The Key to the Golden Firebird

by Maureen Johnson

  “Do you, like, park the cars for us?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said, ripping a ticket in two and putting half under a windshield wiper.

  “Okay.” May nodded. “What do I do?”

  “You get out.”

  May reached for the door release.

  “Park,” Pete said quickly, his hand flying for the shift.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” May slipped the car into park, collected her bag, and exited. Pete was already standing off to the side, looking a little weary.

  “So,” May asked the man, “how much?”

  The attendant, who was gazing at May with unconcealed disgust, pointed at the huge wall sign with the times and amounts.

  “Do I pay now or—”

  “When you come back.”

  “Oh, right.” She laughed. “Because that’s how you’ll know how long I’ve been gone. Okay. Great. Thanks.”

  So what if her pride was shot? Her sense of relief at being out of the car was immeasurable. She suddenly understood those stories of ship captains who dropped to their knees and kissed the sand once they hit shore.

  “What are we doing?” Pete asked, looking down at her through his curly fringe. He was slouching a little more than usual.

  “I have to go find an ATM to get some cash,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you say so? I have some cash. Let’s just get the car back.”

  “No,” May said as she started walking briskly. “I’m not borrowing.”

  “Come on.” Pete groaned. “Don’t get like that.”

  “It’s your fault we’re here.”

  “My fault? You wouldn’t park!”

  “‘Straight line on 95!’” May mimicked. “‘It’s like the easiest thing in the world.’”

  May walked ahead, and Pete followed, somewhat grumpily. The area was fairly desolate since all of the office buildings, squares, and historical sites in the area generally emptied out at five or six. There seemed to be a thousand shadowy nooks behind trees, low brick walls, and deep doorways. Independence Hall loomed up on their right.

  Okay, maybe this was her fault. But it wasn’t so bad.

  “Look!” She held up her hands. “Free field trip.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe America’s first ATM is in there.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

  Pete stared up at the side of Independence Hall and attempted to whistle. All that came out was a strange sputtering sound.

  “They have blinds in the windows,” May said, stopping and pointing up. “That seems wrong.”

  Splutter.

  “I was just trying to keep your car in one piece. You can’t blame me for that.”

  He switched over to humming.

  They walked around Independence Square, which was filled with construction equipment. One lonely park ranger stood against the barricade that surrounded the area. He turned orange, red, and purple as the huge spotlight that sat on a tall building just beyond Independence Hall threw its light down on him. At the end was the Liberty Bell pavilion, a small glass structure that housed the world’s most famous defective noisemaker.

  “Remember coming here in grade school?” May asked as they looked across the square at the building.

  “Yeah. I think we went about twelve times.”

  “I always thought they’d keep it someplace bigger…and look at this,” she said. “It’s a shed. And it’s just a bell. It feels like such a rip-off.”

  “It is kind of a rip-off.”

  “Then why does everyone get so excited about it?” she asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “A lot of things seem like that,” she said. “They build you up and build you up, and it’s…a bell in a shed.”

  They examined the bell and its housing critically.

  “So,” May said, giving him a sideways glance, “speaking of big buildups, you haven’t told me about the prom. Was it good?”

  “It was all right.”

  “So are you and Nell dating now or something?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged.

  “How do you not know something like that?”

  “We might go out again,” he said. “But I haven’t really dated anyone since Jenna.”

  “Jenna?” May said, throwing him a puzzled look. “You dated Jenna? Jenna Cazwell?”

  “Yeah. All last fall.”

  Jenna Cazwell was an unrelentingly perky girl with huge boobs and an amazing singing voice. She had been in May’s elementary and middle school classes.

  “How did I not know this? How did that happen?”

  “We worked on some shows together.” Pete shrugged again. “Things happen when you do shows. And we liked a lot of the same stuff—same bands, same shows, same movies. She was really into movies, like me. Really specific stuff, too. Like we both like bad shark movies. She had Jaws 4 and Deep Blue Sea on DVD. She even had Shark Hunter.”

  “Jenna Cazwell collects shark movies?” May said. This seemed about as likely to her as finding out that Jenna collected human bones.

  “I know. I couldn’t believe it either. She seemed perfect—but she was so—”

  “Chestually blessed?” May offered.

  Pete was wise enough not to reply to this.

  “Jenna always reminded me of a stewardess,” May said coolly, “with that creepy smile. And she was kind of dumb.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re not all geniuses.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I didn’t get a 200 on the PSATs like you did,” he said, looking just a little irritated. “I mean, I didn’t think she was dumb.”

  “Two-oh-five…,” May mumbled automatically before catching herself. “It doesn’t matter. So what happened?”

  Pete didn’t reply right away.

  “We kind of…stopped calling each other.”

  “You stopped calling each other? That’s it?”

  “Kind of,” he said, pulling on his watchband.

  “That’s weird.”

  “It happens that way sometimes,” he said.

  “God,” May said, finding herself inexplicably annoyed by this new knowledge. “You’re like crush boy. Nell, Jenna, Diana…”

  She started walking again, a little faster this time. There was a strong horsey smell here, which was emphasized by the heat. May picked her way through the numerous knee-high concrete thumbs that had been planted all along this stretch of sidewalk, presumably to keep cars from crashing into the square, or maybe just to make life that much more difficult for people searching for ATMs in a historical zone. “That’s not a lot,” he said. “It’s just that someone’s there, so you date them.”

  May raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t sure what this meant, but he seemed to be saying something.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Do you…like anyone? I mean, you never mention it.”

  “All-girls’ school.” She smirked. “It’s not happening.”

  “What about work?”

  “It looks like you’re already dating Nell. That totally breaks my heart.”

  He stopped moving for a moment. Pete was one of those people who had to freeze completely when he was turning something over in his mind.

  “It’s so hard for me to share her with anyone,” she clarified quickly. “Come on. I guess we should be looking for the ATM.”

  Brooks managed to bum a ride home from the party, and she arrived home at the pathetic hour of nine o’clock. Only Palmer was home when she got there, and she was glued to the television as usual. Brooks sat alone at the kitchen table in the dark, looking down at May’s books and notes, which were spread everywhere. She felt the dryness setting in. She needed hydration. She got up, threw open the refrigerator door, and eyed the empty water-filter pitcher.

  “Does that thing always have to be empty?” she muttered. “Is it the law?”

  There was nothing cold enough to drink. There were a few cans of warm s
oda, but the ice cube trays were also empty. She got some water from the kitchen tap, but it seemed to make her throat even scratchier. Her stomach was tumbling lightly now. She knew this was only a sign of the turbulence to come.

  The Dave and Jamie movie was still playing on all screens inside her head, and now, as she thought about it, it was all getting weirder. She had shown Jamie the condoms. She had told Jamie her plans for the night. And what had Jamie done? Vamped herself up in bondage pants and planted herself in Dave’s lap. In fact, Jamie had moved in before Brooks could do anything.

  Jamie had screwed her over. She had done it intentionally.

  Brooks drummed her fingers on the table. Then she got up and started pacing the kitchen. Her head was going to explode.

  A glint across the room caught her eye. The key to the Golden Firebird hung from the key rack on the kitchen wall. The pewter key ring embossed with the logo, the key with the three colored triangles at the top…

  She knew why no one had touched the car. It had never been said, but it had never needed saying. It was Dad’s car. The car was where it had happened. The car was frozen in time—left, like a museum exhibit, commemorating the worst moment in all of their lives. Through the warm haze of grain punch, beer, insecticide, and whiskey, Brooks saw the absurdity of this. Dad wouldn’t have wanted the Golden Firebird kept that way. He had loved that car, and the thought of it rotting away would have made him miserable.

  It was her duty to take it out.

  She grabbed the key, then lunged in the direction of the garage door.

  The long fluorescent lights blinked on in segments and sizzled a bit before lighting completely. There it was—all dull, heavy gold, a beast from a different time. There was the black vinyl top. The headlights that reminded her of frog eyes. The huge backseat where she and May used to sit and have kicking wars.

  As she approached the car, she had the weird sensation of breaking through an invisible barrier, like an electrical dog fence. The shock was internal, very deep. It repulsed her and charged her at the same time. The Golden Firebird had been waiting here for a long time, wanting to take her wherever she wanted to go. It had been sleeping.

  Brooks crossed around to the driver’s side. The door was unlocked. She opened it slowly but waited a moment before getting in. This was the place. The actual spot where he had passed from living to dead…

  She couldn’t think about it that way. Besides, years of athletics had hardwired one fact into Brooks’s brain: On the field, you don’t hesitate. You decide, and then you do. So she had decided, and now she had to act. If she stood there and thought about it all night, nothing would ever happen.

  She dropped down into the driver’s seat. It was very far back. (Her dad had been six-foot five, after all.) She reached around the side of the seat and found the crank that moved it forward. The inside of the car seemed a bit strange to her now, after an absence of a year. It was a world of cream-colored vinyl. It had ashtrays and a bench seat. Nothing aerodynamic or sleek about the inside of this monster. The radio was ancient, ridiculous. Nothing digital. Huge knobs for the lights. Cold bits of metal. There were some things of her father’s on the floor—his gym bag, a plastic container that must have held his lunch, a newspaper. She used her foot to push them a little farther under the shadow of the dashboard.

  Brooks looked at the key in her hand and the outstretched wings of the embossed Firebird on the key chain. Her father had always told her it was good luck to touch the key chain, so before games she would always “pet the birdie.”

  She stroked it once and put the key into the ignition.

  Nothing.

  She tried again. Still nothing.

  Luckily her father had at least taught her something about the car. She got out and reached under the front bumper for the hood release, then popped it to have a look. The problem was, fortunately, one she’d been taught how to identify—corrosion on the battery terminals.

  When she looked up, Palmer was standing in the doorway. She didn’t speak.

  “What?” Brooks spat. “I’m fixing the car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Brooks said, as if the point were self-evident, “it’s got stuff on the battery.”

  “Why are you fixing it now?”

  “Go watch TV.”

  Palmer didn’t move.

  “Or just stand there,” Brooks said. “I don’t care.”

  Palmer stood there. Brooks retrieved a can of cola from the supply shelf. She cracked it open and poured the contents over the terminals.

  “Why are you pouring soda into the car?” Palmer asked. Her round face was pulled into a very dark scowl. Her hair was pulled up in a lopsided ponytail. She cocked her head, as if it were weighed down by the imbalance.

  “I told you already,” Brooks said, leaning down and keeping her eyes on the battery. “Go take a shower or something.”

  “I took a shower….”

  Brooks grinned as the corrosion bubbled away. She closed the hood and jumped back into the driver’s seat. After waiting a moment she tried the engine again. This time there was a growling, grumbling noise. The engine seemed to be in the process of deciding whether or not it was going to fully engage. Brooks felt it rumbling under her, alternating between a steady purr and a dying cough. Suddenly there was a familiar if alarming smell, and a steel gray cloud of fumes came seeping up from the back. Life rippled through the Firebird, and the engine became loud and steady.

  “Okay,” she said, wincing, “I’m never drinking that again….”

  “What are you doing?” Palmer shouted over the engine.

  “Nothing. Go back inside.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I’m fine,” Brooks shouted. “Go inside!”

  After snapping on her lap belt, she took hold of the thin steering wheel, adjusted the rearview mirror, and slowly began backing the Firebird out of the garage. The wheel turned stiffly, and the sheer length of the car’s back end was intimidating. You could feel this car.

  Palmer stood in the open doorway of the garage, watching her go.

  When Brooks started down the road, the acceleration pushed her against her seat. The Firebird seemed to despise low speeds, and it became easier to drive whenever she went a little faster. No wonder her dad had felt so manly driving this thing.

  She reached for the radio dial and switched it on. The signal was weak, just long silences broken by deafening crackle. Single words boomed out of newscasts. Jolting snatches of songs. Frustrated, she gave the knob a hard spin and got a weird range of feedback. She held the car steady on the road with one hand as she worked the tuner furiously with the other. Scratches of noise—blips. A little more pressure from one finger…carefully. It required absolute precision, like safecracking. Minute turns now. Microscopic.

  A horribly loud whooping sound filled the air. Brooks jumped back and let go of the dial. Punishing static noise blasted through the car. She slapped at the knob to turn the thing off. As she did so, she caught a swirling vibration of light out of the corner of her eye and jerked her head up and looked into the rearview mirror. There was a police car just a few feet behind her, and it was the one making the unpleasant sound.

  Pete drove on the way back from the city. As if trying to exact some revenge for what he’d been put through on the ride through the city, he spent the entire return trip talking like Yoda. He seemed to enjoy watching May flinch with every “Annoyed you look” and “Irritating you, am I?” After the first fifteen minutes she got the impression that he wasn’t even doing it consciously anymore—that he had just gotten stuck and couldn’t stop himself.

  “Hear me can you?” Pete asked as he turned off 95.

  May flicked him on the shoulder with her finger. Pete switched on the radio and adjusted a nickel that he had taped to the face of the dial.

  “Works this does. Ask me why do not.”

  May concentrated on the music until they pulled up in front of the house and he spoke in a
normal voice.

  “That’s weird,” he said.

  “What is? Talking like a human?”

  “Palmer’s out front.”

  Sure enough, Palmer was sitting on the low, flat step in front of the screen door. May felt her nerves tingling. There was something very not right about this. Palmer got up and walked over to meet the two of them.

  “Brooks,” she said.

  “What about her?”

  “She took the car.”

  “What?” May shook her head, not understanding. “Mom took the car.”

  “No,” Palmer said, pointing to the empty garage. “The Firebird.”

  May got out of Pete’s car and walked to the garage as if to prove to herself that the Firebird was really gone. She stood in the space that it had occupied for the last year. The void was weird, almost mesmerizing. The garage was suddenly huge.

  “Where did she go?” May asked.

  “She said she was just going to get some Gatorade.”

  “She took the Firebird for Gatorade?”

  “She poured soda into the engine, too,” Palmer added, pointing to the case of generic cola on the shelf behind May.

  “Probably for the battery,” Pete said, coming up behind them and looking around for himself.

  Both Palmer and May turned and stared at him as if he had suddenly started speaking in Portuguese.

  “Coke can loosen things up,” he explained. “Get rid of buildup on the battery nodes.”

  “How long has she been gone?” May asked.

  “About two hours.”

  “Two hours?”

  “She was drunk,” Palmer said. “I’m pretty sure.”

  May exhaled heavily and paced the room. She plucked a canister of WD-40 from one of the shelves and shook it violently, listening to the little metallic rattle.

  “I can go look for her,” Pete offered. “Drive around.”

  “There’s no point,” May said. “Two hours. She could be anywhere.”

  She continued to walk around the room, seemingly looking for something that would explain it all—where Brooks was, why she had committed this insane act of treachery. Something that could put the Firebird back just as it was, just as it had been for the last year. But nothing was there but half-used containers of car cleaners, a few tools, some rags in a bucket, some shelves of old junk. Palmer lingered by Pete’s side, keeping about a foot away but moving whenever he moved, as if he were a magnet pulling her around. She looked at him searchingly, but since he had no explanation either, he could only shrug.