Chapters 1, 2 and 3

Chapter 1

Billy skidded across the damp field and gracelessly hit the turf. He picked himself up and wiped the grass clippings from his knees, trying not to appear rattled.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m OK. I couldn’t see the damn thing.”

He leaned over and picked up the large red frisbee, and peered into the dusk. Scattered across the football field, in little clumps, were the silhouettes of his friends; some tall and thin, others squat and compact.

“It almost hit me right in the face,” said Billy.

“Man, you were wide open!” said a high-pitched voice coming from one of the taller silhouettes.

“Maybe we should stop playing,” said another one. “It’s getting too dark.”

This silhouette belonged to Kyle, the owner of the thick blonde mane. As he loped effortlessly towards Billy, his hair picked up the last bits of daylight. Billy stood at the end of the field.

“Yeah, let’s pack it in,” said Shari. She, too, moved towards Billy. She had long auburn hair and green eyes that at this distance and at this time of the evening Billy could only imagine. He stared at the curve of her hips as she and the others slowly converged on the end zone. One by one they collapsed on the grass.

Rooster, the one with the high-pitched voice, pulled a reefer out of his pocket and a Bic lighter.
“It’s Miller time!”

He flicked the lighter and the flame briefly lit up his face. He had an Adam’s apple the size of a small plum, and his face was riddled with freckles. His bright red hair fell in thin curls to just below his ears.

“Do you think that’s smart?” asked Billy. “Right out in the open? Right by the school?”

“Listen, Mr. I’m-right-in-the-open-so-let-me-see-if-I-can-catch-the-disc-with-my-face, don’t upset my karma with your granny talk.”

He inhaled on the joint and passed it along. It looked like a firefly lazily making its way among the group. The kids were splayed out in the end zone in a big circle.

“Well what do we do now?” someone asked.

“Let’s see,” said Kyle. He sat in the middle, deftly spinning the frisbee on his right index finger. Occasionally, he’d toss it from one hand to the other, stopping only to take a hit from the joint. “Aren’t your parents out of town, Shari?”

“Not my house! Not on your life! They’d fry me alive. Besides, my parents are bound to call soon so I better get going, anyway.” She got up, retrieved the joint, and took a deep breath. Billy watched the smoke emerge from her lips as she slowly exhaled. “Bye,” she said, and turned to leave.

“We can go to my place,” said Joel, a freshman with a bit of a belly. “My parents have theater tickets in the city. They won’t be back until way past midnight.”

“Excellent!” said Rooster, bobbing his head.

The last hint of daylight was completely gone. The only light came from the caged security lights on the side of the high school that cast long shadows across the field. At the top of the school, the big red dome that adorned every masthead and letterhead in the school’s history was also lit up. For the past few weeks there had been a scaffold around it as part of a refurbishing project funded by the PTA. The workers had only gotten as far as scraping off the old paint, so it looked like the upside down half of a giant apple whose skin had been only partially peeled.

“I’m going home, too,” said Billy.

“Why, man? Don’t be a party-pooper,” said Rooster. He was laying back now, his head in his girlfriend Kerry’s lap. ‘How does he have a girlfriend,’ thought Billy. She was tying his hair into tiny braids.

“I promised my mom I’d come home early. She says she never sees me.”

“Give her a picture,” said Rooster.

Kerry stopped braiding Rooster’s hair and gave him a playful slap on the head. Then she started up again.

“Let him go if he wants,” said Kyle. “He knows what he’s missing.”

“Yeah, Par-tee!” cried Rooster.

Billy pulled himself to his feet, flashed a disdainful look in Rooster’s direction, and headed off across the field.

“If you hurry you might catch up with Shari!” yelled Rooster. Kerry laughed and somebody else gave him a high five.

Billy was glad the darkness hid his face, which he was sure was beet red. He hated how easily he blushed. He had thought about catching up with Shari but in the mood he was in he knew he’d only say or do something stupid. He decided there really wasn’t anything to do but go home. He kept walking, glancing back only when he reached the school. He heard faint sounds of laughter and hoped they weren’t at his expense. Probably not. Kyle was standing up and waving his frisbee over his head, leading the gang in the direction of Joel’s house.

Billy wiped some perspiration from his face and started walking again. The afternoon rain hadn’t helped the heat or the humidity too much, and the sweat he worked up playing ultimate frisbee had only barely begun to evaporate.

The streets of the town were deserted even thought it wasn’t much past nine o’clock. Adults never walked around the town, especially at night. The streets were the kids’ domain. By now, though, most of them were heading off to parties, pizza parlors, or hidden places to drink or smoke pot.

He walked around a lot at night, logging many miles on the tree-lined streets. He rarely ran into anyone, but he knew someone who lived on almost every block. As he passed their homes he thought about them and wondered what secrets they had. What did other people think about? Were they as messed up as he was? Did any of them jerk off in their bedrooms alone at night? Did any of them wake up in a cold sweat, thinking about death?

‘It’s stupid,’ he thought. ‘I’m seventeen. Why the hell am I worrying about death?’ He flinched. He knew what was coming. ‘Seventeen, seven, or seventy-seven, man, it doesn’t matter. It’s going to happen.’

“Shut up!” he said out loud.

‘And when it happens that’s it,’ he thought. ‘Even if it’s a hundred years from now, that day WILL come, and then…nothing!’

“Stop it!” he said, his muscles tightening. But it was too late. He could feel the panic about to burst upon him, before he could help himself. It was almost as if he willed it to happen.
‘Put it out of your mind all you want,’ he thought, ‘but someday you will be on your deathbed. Your skin will be old and gray, your fingers will clutch the sheets. It will be REAL. It will happen.’

Cold lightning shot through his chest. He jerked his hands up to his ears and started walking fast, his heart pounding. He started jogging, trying to hold on to the thin veneer that was his sanity. He desperately tried to fix his attention on something. Anything. But it flitted around like quicksilver, only able to rest on the thought of death.

‘Think about Shari. About Rooster, frisbee, anything!’ But the power of death was irresistible. It kept sucking him back. It terrorized him but it enthralled him, too. His palms sweat. He started to run. He felt every hair on his body, every fiber of his clothes touching his skin. Death. Nothing. No more thoughts. No more anything.

“Hey, Billy.”

“What?”

It was Freddy Schlossberg standing in front of him, looking confused. Billy snapped back into the delusion of immortality in an instant. He could’ve kissed Freddy on the mouth.

“You OK? Where are you running to?”

Freddy was another walker of the night . He was also known as the Slush Man, for some unknown reason – probably a long ago manhandling of his last name, but he liked it. Freddy was mildly retarded – special, they called it. People were nice to him but he had no real friends. He walked around the town looking for people.

“Hey Slush Man, how’s it going?”

Freddy and Billy often ran into each other, usually alone. Sometimes Billy almost counted on it.

“There’s a party at Joel’s tonight,” said Billy.

Freddy’s face lit up. “Great! You going?”

“No, I’ve got to go home.”

“Too bad.”

“It’s OK. You can go if you want.”

“Yeah, that’ll be good. Maybe I’ll just crash.” Freddy liked using words like ‘crash’.

“Yeah, you go ahead and crash. That’s cool.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool.”

“I gotta go,” said Billy.

“OK. Bye,” said Freddy.

Billy started walking home again. The terror had passed for now. He picked up a branch lying on the ground and started twisting off the little twigs as he walked. After they were gone, he started peeling the bark. When the stick was smooth and clean, he whooshed it in the air a few times and then threw it in the hedge. He wove his way along the side streets. He didn’t like going down Central Avenue—the main street. He liked things quiet. He imagined the town was his. He knew every inch of it -- which pieces of sidewalk were cracked, which houses were recently painted, the location of every sewer drain, pothole, and pool.

‘How could Rooster of all people have a girlfriend,’ he thought. ‘The guy looks like a badly drawn cartoon character. And he’s never serious.’

He stopped in front of a large, old house with peeling gray paint and a big front porch. The shutters were slightly askew and the hedges needed trimming. It was the Slush Man’s house. Several bikes were strewn over the yard. They belonged to Freddy’s siblings. He was the oldest of five, and the only one who was retarded.

“Maybe that’s my problem. I’m too serious. I think too much. The Slush Man doesn’t think too much. Rooster doesn’t think at all, and Kyle. . . well Kyle doesn’t need to think. He just knows.”
Kyle wasn’t actually all that smart. He was barely a B student. Billy got straight A’s. But Kyle had such confidence and grace that he came across as all-knowing. His opinion was clearly the most valued among his friends. Or at least the most listened to.

“That’s why I never get anywhere with girls. I’m just a morose egghead. I’ve got to lighten up.”
He grabbed another branch and started walking again. A few blocks later he crossed Central Avenue and headed up the long hill to his house. He thought about Shari. He thought about how amazing it would feel if she were beside him right now and he could feel the soft, warm smoothness of her hand in his. How it would be if he could stare into those green eyes of hers without them making him feel like he was twelve. If he could sit with her on the curb, under the glow of the street light and just talk to her for hours. They’d slowly move closer until their lips were drawn together as if by magnets. He could almost feel the moistness of her mouth on his as the tips of their tongues grazed each other just for an instant, shocking their mouths into life. They would embrace and he would feel her breasts against his chest. He could smell her thick, sweet scent. Before he knew it he was standing in front of his house with an erection the size of a horse.

“Is that you Billy?” called his mom from the screened porch. They had just had it built that summer. He resented its intrusion into the street.

“Yeah, mom, it’s me.”

“Well, come here.”

‘God damn it,’ he thought. He tried to appear nonchalant. “Just a minute,” he said, trying to will his erection away.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll be right in.”

“Is everything OK?” asked his mom. He pretended to be interested in something happening at the other end of the street.

The sound of his mother’s voice helped make his hard-on disappear. The burning pressure subsided and was replaced by the hollow ache of a need unfulfilled. He was used to that. He opened the screen door and stepped on to the porch.

“I can’t believe you’re actually home,” said his mother. “I‘m surprised I still recognize you.”

He looked away. “What’s the big deal?” he said.

“It’s just that I never get to see you anymore.”

His mother was short. She barely came up to his chin, but she always made him feel small. She had a wide face, large eyes, and just a hint of the wrinkles to come. In her wedding pictures she was petite, with long smooth fingers. She looked straight into the camera. His Dad was usually stealing a glance at her from above her shoulder. Her hips were wider now, though, and she had faint liver spots. She always smelled of soap or detergent.

“I’m going to my room,” said Billy.

“Something wrong?” she asked. He could hear how desperately she wanted to speak with him. He couldn’t bear the thought.

“Just tired.” He trudged into the house and closed the door behind him. Before going to his room he turned and looked out at his mom through the side door window. He saw her sit down on the lounge chair and picked up her copy of People magazine. She put it on her lap and stared out into the night. Billy went upstairs.



Chapter 2

Billy was awakened the next morning by the sound of clattering pans and the smell of bacon and eggs. He rolled over onto his back and flipped the blanket off of his body, naked except for his boxers. The sun was streaming through his window but the breeze was almost cool. It was too early in the day for the heat to have settled in very much.

‘Why do these people get up so damn early on a Saturday?’ he thought. ‘What exactly is it that they’re rushing to do?’

He stared down at his body. His skin was pale and his body lean. Three lonely chest hairs sprouted out between his almost non-existent pecs. He traced the outline of his rib cage with his thumb and then slapped his taut stomach muscles. From head to toe he was barely 5’ 8” and he weighed 140 pounds. He had huge feet, small ears, and annoying propensity to get pimples on his legs.

“Are you awake yet, Billy?” his mom yelled up from the foot of the stairs. They had a Cape Cod style house. His bedroom was the only room on the second floor. His parents and sister had their bedrooms on the first floor, just off the living room. Billy figured that if he also had to be on the first floor he would probably die.

“And if I weren’t?” he asked, too softly for his mother to hear.

“Did you say something?”

“Yeah. I just got up.”

“Come on down and have some breakfast.”

He was going to make a crack about having to rise with the sun, but the smell from the kitchen made him hungry. He rolled out of bed, slipped on the shorts he had worn the previous day, and pulled a faded purple t-shirt from his dresser drawer.

“Are you coming?” yelled his mom.

“Yes,” he said, and then muttered, “What’s the big rush?” He put on his shirt as he descended the stairs and then went into the kitchen.

“Well, good afternoon!” his mom said, smiling.

“It’s not even 8 o’clock. And it’s Saturday.”

“We’ve been up since six,” said his father, who was sitting at the table in a t-shirt, pouring ketchup on his scrambled eggs. When he turned back to his food, Billy could see the beginning of a bald spot on the back of his head.

“Just because you people get up at an ungodly hour – “ started Billy.

“Do you want toast or a bagel?” interrupted his mom.

“Toast.”

“Could you put the butter on the table?”

“You mean margarine.”

“Margarine, butter, what’s the difference?”

“Taste.”

“There’s no big difference in taste. I can hardly tell,” said his mom as she transferred the bacon from a frying pan into a large dish lined with paper towels to soak up the grease.

“Besides, butter isn’t good for my heart,” added his father. “I can’t eat butter.”

“Then why are you eating eggs?” asked Billy.

“They’re Egg Beaters. Why do you think I need to put ketchup on them?”

“Just put the butter on the table, Billy,” said his mom. “I’m making this big breakfast. The least you could do is put the butter out.”

“OK. OK. But it’s margarine.”

Billy put the margarine out along with the jam and orange juice. Then he sat down next to his father, as his mother dished out the food.

“Could you put the paper away?” asked his mom.

His dad folded up the paper and put it on the seat next to him. “Yeah. Yeah. You know the Yankees blew both ends of a double header yesterday,” he said, taking a spoonful of Egg Beaters.
Billy didn’t care. His parents started talking about some problem with the gutters but Billy just phased them out. He stuffed his face and wondered what he would do all morning until the rest of his friends woke up. He had the day off from his summer job at Food Town.

“Are you working today?” asked his dad.

“No I got the day off.”

“The day off?”

“Yeah, I worked all week.”

“If you’re going to save enough for college, buddy boy, maybe you should log some overtime.”

“I worked last weekend. I want to enjoy at least some of the summer.”

“You go out every night,” said his mom. “We hardly see you anymore.”

Billy let his fork drop on his plate. If she said that one more time he was prepared to leap out the window.

“Where’s Justine?” he asked.

His father picked up the paper.

“Still sleeping, I think,” said his mom.

“No, I’m not,” said Justine. She had been standing motionless in the doorway in a long flannel nightgown. Her thick hair was still unkempt from having been slept on. She had a sour look on her face.

“Sit down, honey. How long have you been standing there?” said her mom.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” asked Justine.

“We wanted to let you sleep,” said her mother.

“Billy’s up.”

“He woke up. Here, come and sit down. I set a place for you. Take some bacon. I’ll make you some eggs. You like them scrambled, right?”

Justine walked over to the table and plopped down in her chair. She took a piece of bacon with her fingers and started eating it.

“Use a fork,” said her dad.

“What’s the big deal?” she asked.

“You’re thirteen years old,” he said, “You can use a fork.”

“It was just the bacon. I wasn’t going to eat the eggs with my hands.”

“Whatever. Just use a fork,” said her dad, still looking at the paper.

“Oh, so you thought I was going to eat the eggs with my hands?” she asked, her voice getting a little edgy. Her mom kept scrambling the eggs on the stove. Billy thought he could see her shoulders droop almost imperceptibly.

“No. I just asked you to use a fork.”

“But you said ‘whatever’. Do you think I’m such a pig I would eat eggs with my hands?”

Billy’s father threw the paper on the floor. “Could we please not get started first thing in the morning?” He was trying to stay calm but his voice quavered. Billy sat motionless, holding his toast.

“I’m not the one who started something,” said Justine.

“Let’s just drop it.”

“I wasn’t going to eat the eggs with my hands. Do you think I’m a pig?”

Billy’s dad went back to his Egg Beaters, swirling the last remaining pieces in the ketchup. His mom came over with Justine’s breakfast.

“Here, sweetie, just eat, OK?”

Justine picked up a fork and stabbed the eggs, the whole time staring at her father.

‘She asked you a question,’ thought Billy. ‘If you don’t answer her question she is going to go mental. You’ve got to know that.’

“I said, do you think I’m a pig?”

“Just eat your eggs, OK.” His father’s voice was starting to rise.

‘Just answer the damn question!’ thought Billy.

“So you think I’m a pig!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“But you didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“Just…eat…the…eggs,” said his father, barely containing himself.

Billy stared at his plate.

“Come on, let’s have an nice breakfast,” interjected Billy’s mother, “We so rarely all get to be together.”

“OK, I’ll eat.” Justine slammed her fork on the table and picked up the eggs with her hands, shoving them into her mouth. She started chewing with exaggerated motions, talking while she chewed. “See? I’m a pig!”

“For cryin’ out loud!” shouted his Dad. He slammed down his hand, open faced, on the table, rattling the silverware.

“Do you see what you’ve done?” shouted his mother.

“What I’ve done? What the hell did I do?”

Justine continued shoving eggs into her face. It was disgusting. Billy watched the scene unfold with no expression on his face. Billy’s mother wiped her hands on a dishrag, and gave Justine her full attention. “This is ridiculous, Justine. Just use your fork and eat your eggs. No one called you a pig. You can’t go ten minutes without making a major scene. I swear I‘m surprised I lived to see forty. God knows, I’m not going to make it to fifty.”

“So now I’m killing you?” shrieked Justine.

“Oh, brilliant, Carol, you handled that one beautifully,” said her husband.

Justine leapt from the table, knocking her dish on the floor and ran to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Her stereo came on full blast but over it you could still hear her screaming and carrying on. Billy couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying but the words “pig” and “killer” occasionally rose above the din. He took a bite of his toast.

“This is going to go on all day,” said Billy’s mom, picking up Justine’s dishes from the floor and then collapsing into the kitchen chair.

“Yeah, well.” added his father.

“How did that start? Can someone tell me please? How did that all start?”

“Dad didn’t answer her question,” said Billy.

“What?” asked his father.

“She asked you if you thought she was a pig and you ignored her.”

“So this is all my fault.”

“Don’t get on my case. You asked me how it started.”

“Don’t talk back to me, and let me tell you, buddy boy,” said his dad getting more agitated, “If I had said ever so sweetly ‘No darling, honey, sweetheart, babykins, you are definitely NOT a pig’ it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference. She would’ve blown up about something else.”
“You just asked me, OK. You set her off.”

“Will you kindly tell me what doesn’t set her off?”

“I don’t know,” said Billy.

“Are you going to go in there and calm her down, Frank?”

“Why me?”

“You started it.”

“She hates my guts.”

“Oh, like I’m her best friend? Fine. I’ll do it. I do everything around here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’ll do it.”

A crash came from Justine’s room and then a screeching noise as the arm of her stereo slid across the record. There was a second of silence before the music came back on again and the shouting continued.

“I better get in there before she destroys the room.” Carol hurried out of the kitchen.
Billy’s dad sat down and picked up the paper. “Do you want some of these eggs? I’m through with them.”

“No, I think I’m leaving.”

“Not until you clean up.”

Billy thought about protesting but he knew it would be worse than futile. He’d only get yelled at. “Fine,” was all he said and started clearing the table. As he was washing the dishes he noticed the screaming had died down and he could now hear only muffled sobs emanating from his sister’s room.

‘I can’t believe she is coming to the high school next year,’ thought Billy. “What the hell am I going to do?’

**************************

Billy sat on his bed, putting his records back in their sleeves. Some of his friends treated their records like delicate treasures, but he usually just tossed them in a pile after he played them. He couldn’t get that worked up about keeping them pristine. He loved the music, but he thought it was overdoing it to treat the albums themselves like they were some sort of religious icons.
It was too early to head down to the frisbee field, so he figured he’d just hide out in his room. From downstairs, he could hear his parents having a discussion. They rarely came up to his room so they had no idea how well sound traveled. He kept his stereo off so he could eavesdrop.

“Listen Frank, we have to talk,” said Carol. “Come with me into the living room.”

“Where’s Justine?”

“I gave her a couple of bucks and told her to walk down to the Quickcheck and get herself a Slurpee.”

“And Billy?”

“How would I know? Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

They both went into the living room. Billy knew without looking where they’d be. His mom would sit down at the end of the couch, while his dad would slump in his recliner. In between them would be the coffee table that was as old as their marriage. On it sat a cut glass candy dish and a small arrangement of silk flowers. There was never any candy in the dish, so Billy failed to see its reason for being there.

“So what’s to talk about?” asked Frank.

“I’m taking Justine to Dr. Chow again on Wednesday.”

“Yeah, so? Don’t you go every Wednesday?”

“And I want to talk to him about putting her back on medication.”

“You know how I feel about that,” Frank said wearily.

“That’s why I want to talk to you.”

“Do you remember the last time she was on pills? It was like having a freaking zombie in the house.”

“The girl is out of control,” she snapped back.

‘This is news?’ thought Billy. He lay down on the floor and rolled over on to his back with a Dead album on his chest and the record sleeve in his hand.

“I know that,” said Frank. “Believe me I know that. But isn’t there something besides tranquilizers?

“Frank, we’ve been at this since she was three years old. This doctor, that doctor, this therapy group, that therapy group. How can the child learn to function when she’s constantly having a fit?”

“Well, none of those doctors are worth a good God damn if you ask me. They can’t even tell us what’s wrong with her. I’m spending a lot of hard earned money each week on this Dr. Chow and what good is it doing me?”

“Maybe if she’s medicated…”

“Don’t you remember the last time? You’re the one who said it gave you the willies.”

“Well, maybe it could be something different this time. She’s getting older, Frank. She’s getting bigger and stronger and I don’t know how much longer I can handle her.”

“If she gets too out of control, we can put her in an institution.”

“Oh, you’re a big talker! You can’t even bring yourself to medicate her! If you had to put her in a mental hospital you’d cry your eyes out every night and you know it. You couldn’t even take it the couple of times she had to go in for only a week.”

They both sat in silence. Billy could barely make out the slight creaking of his father’s chair. From upstairs Billy imagined him playing with the doily on the arm of his chair as his mother stared at him.

“So can I talk to Dr. Chow about it?” she asked.

“The medication?”

“Yes, Frank, the medication. What else do you think I mean?”

Frank got up and started pacing across the room. “Medication doesn’t solve anything, Carol. How is Justine ever going to look after herself or learn anything in school if she is drugged out?”
“It’s a start. It’s a way to get things under control.”

Frank ran both his hands through his hair and sat down again. He sounded exhausted. Billy moved closer to the top of the stairs so he could hear better.

“It’s like giving up,” said his dad.

Carol slapped her hand down on the sofa and stood up. “It can’t go on like this, Frank!” she yelled. “You say it’s giving up but I’m the one you always send in to calm her down. What’s your bright idea? This whole house is out of control. Billy runs out of it every chance he gets…We only argue. I got up this morning and I think, OK, I’ll make a nice breakfast. I’ll get Billy up and we’ll have a family moment. I’ll let Justine sleep so maybe when she does get up she’ll be all rested and in a good mood and we’ll make like Ozzie and Harriet. That lasted two seconds.”

Billy slid the record that was laying across his chest into its sleeve. ‘What did you expect, mom?’ he thought. ‘It’s hopeless.’

“I can’t take it, Frank,” said his mother. Her voice sounded tight. Then there was silence. But Billy knew the conversation wasn’t over. He could feel the tension emanating from the living room like a long claw reaching up the stairs and into his gut. His mom’s face would be red now as she tried to hold back the tears. She was probably standing now, trembling, with her fists balled and her eyes watering. Frank would move over to her and sit her back down on the couch.
He heard his mother collapse into sobs. She’d have her fists on her husband’s chest and he would probably start stroking her hair. After a moment Billy heard her say said, “You’re messing up my hair. I paid a lot of money for this perm.”

“Are you all right?” asked Frank softly.

“Yes, I’m all right. I’m always all right.”

“I think I can see a few more gray hairs,” he said, trying to be playful.

“Oh, that’s supposed to cheer me up?” she asked, but she wiped the tears off of her cheeks and attempted a brief laugh. “And I wonder where they came from.”

“You’re still cute.”

“Really, Frank.”

She leaned over and started re-arranging the knick-knacks on the small table to the left of the couch. They were porcelain figures of little children in farm scenes. All Billy heard was the soft clinking of porcelain on wood and a few creaks as his father sat back down in his chair.
Frank broke the silence. “OK, Go ahead and talk to Dr. Chow about the medication.”

“You bet I will.”

“Just ask him if there’s something that won’t make her into such a zombie.”

“Better a zombie than the witch goddess from Hell.”

“Fine, OK, but can we talk about something else, now?” he pleaded.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” said Frank. He rose, pausing for a second when he was half-erect, like he was caught in mid-knee bend. “Maybe I should go fix the gutters.”

“Yeah, you do that,” said Carol. “I’ve got a few errands to run and by then maybe Justine will be back.”

“You’ll be OK?”

“Hey, what do you always call me? I’m the iron lady.”



Chapter 3

Billy made a right on Aurora and cut through the vacant lot behind the Schlossberg’s house. That way he could avoid the Quickcheck on Central Avenue and the potential risk of running into Justine if she decided to return home immediately after getting her Slurpee. She’d want to tag after him and hang out with the older kids. That would only be a disaster, he thought. He tried to keep his friends as far away from his sister as he could. She didn’t really embarrass him, although she said and did strange things. No, the reason he always steered his friends clear of her was that he knew she brought out the worst in him. She was so damn aggravating. Even if he tiptoed around her hot spots as best he could he knew they’d inevitably slip into an argument at the drop of a hat. Pretty soon he’d be yelling at her. Yelling at her like he never yelled at anyone else. He knew that an outsider would think he was being mean – a bully. She’d cry, and he would look like a brute. It was too much of an effort to explain her and why the smallest thing she did could set him off. How could he explain how he knew as soon as she asked a seemingly innocent question that it would lead them inexorably into a major confrontation – a confrontation he couldn’t possibly win.

Next year it wouldn’t be so easy. She’d be a freshman and he’d be a senior. They would be walking down the same halls. She would be unavoidable. He realized that some people must know at least a little about her. After all, they had younger brothers and sisters, too. They must’ve heard stories about how she acted out at school, screaming and threatening to scratch people’s eyes out. Throwing things. But did they know how she was ridiculed and harassed? How a gang of girls surrounded her in the gym locker room and snapped towels at her until her skin was a mottled red and she lay screaming on the floor in just her bra and panties? How she was followed home from school and heckled? Rocks landing in the bushes just inches away from her as she walked hunched over, carrying her books in front of her, praying they were aiming to miss. Probably not. But what could he do?

Freddie was sitting cross-legged on his lawn blowing bubbles and watching them burst as they hit the lower branches of the dogwood tree in his front yard.

“Hey, Slush Man!”

“Hi, Billy!” He popped up. “We missed you at Joel’s. It was cool. We did whip-its!”

“Did you do whip-its, Freddy?”

Freddie looked down at the ground and let his wand drop to his side so that it dripped bubble juice down his jeans. “No, I just watched.”

“That’s good,” said Billy, “Whip-its aren’t good for you.”

“Aren’t they cool?” he asked, looking back up. He was confused, not knowing whether to be proud or ashamed.

“Nah. They ain’t so cool.”

“Want to blow bubbles with me? I got a Super Wand in the garage.”

“No, thanks. I’m going for a walk.”

“That’s cool,” he said, though obviously disappointed.

Billy headed for the school, leaving Freddie to his bubbles. Justine was a lot smarter than Freddie, but her life would be easier if she were more like him, he thought. Then she could just blow bubbles and leave him and his parents alone.

A few of the gang were already sitting on the class of ’77 benches in front of the school. Each year the graduating class made a gift to the high school. Last year, they gave a trio of benches anchored into the ground near the flagpole. The year before that the newly liberated seniors fixed up the little enclosure at the top of the bleachers used by the announcers at the football game. The following week it was defaced, prompting a series of angry letters about “youth gone bad” in the local newspaper. A particularly vehement letter was authored by the class president of 1958, one of the proud donators of the huge “Welcome to Fairfield High School – Home of the Falcons” banner that still hung in the school’s main lobby. The banner, of course, was defaced shortly thereafter, but quickly cleaned. In the lower right corner, though, if you looked closely enough you could see that the banner’s deep green color was faded ever so slightly revealing the letters “GO TO HELL.”

Rooster was sitting on the back of one bench with his feet on the seat. Rooster lived at the high school, except when classes were actually in progress. “Hey, Billy boy, missed you last night.”

Billy rolled his eyes and headed over to the far bench. “Yeah, I heard it was a smash. Freddie said you did whip-its.”

“Little blasts of paradise,” laughed Rooster.

“Yeah, but we wouldn’t let Freddie do ‘em,” said Kerry, noting Billy’s concern. She was sitting next to Rooster’s feet, smoking a cigarette. Camped out on the other bench were Dwight and Darren Jenkins, twins who hardly ever spoke but who were gods of the frisbee field. On the ground, sitting cross-legged and obviously disapproving of the whole whip-it thing was Margaret Rodriguez. Her hair was so black it was purple. She was gorgeous, if a touch too skinny, but she had a way of looking at you which made you feel that even though she thought you couldn’t possibly be good enough for her, that she’d be nice to you just the same. Kind of like you were a stray dog.

“So we were thinking,” said Rooster, “Now that we will be seniors, what should be our legacy to the school?”

“Right,” said Billy, pulling out a dandelion that was growing out of the dirt in front of the bench. The grass there had been worn away by a steady succession of student feet. “Our legacy will be that we finally get you off school property.”

Margaret gave a small chuckle, which pleased Billy to no small degree.

“Seriously,” said Rooster, “We need to be remembered as a class with style. None of these stupid benches.”

“Get real, Rooster. It’s the jocks and goody-two-shoes who pick the class gift,” said Margaret.

“She’s right,” said Kerry, holding her cigarette out to Rooster. He brushed it off.

“Hey, babe. I only smoke weed. Tobacco is marijuana’s evil twin.”

“Fine,” said Kerry, stomping out the butt. “But Margaret’s right.”

“Hey, it’s an open vote!” cried Rooster.

“Yes, dear,” said Margaret, “But the point you’re missing is that only the goody-two-shoes vote.”
“Hey, Miss Honor Student!” said Rooster. “And you, too, Billy Brain. You guys are pretty goody-two-shoes to me, you know. Besides, if we propose a cool gift I’m sure we can bring out the freak, geek, and greaser vote.”

“You mean build a coalition?” asked Margaret.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Rooster, getting excited. He jumped down from the bench. “This could be, like, my cause, you know. I mean, this meeting is the like the defining moment of our campaign.”

“You’re forgetting something,” said Margaret. “You don’t have a gift idea yet.”

“Hey, first things first,” said Rooster.

“Wouldn’t the gift idea be the first thing?” asked Kerry.

‘What the hell does she see in him?’ thought Billy. But she was clearly amused.

“No,” said Rooster. “The mission comes first. The purpose. The meaning behind the gift is the important thing. Hey, I should know. I’m the guy with no mission or meaning in his life.”

“Well spoken,” said Margaret, but she looked amused, too.

Rooster circled around the benches, gesticulating while he spoke. “What is our mission? What is it we as a class want to say to dear old Fairfield High? Come on, guys, we can do this.” He turned sharply and pointed at Dwight. “You! What is it that you want to say?”

“I don’t know,” said Dwight.

“Come on, man, think! What is your defining legacy? What do you want to leave behind?”

“A new banner?”

Rooster threw his arms in the air and shouted. “What? You’re missing the point! Why do we need a new “Home of the Falcons” banner?”

“It could say something else,” offered Dwight.

“Hey,” said Rooster, stroking his chin with an exaggerated gesture. “Maybe you’re on to something.”

“No,” said Margaret. “You’d never get anything good by Mr. Warren.” He was the principal.

“It would have to be pretty subtle,” said Kerry.

“Yes,” said Rooster. “Subtlety is my middle name.”

Kerry laughed and ran at Rooster, tackling him. “Rooster, baby, subtlety is your doppleganger.”
Rooster fell back on the grass with Kerry on top of him. The other boys pursed their lips and Margaret rolled her eyes.

“What the heck does that mean?” asked Rooster. “Dopple what?”

“I may not be an honor student,” said Kerry, “But I studied Conrad in English last year.”
She stayed on top of him but sat up a little to pull a crushed pack of cigarettes from her front pocket. Rooster took her by the shoulders and rolled her over so they were facing each other sideways.

“Hey, my smokes!” said Kerry, reaching for the pack that had gone flying.

“I had that class, too,” said Rooster, “But I don’t know what the hell a dopplegangfried is”

“Doppleganger,” said Billy. “And yes, you were in that class, but the difference is that she actually read the book.”

“He speaks!” said Rooster. He and Kerry extricated themselves from each others’ limbs. Pieces of grass were in their hair. Kerry’s shirt had been pulled up slightly so that Billy could see a rim of skin around her waist. He tried not to look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Billy asked.

“You’ve just been really quiet lately,” said Kerry. “Like you are thinking deep thoughts.”

Rooster laughed.

“Dwight and Darren never say anything,” said Billy, a little indignantly. “They just sit there”

“Yeah,” said Margaret, “with piercing eyes and chiseled chins.”

Billy gaped at the twins. ‘My God,’ he marveled. ‘They aren’t even blushing. Are they dumb or just that secure?’ He saw them look out across the field, and followed their gaze to see Kyle making his way toward the group. He was spinning a frisbee with his left hand while eating an apple that was in his right. He was wearing cut-offs, like the rest of the kids, and had a Grateful Dead T-shirt on

Rooster sprang to his feet. “Mr. Kyle!” he shouted. “Come here, my man, we have a mission!”
Kerry brushed herself off and straightened her shirt. She retrieved her cigarettes and sat back down on the bench, while Rooster strutted over to Kyle and put his arm across Kyle’s shoulders.
“We have a conundrum,” said Rooster.

“I’m here to help,” said Kyle, tossing his apple core into the bushes at the base of the flagpole.
Rooster explained his new mission in life, with a little help from Kerry and Margaret. Dwight grabbed the frisbee and started tossing it back and forth with Darren. They each stood on opposite sides of the flagpole and practiced curving the frisbee around the pole to each other.
“Look, this is stupid,” said Billy. “Mr. Warren will never allow anything but benches, fire escapes or new batons for the drill team.”

“Billy, Billy,” said Kyle. “You must widen your perspective. Develop a broader vision. Of course, we can’t give a cool official gift, but that doesn’t have to stop us from creating a legacy that will be remembered for all time!”

Rooster nodded appreciatively.

“OK,” said Billy, feeling a little chagrined. “So what do you suggest?”

“We have to think about it awhile,” said Kyle.

“Yes, yes!” said Rooster. “An idea like this needs to be properly fermented.”

“Right now let’s go over to the football field,” said Kyle. “I saw a few people heading that way. We probably have enough for a game.”

He ran over and intercepted one of the twin’s passes, and then everyone started walking around to the back of the school to join the others. All except Margaret. “I told Shari I’d stop by her place,” said Margaret. “We’ll meet you guys in a little while.” Billy saw Rooster looking at him with a smirk. Thankfully, he said nothing.

“OK. See you guys later,” said Kyle. Then he turned his attention to the twins. “Darren, go long!”

Darren took off like a gazelle in the direction of the field. Kyle heaved the frisbee. They all watched it sail through the sky as Darren raced after it. The disc traced a gentle arc against the clouds as it slowly descended in front of the racing Darren. He timed it perfectly, watching it float into his hands in stride as the others, about forty yards back, erupted in hoots and cheers.