The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine

by April Lurie

  He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s the matter, Dylan, is that your brother, who happens to be my best friend, could be in a lot of trouble right now. And I’m not about to let him take the rap for all of us.”

  I suppose in his own sinister way, Nick really does care about Randy, but I’m not buying any of his philanthropic bullcrap. “Fine,” I say, “whatever. I’m gonna get something to eat. Call me when they come out, all right?”

  Headbone gives me his signature slap-grip handshake. “Sure thing, Dyl. And listen, you did all right by Olson. She’s one tough chick.”

  In the kitchen, Chloe is sitting at the table, flipping through one of my dad’s medical journals. I notice that the article she’s reading is about birth control pills. She glances up from the page and says, “Dylan, take a look in the garage.”

  First I peer into the hallway to make sure the cops are still in the den; then, very slowly, I crack open the door to the garage. Lo and behold, there is a golf cart labeled SHORE ROAD GOLF CLUB parked next to my mom’s Honda—the one she left behind, since Philippe LeBlanc’s landlord only allows one car per apartment. “Oh, God,” I say, closing the door and turning the lock.

  “Yeah,” Chloe says, “my thoughts exactly.”

  I’ve lost my appetite now, so I join Chloe at the table and play with the salt and pepper shakers. Soon I hear the door of the den swing open. Chloe remains seated, but I go out into the hallway. My dad stands beside a potted plant in the adjoining dining room, nervously running his fingers through his hair, while Mertz hunkers down next to Randy, and Olson scribbles in her pad nearby. “Randy,” Mertz says, “your father has agreed to let us search your room. He feels that if you have been using drugs, there should be consequences.”

  At first, I think I don’t hear right. I mean, my dad knows that Randy stashes weed in his room. Why would he want the police to find it? Randy blinks a few times and turns to my dad, but my dad won’t look at him.

  “Wait a minute!” Headbone says, glancing back and forth between Mertz and Olson. “You guys can’t do that! I know the law! You can’t go into his room without a search warrant! Dr. Fontaine, these police officers are clearly taking advantage of you!” Before Headbone started doing drugs last year, he was ranked number three at his old school. In dire situations, he still sounds like a person with active brain cells.

  Olson looks up from her pad. “Yes, Arthur,” she says, “that’s true in most cases, but this is Dr. Fontaine’s house and he has agreed to a search. In fact, he is highly in favor of it. Isn’t that correct, Dr. Fontaine?”

  My dad nods; his face is flushed and his hair is sticking up at odd angles. “Yes, that’s correct,” he says.

  “And we should probably inform you, Randy,” Olson continues, “that Officer Mertz and I are both highly trained in this field. If there are drugs in your room, they will be found.”

  A comforting thought. Randy is staring at the ground now, and I can’t tell whether he’s scared or just plain pissed. He and my dad have been on pretty bad terms lately, but I never thought my dad would turn traitor.

  I glance toward the kitchen, wondering if Mertz and Olson are also highly trained in finding stolen golf carts, and that’s when I see Chloe tiptoeing to the stairs.

  I assume she’s planning to remove the incriminating evidence from Randy’s room, so I have to act fast. “Um, wait a second!” I say. All eyes turn in my direction. “Before you do anything, I need to talk to my father. In private.”

  Reluctantly, Mertz and Olson nod in agreement while I cross the room. “What’s this about, Dylan?” my dad whispers. “The police officers don’t have all night.”

  “I don’t care about them,” I say. “I care about Randy. Why are you doing this to him?”

  “Dylan,” my dad says sternly, “Randy’s gotten himself into this mess, and I’m not going to bail him out. What I’m doing here is called tough love. And right now he needs a huge dose of it.”

  I stare at him long and hard. “Tough love? So what happened to loyalty? A family sticking together? Blood being thicker than water?” Considering the fact that my mother has abandoned us, I feel the sting of my own words. And now I’m not even thinking about what Chloe is doing upstairs. I want answers.

  “Yes, Dylan, I believe in those things too, but right now Randy needs something entirely different. I’ve already spoken to the officers. We’re not talking jail time here, just probation, counseling, and monthly drug testing. Believe me, it’s for the best.”

  “Yeah, except that he’ll hate you for the rest of his life.”

  My dad sighs. “It’s true that Randy may hate me for a while, but I don’t think it will be for the rest of his life.”

  I’m not so sure about that. I consider arguing the point further, but from the look on my dad’s face I realize there’s nothing I can do.

  “Dr. Fontaine?” Olson says. “Should we begin?”

  My dad motions toward the stairs. “Yes, please do.”

  “Wait! Hold on!” I blurt out. Stalling for time, I add, “Why search only Randy’s room? Why not mine, too? I mean, that’s only fair, right?”

  “Dylan,” my dad says sternly. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Come on, Dad, think about it. I was the one arrested yesterday. The cops found weed in my pocket.” Obviously, this is news to Olson and Mertz, who, up until now, were probably feeling sorry for me for having been born into such a dysfunctional family. While both of them hike their eyebrows, I glance at the stairs. Hurry, Chloe, please, hurry. I hope she knows Randy’s hiding places—under the plastic mat of his old Twister game, at the bottom of a skuzzy bottle labeled IRON FILINGS, inside his old chemistry set next to a box of condoms—ribbed, lubricated, and, sadly for him, unopened.

  “Dr. Fontaine?” Olson says. “Is this true? Was Dylan arrested yesterday?”

  My dad shakes his head. “No, no, you don’t understand. I mean, he was, but that was all just…a mix-up, really. Dylan does not use drugs.”

  Mertz cocks his head. “How do you know that for sure?”

  “Well, because I trust him and…oh, of course, you can check it out yourself. Call the precinct. Ask to speak with Lieutenant Burns. Dylan’s urine test was clear. They didn’t press charges.”

  From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of Chloe tiptoeing back into the kitchen. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. “But Dad,” I say. “I still think they should search my room. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Randy and Nick are looking at me like I’m insane, but Moser and Headbone seem to think I’m a hero. “Dylan, my man!” Headbone says. “You are, like, the bomb! Way to stick up for your brother!”

  Moser nods. “That’s loyalty, compadre.”

  “Um, Dr. Fontaine,” Mertz says, “considering the information Dylan just shared, maybe it would be a good idea if we searched both boys’ rooms.”

  My father sighs deeply. “Fine, whatever, I really don’t care at this point. Search the whole damn house if you want.”

  I panic, thinking about the golf cart, but thankfully Olson says, “That won’t be necessary, Dr. Fontaine. The boys’ rooms will be enough.”

  While the two of them head upstairs, my dad exhales loudly and plunks onto a dining room chair. I take my seat on the armrest next to Headbone, and the six of us wait in silence. In the kitchen I hear Chloe flipping the pages of the medical journal.

  “Dr. Fontaine?” Mertz says, after what seems like an eternity. He and Olson pad down the steps. My dad stands up; he looks awful—like he hasn’t slept in days, which may very well be the case. “We didn’t find anything. In either of the boys’ rooms.”

  My dad nods and says nothing. Nick sits back, relieved, and Moser and Headbone give each other low fives. Randy sits there, expressionless.

  Chloe is smiling in the kitchen doorway. Our eyes meet for a brief second, and I smile back.

  Meanwhile, Olson walks over and hands my dad a slip of pink paper. “It’s been an intere
sting evening, Dr. Fontaine,” she says. “This is a warning notice about the noise level.” She looks at the five of us lined up on the sofa. “Gentlemen, I hope I won’t be hearing any further complaints from the neighbors?”

  “Oh, you got it,” Headbone says, giving her a thumbs-up. “Definitely, no more complaints.”

  She nods. “Well, if that’s the case, this should be the last time we meet.”

  As my dad ushers Mertz and Olson to the foyer, I watch Olson’s hips sashay out the door. “Hey, I wouldn’t mind meeting up with her again,” Headbone says, “under different circumstances, of course.”

  When my dad returns, he stands there for a long time giving Randy and his friends the evil eye. I know what he’s thinking—if Randy didn’t hang out with these morons, our lives might be normal. There was a time when he used to kick them out of our house on a regular basis. But they always came back. After a while I guess he realized he couldn’t choose Randy’s friends. Now they’re like a fixture in our home, an eyesore that you get used to. My dad sighs deeply. “Randy, Dylan. I’m going to bed. We will discuss this situation tomorrow. The rest of you, leave. Now. And I don’t want to see your faces for a long time. Understood?”

  Nick is the first to stand up. “Yes, Dr. Fontaine, we understand. And we’re sorry about everything.”

  Headbone chimes in. “Yeah, really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Moser holds up the tube of cortisone. “I apologize too, Dr. Fontaine. And thank you for the medicine. It’s helping, um, sort of.”

  My dad walks over to Moser with a look of concern and examines the red patches on his face. Not only are his doctorly instincts kicking in, but I think deep down he’s got a soft spot for Moser and Headbone. “Just keep using the cream every two to three hours, Moser. Oh, and one more thing.” He pulls out a pad of paper from his pocket, scribbles something down, and rips out a sheet. “Use this next time you shower. It’s a prescription for hypoallergenic soap.”

  Moser looks like he’s about to faint. “Did you say…shower?”

  “Yeah, dude,” Headbone says. “We’ve got a girl in our band now. Showering is, like, mandatory.”

  From the kitchen doorway Chloe chimes in, “Don’t worry, Dr. Fontaine. I’ll make sure Moser gets the right soap.”

  “Thank you, Chloe,” my dad says. “And now, all of you, go!”

  While my dad trudges to his room, Randy steps outside with his friends, and after a chorus of goodbyes, I hear him and Nick talking in hushed voices on the front patio. I strain my ears to listen, but since I can’t make out what they’re saying, I give up and head upstairs to bed.

  In the hallway I hear Tripod meowing from inside my mom’s studio. “Stupid cat!” I say, pushing open the door. “She’s not here, you idiot, and she’s not coming back. Don’t you realize that by now?”

  Tripod rushes past me, and I see that he has knocked over some art supplies on my mother’s desk. I go inside, and as I set them back in place I notice that the small antique table has been moved. Instead of being next to my mother’s computer, it’s beside the picture window. For some reason this bothers me, and as I push the table back to its original spot, I trip on a loose floorboard that was directly underneath it.

  I kneel down and remove the board, along with two loose planks on either side of it. Hidden under it I find a metric scale engraved with the words PROPERTY OF MCKINLEY HIGH SCIENCE DEPARTMENT. Next to the scale is a gallon-sized Ziploc bag of Hawaiian purple-bud sinsemilla, which, according to Arthur Wellington III, aka Headbone, is the most potent weed on the planet.

  And then it hits me. Randy is dealing.

  Seven

  TALK ABOUT IRONY AND INJUSTICE. While the Dead Musicians Society is racking up felonies without consequence, yours truly, poster boy for a better America, must stand before a judge in court Monday morning, plead guilty to shoplifting, and accept the terms of my punishment—a whopping two-hundred-dollar fine, along with twenty hours of community service.

  Upon hearing this, my father drives to the bank that very afternoon and withdraws two hundred dollars from Randy’s account—money he’s been saving for a new Stratocaster guitar—and pays the fine. I suppose it’s his way of making Randy feel the pain of his misdeeds, but it doesn’t seem to work. In fact, when Randy finds out, he just shrugs and says, “It figures the Vagina Head’s weapon of choice would be the almighty dollar.” Since I know how much Randy wants that new Strat, his reaction only furthers my belief that he is making a buttload of cash off the purple bud stashed in my mom’s studio.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I say, “and the cops are going to find it, you’ll see.” It’s Tuesday morning, the day after my humiliating experience in court, and Randy and I are sitting at the breakfast table. I’m in a rush, sucking down a soy protein shake like a madman so I can hop the bus to the Staten Island YMCA—my chosen venue for community service—and get there by 10 a.m.

  “What are you talking about?” Randy says, chewing a spoonful of cereal. Normally he wouldn’t be up this early, but the guys and Chloe are coming over to practice for their big gig this weekend. “I already told you, Dyl. Headbone got rid of the golf cart. He and Moser drove it back to the club last night. They even charged up the battery. No one knows who took it. Everything’s cool.”

  I glare at him. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “The weed, Randy. Upstairs. I’m not an idiot.”

  He shakes his head and eats another spoonful of cereal. “Listen, Dyl, there’s nothing in my room. Chloe took what I had and flushed it. And you don’t have to worry about the police because now I’ve got the perfect hiding spot for my stash in the backyard. And the best part is”—he grins—“it’s not even on our property. If the cops dig it up, old man Pellegrino gets busted.”

  I am tempted to hurl the rest of my shake at him, but I don’t. Instead I drink it down, slam the glass on the table, and stand up. “You’re pathetic, you know that, Randy? Both you and your stupid friends! I mean, why are you even doing this? Is it because you want to be some major badass? Or is it just for the thrill? To see how much you can get away with?” I shove in my chair, and it almost topples over. “And besides, what do you need the money for? Doesn’t Dad give you enough?”

  Randy sits there with his mouth hanging open. He sets down his spoon. “Whoa, Dylan. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you seriously need to get a grip. You’re all strung out. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  I grab my wallet and head for the door. “Yeah, well, get used to it, Randy. ’Cause this is the new me.”

  The reason I chose to do community service at the YMCA instead of the dog pound or the homeless shelter or the local church is because I figured I could shoot hoops in the gym during my free time—stay on top of my game for the AAU finals this weekend. But when I show up for work and meet my new boss, Mr. Pickler, my hopes go down the drain; and after two minutes in his office I decide that smelly dogs, winos, even nuns on a mission to save me from the pit of hell would be welcome company compared to this guy.

  “Dylan, you do realize it’s a privilege to be here, correct?” Mr. Pickler says. He’s sitting at his desk, tapping a pencil and shuffling through my paperwork.

  I’m in a chair across from him, trying to appear penitent. It’s not easy. “Um…yes, sir, I suppose I do.” On the wall behind him is a cheesy piece of art—a Thomas Kinkade print entitled Mountain Paradise—which speaks volumes about Pickler’s lack of taste and artistic appreciation. I can’t help it; I make a face.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Fontaine?”

  “No, sir.”

  He lowers his bifocals and narrows his eyes, letting me know just how much he despises wiseass teenagers. “Well, in that case, I don’t have to explain that you are here to work and not to goof off. The facilities are for our members and their guests only. Understood?”

  Just like I thought. There goes ho
op practice. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “Very well then, about your responsibilities…”

  I keep my eye on the clock while he lectures me for an hour or so about the importance of punctuality, respectfulness, and performing my duties within a reasonable time frame. By the end, I wonder if this guy actually does any work himself.

  “Um, Mr. Pickler?” I say. We’re in the hallway now, and he’s rummaging through a closet of cleaning supplies.

  “Yes, Dylan? Ah, there it is.” He turns around and hands me a scrub brush and a bottle of bleach.

  “I was wondering, does the time we spent, you know, talking count toward the twenty hours?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “That, Dylan, will be decided at the end of the day. Right now the bathrooms are waiting. I’ll be inspecting your work shortly, and when you’re finished, both gyms need to be swept.” He pauses for a moment, eyeing the bleach. “I, uh, trust you will not be sniffing anything on the job?”

  At first I don’t realize what he’s talking about, and then it dawns on me: Pickler thinks I might inhale the cleaning supplies to get high. Unbelievable. Even Headbone and Moser are not that hard-core. I shake my head. “Oh, no, Mr. Pickler, you’ve got it all wrong. Besides, I’m not here on drug charges.”

  “Oh?”

  “You mean they didn’t tell you why I got arrested?”

  He shakes his head. “No, the staff here is never informed as to why someone is doing community service. Unless, of course, they’re a sex offender.”

  “Oh…right.”

  As I’m digesting this piece of information and thinking that I’d better stay away from any strange-looking dudes in the men’s locker room, Pickler gives me a meaningful look. “You see, Dylan, since part of my job is to encourage the rehabilitation of our workers, I try to spend quality time with them. In most cases they open up, talk about their problems, and I find that the majority of boys your age are here on substance abuse charges.”