My Tiki Girl (17 page)

“That’s not the point,” I grumble.

“What?”

“We didn’t ask Joey to join the band just to wig out Troy, right?”

“Of course not,” Dahlia says. “It’s just an added bonus. God, what is with you today?”

Do I tell her? Or do I add it to the list of secrets I’m already keeping?

“It was two years ago,” I say. “November 7.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Dahlia asks.

“The accident.” The words fall like a bomb that just hits the ground with a quiet thud but doesn’t go off. We both hold our breath, waiting.

“And wanna know the weird part? I forgot. I just totally forgot.” I bite my lip. Concentrate on not crying. I do not want to cry right now.

Dahlia reaches out and takes my hand. “I know what you need. Come on.”

And she leads me into the grove of pine trees at the edge of the field, then pulls a joint out of her bag.

“Where did you get that?”

“Troy,” she says.

“And you want to smoke it now?” I say.

“Why not?”

I can think of a thousand reasons. Like that I’ve never smoked pot before, and I’m afraid it might make me go crazy like a kid in those antidrug videos they showed in health class. But I’m not about to admit this to Dahlia. No way do I want her to know what a goody-two-shoes I’ve been all my life.

“We’re at school. We’ll get caught.”

“Oh come on. What do you have left for classes? Earth Science with clueless No-Neck and study hall. It’ll be fine. I promise. Have I ever let you down?”

Only like a thousand times, I want to say, but it’s too late. She’s lighting the joint with Troy’s silver bullet and taking a hit. She passes it to me, and what choice do I have? I can’t say no to this girl.

I take a tiny hit, try to hold it in my lungs like she does, but end up coughing it all out.

“Hey, wanna try something?” she asks, smiling conspiratorially.

“What?”

“Just trust me, okay? It’ll get you really high.”

She takes the joint and puts the lit end in her mouth. Tiki the fire-eater. The other end is sticking out from between her lips, and she beckons me toward her. I step closer and she pulls me right up against her, guides my head so that I take the end of the joint in my mouth, and then she blows. My lips are grazing hers and she’s giving me this fiery dragon kiss that burns my lungs and makes my head spin. Her hands are firmly placed at the back of my head, fingers tangled in my hair. I take in all the smoke I can, then pull away, choking, tears streaming down my cheeks, and Dahlia takes the joint from her mouth and laughs. She’s still laughing when I wipe the tears from my eyes and see a lone figure in the soccer field, watching us in bewilderment. It’s Sukie. Dahlia follows my gaze.

“What could she possibly want?” Dahlia asks.

“Don’t know,” I say. Then it dawns on me: from that distance, she probably thinks she just saw me and Dahlia making out.

And I’m thinking I should call out to her, ask her what she’s up to, explain that Dahlia and I are just smoking pot, which is something the new ATA Maggie does, but before I get the chance, Sukie turns from us and goes back to the school.

“And according to her, we’re the freaks?” Dahlia says. “God, look at the way she walks. It really is like she’s got a stick up her ass. Do you think she’s going in there to tell someone we’re out here smoking weed?”

“I really don’t know,” I say. I’m feeling all stretchy and fluid, like Silly Putty girl, and the truth is, I couldn’t care less what Sukie’s up to or what she might think she just saw. I wouldn’t even care if we got caught. My lips just touched Dahlia’s. My lungs are full of her breath.

“Well, we better split just in case. Besides, we don’t want to be late for your man, No-Neck, do we?”

This cracks me up and I laugh the whole way back to the building, Dahlia shushing me, telling me I’ve gotta chill.

“This is a joke, right?” Troy says when we show up at his door with Joey and his big hollow log drum. “You guys are putting me on.”

“Meet the new drummer for The Paper Dolls,” Dahlia says.

“Uh-uh. No way,” Troy says.

“Yes way,” Dahlia tells him. “Now, are we gonna start practice or what? That drum Joey’s got is heavy as hell. Let the poor guy set it down, will ya?”

So Troy leads us into the basement, mumbling shocked little declarations the whole way.

“Can you really play that thing?” Troy asks as Joey sets the drum down in the corner, behind the microphone stand. He sets it on its end. It’s about three feet high, and it looks like a small tree trunk, which is what it was once—some hollowed-out deadfall he found in the woods. On the outside of the wood are all the animals Joey’s carved with chisels and mallet: dancing birds, laughing dogs, a snake as thick as my wrist that winds its way up toward the top, where Joey has pulled a circle of tanned animal skin tight over the opening and hammered it in place with little brass nails. Joey has on a navy blue hooded sweatshirt and his black watch cap. He pulls up a stool, slides the drum between his legs, gives Troy a sly smile, then rubs his hands together real fast, blows on his fingers to warm them, and lets loose on the drum. He uses his palms, knuckles, and fingertips to bang, beat, and caress the leather skin. He’s like the high priest at some island voodoo ceremony. We’re all swaying to the beat, bopping our heads like those dolls with spring necks you see in the back of cars.

When Joey finishes, Troy just says, “Damn!”

And Dahlia, who’s smiling ear to ear, says, “He’s going to give The Paper Dolls this whole new beatnik feel. And don’t you just love his look?”

She’s talking about him like he’s not even in the room, which is kind of an easy thing to do. We walked all the way over here from school, carrying on this conversation about poor old No-Neck Knapp and his dandruff problem, and I nearly forgot Joey was with us. It’s not just that he’s quiet. He’s got this weird ability to fade into the scenery and seem invisible.

I touch him on the arm and feel his bicep contract. “You’re really good,” I tell him. He stares at the ground and blushes.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” says Dahlia as she plugs in her mike. “We’ll work on ‘Dead Aunt Mary’ first.”

Joey may not talk much, but he sure can play. He dives right into “Dead Aunt Mary,” adding this kind of menacing beat that reminds me of the song “Nightmare.” After we’ve gone through the song a couple times, I ask him if he’s ever heard of Artie Shaw.

“No,” he says, looking at his feet.

“What kind of music are you into?” Dahlia asks.

Joey shrugs. “Radio music,” he says.

“Yeah, like what station?” She laughs.

He shrugs.

“You are a trip,” says Troy.

“No, no, I’m staying here. I’m staying,” Joey says, and we all laugh, which seems kind of mean, but Joey’s laughing, too.

On the way home, I take a detour and go to the place I’ve spent my whole day trying not to think about. And it’s worked pretty well. Until now.

The light above the intersection changes from red to green as I approach. I’m looking east, and I can see the lights of the junior high down the street. There are a lot of cars in the parking lot for this time of night. Maybe they’re having a concert. Or a play.

Oh shit. I forgot Toto.

Isn’t it funny how everything can change in the blink of an eye? How you can leave a stuffed dog behind on your bed and ruin your whole life?

“I’m sorry,” I say out loud. “I’m so sorry.”

Then I start to cry, and everything I’ve been trying not to feel all day comes rushing at me. I remember all these funny little details about that night. Like how we’d had linguine with clam sauce for dinner, and my mother and I were eating the little chalky white breath mints she always kept in the glove compartment so we wouldn’t smell like garlic. My mother was wearing overalls because she had to finish painting the inside of the witch’s castle. My dress was scratchy against my skin, and when I complained, my mother promised to wash it with fabric softener when we got home.

Here I am sobbing and gasping and pacing around like a mental case and a middle-aged guy driving a Volvo with two kids in the backseat pulls over and rolls down his window.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

Do I need help? Do I?

“No.” I wipe my face. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Can I give you a ride?”

“No, really, I live just around the corner.”

And then, to make the lie more real, I point in the direction of my supposed house, and that’s when I see it. There, at the curb where the two streets meet, something glitters under the streetlight.

“Okay then, get home safely,” the man tells me before pulling away, his good Samaritan deed for the day done.

I walk toward the glittering object, not believing what I’m seeing: it’s Glinda’s wand—a silver star attached to a wooden dowel wound round with long strands of sparkly streamers. I haven’t seen the wand since before the accident. It’s stuck in the ground with a little mound of earth surrounding it, like some crazy planted flag saying,
Glinda was here
. Beside it is a cheap supermarket flower bouquet of daisies wrapped in yellow cellophane. And a card. I pick it up, my hands shaking, and find a note penned in familiar, bubbly letters.

Mrs. Keller,
I miss you.
Love always,
Sukie

I lay the card back beside the flowers and look at the wand. God, I can’t believe Sukie’s kept it all this time. I pull it up, wave it through the air.

Poof.

16

It’s the day
before Thanksgiving and we’re walking back to the apartment with Joey after band practice. It’s been two weeks since he joined The Paper Dolls, and I’ve gotta say that overall, it’s gone pretty well. Dahlia says our band is like one of those complicated three-dimensional interlocking puzzles, and Joey’s drum is the final piece that makes the whole thing work.

I’m dreading tomorrow—not only is there no Paper Dolls rehearsal, which means no Dahlia, but my dad and I are making our annual pilgrimage to my grandma’s in New Haven. She’s mostly deaf and puts mayonnaise and green olives in everything.

The Wainwrights don’t do Thanksgiving—Leah says it’s just a celebration of gluttony and greed.

I’m swinging my clarinet case and Dahlia is humming. We’re dressed like rock star girls. We went on a shopping spree at Goodwill and the Army Navy store. We bought only black clothes, and I found my own pair of lace-up combat boots. We’ve put thick black eyeliner on, so heavy it makes our eyes seem bruised. Last week Heather started calling us vampires. Yesterday she asked if we were in mourning.

“Somebody’s going to be in mourning for your sorry ass if you don’t get out of my face,” Dahlia said in her best tough-girl voice. Sukie led Heather away. Since seeing me and Dahlia in the woods, Sukie doesn’t stop me in the halls anymore to warn me about the dangers of hanging out with the wrong crowd. She doesn’t even meet my eye when we pass each other. Sometimes I feel like I should try to explain what she saw that day, but then I think, why bother? I wonder if Sukie’s been to the intersection and noticed that the wand is missing. And if she has, does she suspect I’m the one who took it?