Remember Me 2: The Return

by Christopher Pike

  REMEMBER ME 2

  CHAPTER I

  JEAN RODRIGUES did not want to become her mother. A not quite forty-yearold woman with five kids, a dead husband lost to booze, working sixty hours a week at a coffee shop just to pay the rent on a rundown house in the wrong part of town and to put food in the mouths of children who could not have cared less about her. Most of the time Jean couldn't give a damn, not about school or work or even about herself. Yet sometimes she'd watch her mother as the woman got dressed for work, the lines of ruined dreams on her weary face, and Jean would feel sorry for her. She'd think, There must be something that would make my mother smile. There must be more to life than what I see waiting for me.

  Yet Jean could never see that "more," and so she seldom smiled herself. Jean Rodrigues was eighteen years old and it was two weeks before her high school graduation. Her father had been Mexican, pure Aztec—at least that's what she was told. Her memories of him were few; he had died of pneumonia and heart failure while she was still in first grade.

  Her mother—she wasn't positive what her mother was. Half Hispanic, a quarter Italian, two-thirds the rest of the world. The numbers and genes never added up. Jean supposed the same was true for her.

  But Jean knew she looked good, no matter what her gene pool or how broke she was. Her long dark hair was her glory. She wore it unadorned and straight down to her butt and washed it every night with an herbal shampoo—one of the few luxuries she allowed herself. Her face was strong; relatives said she took after her father. Her nose was big, but since her mouth was as well, the flaw only enhanced her beauty. She may have had her father's fearless expression, but she had her mother's body. They were both voluptuous. Her looks were one of the things Jean felt good about. There were so few things.

  That -evening was a warm Friday. If Jean had read the papers closely and had an excellent memory, she would have remembered it was exactly fifty-two Fridays after the death of another eighteen-year-old in another section of Los Angeles, a certain Shari Cooper. Like Shari of a year ago, Jean was in her bathroom preparing to spend Friday night at a birthday party for a friend. Her friend was Lenny Mandez. Jean had been dating Lenny for about three months and had a special surprise for him tonight. It was so special that she wondered if she should let him know about it on a night reserved for celebration. She was six weeks pregnant with his kid. My mother got pregnant with me when she was eighteen. The same sad story, all over again. I don't want to become my mother.

  Jean knew why she was pregnant, besides the obvious reason that she'd had sex. Six weeks earlier when Lenny and she had made love, their condom had broken. And there they were being so responsible, practicing safe sex and all.

  She'd been a fool to believe all that hype, she thought. The only hundred percent safe sex was between Barbie and Ken, and she'd heard rumors they weren't doing it anymore.

  What made it worse was that she wasn't sure if Lenny knew how badly things had misfired that night. She worried that he might think the kid belonged to someone else. But it wasn't a huge worry—Lenny was cool—not as huge as the kid growing inside her. She didn't know what to do. She didn't want to think about it, so she planned to get loaded that night.

  Jean was brushing her hair when the car horn outside startled her, although she'd been waiting for it to sound. Her best friend, Carol Dazmin, was driving her to the party. Jean did not have a car. She did work after school and most weekends at a Subway Sandwich but only to supplement her mother's meager income and to buy clothes and pot. Not for a car.

  Jean smoked pot practically every day; it was the only thing that made the clocks on the walls at school fun to watch. Carol got loaded with her, too, but spent her days staring at the other girls. Carol was a lesbian, but she never hit on Jean or anything and it was OK. In fact, Carol was another of the few things in Jean's life that could be called positive. Carol was one of the kindest and funniest people Jean had ever met.

  At the sound of the horn, Jean jerked her hand the wrong way and ended up breaking the handle off her brush with it right in her hair. Even if she'd possessed a perfect memory and had read every paper in town, Jean wouldn't have known that Shari Cooper had broken brushes regularly. Jean stared at the plastic handle in her hand before pulling the clump of bristles from her hair. She had never broken a brush before.

  Jean left the bathroom and walked into the living room. It was getting dark, but her younger stepbrothers and -sisters were still outside playing, even four year-old Teddy. The only one Jean really felt close to was Teddy; the world had yet to ruin him. As for the rest, she didn't care if they ever came inside. Her mother had crashed on the couch in front of an old "Star Trek" rerun on TV.

  Jean had no interest in science fiction or anything to do with space. She would just as soon the government spent the money on nuclear bombs.

  "Hey, Mama, "Jean said softly, staring down at her mother. "I'm knocked up.

  Knocked up and dropped down."

  Her mother stirred. Her hair was already gray; she couldn't be bothered dying it. She had on green coffee-stained pants, a white blouse she had worn the past two days. Her lipstick was a cheap color; it looked as if she'd put it on in front of a dusty windshield rather than a clean mirror. Most of all she looked tired.

  She had to be up at four to be at work on time. Jean felt that somehow she was standing before a mirror as she studied her.

  Her mother yawned. "Did you say something, Jean?"

  Jean hesitated. She'd have to tell her sometime. Or would she? Maybe Lenny would talk her into an abortion. Or perhaps he'd just take her out and shoot her. There were all kinds of possibilities, when she thought about it.

  "No," Jean said. "I'm going out."

  Her mother opened her eyes. "Where are you going?"

  "Lenny's having a party. It's at his house."

  "Will his parents be there?"

  "His parents are dead, Mom. I told you that."

  "Well, who will be there? Just you kids and a cloud of smoke?"

  Jean acted bored. "Mom, nothing like that's going to happen."

  Her mother snorted. "Yeah, like it doesn't happen every day. What do you take me for, mija? One of your teachers at school?"

  "I don't know."

  "What time are you coming home?"

  "Midnight, maybe a little later."

  "Don't you have work tomorrow?"

  "Yeah. I'll be there. Do I ever miss?"

  Her mother shook her head. "I don't know what you do anymore, Jean. Except that you don't stay around here much. What's this Lenny like? Have I met him?"

  "You met him last week."

  She scratched her head. "He wasn't that black fella, was he?"

  "Mom! He's the same color as you and me. He's a great guy. I like him. It's his birthday tonight."

  Her mother nodded. She liked birthdays. They were next to All Saints days in her book. "What'd you get him?" her mother asked.

  Jean had passed the two-minute-get-your-ass-in gear mark. Carol honked again. Jean stepped toward the door, saying, "I got him something special. I'll tell you about it later. Don't worry if I'm a little late."

  "If you don't come home, I'll worry," her mother called after her.

  Jean opened the door and stepped outside the house, the same house she'd lived in all her life. She drew in a deep breath of smog. North and south, east and west, her neighborhood was in the throes of a holocaust. Had been since the word ghetto was first used.

  "I wouldn't," Jean muttered under her breath.

  Carol had made herself up, much more than Jean had. Carol had on a tight black leather skirt, a long-sleeved red blouse, fake silver and gold chains. Jean wore blue jeans and a yellow shirt. Carol was not butch; she liked
to attract the girls as a girl. Jean knew Carol's fantasy, Darlene Sanchez, would be at the party. Jean also knew Carol was wasting her time on Darlene, who needed guys the way a smoking car needs a quart of oil.

  But Darlene was not in a romantic mood these days. Her boyfriend, Sporty Quinones, had been gunned down near the projects in a drive-by only two weeks ago. Lenny had been with him at the time, but hadn't been hurt. Sporty had taken three shots in the chest and bled to death in Lenny's hands. At the funeral, Darlene had not been silent in her mourning; there was too much fire in her blood. Even as they lowered Sporty into the ground, she shouted for vengeance. That was the trouble with drive-by hits; they were just guns poked out of dark windows. The killers didn’t leave cards. Darlene said she knew who did it. Lenny didn't know how; he said he didn't even see the car.

  The whole thing confused Jean. She didn't know what the hell the guys were doing so close to the projects in the middle of the night. That was like walking into a sewer pipe and asking not to get dirtied. She missed Sporty as well; he had been a good friend. If it hadn't been for Lenny, she might have gone out with him. They had fooled around a little at some boring party just before Lenny and she got together.

  "Guess what?" Carol said as Jean climbed into the car. Carol had a ten-yearold red Camaro that had once been hit by a school bus. It sounded like a tank under enemy fire, but it always started, which was the important thing.

  "What?" Jean said, closing the car door.

  "You have to guess." Carol put the car in gear and they rolled forward.

  "I don't want to guess."

  "I got asked out today."

  "Who asked you out?" Jean asked.

  "You know the guy with the Russian accent at the McDonald's on Herald?"

  "That guy? His face is scarred."

  Carol giggled; she often did. Her lips were glossy, her eyelids neon. She was skinny as a wire plugged into a shorted socket. She had a lot of energy. She could eat two Big Macs with fries at lunch break and still do sit-ups in P.E. an hour later. She was pure Hispanic but wore so much white powder that she looked as if she were auditioning for a circus clown.

  "What do you think?" Carol asked.

  "About his scars?"

  "No! About him asking me out. He knows I'm a lesbian, and he still wants to go out with me. Doesn't that make him some kind of pervert?"

  "No. I bet he thinks he can turn you on. Are you going out with him?"

  "I don't know. I told him to come to the party tonight. Do you think he'll come?"

  "Why do you keep asking me questions like that? I don't even know the guy."

  Carol nodded excitedly. "I hope he comes. It might make Darlene jealous."

  "I wouldn't count on it."

  Carol lost her smile. "Don't you think she likes me—just a little? And don't say you can't answer because you don't know her."

  "Yes. I think Darlene likes you. I just don't think she wants to sleep with you.

  God, Carol, the girl is a complete horn dog. She's slept with just about every guy at school."

  "Yeah. But she's just suffered a major personal loss. That can sometimes shake up a person's sexuality. I heard that on 'Oprah.' There was a woman on there who didn't become a lesbian until her husband's head was cut off by a helicopter blade."

  Jean groaned. "Oh, brother."

  "What is it?"

  "I need some mota. Do you have a joint?"

  "At home, not with me. But there'll be plenty of stuff at the party. Can't you wait?"

  "I suppose."

  "What's bothering you, Jean? You look like you're worried about your sexuality."

  "I'm pregnant."

  "Qui?"

  "I'm pregnant."

  Carol almost rammed the back of a bus. "Wow! That's big. Whose is it?"

  Jean was disgusted. "What do you mean, whose is it? It's Lenny's. He's my boyfriend. What kind of question is that?"

  "I was just asking. I just wanted to be sure. Wow. What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

  "I don't know. Get rid of it."

  Jean shook her head. "Just like that? I don't know if I can do that."

  "Have you told him?"

  "I was thinking of telling him tonight."

  "That should liven up his party."

  "Shut up. Maybe I'll tell him later. I haven't even told my mom yet."

  "Don't tell your mom. She won't let you go out anymore."

  "I'll think about it," Jean said.

  "What did you get Lenny for his birthday? I got him a book."

  "What kind of book?"

  "I don't know. It had a scary cover on it. Does Lenny like scary stuff?"

  "I don't think he's read a book in his life. I don't know if he can read."

  Carol laughed. "I was thinking the same thing! I was thinking this is the stupidest present I could possibly buy him! That's why I bought it. What did you get him?"

  "Nothing so far. Let's stop at the record store. Maybe I can buy him a tape."

  Carol settled back down. She reached over and touched Jean on the leg. Her voice came out gentle. Jean knew Carol was not as insensitive as she liked to pretend.

  "If you do keep the baby, then we could all play with it," she said. "It might not be so bad. It might even be fun."

  Jean sighed. "Nothing's fun anymore."

  CHAPTER II

  LENNY MANDEZ had a hilltop home with a view. Unfortunately, the house rested on a weed-choked plot of land between a slum and a ghetto. The surrounding area was covered with aged oil wells that creaked so badly in the middle of the night it sounded as if the house were under attack from an army of arthritic robots. The latest earthquake had actually made some of his neighbors' homes stand up straighten The whole area looked as if it had been thrown together for the express purpose of violating every code in the book.

  Lenny's home had two bedrooms for the cockroaches and a bathroom for the real nasty creatures. Still, it wasn't a bad place to have a party, Jean thought, as long as there was enough booze and dope. Fortunately, that was never a problem with Lenny. Intoxicants followed him the way ants beat a path to the food across his kitchen floor.

  Lenny Mandez was twenty, but if his age was measured by mileage rather than years, he was ready for retirement. He had joined his first gang while walking home from kindergarten. He was in juvenile hall for stealing a car he didn't know how to drive when he was thirteen. But that two-year stint inside sobered him some, and Lenny returned to public school and graduated from high school last year. He had a full-time job now, working as a mechanic at a gas station owned by an uncle. He owed allegiance to no particular gang, but had friends in all the wrong places and made as much money dealing drugs as he did tuning engines.

  Jean knew he was trouble, she was no fool, but she took solace in the fact that he didn't like being a pusher, anymore than he liked the idea of returning to prison. He told her that he was trying to change, and she could see that he was. He took a couple of night classes at the city college—general ed stuff. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his life any more than she did. They had that in common, at least.

  She had met him through the late Sporty Quinones, who, at the age of twenty, had still been trying to get a high school diploma. They had been introduced in the middle of the street, literally, and for a moment, when she'd looked into his dark eyes, she forgot about the oncoming cars. There was passion in his eyes, she sensed, as well as danger. She wondered if that's what it took to turn her on—the possibility of a bad end. He had a great body; she had seen a few in her day.

  He had heavy muscles, generous lips, and wore his straight black hair long onto his shoulders. He had taken a hip tone with her. "Hey, baby, I heard about you. Heard you were hot. What do you say we get together tonight?" Of course she had told him where to stick it, and he had laughed, reverting to a more subdued tone, which she was to learn was more normal for him. He had taken her to the movies that night, and they had
necked so hard in the back row they had turned a PG Disney film into a hard R erotic mystery. That was what she liked most about Lenny —the mystery. Even after six weeks of dating, she still had no idea what he was thinking. At Sporty's funeral, as his best friend was lowered into the ground, he hadn't changed the expression on his face. He could have been staring at the sky for all the emotion he showed.

  Jean ended up getting Lenny a Los Lobos tape, which he slipped into the boom box as soon as she and Carol arrived at his house, and cranked up the volume.

  Jean assumed that meant he liked it even though she hadn't had a chance to wrap it. He gave her a quick kiss and handed her a beer and she sat on the couch in the living room with a bunch of people she hardly knew and the party moved forward as they always did. There was alcohol, pot, music, laughter, and cursing.

  She and Carol cornered a hookah loaded with Colombian Gold near the start of the festivities and each took four hits so deep into their lungs that they could feel their brain cells leaving on the sweet cloud of smoke as they exhaled. They both began to laugh and didn't stop until they remembered they had nothing to laugh about, which was an hour later. So the first part of the party passed painlessly. Even though Jean got loaded regularly, marijuana often had an undesirable side effect on her psychology. The moment her high began to falter, her mood sometimes plunged, so rapidly that she felt as if she were sinking into a black well. In other words, the pot bummed her out as surely as it made her laugh, and this was one of those unfortunate times when, after an hour of giggling, she felt close to tears. But since she seldom cried, and never in front of other people, she just got real quiet and tried not to think. She didn't want to know she was in a place she didn't want to be with people she didn't care about and who didn't care about her. That her whole life was headed in the wrong direction and that it wasn't going to change because that was just the way the world was. That she was pregnant and didn't want a baby and didn't want to have an abortion and didn't want to end up like her mother.

  It was this last thought, spinning around in her head, that caused her the most grief. And the weird thing was, her mother was one of the few people in her life she actually respected. Come midnight, though, when the party began to thin out, and the dope began to filter from her bloodstream, her depression lifted sufficiently so that she was able to talk again.