by Ann Packer
Ryan took in his mother’s outrage, his father’s consternation, and Sierra’s pink-faced amusement, a look he knew could give way at any moment to helpless laughter. “We’re taking you out, James,” he said, exercising an option he and Sierra had discussed. “That’s the real reason we came. It’s a brotherly kidnapping. Not going to tell you where we’re going, you just have to come with us and be ready for an adventure.”
“How much are they paying you?” James said, but he let Ryan point him to his room and into warmer clothes and back to the kitchen to say goodbye and into the front seat of Sierra’s car, all without a sarcastic or disparaging comment.
Penny and Bill were left in the kitchen. “What was that?” she said, but all Bill could think was how sorry he was to face the evening without any kids in the house, and he delivered an edict: “He’s not going to that school. I won’t have it.”
Sierra drove and Ryan sat behind her, and in the passenger seat James felt captive and commanding by turn, though when they reached Alpine Road and headed not in the obvious direction, toward Palo Alto and Menlo Park and every likely restaurant, but instead in the direction of the Priory, he felt himself plunging deeper into captivity and pressed his feet into the floor of the Beetle to slow things down.
But they passed the Priory and kept going. Sierra made a sharp left into Woodside, and James realized they were going to her house. She and her mother lived on the edge of an estate on the thickly forested Mountain Home Road, in a so-called carriage house that once was an actual carriage house and had a trough out back to prove it.
Their landlord was just nosing his Jaguar out of the driveway when Sierra, Ryan, and James pulled in.
“Evening,” he said to Sierra, leaning through his open window.
“Happy Friday,” she said. “Have you ever met Ryan’s little brother?”
James sat forward and raised his hand in a gesture meant to bridge the gap between a wave and a salute. Unfortunately, it ended up looking a lot like a Heil Hitler, and from the backseat Ryan whispered a cautioning “James.”
“What?” James said, turning around. He was aware of Sierra playing with the Beetle’s pedals—gas, clutch, gas, clutch—and the forward and backward movement of the car had the rhythmic feel of sex. Ryan shook his head and waved at the landlord, and Sierra pulled forward and parked.
“Are we going here going here?” James said. “Or just stopping by?”
“Just stopping by. I need to get something.”
A rickety outside staircase went up to the second level, where she and her mother lived. James watched as she jogged up the stairs and disappeared through the door.
“So tell me about the Priory,” Ryan said.
“Nerds in ties.”
“Not robes?”
“Monks in robes, nerds in ties.”
“That was weird on my birthday,” Ryan said. “With the watercolor.”
“You mean the ‘piece’?”
“James.”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?”
“She won’t make you go, James. She can’t.”
James shrugged, and Ryan leaned forward and put his hand on James’s shoulder. Tears swam in front of James’s eyes, and he stared straight ahead and tried not to blink.
“Remember how we used to talk at night?” Ryan said. “Sometimes when I’m almost asleep I forget I’m not at home, and I start talking to my roommate like he’s you. One night I was sort of already asleep and dreaming, and I said to him, ‘Do you have Dog?’ ”
James had met Ryan’s roommate only once, a guy from Malibu who was such a surfer he was like a cliché of himself. He even had a surfer name, Brett. “Little bro!” he said to James when Ryan introduced them. James hated him.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” he told Ryan. “You stopped sleeping in our room about ten years ago.”
“Three.”
“But who’s counting.”
Ryan was still leaning forward, and he gave James’s shoulder a squeeze and said, “I love you, J.” At which point James did the only thing he could think of doing, which was to get out of the car and climb the stairs after Sierra. There was only so much of Ryan he could deal with. Besides, he had to take a leak.
Sierra had left the door ajar, and he could hear her and her mom talking.
“. . . driving literally all afternoon,” her mom was saying in a peeved voice.
Sierra said, “Where’s my Chinese jar? I’ve got forty dollars in there and I need it.”
“And you’ll drive back down there tomorrow, I suppose. And then home again, when, Sunday? And back down there Tuesday or Wednesday?”
“It’s an hour,” Sierra said. “And we’re trying to take James out tonight, so if you don’t mind.” There was a silence, and James held his breath, afraid she’d open the door and see him standing there. He wanted to hear more.
“I could make something,” her mom said. “I could make minestrone.”
“That takes hours. Anyway, we want to take him out. He’s so lost. Ryan’s afraid of what he’ll do.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, here it is,” Sierra said. “What’s it doing here?”
“Or you could have a glass of wine with me.”
“Mommy, we’re underage. I’m going now, okay?”
Not wanting to be discovered, James rapped on the door and pushed it open. He’d been to Sierra’s only once and had forgotten how cluttered it was, and froufrou, two couches and two armchairs all covered with flowers, and several small dim lamps casting the only light, which in each case was filtered by a piece of colored gauze. Sierra and her mom shared the single bedroom, which he saw through an open door: twin beds separated by a nightstand. The walls in the living room were covered with photographs of Sierra: some serious black-and-white shots from when she was around ten or twelve, and dozens of bright color pictures from every other time in her life. Looking at pictures of her, you thought you’d never really known how pretty she was—and then you looked at her and realized that of course you’d known. She had velvet skin and cascading blond hair, and if she’d been paid to model the gray T-shirt and torn jeans she was wearing, no stylist or makeup artist could have made her look better. She could easily be a model. Some weirdo had stopped her on the street in San Francisco to tell her that very thing.
“Sorry,” she said when she saw him. “I’m coming.”
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“No, James, that’s not allowed.”
“Come in,” her mom said. Her hair was long like Sierra’s but more gray than blond. She was decent-looking herself, way better-looking than his mom. “James, it’s so good to see you. Why did Ryan stay in the car, we could’ve all had some hummus.”
The bathroom was small and damp and perfumey, and there was nothing in the medicine cabinet except Midol and melatonin, that and a million different loofahs and herbal foot creams and natural oatmeal soaps. It occurred to James that Rebecca had never kept a lot of girlish stuff around, and for a moment he wished she were with them, but she was always so busy.
The sink had a curtain around it instead of a cabinet, and after he pissed he squatted and pulled aside one panel. Sitting behind the pipes was a leather case that looked like a miniature trunk, with hardware on the corners and a brass lock with the key sticking out. He slid the box out and opened it. Inside he found a snarl of jewelry, fine gold chains with knots so tiny it would take a magnifying glass to untangle them. Hanging from each chain was a charm—a pearl, a black-and-white Minnie Mouse head, a small gold cross. The whole mess of necklaces was in a tray that lifted out, and in the large undivided space underneath James found a leather book full of loopy cursive. He flipped through the pages and caught phrases like “my heart is so full today” and “Sierra is as majestic as her name” and “I love my house, I love my job, I love my daughter.” He c
losed the book and tossed it back into the box. The lady doth protest too much, he thought, and then he wished he hadn’t thought it because it made him think of Rebecca again; it was what she used to say when their mother pretended she’d really like to stay in the house after dinner but felt duty-bound to return to the shed to do some more work.
He took out the clump of chains, clenched the cross in his fist, and yanked as hard as he could, but all that happened was a tiny rope burn where the chains had slid across his palm. He opened the medicine cabinet again, grabbed a pair of nail scissors, and easily snipped the chain in two. From there it was simple to slip the cross off, and he shoved it in his pocket, closed the box, and returned it to its place behind the pipes.
Flushing the toilet, he opened the door and found Sierra standing right there.
“Everything okay?”
He gave her a mild smile and the shrug he used at school when he didn’t want to admit he didn’t know the answer to a question.
“James, what’s your favorite band these days?” Sierra’s mom said. “Do you like Hall and Oates? I love ‘One on One,’ I was just going to play it.”
She was in front of the stereo, holding a record by its edges. Once when she was at the Blairs’ for dinner, years ago, James had joined in a conversation she and Rebecca were having about music, and ever since then, whenever she saw him, she brought up some song or other.
“Kind of,” he said, though in fact he hated Hall and Oates.
“I love ‘Sara Smile.’ ”
“That’s because it reminds you of Sierra.”
Sierra’s mom blushed and smiled. “James, that’s so touching. You’re really sweet.”
“Mommy, stop it,” Sierra said. “We’re leaving. See you I don’t know.”
“See you I don’t know,” her mom said, sticking out her lower lip in a pretend pout that James knew she really meant.
“Mommy.”
James waved and left. On the stairs he remembered Rebecca talking about Sierra’s mom’s musical taste. “She likes Air Supply,” Rebecca had said. “How embarrassing is that?” Then she’d sung, “ ‘I’m back on my feet and eager to be what you wanted.’ I mean, no offense, but how messed up is that?” And it confused James, because he didn’t understand why it was messed up. What was wrong with being eager to be what someone wanted? He still didn’t get it.
Ryan reclined in the back of the Beetle, his feet propped between the two front seats. When he saw James, he straightened up and smiled. “Did you see Janice?”
“Saw and heard. And smelled.”
“Oh, it’s kind of strong in there, isn’t it? Incense, right? I almost don’t notice it anymore.”
It was dark now, and when Sierra returned they took back roads to a large county park that climbed the Woodside hills. A light mist had floated over from the ocean, and James felt his face grow cool and damp. Sierra and Ryan pulled on sweatshirts and got headlamps out of a box in the trunk, plus backpacks stuffed with blankets. They walked without talking, James curious but unwilling to ask what was going on because he knew it would be revealed in the fullness of time. That was some other fucking quote. He imagined it was Shakespeare, since every quote seemed to be Shakespeare.
Just ahead of James, Ryan walked with a purposefulness that belied the second thoughts he was having about the evening’s plan. Sierra had stopped at home not for money but for the mushrooms she’d bought earlier in the week, and he was uneasy about the prospect of actually doing them. It would be their first time, and Ryan didn’t even love getting stoned all that much. But he didn’t want to disappoint her, and he thought that the more fun they had together, the longer she’d put off doing whatever it was she was going to decide she wanted to do.
They began climbing a narrow trail, slowing to stay within the light cast by their lamps. They made their way up a series of switchbacks, Ryan in the lead, then Sierra, then James. Redwoods soared fifty feet above them and higher.
Ryan and Sierra murmured back and forth, or murmured to the degree that you could successfully murmur while hiking single-file. It was their habit to talk about their memories of the last time they’d done whatever they were doing, and he reminded her of a recent hike they’d taken near Santa Cruz, at a state park that was full of amazing redwoods.
“Why do you guys hike?” James said. “You should bike. You can see more.”
“We could all bike,” Ryan said. He turned around, and the light from his headlamp shone into James’s eyes.
“Ow, watch it.”
“I could get my bike back in shape, and Sierra could use Rebecca’s.”
“You’re quite the scoutmaster,” James said.
“What I said in the car?” Ryan told him. “About loving you? That’s what’s making me suggest this stuff.”
He began thinking that James’s mood might not make for a very good trip. He had heard that mushrooms could amplify whatever feelings you were having. He also thought it might not be the best idea to do this in the dark—in case any of them ended up freaking out. But Sierra wanted to do it, and he couldn’t bear to disappoint her.
At a meadow, they spread out one blanket and wrapped themselves in the others. They had bottles of ginger ale to wash down the mushrooms, and Ryan had brought apples and a large bag of Oriental snack mix in case they got hungry. As he and Sierra unpacked everything, James said that if all they’d wanted was a nighttime picnic, they could’ve saved time and just gone down to the tree house. He’d begun to enjoy himself, though, and they all knew he was complaining in order to protect his reputation as a malcontent.
“Wait, don’t eat yet,” Sierra said as he reached for an apple.
“You may be wondering,” Ryan intoned, “why we’ve brought you here. We have something very special in mind for you, young man. It’s not something we’d offer just anyone.”
“What are you doing?” Sierra said, lightly swatting him. She leaned toward James and said, “Guess what? We have shrooms.”
Immediately, James felt dread. Shrooms—he’d never done them. Never dropped acid. Never done any hallucinogen at all. He didn’t want to be a pussy, but as bored as he was, he didn’t feel like spending eight hours tripping. Visiting the Priory had been enough weirdness to last him a week. But he couldn’t say so, and he nodded enthusiastically.
“You know,” Ryan said, “just because we have them doesn’t mean we have to do them. We could just hang out here and then go home.” He paused. “Or to a movie or something.”
“But I want to do them,” Sierra said.
He reached over and put his hand on her leg. “Then we’ll do them. But first I have to pee.”
“Me, too,” James said.
They walked across the meadow, following some code of decorum that required they go as far away from Sierra as they would have if it had been light out. The moon was low and less than half-full. James thought of the night of Greer’s party and was gripped by remorse over what he’d put his father through. Then he thought of how nasty he’d been to his father since then, and he punched his thigh and cried, “Fuck.”
“What?” Ryan said.
“Nothing.”
James’s fist had come in contact with the gold cross, a small spiky thing under the denim, and he pressed on it until the points of the cross dug through the lining of his pocket and into his leg.
“Listen, J?” Ryan said. “I’m not going to do the mushrooms. It’s good to have someone with you in case anything happens.”
“What could happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just watch you guys. Take care of you.”
James stared at Ryan. It was rare for them to stand so close, and he was more aware than usual of the difference in their sizes. Ryan was four inches shorter than he was and fifty pounds lighter. And he had a worried loo
k on his face.
“The only thing?” he continued. “I’m not going to tell her I’m not doing it.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“It’s the least fucked-up thing I can think of. If I tell her, then she won’t do it, either, and she really wants to.”
“So I’m supposed to pretend you did it?”
“If you will.”
When they returned, Sierra had already set out the mushrooms on a white cloth—a cluster of long, slender stems with caps that looked like flattened moths. There were five or six of them, dried and papery, though when James lifted one to his nose, he nearly gagged from the pungent smell. He asked how many they were each supposed to eat.
“We start with one,” she said. “Then we wait an hour, and if we want it to get more intense we eat another.”
“Is it going to be gross?”
“That’s what the ginger ale is for. Here goes,” she said, and she lifted a mushroom and bit off its cap. She chewed for a moment and cried, “Ewww! It’s disgusting!”
“Spit it out,” Ryan said, cupping his hand in front of her chin.
But she shook her head and chewed vigorously. Quickly, she folded the stem into her mouth and ate it, too. “The ginger ale, the ginger ale,” she said, waving her open hand at Ryan. He seized the bottle and tried to twist off the cap, but it wouldn’t budge. “No way!” she cried.
“Bottle opener,” Ryan said, thrusting the bottle at James and getting to his knees. He grabbed his backpack and said, “Please, please, please.”
“Ryan!” Sierra cried.
Ryan unzipped the main compartment, groped around in the emptiness, and then unzipped the front pocket and felt the paper towels he knew were the only things in there.
“Forget it, I’ll eat something,” she said, and she bit into an apple.
James put down the ginger ale bottle and brought the mushroom to his nose again. Again he nearly gagged. “Walk around a little,” he said to Sierra. “It’ll help, I swear.”
She stood up, retched, and ate more of the apple. Ryan held her.
