by April Lurie
My first instinct is to run after Randy, but I don’t because I know he’ll just curse me out and tell me to go home. I look around the room. I feel lost. Vanya pulls out a chair. “Come, Dylan,” she says pleadingly. “Sit down. Talk to your father. We’ll have tea and I’ll warm some strudel.”
I shake my head. “No, Vanya. It’s too late for that.” I look at my dad. There are tears in his eyes, but I don’t feel any pity for him. Not now. Not after what he just did. “Randy’s right, Dad,” I say. “You don’t care. You never have. And when Mom left us, you did nothing to stop her. Nothing. You just let her go. This whole thing’s your fault. And now, in just a few weeks, Randy will be gone, and who knows what’ll happen to him out there? And guess what, Dad? He’s the only person I have left!”
“Dylan, wait, let’s talk!” Dad calls. But it’s too late. A second later I’m out the front door.
I run to the water and walk along the path—all the way to the Sixty-ninth Street pier. It’s getting dark now, but I can still make out the Statue of Liberty, a tiny green speck in the distance. The wind is blowing and I’m cold and tired and sick of being alone with no one to talk to, so I turn around. I stop by Angie’s house on the way home, but when I get there I glance up at her bedroom window and see her sitting at the computer with Jonathan, editing the film. They’re laughing and looking like they’re having a blast, so instead of knocking on her door I head over to Jake’s. I feel this urgent need now to tell Jake about my game inside the Cage—about Mother F and the Grand Pupa and Toulouse-Lautrec and how I actually scored a basket. But when I reach his house, it’s dark and empty. No one’s there.
There’s nothing left to do but go home. Inside our house it’s dark except for a light on in my mom’s studio. My dad’s in there, I’m sure, sitting by my mom’s half-finished portrait, petting Tripod. Dad’s like a monk keeping vigil before some holy shrine. I lock my door and climb into bed, hoping he’ll leave me alone. But a few minutes later he knocks. “Dylan? May I come in?”
“No. Go away.”
“Please, Dylan. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit your brother. It was wrong. I was angry, and…well, there’s no excuse. I just wanted to tell you that I feel terrible about it. When Randy comes home I’ll apologize. We’ll work things out. I promise.” He stands there awhile longer, hoping, I guess, that I’ll give in, tell him it’s okay, but I don’t. Soon he shuffles across the hallway. I hear the click of his bedroom door.
There’s a gnawing in my stomach and it dawns on me that I should have eaten dinner, but now the whole day crashes in on me and I’m so tired I can barely move. I curl up into a ball and drift off to sleep. I dream that I’m in Philippe’s studio again, walking through the narrow, winding passage, only this time it goes on and on; I’m like a rat in a maze and I can’t find the back room and my mother’s paintings.
In the middle of the night someone climbs into my bed. A hairy leg bumps against mine. “Hey, Dyl, I picked your lock. Is it all right if I sleep here?”
It’s Randy. I glance at the clock. Three a.m. “Um, yeah, sure.” I’m pretty groggy, but I can tell Randy wants to talk. It’s this game we used to play when we were young. In the middle of the night, if one of us was scared or lonely or had a bad dream, we’d climb into the other one’s bed, pretend nothing was wrong, and start shooting the breeze. “What’s up, dude?” I say.
Randy is lying on his back, hands tucked behind his head. “Nick was in Mom’s studio this afternoon. He saw your drawing of Chloe hanging on the wall.”
“Oh?” I sit up a little. “So…what’s the deal? Am I a dead man?”
“No,” Randy says. “Lucky for you, Nick didn’t notice your initials at the bottom, so he thought I drew it. I let him believe I did. Later I told him the truth about me and Chloe. I figured no more secrets. Not if we’re going on tour together.”
“Uh-oh,” I say. “Thanks for saving my hide, but now it looks like you’re the dead man. What happened?”
“Oh, he was pissed. We got into a pretty bad argument—he even threw a punch—but I’m hoping it’ll all blow over in the morning.”
This sounds like wishful thinking to me, but I don’t tell Randy that. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I guess. I had to do it, though, you know?”
“I know.” We lie there for a while, and I’m glad my brother is right next to me. It’s been a long time, almost a year, since we talked, really talked, or spent time together. I haven’t thought about it lately, but suddenly I realize how much I’ve missed him. “I stopped by Philippe’s studio today,” I say. “I saw Mom.”
He turns to me. “Really? How’d that go?”
“Um, pretty bad, actually. It was weird—she painted these pictures of you and me—even Dad—from old photographs. They’re hanging in the gallery. When I saw them, I…sort of flipped out.”
“Yeah, well, I can understand why. I mean, paintings of us? That’s messed up.” He shakes his head. “Glad I wasn’t there.”
Neither of us says anything for a while, and before long I’m thinking about Angie. Now that my brother has a girlfriend, I wonder if he has any words of wisdom to share. “Randy? When you and Chloe got together, how did it happen? How did you know it was the right time to tell her how you feel?”
He turns and studies me. I’m glad the room is dark. “I don’t know, Dyl, I guess I got sick of being a chicken—afraid to take a chance—so I just went for it. I figured, whatever happened, at least I tried.”
I wonder what happens when you take a chance and it backfires. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” I say. “Anyway, I’m glad it worked out for you and Chloe.”
“Me too. So how’s Angie’s film going? Any more shoots?”
“Yep. We did a few in the Village today. I scored a basket inside the Cage.”
“What? No way! You kidding me?”
“Nope. Almost got killed, but I did it. Oh, and afterward I met this really cool guy at Washington Square Park—a sax player named Paul. He played ‘Little Wing’ and I tried to give him a couple of bucks, but he wouldn’t take it. Anyway, he had this guitar and we played a blues piece together and then he invited us to come to a jam session next Saturday at NYU. I told him about you, how you liked Hendrix and played a lot of his music. I’m telling you, Randy, the two of you would sound sweet together.”
Randy doesn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he turns to me. “Did you say next Saturday?”
“Yeah. Seven-thirty at the student lounge at Sixth and Waverly. Will you come?”
He nods. “All right. Maybe I will.”
Suddenly I don’t feel so bad. Like maybe things will work out after all. And now I have something to look forward to. Randy and I playing together. Like old times.
“Hey, Dyl?” Randy says. “Listen, I’m sorry about this afternoon when I was going off on Dad, telling him how he’d be left with one perfect son. I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”
“It’s all right. I just…I felt really bad when Dad hit you. He’s sorry. He told me so. I’m sure he’ll apologize tomorrow.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Randy says. “Besides, I was being a punk. Probably deserved it.”
Soon I hear Randy’s breathing become slow and steady. I nudge him a little. “Hey, Randy? Listen, you’re not going to bag on me, right? You’ll come to that jam session next Saturday?”
He holds up a hand in the dark and I grip it, tight. “Listen, bro,” he says. “As long as Nick doesn’t kill me first, I’ll be there. You got my word.”
Sixteen
NICK DOESN’T KILL RANDY, but according to the Dead Musicians Society’s code of honor, he commits the next-worst crime: he disappears. Skips band practice Sunday afternoon and doesn’t show up for school Monday morning. No one knows where he is. To pass the time, Randy asks me to fill in on rhythm guitar so the band can at least run through its songs until Nick cools off, but by Tuesday everyone is getting pretty antsy. “Moser!” Headbone shouts as we
finish up Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” “Dude, that seriously sucked. I’m telling you, man, Kurt’s rolling over in his grave right now!”
Moser, who’s been subbing for Nick on vocals, sets down his bass and flops onto the sofa. He throws up his hands in despair. “I’m sorry, guys. I know Kurt deserves better. But what can I say? It’s impossible to come close to the man’s genius. Honestly, I don’t know how Nick does it.”
The rest of us glare at Headbone until he sighs, hops off his drum stool, and puts an arm around Moser. “Hey, it’s all right, compadre. I know it’s tough, but you’re doing just fine. Really. Besides, none of this is your fault.”
Moser nods. “Yeah, you got that right. I mean, I’m not the one who…” He stops midsentence. Everyone is quiet.
“Uh-oh,” Headbone says. “Trouble.”
Randy sets down his guitar. “You’re not the one who what, Moser?”
“Well…” Moser glances around the room. “If you want the truth, Randy, I’m not the one who screwed everything up. I mean, what happened to the Dead Musicians Society’s code of honor? I thought chicks weren’t supposed to come between us.”
I expect Chloe to protest, fling a shoe at Moser, tell him he’d better not use derogatory terms for women in her presence ever again. But she doesn’t. She just stands there looking lost. It scares me.
“Yeah,” Headbone chimes in. “Moser’s right. What happened to that?”
Soon a tear slides down Chloe’s cheek. When Randy sees it he rushes over and wraps his arms around her. She hangs her head. “They’re right,” she says. “It’s all my fault.”
“No,” Randy says. He whispers something in her ear, but she’s inconsolable.
Meanwhile, I stand up and give Headbone and Moser my iciest stare. I seriously want to wrap the neck of my guitar around the two imbeciles’ necks. “Why don’t you guys just shut up for once?” I say. “Can’t you see Chloe’s upset? Besides, maybe you should lay off Randy and ask Nick a few questions about loyalty, about codes of honor. Look around, guys. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s the one who went AWOL.”
The room grows quiet again. Finally, Chloe steps away from Randy. “I’m going to Nick’s house,” she says. “Talk some sense into him.”
Randy shakes his head. “No, Chloe. Please. Don’t.” He sounds desperate. “I mean…how do you even know Nick’s home?”
She hesitates for a moment. “He is. He called me this morning. Said he wants to talk things over. At first I said no, there was nothing to discuss, but now I think I’d better go. For the sake of the band.”
Randy blinks a few times. “Wait. I’ll come with you. We’ll both talk to him. No matter what, Nick is my best friend. He’ll listen to me.”
“No, Randy,” Chloe says emphatically. “This is something I have to do alone. Privately. It’s between me and Nick.”
Randy reaches out to her, but she takes another step back and heads for the stairs. Headbone and Moser send each other eyebrow messages. “I won’t be long,” Chloe says. “I’ll call if there’s a problem. Just…keep practicing. And don’t worry, everything will work out.”
“Chloe, wait!” Randy follows her up the stairs, and you can hear him asking for a kiss goodbye. Moser, Headbone, and I feign lack of interest, but we’re all dying to know what’s going on up there.
When Randy returns, Headbone reaches into his pocket and pulls out an old Altoids box filled with joints. “Randy, dude,” he says. “Listen, it’s Tuesday, right? And you know what that means.” He grins. “Attila the Hun’s day off. Come on, man, enough practicing. Let’s get lit.”
Moser looks at the box of joints; he’s practically salivating. “Awesome idea, Headbone.” He plucks one out and closes his eyes. “Maybe now I can dull the pain of botching Kurt’s masterpiece.”
I give Moser a hard shove and he falls onto the sofa. “Yeah, right,” I say. “Break out the violins, will you?”
“Hey, come on, Dyl,” Moser says. “I’m in serious agony!” He points to his neck. “And look, my eczema is flaring up again.”
Headbone takes out a joint and offers it to Randy. “Here, man, it’ll help pass the time, anyway. Keep your mind off…you know, things.”
I watch, wondering what Randy’s going to do. It’s not like he’s been a saint since he pledged to Chloe to cut back on the weed, but as far as I can tell he’s been trying. “Nah, that’s all right,” he says. “You guys go ahead. Honestly, the last thing I want right now is to be high.”
Moser eagerly digs into his pocket for a book of matches, but before he can light up, Headbone snatches the joint from his hand. “No way, Moser!” he says. “If Randy’s not smoking, then neither are we. We’re the Dead Musicians Society and we stick together.”
Moser stands there with his mouth hanging open. I must say, Headbone’s pledge of sobriety is rather commendable. I pat him on the back and sit next to Randy. “We’re here for you, bro. No matter what.”
Time passes, and all you can hear is the clock ticking and the refrigerator humming. Before long Moser and Headbone fall asleep on the sofa, but I keep watch with Randy. Neither of us says much, and after a while I put on an old Grateful Dead tape that I bought at a garage sale last year. The music is mellow and soothing. I’m hoping it will relax Randy. In the middle of “Uncle John’s Band” the phone rings. We both jump. “I’ll get it,” I say. “I’ll let you know if it’s her.”
I run upstairs and pick up on the fourth ring. “Dylan, is that you?” Chloe says. Her voice is hushed and panicky.
“Yeah, it’s me. Hold on a sec, I’ll get Randy—”
“No!” she says. “There’s no time. Listen carefully. The police were just here. Nick’s in a lot of trouble. I’m not sure, but I think they have Randy’s name and address too. They might be driving to your place right now. They have dogs, Dylan, so you have to be quick. Remember that spot in the backyard where Randy showed us his stash?”
My heart is pounding. My knees begin to buckle. “Um, yeah.”
“Dig it up. There’s half a kilo there now. Get rid of it. Hurry!”
Without even thinking I slam down the phone and run downstairs. “Randy!” I shake Moser and Headbone and quickly tell them the news. They stare at me in disbelief. “Come on!” As we race upstairs I start giving orders. “Moser, you keep watch out front. If the police show up, stall them. Headbone, keep a lookout for Mr. Pellegrino or any other suspicious neighbors. Randy, you and me will dig it up. Let’s go!”
Moser and Headbone take their positions while Randy and I race to the backyard. We find the spot and sift through leaves and loose dirt. I pull out the box. Beneath it the metric scale from McKinley High glints in the sun. I glare at Randy. “So I’m imagining things, huh, bro?” I open the box. Inside is a huge bag of purple-bud, just like the one under the floorboards in my mom’s studio. “You’re such a liar!” I say. “You’ve been dealing all along!” I throw the bag at him. “I hope you get arrested—you and your stupid friends!”
But when I look at Randy’s face I suddenly realize that he’s seeing this bag of weed for the first time. It’s lying beside his dirty knees. He won’t even touch it. “Dylan, I swear to God, I don’t know how that got here. I’ve never seen it before.”
And then it all comes to me. “Nick!” I say. “He’s the one dealing. Hiding his weed on our property so he won’t get busted. Dude, he probably gave your name to the police, too. Sold you out over a girl! Wow, that’s some friend you got, Randy.”
At that moment Moser’s head pokes around the side of the house. “Dudes, your dad’s here! He just turned the corner! Let’s bail!”
“Hurry!” Headbone yells. He tosses his Altoids box, and it lands in a backyard past Mr. Pellegrino’s house. “The coast is clear! Run!”
I grab the bag of weed and stuff it up my shirt. “Get rid of the scale, Randy. I’ll take care of this. Is there anything else in the house?”
“No, nothing.” His face is pale. A cold wind
is blowing, but beads of sweat line his upper lip. “Dylan, listen, you don’t have to stick your neck out for me, man, I mean—”
“Look. Just tell Dad I’m at the park shooting hoops or something. I’ll catch up with you later.”
I take a quick glance at old man Pellegrino’s window. It’s dark inside his house, and the curtains are drawn. I quickly hop his fence. I race toward the water, and when I reach Shore Road I see two police cars turn up our street. I hit the path and keep running until I’m completely out of breath. There’s an iron railing bordering this section of the bay, and on the other side are jagged black rocks leading to the water. I look around and wait for two kids on bikes to pass. Then I jump the railing. Once my feet are firmly planted on the rocks below, I reach inside my shirt, break open the plastic bag, and dump its contents into the bay. The sweet-smelling purplish-brown buds float lazily along the waves. For a moment I wonder if the fish will nibble at them. I imagine a crab saying to his friend, “Hey, dude, try this stuff! It’ll blow your mind!” I wait for two joggers to pass, and then I hop the fence back onto the path. As far as I can tell, not a soul has seen what I’ve just done.
After my crime, I go to the only place I want to be right now. Angie’s. I hope she’s home. And even though I’ve come to the conclusion that Jonathan Reed is not the pretentious jackass I originally thought he was, I hope to God Angie’s alone. There are some things you can only share with your best friend. A minute later she answers the door. She’s wearing a fuzzy blue bathrobe and her hair is wrapped up in a towel. Cotton balls are stuffed between her toes, and on her toenails is shiny red polish. I’ve lucked out. “Dylan? Oh, my God, are you okay?”
It’s only then that I realize I’m shivering. The sun has set behind the houses now and there’s a fierce wind kicking up. I’m wearing only jeans and a threadbare T-shirt. Angie pulls me inside, and after she’s made me drink a cup of steaming hot tea, we go to her room and I tell her everything. I tell her about the weed under the floorboards and hidden underground in our backyard, how Nick’s been dealing and hiding his dope on our property, and how he ratted on Randy, all because of Chloe. I tell her how I just dumped half a kilo of purple-bud into the bay off Shore Road and started daydreaming about fish and crabs getting high. “So, technically,” I say, “I’m an accomplice to a crime.”
