Cameron finds Rosemary’s Pink Panther T-shirt under his bed, left over from their special week; it still smells vaguely of her. He marvels at how crisp and new the iron-on decal is, in comparison to his collection of faded, peeled ones in the bottom dresser drawer. She might need it, might be looking for it, so he’ll call later and let her know. Maybe offer to bring it over.
He misses her. Misses his girlfriend.
He sits at his desk, where he should be concentrating on science homework but instead focuses on making her a tape of the Boston album; she loves the song “More Than a Feeling” but didn’t know who sang it until Cameron filled her in. He’s even recording on a Maxell tape for best sound quality – hopefully she’s a cassette connoisseur. The shirt and the tape and his smiling face will be an unbeatable combo at her front door.
Bryce comes over to borrow the
American Government
textbook.
Cameron’s glad to have someone else to unfolds his tale of woe upon. He likes definitive plans, but Rosemary has sidestepped all his efforts. He broached the subject of going to the Rush concert next weekend via a note in class, and again on the phone last night. She talked about some Peace Club commitment, and would let him know if she could get out of it but didn’t think so. Spoken as if he wasn’t a club member who wouldn’t have that commitment himself – he didn’t push the issue.
“She’s probably gonna be on the rag,” Bryce says, smiling like he has since he walked in. “She doesn’t want to disappoint you when you try to get in her pants.”
“Why are you in such a good mood?” Cameron asks.
“Just because.”
“I want to reserve Saturday night with you,” Cameron says as soon as Rosemary picks up the phone later. “If you don’t like Rush we can do something else.”
Silence. He thinks she might’ve hung up until he hears a single scream from the baby. She speaks one word: “Cameron.” Her voice like someone asked her to name the saddest moment of her life. He’ll remember the way she said his name, long after the rest of it has settled into a toxic haze.
Other highlights, knife blades he sees even as they carve him up:
“I’m not ready for what we’re doing.”
“I told you I’m leaving and didn’t want to get attached.”
“You’re getting too serious.”
He sits with her T-shirt in one hand, phone in the other. Heather Thomas smiles at him from the wall:
Bump me off your number one spot, eh?
They say goodbye and he stares out the window at bars of rain. A prison. “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again. If you need help, hang up and dial your operator.” Which operator could help right now? He reaches to the back of his desk drawer, where he hid the finger-sized joint Geoff gave him in case Rosemary likes to get high (“That’s when you find out how freaky a chick really is”).
His mom is home for a change, so he runs out to the car – keeping his hair covered – and lights up. He savors the sweet smoke while a chorus line of rain dances across the car roof. The science homework seems so far away, so unimportant, as does the Latin he has to finish after that. Someone trying to keep academic perfection going shouldn’t be smoking pot on a school night.
“Fuck school,” he says to the windshield. He wishes he meant it. He could stay home tomorrow, sleep in – hadn’t a senior with three and a half years of perfect attendance earned that right?
The sky rumbles over by school. Maybe the missiles are landing. Maybe the Russians are doing him a favor, targeting that place first so he’ll never have to go back and face her. Face his new
friend
.
Rosemary’s not so great. There are plenty of things he finds annoying about her.
For example, that she makes everything European sound better, how all the customs there are so beyond barbarous America Kids drinking wine from a young age, dinner served at 9:00
For example, that she’s continually putting on Chapstick.
For example, that she raises her hand before Mrs. Gordon is even done asking the question.
There surely would have been something in her counseling file to add to the list, had he ever dug further.
When the smoke hits, none of his problems seem so bad. But, of course, the downside of getting high is that, when the drugs wear off, you’re right back where you started.
Down at the corner, the long-flickering streetlight finally blinks out.
* * *
Events the next morning unfold like any other morning. Perhaps he’ll go to English and Rosemary will see him in person, see he’s cool with everything, and realize she’s made a mistake.
They sit literally two feet apart for fifty minutes, but two feet feels like two miles. Two continents. No whispered comments, no notes exchanged. He keeps his head skewed left so he doesn’t even catch a glimpse of her.
At the end of the period, Mrs. Gordon passes back their
Hamlet
essays, turned in back when Cameron was a virgin. Ah, this could be perfect. Gordon will compliment the two best pieces in class, say something about how those two writers would be the perfect couple. Yes. Yes, they would. Only she never compliments anything (on this or any other day), and then Rosemary is out the door; Cameron doesn’t even look at his, instead pursuing/not pursuing her.
Rosemary stands against the building, next to the water fountain, her chin crinkled. “That bloody witch,” she says, to him or through him.
She holds her paper up. Circled on the front: a red
D
. Below it, in that chicken scratch writing:
This is not up to the standards of an honors class
.
“I guess my dad is right about me after all.”
Mrs. Gordon sits at her desk when Cameron re-enters the room. He goes straight up to her and slams Rosemary’s essay down. Hard. Her cup of pencils jumps. Her glasses pop off her nose.
The sting in Cameron’s hand fuels his volume. “She is not a
D
student!” The little sophomores filing into the room go as still as photos. “You don’t have to be so mean! If you hate kids so much why don’t you just do everyone a favor and retire already, you old bat!” He wishes he’d thought of a better name for her even as he storms out, slamming the door behind him. He’s robbed of a truly satisfying slam, since the security catch takes over and the door clicks gently shut.
Only after he’s arrived tardy to science, hands shaking, does he look at his own essay.
A+. Thoughtful, precise analysis. A pleasure to read.
Cameron stays in the library at lunch, unable to make himself go to the snack bar. Back in middle school, he and Bryce spent every lunchtime in here, with Trevor and Geoff, reading comics, those precious thirty-five minute escapes from the general suckiness of grades six through eight.
Those days back before girls.
He sits in the far back corner to reduce the chances of being seen. The carrels all around him are empty; the nearest person is a freshman (who looks about ten years old) punching numbers on a calculator and writing in a workbook. That pale girl with the blue lips pushes a cart of books around the shelves.
Written on the carrel in pencil, so small you’d have to be sitting here to see it:
This too shall pass.
Claire’s mushrooms are gone, nothing but black threads at the bottom of the bag. She can’t even choke them down, they cling to her tongue like leeches.
She pictures Ricky – his face, him on top of her. She should miss him. He was her first real boyfriend and she’s done with him. She wants to be sad about this.
She could tip over her doll case and fill the house with the sound of shattering glass. She could dance around in her bare feet and make her parents choose which mess to clean up first. She comes so close, even gets out of bed, but in the end settles for opening the case and twisting the head off the Barbie in the black bathing suit. Then the geisha in the scarlet kimono. She could pull the head off a doll a day until she doesn’t hate her life anymore, but there aren’t enough dolls to get there.
Bryce is doing Spanish homework in the library during his prep, when bulbous-eyed Ron Pritchard comes in with a call slip. “You seen Ricky Zaplin?” Ron asks Bryce.
“In the
library
?”
“Hey, I only have this one call slip to deliver – I figure I can waste the whole period if I do a thorough job.”
They throw around possibilities for why Zaplin might be summoned to the counseling office: coming to school high, failing classes, and best of all, he won’t be graduating and will be back next year.
“Least his girlfriend will still be here,” Ron says. “It’s a
freshman
. That’s his market now.”
Bryce was reluctant to send a flower to a junior and here’s Zaplin setting his sights even lower.
“Her name’s Claire, Clara, something like that.” Ron stretches, showing off the yellow pit stains on his Ocean Pacific T-shirt.
“What’s her last name?”
“I don’t know freshmen names unless they get called to the office. She’s with Ricky’s clan at lunch every day. Always wears this white coat with, like, a fur collar.”
Ron’s mouth keeps moving but Bryce might as well have turned off his invisible hearing aid.
Zaplin is going out with Claire? It’s too unbelievable. Bryce will clear things up when he drives her back to the cellblock after school.
The announcements remind listeners about club meetings, the spring choir concert, that all library fines must be cleared before one may purchase a prom ticket. Bryce has passed the prom posters in the halls, seen the date requests in the
Scroll
– it’s all washed over him, like they were messages solely for people who want to go into politics. But then, as he works in the crypt-like silence of the Architectural Drawing room, Noel’s voice pops into his head.
Going to a prom would be a dream for me.
She wants to go to prom. Of course she does! How could he have been so slow on Easter? She probably thinks he’s not interested. No, that was over a week ago – she’s sure he’s not interested.
What he wants is to run from class right now, drive over to the girls’ school, and ask her to be his date. Instead he’ll have to settle for calling her tonight. God, please don’t let the chance be gone. He’s experienced long days at school before (like after he’d gotten approximately one hour of sleep the night before, thanks to the movie
Halloween
) but nothing like this.
In English, Mr. B is dressed as Mark Twain – white suit, wig, mustache – in honor of the class reading
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
He talks in a Foghorn Leghorn accent and strums a banjo in lieu of his guitar.
Bryce darts from class the second the bell rings, walk-jogs to the parking lot (why does English have to be in the furthest building?), drives away right before the logjam of cars at the exit. Halfway home he remembers the books he left in his locker that he needs for homework tonight. Figure that out later.
He dials Noel’s number from the youth group directory. “We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”
Ok, wait. Think. She donated two beanbag chairs to the game room at church a few months back because she was moving! He opens the real phone book, flips to the B’s. Of course, Noel’s last name has to be
Baker
. Jesus, there are like a hundred of them listed.
Ok, wait. Think. What’s her dad’s name? Roland? Roland Baker? There are four
Baker, R
’s listed.
Claire and her insane hair enter the kitchen as he dials the first one.
Shk-shhhk, Shk-shhhhhhk
. Why couldn’t they have a push-button phone? “Hello, may I speak to Noel please?” Wrong number.
Claire rummages in the fridge. “You’re not going out with Ricky Zaplin, are you?” Bryce asks.
“Why do you care?”
“You are! Claire, he’s an asshole. A
senior
asshole!”
“Mom and dad are eight years apart.” She tilts her head back, squeezes chocolate syrup from the bottle straight into her mouth.
He messes up halfway through the second number and has to start over.
Shhk-shhhhhhhk, Shhk-shhhhhhhk
. “Hello, is Noel home?” Strike two.
“Are you calling Noel from church?”
“Don’t change the subject. I hope you didn’t do anything with Zaplin. Y’know, like…”
She drizzles a thin dark line over her tongue.
“Of all the guys at school. Come on!” The next
Baker, R
has a Southeast neighborhood address – too far away. The following one has an answering machine. “Hi, you’ve reached the Bakers. We’re not home right now so leave us a message.” He hangs up.
Claire gets the bag of mini-marshmallows from the pantry, crams a glob of them into her mouth, chases that with more syrup. “I’m gonna throw up from watching you eat,” Bryce tells her.
“So don’t watch.” She burps loud and proud, the inside of her mouth a black and white mess. “You should be thanking me for all the shit I started – now they’ll know what a swell young man they have for a son compared to their insane daughter.”
He’s seen various versions of Claire throughout her life – the one who wanted him to teach her how to draw cartoons was his favorite – but this is a person he barely recognizes.
“I’m surprised you’re not mad at me about the comic book,” she says.
“What comic book?”
“Ask Mom.” She leaves the kitchen. He knows when she’s reached her room when the music starts shaking the walls. And worse, it’s Madonna. The semester final project in Architectural Drawing is to design one’s Dream Home, which for Bryce will be a combination of the Batcave and Fortress of Solitude; he’d not only like to design it, but have it constructed and be ready for immediate move-in.
Claire goes through these spring school days without her coat (zipper still jammed) or makeup (in the garbage). She has a bottle of cough syrup in her backpack but doesn’t swig from it. She wants to be high and not high, alive and not, here and gone. She wants something that isn’t there.
She doesn’t hand in her Algebra homework second period. The detention slip for cutting classes arrives third period.
By the time fourth comes around, she’s tired of the looks her hair is drawing so she asks to go to the bathroom and walks to the one all the way over by the auto shop.
When she returns, Mr. Hagen leans down and whispers, “Please don’t take advantage of a situation like that again.” Isabel keeps glancing over and grinning.
She skips buying food at lunch and goes directly to her old stall so she won’t see anyone. When the usual crowd comes in, Claire doesn’t bother to record their chatter in her notebook.
“He's like a hairy dwarf and she's kind of pretty if you subtract half her ass.”
“Have you tried McNuggets yet? They totally don’t taste like chicken.”
“It relates to everything in a weird, unrelated way.”
Her stall looks the same as before except for the left wall, where someone has listed the things Cassie Carpenter will do with a guy for $.
She fails the Bio test in sixth. Fails it so badly that she wads up the paper without handing it in.
“Claire!”
Ricky approaches her after school the next day as she walks to the parking lot, where her mom is waiting to take her to some mystery appointment. He’s wearing a sleeveless AC/DC shirt; she imagines the scar inside his arm. Ricky vomits the words out: him calling her house, waiting for her after school yesterday, where has she been. Two tiny Claires stand trapped in his sunglasses.
She’s never done this before, she doesn’t know how so she just opens her mouth and speaks. “I don’t want to be with you anymore.”
This is twice in the past how many hours that she’s stunned someone into silence? Only this one doesn’t last long.