While most girls ignore Bryce after receiving his flower, things unfold differently with others.
Bryce, Cam, and Geoff are leaving the locker hall at the end of the day when Beth Stevens comes toward them like an assassin. No, an assassin would probably be sneaky – she comes like an invading barbarian. As usual, she wears a shirt cut so low it’s almost a jacket.
Bryce doesn’t even have time to get his Tic Tacs out.
“I can’t believe you sent me a flower, you little freak! Don’t ever embarrass me again!” Bryce thinks she might hit him, but instead she shoves him in the shoulder with one hand, then walks away.
Cam says, “Beth Stevens? Seriously?”
“She’s been down on everything but the
Hindenburg
. I thought I might have a chance.”
Same locker hall, different day. Bryce is in the process of unstuffing his backpack when three basketball players approach. One of them might be named Billy, but who knows for sure – they’re all interchangeable.
“Bryce?” Maybe-Billy asks. All activity in the hall comes to a stop, like an Old West street before a gunfight.
“I’m his secretary. Can I take a message?”
“Funny man,” another of them says. Bryce is at belly-button level.
Maybe-Billy puts his hands under Bryce’s armpits and lifts him off the ground. “Lori is outta your league, munchkin.” He’s not mean, or threatening – it would almost be better that way, instead of this mockery.
Wolverine from the X-Men is short, but if someone called him a midget, they’d get six adamantium claws right in the gut. Since Bryce doesn’t have adamantium claws, he settles for, “Ok, whatever you say.”
Maybe-Billy sets Bryce back down. One of the others says, “That dude actually thought she’d go out with him?” They walk away laughing. Bryce is back in middle school being called Hobbit and taunted by Zaplin.
Bryce feels the sting in his eyes and puts his face inside his locker, pretends to be looking for something. He should tell everyone about the cancer, then they’d feel bad for him. The whole school would feel bad for him and things would be different around here; people would be sorry they treated him shitty.
“Bryce?” Ms. Dickinson now – he knows by the voice and the perfume. “Did those guys hurt you?” she asks, a soft hand on his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he replies into the tight darkness. He can’t believe she’s standing this close to him and he’s wishing her away, but there you go. The bell rings. “I’m fine,” he repeats, then stands some more until her heels click away.
His dad has a saying, whenever Bryce or Claire complain about something: “Could be worse – at least you’re not Job.” Right about now, Job’s problems don’t seem so bad.
“When did this world go crazy?” Cameron’s mom asks, swirling wine in a lipstick-smudged glass. Cameron stands behind the couch. If she would turn around, even partway, she’d see the jagged crack across the right lens of his glasses.
On TV: a report about Satanic rituals at a preschool in California.
He waits through the next story, until the anchorman says, “Now we take you to Los Alamos, where earlier today…”
And there’s the scene outside the National Labs. Protesters. Police. Someone on the ground, face down, hands behind his back.
“…local high school students among those who…”
Molly drinks, shakes her head. “I don’t know why I watch the news. Too stressful.”
Two Santa Fe kids give breathless interviews to the camera. A lab spokesman condemns.
“I’m glad you’re not involved in anything like that,” Molly says.
Well…
Six months earlier, if someone had told Cameron he’d be in the school parking lot on a Saturday morning (after closing the restaurant the night before)…
Or riding to Los Alamos in the back of Mr. Hagen’s full van with eight others, and a parade of cars from school trailing behind them on the highway…
No way.
“Nothing’s different in Russia with Chernenko in charge,” Garrett Lucas said from the front, the prime seat next to Hagen. “There’re still nuclear tests in the paper every day. Us, the Soviets, the French.”
When Cameron showed up at 7:58 a.m., after a quick but thorough shower to eliminate any lingering pizza smell, he saw Rosemary wasn’t there. He needed to see her again, outside of class, to know if it was done between them. So he could be cool with moving on. As more cars showed up, people driving themselves or getting dropped off, she still didn’t come.
When Mr. Hagen said, “Let’s get this show on the road” Cameron knew she never would.
He raised his hand in the van, then quickly put it down before anyone could make fun. “What good will it do to march around holding signs? I mean, what are we trying to accomplish?”
“We’re trying to raise awareness,” Erik Carter turned and replied.
“Yeah, man, how many people were at that protest in New York?” the albino kid (Mitch?) agreed.
“Germany too,” Garrett said. “We’re part of something big here.”
Mr. Hagen adjusted the rearview mirror. “Why did you come if you don’t think it will do any good, Cameron?” he asked, with that raised eyebrow Cameron hadn’t seen since freshman year World Affairs class.
To look for a girl. “Because I…”
“Because you know, deep down, you’re doing the right thing. Your generation has the most at stake in this. You can’t be a bystander if you want things to change.”
All Cameron had pictured was the group of them marching in a circle outside the building, chanting slogans before breaking for lunch. But then kids from other schools – Santa Fe, Gallup, Rio Rancho, even as far as Las Cruces – arrived and kept arriving. Like an outdoor assembly in the crisp sunshine.
Signs everywhere: Peace symbol. White dove. Mushroom cloud. GIVE PEACE A CHANCE. NO NUKES.
The protesters kept coming. Away from their respective campuses, there were no cliques, everyone an equal. Conversation circles opened up to include Cameron. Girls (both foxy and non-) introduced themselves – he should’ve invited Bryce.
The security guards came out in their dark uniforms, and gave their warning via megaphone about keeping a certain distance. The cops showed up soon after.
Cameron wasn’t sure exactly when all hell broke loose. Chanting turned to yelling. Marching turned to pushing. Faces red, eyes wide, mouths wider. He lost both his balance and his glasses, then lay in the fetal position to avoid being crushed under tumbling bodies. A root beer bottle shattered a few feet from his head.
“Please tell me you didn’t get in trouble,” Molly says in the living room. “Your name could end up in some government file and ek cetera. Ruin your college chances after all our planning.”
Bo Derek smiles out from the cover of a
People
magazine on the couch. The newscast switches to weather.
Cameron says, “I have to go do something.”
He drives on auto-pilot, every light green, every song good road music. He can see well enough with one eye.
Rosemary lives in a Spanish-style adobe home with cacti and gravel in lieu of a front lawn. Hanging next to the front door is a string of red peppers, like this is any other New Mexico house. As the doorbell chimes die down, Cameron re-prepares himself to be over her.
Rosemary opens the door, hair clipped back, T-shirt and sweatpants. He’s still not used to seeing her face, and he’s also not over her.
“Your glasses are broken,” she says.
“You didn’t come to Los Alamos today,” he says.
“I had a bloody migraine. Mr. Hagen called a bit ago to fill me in.”
“I’ve never been around anything like that before. It was crazy. Someone threw a bottle right past my head.”
“Those fascist police didn’t need to act the way they did,” she says.
A baby or a wild animal screams in the background.
“You know what else? Ever hear of the Doomsday Clock? It’s like an actual giant clock run by this group of scientists. If it hits midnight, bye-bye world, and right now it’s – ”
“11:57. Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
“So three minutes away sounds pretty bad.”
“Did you come over here to tell me about the clock?”
The night is chill; he could’ve used a jacket over his sweatshirt. He starts talking. He keeps talking. Everything he’s wanted to say to her (excluding the mention of who she looks like). If not tonight, when? They might all be out of chances soon.
When he’s done, she looks at him, head cocked. “I’m fond of you too,” she says. “But I plan to go back to England after graduation.”
“So?”
“So I don’t want to get attached to anyone and then have to say goodbye. I’m bad at goodbyes – trust me.”
There’s no response he can offer. He’ll have to trust her.
She adds, “And I especially don’t want the opposite.”
“What’s the opposite?”
“The other person.”
“You mean me?” he asks.
“Right.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you to get attached to me and end up getting hurt.”
The screaming stops abruptly, like someone pulled a plug. “What if I don’t care about getting hurt? What if I like being with you and however long is however long? I mean, Jesus Christ, someone could push the button any second and…”
She tilts her head the opposite way, like they’re in a stretchy funhouse mirror, the whole night, their whole lives reflected there. She steps toward him, puts her arms around his neck and leans in. They bang teeth. She yelps with a hand to her mouth.
After they recover they try again. It’s even better than the ball pit.
Dear Heather Locklear,
My name is Bryce Rollins and I’m a big fan of yours. I might be your number one fan in the world, only I don’t know all the other fans in the world (though I’m sure there are many). I watch you every week on T.J. Hooker and I have your poster on my wall. I’ve even watched Dynasty because you’re on it, which if you knew me you would know is a big deal.
Right now I’m a senior in high school. My grades are ok. What I really want to do is art but people tell me that may not work out. A lot of things may not work out for me. This year hasn’t been great. I could tell you all the details but since you don’t know me you probably wouldn’t care.
I’m writing to ask if you’d like to go out on a date with me some time. I’ll be eighteen soon. If you’d rather wait until then I understand. I have a car so I could meet you in Hollywood or wherever you live.
As I said, you don’t know me and you may be tempted to throw this letter away, but I hope you’ll consider my offer. I promise I’m not a creep!!!
My phone number and address are at the bottom of this letter. You can write or call. I know you’re very busy so a quick phone call may work best. If a woman or a girl answers don’t hang up, it’s the right number (I have a mom and a sister).
I hope to hear from you really soon.
Sincerely,
Bryce Rollins
p.s. My friend Cameron thinks Heather Thomas is prettier than you but he’s insane.
Claire declines Bryce’s offer of a ride home after school, despite his caution about her getting caught in the rain. Instead she walks to Grand Central as the clouds plot together and the wind sounds its warning of things to come.
“Can I see that one?” she asks, pointing to a Walkman in the glass case. Behind the electronics counter hang row upon row of video games. The yellow-toothed clerk hands Claire the little black player and goes to the far end, where a woman waits to drop off photos for developing.
Claire walks out.
She keeps a death grip on the Walkman all the way across the parking lot, expecting to feel a hand on her shoulder or hear a
Hey
, running through a calm-down list in her head (state capitals). The threatening darkness at the corner of the sky has pushed forward into an artificial night. The first tentative rain starts when she’s in the alley; by the time she enters the cul-de-sac it gushes angrily, slapping against her coat hood.
“Told you you’d get wet,” Bryce says from the den. “Mom will kill you if you ruined that new coat.”
“Uh-huh.” She goes straight up to her room and hides the treasure in the closet with the Tarot cards. She used to be scared of thunder when she was little. Her dad told her it was God bowling; now Claire welcomes the sound, not thinking of bowling but of war raining down, the planet splitting open.
Meredith calls later. “‘Cancer: Time to face your fears about letting go of the past, for certain evolutionary forces are gathering power and could lead to radical transformation.’”
“Cool. I could use some radical transformation.” Claire wraps the phone cord twice around her midsection. Outside, rain drums on the metal roof gutters.
“What are you doing tonight? I haven’t seen you in forever.” Forever means since precisely the day Meredith said she was past shoplifting.
“Babysitting.”
“Those twins? Want some company?”
“Sure. Come over at, like, seven.”
After they get off, Claire’s two steps away from the phone when it rings again.
“I was gonna hang up if someone else answered,” Ricky says.
“I’m glad someone else didn’t.”
“Can we do something tonight? My old man tweaked his back working on a car and now he’s all Mr. Intensive Care on the couch. I gotta get out of here.”
Claire calls Meredith back and says, “Never mind. One of the twins is sick, so I’m not going over.”
“Do you wanna do something else?”
“I’m pretty tired tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Claire walks down to the Swansons’ later, after her parents have departed for a rotary event called the Swinging Sixties. Her mom wore knee-high white boots; her dad wore a green scarf around his neck that made his head look like an upside-down pumpkin. She’d never seen them looking so awkward, and that covers a lot of ground.
Now the air is crisp with after-rain smell, the way it feels like breathing through tinfoil. Contents of the backpack on Claire’s shoulder: tank top, cutoffs, Walkman, all buried under a thick layer of schoolbooks and her Trapper Keeper binder. Two red, white, and blue signs have grown out of lawns across the street from each other: GARY HART FOR PRESIDENT at Steve and Bo’s; MONDALE ’84 at the Batsons’.
She eats a Lottaburger and plays Battleship and Mousetrap with the twins, only tonight she’s aware of the time zooming past, of how each minute brings the Swansons’ return closer. Donna asks a few times, “Are you deaf or something?” when Claire doesn’t respond to her questions.
“If she was deaf she wouldn’t hear you ask that,” Gabe says.
At the stroke of eight, Claire herds the kids up to change into pajamas, then speeds through two bedtime stories. Donna goes with the flow, asking only for the hall light to be left on; Gabe isn’t so easy.
“But it’s early,” he says, facing Claire across his room, arms crossed, eyes locked on the ant farm atop his dresser.
“If your parents come home and you’re still up, they won’t let me babysit you anymore.”
He processes this, perhaps recalling the last time she used it, perhaps looking for holes in the argument. Then he shoots into bed, burying his head under the pillow. Claire pulls the covers up over his plank-straight body.
Downstairs, she dials Ricky’s number, hangs up after one ring as planned.
In front of Mrs. Swanson’s big bedroom mirror, Claire changes clothes, poufs her hair with the hair spray until it ends up like a giant wig. The first lipstick she chooses is fire engine red, clown makeup. She wipes it off and uses the safe stuff, the color of brick.
A movie star looks back at Claire from the mirror.
She waits on the couch, MTV on at low volume. Videos by Talking Heads and Chicago. A tap at the front door. Weird to see Ricky here, in this house – like a character from one book showing up in another where they don’t belong. Scout, meet Old Yeller.
“Nice place,” he says.
“I got you something.” She pulls the Walkman from her backpack.
“No way!” He turns it over in his hands, pushes all the buttons even though there’s no tape inside. “Man, these people must pay you good to babysit.”
Ricky finishes the limp leftover fries while complaining about his dad and flipping through all the channels with the remote control.
He’s upstairs using the bathroom when Sting – white pajamas, sunglasses, so foxy! – dances through a maze of candles on MTV. If Meredith were here, the two of them would be swooning and singing along.
They’d love to be wrapped around his finger.
Ricky’s in the master bathroom with the medicine cabinet open when Claire goes up to look for him. “Check this out,” he says. He holds a prescription bottle. The room still smells of hairspray.
“What is it?”
“I can’t even pronounce the name. Says not to operate heavy machinery while using.” He pops the top off.
“I don’t know if you should.”
“What, do these people count their pills?” He taps two out into his palm – tiny white pimples. He swallows them, then offers another one to her. “C’mon, it’s no fun to be the only one.”
After that he’s on the big round waterbed, bobbing on the tide. “I’ve never laid on one of these before.”
He pulls her down by the sleeve. She falls while he rises, two people passing in zero gravity.
“Maybe we should go back downstairs,” she says.
“Calm down already. Why are you being all strange?” He kisses her before she can answer. Their bodies are in rhythm with the waves now. He takes her shirt off.
This could be them in New York. Her and Ricky. A big house with a waterbed.
She’ll be wrapped around his finger
.
He pulls off her panties, black with the little bow. “It’s ok,” he tells her, and she realizes he doesn’t have protection. “It’s ok, I’ll be careful.”
She fights to keep her eyes open. He’s inside her. Raining again outside. A flashbulb burst of lightning through the window, Ricky’s face a photo negative.
“Claire?” Donna’s silhouette stands in the doorway, backlit by the hall light.
Claire pushes him off. The bed pulls her back in when she tries to sit up. She rolls off the side, wraps herself in the comforter.
“What happened, Donna?”
“I’m scared of the thunder.” Her little eyes half open, Raggedy Ann dangling from her hand. “Who’s that man?”
“Let’s go back to bed,” Claire says, leading the way down the hall. She steps on a piece of painful plastic – a red fugitive from the Barrel of Monkeys game.
“I had a bad dream,” Donna tells her from under the covers. “I was, I was on a airplane that was gonna crash.”
“If you go to sleep it’ll be all gone,” Claire replies. “Nightmares never happen twice. I promise.”