal.
“Well, I have something to say to you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“That’d be a lot more convincing if you weren’t lounging around against lockers,” I said. “Like, for instance, if you were saying it to me on the phone. Yesterday.”
“I had to spend all day with my family yesterday,” he said.
“And the day before that?”
“What?”
“You know, Saturday? Six-thirty? Death Before Decaf before dinner?”
“You have to turn everything into a joke, don’t you?” he said.
“What happened?” I said. I felt my whole body lean forward, like those bean sprouts we all had to plant in first grade, winding their way around construction-paper barriers with your names scrawled across them in primitive printing, reaching for the sun. I was trying to be furious at him, but all my fury was shunted by the photosynthesis of love. “Photosynthesis of Love,” nice title, that. Keep it.
Adam looked down at the ground and kicked Roewer’s floor with his foot. He suddenly had the dejectedness of Douglas and I wondered briefly if everyone I kissed was turning gay.
“I just”–he made some sweep with his arm–“I just have a lot going on right now. I’m sorry. I just have all this…stuff to deal with.”
Understanding sunk in me like a stone in water, settling me, making me heavier. He had a lot going on. “Hey, that’s OK,” I said. “I just wondered where you were, that’s all. It’s a rough year.”
He looked up. “That’s it exactly,” he said like I discovered penicillin. “It’s a rough year. I guess I’m sort of a mess.”
“Well, unfortunately, my life is perfect right now, so I can’t relate at all,” I said, and he smiled and put his hand on my shoulder, warming me through. I stood on tiptoe to kiss him, but he didn’t stop smiling. It was just one flat kiss against his cute grin, but it was enough. No kiss of fire, but it was enough. “Call me soon,” I said, and he nodded. The bell rang and I scooted off to homeroom, but even over the rush of all the other latecomers I heard him sigh with what I thought, back then, a naive little high school student, was fondness and not relief.
Dr. Tert: Flannery Culp wanted her life to be a bed of roses.
Winnie: Don’t we all want our lives to be beds of roses?
Dr. Tert: Yes, but Flannery didn’t know how to stop and smell the roses that were in her bed.
Peter Pusher: What I think was wrong with Flannery Culp–what I think is wrong with all delinquent teenagers Flannery’s age–is that there is anything–or anybody–in her bed at all.
Thunderous applause.
Tuesday October 5th
V__ picked me up from the bus stop this morning, just as I was considering skipping another day. “Thanks,” I said, and V__ gave me a kiss on the cheek as she pulled out. I put V__’s elegant little purse and silk scarf on my lap so I wouldn’t squash them flat when I sat down. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you,” V__ said primly. “I can’t finish the croissant on the dashboard. It’s yours if you like.” I peeked in the paper bag: almond, my favorite. I looked down at my enormous jeans.
“No thanks,” I said, “I’m stuffed.” I’m still hungry as I’m writing this down in Calc. I should have eaten that croissant.
Q.E.D.’s Gurgle and Buzz album, a record I really like, was playing quietly as V__ headed toward the faculty lot as usual. “I wanted to ask you something,” she said, motioning to the nervous freshmen who were craning their necks to see if they could walk safely in front of the car or if V__ was going to run them over.
“Ask away,” I said.
“Well, I have something of an unrequited crush on my hands, and I thought you might have some advice for me.”
“Who’s the crush on?”
She looked down at her parking brake, putting it in place and keeping her hand on it. “Steve Nervo.”
“Really?” I squeaked. Steve Nervo is this gorgeous leather-jacketed guitarist who has a permanent hold on Most Popular every year. The stuff written about him in the first-floor girls’ bathroom stalls would make Peter Pusher’s hairpiece stand on end. I’d always assumed V__, elegant V__ who wears real pearls to school, was above having a crush on the boy everybody has a crush on. On whom everybody has a crush.
“I can’t see it,” I said. “I picture you with some well-dressed gentleman.”
“Like Douglas?” she said.
“No,” I said. “Definitely not like Douglas.”
She looked at me curiously. “Why’d you say it like that?”
“Um, nothing,” I said. “Actually, thinking about it for a second, it could work. The gritty rock star putting the nice girl from the nice family on the back of his motorcycle and riding away.”
“Well, not on a motorcycle,” she said with a look of distaste.
“And would Satan approve?” No, no, Mrs. State, we called V__’s mother Satan, remember?
“Well, probably not, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s not going to happen. That’s why I thought you might have some advice for me.” She opened the door of the car and put one perfectly toned leg out gingerly onto the asphalt.
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” she said, taking her elegant little purse from me and glancing behind her at the backseat, looking for something. “You have an unrequited crush and I thought you might, I don’t know, have little exercises that you do or something, to get your mind off it. Did you see a scarf lying around here?”
“I’ll have you know,” I said stiffly, “that my love life is anything but unrequited. I had a date with Adam this week-end.”
“You did?” she said. “Well, that is exciting. I can’t believe I didn’t hear about this. How did it go?”
“Fine, fine,” I said quickly. Oh, Lord, strike me down now. “I don’t really want to talk about it, I’m afraid I’ll jinx it. Don’t tell anyone, OK?”
“Of course not, of course not,” V__ said vaguely, and too quickly. Shit. “Did you see a scarf when you sat down? Real silk? I forget the label.”
“No,” I said, opening my door and getting out of the car. “You know, I think I’ll eat that croissant after all.”
“Bon appétit,” she said. “Maybe I put it in the trunk? Who knows? I’m so spacey this morning. Hold on a second. That’s great about your date, Flan. Oh, but won’t Gabriel mind? Where is that scarf?” V__ flitted around, finally getting out of the car and going to the trunk. I grabbed the croissant bag and shut my door. The trunk sprung open but there was no scarf inside, of course.
“I could have sworn I had it this morning,” V__ said. “I always wear it with this outfit. It brightens it. Has it just fallen off the earth, or what?”
“This is a big trunk,” I heard myself saying, suddenly. “I bet you could fit a whole person in here, if you scrunched him in.”
V__ looked at me blankly. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ll see you later.” In a whiff of some expensive floral perfume I was left alone with my pastry. Now, as Baker babbles about some difficult problem–“Do something,” he’s saying, as if it’s always that easy–I’m regretting eating that pastry. My legs seem to have bloated even since this morning, even considering the bulge of wadded-up silk in my right-hand pocket.
LADDER
If you think about it, later and ladder are really the same word because time is straight up and down, like a later. I mean, ladder. Douglas is sitting on the couch, and you probably won’t believe this but I’m realizing that even from here on the floor, lying on my stomach, I can see his fibers. I mean, his suit’s. Plus I can see the fibers of the upholstery, merging with the fibers of his suit. It’s all held together by fibers, I’m realizing. In fact, if you think about it, strands are fibers too, like DNA st
rands. I guess Jim Carr has taught me something. Actually, he’s taught me a lot. I guess that’s why he’s a teacher. Douglas’s eyes keep getting wider and wider, which is a little freaky. What time is it? Time is like a ladder, oops wrote that already. It’s just that this leprechaun juice is making me feel time so acutely, curling around me like a smooth snake, squeezing out my breath before I know it. Or like a silk scarf, ha ha.
Wednesday October 6th
Ron Piper announced the play today, finally. We were all lounging in the auditorium, making our seats squeak and talking about nothing, when Ron Piper walked to center stage and clapped for our attention.
“Shouldn’t that go the other way?” Kate asked, and Ron smiled and rolled his eyes at us.
“If I waited for you to clap for me…” he said, and everyone laughed. He put his hands on his skinny hips as he began his speech, and for the first time I realized that Douglas is really thin, too; is that some genetic thing? Maybe I’ll ask Douglas. Oh, God, that’s so tacky: Maybe I’ll ask Douglas, my gay friend. If Douglas died in a car accident they’d probably put up a mural triptych of him with, I don’t know, Oscar Wilde and Plato. Was Plato the gay Greek?
“In the years past,” Ron said, “we’ve been doing drawing-room comedies and standard mysteries, and those always worked well. Very well, in fact. I think you all have really grown as actors.” Here I looked down at the auditorium floor, modestly eyeing the ancient gum. I had played the murderess in last year’s mystery, hiding my evil with such skill that the audience always gasped when Kate stumbled upon the crucial clue that incriminated me. “I think you’re ready for something more important. You might be intimidated by this choice, but if you let me work with you”–this is a phrase he always used–“I know we can do it. Some of you won’t be intimidated, I know”–here Kate looked pseudo-modestly at the floor–“because some of you have been itching to do something like this.”
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