November Surprise (3 page)

“So,” she says, “This is the final weekend before the vote.
Do we have any predictions for last-minute antics?”

The class stays silent. I keep my head down, choosing to
breathe rather than speak. I can feel Mrs. Fischer’s eyes on me; she can
usually count on me to say something. But today I’m just not in the mood.
What’s there to say? Bush is obviously going to win.

Reggie raises his hand.

“Reggie, yes.” Mrs. Fischer gives him a nod.

Reggie clears his throat. “I don’t think there’s going to be
any surprises. Bush has already won. All he has to do is play it cool, and let
Dukakis lose. If Dukakis hasn’t figured that out yet, then he really is a
moron.”

I turn around so I can see Reggie, sitting in the back row.
Today he’s wearing a button down Oxford shirt with a skinny tie, black jeans,
and his trademark black Converses. His dark hair has been swept back –
very new wave. A lot of girls think he’s cute. I try to look at him through
their eyes.

“Okay,” says Mrs. Fischer. “Any responses to that? Lucy?
What do you think?"

I sigh. “Well…” I turn back around in my seat. Suddenly I’d
rather be looking at anyone but Reggie. “I think Reggie’s right.”

There’s a stunned silence. Mrs. Fischer gives me a comic
double-take,
 
and the rest of the
class laughs. “Lucy, did I hear you right? You agree with Reggie? Should I
alert the media?”

I look straight at her eyes, which are sitting serenely
behind large, square rimmed glasses. They’re the only thing I feel safe looking
at in this moment. “No. I’m not saying I want Bush to win. I’m saying that he
will win. I’m saying that people would rather hide their heads in the sand when
it comes to Noriega and the Iran Contra scandal, or the arms race, or slashed
funding for education and the arts, or that for the last eight years we’ve had
an administration who planned its schedule around what the first lady’s
astrologer said. Bush was complicit in all of it, but hey, he’s tall and he
doesn’t talk like an alien, so yeah, let’s elect him.”

Reggie chimes in. “They always come around, Mrs. Fischer.”
The class laughs again, and the bell rings.

Reggie climbs out of his seat, catches my eye as he passes,
and throws a wink in my direction. It’s only when I grab my books to leave
class that I notice a note on top of my desk. I quickly unfold it.

See you tomorrow
night!

(please????)

J

I crumble the note and toss it
in the trash on my way out the door.

Donna English’s party is exactly the sort of party I always
hear about but never go to. I convinced Anna to go with me, and when we walk in
I’m immediately tempted to cling to her sleeve.

Anna appears to feel the same way. She turns to me. “Are you
sure you wouldn’t rather go to a movie?
The
Accused
has a nine o’clock showing. I’ve heard it’s really good.”

I square my shoulders and shake my head. “No. Let’s do this.
It will be fun.”

We walk into the swarm. People are hanging out, laughing,
sharing inside jokes that I’m not a part of. One couple, the most popular in
school, is hanging off each other, and the girl is wearing an oversized flannel
shirt that I’ve seen the guy wear countless times. They share an intimacy and
casualness that I’m sure I’ll never experience.

Anna props up the six-pack of peach wine coolers we brought,
which her cousin bought for us. “Maybe we should put these in the
refrigerator.”

“Right. Let’s do that.” We walk towards the kitchen; when we
get there we each remove a wine cooler from the six-pack, and then Anna puts
away the remaining four.

“I hope nobody steals them,” she says. “Do you think we
should put our names on them?”

I think for a moment. “I doubt it would make a difference.”

We simultaneously open our drinks and take a swig. They
taste sort of like cold, peach cough syrup. But the taste is better than beer,
or really any sort of alcohol. At least this I can swallow.

“Let’s move out to the deck.”

Anna agrees, and we join several other people who are standing
in the semi-cold, and we pretend to look loose and relaxed. But after a few
more swigs of my drink, it isn’t so much of an act. Anna and I have joined in
the conversation, and I’ve actually stopped looking for Reggie. Then I feel him
come up behind me.

“You made it,” he says.

I turn around. “Yeah. Anna wanted to come, so I said I would
too.”

He smiles. He’s holding a beer, and his eyes look kind of
red and glazed over.

“Awesome.” He sounds like a surfer. He reaches down and
gently grabs my hand. “Come with me.”

Anna is laughing way too loudly at Jeremy Miller’s
impersonation of Pauly Shore, so I don’t tell her I’m going. I let Reggie lead
to me a destination unknown, and I try to silence the scream that is vibrating
inside of my head. Any buzz I had from the wine cooler has left me as quickly
as the warmth you get from a shower after the hot water has run out. In fact,
I’m shaking in the same way I would when I’m naked and wishing for a towel.
Something inside me refuses to believe this is a good idea.

Reggie has brought me to an empty upstairs bedroom, well
away from the rest of the party. He turns to me before we enter. “Don’t worry,”
he says. “I just want to talk.”

“About what, exactly?”

“Don’t worry,” he says again, as if he’d answered my
question by doing so. Then he pulls me into the bedroom, and I let him.
Thankfully, he leaves the door open. He sits on the bed, and I stay
standing—well, leaning actually—against the dresser, my back to the
open door. I smooth out my oversized long-sleeved t-shirt that hangs over a
gathered mini-skirt. I hope I’m not overdressed.

“Hey, thanks for hearing me out.” He pats the space on the
bed next to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit? I won’t try anything,
promise.”

“I’m good.”

“Right. Okay.” He rolls his head and stretches out his back
and neck. “So here’s the thing.” He stops his stretching and looks up towards
the ceiling. “I feel really bad about how I’ve treated you the last few years.
Pretty soon we’ll graduate and then I’ll never be able to make it up to you. So
you should let me try now. Okay?”

I wish he would look me in the eye. “I don’t know,” I say.
“Maybe we should just call a truce. That would be plenty.”

He’s now looking at his hands, studying his fingernails and
a callus on his thumb. “You don’t really mean that. If you did, you wouldn’t be
here.”

He could be right. Why
am
I here? I can’t say for sure, but maybe I’m just tired of waiting for my real
life to begin.

He finally faces me, his eyes meeting mine. “Have you ever
thought about how love and hate are a continuum?”

“No.” I grasp the edge of the dresser I’m leaning against,
and bite my bottom lip. Would it be rude to walk out?

“I have,” he says. “I think about it all the time. Hate
isn’t the opposite of love. Apathy, that’s the opposite of love. Not caring is
the worst insult of all, you know? And I’ve never, ever, been apathetic towards
you.”

He gets up and he walks to me, so we’re now standing face to
face. His dark hair is, as always, hanging in his eyes, his teeth are faintly
yellow, and the combined effect reminds me of a Halloween mask.

Now I can taste the same peach wine cooler that I finished
several minutes ago; it’s revisiting me through burps. What if I actually puke
it up? Never mind. I need to get out of here.

I start to tell Reggie
no,
no thank you, not interested, thanks anyway, etc, etc.
But before I can
push the words out somebody grabs me from behind, placing his hand over my
mouth, while his other arm is restraining both of mine.

Reggie continues to talk and we’re so close that I can taste
his sicky-sweet breath as if we were kissing. “So Lucy, you should feel
flattered when I tell you that I really, really hate you.” Then he spits in my
face.

I try to wriggle out of the grasp of whoever it is that’s
holding me, but his strong arms may as well be an iron straightjacket, they
won’t budge no matter how hard I push against them.

Horror fills me from the pit of my stomach to the top of my
brain. Tears blur my vision as I try to scream through the hand that’s
smothering me.

Reggie laughs. “Don’t worry, you big baby. I’m not going to
do anything to you. I have absolutely no interest in touching you. In fact,
even the idea of touching you makes me want to barf. No, I asked you up here to
prove a point. And here it is—you’re desperate and stupid. Otherwise, why
would you have followed me, after the way I’ve treated you? It’s because no guy
has
ever
liked you, have they? And
deep down, you know that no guy ever will.”

Another wine-cooler burp escapes from my mouth, only this
time it is more than a burp; a little bit of puke comes out too.

The guy who is holding me quickly releases his hand from my
face. “Gross!” he shouts. “She just puked in my hand!”

I take this opportunity to escape, and I run from the room
before I can identify Reggie’s accomplice, but their laughter rings in my ears.
I wipe Reggie’s spit off my with my sleeve while I race downstairs, find Anna,
and implore her to leave the party.

“But we only just got here,” she says. “Don’t be such a
loser.”

“Anna, please. Please.” The urgency in my voice makes her
notice my tear-streaked face.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

I sniff back more tears. “I don’t want to talk about it.
Please. Let’s just go. Now.”

Begrudgingly she complies and we leave. I had already
planned on sleeping over at her house, and to be dropped off at home now would
cause unwanted questions from my parents, so we go back to her place and watch
a video in her basement.
Three Men and a
Baby
.

I stay stubbornly silent as we watch, convinced it’s all a
lie. Men can’t possibly be as sweet and innocuous as the ones in this movie.
I’ll never trust any of them, not ever.

That night as I try to fall
asleep I keep replaying the scene with Reggie over and over, long after I wish
I could erase its existence from my mind. Hurt, shock and fear settle into a
knot located somewhere in my chest cavity, and it’s going to take more than a
peach wine cooler to make it go away.

The following Wednesday Mrs. Fischer wants to discuss the
election. Reggie is quick to offer up his opinions.

“The right guy won,” he says. “Dukakis is a turd, and in the
end, the country couldn’t make a turd their president.”

People laugh even though Mrs. Fischer scoffs at his
inappropriateness. I raise my hand.

“Lucy, yes.” Mrs. Fischer calls on me.

I clear my throat before I speak. “We all knew Bush was
going to win,” I say. “There was a time right after the Bentsen/Quayle debate
when I thought maybe things would turn around. But obviously they didn’t.”

“Because Dukakis is a turd,” Reggie says from his spot
several desks behind me.

“It’s Lucy’s turn to talk,” Mrs. Fischer scolds.

I appreciate her quieting him, but it’s actually not what I
want. I have been afraid to look at Reggie since the party; I’ve spent the last
two days in school avoiding him at all costs. But now, in the safety of this
classroom, I take my chance for the most risk-free confrontation possible. I
turn in my seat so he can see my face and I can see his. Of course, his bangs
are covering his eyes. What a coward.

“You know what, Reggie? Sometimes you can win the battle,
but still lose the war.”

“Okay…” he says, like I’ve just said the most stupid thing
possible, and the only possible response is to shake his head and laugh at me.
And it works. Several other people laugh at me as well.

“Lucy,” Mrs. Fischer says, “Do you wish to elaborate?”

I turn back around and respond to her. “No. That’s all I
want to say about it. For now.”

“Well, this is most likely the last time we’ll discuss the
election. Now is your chance.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Fischer. I’ll have another chance
someday. You can count on it.”

People around me exchange eye rolls and I catch a silent
“She’s so weird,” being mouthed across the room. Oh well.

Later the bell rings, and I watch Reggie go. He doesn’t look
at me nor does he say anything, although he has the chance. I guess now that
he’s won, the fun is over.

But I know some things. Life happens in cycles, seasons die,
and high school doesn’t last forever. Perhaps more importantly, there will be a
new election in another four years.

We’re lying on the floor of his room.

“You still like U2, right?” Jack reaches up and turns on his
stereo. Bono’s voice begins to croon – “All I Want is You.”

He lies back down next to me. “It’s so good to see you,
Lucy. I’m really glad you’re back.”

I stare into his face. He looks the same, still young for
his age. Even though he’ll be eighteen soon and he’s tall by anyone’s
standards, he’s so skinny and guileless, he could easily be mistaken for
someone younger.

“Jack,” I remind him, “I’m only back for a couple of days.”

“Then we need to make the most of our time.” He props
himself up, leans over me, and goes in for a kiss. I don’t have time to push
him away before the door to his room swings open.

Jack jumps up and I scoot away and raise myself to a sitting
position. When we see that it’s Jack’s brother, Monty, and not his parents,
Jack relaxes a little and I feel my face go red.

“Ever hear of knocking?” Jack demands.

“Sorry.” Monty smirks and looks briefly at me. “Hey, Lucy.
Home from college?”

“Just for Thanksgiving,” I reply. Most of my conversations
with Monty are like this: perfunctory and generic. A year ago, at the bonfire
party, when Monty played interference for me with Reggie, I knew he’d never
remember me. I was right.