Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
“Will you be there for the show?”
I look over at him. “Wouldn’t miss it.” I get into the Buick and tap its dashboard. “C’mon, Little Car.” I turn the engine and pump the gas until she growls to life, the heater blasting me with icy air that smells like a musty basement. I shiver until the air turns tepid. “Thanks,” I whisper to the car. Josh waits until I pull out of the parking lot.
The streets are pretty empty. I drop a ticket off at Moch’s place and drive home. Lillian looks up from her book. “After nine? On a school night?”
“A new study group for the AP tests this spring,” I say casually, trying to mask my limp. I don’t need Lillian to kick into parental guidance mode right now. “Good night,” I say, closing my bedroom door behind me.
My memoir notebook is open beside my bed. I pick it up and write:
Remember when yesterday and tomorrow disappeared?
I SHOULD SLEEP.
But this is too big, too important.
I surf for a while, trying to drum up good ideas on how to spend the twenty-five hundred dollars. It’s student body money, money the whole school should be able to enjoy.
I flip through the yellow pages.
Fly-Me-a-Message.
It’s almost ten. I doubt anybody’s there. I call the number. Someone answers. He doesn’t sound happy until I offer double the normal rate. Cash.
“Gotta get FAA approval.”
“Okay. I’ll give you two and a half times the rate to speed up the approval process.”
“I’ll need the cash first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Done.”
“What’s the rush?”
“It’s a last-minute gift to the school,” I say. “From the student council.”
He laughs. I’m relieved that he doesn’t ask any more questions.
I spend the rest of the night organizing the Commandments.
It takes me forever to decide whether or not to text Josh with my plans until I finally decide to talk about it the next day instead. If we get caught, they’ll go through our texts and connect the dots, and then good-bye, U-Dub. It’s three in the morning by the time I get everything organized.
I fall asleep and wake up before my alarm goes off. My head feels heavy, my thoughts fuzzy. I can’t tell if the tingly feeling I have is from sleep deprivation or excitement. I’m afraid I won’t make it through first block without slipping into a coma. Time for caffeine overdrive.
“Good morning,” Lillian says. “You’re early.”
“Good morning,” I say, grabbing a cereal bar, skipping the coffee to avoid any kind of prolonged exposure to her inquisition stare. “Study group. Gotta rush!”
I get the pamphlets printed out, drive south to Minden, then shove them in the door slot of Fly-Me-a-Message’s offices with the money he asked for, and pray nobody sees me. I am back at school a little after seven, just in time. Thank heaven for twenty-four-hour Kinko’s and a relatively police-free morning. I can’t afford a speeding ticket.
At school a crowd has gathered around the ski bus. Student council even took the time to decorate the bus with cloudlike powdered slopes and skiing cherubs. Mrs. Martinez paces around the patchwork crowd of students. Seth is weaving his way through the crowd, trying to get the inside scoop.
I feel a twinge of guilt, because I can tell some kids
really
wanted to go. Some probably saved up awhile to buy those tickets.
Josh is waiting for me on the bench, facing the parking lot. He nods at me, holding up a supersized coffee.
Thank God
. The crowd grows. More kids. More tickets. Mrs. Martinez is on full-blown fluster now and has been joined by Mr. Holohan, Mr. Randolph, and a few other teachers. A police car pulls into the lot.
Oh crap.
Josh whispers, “We’re cool.”
Icy, more like. My leg bobs up and down and Josh presses his hand on my thigh, the warmth like an electric shock. I feel like I’m being branded, the palm of his hand searing my jeans, and I do all I can to not pull my leg away.
By the time the first-period bell rings, everybody’s heard about the robbery, the letters. The hallways are electric. Everybody wants to talk about Babylonia. First block, most teachers end up doing holiday-style work because nobody’s listening. The news is short-lived; at lunchtime the buzz has died, and most kids don’t even care about Babylonia or ski trips. I can’t keep my eyes from the clock.
Come on. Come on.
I need this to happen
now
.
I hear the faint sound of an airplane motor and see the first glints of gold paper drift to the ground.
The lunch bell still hasn’t rung. We’ve got five minutes.
“Dude, you guys have gotta see this.” Some kid points outside.
That does it. In about two minutes, the entire student body is gathered in front of the school, staring at the plane, reading the banner. I’m impressed. They even made it with a little bit of gold glittery stuff in loopy letters.
Thou Shalt Not Use Student Funds for Elitist Events
The bell rings. Nobody cares. The golden papers pass through kids’ hands. Someone hands me one. “Check out the Commandments. That’s just
sweet
.”
I try to find Josh in the crowd, but it’s impossible. Everybody’s talking about the Commandments. Some kid laughs out loud. “‘Thou Shalt Revere Napoleon Dynamite as Our True God.’”
“I don’t get it,” another kid says, pointing to the ND reference.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Dude, this one about not cussing in pig Latin, gibberish, or Klingon kills me.”
The Commandments, the message . . . everything works.
Perfect timing.
We’re finally herded to class after Principal Holohan screeches at us in his megaphone. In last block, Government, Mr. Sullivan talks to us about student manifestations and the power of movements—how misguided they can be. He reads us a story about the Third Wave, an experiment where a history teacher used his students as guinea pigs, getting them to believe in a made-up movement.
But Babylonia isn’t made up or invented. It’s real. I can see the excitement in everyone’s eyes.
The last bell rings, and I exhale. I’ve been waiting for the office to call me down since I arrived. Nobody’s called. Nobody’s looking for me. Nobody knows who Babylonia is.
We weren’t caught.
Seth comes up to me. “Can you believe today? It’s like newspaper porn.” He holds the Commandments in his hands. “Other than the banner, I particularly like ‘Thou Shalt Consider Study Hall the Sabbath and Nap.’”
I laugh. “‘The Student Council Is Synonymous with Bourgeois.’” I point a finger at him, smiling.
“Don’t look at me,” Seth says, holding his hands up in surrender. “But this is something big. Real big. There’s going to be a special
PB & J
next week. You up for funding?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“Catch you tomorrow, then, at Josh’s place. Divisional playoffs party.”
That’s news to me.
I swallow back that left-out feeling, thinking that as soon as this day is over, I’ll probably sleep until Monday. It’s probably a guy thing—watching the games at Josh’s house.
I stand in the middle of the hallway. Kids stream around me. I’m untouchable—even after today. Totally invisible.
Then he bumps into me. “Are you trying to defy mob laws of physics?” Josh asks.
“No. No. It’s, um—”
“Standing in the middle of this place will get you killed.” He pulls me to the side of the hall. We lean against the gray lockers. “You’re a genius. I could kiss you.”
Do!
But I resist the urge to pucker. “I didn’t have time to ask you if it was okay,” I say, trying to keep from turning to a puddle of goo in his arms. The hallways have cleared.
“Genius,” Josh mutters. I silently swoon. “And the Commandments. Fallen Commandments. You’re brilliant.”
“I dunno. I kind of feel bad because some kids actually saved money to go on the ski trip. A girl in my physics class was pretty bummed. Sixty bucks down the tubes. They’re getting screwed here.”
Josh shrugs. “They played into the elitism, you know. They could’ve protested and said they wanted something for everybody.” He’s so sure of everything. So
right
.
“Most probably weren’t thinking like Gandhi. We’re only in high school.”
“So that’s an excuse to
not
think?”
I can’t help but believe that we’ve made a difference—a change. We’ve shaken up the natural order of things, and the world will now be different because of Babylonia.
Babylonia.
“Anyway, tomorrow. My place. Noon. Division playoffs. Small group,” Josh says.
Exhale.
“Cool. Tomorrow. I’m in.”
Stragglers head to the doors. It’s eerie how the school doors open to such brightness—like watching people cross over in one of those ghost-talkers shows.
“Movies, tonight. My place. We’ll talk Cardinals versus Rams and how many yards we think Morrison will throw to win the game.”
“Do you know how unlikely it is to think the Cardinals will win? They shouldn’t even
be
in the playoffs. Wild-card luck.”
“I’m lucky. We bet on the Cardinals. To make it interesting, we’ll bet on a running game. They win on the ground, not by Morrison’s gun. Come over. We’ll debate about it.”
“I’m
so
tired. Don’t you sleep?”
He shrugs. “It’s an Ellison thing I picked up over the last couple of years, sleeping like five hours a night. My dad’s the same. Three extra hours a day over the course of, say, seventy-five years adds up to over eighty-two thousand hours, which is like three thousand four hundred more days—all in all, nine more years. So when I’m seventy-five, I’ll actually have lived eighty-four years. Nine years. A lot of quality time.”
“So what about dozing off in Mrs. B’s class?”
“For somebody who never noticed me, you certainly observe a lot.”
I blush.
“Catnaps. Just to keep me going. So. What about tonight?”
“How about this: I’ll come over tomorrow. I, unlike you, need sleep.”
“Deal. I’ll pick you up.”
“You don’t have to.”
Josh walks down the hall. “Insurance. I’ll be at your place tomorrow at eleven thirty.”
“Fine,” I say. He stops when he’s about ready to leave the building. My phone beeps.
Place the bet. Cardinals. A hundred on Cuccaro; sixty rushing yards
.
“You’re insane,” I mutter. That’s as far-fetched as they come. It’s not like Cuccaro is Walter Payton or Emmitt Smith. He’s good.
But sixty yards?
I should’ve taken him up on Morrison’s passing game.
I drive home on autopilot. I’ve never so looked forward to getting to my room and bed in all my life. I organize my bets, making sure I read through them twice before placing them.
Lillian heats a couple of pot pies in the oven. We wash them down with watery Kool-Aid. There’s a strange comfort in the expected—our routine—since the past week has been everything but. “You look tired,” she says.
“I am,” I say, and stand up to clear off the table.
She sits me down and cleans the dishes, back turned to me. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s okay,” I say.
Jumbled and messy and crazy. But okay.
“Just tired.” I talk to her back—straight and strong, as always. I wonder why we never talk to each other; why there’s always a paper, a wall, her back, or mine between us. “Good night, Lillian,” I say.
“Good night.”
Missing predictable comforts. Emotions bubble inside
.
“PSST! PSST!”
TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP
.
I jerk awake, my heart pounding, and flick on my bedside lamp. It takes me a second to realize I’m at home. In bed.
Taptaptaptaptap.
This is the point in the movie when everybody in the audience screams, “Don’t go there! Don’t look.” I stay in bed. Years of watching late-night horror movies has taught me well. Whatever is tapping at the window will go away if I stay here.
Crap. My lamp.
I turn the light off and cover my head with blankets.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table:
Look outside. Stat. Josh
.
Josh?
I ease out of the covers and move toward the window, pulling the curtains back to see some guy standing outside with a ski mask on. I muffle a scream.
Josh pulls off his ski mask. “It’s me. Don’t be freaked out.”
I mouth, “What are you doing?”
“C’mon.” Josh waves me out.
I shake my head.
He falls onto his knees, palms together. “Please, please, please.” It’s so cold, I can almost make out his icicle words in the air.
I tap my wrist. “Too late,” I say. “Tired.” Like dead tired. I feel like I’ve crammed a lifetime into twenty-four hours.
Josh starts to dance the Charleston, his noodle limbs flapping at his sides.
I muffle a laugh.
“C’mon!” Josh says. A dog starts barking, setting off a canine chorus of howls. It’s embarrassing how cheesy a trailer park can be.
“Nice,” I say.
Josh waves toward the front door.
I get dressed and tiptoe down the hallway. I open our door to see Josh standing on the porch in a kind of curtsy. “Good evening, Michal,” Josh says, then looks up. “Listen, I’m a skinny shit with absolutely no muscle tone. Thirty more seconds like this and my legs start to do this embarrassing trembling thing. So I invite you to exit before the wobbling begins, which would be right about . . .” He stands up, shaking out his legs.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping out onto the porch before he collapses into a pile of bones.
“Wrong question,” Josh says. “What are
we
doing?”
“Let me guess. We’re going to change the world, making it a happier, better place by doing a job at one of the big casinos in Reno, enlisting nine others. We’ll call ourselves Ellison’s Eleven.”
Josh shakes his head. “Can’t be all work. It’s time for a little R and R.”