Character, Driven

by David Lubar

  I didn’t know what she wanted, but I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted to hold her so close, there was no way to tell where I ended and she began. I wanted to slide my hands down her back and cup that sweet ass in my hands. I wanted to grind my hips against her. I wanted all of that and more. I settled, happily, for less. It was still the best dance I’d ever been to.

  Especially near the end, when the lead singer said, “You’ve been a great audience, and I have a surprise for you. A couple of our good friends are passing through town on their way home from a national tour.”

  He paused to let that sink in.

  “No way…” I whispered to Jillian.

  “They’ve agreed to join us for a song or two,” he said. “I’m pretty sure you’ll all recognize them. Let’s give them a big hand.”

  “It can’t be…” Jillian said.

  It was.

  And they played a slow song.

  Yeah. I got to hear Mack and Mary, and I got to do it while Jillian was in my arms. It wasn’t a whole concert, but it was perfect. I realized Jillian was rewriting my life. All the bad things I’d experienced were unwinding in wonderful and affirmative ways. I felt like a counter-clockwork orange.

  So, all in all, life had become amazingly good. I had a girlfriend, I had other good friends, I’d moved up the popularity ladder a couple rungs, and I even had a slight bit of an idea about what sort of real career I could think about pursuing if I could somehow make it all the way through college. My birthday was coming. I’d finally be eighteen, and able to get my license. After all these years of being driven, I’d get to drive. I’d even figured out the perfect argument to convince Dad it made sense to spend some of the savings he controlled on a car for me. If I had wheels, I could get better-paying jobs. He couldn’t argue with that.

  In a novel or a movie, this moment of happiness is the point where everything would fall apart, and I would be crushed by disaster, break up with Jillian, and spend the rest of the story trying to repair our relationship and win back her heart. As you can see from the size of what remains, that won’t be the case. Which doesn’t mean there aren’t bad and brutal things ahead. The worst is yet to come.

  [Ab|Pro|Se] duction

  ON FRIDAY, WHICH was the last full day before graduation, I got slipped a surprise from Mr. Piccaro on my way out of Calculus. “I’ll catch up with you,” I told Jillian.

  He’d written, May this help you get lost in time, on the wrapper. When I tore it open, I found not a time-travel novel but a blank journal. Inside the front cover, he’d written, May this help you find yourself.

  “Lost and found,” I said.

  He didn’t slip off like a spy. He hovered near me like he was watching a friend leave for a new life in a foreign country. “Last one, I guess,” he said. “Unless you get held back.”

  “Unlikely, though tantalizing,” I said, offering him a handshake. “So long, and thanks for all the books.”

  He smiled, letting me know he’d caught the Douglas Adams reference. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  I thought about everything he’d given me during the past school year. “Was there a lesson?”

  “Probably. But that’s between you and the authors. Good luck. Stay in touch.”

  “Speaking of that … If I had questions about teaching, would it be okay if I asked you?”

  He smiled like someone who’d just scored a goal in a tough soccer game. “Any time.” With that, he slipped off.

  “A book?” Jillian asked when I caught up with her.

  “More like a kit,” I said. I’d told her about Mr. Piccaro a while ago. I realized I’d need to find a new source of books. “Instead of the diner, want to go to the library?”

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Stuff.”

  There was something evasive in her tone. I didn’t press for an explanation. She wasn’t my property. She could do what she wanted. But my irrational fear that something would go wrong because everything was going so well got a tiny boost from that exchange. She didn’t talk much at all during Art, either. On top of that, Robert and Butch seemed unusually quiet at lunch.

  “There are no curses,” I muttered as I got up from my desk in Government at the end of the day. “Everything is going great. There’s no reason that would change.” School was over for the week, and I had a birthday to celebrate tomorrow. Not that my parents would do much. Mom would get me a present. Dad would scowl and remind me that he could now legally kick me out of the house.

  Jillian dashed off the instant the bell rang. I tried to think of anything I might have done to annoy her, but nothing came to mind. Last night, I’d put my hand on her breast when we were making out. It was halfway accidental, and more to the side than right on top. I moved it as soon as I realized where it was. Okay, not instantly. But I didn’t linger long enough for her to pull my hand away.

  “Star-crossed lovers,” Ms. Ryder said as I went past her desk.

  “What?” Did she know something I didn’t?

  She held up the entertainment section from last Sunday’s paper. “There’s a nice review of Romeo and Juliet. I saved it for you.” She pointed to the headline: SHAKESPEARE’S STAR-CROSSED LOVERS DAZZLE AND BEGUILE AT ST. JASPER’S.

  “Thanks.”

  “They said Juliet stole the show.”

  “I agree.” We talked a bit more. I understood. She’d missed the play and wanted to at least get a secondhand taste of what it had been like.

  After I’d shared all the details I could remember, I thanked her for the newspaper and headed out.

  “Cliff,” she said as I reached the door.

  “What?”

  “Thinking back, I imagine I probably shouldn’t have asked you to play ‘The Riddle Song.’ It’s not really a crowd-pleaser.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “I had the feeling anything I tried to do at that moment would just have made things worse.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. It worked out pretty well, in the end.”

  I headed down the hall toward the gym.

  Might as well go home.…

  The school was pretty much empty now. I spotted Nicky leaning on the wall by the water fountain outside the locker room door. I waved. He obviously saw me, but he didn’t wave back. At least he stayed put. If he’d dashed off, too, I’d know for sure I’d done something wrong.

  “Hey,” I said when I reached him. “What’s up?”

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  I was going to make a joke of some sort, but as my brain was shuffling through the various branching humor paths that could be used to construct a reply, I noticed his expression was scarily serious, like he was searching for the person who’d keyed his car or egged his house.

  “Uh, okay,” I said. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Not here.” He dropped an arm across my shoulders, bent it just enough to trap the back of my neck, which wasn’t much bend at all, given the size of his muscles, and started walking down the hall.

  I went along with him. The only other choice would have been a slow decapitation reminiscent of pulling a piece of warm taffy apart. My brain abandoned a hunt for humor and began a search for anything I could possibly have said or done that might have angered my friends.

  Nothing.

  Wait!

  This morning, when Butch held out her wrist for me to smell her new perfume, I’d said, “Fruity.”

  I’d meant “fruitlike.” But what if Nicky had been walking behind me at that point and thought I was calling him names?

  I could try to explain that to him, but I realized he could be pissed about something totally different, and I’d only be making things worse. Maybe he’d decided my “gay” comment after my fight with Clovis was unacceptable. It would be smart to wait and see.


  But what if he started to choke me? Some people get angry slowly. Others snap unexpectedly and lash out. His anger could be building with each step.

  Oh, hell. What if Jillian didn’t like that I’d sniffed Butch’s wrist? But she knew Butch and I were just friends.

  Nicky led me down to the basement. I realized he was taking me to the band room. There was no light coming through the space at the bottom of the door. The hallway was dark, too, as if someone had turned off most of the lights. This was starting to resemble an organized effort. Not that Nicky needed help if he wanted to squash me.

  Every rubout scene from every mob movie I’d ever watched ran through my mind. I wondered whether I’d get a baseball bat across the kneecaps or a bullet in the back of my head.

  Nicky reached past me with his free hand, turned the knob, and pulled the door open. “You’re about to get what you deserve,” he said.

  He pushed me inside the dark room. I tripped, fell, and hit my knees. I heard him coming in behind me.

  The lights blazed on.

  I hunched down and raised my hands to cushion my head, bracing for another beating.

  “Surprise!”

  Jillian, Butch, Robert, and Jimby were there, standing beneath a banner that proclaimed, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Butch was holding a cake, complete with unlit candles. The others were holding presents.

  I looked over my shoulder at Nicky. “You almost made me shit my pants,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Hey, ‘almost’ only counts in hand grenades and horseshit. I’m glad you bought it. Happy birthday, bitch.”

  Jillian dragged a small cooler from under the table and pulled out a two-liter bottle of cola. She’d also brought party cups with HAPPY BAR MITZVAH, MIKEY on them. “They were on sale,” she said.

  Butch got a Zippo from her pocket and started lighting the candles.

  My folks had thrown parties for me when I was little. But my last few birthdays had been lonesome affairs, and nobody had ever done anything like this. I could feel myself dangerously close to choking up, like those people on TV who’d just won the lottery or survived a tornado. I didn’t want that. I pushed against my emotions and got control.

  Butch stepped forward with the cake. “Baked it myself,” she said. “From scratch.”

  “And cooked all of this up?” I asked.

  “With some help.” She nodded toward the others.

  I thought about how I’d been sidetracked in Government. “Ms. Ryder, too?” I asked.

  “Yup,” Robert said. “She was happy to assist us in your delay, but unwilling to actively participate in an unsanctioned use of school property. But I promised her a photo. And I think I got a great shot of you cringing in terror.”

  “No Internet,” I said.

  He flashed me a grin. “Of course not.”

  “Thanks, Butch,” I said. “Thanks, everyone.”

  “It’s Penelope,” she said.

  “Penelope?” The syllables felt foreign on my tongue. “No nickname? You’re going with your real name?”

  “I’m tired of that game,” she said. “I’m heading off to college soon. I need to find out who I am, and I think that starts with not trying to be someone else.”

  “I don’t know if they’re ready for a force of nature like you up in Syracuse,” I said.

  Butch—I’ll refer to her that way for the remainder of this story, so as not to confuse things—gave me a funny grin. “It’s Rutgers,” she said. “I switched.”

  “What? That’s where Robert is going.”

  “I know.” Butch and Robert exchanged a meaningful look.

  “Seriously?” I asked. I realized I hadn’t seen her with Judah in ages, and Princeton had been out for at least two weeks.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” she said. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  I thought about Butch, her long, silky hair, her compact body, and her amazing mind. She’d been briefly unattached, and I’d been unaware. I doubt, had I known, I would have chased after her. But that didn’t keep my mind from going where it wanted. That’s another dark secret about me. I suspect it might be a secret every guy harbors. Whenever I hear that any hot female is suddenly available, even if she’s a movie star, model, or singer who would never in a billion years even glance at me or cross my path, I fantasize briefly about the impossible possibilities. I guess, just like schadenfreude is the flicker of a smile you get when you hear about someone else’s suffering, there should be a word for the flicker of hope you feel when you hear about someone’s availability.

  “Don’t worry,” Jillian said, draping an arm across my shoulders. The scent of her shampoo brought me back to the real world and reminded me that, thanks to her, my life right now was far better than any fantasy. “They’ll still let you hang out with them. You have your charms.”

  “But forget about the front seat,” Robert said.

  “That’s enough revelations for one party,” Butch said. “Let’s get back to you, and that wonderfully humiliating tradition I’ve been looking forward to all day.”

  Robert had brought his father’s guitar. “I spent all evening learning this,” he said. He strummed what seemed to be random chords while everyone sang “Happy Birthday.”

  Butch held the cake toward me and said, “Make a wish.”

  I glanced at Jillian, blushed, pushed my mind away from the biochemical frenzy the wish had sparked in my groin area, and blew out the candles.

  Cake is just as awesome as pie, especially when shared with friends who are aware you are there. And when the icing has been applied by someone who appreciates excess.

  I think everyone says, No, I don’t want a party. But, the truth is, a party is nice. And a surprise is even nicer. Especially if you’ve never had one.

  “Open mine first,” Robert said, handing me a present.

  It was a half dozen of those pine tree deodorizers you hang from a rearview mirror. “For when you get your car,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of make, model, or year it will be, but I’m sure it will require many of these.”

  Robert held up another present.

  “Two?” I asked. “What did you do with the real Robert?”

  “It’s not from me,” he said. “Ms. Ryder asked me to give it to you.”

  It was a book. The Water Is Wide. It looked like it had something to do with teaching.

  Nicky handed me a plastic card. It was a gym membership. “Free pass. Use it as often as you want. A friend of my parents’ owns the place, and I work there sometimes as a trainer. You just have to promise not to wear a shirt.”

  As I stared at him, he said, “I’m kidding, dimwad. Nobody wants to see your scrawny body.”

  Jimby laughed and said, “Keep your shirt on, Cliff.”

  “How about we drop the subject of my torso and get back to the presents?” I said.

  Butch gave me a book of poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins. I wasn’t familiar with him. “Something to balance the macho street brawler side of you,” she said. “We don’t want you launching into a life of thuggery, just because you’re good with your fists.”

  Jillian also gave me a book. The Artist’s Way. “Every artist should read this,” she told me.

  “Here,” Jimby said, handing me something that turned out to be enveloped in five or six feet of wrapping paper. It was an Incredible Hulk action figure. I think it came from his collection, and reflected his view of me, which made it all the more meaningful.

  “Thanks,” I said. “This gets a special spot on my desk.”

  We ate cake and drank soda. The guys mocked me in the affectionate way that North Jersey friends do. Eventually, people drifted off.

  And then there were two.

  I looked around the band room—empty except for Jillian and me. Were we going to make out? This wasn’t exactly the perfect place. The main character in Stranger in a Strange Land, Valentine Michael Smith, who grew up on Mars, is an amazing kisser because he gives the kiss his total concentration in a way that peo
ple raised on Earth can’t do. I wanted more of those deep wet kisses and gentle neck bites we’d exchanged, but I knew I’d be distracted, waiting for someone to walk in and catch us in an unsanctioned use of school property. Even so, the thought of snuggling with Jillian, and maybe testing how much further we could go, set my blood racing.

  As I followed that line of thought, Jillian faced me and took my hands. “My mom had to take the train into the city. She’ll be gone until late this evening, birthday boy.”

  “Then we’ve got your place to ourselves.” I tossed that line out as a joke and added an exaggerated wink so Jillian would know I wasn’t trying to take advantage of her.

  “Exactly,” she said. She didn’t wink. She didn’t laugh. She leaned forward and kissed me, then said, “Let’s go.”

  Coming of Age

  “WE HAVEN’T BEEN going out long,” I said.

  “Are you trying to talk me out of this?” Jillian asked.

  “No!” I sorted through my feelings as I stood in her living room. Nice girls didn’t sleep with guys this easily. Or did they? Jillian was a nice girl. “It’s just—I can’t believe I’m so lucky.” I flinched at the word “lucky.” Guys always talked about getting lucky, which was another just slightly less crude way of saying they got laid. I didn’t want to imply anything demeaning.

  “Shhhh.” She pressed a finger against my lips. “I’m not a slut. I’m not a whore or an easy piece of ass. I’d never rush into sleeping with someone. I like you a lot. But I can tell from the way you fight to keep your eyes from straying, and the way you tense up when we touch, that one thing fills up most of your mind most of the time. Right?”

  “Guilty.” I shuddered at the idea that my lust was so badly hidden. Before I could say anything in my defense, she went on.

  “You are so obsessed with this that it would stand in the way of any kind of real relationship between us. And I very much want a real relationship with you. You’re a great guy. You’re smart and sensitive. You stand up for people. You can be funny without being crude. You love nature. You’re nice to waitresses. We’re good together. Maybe even great. We need to take this step. As much for me as for you. So, shut that sweet, hot mouth of yours. Okay?”