by Ned Vizzini
Oh, yeah, I have an Oral-B electric toothbrush now, one of many consumer adjustments. I started buying Crest Whitening Strips too, which I wear in my teeth while I do push-ups in front of the TV. They work wonders. I also got Tegrin antidandruff shampoo, the strongest you can buy without a prescription. It’s dark green and smells like tar, but even it doesn’t cure my dandruff until the squip tells me to use my nails in the shower and gouge at my scalp to get the Tegrin to my guilty skin cells. I spend a lot more time in the bathroom now.
In this enviable state—cleaned up, decked out, well dressed, flake-free, and at once socially hyperconscious and totally at ease—I give Chloe $25 for my roll. It’s a particularly fine day because at the start, in math, we solved the attendance problem.
“Caniglia,” Mr. Gretch said.
“Here.”
“Duvoknovich.”
“Here.”
“Goranski.”
“Here.”
“Heere?”
“Yo.”
It was so simple. Mr. Gretch didn’t mind and everyone in the class sort of shuffled around to look at me, saying “Yo” from the back. I smiled at them. I don’t know how I didn’t think of it before. IT’S NOT YOUR NATURE, the squip said.
About two minutes after that, Jenna went into her thing about “Elizabeth let four guys do her on the bus” and I had the balls to say what I’ve always wanted to say, deadpan: “Shut up, Jenna. We know ‘Elizabeth’ is like your Spider-Slut alterego or something.”
And Anne laughed and laughed and Mark Jackson laughed and Mr. Gretch didn’t hear and Jenna, at least for a few seconds, really did shut up.
“So, Michael, you want to go to a party on Saturday?” I ask him out of the blue. I don’t know how much “blue” can be established in ten days, but it seems like a lot. Michael’s playing handball by himself against the mural outside school with his headphones on, not listening to anything.
“Hey, Jeremy,” he says.
WHY ARE YOU STILL DEALING WITH THIS GUY?
Hold on. “Yeah, so you want to go to this party?” I assume. I mean I just assume. He could answer.
“No.” He holds his ball, looks at me. “I got a question for you, man. You remember medieval Legos?”
“Sure.”
“Remember how we lost the original trees so we had to use palm trees outside the castles even though it was supposed to be a deciduous European forest?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember that anachronism?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Just checking. I thought you were maybe doing a revisionist thing with your nerd—”
“C’mon, man—”
“Now that you’re a swinger and all.”
WE ARE SWINGERS. HE’S RIGHT!
I smile. “It’s not like that. Really. I want you to come to this party.”
“F_c_ you, Jeremy. You still haven’t apologized for ditching me at the mall.”
“Yes I did!” I say. “And if I didn’t, I’m apologizing now. I apologize for not apologizing. This whole party is an apology.”
“You don’t want me at any party. You want me to drive you to that party.”
“No, man! I’m going myself.”
“How?”
“I’m gonna try some drivin’ skillz.” I imagine a Z.
“Jeremy…” Michael’s voice gets quiet. “If you’re gonna be stupid, I’ll take you in my car. Don’t get killed.”
I look at Michael’s ride, parked in the parking lot like a used condom. Not used properly. I don’t want anyone seeing me in that thing.
CORRECT.
“C’mon man, I can drive. I want to drive myself.”
“No you can’t, Jeremy! You’ve never done it in your life!”
“So how hard can it be, man? C’mon, man.”
Michael holds the handball close to his chest. “If you’re going to do something that stupid,” he says, “then I’ll go with you, just to make sure you don’t die or anything.”
DON’T BRING HIM.
Nope, I’m bringing him. I want him along on this one. I’ve wanted him along the whole time, but now I finally have the clout to bring him.
STRONG PARAMETER MISMATCH.
Well, it doesn’t matter. Didn’t you say I could include him in my new circle once I made it?
STRONG PARAMETER MISMATCH.
Shutdown.
“Uh, I assume that’s a ‘yes’?” Michael says.
“Yeah, you’re coming.” I reach out to slap his hand; he responds the way we used to slap—flat-handed—so I show him the new way, the curvy way the squip showed me.
THAT LOOKS GREAT! the squip exclaims. TOTALLY EFFECTIVE!
I look in the mirror at my naked body. It’s more buff than I ever imagined, two weeks in, and totally hairless—the squip made me use candle wax to get out the five or so hairs that it found near my pecs. Unfortunately I can’t focus on anything other than the two straight marks that line my thighs, below my abdomen. The squip convinced me to paint these, a V around my crotch, outlining those “sartorius” muscles that didn’t develop so well in my exercise program. I did them with a Sharpie; they’re smooth and uniform, as if I were an action figure with bendable legs. It’s stupid.
NO, IT’S NOT. YOU RESEMBLE ASHTON KUTCHER. REMEMBER, ASHTON KUTCHER BEST REPRESENTS THE SEXUALITY THAT ENTHRALLS PRESENT-DAY FEMALES.
Right. Boyish yet…what?
BOYISH YET CASUALLY SUPERHUMAN. YOU READY TO GO?
I put my party clothes on and start down the stairs. It’s nine o’clock, Saturday night; Mom is off somewhere with her legal briefs and Dad is watching football in the kitchen.
“Okay, so I’m out,” I tell him as I pass his setup: my Dad, a chair, a beer, peanut butter, Oreo cookies, and the TV arranged for maximum comfort, like a science experiment.
“Huh,” Dad says. “Well, have a good time and all.” He breaks his concentration to actually look at me while he dips an Oreo into the peanut butter. It’s a Peanut Butter Oreo anyway. “Seriously, have a great time. I remember my first real party.”
“Heh, yeah,” I look down. PERFECT. BE INNOCENT. “Michael’s going to be here any minute so I’m gonna go on the porch and wait for him.”
“Huh.”
I stride out of my house and immediately crouch, ninja-style. GREAT. TO THE DRIVEWAY. I crab walk down the porch, clutching the side of the house, careful not to trip over the coiled hose. I’m at the edge of the kitchen window; Mom’s car is in front of me, sleek and inviting, lit by the one fake gas porch light and the streetlamps out beyond the lawn. I’m going to replace it with Michael’s car once he gets here so Dad’ll be less likely to notice a car missing if he decides to pee outside, which he does sometimes after football.
CALL NOW.
I pick up my cell phone, phone home. I can hear Dad moving from the kitchen to the living room, grumbling. Just before he would pick up—three and a half rings—I hit the beeper on the keychain I took from his pants while he was having private time with Mom (he always leaves his pants in the hall). Beep boop beep, the car says.
HANG UP.
I click the End button just as I hear Dad say “Hello?” He’s in the living room, annoyed, deciding whether or not to dial *69. Since I know he’s away from the kitchen window, I scamper by to the car door, open it up and sit in the driver’s seat. Awesome.
AWESOME. NOW THE EMERGENCY BRAKE.
It smells like Mom in the car. I clutch the brake between the two front seats with my fist, press it in and set it on the floor. Mom’s car—my car, whatever—starts rolling down the driveway; I freak and slam the brakes. The wheels make a little skidding noise.
JEREMY. DON’T LOSE IT NOW. EASE BACK ONTO THE ROAD. EVERYTHING’S FINE.
I lift my foot off the brake, letting the car ooze comfortably back down a dozen more feet. TURN, TURN. I do as I’m told. Amazingly—just like in Test Drive—the car turns sweetly backward onto my street, Rampart Road, and I execute what looks like a pretty
competent parking job next to Ms. Daniels’s house. A BORN DRIVER. I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT.
I look at the driveway. I ran over some grass but, all in all, it was an excellent gambit. Now I just have to wait for Michael to show up. I turn on the radio, twisting the keys in the steering column toward me, the “safe” way, the way I was taught to, so I don’t start the engine. I power down the driver’s side window and look out at airplanes in the sky. And satellites. The squip tells me that most of the stars you see are actually satellites.
THAT ONE’S CLASSIFIED. GREEK MILITARY.
The Greeks have a satellite?
SURE. THAT ONE’S FOR AT&T. SO’S THAT ONE. THAT’S JAPANESE.
What about that one?
THAT’S SIRIUS. A REAL STAR.
After five minutes (each minute is cold, but also sharp), Michael’s s_ _t car rolls up to my house. He’s expecting me on the porch, not out here, so I get out and walk to his window, tap on it and wave at him.
“Put your car in my driveway.”
“Okay,” he grins. He’s having fun.
I call home again as Michael pulls into the driveway, as a distraction. A very perturbed Dad answers.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, Dad, Michael came and picked me up, so I’m on my way to this party, okay?”
“Fine, son. Have your friends been prank calling here?”
“No.”
“If they do, I’m serious, I’ll go balliztic on their asses.”
“‘Balliztic?’”
“Yeah, like the rappers do? You know, Niggaz Go Balliztic? That album?”
“Um, okay. Dad. See ya.”
I end the call as Michael walks up to me on Rampart Road, silent. We traipse on the glittering asphalt to Mom’s car.
“Isn’t your Dad going to notice the difference between this car and mine?” Michael says.
“Think about it. It’ll be night and he’ll really need to come up to it and look closely, plus he’ll be so happy or devastated, depending on how his game turns out…I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
THAT’S BECAUSE I CALCULATED IT FOR YOU, STUPID.
I know. Thanks.
Michael and I get in my Mom’s car. I jam the key in the steering column and turn it away from me this time, the way I was instructed never to do. The engine comes to life. My body tingles like I’m on Internet chat, like I’m talking with Christine, like I’m doing everything all at once. Driving is going to rock.
REMEMBER: BOTH HANDS ON THE WHEEL AT TEN AND TWO. USE ONLY ONE FOOT TO DRIVE. IF YOU USE BOTH FEET, YOU’RE LIABLE TO PUT A FOOT ON THE BRAKE AND ACCELERATOR AT THE SAME TIME, AND YOU DON’T WANT THAT. SHIFT INTO “D” AND KEEP IN MIND THAT THE WHEEL IS MUCH MORE SENSITIVE THAN IT IS IN VIDEO GAMES. YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE TO TURN THEATRICALLY, LIKE JAMES BOND.
I do as I’m told. With the squip in my head, I drive steadily and carefully, anticipating other cars, the behavior patterns of red lights, unseen bumps, and objects in the mirrors. The squip says it can sense these things through quantum entanglement, but I’m beginning to think it’s just magic.
“Damn, you’re a good driver,” Michael says. “You gotta get your license and ferry me around more often.”
I smile. Michael overdressed, wearing a blue button-down shirt and khaki cargo pants instead of anything remotely cool. (I’m in a designer tee, used jeans, and a baseball cap at a jaunty angle.) But I think I’ll be able to get him with a girl at this party, if he keeps his mouth shut.
“Here we go.”
“Already? It was like two minutes away!”
“Yeah, but you still need to come in a car.”
The street is clogged with parked vehicles. It’s easy to tell where the action is: one house has a T-shirt and bra out on the front lawn, all the lights except one on inside, and what looks like a stream of urine emanating from a third-story window.
“Wow, supercool,” Michael grins as we stop.
LAST CHANCE TO LEAVE HIM IN THE CAR.
No. He’s my friend.
We get out and stride across the lawn like gangsters. Or at least, I’m a gangster (gangsta, even?—maybe not yet); Michael is still learning, but some of me is rubbing off on him. How could it not? He’s starting to get the walk, the posture. At the door is some guy I’ve never seen before, with freckles. I hate freckles.
“Hi, I’m Jason’s brother…” He shakes hands prissily. “Do you know who Jason is?”
“Yeah, he’s the guy throwing the party,” I spit.
“Ri-ight, well, there are already a lot of people here, so he sent me out here to tell everybody who comes that—”
TELL THIS GUY TO KISS YOUR STEAMING A_ _ _O_ _.
“Kiss my—”
“Jeremy!” Chloe screams from one story up, leaning out a window. “You’re here!”
“Yeah, hey,” I look up, stretching my Adam’s apple.
“Carl, let him in, and his friend too,” she tells the door guy. “Don’t be a complete dick to everyone, just stupid people!”
“O-o-okay,” Carl says, stepping aside to let us into the party. Inside it’s kids everywhere, bright and noisy, crouched in corners and on steps and on couches and rubbing up against one another in crevices. There must be sixty of them in here, but I only get a vague impression because immediately Chloe is bounding down the stairs at me, leaping over the people like gargoyles, flinging her arms around my neck. “Hi!”
She expertly shoves a pill in my mouth. Hey, where did Michael go? Did he leave to find beer?
“I said hi-i-i!” Chloe grins. She taps a bottle of water against the side of my head. “Keep that, it’s your magic water!”
“Okay.” The music in the party is deafening. It’s like a different dimension.
“So what are you waiting for? Take your pill, before it dissolves!” Chloe freaks. I swig the water and swallow obediently. “Is that like, the pill?” I ask.
“Dur!” Chloe sticks her tongue out at me.
I SUGGEST YOU TURN ME OFF NOW, JEREMY. YOU DON’T WANT ME ON WHILE YOU’RE ROLLING. AS WE DISCUSSED.
Right. Shutdown.
There’s unbelievable anticipation in my nervous system as I move through the house, led by Chloe’s small ring finger. I know that at some point my brain is going to explode with pleasure or insanity or…y’know, something, and waiting for it is almost as crazy as whatever it’s going to be. I’m ready, though. I’ve had a voice in my head for weeks. What could there be inside me that’s more intense than the squip?
Chloe wears jeans with sequins and a shirt with intentional holes in it. She maneuvers past kids grinding to hip-hop, kids smoking weed on what looks like inflatable plastic furniture, past Rich and whoever’s attached to his belly button this week (he smiles at me, making a clicking noise), and Jenna Rolan and that kid Eric with the one eyebrow, and all the faces that I see now instead of just admire. (Unfortunately, no Michael. Where did he go?) Jesus, even Christine is here! She’s in one of the living rooms (but they all look like living rooms when they have enough people in them) by herself! No Jake in sight! This is my chance!
“Chloe, I’ve got to—” I tug at her arm, dab my chin toward Christine. At the same time, since this is going to be an important conversation, I turn the squip on.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING? LEAVE CHRISTINE ALONE. CHLOE IS GOING TO LEAD YOU TO A ROOM FOR ECSTASY-LADEN SEXUAL SHENAGIANS! REMEMBER, CHRISTINE WILL COME LATER—
But she’s available now!
“You really live in your own little world, don’t you?” Chloe asks, standing next to me, watching me stare at Christine, who hasn’t noticed yet.
“No, I just—”
“Come!” Chloe grabs my shirt. “I like you.” She adjusts my baseball cap. “You can go back to your world later. Be in mine for a while.”
I look at Chloe. She really is cute, this time with a pastel candy bracelet around her neck. This is not a problem I ever thought I’d have.
THAT’S RIGHT, AND YOU DON’T HAVE ONE NOW. GO WITH TH
E GIRL WHO’S TOUCHING YOU.
I clasp Chloe’s hand and let her lead me out of the room, through the house, to a thin door that looks like it goes to a closet, but actually opens into a laundry center, with a washer and two small dryers and a mattress on the floor and some jalapeño-shaped Christmas lights on the pipes. Chloe pushes me in. She shuts the door very quickly, locking it; I have this sudden flash that she’s hiding from someone, that just as I’m trying to talk to Christine, she’s trying not to talk to somebody, but then she’s kissing me and taking my hat off and it’s a lot nicer than with Brooke and we’re leaning back and I’m shutting the squip off for good because her face is shimmering in front of mine.
The music comes through the walls slow and distorted; I only hear the bass rumble. It’s one of those techno songs where the beat doubles and redoubles and redoubles again every two seconds until it’s a superfast hummingbird blur and then it stops and there’s a wooshing electronic voice that goes, “Ex-stasy.” And then the beat starts again. Chloe and I fall like slow trees to the mattress, tongues working like philosopher starfish. I can’t even pinpoint the moment when we started kissing; I just know we are. Both of us have our eyes open but we don’t care.
“Omigosh,” Chloe pulls away, wiping my spit from her lips. “It’s hitting you.” She looks deeply at me. “Your eyes are doing the pupil-shake!” She seems so happy. “Here, have more of your magic water!” She takes it out of my pocket, where I put it without realizing.
“But…” I push the water away; it rolls down the floor. Chloe is looking so good right now and so sexy and so much like she was born for me, for this moment, that I have to sit up and grab her and lean her in my lap and start playing with her breasts through her shirt with the holes, just like the squip told me to do before with Brooke. (Holes make it easy.) I’m very warm (I’m sweating) and I’m leaning forward in a way I can’t help and chewing on Chloe’s candy necklace and thinking about sex in its most basic, pure, mechanical form, like what I see in the little movies on the Internet, close up. And I start talking: “Oh man, Chloe, I want to _ _ _ _ you so bad, right? I want to pull on your _ _ _ _les, right? And then I want to _ _ _ _ on your _ _ _ _, right? Right? And then I can _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ and _ _ _, right? _ _ _ _ _ _ _?” My words seem to have rhythm, something primal and stuttered to the music, or something.
