Californium (16 page)

Brendan grabs the right shoulder. “Look,” he says. “It's even got the official Yankees patch.” The Uncle Sam hat on top of a bat with
Yankees
across it is stitched perfectly to the shoulder.

“Cool.” I walk around the table to give my mom a kiss and my dad a hug.

“You like it?” my dad says like he's not so sure.

“Yeah.” I glance at him but it won't stick, so I start gathering up the other boxes. “I've always wanted a Yankees jacket. It's perfect.” I leave the jacket on, to sort of prove how much I like it already, and say I can help with dishes after I run this stuff up to my room.

Colleen's gone back to searching her mess of cake for any icing she might have missed, but Brendan looks up at me like I'm crazy.

My mom shakes her head and my dad says, “It's your birthday. Don't worry about the dishes.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I better get up there. I've got a load of homework to get to.”

In my room, I hang the Yankees jacket in my closet and sit down at my desk. My Packy jacket is on the back of my chair, the patches and safety pins in the pockets. I get to work and everything goes fine until the last couple algebra problems. Those are always the hardest, the ones that aren't just number 23; they're 23a, b, and c. And if you get 23a wrong, you're screwed for b and c. It's not like Mr. Tomita won't give you full credit if you get everything done but those last few, but I figure, why not call for help when someone has offered it?

At the top of the stairs, I hear the water running and the clang of pots and pans. Probably my mom. I go back to my room to wait her out. My homework is pretty much done, so I get out my notebook. The Yankees logo looks funny now, and I could use my jacket as a model to make a different one, but instead I make a new DikNixon logo, the
>I<
part bigger and better than the
NY.

In my new letter to Uncle Ryan, I'm wondering how I'm supposed to be punk rock and also wear a Yankees jacket.
I know you know what I'm talking about, because I remember my dad always giving you a hard time when you'd wear your army jacket since you were never in the army. I was just a kid and I knew it was really a John Lennon jacket, and cool. How could my dad not know that?
I tell Uncle Ryan that the only guys at school who actually wear Dodgers or Angels jackets don't really play ball. Or talk to girls. Or end up at good parties. And it's not like my dad's taking me to a game anytime soon.
Not with his work and without you here to make him do it,
I write.
So where do I wear this thing?
I stop writing after that because it's making me mad just thinking about the jacket. I even start feeling a little mad at Uncle Ryan, you know, because
without him around, my dad doesn't do so good with things that are different. But like I said, I don't write any of that down.

The kitchen is empty and dark now. Even though it's still before ten o'clock, it feels funny calling Edie this late, especially when she picks up, real polite. “Okuda residence.”

“Miss Okuda,” I say. “Now is the time to talk.”

She doesn't laugh. “How was practice?”

“Good,” I say. “We're practicing again tomorrow night.”

“I know. Cherise and I are coming over to watch.”

“You are?”

“Yeah,” she says, like, haven't I known about this for weeks? “We're going to walk over with you and Keith after school.”

“Really?”

“Really. I talked to Keith about it earlier when he called.”

It's weird thinking of Keith calling Edie. What would he say to her? Band stuff, probably. “Okay. I guess I'll see you tomorrow at school.”

“And after,” Edie says and leaves it kind of up, not exactly a good-bye. I guess in case I want to say something else. Only, I can't think of what else to say, and it stays quiet until she asks, “Is that what you were calling about?”

It's like one of those questions you see on a game show where the answer is right there, and you know the person knows, but they go retarded because of the pressure:
Name a fruit whose skin you can eat:
Watermelon. Orange. Banana. Guh!

“Yeah, that's why I called.”

“Okay,” she says and waits another second. “Now is the time to say bye.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Bye.”

Only, Edie doesn't say “bye” back; she says, “Good night.” It tickles my ear, runs down to my feet, makes me warm everywhere like when you're a kid and your mom tucks you in, only better because it's not your mom; it's someone who doesn't really have to do it.

I don't touch the last algebra problem, don't even look over to see if Astrid's light is off. I pull my desk chair closer to the bed, turn the light out, and climb in. In the dark, my hand slides up the desk chair and onto the rough cotton of the Packy jacket. My fingers work into the front pocket, tracing over the letters on each patch, reading them like Braille:
TSOL,
GBH,
and
Dead Kennedys.
It makes me happy the way acing a test does, how you know you did good even before you turn it in, how you could've done it half asleep and gotten it perfect.

M
e and Edie are walking to the stairs after Algebra, after I've given her the note Keith wrote last night even though he talked to her on the phone, even though we'll see her at lunch and after school.

“Can you do me a favor?” she says.

“Not another note.”

Edie grins. “Why, are you tempted to read them?”

“How do you know I don't?”

“I'd know.” She pats the one in her back pocket. “But I'm going to see you guys at lunch, so why would I hand off a note?”

“Well, yeah.”

Edie looks behind us like maybe we're being followed. “I just need you to promise not to tell Treat about us coming over after school. Okay?”

She nods like I've already agreed, then turns to go. It happens so fast that as I'm reaching out to make her wait, her shoulder flies
by and I catch her hand as it swings back. She stops and turns back, her eyes huge spheres. “What is it, Reece?”

Her hand is so soft and light to the touch I'm not even sure if I'm actually holding it. “I can't not tell Treat,” I say. “He doesn't do so good with surprises.”

Edie squeezes my hand, a quick one that lets off without letting go. We
are
still touching. And now the warmth wraps around my fingers. Edie says something like “Please, as a favor,” and I must ask, “Why?” because she's talking about how she wants to tell me and she will tell me but she can't tell me right now. She keeps squeezing my hand, like a tiny massage, until I say, “Fine.”

The whole walk to English I'm sort of wondering why Treat can't know and why Keith is still getting notes. Mostly, though, I'm wondering why my hand feels like it's glowing. My eyes are who knows where until some girl at her locker comes into focus. She's wearing a warm-up suit with school colors, tight and stretchy. It looks good so I keep looking, like it's a sunset, and now she's looking back. Our eyes are locked; I know because her head follows me. Then this little grin pulls up the corners of her mouth and makes me feel great all over, definitely better than a little hand glow.

It's so smooth, almost normal, until I think:
Wow, who is this?
Then it's like I've woken up late for school.
Astrid?
Astrid! I should say something. Or do something. Or something.
And I do. I throw a hand up in the air the way Uncle Ryan used to do. “Happy Friday.”

Astrid's eyes slide back and forth real smooth, her mouth a tight grin until she says, “Happy Friday.” Then she shakes her head, the grin still there, and I don't know if that means I look potential boyfriend cute or just puppy cute.

.

After school, Keith's all over Edie on the walk to Treat's: How did her day go, how did the discussion of
Huck Finn
go in AP English, and was her history test as easy as she thought it'd be? She's answering everything with smiles and jokes. Cherise walks next to me and she's pushed her hair back behind her ear more times than she's looked up or said a word to me.

“You should get one of those hair thingies,” I say.

She turns, looks me in the eye, and says, “My mom says they pull your scalp and weaken your follicles.” Then she goes back to chaperoning her feet.

“Okay.” We walk on for five, six, seven more sidewalk squares. “So, do you like punk?”

“Maybe,” she says to square nine. “I don't think I know what it is.”

As we head across Yorba Linda Boulevard and down the hill to Treat's, I list every punk song and band on
The Nixon Tapes.
Cherise is shaking her head no to everything. “Wait,” she finally says and pushes her hair back. “I might know ‘Anarchy in the U.K.' Who's that by?”

“The Sex Pistols,” Keith says. “Unless my mom's asking. Then it's the
Sax
Pistols.”

Edie and Cherise crack up and Keith leads us up the driveway and knocks on the Two-Car Studio. The garage door opens and Treat's there by the button, studying some notebook paper in his hand.

“We need to get a couple more chairs,” Keith says.

Treat looks up, his eyes locking on Edie and Cherise. “Perfect,”
he says, but not in a good way. He opens the door to the house and it slams behind him.

“He may not come back,” I say.

“Isn't he getting chairs?” Edie says. Keith shakes his head and Edie looks at me. “Somebody should go get him.”

Keith sits down in the chair by his bass and starts getting it out.

“Fine,” I say to Keith. “If you're too scared.”

“What? I'm getting things ready.”

Treat's room is at the end of the hallway past his little sister's room, the door with band stickers and a fake parking sign that says
NO PARKING / EXCEP
T FOR TREAT
. He pops his head out before I can knock. “Why are
they
here?”

“Keith said they could come.”

Treat shakes the Mohawk. “I don't care who brought them. Why are they here? Does one of them play drums? Does the other play tambourine?”

Even though he's razzing me, I imagine Edie holding a tambourine and wearing fake cat ears and a tail like Josie and the Pussycats. Cartoon Edie looks at me and tilts her head like,
Meow? What's so funny?
I start giggling.

Treat opens his door all the way, his arms folded to their hugest. “What?”

I explain about Josie and the Pussycats and Edie in the cat ears.

Treat grins. “That's stupid. Cherise too?”

“Sure. And Keith,” I say, and we both laugh. “You coming out?”

He shakes his head.

“You know we need to practice in front of real people. And they're cool. Edie won't say anything bad.”

“What about Cherise?”

I roll my eyes. “She won't say anything at all. She never does.”

Treat steps into the hallway. “One song.”

Keith has all the amps on, a couple extra chairs set up, and the garage door closed. As soon as Edie and Cherise see Treat behind me, they sit down.

“We're only doing one song,” I say. “Then it's got to be a closed studio session so we can work on new stuff.”

Cherise folds her hands in her lap real polite and Edie looks me over, and you know she's thinking this whole thing is artificial—a garage studio, a band with no drummer, and three guys who don't know what they're doing. Any second the whole thing could blow up in our faces. But as me and Keith put on our guitars, she smiles at us both, like maybe she's even a little excited.

Treat picks up the megaphone and turns to the electronic drums sitting on a box. “Solitary Man,” he whispers and hits
start
on the drums. After the
tap-tap-tap,
me and Keith blast waves of distorted sound at Edie and Cherise. Treat starts singing at the exact right time, but instead of jumping out in front of us like usual, he's back by the boxes, facing the car cover with our logo on it. He sings the whole song this way. I can't look up for more than a glance without missing a string, but it goes pretty good. Edie's bobbing her head as the last twangs drain out of the amps and Cherise is a statue, staring at Treat's back as he finishes singing with three fake coughs, “Huh-huh-huh.” Edie claps nice and loud and a millisecond later so does Cherise.

“You guys are really good,” Edie says. “Right, Cherise?”

Treat sets down the bullhorn and moves the boxes a little, like maybe the acoustics were off because they were angled wrong.

“We really were good?” Keith says.

“Yes.” Edie stands up. “Even Reece.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Cherise stands up. “Treat too.”

Treat turns around then and looks at Cherise. “You like punk?”

She nods real serious like she's always liked punk.

“Who do you like?” he says.

“The Sex Pistols.”

“Yeah?” Treat steps over to her. “And who else?”

It's so quiet all you can hear is the hiss of the amps. Cherise looks at Edie, pushes some hair behind her ear, and says, “DikNixon.”

Treat goes all grins, the Mohawk bobbing up and down. “Bitchin'.”

As we walk the girls out of the studio, Edie gets this goofy smile and tells Keith she'll call him later when he gets back from San Diego.

“San Diego?” he says. “Oh, right. The SDSU gig.”

Treat's bouncing all over the place after they leave, punching boxes, talking a hundred miles an hour about how we should work all night the way real bands do. “That's when the great stuff happens. When you're exhausted and pissed at each other and the sun's coming up. The air's different then. It's quieter and all the songs that haven't been written yet are easier to hear.”

We get to work on a new song and get it down pretty good before Mrs. Dumovitch sticks her head out and asks who's staying for dinner.

“Everyone,” Treat says.

“Okay,” she says. “Then it's taquitos.”

Treat turns around like a little kid who just found out he's having ice cream and cake for dinner. “You know what you should do, Reece? You should write a new song during dinner and then we can play it after.”

“That's a lot of pressure,” I say.

“You can do it,” Keith says. “Your lyrics are so cool.”

I take off the guitar. “Thanks, but I have to go home for dinner.”

Treat grabs the guitar from me and sets it on its stand. “Have to?”

“Well, it's Friday. I'm just not supposed to eat meat unless it's fish.”

Treat's looking at me like he's waiting for the punch line.

“It's a Catholic thing,” Keith says. “They're weird about fish.”

Treat nods like he totally gets it now. “But you can eat other stuff, right?”

“Yeah. Non-meat stuff.”

“Then you can stay,” Treat says. “My mom's making tofu taquitos.”

“What the hell's tofu?” Keith says.

“I don't know. But it's not meat.” Treat picks up the guitar and hands it to me. “Come on, we've probably got half an hour until it's ready.”

.

If you came walking into Treat's house at dinner, at first you'd think the Dumovitches were normal. There's bowls of food spread across this long, dark table and everyone sits down real
polite and pleasant. But there aren't any plates, just these wicker trays with paper plates in the middle so we can compost them after we eat. And there aren't any chairs. They've got two long benches and everyone sits where they want because Mr. Dumovitch says there's no head at their table; everyone sits down as equals. Everyone except me. Treat puts a pencil and notepad in one spot and gives me a little shove: “You're there.”

The taquitos are flaky and brown and stacked like a pyramid. The vegetables glisten with some sauce and there's at least three kinds in there I've never seen before. Still, it all looks and smells better than everything my mom has cooked ever. Even the glass pitcher of water looks good the way droplets are pinstriping their way down to the checkered towel Mrs. Dumovitch has wrapped around it like a skirt.

Mr. Dumovitch has us all join hands and tells us we should each say what we're thankful for. He starts by saying he's thankful for fall and his family. Treat's little sister, Jewell, says stuffed animals. Treat says, “The goddamned First Amendment,” and Mr. D says Treat made his point in a clever way but he didn't need to show off in front of his friends. Mrs. D says she's thankful for me and Keith because we're such good friends to Treat. Keith says he's thankful for his dad, which probably looks sweet to Mr. and Mrs. D, but what he really means is money. I should say Neil Diamond, since he's probably cowriting the song I'm about to miraculously come up with. But Mr. and Mrs. D might know who that is, so without thinking, I say, “Uncle Ryan.”

“Uncle Ryan?” Treat says.

“Treat!” Mrs. D says. “We don't question what people are thankful for.”

“Sorry,” Treat says. “I'm sure he's real cool. You should bring him over some time.”

“Thanks,” I say. “He's not around here.”

“When's he coming to visit?” Keith says. “You talk about the guy all the time.”

“He can't,” I say, and the bottoms of my eyes start dancing. The corners of my mouth are reaching up to join them, so I take a drink of water, only my mouth isn't working right and I slurp in half a gulp and spill the rest.

“Why?” Keith says.

I can't talk or look at Keith. I'm dabbing the water on the table with my napkin and now writing a song doesn't seem so bad. It's been too quiet for too long.

“Because he can't,” Treat says. “That's why.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” Treat says.

“Let's all dig in,” Mr. D says, soft like he's introducing the next song at your little sister's recital.

My eyes and mouth slow down a little as the sounds of people eating start to rise, and I look up to see Treat is looking at me, but not all weird or angry or anything, just kind of waiting for me. Then he nods like we've agreed to something, you know, and it's pretty clear he'll keep a secret even if he doesn't know exactly what the secret is.

Mrs. D gets this excited tone in her voice and says she wants to know about everything we've been up to: school, the band, who the girls were, and why there's a pad and pencil at the table.

Treat says, “Good; good; friends; and Reece is working on a new song.”

I look at Mrs. D. “I don't have to if you think it's rude.”

“No,” Mr. D says through a mouthful of taquito. “You keep working, Reece. Art is food for the soul.” Mrs. D nods.

I can't think of any decent Neil Diamond songs while everyone else is eating and talking. I'm writing down anything that might get me going, the anarchy
A
with the circle around it, “God save the queen,” “God save the children,” “God bless Amerika,” and “God has left the building.” It's a bunch of nothing, but I keep going so it'll at least look like something's happening.