by Ned Vizzini
Jeez. That seems like it happened last year. “Wake her up then, man. We’re going.”
“All right.” Michael shifts into a more upright position. “Nicole, wake up.”
“Muh,” the girl mumbles.
“I think you guys had better wait outside. I’ll get her out of the tub,” Michael plans. Christine and I exit and sit in the hall, cross-legged on the carpet, knees at a safe distance, facing the bathroom door. From inside we hear banging, scraping, gargling, and male and female murmurs. I try to think of something to say.
NO. KEEP QUIET.
Why?
YOU TALK TO THIS GIRL TOO MUCH, JEREMY. YOU’RE ACCEPTABLE AROUND GUYS AND MOST GIRLS, BUT WITH THIS ONE, YOU TALK UNTIL THE BLOOD VESSELS IN YOUR HEAD EXPAND AND CRAMP ME. YOU NEED TO GIVE IT A REST. GET THAT AIR OF MYSTERY ABOUT YOU.
So I sit. Every time I almost talk (about a half-dozen times), the squip shuts me up. After three minutes, shockingly, Christine breaks out with something: “I f_ _k_ _ _ can’t believe Jake.” She shakes her head and pushes stray hair over her ears. “I don’t even want to say this because it’s so stupid, but I thought he really liked me.”
HAND ON HER SHOULDER. FIRM. FRIENDLY.
“He’s a dick,” I reassure. “We’re all dicks, if you give us the chance. We’re just guys. We react to threats and rewards.”
“Yeah?”
I pull my hand away, gesticulate with it. I’m feeling smart. “Sure. For a guy, there’s something dangling in front of your face or something sticking out your ass.” What a brilliant analysis. OH DEFINITELY. “That’s what we care about.”
“So I have to put something in his ass?” Christine says, horrified. “That’s what you want? I heard about that, the prostate—”
“No, I just meant…uh…”
“I don’t want to have to wear a strap-on, Jeremy!” And she leans down, unexpectedly, into my lap. I’m about to laugh because this is pretty stupid, but she’s far from laughing, she’s choking in small gasps as if she’s been waiting all night for an excuse to cry. Her tears wet my pants. I put my hand down carefully.
HAIR ONLY.
I make light strokes. And instead of being derisive, I’m nice/funny. “You know, this whole millennium is going to be the Millennium of the Woman,” I say. (She sniffles.) “So you’re not going to have to worry about guys like Jake.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. I read about it in Time magazine. I’m very happy with it. I’d rather live in a world run by women.”
Christine smiles and the very beginning of a laugh ripples her throat.
“They could, like, lust after me and touch my butt while I was trying to photocopy stuff at my job and I’d be like, ‘Ha-ha, stop that, ladies.’”
“Yeah, right.”
“And then they’d hound me and try to get photographs of me in my underwear and I’d have to hire security and have them sign up for whenever they wanted to see me, like only on Wednesday nights—”
“Jeremy, ‘Millennium of the Woman’ doesn’t mean that.”
“No?”
“No. It just means we get paid as much as you do.”
“Oh, you’re never gonna get paid as much as me. I got my sights set high in this world.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Photocopy guy.”
“Jeremy! That’s not a job!” Christine isn’t teary anymore. She lifts herself up.
“Course it is. My dad says that at every job there’s one guy who just messes around with the photocopy machine.”
“Jeremy, computers, remember? We’re not going to need copy machines soon.”
YES. DUH.
“Then I can hang around the coffee machine.”
“Those aren’t jobs, Jeremy.”
ASK FOR HER NUMBER.
Why now?
BECAUSE YOU’RE DOING WELL NOW. AND IN A FEW SECONDS, MICHAEL AND NICOLE ARE GOING TO COME OUT OF THAT BATHROOM AND YOU’RE ALL GOING TO GET IN YOUR CAR AND CHRISTINE WILL BE THE FIRST ONE WHO NEEDS TO BE DROPPED OFF SINCE SHE LIVES IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION FROM EVERYONE ELSE, SO UNLESS YOU WANT TO ASK HER FOR HER NUMBER IN FRONT OF A CARLOAD OF PEOPLE—
“Christine.” I shrug intensely. “Can I have your number so I can call you sometime? We can talk about the millennium and…whatever.” There’s an unfinished gap. What didn’t I say? “Please.”
“Eh.” She shrugs and backs away, then leans forward just enough to give me hope. “You have to promise never to be a dick like Jake.”
“Okay.”
“And also not to call me all the time or embarrass me in school or treat me any different than you do now.”
“Right.”
“And when I give out a number, it’s not my signal that I’m going to have sex with you. We’re still friends, okay?”
“Agreed.”
“Really agreed?”
“Really. Agreed.”
“Then fine,” she says, and gives it to me. Over the squip’s protests, I write this precious piece of information down on an actual piece of paper.
We cram into Mom’s Maxima the way teenagers are supposed to cram into their parents’ cars. Michael and Nicole share a lap in the back (“Your butt is really comfortable,” Michael says, “it’s too bad you can’t sit on it…wait”); she wears a kiddie-size T-shirt, bringing to the forefront some assets that weren’t evident in the bathtub. Brock occupies two seats next to Michael, and Chloe lies on top of Brock with her head in Nicole’s lap, telling her how pretty she is. I look in the rearview mirror and nod at Michael. She is pretty. She has a pretty face. He nods back at me. Christine rides shotgun. I start the car.
IT’S TOO BAD THERE’S NO STICKSHIFT. YOU COULD BRUSH YOUR HAND AGAINST HER IF YOU HAD A STICKSHIFT. SHE’D NOTICE SUBCONSCIOUSLY.
That’s a terrible idea. I power down my window so the cold air—black air—rushes over me, keeping me awake as we pull away from the Finderman house. The clock says 3:37, which is not as late as I imagined, but I’m still tired as hell.
I CAN STIMULATE PARTS OF YOUR BRAIN TO KEEP YOU UP.
Really? Which parts?
RETICULAR FORMATION. LINES YOUR BRAINSTEM.
Oh.
IT’S EASY. I SEND IT A CONTROLLED ELECTRICAL SIGNAL; IT RELEASES NOREPINEPHRINE AND YOU STAY SCARED AND AWAKE.
Do it. I don’t feel anything, but my eyes spring open and stay that way. I drive fast but still in control. I wonder how fast I’m going; I look down to see a disappointing 50—
WATCH!
I jerk my head up—a fire truck barrels past in the other direction. I get a flash of calm, burly men inside and watch in the mirror as the red lights fade to a distant spot. “Jesus.”
HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS? NOT “JESUS.” “FU_K.”
“Can we listen to music?” Michael whines, leaning forward.
“No. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“That’s because you never drove before,” Michael chuckles. He’s drunk. YES. “If you’d driven before, you might understand that music helps you….” He reaches forward with a CD.
“No!” Nicole says to him. “C’mon, not rock!”
“Damn it, Michael!” I punch his wrist while gripping the wheel. CAREFUL, CAREFUL. AND “DAMN IT?” “I don’t want to listen to anything now!”
Eoooooowwwwww—another fire truck rumbles past. Full speed. We almost hit it, and the car shifts to the left in its wake, sliding a foot toward the other side of the road. Everybody shuts up. I keep my foot steady on the accelerator, putting a safe distance between us and the truck. Then I turn to Christine: “So, you want to go over those Midsummer lines still?”
“Cue me,” she says mechanically. Her arms are folded over her seat belt. I’m not wearing my seat belt.
OF COURSE NOT.
“C’mon, cue me,” Christine insists.
“Uh…” I try to think of a cue for Puck.
IT’S A TRAP.
“You can’t, see?” she says. “Lysander doesn’t cue Puck. E
ver. So I guess you should concentrate on driving.”
“Ur.”
For the next ten minutes, nobody says a word except Christine, mutely giving directions to her house. When we get there, I park as leisurely as I can in front of her lawn.
“Jeremy?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you pull up more so I don’t have to open the door into my own garbage?”
Plastic bins wait outside Christine’s house for the sanitation guys, who I guess will show up in an hour.
“Right, okay.” I pull the car up a little, stop again. “Is that good?” WALK HER IN. “I’ll walk you in.”
Christine stays silent. I leave the car in neutral, step out and stride over to her side. She’s already out, walking around the edge of her lawn to her house. I start after her, rubbing my arms. It’s cold out here.
STOP. THERE ARE MOTION SENSORS. YOU’LL TURN ON A BIG FLOODLIGHT IF YOU STEP ONTO THE LAWN.
I plant my feet. “Chri—”
WHISPER. AND SAY “TH” FOR “S,” LIKE YOU HAD A LISP. THE SOUND DOESN’T CARRY SO FAR.
“Uh…Chrithtine,” I hiss, feeling like an idiot. “I’ll call you…uh…thoon.”
“When you call me you’d better actually know how to drive,” she seethes, wisely picking a sentence with no s’s. Then she turns away in the night.
THIS GIRL. VERY DIFFICULT.
I stand and watch her, just a butt and legs and arms, receding into the black. How come they’re so compelling?
BECAUSE THEY PRODUCE CHILDREN.
Come on.
AND THEY MOTIVATE YOU. THEY DEFINE YOU, REALLY. THEY MAKE YOU HUMAN.
I trudge back to the car.
HUMAN!
And then the squip does something I haven’t heard before: it laughs. It’s horrible. Keanu Reeves laughing in your mind? Must be what schizos hear.
Everyone stays quiet as I drive to Chloe’s house next. I say cordial good-byes to her and Brock (Chloe kisses my cheek; Brock slaps my hand); then Michael and Nicole space out in back, lounging for the final leg of the trip. When we pull up to my house, I notice with extreme horror that the kitchen light is on. That could mean Dad forgot to turn it off or it could mean he stayed up two hours later than usual watching the History Channel (Secrets of the Nazis, Nazis and the Occult, Hitler’s Last Nazis) or it could mean he’s waiting for me with his fists clenched. He’s never hit me, but I am in his wife’s car. How am I going to handle this?
TAKE MICHAEL’S CAR OUT OF THE DRIVEWAY YOURSELF, WITH NO ENGINE, AS YOU DID WITH YOUR MOM’S CAR AT THE BEGINNING OF THE NIGHT. THEN PUT YOUR MOM’S CAR BACK SLOWLY AND QUIETLY.
“Give me your keys, man,” I reach back to Michael. He hands them over; I bunch them up in my fist, turn off the car and step out. I crawl on my hands and knees up my own driveway, open the passenger door of Michael’s ride, squirm across the canyon between the two front seats, release the emergency brake and wait for his car to slide down the driveway. It doesn’t.
IT’S TOO HEAVY. OLDER CAR. BIGGER ENGINE UP FRONT. YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO PUSH.
_ _c_. I crawl back down the driveway and inform Michael. “Why can’t you just start it and back it up?” he asks.
“Because I can’t wake my dad, genius, and your car is noisy as hell. Get out and help.”
“I’ll help too,” Nicole offers. “This one’s too skinny.” She hits Michael.
“I’m good-skinny, though,” Michael says. We all sneak up the driveway; then, like a crack Olympic team in a new sport, we grab ahold of Michael’s front bumper in synchronization. “What kind of car ith thith, anyway?” I whisper.
“Ford Crown Victoria. One of the heaviest, most gluttonous vehicles ever constructed. What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Nevermind.” I position myself in the middle of the fender, arch my fingers under it and try to brace my legs on the asphalt—I’m glad my driveway’s not gravel. “All right, ready?” I turn right and then left, judging my compatriots. Nicole looks determined, like one of those people who have to move a car in the World’s Strongest Man competition, but Michael’s arms (he rolled his sleeves up) are even scrawnier than I remembered.
“One…two…Ungggh.” I throw my weight forward, trying to pull the mass after me as I lean over the hood. The insides of my knuckles pinch the fender and burn. My arms ripple. I think the car’s moving—
SHIFT LEFT.
I pull my hands off the fender for a second—the car dips noticeably toward me—and reapply them a foot to the left. There’s a little creak, like a hamster wheel, as the car starts moving back, centimeter by centimeter. I can hear each tire tread contact the road with a squish.
THAT’S IT! BEFORE YOU HAD TOO MUCH FORCE ON THE RIGHT SIDE; NOW YOU’RE MAKING UP FOR MICHAEL! KEEP GOING!
Rrrrragh! Blood vessels pound me from inside.
ENDORPHIN RELEASE. SYMPATHETIC NERVOUS SYSTEM.
I’m fiery and in control as I beat the car’s center of gravity and start it rolling down the driveway.
“Oh _ _ _ _,” Michael says as the car slips away. I abandon my post at left-center and scramble around the hood, trying to keep a hand on it at all times. I clang open the passenger door, leap inside, sprawl across the two front seats and reach for the brake as the slope of the driveway pulls the car down. I hope I parked Mom’s car clear of the driveway—a collision would mean certain death at the hands of Dad or Mom or both. I finally get the brake, the one you’re supposed to use your feet on, and flex my fingers as the car moves faster and faster—
It stops.
I poke my head up, then start laughing. I’m in the middle of the street. The car almost went clear across Rampart Road into the yard of Crazy Bill, our neighbor. There’s no telling what he would have done had I disturbed his garbage sculptures at four in the morning. Michael is doubled over with laughter in the driveway, but Nicole looks concerned; she bounces across the road and opens the door on me, exhausted, panting in the passenger seat.
“You a’ight?” she asks.
THIS GIRL WANTS YOU.
“Yeah.”
“That was really cool. I’ve never seen anybody do that. You were fast.”
“Heh.” I look up at her, my eyes lidded just the right way, with my hand on my thigh and sweat on the bridge of my nose. I could do her now if I wanted. Right?
YEAH.
“You seem like a nice girl,” I say. “Take care of my friend.”
Nicole shrugs as Michael approaches. “Dude, that was spectacular. I had no idea you were an action hero.”
“Only on Tuesdays.” I get out of the car. Someone once told me that that’s what you should say when people ask if you’re a millionaire.
I TOLD YOU THAT.
Oh.
“Four-o-five,” Michael looks at his watch. “Gotta take this car home.”
Nicole slides into the passenger seat: “I’m choosing music!” she says, waving her MP3 player out the window. “No rock!” Michael shakes his head; he can bring Nicole home if he wants; his mom doesn’t care. He walks past me to get to the driver’s seat.
“You did good,” I say quietly, slapping his hand.
“We did good,” he says. “You’re doing great with Christine. You two are cute.”
“We will be.”
“So we get girls? Who woulda thunk.” Michael takes his keys from me and turns on the Crown Victoria, making a slow right in the middle of the street. “Peace!” he and Nicole say. She puts one foot out the window and leans on Michael as they drive away.
He’s never said “peace” before. HE’S COMING ALONG. I pull Mom’s car into the driveway without incident—its motor is quieter than Michael’s car’s—and go into my house as silently as I can, which is pretty silent—the squip tells me which parts of the porch creak. Dad isn’t even in the kitchen; he’s asleep on the couch as usual. I didn’t have to go through all that crap to try and not wake him. But it was fun.
NEWS FLASH, the squip declares.
I’m cron
ked out in bed on my stomach, with my shoes on. All I want is sleep. But it’s the same flatly urgent tone the squip used when Eminem died.
NEWS FLASH.
“Wha-ut?” I roll over, lazy. I pry my shoes off with my heels and let them flop to the floor.
THERE WAS A FIRE. RICH GOT EXTREMELY BADLY BURNED.
“What?” I sit straight up.
THERE WAS A FIRE. RICH GOT EXTREMELY BADLY BURNED. The repetition is exact, uncharacteristic, a bug in the software or something. Maybe—
NO. NO BUGS. RICH SUFFERED CRITICAL BURNS. PART OF THE FINDERMAN HOUSE CAUGHT ON FIRE, JUST AFTER YOU LEFT. I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW BEFORE THE REST OF THE WORLD. IT HAPPENED IN THE LAST HALF HOUR.
I look at the clock. It’s 4:17. You’re for real? He’s in the hospital?
INTENSIVE CARE.
In this universe?
YES.
And the house was on fire?
WELL. NOT ALL OF IT.
What the f_c_? What am I supposed to say to that?
PROBABLY “NO, NO, THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING?”
“This can’t be happening!” I get out of bed and walk in a horseshoe pattern around my room. I’ve never had any of my friends or family get seriously hurt, not even pets, because Dad hates pets and thinks that people who keep them are weak. My grandparents are all alive and everything. I reach for the phone.
WHO ARE YOU CALLING? DON’T CALL ANYONE!
“I was going to call Christine.”
BAD IDEA. TALK TO ME!
“How—did you know it was going to happen?”
IT WAS A DISTINCT POSSIBILITY. THERE WAS A LOT OF FLAME IN THAT HOUSE. PROBABILITY AMPLITUDES WERE BAD TOO, AS I SAID. NOT JUST IN THE BASEMENT.
“Could we have stopped it?”
I’M NOT A SUPERHERO, JEREMY. NEITHER ARE YOU.
“How come his squip didn’t stop it?”
COMMUNICATION PARAMETERS WEREN’T RESPECTED. SUBSTANCES.
I sit back on the bed. For not much reason except I know it’s what I’m supposed to do and it’s late and I can’t think to do anything else and I have this buttery feeling in my stomach, I cry.
YOU DON’T NEED TO.
“Why?” I snort into my palms. “Do you know how messed up this is?”
IT’S NOT THAT BAD.
