The Spectacular Now

by Tim Tharp

  You can practically see all the dank creepy-crawlies that have been weighing down her stomach go spewing out in the wake of every volcanic shriek. Louder and louder we scream until, finally, we’re laughing so hard we can barely get a word out. I’ve never seen her laugh like this before. It’s a sight to behold, a wonder, like the Eiffel Tower or the World’s Largest Prairie Dog.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” she says. “It feels great!”

  “And now we just have one more to do. One more person to shout down.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy that broke your heart.”

  “What guy?”

  “Now, you’re not going to tell me no one’s ever broken your heart, are you?”

  She stares across the water and fiddles with her fingers.

  “Come on,” I say. “You can’t get to be seventeen without at least one rotten, brain-curdling relationship.”

  It takes a while before she says anything. “The truth is I’ve never been in a relationship.”

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be, like, some huge, heavy thing. I just mean some dude that you kinda went out with some.”

  She looks down at her hands. “Guys don’t think of me like that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Guys don’t look at me like a girlfriend, you know? They don’t think I’m pretty and all that kind of thing.”

  This is brutal. I mean, sure, she’s no super-hot spank machine, but she’s no gargoyle either.

  “You’re crazy,” I tell her. “Didn’t you notice Cody Dennis and Jason Doyle were both hitting on you a while ago?”

  “No, they weren’t.”

  “Yes. They were. You’re a sweetheart. I mean, look at your soft little eyebrows, look at your cute, pouty mouth. You’re sexy.”

  “Oh, sure.” The girl can absolutely not look me in the eye. “You’re just saying that because you’re a nice guy.”

  “Me, a nice guy? Are you kidding? I’m not a nice guy. I’m completely serious. I mean, if I wasn’t serious would I do this?”

  I tilt up her chin and lay a big fat kiss right on her. And I don’t mean some polite, brotherly, nice-guy kiss either. I’m talking a long, deep, molar-swabbing French kiss with all the toppings.

  “Whew,” she says when I pull back.

  “You’re damn right, whew.” Just to make sure she gets the point, I go back for another one. What else am I going to do, let the girl sit there on a railing in the moonlight thinking she’s damned to go dudeless for the rest of her life?

  Chapter 33

  Hangovers are tricky. They’re kind of like practical jokers. You never know quite how they’re going to hit you. I used to enjoy them. They didn’t give me a headache or a sick stomach or anything like that. Instead, I’d feel cleansed. Redeemed. If it was a really serious party the night before, I’d get this survivor-like sensation, like Robinson Crusoe after a shipwreck, washed up on the shore of a new day, ready for the next adventure.

  Lately, though, my hangovers have started to take on a mean streak. It’s the opposite of that fine redemption feeling—a vague, weird guilt instead. Maybe it’s just a chemical thing, the old brain misfiring, the wiring short-circuiting. Or maybe it comes from not exactly being able to remember everything you did the night before.

  For example, I’m not exactly sure how I got back in the house without Mom and Geech finding out I was ever gone. Normally, you’d just chalk something like that up to being God’s own drunk—he’s looking out for you in your beautiful intoxication—but then you start wondering what else you might’ve got up to the night before, what you said, what you did, who you did it with. Then, the next thing you know, you end up spending half the day feeling like the Antichrist when the fact is you didn’t do a thing to hurt a soul.

  That’s the kind of hangover that hits me the morning after the party. I say morning, but really it’s after twelve when I wake up. For some reason, as soon as my eyes open, I start in worrying about Aimee. It’s ridiculous. I didn’t do anything but try to build the girl up. She liked the kissing. There’s no doubt about that. And to tell the truth, I didn’t mind it myself. I would’ve laid another one on her when I took her home, but I ended up having to hold her hair while she puked off the side of the porch instead.

  But what happened between the time we left the pier and when we said good night is a little sketchy. I keep trying to remember what all we talked about on the drive home, but my memory is like a broken watch that you can’t find all the pieces to. I know we talked about doing something else together, but I’m not sure what it was. There’s a gnawing feeling that I might have told her I’d take her to the prom, but that might just be a trick the hangover’s playing on me. I mean, why would I do that? The prom is still a good way off, and I’ll probably be back with Cassidy by that time.

  Then another memory slinks back in, and this time I’m pretty sure I really did it. I told her I’d help with the paper route this morning. I meant it too. I sincerely did intend to get up at three a.m. and drive to her house with a big thermos of instant coffee. Apparently, I never did actually set the alarm, though. It was an honest mistake. Could’ve happened to anyone. Still, the idea of her sitting and waiting on that cold front porch is enough to smack the Antichrist heebie-jeebies right up the side of the pope’s head.

  The best thing to do for a hangover like this is take a shower, consume some hearty protein, take a shot of whisky, and go over to Ricky’s. Nothing makes you feel more regular than just being around your best buddy. With Mom and Geech out hobnobbing all afternoon, I shouldn’t have any problem getting away, except for one extraordinary development. When I call Ricky’s house, his mother says he isn’t back from going to church with Bethany. This is astounding. Ricky at church? What’s the world coming to?

  Luckily, he calls back about an hour later, and I talk him into heading over to the mall for our usual people-watching deal. I don’t mention a thing about church. Not yet. On the way over to the mall, I do take note that he’s not firing up a fat blaze, though. When I ask him about it, he says he’s out of weed completely.

  “You’re out? Since when do you ever run out?”

  “I told you, dude, I’m cutting back. I mean, what’s the use of getting high all the time? It’s not special anymore. There’s no celebration to it.”

  “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” I’m really starting to wish I’d never hooked him up with Bethany.

  “Besides, it gets a little tiresome when you’re so high you go to the movies and look up at the marquee and think the starting times are the ticket prices. I mean, I remember standing there going, ‘Ten-fifteen? What kind of price is ten dollars and fifteen cents?’ It’s a hassle.”

  “Yeah, one time I was putting gas in my car and thought the number of gallons was the price. I even got into an argument with the cashier. It was hilarious.”

  “I mean, it’s not like I can’t go pick some up if you’re wanting to get high.”

  “That’s all right. You know me—I only smoke the stuff if I’ve had a few drinks first. Besides, my head’s already hungover-weird enough.”

  “Wasted last night?”

  “I wouldn’t say wasted. Just heavily fortified.”

  Chapter 34

  At the mall, we snag a couple of lattes and park by the escalator for prime people-viewing. The only thing is, I keep feeling like everyone’s staring at me instead of the other way around. They’re not, but it’s just this creepy paranoia that I don’t quite fit in, kind of like how it is sometimes if you don’t drink enough before hitting the killer weed. Like everyone else is something normal—beagles or dachshunds—and I’m this big hairy cross between a Newfoundland and a Shetland pony. I can practically hear them thinking, What’s that damn Shetfoundland pony doing with that latte over there?

  Ricky goes, “Kind of a boring crowd out today,” and I’m like, “That’s because you’re not high. I could use a drink myse
lf.”

  “I thought you were cutting back.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “From you. We were talking about it. I said I was cutting back to just partying on weekends.”

  “It’s Sunday, dude. It still is the weekend, officially.”

  “You know what I mean. Quit overdoing it. All things in moderation.”

  “All things in moderation? What’s happening to you? No weed, going to church on Sundays. Listen, dude, we were born to be jungle children. We were born to roam the wild in loincloths bearing blow guns and knives. Now look at you. Next thing I know I’ll be calling you Deacon Ricky. You’ll be preaching me the fire and brimstone. And I’ll say, ‘I used to know that dude when he thought religion was out to turn us all into zombies.’”

  He shakes his head. “Dude, what do I need a blowgun for? What am I going to do, fell myself a burger at Mickey D’s? Anyway, I’m just going to church because that’s what she does.”

  “Can we say hypocrite, boys and girls?”

  “Screw you, Sutter. I’m not a hypocrite.”

  I’m not letting him off the hook that easy, though. “Yeah, it’s Dawn of the Dead all over again, starring Ricky the zombie, stumbling through the mall. That guy getting off the escalator over there is going to be you, wearing sandals and socks and a fanny pack, leading his kid around on a leash.”

  Ricky gets a chuckle out of that even though it’s aimed at him. “Dude,” he says. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. For one thing, I don’t have anything against religion. It’s not like I don’t believe in some kind of God. It’s just the holier-than-thou crap that rankles me. Besides, I’m not looking to get saved. I’m only going with her because it’s what you do when you’re in a relationship. You know? You slide into the third pew from the front and sit there thinking about how desperate all these people are to feel like something loves them. They’ll believe all kinds of hocus-pocus. But your girlfriend likes it, and you like her, so you do it. It’s called compromise. The only way you’re going to get something to last in this world is to work at it.”

  “Right. And then it’ll last for ever and ever.” I’m all sarcastic and everything. “But aren’t you the dude with the theory on built-in obsolescence?”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to just give up. That’s not how relationships work.”

  “Listen to you. You’ve had one girlfriend for two weeks, and all of a sudden you’re the Guru of Love.”

  “Well, at least I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  I sink back in my seat. “That was a low blow.”

  “Sorry, but, you know, if you want Cassidy back, you need to change some things, dude.”

  “A lot you know.” I tell him about Cassidy’s e-mail and our little chat at the party last night. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? She’s jonesing for the Sutterman.”

  “Is that right? Well, how come we just happened to see Shannon Williams at church and she said Cassidy left with Marcus, and she saw you walking off into the woods with some girl in a giant purple coat, who I assume was Aimee Finecky?”

  “Hey, it doesn’t matter who Cassidy left with last night. All that matters is who she winds up with, and by the end of next week, you can bet it’ll be me.”

  “And you’re using Aimee Finecky just to make her jealous, is that it?”

  “No, that’s not it. I explained the whole Aimee thing to you already.”

  “Oh, right, you’re rescuing her from the abyss. But, dude, let me ask you this—what happens when she falls in love with you?”

  “Love?” I take a hit off my latte. It’s a little bitter. “Believe me, dude, no way is that girl going to fall in love with a guy like me.”

  Chapter 35

  At school the next couple of days, it’s not like I’m dodging Aimee. I’m just not going out of my way to run into her. After all, we don’t have any of the same classes or anything. Cassidy, on the other hand, I just happen to run into a bunch—in the parking lot, on the front steps, outside the girls’ bathroom. Only a couple of times is she with Marcus, so we’re able to get some good conversation in, a few laughs, a little touchy-touchy on the arm, the back, that kind of thing.

  By Thursday, we’re completely comfortable in each other’s space again. We’re practically intimate. “So,” she says, “do you have to work this afternoon?”

  “No, Bob cut me back to three days a week.”

  “Are you still grounded?”

  “I guess not. Mom and Geech really don’t have the interest to keep track of something like that for very long.”

  “Good, because I need to go shopping and could use some company. You want to come with?”

  “Maybe if you twist my arm.”

  She grabs hold of my wrist—tight—and I’m like, “Uncle, uncle, okay, I give.”

  “Pick me up at two,” she says. “Don’t be late.”

  All right, so I’m going to follow Ricky’s advice, at least a little bit. He says I have to make some changes to get Cassidy back, so I will. I pledge to myself that I’ll be on time to pick her up, and what do you know? I am.

  She’s looking very hot. White cable-knit sweater, blue jeans, boots, gold hoop earrings. The girl knows how to put herself together without seeming like she went to any effort at all. We hit several stores—Old Navy, the Gap, a local place called Lola Wong’s—but they don’t have the certain kind of pants she wants for her friend Kendra’s birthday present.

  I have to admit, in the past, when I went to stores with Cassidy, about half the time I’d end up waiting in the car. I mean, I don’t understand the female fascination with shopping. For me, I just want to go in, buy what I want, and get out. This isn’t how girls operate at all. It’s like a police investigation with them. No piece of evidence can go without thorough inspection. They might as well pack along a forensics kit.

  But I’m the new, patient Sutter. I go into every store and look at every item and nod and make listening sounds—hmmm, oh, uh-huh. I even let her hold up pants to my waist to see how they’re going to look. As if Kendra and I had anywhere close to the same build! The pants all look the same to me, but none of them are quite what Cassidy’s looking for. Luckily, I brought along my flask.

  Actually, it’s good that we have to hit so many stores. I want the afternoon to last. It gives us both plenty of time to take nips off the whisky and start getting past that awkward balancing act of the ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend trying to pretend they’re just friends now. By the time we leave Lola Wong’s, we’re having a great time, walking along doing the playful shoulder-bump thing, laughing at whatever, everything but holding hands.

  She says screw the shopping, she can always find Kendra’s pants later, so I fill up the gas tank to go cruising. It doesn’t matter where to. We don’t have anyplace we have to be. The afternoon is ours.

  I steer the conversation to the good times we used to have together, the parties, the concerts, the haunted house at Halloween. There are funny stories to go along with all of them. One memory really gets her going—last August when we sat on my roof in the rain and watched the lightning going crazy off to the west. It was charging straight our way, but we didn’t care.

  “That was amazing,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “The rain felt so good on my skin. And the lightning cracking across the whole sky—it was better than any fireworks show ever. I mean, that must have been so dangerous, but I don’t know—I could just feel the electrical power like it was running through my veins or something.”

  “It wasn’t dangerous,” I say. “We were immune to lightning that night. We had a spell on us.”

  “We did. We did have a spell on us.” She pauses for a second. “I don’t know how many times I felt like that, just a handful. And every time was with you.”

  I give her the old Sutter grin. “Well, you know me—the Amazing Sutter, master of prestidigitation.”

  “You are.” She smiles and gazes through the windshield. “You bring the magic.
I feel it right now. It’s like nothing can touch us, like everything else in the world—the problems, the responsibilities—have just disappeared. We’re in our own universe. I’d really miss it if we lost that.”

  I give her neck a squeeze. “You don’t have to miss it. It’s right here. No worries, no fears, just a big fat Thursday afternoon wrapping us up in its arms.”

  She leans over and nuzzles her head against my shoulder. “That’s right,” she says. “There’s nothing but right now. I don’t want to think about anything but that. Is that okay? Can we just do that?”

  I rub my cheek across her hair and go, “Hey, it’s me, Sutter. Of course, we can do that.”

  By the time we get back to my house, we’ve polished off the flask and started on beer, but we don’t even put a dent in that. I don’t know how many times we’ve made out on the living room couch, but kissing Cassidy was never sweeter than it is this time. Her hands swirl under my shirt like wild minks and mine do the same under her sweater. Every time I start to say something, her mouth clamps back on mine.

  It’s a challenge to keep kissing while walking up stairs, not to mention peeling off clothes at the same time, but you know what they say—you gotta do what you gotta do. As we lie down on my bed, this feeling swells up in me like my whole chest could burst open and a bunch of new undiscovered colors would come flying out. Her body has never looked so beautiful, except for maybe the first time I saw it.

  “You know how I feel about you,” I tell her, and she says, “Don’t talk.”

  Then a weird thing happens. Her hands stop skittering and her body stiffens. I’m still kissing her heavy and firm but she’s not kissing back. It’s like yelling across a beautiful canyon and waiting for an echo that never comes.

  I’m like, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just go ahead.”

  “What do you mean, ‘just go ahead’?”

  “Just go ahead and do it.” She’s lying perfectly still now. Her eyes are closed, and all the electricity has drained out of her.