Run, Jonah, Run

by Jonah Black

  “Good, good. Well then. How’s the diving? Diving still good?” he asked.

  “It’s great,” I said.

  “And you got that check I sent you, didn’t you?” he said.

  “I did. Thanks, Dad.”

  “Yes, well, you go out and get yourself something. I don’t know. I never know what you need, Jonah,” he said.

  Exactly, I thought. “Did you get the book?”

  “Defcom Nine! Yes, thank you, it’s outstanding! In fact, I just finished Defcom Eight a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Hold on. Let me get Honey.”

  I put the phone down. “Who’s that, Jonah?” said Mom.

  “It’s Dad.”

  “Ah,” Mom said. Mr. Bond put his arm around her. I went and got Honey, who was lying on her bed, reading and listening to her new CD on her headphones.

  “Phone,” I said. “It’s Dad.”

  “Really?” said Honey. She swung her feet onto the floor and almost ran out into the hallway to get the phone. I forget that she’s younger than me most of the time, but the way she just bounded out of bed to talk to Dad made her seem like a little girl.

  The book she had been reading was now open on the bed. Winnie Ille Pu. It was Winnie the Pooh, in Latin.

  Dec. 26, 2:30 P.M.

  I’m kind of restless today. I guess I’m so psyched for tomorrow I don’t know what to do. I’m already packed, and I even remembered the condoms. I put them inside this little zippered compartment in my duffel bag. When I put them in there I suddenly thought, Maybe I am totally off base about what Sophie wants from lying around a hotel room with me. I mean maybe it’s never occurred to her that we’re going to be sleeping together. I mean isn’t that like, exactly what I saved her from with Sullivan the Giant? And now I’m just zipping the condoms into my bag? Maybe what she really wants to do is just talk, to just lie in bed and tell stories and turn to each other and take our clothes off and listen to the sounds of the pipes in the hotel, all the water rushing to all the rooms, and Christ, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know! She did say she’d “waited” for me, though, right? I mean, that sort of means she thinks we’re going to sleep together. I even went back and read what I wrote December seventeenth, that time we were on the phone and it sounded like she really wanted to have sex. But did I write down what she said? I mean, it’s possible I might have remembered it wrong, or written it down differently. Now I can’t even remember what she looks like.

  I went out for a bike ride around noon, just trying to get out of the house and clear my head. I headed down to the beach and locked up the bike and climbed the lifeguard stand. I waited for Pops to appear, but he didn’t. This struck me as kind of odd, since Pops always seems to magically appear whenever I climb up the lifeguard stand. Then I got this weird feeling like, maybe Pops Berman isn’t real. He’s like this magic fairy or guardian angel or, I don’t know, like, an alien who can make himself look like a little old man—and whenever I need advice I go to the lifeguard tower and zzaapp, Pops beams in and tells me to go “walk the doggy.”

  I sat there for a while and watched the ocean. I thought about my last diving meet. I thought about Mom and Mr. Bond. And Honey and Dad. I thought about college. I thought about Sophie and meeting her tomorrow, and what that will be like. I reached into my pocket, where I’d put her earrings. I’ve been carrying them around with me. I closed my eyes.

  Sophie opens her hotel room door and throws her arms around me.

  “Oh, Jonah,” she cries. “You can’t imagine how bad it is not being with you.”

  And I say, “It’s all right, Sophie, we’re together now.” I give her the box with the earrings in it and she starts to cry.

  “They’re perfect, just what I wanted,” she breathes. She looks up at me. “Is it all right if I model them for you?”

  I go over to the minibar and pour myself a drink. “Yes,” I say. “I’d like that.”

  Slowly, she takes off all of her clothes, piece by piece. First her sweater, then her skirt, then her bra, then her panties, then she takes out the earrings and puts them in her ears. They kind of swing in her hair.

  “How do I look?” she says.

  And I say, “Perfect.”

  Finally, I got off the lifeguard stand and decided to walk up to Niagara Towers to maybe wish Pops Berman a Merry Christmas. When I asked for him the woman at the front desk asked me if I’m a member of the family, and I said, “I’m his friend.” The receptionist—this very cute Caribbean girl with a sun-and-moon pin on her shirt—said that Pops was in the hospital having dialysis. St. Joseph’s, she said.

  So I bicycled over there, but they said I couldn’t see him, family members only. So I asked them to say Jonah Black had been there and they said, sure. I have no idea whether he got the message or not.

  I guess I’m kind of upset about Pops. It’s weird how important he is to me even though I don’t really know him. I keep thinking about that story he told me about the woman he loved. The one who died. I wonder if my life will end up like that.

  When I got back to the house, Mom said that Posie had stopped by. I felt so bad, I couldn’t believe I’d missed her. I went into my room and guess what—there on my bed was a gift from Brookstone, all wrapped up in sparkly paper covered with the night sky and stars.

  I opened it up. It was the telescope. And a card that said, “For Jonah, a bright planet in a dark sky.” I was completely blown away. I still am. I mean this whole time I was thinking she’d gotten the present for some other boyfriend, and her other boyfriend turns out to be me. Then I read her note again and it kind of weirded me out a little, like what does she mean, a bright planet in a dark sky? Like her sky’s all dark these days? It made me wonder if she was all right.

  I called her up but Mrs. Hoff said, “No, Jonah. Posie isn’t here. She left for a few days. College visiting.”

  Dec. 27, 1:15 P.M.

  Well, here we are, Thorne at the wheel of his Beetle, me attempting to write this while Thorne zooms past everyone at ninety miles an hour and Limp Bizkit is blasting on the stereo. Mom kissed me on the cheek this morning just before we left. “I’m proud of you, Jonah,” she said, and I suddenly felt like a giant rat, lying to her. Honey looked at me from the doorway of her room while I was being hugged by Mom, and her look said, You might think you’re fooling her but you’re not fooling me.

  (Still Dec. 27, 5:30 P.M.)

  I am in the Porpoise! I had to give up writing in the car because it was way too bumpy and I couldn’t concentrate.

  Thorne has dropped me off here and is off to UCF. He says he doesn’t know where he’s staying, but he’s totally unconcerned about it. I wish I had Thorne’s ability not to worry about things so much.

  Now I’m lying on my big king-size bed waiting for Sophie to call. And when she does I will tell her to come to my room and the two of us will lie around and maybe do it.

  I’m kind of nervous. Just sitting here writing this my heart is pounding so hard it’s actually making my shirt move.

  I ran into my first complication when I checked into the hotel. I told them my name and that I was staying for two nights and they said that would be four hundred and seventy-five dollars. I said okay and paid them. But Jesus, this place is expensive! I’m so stupid I didn’t even ask how much it was when I booked the room. I guess I’m going to have to get Thorne or someone to loan me some money because I won’t even be able to pay to get into Disney World at this rate. Or eat. Or anything.

  It’s completely possible this is all like, a giant disaster waiting to happen. But I don’t care.

  (Still Dec. 27, 6:30 P.M.)

  Okay, so now it’s

  (Still Dec. 27, 6:55 P.M.)

  Sorry. The doorbell rang just at that second and it was the delivery guy bringing me a pizza. I wanted to say, hey, man, I deliver pizzas, too! But this is a hotel and I’m supposed to be the guest so I didn’t say anything. He said, can I put it on the table for you sir, and
I said okay, and I tipped him two dollars, which I know is a pretty crummy tip but I’m really worried about money now. I kind of hope Thorne checks in from UCF.

  I called the front desk and asked what room the O’Briens were staying in.

  The concierge said, “Who?”

  And I said, “The O’Briens.”

  And he goes, “They’re guests here, sir?”

  I said yes, and there was this long pause as he checked his computer and then he said, “There’s no one by that name registered at the hotel.”

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  And he said “Yes, sir,” sounding all annoyed.

  So I hung up and I realize now I’m sitting in a hotel I can’t afford waiting for a girl who might not even show up. Who might not even exist.

  I have to say I sort of started to panic, so that’s when I ordered the pizza, with everything on it. Sausages, pepperonis, green peppers, onions, extra cheese. I’ve been lying here watching MTV while I chow down on pizza and two Cokes and now I feel a little bit better. I’m still panicked, except now I weigh an additional five pounds so it’s kind of like I have ballast, or an anchor. Or something.

  This hotel room is pretty cool. It’s definitely not the usual Howard Johnson with the wood paneling and an oil painting of some hunters shooting geese. Downstairs in the lobby there was this amazing kind of fabric thing hanging from the ceiling, like a big parachute or something. The wind makes it kind of flutter in the breeze and it’s really cool. The hotel is huge, too—it goes on forever. There are at least two swimming pools—I haven’t actually looked at them yet, but there are pictures in this brochure on the desk that show that they have these weird little waterfalls in them, so it’s sort of like Typhoon Lagoon.

  I guess it’s just beginning to hit me that I might be getting stood up here. Like maybe Sophie never intended to come down here at all. Maybe leading me on was all some big joke to her. Or maybe she thought I’d never really do it, rent a room and come see her.

  But I talked to her on the phone, and we definitely had a connection or something. I can’t believe she’d just lie. She’s not a bad person.

  Maybe something happened, like she had this sudden change of plans and she couldn’t get in touch with me.

  Maybe I should call home and ask Mom if I’ve gotten any messages. But Mom would be able to tell something is wrong, from my voice. Wouldn’t she? I don’t know why I think this but I bet she could. Of course, she didn’t think there was anything funny going on when I came up with this ridiculous story in the first place. Maybe I could do it without her worrying about anything. I’d have to wait until she’s off the air—right now is when she does her stupid radio show.

  In fact. Hang on a second.

  Okay. I just turned on the radio and of course Mom’s show is syndicated in Orlando. So I’m sitting here in a hotel room I’ve rented in order to meet this girl, and I’m listening to my mother on the radio talking to phone-in callers in Fort Lauderdale. The guy she’s talking to right now is asking her if it’s okay that he likes to have sex in the car better than in the bed.

  And mom says, Are you being n

  (Still Dec. 27, 10:25 P.M.)

  All right. I’m back, after kind of an adventure. The phone rang right in the middle of Mom asking, Are you being nice to yourself? and I practically knocked the lamp over trying to get to it.

  Instead of Sophie, though, it was Thorne. He wanted me to come to this party at UCF with “all of his friends,” and I thought, Thorne, man, you’ve been on campus for about five hours—how can you have “friends” already? He asked about Sophie and I had to tell him the truth. And of course, Thorne swung into action.

  “Okay, Jonah. Now you’ve got to come to this gig. Be in front of the hotel in a half hour, I’ll come get you.”

  “But Thorne—Sophie’s supposed to call here,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Thorne said. “You want her to wait for you, Jonah, not the other way around. You get yourself out of there, hang out with some of these college chicks. If you want Sophie to call you, the only way now is for you not to be there.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You’re saying that if I stay here, she won’t call? And if I leave, she will? How will she know if I’m here or not if she doesn’t call?”

  “Jonahman,” Thorne said. “You still don’t get women, do you?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “They’re psychic,” Thorne said.

  “But if Sophie’s so psychic, why doesn’t she call when I’m here?” I protested.

  “Jonah, you been drinking the Stupid Sauce again? She won’t call when you’re there because she knows you’re waiting around for her! No chick wants to be with a guy who doesn’t have any other options! They want you to have your choice of any girl in the world, and then for you to choose them. Get it?” he said.

  “But how does she know I’m waiting around for her?” I said.

  “You are, aren’t you? She can tell that. She’s not going to call you while you’re waiting around for her to call you!” he declared.

  “Thorne, this is stupid.”

  “Exactly. So get the hell out of there. She’ll leave a message with reception, you’ll call her back later, and then she’ll be the one with the sweaty palms, wondering when you are going to call her.”

  “I thought you said she was psychic,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, she is. But remember, with chicks there’s a fine line between psychic and psycho. You keep her guessing, man. That’s the key. Listen. I’ll be there in twenty-nine minutes. Be there, dude.”

  So that’s how about an hour later I found myself standing around this keg at an off-campus party in the Orlando suburbs. I think Thorne and I were the youngest people there, just about. I’d never been in a frat house before. There were posters on all the walls and different music coming from every room, and the kitchen was just completely disgusting. Like, there was rotting fruit in a bowl, and beer cans all over the place, and lots of stuff spilling out of the cupboards like weird bags of rice and oatmeal and what looked like little baggies of pot, but maybe they were just herbs. In one corner were a dozen empty pizza boxes. They were the exact same ones that Mr. Swede uses, with the picture of the Italian baker on the front making an “OK” sign with his fingers and smelling the aroma rising from the pie.

  There were about a hundred people there, and the music was really loud. At the parties in Pompano, the neighbors are right next door, so you can’t be that loud or you’ll get them mad. But this house had a pretty big yard. I guess you have to be kind of an idiot to live right next to a frat house anyway.

  Thorne pretty much disappeared the second we got there. He’s already bonded with a bunch of people in the e-business program and they’ve been showing him around like he’s one of the guys. There’s this guy Thaddeus who looks like a beach volleyball player or something, but he turns out to be some sort of computer whiz. And this other guy Bruce who barely talks, he just slaps you on the back every five minutes and stares off into space. I guess he’s probably on something. Thorne introduced me to them, but once they found out that I’m only a high school junior they pretty much lost interest.

  I wound up standing around the keg, because it seemed like a good place to be. Seriously, though, I felt like a loser. It was that weird feeling I get sometimes when I realize one of the loneliest places in the world can be in a room filled with people I don’t know.

  That’s when this guy started talking to me. He was a lot older than me—at first I thought maybe he was a UCF graduate student, but then I realized he was too old even for that. He was practically Mom’s age, except that he was wearing these Joe College clothes that made him look younger, at least at first. The longer I looked at him, the sadder he seemed. He looked like someone’s drunk uncle.

  “Name’s Bywater,” he said, shaking my hand. “Who are you?”

  “Jonah Black,” I said. “Your name’s really Bywater?” I didn’t want to insult him, but it sou
nded like a pretty stupid name.

  “Professor Bywater,” he said, as if he were partly proud of this, and partly ashamed. He sort of turned my hand forty-five degrees while he shook it. “Glad to meet you. So you’re one of the prospectives?”

  “One of the what?” I said.

  “Prospectives. One of the folks applying to UCF?” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. “No. I’m just here with a friend.” There was something about this guy I couldn’t figure out. He wasn’t really looking at me while he was talking. He was glancing around the party at all the girls.

  This girl with black curly hair and huge breasts walked by. She was wearing a tube top, and she was really drunk.

  “What do you think of that action?” he said. “I tell you, kid, UCF’s a great place to scope out the tuna!”

  I didn’t even know what he was talking about for a second, then I realized this was some sort of ‘80s lingo for looking at girls. It was kind of a gross thing to say, I thought, especially for a professor.

  “You like English?” Professor Bywater asked me.

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  “Good man,” he said. “It helps you find the answers, doesn’t it? Helps you ask the questions.”

  Professor Bywater kind of swayed back and forth. He had definitely been drinking—a lot. “Listen,” I said. “I gotta go.” I figured it’d be better for all concerned if I just got the hell away from this guy. He was seriously depressing me.

  “I remember when I was your age,” he said. It sounded like he was about to say something else, but he didn’t.

  “What do you remember?” I felt like I had to ask him.

  “Wanting to get laid,” he said.

  “That’s it?” I asked. “That’s all you remember?”