by April Lurie
Randy shrugs. “Fine with me. What do you say, Dylan?”
At this point, I’m feeling pretty woozy and begin to think that maybe I did imagine the whole thing. “All right,” I say, “I guess we can check it out.”
While Nick, Chloe, and I accompany Randy to the burial spot in the backyard, Moser patrols the front of the house in case any cops drive by, or even worse, Mrs. Underwood happens to be walking her yappy runt poodle. Headbone’s job is to keep his eyes peeled for old man Pellegrino.
“Here it is,” Randy says. He’s on his knees in the grass, holding out a wooden box caked with dirt. “Take a look for yourself, Dyl.” Randy hands me the box and I open the lid. Inside is a sandwich-sized Ziploc bag containing a small amount of weed. Regular Colombian. “Like I said, that’s about one ounce. Just enough for me and my buds for a few weeks, if they agree to return the favor.”
“Hey, old man Pellegrino’s curtains just shifted,” Headbone says. “And there’s a strange-looking nose poking out the window. I think he’s spying on us.”
We all look up. “Are you tripping, Headbone?” Randy says. “That’s his golden retriever. Stop being so paranoid.”
Chloe puts a hand on my shoulder. “Dylan, are you sure you want to check out the studio now? Because, well, if you’re not up to it, we can always do it some other time.”
I look into her eyes—light brown with a fringe of pale lashes. “No,” I say. “I’m ready. Let’s get it over with.”
Randy buries the box, and we all go inside. Tripod follows as we climb the stairs and enter my mom’s studio, and when Headbone accidentally bumps into him, he hisses, jumps up, and sinks his claws into Headbone’s leg. “Ow! Hey, get off me!” Headbone grabs Tripod by the back of his neck and flings him out the door. “I told you we should have strung up that stupid cat after he chewed Dylan’s goldfish! He’s a bloody killer!”
The antique table is still where I left it, right next to the picture window. I push the table aside and see that the boards underneath are securely nailed down. I get on my hands and knees and run my fingers along the smooth surface. “What do you think, Dylan?” Randy says. “Could it have been a bad dream?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Headbone says. “Although I must admit, finding a stash of purple-bud wouldn’t exactly be my idea of a bad dream.”
I ignore Headbone, and as I continue to run my hands over the boards, I discover that while most of the nailheads are old and dingy, a few are the color of a shiny new nickel. I look up; except for Nick, who’s studying the floor intently, no one seems to notice. A second later, he and I lock eyes, and in that moment I can tell that Nick sees the shiny nailheads too. “Yeah,” I say, deciding to keep our little secret for now. “You guys were right. It must have been a bad dream. Sorry for all the trouble.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Randy says. He hunkers down next to me and pats me on the back. “So, Dylan, have you had enough abuse for one day, or do you want to finish that game of one-on-one?”
I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror yet, but if my face is anything like Randy’s, it’s not going to be pretty. “Um, how about we call it a draw?”
“Sounds good to me.”
After Randy and I wash up, Chloe bandages our wounds, scolding us the entire time, and soon the Dead Musicians Society is back in the basement playing “Voodoo Child,” with Chloe on keyboards and singing backup vocals. Meanwhile, I go to my room, take out my guitar, and begin to practice a piece by Carcassi, but the notes on the page are fuzzy and the staffs have way too many lines. So I give up, pop a few aspirin for my splitting headache, set my alarm for 8 a.m., and climb into bed.
The next thing I know, my father is shaking me. “Dylan, wake up! Are you all right?” The sun is pouring through the blinds, and my head feels like it’s locked in a vise.
“Yeah, Dad, I’m okay, I guess.” I glance at the clock and see that it’s already noon. I’ve slept through my alarm and missed our final AAU game. I try to sit up, but my ribs ache and my head pounds. I flop back down.
My dad pulls a miniature flashlight from the pocket of his scrubs, opens my right eyelid, and shines the light into my pupil. “Randy told me that the two of you got into a fight playing basketball. He said you hit your head pretty hard. I’m worried you might have a concussion, Dylan. How long have you been sleeping?”
“Um…” I do the math while he checks my left eye. “I don’t know, Dad, maybe ten hours.” It’s actually been closer to fourteen, but I don’t want him freaking out more than he already is. I can’t believe I’ve missed the game. Coach Heffner is going to kill me.
My dad turns off the flashlight and slips it back into his pocket. “I think you’re okay, but I’m going to have to keep a close watch on you for the next twenty-four hours. Turn around, let me check the back of your head.” I do as he says. My whole body hurts. “I heard Chloe patched you guys up.” He lifts the bandage and inspects underneath. “It looks like she did a pretty good job, but honestly, Dylan, why didn’t you call me? I’ve already read Randy the riot act. I mean, really, this could have been serious.”
“I don’t know, Dad. I’m sorry. It’s just…I thought I was okay. Besides, you said Labor and Delivery was a zoo.”
“It doesn’t matter how busy I am, Dylan, you can always call me. If anything’s wrong, I’ll be there. You know that.”
“Yeah, Dad, I know.” But the truth is since my mom left, the few times I’ve called my dad at work he’s always been in the middle of some major gynecological emergency. “So, how’s Randy?” I say.
He sighs. “Well, like you, he’s got some contusions to the face. Also, his left eye is swollen shut, and his right elbow might need a few stitches. But other that that, I think he’ll live.”
“Oh.” What I feel is a mixture of pride that I was able to hold my own in a fight against my older brother and a good measure of remorse for having started the whole thing, since I probably resemble Frankenstein at the moment and am soon going to get my ass chewed out by Coach Heffner.
“I just don’t understand this, Dylan. You and your brother have always gotten along. When I asked Randy what had happened, he flat-out refused to tell me. What caused the fight?”
“Um, nothing really caused the fight, Dad. We were just playing some one-on-one and the game got out of control.” From the look on his face, I can tell he’s not buying this story. I sit up and grimace, trying not to moan.
“Here,” he says, “let me examine the rest of you.” With his stethoscope, he listens to my heart and lungs; then he runs his fingers over my sore ribs. “Well, you’re pretty banged up, but nothing’s broken, thank God.”
We sit there for a while in silence. Lately my father has been looking pretty worn out, and today, if he wasn’t wearing doctor’s scrubs, you might mistake him for a homeless guy in need of a shave and a good meal. “I’m sorry for all the trouble, Dad,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”
He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Listen, Dylan, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve reached the conclusion that we need some help around here. I’m going to start interviewing for a live-in housekeeper.”
“What? No, Dad, you can’t do that! Look, I’ve been doing a good job with the cooking and cleaning and stuff. I know the house isn’t perfect, but—”
“No, Dylan, that’s not it. Sure, you’ve been doing a great job, and I’m proud of you, but we need to face the facts. I don’t know if you heard the phone message from Mom, but it seems that when she gets back from Paris, she’s planning to stay in the Village. With Philippe.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard my dad say Philippe’s name since my mother moved out. A burning knot forms in the back of my throat. “Is…that what she said? I only heard part of the message.”
He nods. “I’m sorry, Dylan. I was hoping she’d reconsider, come back home, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
Suddenly I miss my mother more than ever. I can’t ev
en imagine some strange lady coming to our house—cooking, cleaning, trying to act like she gives a crap about some rich doctor’s kids. A tear slides down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away. “Whatever, Dad, I still don’t want a housekeeper. Randy and I can manage fine on our own.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, considering that during this past week—let’s see, you’ve been arrested, Mrs. Underwood called the cops on Randy, and then the two of you tried to kill each other, I’d say you guys need a little supervision. Besides, I work such crazy hours. There needs to be an adult around when I’m not here.”
I’m about to protest again, but he stops me. “Shhh, we’ll talk about this later, Dylan.” He leans over and fluffs my pillow. “For now, just rest.”
I sleep away the next couple of days, waking only to eat, watch Seinfeld reruns, read my old copy of The Catcher in the Rye, and think about Angie. By Labor Day, except for the fact that my face looks like it’s been through a meat grinder, I’m feeling pretty good. Angie will be home this evening and, who knows, maybe if I put a bag over my head, I’ll gain enough courage to tell her how I feel about her.
I get up, shower, put the finishing touches on my da Vinci sketch, which is due tomorrow in art class, and practice my guitar piece. After dinner, I sit by the phone waiting for Angie to call. She never does. Finally, at ten-thirty, I give in and dial her number. Her mom answers. “Hello?”
“Um, hi, Mrs. McCarthy, this is Dylan. Sorry to call so late. Is Angie home?”
“Oh, hi, Dylan. Actually, no, she’s not here. Jonathan Reed stopped by earlier, and I believe they went to the movies. Can I take a message?” There’s a long pause. “Dylan? Are you still there?”
“Oh…yes. I’m here. No, no message, but thanks anyway.”
“Sure thing. I’ll tell her you called.”
I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why I haven’t followed through with my original plan to rid the earth of Jonathan Reed. About twenty minutes later, as I’m plotting a new and even more sadistic murder, the phone rings. From the caller ID I see that it’s Angie, but I don’t pick up. When it rings again at eleven-fifteen, I put on one of my prized vintage LPs—the Beatles, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band—turn out the lights, and swear off girls forever.
Nine
AT SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY I make an effort to lie low, but as I’m heading to second-period class, I hear Angie’s voice behind me in the hallway. “Dylan, wait up!” I turn around and see Jonathan Reed walking beside her. He looks the same—handsome in that Orlando Bloom–ish pretty-boy sort of way—only now he’s making a fashion statement by wearing a pair of rectangular nerd-band glasses, popular with Weezer fans and guys on the debate team. Tucked under his arm is a copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. How literary.
“Oh, my God!” Angie says when she sees me, clapping one hand over her mouth. “Dylan, what happened to your face?” One thing about Angie, she’s never been subtle.
Since I’m not in the mood to explain, I say, “Um, nothing much.”
Jonathan nods hello while I give him the once-over.
“What do you mean nothing?” Angie demands. “You’re all beat up! You look terrible!”
“Thanks.”
I turn and continue to class. “Dylan, wait, I need to talk to you!” Angie follows me, and unfortunately Jonathan tags along. “I called you twice last night,” she says. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
I shrug and keep walking. “I don’t know. I was tired. I went to bed early.”
“But I wanted to talk to you about the movie!”
Angie, who I’ve decided is the biggest narcissist on the planet, is referring to her all-important short film, but just to be a wiseass I say, “Oh, you mean the movie you two saw last night? How was it?”
Angie looks at Jonathan and rolls her eyes. “No, Dylan. The movie I’m making. The one you’re starring in. Remember?”
“Ohhhhh, that one. Yeah, vaguely. What about it?” I slow down and come to a halt outside the fine arts room. I peer in and see my teacher, Mr. Wiseman, hunched over a drawing on his desk.
“Well,” Angie says, ignoring my sarcasm, “I’ve been going over the footage all week, and when Jonathan stopped by last night I showed it to him. We had this intense brainstorming session, and we’ve come up with the most amazing idea!” Angie’s eyes are wide with excitement. “Not only are you the star of my film, you’re also the subject. It’s kind of like Being John Malkovich with a slightly different twist. Anyway, I even have a title.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine.”
Jonathan is grinning from ear to ear, and now that I’ve got a taste for blood, I have a sudden urge to punch him in the mouth. “Dylan,” he says, “I’ve got to say, the scene in the park with that Australian juggling chain saws over you is, like, classic.”
Jonathan has many irritating habits, one of them being his overuse of the word classic. “Well, Jonathan,” I say, “I’m glad you found the whole thing entertaining, but”—I turn back to Angie—“sorry, I’m not doing it.”
“What? No, Dylan, please, you have to!”
“Nope.” The bell rings and Mr. Wiseman gets up from his chair. Students start pouring into his room.
Val Knudsen, sporting a new eyebrow ring and a shock of purple hair, gets a load of my face as she strolls into class. “Looking good, Fontaine,” she says with a grin. “Didn’t know you were such an animal.”
“Dylan,” Angie pleads. “Come on, you know how important this is to me. You can’t say no!”
“Angie’s right, Dylan,” Jonathan chimes in. “The material she’s got so far—you on the train, in the park—it’s, like, magical.”
The only magical thing I’m interested in right now is Jonathan Reed disappearing into thin air. Or, better yet, being sawed in two. “Angie,” I say, “can I talk to you alone for a minute?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Um…I’ll see you later, Jonathan?”
For a guy who’s supposedly a literary genius, Jonathan is slow at catching on to plain English. “Oh…right. Later, Angie.” He places one hand on my shoulder, which I deeply resent, and whispers in my ear, “Think about it, Dylan. It’ll make a great short. Angie’s counting on you.”
When Jonathan is halfway down the hall I say to Angie, “My, that was a record-length breakup. What was it? Two and a half weeks?”
“Is that what you’re angry about, Dylan? For your information, Jonathan and I are not together. We’re just friends.”
“Friends?” This is an interesting concept, considering Jonathan’s recent philandering. “So what happened to Hannah Jaworski?”
Angie clears her throat and cracks a little smile. “She dumped him a few days ago. Apparently she’s dating an older guy from Brooklyn College. Serves him right, huh?”
“Ahhhh, I see. Jonathan gets dumped, and then he comes crawling back to you. Classic.”
Angie gets my joke, but instead of laughing she makes a face. “No, Dylan, it’s not like that at all. Jonathan came by my house last night to say he was sorry for being a jerk, and even though I’ve been angry and hurt and all that, I decided to do the mature thing and accept his apology. Anyway, after that we started talking and I showed him the film I was working on. He thought it was awesome and offered to help shoot it, so—”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. I thought I was helping you.”
“Well, you were, I mean, you are. It’s just, I need someone else, since you’re too close to the subject matter.” She grins. “In other words, you. I want a more objective point of view. Jonathan’s perfect for the job.”
It figures that now that Mr. Cinematography has arrived, I have to take a backseat. I shake my head. “Look, Angie, I’m not your guinea pig, okay? And I’m not going to Washington Square Park with Jonathan Reed. I said I’d help you shoot the film, and yeah, I’d even be in it, but a story about the real me is not happening. Besides”—I hold out my arms—“what coul
d possibly be so interesting?”
Her face lights up. “That’s the whole point, Dylan! Nothing!”
“Wow, you’re just full of compliments today, aren’t you?”
I head for class, but Angie grabs my arm. “Wait, Dylan, please, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
Like a glutton for punishment, I stop and look into her eyes, which have this uncanny way of melting me in two seconds flat. “Okay, then what did you mean?”
“What I should have said, Dylan, is that there’s so much inside you, but it’s all locked up in here.” She reaches over and taps my chest. “I want the movie to be an experimental piece about your life, and I think that’s what’ll make it great—stand out above the rest. I know I’m begging, but there’s really no one else who can do it. Only you.”
Somehow, I don’t think Angie has quite redeemed herself. “Hmm,” I say, “sounds to me like I’m the only person you know who’s stupid enough to get filmed with a bunch of mental cases in New York City.”
While Angie lets out an exasperated sigh, the late bell rings. Down the hall I see Randy and Nick turn the corner and stop outside their music theory class. A few seconds later Franz Warner joins them. “Wow,” Angie says, “now I get it. That’s why your face looks the way it does. You and Randy got into a fight, didn’t you?”
I nod, watching the three of them, wondering if Franz Warner is also connected to the imaginary purple-bud in my mom’s studio. They exchange a few words, and then Randy and Nick head into class.
“Well, it’s about time you stood up to Randy,” Angie goes on, “considering the fact that you got arrested because of him.”
“Mr. Fontaine? Are you planning to join us today, or should I go ahead and mark you tardy?” Mr. Wiseman is standing in the doorway. His scruffy gray beard is poking out in all directions and there’s a smudge of charcoal on his cheek.
