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by Ron Koertge

  “Fine. Don’t be.”

  “It’s all Oliver can talk about, but I don’t want no part of it. I’m sorry I said what I said about Molly being lighter-skinned and all. I mean, she is, but we talked about that and her little boy and my little girl, and now we help each other out sometimes with babysitting and shit, and I don’t want hard feelings.”

  “Debra, I did the Oliver piece as a favor to him, okay? And kind of to just see if I could do it. I’m not going to use your part. Relax.”

  She stands up and tugs at her Los Angeles Lakers T-shirt. “You promise?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Colleen steps right up beside her and gives her a little hip check. “Is everybody hitting on my boyfriend today?”

  “He don’t keep his promise,” says Debra, “he’ll see some real-life hitting.” Then she flounces away.

  Colleen sits down and takes a big bite out of a giant slice of pizza before she says, “What’s the name of that movie where some kid journalist goes on tour with a rock band? It was on last night.”

  “Almost Famous. Billy Crudup, Kate Hudson, and Anna Paquin as Polexia Aphrodisia. It was about a real guy, a journalist named Cameron Crowe.”

  Colleen just shakes her head. “How do you remember all that? I can’t remember what I read twenty minutes ago.”

  “I don’t know. I just do.”

  “You don’t even try?”

  “I try to remember when I study for history or something. But with movies, they just kind of seep into me.”

  “Well, I wish math would seep into me.”

  We concentrate on the trays in front of us for a minute. Somebody drops a plate, and the whole cafeteria applauds. Colleen’s a little twitchy all of a sudden. I reach for her hand, and she lets me hold it.

  “Do you want to go to a party Saturday night at A.J.’s house?”

  “Who’s A.J.?”

  “Just this girl I met. She’s into movies, too.”

  “Since when are you meeting girls?”

  “Since that night in Hollywood. At the gallery. You were busy with Nick, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. That loser.”

  “A.J. says it’s Vampire Night. So we’ll eat and watch a Bela Lugosi movie, probably.”

  Colleen pretends to ponder. “Let me see: would I rather go to a club and get high or watch a DVD about bloodsuckers with a bunch of eleventh-graders? What a dilemma!”

  “Eight o’clock, all right? Or come at seven and eat with Grandma and me.”

  She shakes her head. “Granny makes me want to jump out a window. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  I WAIT BY THE DOOR LIKE FIDO, and when Colleen tools up, I make my way to the curb. It takes a little while, and I can see her drumming with both hands on the steering wheel.

  She opens the door for me, and I fall into the seat, a move I’ve perfected.

  “What’s the address?” she asks.

  “Linden Lane.”

  “I hate this girl already. Fucking Linden Lane. I live on Fourth Street. Why am I on dead-assed Fourth Street and she’s on glamorous Linden Lane?”

  I point across the street. A yellow SUV is parked in the driveway. “Marcie’s back.”

  Colleen roars away from the curb without even looking. “Where’s she been?”

  “Some kind of retreat. She does that sometimes.”

  “Why can’t I go on a retreat? I want to go on a retreat to Linden Lane and meditate with my butt in a tub of butter.”

  Colleen rants a lot, and there’s no point in ranting back, much less being reasonable. I put my sick little left hand on her leg, and she reaches down and pats it.

  “I’m all right,” she says.

  “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Bullshit. You’re always thinking, Benjamin. If you really loved me, you’d stop that nasty habit.”

  We go north on Fair Oaks, then cut across Glenarm. The houses get nicer and nicer. Bigger and bigger lawns. When we’re just a few blocks away from 6799, there’s a little park: big, sandy area with swings and a slide. Benches made out of wrought iron and wood under cool, old-fashioned lights. Sitting on the one closest to us is a mom with her little girl. They’re holding a book with big pages. Mom’s got her arm around the kid who points, then looks up to see if she got it right.

  “I don’t get that,” Colleen says. “I don’t have the gene. Last thing in the world I want to do is sit in the middle of nowhere and say, ‘No, that’s not a kitty. It’s a camel. But that’s all right. Your daddy and I just love you to pieces!’ I’d rather shoot myself.”

  “If these were the first few frames of a Sam Raimi film, pretty soon something unspeakably evil would come out of that gardener’s shed.”

  “If that’s going to happen, I can skip A.J.’s party and stay here and cheer.”

  Instead Mom lifts her daughter up and cuddles her, so Colleen steps on the gas.

  A.J.’s house turns out to be pretty impressive. Not a mansion, thank God, or Colleen would never shut up. There’s a wide, curving driveway, a mega-green lawn, a couple of urns beside the steps leading up to the porch. Not Keats urns, with maidens and fauns and gods. These are artier, covered with little tiles and littler fragments of mirror. But not cheesy. Somebody took a lot of time with those. And then put a fat price tag on the side.

  We walk past three cars lined up behind each other: a Subaru Outback that needs to go through a car wash, a Volvo a couple of years old, and a ’65 Mustang convertible. White and in perfect condition. I could see A.J. in that car, either behind the wheel or sitting beside the cooler-than-me driver.

  When we get to the door, I take a look at us. Thanks to Grandma, most of my clothes are preppy — khakis and oxford-cloth shirts. Normal clothes. Part of my disguise. Tonight, Colleen’s in a supershort dress and really high heels. A lot of skin showing and a lot of tattoos on that skin.

  I lift the huge brass horseshoe and tap a couple of times. She says, “My doorbell doesn’t work. People just shout through the flimsy plywood.”

  “What if I buy you a big knocker for your birthday?”

  “Then I’d have three. Two little ones and a big one. Whatever happened to symmetry?”

  Just then, A.J. opens the door and flashes that arc-light smile.

  “Good evening,” says Colleen, “my crippled friend and I have come a long way to talk to you about Jesus.”

  A.J. puts out one hand. “Amy Jane Moore. Agnostic.”

  That makes Colleen smile. She tells A.J. her name, then adds, “I like your house. I want to live here.”

  “I don’t blame you. Come on in.”

  Inside it’s mostly red and yellow. Huge windows looking out on a garden with green-and-white patio furniture. Blue vases with real sunflowers. Four kids sit by a coffee table as big as a Conestoga wagon wheel.

  The guys turn out to be Rane (with an a) and Conrad. The girls — twins, no less — are Danielle and Denise.

  Rane’s in REI pants and heavy shoes with lug soles. Definitely the Subaru. The twins are slouchy — loose flannel shirts over floppy Ts, baggy jeans, Vans with no socks. Not the same but very similar. Ash-colored hair cut to look like lazy mullets, if there is such a thing. They drive the Volvo.

  That leaves Conrad: lean and mean, spiky-looking hair, blond at the tips. Shorts that fit. A cut on his cheek. From lacrosse, probably. The Mustang for sure.

  He and I are introduced and I get, “Yeah, hi.”

  He’s already written me off. We’re not going to shoot hoops or ski together. I’m not tight with the people he hangs with. I’m a nobody with a limp.

  But none of them can take their eyes off Colleen. The twins breathe through their mouths. They have an at-the-zoo look: So that’s the rare snow leopard! Rane probably imagines wrestling a bear while she cringes in the moss and her skirt rides up higher on her long, white legs.

  One corner of Conrad’s
mouth twitches. His eyes close deliberately, then open slowly. He’s the one Colleen’s mother would pick out of the crowd: the apex predator.

  “Want to show me where you hide the silver?” Colleen says to A.J.

  A.J. asks, “Ben?”

  “You guys go ahead. I’m okay.” I really don’t want to hobble around while A.J. points out the paintings of her ancestors.

  “Get something to eat. We’ll be right back.”

  I take a little plate and make my clumsy way around the table. Rane stands up to make things easier for me. Conrad is busy texting, so I slide past.

  I take some black olives, a couple of stuffed grape leaves, some hummus, some pita chips. Then manage to sit down without anything bouncing off my plate.

  “How do you and —” Danielle begins, and then Denise finishes, “— A.J. know each other?”

  “Um, from a gallery show. She brought Roach Coach, and I brought something I called High School Confidential.”

  Rane says, “That’s right. A.J. said you got, like, a minute of that on YouTube. Something about a gay guy from your school. Conrad got a ton of YouTube hits about six months ago.”

  I look his way. He’s everything I want to be. Or wanted to be once. That wishing crap never got me anywhere. I ask politely, “What was it about?”

  “I was on my way home from a party and saw these cops whaling away on this Hispanic guy they’d pulled over, so I shot it with my cell and sent it the next day.”

  “It was —” says Danielle.

  Her sister finishes for her. “— very cool.”

  Danielle begins, “Very —” and Denise asserts, “— Rodney King.”

  Conrad asks me, “How many hits did you get?”

  I take a bite of pita bread before I answer. “I’m not sure. Oliver kept track, though. Thousands, I guess.”

  Rane nods. “Sweet.”

  “And it’s okay with you to promote that agenda?” Conrad asks.

  “What agenda?”

  Denise starts, “The gay —”

  “— one,” adds Danielle.

  Just then A.J. and Colleen come back.

  “You should make a documentary about this place,” Colleen says. “Call it Bucks Out the Butt.” She walks toward the satchel I’d hung on a hat rack in the foyer. “Did you show these guys your new camera?” She brandishes it. That’s the right word, too. Pretty much everything Colleen does is a challenge. Meet her on the dueling grounds at dawn, in the street outside the dry-goods store at high noon. Just try and outshoot or outwit her.

  Conrad reaches for it. And, wouldn’t you know it, he treats it like it was his, like he’s had one just like it but now has the newer model. Pushes the right button, then points it at Colleen, who says, “You’re never going to get in my pants, pretty boy. You’re way too predictable.”

  He blushes, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. The twins gawk. He tosses the camera to me, and I make a lucky catch.

  “May I see that?” Rane asks.

  I hand it over.

  “Let’s eat,” says A.J., “and then we’ll watch the movie.”

  Conrad heads somewhere, the library, probably, to borrow a heavy candlestick from Colonel Mustard. Danielle and Denise start to chatter about getting into college. Danielle looks at me and starts a question: “How many community service hours —”

  “— do you have?” Denise finishes.

  I shake my head. “None.”

  “Oh, you need as many as you —”

  “— can get. Don’t you, Rane?”

  He holds the camera up, and I can tell he’s used one before. He shoots while he answers, “It looks good on your college apps.”

  The twins flank Colleen, who’s piling food on her plate. “How about —”

  “— you?”

  Colleen pauses, “How about me what?” She’s taller than they are, and she looks like somebody from another part of the continent. Or world. Or galaxy.

  “How many hours —”

  “— of community service do you have?”

  Colleen pretends to think the question over. “Well, I went to a nursing home and gave a bunch of old guys hand jobs once — does that count?”

  Rane catches it on film, getting the twins’ expressions, then Colleen’s smirk. When she reaches for a deviled egg, he zooms in on the droopy neckline of her dress, hoping for a peek at her breasts. The only ones I’ve ever seen up close and personal. And maybe the only ones I’ll ever see.

  Should I be mad that Rane’s scamming on her, and with my camera to boot? I don’t think so. Colleen can take care of herself. And I don’t blame him for looking at her. I do it all the time.

  Conrad comes back, waits until the twins make room for him, then sits between them and starts to text again.

  A.J. points to a pile of DVDs. “Somebody pick one.” Then she asks me to help her with something in the kitchen. My pulse goes up a notch or two: that move is in every French farce — meeting in the kitchen, making out in the pantry, a maid in a little skirt with eyes for the husband.

  More tile in there, a wicker basket of oranges. A whole basketful. Nobody could eat that many oranges. Brass pots and pans hanging on a wrought-iron rack over the stove. An open window with a breeze. Yellow light pours in, a yellow somewhere between tawny and cream. I want to look out the window and make sure there isn’t a cinematographer in the gazebo, or some guy with a dimmer board dialing in the perfection.

  A.J. arranges some tall blue glasses on a tray. “Where did you find her?”

  She sounds totally curious, but not mean.

  I tell her, “Colleen goes to my school. And we just kind of ran into each other at the movies one night.”

  She moves the glasses around. “Why is she so snarky?”

  I shrug. “Ask her.”

  “She ticked Conrad off.”

  “She read his mind.”

  She starts to cut up a melon, really taking her time about it. “Conrad’s okay.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’m serious. That Black and Tan video he shot was really good.”

  “Is that what he called it? The Black and Tans were Brits who beat up on the Irish.”

  “Right, but he meant to evoke Rodney King and the Hispanic guy.”

  “And everybody who watches YouTube knew that?”

  “Obviously some of them did.”

  We stand there. I barely know her, and we’re arguing over Conrad. Does she stand up for all her friends, or is Conrad somebody special? Finally I tell her, “You’d better carry those glasses; I’ve been known to spill things. I’ll hold the door.”

  She puts a hand on my good arm. “I’m glad you came. Colleen, too. It’s just . . . It’s hard to explain. I’ve known Conrad forever.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve known all those guys. Rane and I learned to ski together. The twins and I were in preschool. They’re really, really smart. They’ve already got early admission to Yale.”

  Out in the other room, Colleen’s sitting by Rane, and Conrad’s between the twins. They’re talking about vampires.

  Denise says, “If a vampire comes across a sack of rice —”

  Danielle adds, “— he has to count every grain. And if you want to find a vampire’s grave —”

  Denise steps in, “— you need a virgin boy on a virgin horse. You lead them —”

  Back to Danielle, “— through the cemetery, and the horse will stop at the vampire’s grave.”

  Colleen says, “Oh, so the horse has to be a virgin. No wonder I couldn’t find that pesky grave,” and everybody laughs except Conrad, who looks up from his iPhone to tell us, “Vampire movies are political. It’s always one class feeding on another. Doesn’t matter if it’s F. W. Monroe or Catherine Hardwicke.”

  The twins nod and file that information away, probably for their first essay at Yale.

  “It’s not Monroe,” I say. “It’s Murnau. F. W. Murnau. When he made Nosferatu, he pretty much used the Bram Stoker no
vel as the script. Mrs. Stoker ended up suing him.”

  Conrad says, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said he almost plagiarized —”

  “Not that. The director.”

  “Oh, that. His name isn’t Monroe.”

  Conrad scoots forward on the brown leather couch. “I’m pretty sure it is.”

  Colleen sets her plate on the big coffee table. She digs in her purse and throws a twenty beside the grape leaves. She looks at Conrad. “Want to put your money where your pretty mouth is?”

  He just shakes his head at her effrontery, but he comes up with the money and tosses it, wadded up like a Kleenex, beside Colleen’s, which is not only smoothed out but creased down the middle. I wonder if somebody tucked that into her mother’s thong last night. And did she give it to Colleen, or did Colleen just take it?

  A.J. looks up from her phone, where she’s asked the omniscient Google for the answer. “It’s Murnau, Conrad.”

  “Well, crap!”

  Rane, outdoorsman and peacemaker, suggests, “Let’s just watch Bela Lugosi.”

  Colleen shakes her head. “I know that movie,” she says. “He’s tall, dark, and thirsty, and she’s a stupid twit who sleeps with her window open in Transylvania. Let’s gamble some more.” She looks at Conrad. “You against Ben, honey buns. Twenty bucks a pop, and your idolaters here will make up the questions, which have to be about tonight’s topic — vampires.”

  Idolaters. Underneath the tats and the attitude is a really smart girl. If I’m a tree that’s been hit by lightning, Colleen is a tree that grew the wrong way. Buffeted by high winds, maybe. Relentless high winds.

  The twins are positively quaking with excitement. They look at A.J., who shrugs and says, “Okay, I guess.”

  Colleen winks at me and licks her lips. I’m nervous but totally up for this. In a fight, it’d be easy for Conrad to knock me down. Or literally run circles around me, if we had to race. He’s probably smarter than me about everything else in the world except movies. Nobody knows more about movies than I do. This is the fight at the O.K. Corral, as far as I’m concerned.

  A.J. goes to one of the drawers in a big, antiquey-looking desk and comes back with yellow pads and thick black pens.