Firecracker (15 page)

Maybe you don't think that matters, but my last year at Bristol was damn important to me. There were a bunch of reasons for that: it was right on the precipice of the war, as you know, and that year was the last year when all of us boys were able to be carefree and alive. Half my buddies would be strewn across Iwo Jima in pieces just a few years later. I say “all of us boys,” because there weren't any ladies at Bristol back then. Men only. If we wanted to see ladies, we'd have to go fifteen miles to the Chester School for Girls when they had dances. That's when I met your first grandmother.

She wasn't your actual grandmother. Not the one who had your father. But she was my first wife (my marriage to Jean Harlow was not legal in every sense of the word, so she doesn't count). I was seventeen, and I could barely shave, but I still knew when a moment was important. Her name was Agnes. She, too, left this world during the war, when her flight to Osaka was shot down (she was working for the other side, but I didn't know it at the time).

This is the last year before your life happens in ways you don't always want it to. It's your last Bristol bonfire. It's your last Bristol dance marathon. It's your last Bristol lacrosse game. I know you don't do any of those things because they're stupid, but they're still the last ones. My point is, it was around that time (during my last year) that I made a decision for myself—a decision I am pretty sure you have made for yourself. The decision was this: don't let yourself be the sort of person whose plane gets shot down over Osaka. If you're going to go out, go out the way you want. Always.

I will leave you now because I got to sleep. It's two in the afternoon. Don't ever get old.

 

Love,

M

T
he theme of the homecoming dance was Monte Carlo, but if the attempt was to make the cafeteria look like Monte Carlo, it was a colossal failure. To be fair, I was probably the only person at the homecoming dance who'd actually been to Monte Carlo, so the lack of attention to detail was forgivable. And really, who would decorate a dance with images of hairy-chested Formula 1 drivers trying to lick your face and take you to their yachts?

A roll of red crepe paper had been rolled down the wheelchair ramp to give the feel of a fancy red carpet. Clumps of tangled Christmas lights were strewn randomly over bleachers. One sad bowl of pretzels shaped like suits of cards was positioned in the center of an otherwise empty table. A photographer took pictures of people with their dates and also of a few unhappy kids standing alone in front of what looked like aluminum foil. There was a DJ. The DJ had a banner hanging from the table suggesting that he was New York City's top party DJ, but it was clear that he had graduated from Cadorette a few years back and still lived in town with his parents. In between songs, he pointed out more than once that Ms. Savarirayan, who taught chemistry, was “still lookin' foxy.”

I was overdressed in my gown. Most of the girls wore dresses that showed off their stomachs. One sophomore was about five months pregnant, so her dress provided easy access in case somebody had to perform an emergency C-section. Noah was also overdressed in his suit. Most of the boys wore dress shirts that belonged to their fathers and little else to suggest that they were actually dressing up. At least three kids wore khaki cargo shorts. Like they'd rushed away from exploring the jungle and didn't have time to throw on some pants. I felt a little bad for some of the girls at the dance. Even the girls I didn't like deserved a date who was wearing pants.

I kind of liked dancing. I hadn't danced at all at Lisbet's wedding because I didn't want to be groped by any congresspeople. But I danced with no problems at the homecoming dance. I didn't know much about the songs they were playing, but they were fast. Noah and I and Lucy and Pierre danced in the center of the room until I was pretty much out of breath.

Pierre, unsurprisingly, was a great dancer. He had been a ballerina since he was, like, three. I'd told him on several occasions that (a) maybe it wasn't something to brag about and (b) I didn't think they called male ballet dancers ballerinas, but he didn't care.

Much to the surprise of the entire world, Lucy was also a pretty good dancer. She was graceful and flexible. It almost made me reevaluate the ways I thought about everyone. It was possible that I wasn't scratching the surface of what people were good at. It was certainly a lesson I should've learned from Talia Pasteur. Talia wasn't just good at being a tree. She was also pretty good at getting me kicked out of Bristol. And that lesson could be applied to almost anyone. Maybe Dean Rein was a brilliant flamenco guitarist.

“I'm going to take a break,” I said to Noah when the song ended. “You stay out here, okay?”

He nodded and continued with his “dancing,” or maybe he was having an epileptic seizure. I sat down and looked out across the cafeteria. I wondered for a minute about where I would be at that same moment if I hadn't been forced to leave Bristol. I certainly wouldn't have been wearing a giant gown. It was a Saturday night, so I would've probably been in my dorm room. Or maybe I would've been in jail. I wondered if I could've gotten my usual private cell or if I would've had to share. I wondered about this girl I shared a cell with once. Her name was Sandy. I wondered if she'd killed her boyfriend yet.

Pierre sat next to me. “This is nice, you think?” he said.

“I kind of do,” I said. And I kind of did.

“Have you tried the punch? It's better than I could have imagined. I think someone spiked it with Everclear.”

I stood up. “I'm going to step out.”

Pierre put his hand on my shoulder, coating it with a gross layer of sweat. “Would you like me to come with you?”

I grabbed his wrist, twisting it fast and hard. “No,” I said.

He said, “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. My wrist.”

I pointed to the floor and told him to keep dancing. The evening had been going almost perfectly according to plan. Everyone was around who was supposed to be around. Everything that was happening was supposed to happen. I felt pretty good about myself at that moment. Everything that went wrong did so much later that night.

I left the cafeteria and made for the bathroom.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

In the bathroom, there was a mass of voices blaring like train whistles as a group of girls reapplied eye makeup in the mirror in giant, goopy strokes.

“I hate that girl. She gives me a feeling I just hate.”

“Yeah, I know, I get it. She's rich. But why is she even here? If she's so rich, why doesn't she buy somewhere else? And then go there.”

“Yeah. Like, she should buy like another country. Far, far away. Bye. See you later. Hope you never come back.”

“Did you hear about what she did with the burgers?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't need your burgers. I don't need you to, like, buy me dinner. I already ate dinner.”

“You should look at it this way, right? I mean, she thinks she's all hot and she thinks she's so great and everything, but then that's who she brings to the dance. I was, like, laughing. I was literally laughing. So much. I literally died when I saw her with him.”

“Yeah. And nice dress. It's the homecoming dance, not . . . the queen of England's house.”

“Right.”

“I know. Right?”

“Astrid Krieger.”

“Yeah, that girl sucks.”

“I know.”

“I know.”

“Astrid Krieger is a bitch. Astrid Krieger is such a bitch.”

I had been sitting in a bathroom stall, just taking a break, for almost ten minutes. I had known this was the sort of thing I would eventually hear. I had heard of how girls spent most of their time in the bathroom talking about girls they hated, but I had never experienced it until I came to Cadorette. It's supposedly a phenomenon that happens with girls everywhere, but I'd never used a public restroom before going to school at Cadorette. When girls were saying mean things about other girls at Bristol, it was usually whispered in the dining hall or shouted across an open lawn.

I knew that girls I was barely aware of hated me. That had been true everywhere for my whole life. You would think it would bother me more, but it really didn't. Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown, I suppose. I had known that they would talk about me. And I didn't care. But I needed them to know I was there, so I flushed the toilet and walked out of the stall.

The girls whom I had been eavesdropping on were Summer Wonder and her friends: the skinny girl with the slumped shoulders and the other one with the freckles and the hair.

Summer Wonder tried to look like she'd expected me to be behind her, but I could tell she hadn't. She was at least a little bit scared, but she didn't want her friends to know. “You don't put your feet down when you pee?” she asked.

“There's so much about how I pee that you'll never understand,” I said.

Then Summer Wonder said, “Are you going to cry now?” and she said it in a way that was mock crying so that, if I was going to start crying, I would know how it was done.

“No. Why would I do that?”

Slumpy Shoulders said, “Because we—”

“Because you said stuff about me. I would say that you were ninety percent accurate. Let me think. Nothing that wasn't true, for the most part. I do think I'm so great. I am so rich. I did bring that spaz to the dance. And I am a bitch. I totally am.”

The looks they gave me were strange. I don't think anyone expects you to agree with them when they insult you. It totally knocks them off balance, though. I would recommend it in almost all situations where you might be insulted. Because what could they possibly say back? You just agreed with them.

Freckles said something like, “What's wrong with you?”

I ignored her. “I'll take issue with one point. I don't suck. At least, I don't think so. But that might just be because I think I'm so great. And that's a point where we all agree.”

Summer Wonder said, “Awesome. We all agree. Now leave.”

“I would,” I said. “But I need something from you skankholes.”

“Who the—?”

“Fine. We'll agree to disagree on whether or not you're skankholes,” I said. “But this is what I need from you. When they announce homecoming king, you probably won't be happy. When they announce homecoming queen, you definitely won't be happy.”

This made Summer Wonder laugh. Slumpy Shoulders and Freckles also laughed, probably because they felt they were supposed to.

“I'm going to be homecoming queen,” Summer said.

“Summer is—” Slumpy said.

“Summer is not going to be homecoming queen. And it's not because you're kind of ugly and sort of cross-eyed. It's for a completely different reason. But when it's announced, I want you to cheer. Really loudly and without irony. And get other people to do it too.”

“You think you're going to be homecoming queen?” Summer laughed, not because anything funny had been said, but because she wasn't being at all genuine.

“Because you're not,” Slumpy Shoulders said.

“We made sure of that,” Summer said.

“Good,” I said. “I made sure of it too.”

Then they were confused. They might have traded in a trip or seven to second base for some influence in these matters. It would turn out to be time poorly spent under their bras.

“You're not going to be happy,” I said. “But I'm going to need your help. I still need you to cheer.”

Summer tilted her head in my direction. “Why do you hate us?” she asked.

“I hate bullies.”

Summer snorted. “But you're a bully. You mashed a Twinkie into my head.”

“Nuh-uh,” I said. “You're a bully. I'm a bully to bullies, and that is not a bully. That's a hero.”

“Then why should we help you?” Summer said.

“Because,” I said, “I've had a change of heart about jerks. Everyone always thought I was a jerk, even me, but I know now that deep down, I'm not a jerk. Maybe deep down, there are very few true horrible jerks. So you should help me because we are alike. And neither of us wants to be thought of as an asshole forever.”

Summer thought about this. “Not a good enough reason.”

“Fine,” I said. “I also have presents.” I opened the door to the bathroom stall where I'd been sitting. There was a large bag hanging on the purse hook. It was the kind of bag that Santa Claus would bring around for Christmas if Santa Claus traded toys for favors. From it, I took out a robin's-egg-blue box. “This is a necklace from Tiffany's. It's yours. And girls, if you want something from Tiffany's too, I got lots. And I mean lots.”

They glanced at each other, then glanced back at the boxes. Their decision had been made.

“When it's time, you'll know.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Kids smoked outside the fire doors at the end of C hall. That's where I figured I would find Mason during the dance.

I'd met bullies who were actual crazy people. There was a boy named Jacques Durang whose father was an international assassin. Jacques Durang was pretty much evil. When I was thirteen, I kicked him so hard he had to have testicle retrieval surgery. That was the first time anyone had ever asked me, “Do you know who my father is?” He said it as he was moaning on the ground. I did know who his father was, and I didn't care.

Mason wasn't a fully realized bully. I mean, Jacques Durang would've never sold ice cream at a mall. Mason was an aspiring bully, and that's why I figured he would be outside smoking with Melty. They must've thought smoking cigarettes fit the part. But they should have known that if they really wanted to effectively inflict pain on a victim, it would help if they didn't get winded while chasing someone up a staircase. Don't smoke because it makes it a lot harder to beat someone up. That's my public service message.

They put their cigarettes out quickly when I opened the door, and I could see the fear on their faces when they recognized me. “You,” I said to Melty, making a shooing motion with my hand. “Go away.” And he did. Fast.

“You're here,” I said to Mason. “I'm glad you see things my way.”

“Yeah, I'm here.” Mason leaned against the wall. “What do you want with me? I have things to do.”

“I don't think you have anything to do. And you know what, I also don't think you're a bad person,” I said.

“I am a bad person,” he said.

“No, you're not,” I said. “You're an artist.” In addition to the mural hanging in the cafeteria, he'd painted some of the decorations for the dance. They weren't really about Monte Carlo. They also weren't about homecoming. They were mostly about bats. But they were good. I wouldn't hang them in my rocket ship or anything, but I have specific tastes.