Into the Wild Nerd Yonder (8 page)

“I know them fine.” Van waves Barrett off. “Don’t freak out, man.” The other Crudhoppers stop what they are doing. What’s the guy version of a catfight?

“You don’t know shit,
Van
.” Barrett’s emphasis mocks the absurd coolness of Van’s name. “My kid sister plays better than you, and she’s played drums half as long as you have.” Why does he have to drag me into this? I couldn’t be further than I am right now from being one of Van’s hoochies. “You don’t take this band seriously,” Barrett continues, with his fists clenched tightly, “and you never will.” Eric and Pete nod in agreement.

“Then maybe your kid sister can fill in for me permanently.” It hurts having Van refer to me as a kid sister. From Barrett, it’s a protective term of endearment. From Van, it just makes me young and anonymous.

Pleading cries of “No! You’re so good!” come from Bizza and Char. I wonder if they’re so upset because they really want Van to stay in the band or because they really don’t want
me
to be in it.

“I have a better idea.” Barrett states this like he just thought of it. “Why don’t you stay and play your half-assed drums, and
I’ll
leave the band?”

Eric and Pete plead, “Come on, man,” and “We can work this out,” but through Barrett’s anger I can already see relief.

“I’m out of here,” Van declares. “Are you girls coming?” He stomps up the basement steps without waiting for Bizza’s and Char’s answers. I know his “girls” don’t include me.

“Jessie.” Bizza steps up to me, and I believe almost for a moment that she’ll do the right thing and continue on with our sham of a sleepover. All the harder the slap in my face when she says, “Will you let us in when we get back? We won’t be gone that long.”

What am I supposed to say? “Young ladies! While you are guests in my house you will abide by my rules. No smoking, drinking, or spitting. And absolutely no leaving the house at midnight to go off with some guy ho who I still have an unexplainable crush on!” Of course I actually say, “I guess. But if you’re not back by two, I’m going upstairs to bed and you can just sleep outside.” I try to be tough, but Bizza gives me a giant squeeze. “Thanks, Jess. We owe you.” I can only imagine what currency Bizza thinks she can pay me back with—betrayal? Annoyance? How about complete and utter lack of respect? She’s rich with that.

I flop down on the basement couch and watch Barrett say good-bye to Eric and Pete. “Sorry, guys,” he says. “It hasn’t been working for a long time.”

“The ’Hoppers won’t be the same without you, man.” Eric’s handshake with Barrett turns into a backslap hug. Do guys think this makes them look more manly?

“Yeah, man, I mean, where will we practice?” Pete smacks Barrett’s back and gives him the ’Hoppers secret shake.

“Later.”

Barrett sinks down next to me on the couch. “I guess it’s just you and me, Jess,” he says, shutting his eyes. I know he
means right here at this moment it’s just the two of us, but I can’t help but feel like maybe Barrett’s all that’s left. Have I lost my two best friends to punk? And what about when Barrett leaves for college? Will it be just me?

I fall asleep on Barrett’s shoulder until I hear giggly knocking coming from the outside door that leads into the kitchen. I take the stairs two at a time so they don’t wake up my parents.

Bizza and Char reek of cigarette smoke, and they barely notice when I open the door for them without speaking. I walk upstairs to my bedroom, and they quietly follow until we’re all inside and the door is closed. Silently, I put on a T-shirt and climb into bed. I roll into a ball, pull the blanket over my head, and face the wall.

“Jess,” Bizza whisper-yells. “We had so much fun!”

“You can tell me about it tomorrow. Go to bed.”

I drift off to their inaudible whispers and shuffling sleeping bags. When I wake up early Sunday morning, they are both sound asleep. I look at Bizza and Char and remember the countless sleepovers together, when we used to set up haunted houses and puppet shows, Barbie beauty pageants and couch forts. Next to them now are piles of black clothes, heavy boots, and mall punk accessories. Even though we slept together in the same room, there isn’t an ounce of togetherness left between me and the two of them. I still can’t help but wish there were.

WHEN BIZZA AND CHAR FINALLY wake up, it’s already time for lunch. My family plans to go on a bike ride all afternoon, so I have a good excuse to make them leave.

As they pack up their stuff, Char says, “Thanks for covering for us last night, Jess. We never could have gotten out if we stayed at Bizza’s house with that jacked-up alarm system they have.”

“No problem,” I say, but not in a happy-go-lucky, “no problem” way. More of a “like I had a choice” way. I’m definitely confused as to how Char even fits into this whole Van equation. As much attention as she gets from guys, she’s always been good about not getting, or at least not acknowledging, attention from
my
guys. And this my guy is now sort of Bizza’s guy, so I doubt she’s going along with this for the Van benefits. But why isn’t Char saying anything about how weird this all is? Still, she baked my favorite treats (not just for me, but I partook), and she did thank me. These are my best friends. I can’t just dismiss that.

I get no thank-you from Bizza, but instead, “So what time
will Barrett pick us up tonight? How about around eight?” I just love how Bizza can ask a question and give me the answer at the same time.

“I don’t know if we’re still going. I mean, with the breakup of the Crudhoppers and all.” Seeing as the hurt party is my brother, my hesitation should make sense.

“Come on, Jess, it won’t be any fun without you.” Bizza tries to look all sweet, but who is she kidding? She’ll be so busy jonesing for the attention of others that she won’t pay any attention to me. Plus, it’s really hard to look sweet with a buzz cut and runny eyeliner.

“Please.” Char squeezes my hand. Her mystical kindness makes me think that maybe it will be okay. Maybe even fun. And I do have a new skirt I’d like to debut.

“I guess I’ll go. But why don’t you just get Van to drive? He seems to love driving everyone around.”

“We can’t ask Van. It’s his party. He’s got, like, guests and shit to worry about,” Bizza says as she ties and buckles her boots.

Guests and shit. How
could
I be so naive? “Okay. We’ll come get you around eight, I guess.” I say “around” just to give myself a little bit of power. I’ll make sure we’re at least ten minutes late. Ha!

“You’re the best, Jess,” Bizza calls absently as she and Char leave.

Barrett walks into my room and mimics, “You’re the best, Jess.”

“Shut up. You’re still driving us to the party, you know.”

“Why should I drive you to the party? I’m not even going. They should ask their boy toy.” Barrett studies his reflection in my dresser mirror.

“He has ‘guests and shit’ to worry about,” I mock Bizza with a dead-eyed imitation. “Besides, you have to go! I don’t want to be alone with those two goobs.”

“No can do. I have my very first official date with Chloe tonight.” He brushes his mohawk out of his eyes and tries to flatten it against the side of his head.

“Chloe Romano?” I ask, still in denial that my brother is hot for a popular chick.

“Must you ask me that every time I say her name?” He is obviously deliberating some hair decision.

“What are you doing next? Blue? Purple? Pink?”

“I was thinking more like gone.”

“Like, all gone?”

“Yep.”

“Like, Mom-will-shit-a-brick gone?”

“Yeah, well, it isn’t Mom who has to deal with the upkeep. And the cost of hair dye. And the time it takes for me to get ready in the morning if I want the ’hawk to stand up perfectly straight.”

I used to think it was so cool and brave for Barrett to have a Mohawk when no one else at school did. Now that Bizza took it one step further, I don’t think it’s quite as cool. “It’s just hair,” I say. “Do what you want.”

I stand next to him and look at us together in the mirror. Barrett’s evolving hair and my straight brown hair. Sometimes I wish I could be as brave as Barrett (and, I hate to admit, Bizza). But most of the time, I think my straight brown sitting-at-the-shoulders, same-as-it’s-been-for-the-past-five-years hair is perfect for me. If only everything else could stay the same.

GETTING READY FOR THE PARTY AT Van’s is bittersweet. In the past, just the thought of going to Van’s house made me tingly—being so near to everything he touched, the possibility of seeing his used laundry somewhere (although, he probably doesn’t have much laundry if he always wears the same clothes), and my über-fantasy of him taking me up to his bedroom. Now I have to worry about the possibility of him taking someone else up to his room. I’m not an idiot. I know Van has been with a million girls, but they’ve all just been anonymous punk chicks with whom I have zero connection. Now the chance that the girl going to his bedroom is my oldest and (gag) dearest friend seems all too real. I can only hope that way back in Bizza’s pea brain, she has a spark of recognition that I like Van. I’d say something, but I’m scared that she actually does know and she’d use some of her magical Bizza wiles to make me feel like somehow I’m in the wrong. The most I can hope for is that at the right moment, the memory will magically snap her out of her hoochie state and she’ll run down the stairs, away from his lusty lair, and back to her best friend where she belongs.

Yeah, and maybe I’ll shave my head today.

My party skirt looks as cute as I thought it would. I found some iridescent reflective fabric, perfect for an alien costume (or a doomed punk party). I love the way it seems to change color depending on what colors are near it, like a chameleon. I slip into some sequined flats (I might as well go sparkly all the way), and knock on the bathroom door to retrieve Barrett. He decided he’d rather drive me than force me to get a ride with some freak (not that that was even an option), and after that he’ll head out into unknown, cheerleading waters.

My knock pushes open the door to reveal Barrett leaning over the sink, clippers in hand. All but a tiny tuft of hair above his forehead remains of his once-glorious mohawk.

“Just give me one more second,” he says, and
BZZZZ
, the mohawk is gone. “Ta-da!” He holds out jazz hands to display his newly shorn head.

“Back to basics, then?”

“Good for new jobs, college interviews, and dates with prepster hotties.”

“Don’t go changing just to impress Chloe Romano.” I’m disappointed at the thought.

“It’s not for her, Jess,” he says as he grabs clumps of hair and stuffs them into a grocery bag. “She loves the mohawk. I think she likes the idea that she’s going out with some weirdo. But I’m tired of being the weirdo. I’m tired of living up to everyone’s expectations of coolness. I’m so over it.” He runs the
water in the sink to wash away the remaining hairs. “Are you ready to go?”

I nod and feel more alone than ever. My big brother, who I could always count on to make me feel cool by association, has abandoned the punk-rock ship for preppier waters. Tonight I’m invading full-on punk territory, without my big brother and with two girls who no longer resemble my friends. At least my skirt is cute.

Bizza gets into Barrett’s car, and I just about throw up. She’s not wearing a shirt. All she’s got on is some faux-sexy lacy black bra. And I’m not just saying it’s a shirt that looks like a bra. She’s wearing a friggin’ bra. And a kilt.

“You forgot something,” I tell her as she plops into the backseat.

“Ha-ha,” she retorts. Without hesitation, she rubs Barrett’s newly shorn head. “We’re twins,” she sings merrily.

“Not really,” he says. “I’m wearing a shirt.”

The funny thing is, and I’m not just saying this to be bitchy (well, maybe a little), Bizza doesn’t even look good with her shirt off. It’s not that she’s sporting a severe kilt muffin top or anything; it’s that her bra, sexy or not, is barely, well, filled. One of my greatest triumphs over Bizza is that I at least have an average (to above average when I’m bloated from my period) sized chest. Bizza never developed as much in that area,
and her attempt at sexy doesn’t work as well as she’d like. I’m trying not to think “score one for Jessie,” but it’s hard not to when her not-so-ample bosom is staring the world in the face.

We pick up Char, who’s decked out in a bizarre tight green jumpsuit (which she completely pulls off), and follow the faint sound of thumping bass until it crescendos at Van’s house. “Last Stop: Punker Junction,” Barrett announces in his train conductor voice.

“Thanks, B,” Bizza says as she slams her way out of the car. Barrett turns to me and mouths, “B?” I shrug and say good-bye to my abandoning brother.

Funky, junked-up cars covered in punk band bumper stickers litter the driveway and street. I walk three steps behind Bizza and Char and consider turning around and chasing Barrett down before he gets too far. Then I see Van standing outside his front door, having a cigarette and greeting people as they arrive. He looks annoyingly beautiful in his native habitat, and he even changed his shirt for the occasion: a vintage tee telling everyone to “Save the Humans.”

Bizza and Char arrive at Point Van, and Bizza pulls Van’s ear close to her mouth. She whispers something, and he smiles slyly. As she continues her sweet nothings, Van looks directly at me. His smile grows into a friendly, Jessie-melting smile, and he winks. I guess I could stay a few minutes.

Inside is a mix of semifamiliar faces from Crudhoppers’ shows mixed with unfamiliar, older faces. Some look way out
of high school range, which feels a little cool but also a little lame. (Why would high school graduates want to be at a party with high school students, when they could be drinking somewhere else legally, or even possibly running for president?) I pop a squat on a couch near the “dance floor” (the family room with most of the furniture removed). People are attempting to dance to the mix of punk and reggae and thrash coming from the stereo, but it doesn’t quite have that dancing beat. Char thankfully comes and sits down next to me with a frothy beverage in a plastic cup. “You want a beer, Jess? I can get you one. The guy at the keg is superfine.”