by Michael West
This final incident had forced her family’s move from Chicago to Harmony, an attempt to remove the “bad elements” and turn their sweet daughter around. Deidra always found it ironic that they picked a town where the bars outnumbered the traffic lights, but it worked. She made a conscious decision to start a new life.
The inner demons never fully left her, however.
There were times – when friends were drinking, when things were bad at school, when relationships were failing – that she could feel them banging on the inner wall of her skull, begging ... no, demanding her to bring a bottle to her lips and let them out to play.
How could someone as flawless as Paul love someone so flawed?
Another tear grew heavy in her eye and rolled down her cheek, racing to catch up to the ones that had gone before it. The golden half-charm hung down from the chain around Paul’s neck, winking in the spotlight of afternoon sun. She found its mate lying on her chest and held it up to complete the inscription. Deidra was certain of her love. That was enough for her to want to believe in his.
“You really like the charms?” Paul asked.
“I love ’em.” She kissed his forehead. “We should get going.” She let go of the necklaces, rolled onto her knees and wiped her leaking eyes as she pulled her sweatpants and underwear from the straw.
Outside, voyeur crows remained perched on the tractor. They watched the shapes in the straw dress, watched them grab up their backpacks, then took flight.
Fifteen
As Paul and Deidra traipsed through the woods, the distant sounds of a soiree grew louder in their ears. Trees along the trail formed a kind of Wide Game museum. Initials were carved into the bark; some paired, imprisoned within hearts, others alone or beneath sayings like CLASS OF ’79 ROCKS and GO REBELS! Gradually, as the forest thinned, the sights that met Paul’s eyes were part picnic, part carnival.
People were everywhere.
Nancy, Cindi, and the rest of the cheerleading squad danced on the rocks. A huge ghetto blaster at their feet broadcast Yello’s “Oh Yeah,” dueling with another, distant stereo’s speed metal guitar (Metallica, or perhaps Megadeth, it was all the same to Paul’s ears). Someone managed to drag a rusted, red Radio Flyer wagon to the site, loaded down with a cooler full of Budweiser. Paul watched as Mark Peck shook one of the cans, popped it open, and doused Amy Hoffman. A volleyball net stood in the soft grass to the left, an enthusiastic game in progress. A line of kids in swimsuits, Sean and Danny among them, dove from a tall cliff into the quarry below. Close to the edge of the woods, a couple moved beneath an argyle blanket, a blanket that hid the sight of their sex but not the reality of it. They were far enough from the action not to be tripped over, but close enough for the act to be considered daring. And last, but not least, the smoke of burning pot wafted through the air; its sickening sweet odor filled Paul’s nostrils and made him blink.
“This brings back memories,” Deidra said.
Paul looked at her, watched her face tighten into an expression of distaste. “You all right?”
“Fine,” she lied, then shook her head. “Ancient history. I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Bore me.”
She wagged her head again, tried to shake off whatever it was that had hitched a ride on her brain, then she brought her eyes up to his. “Don’t let me do anything stupid, okay?”
“Too late,” Paul told her sarcastically. “You’re dating me, remember?”
She smiled a little at that; not much of a smile, but it was a start. “How could I forget?”
He glanced around the festival, at one hedonistic display after another, then lifted the camera from his side. “I should get some footage of this.”
“I know,” she said. The late afternoon sun outlined her body and highlighted the curls of her hair, granting her the look of an angel. “Why don’t I get with Nancy and the other girls? We can meet up when you’re done.”
There was still a little bit of sadness in her eyes. She started to walk away and Paul grabbed her by the arm to stop her. “You sure you’re okay?”
Her smile widened a bit and she drew closer to him, brought her lips to his cheek. “I’m fine,” she whispered in his ear. “Go do your thing.” She withdrew to arm’s length, then her fingers slid from his grasp. As she walked away, Deidra looked back over the cloud of curly hair on her shoulder. “Just don’t be long?”
“I won’t be.”
Paul watched the ladylike sway of her perfect hips as she moved, then raised the camera to his eye. He caught a glimpse of some shirtless guys on a nearby slab of limestone, HARMONY SUCKS sprayed across the rock in red paint. They followed Deidra with their eyes, then looked back to Paul as if to say “how does this video geek end up with her?” Paul grinned and continued recording the festivities.
First, he took video of the quarry itself. The pit was much larger than he’d expected, the size of a small reservoir, a mile or more in diameter. It was not a perfect square, but that was the shape of the peg Paul would use to fill it if he had to. The walls were terraced, comprised of six-foot squares with thin ledges at the bottom of each indentation. Probably the exact size of a scoop shovel, he thought. Twenty feet down, they met a murky green lake, but he could not tell how far they descended below the waterline, or where the bottom, if any, might lay.
He panned the camera. All around the excavation site, topsoil had been scraped away. The field of naked limestone that remained was now covered in blankets and towels, teenaged sunbathers baking in the unseasonable heat.
Paul focused on these partygoers, and he noted that the caste system of Harmony High was still rigidly in effect.
He zoomed in on the stoners. They were at the foot of a large rock monolith, lost in a smoky haze. Skip Williamson stood like some kind of prophet while the others sat at his feet. If you were high, Paul supposed, even the things Skip had to say must sound interesting.
He next found the cheerleaders, dancing amid the so-called “Populars.” Some wore swimsuits, towels tied around their waists like sarongs; others remained in the clothes they’d hiked in, and most had drinks in their hands, a variety of liquors and sodas. Paul knew some of them would go on to be successful in life: doctors, lawyers, builders and businessmen, maybe even a politician or an astronaut or two. For others, however, this was their time in the sun. In college, they would no longer be the big fish but rather bits of flotsam and jetsam that would drift toward their diplomas and the white collar, nine-to-five existences beyond.
Deidra danced beside Nancy, sipping Mountain Dew from a can. He zoomed in on her, watched her laugh. They’d actually spoken of marriage this morning, hadn’t they?
That wasn’t so crazy, was it?
After all, Paul’s parents had married just out of high school. Those were different times, however. There was a war raging, and a married man was less likely to be called upon than a single one. Not that this axiom had held true for his own father. Still ... if you loved someone, really loved them ...
Samantha Cooper bumped into him, knocked his thoughts from their orbit and back into the universe of the party. He turned, saw her take used sandwich wrappers and cans from the crowd, saw her put them in the black Hefty bag she carried.
“Excuse me,” she told him.
“No problem.” Paul eyed her actions. “Who roped you into being trash collector?”
Sam, as she was called, shrugged. “Nobody ‘roped’ me into doing it.” She brushed the raven hair from her face and smiled. “Once a Girl Scout, always a Girl Scout, I guess. I’m not picking up everything, but I didn’t want this place to look like a landfill when we left.” She laughed. “I could just see some Miami Indian coming along and crying.”
Paul laughed as well, then he taped some close-up shots of the picnickers – eating, resting, playing cards, just talking. He’d never been to Central Park, but the view reminded him of footage he’d seen of that famous lawn. Greg Snider even threw a Frisbee to his dog.
Now that he had establishing shots and B-roll footage, Paul approached people with his camera, asked questions he’d thought up weeks before. His voice was low; the voice of Serious Interviewer, ambassador of the video yearbook. “Tell me about your Wide Game experience.”
“Oh, man!” Jeff Laski put his arm around Beth Pollak. They sat on one of the flat, raised rocks that dotted the area. He drank Schnapps while she read a copy of Stephen King’s The Stand. “There was one point, when we were in the cornfield, and it sounded like there were people all around us.”
Beth looked up from her worn paperback. Paul could not help but notice the book’s cover painting – on one side, a man’s face, on the other, the head of a crow. They shared a single painted eye, and it glowed a deep, evil red. “And then you cheated.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“How did I cheat?”
“We saw those guys walk by and you just said to be quiet,” she told him. “We were supposed to join up with ’em.”
“Only if they saw us,” he reminded her. “They didn’t.”
“That doesn’t matter ...” She looked at Paul through the lens. “Does it?”
“You only have to join up with someone if you see each other,” Paul told her. “If you see them, and they don’t see you, you don’t have to join up with them.”
Jeff nudged her. “See. I’ve never cheated on anything in my life.”
“That state capitals test,” Beth reminded him.
He rolled his eyes. “Nothing important though. I mean, as long as you know New York, New York –”
Beth giggled.
Jeff flushed and rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, I didn’t cheat on this game.”
“So you found the rules confusing?”
Jeff shook his head. “No.”
Beth shrugged. “I guess I didn’t understand that one rule.”
“Did you actually take anything from anybody?” Paul asked Joy Montgomery, zooming in for a close up. She sat on a blanket with Christina Hill, eating Doritos.
“No,” she said with a snicker. “I was too chicken. Christina’s a master thief, though.”
Paul panned over to her. “What’d you take?”
Christina covered her mouth. She had just filled it with Taco-flavored chips before her name was brought up. Her head bobbed as she finished chewing, then she responded, “I took John Maybee’s watch.”
“How’d you manage that?” Paul asked with a smile.
The girls looked at each other and laughed. A volleyball from the nearby game hit Joy in the back of the head. She picked it up and threw it back at the players, her lips never relaxing from their smile.
Finally, Christina was composed enough to speak again. “He ran into us and didn’t want to stay, said we’d slow him down too much or something. So I go up to him and act like I’m Marilyn Monroe.” Her voice became soft and breathy. “‘I’m so sorry I can’t walk with you, Johnny.’ I got him so turned on that he didn’t even notice I’d taken off his watch and shoved it in my pocket.”
“Did anybody take something from you?” Paul asked Kirk Bachman.
He laid on a towel in his neon yellow swim trunks. Whatever tanning lotion he’d lathered in smelled strongly of coconuts. “Somebody took one of my fuckin’ shoes.”
Paul tried not to laugh. “How’d that happen?”
“I had a rock in it, so I took it off to shake it out, then I had to take a piss, so I just dropped it on the ground. When I finished, I turned around and it was gone. I had to walk the rest of the way in my socks. I don’t know who did it, but when I find the fucker, here or on the way back home, I’m gonna fuck up his shit.” He addressed the camera directly, his eyes hidden beneath black sunglasses. “You hear that? I’m gonna fuck your shit up!”
“Did you have fun?” was Paul’s next question.
Peter Sumners pointed to Jimmy Grant as they sat laughing near the edge of the crowd. “I used to hate this guy ... he drove me crazy!”
Jimmy nodded. “We end up getting stuck together –”
“And we find out we like the same movies –”
“The same music.”
Peter smiled. “Yeah. If it hadn’t been for the game, I’d have always remembered him as the kid who drove me crazy singin’ opera on the school bus.”
“So who won the game?” Paul asked everyone he interviewed.
Jeff Laski had looked at Beth Pollak, then they both shook their heads.
“It wasn’t us,” Jeff said.
Beth looked around. “There were a lot of people here already when we got here.”
Joy and Christina laughed again. “Not us,” they said in unison.
“If you find out,” Christina said, “let us know.”
Kirk Bachman continued looking in the camera as he answered, “If it was the fucker who took my shoe, your ass is grass buddy. That’s all I got to say. Your ass is fuckin’ Turf Builder!”
“I think we were the very last ones here,” Jimmy said.
Peter nodded in agreement. “Yeah, but, even if I didn’t win, today was worth five bucks, man. I’ve had a blast.”
Despite the fact that no one seemed to know the winner’s name, they were very aware of a rumor about Skip Williamson and Danny Fields. Something had happened between them during the game and everyone seemed eager to pass what they knew about it to Paul.
“Skip said he and his friends are gonna gang up and kick Danny’s ass on the way back,” Jeff Laski told him.
“Williamson jumps out at Fields on the trail,” Kirk said, relaying what he’d heard; he held his fist out in front of him, “and he pulls out this sword, man, and he says, ‘I’m gonna mess you up, fucker ...’”
“Tell Danny to be careful?” Joy begged.
“He is so hot,” Christina said. “And that Skip, what’s his childhood trauma anyway?”
As he heard the “Skip’s gonna ambush Danny” rumor repeated again and again, Paul grew more and more worried. He decided his next interview should be with Sean and Danny. He could find out what really happened with Williamson and finally get the identity of the winner on tape.
“Hey, Paul!”
Mick bounded toward him, an open can of Bud in his hand. His face looked burnt beneath his bangs and his glasses reflected Morse code flashes of sunlight. Paul turned the camera in his direction and waved.
“How long you been here?” Mick asked.
“About an hour. Is this a raid waiting to happen, or what?”
Mick nodded, then took another sip from his can, wincing against the taste. “It won’t get Harmony into Zagat’s guide of fun spots, but I’m actually having a good time.” He motioned to Paul with his can. “You?”
“Oh yeah,” Paul said, then asked, “What’s this I keep hearing about Skip?”
Mick upended his beer and killed it. “He ended up hiking with us the last few miles.”
“Williamson?”
“The one and only.” As he spoke, Mick pushed on the bridge of his glasses and scratched his earlobe. It was normally a quick nervous mannerism, but alcohol made it more conspicuous.
“How’d that happen?”
Mick shrugged. He tried collapsing the empty can in his hands, then placed it on the ground and smashed it beneath his shoe with an audible, hollow pop. “He found us in the corn and tried to mess me up, but Danny ...”
“Was there a sword?” Paul asked, concerned and excited in equal measure.
“No. They threw some punches, Skip tried to pull one of those Ninja stars, but Danny took care of him.” Mick looked around. “Where’s Deidra?”
“With Nancy. So who won?”
“Chesterson and O’Riley.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I kid you not.”
Danyell Chesterson and Monica O’Riley – along with Nancy, Cindi, and Kristie Lowe – formed the Varsity Cheerleading Squad. Paul swung the camera over to the rock, to the place where he’d seen them dancing with
Deidra. He zoomed in on Danyell and Monica. Dark hair billowed around their pixelated faces like the foliage of Dr. Seuss trees. Paul lowered his voice and spoke loud enough for the microphone to register. “And the winners celebrate their victory.”
“I’m beginning to think knowing Nancy is a good luck charm.”
Paul took the camera from his eye and looked back at Mick. “How so?”
Mick shrugged, trying to find the bridge of his glasses with his hand. “Danny’s her boyfriend, and he won Powderpuff King, and those two are like her best friends-”
“After us,” Paul interjected.
Mick shook his head. “Women have women for best friends.”
Paul cocked his eyebrow. “That’s a bit sexist, don’t you think?”
“It’s true. Does Deidra tell you about her periods?”
“Well, sometimes,” Paul said, shocked.
Mick gave a dismissive wave with his right hand. “Well ... you’re Paul.”
“You’re plastered.”
This brought a nervous chuckle. “Yeah ... yeah, you know I am.” He held his index finger and thumb out in the air as if he held something invisible. “This is your brain on drugs.”
“And this is your brain with bacon and toast.” Paul turned off the camera, concerned. “How many beers have you had, man?”
“Just the one,” Mick admitted, “but I think this pot fog is giving me a headache.”
Paul put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s go over and watch Sean and Danny dive.”
“Sure.”
They walked toward an outcropping of limestone turned diving platform. Billy Idol sang “Mony Mony” from the cheerleaders’ stereo, the crowd chanting “Hey! Hey what! Get laid! Get fucked!” at the customary times. Paul watched Deidra try to keep up with the cheerleaders’ moves and he chuckled. She saw him laugh and flipped him the bird.
