Californium (7 page)

“Sure,” I say, “but what's the signal for
Keep it quiet, my dad's a jerk
?”

Twenty minutes later, when the guys from Filibuster start coming back onto the patio and picking up their instruments, I run downstairs to the living room. My parents are on the couch, looking relaxed for once. Mom's hair is down and she's leaning into my dad's shoulder while they watch TV. It's the way they used to look every weekend back in Jersey.

I don't have a plan, so I just blurt out, “You can't call the police. It's Saturday.”

“It's scaring your little sister,” my dad says. “She thought we were under attack.”

In my head, there's a squadron of electric guitars flying over our house. I grin a little because it's got to be a joke. “Come on.”

My dad isn't smiling. “Have you seen these punkers on the news? They're violent.” He looks at my mom, who nods, then back at me. “That's not music.”

When Treat played the Clash for us in his room, the cassette case had a picture of a guy smashing his guitar, and there were songs listed like “Spanish Bombs,” “Clampdown,” and “The Guns of Brixton.” But these are just high school guys. They're Astrid's friends.

“Reece,” my mom says and sits straight up. “Do you know these kids?”

“I don't know. Not really.”

A rattle and rhythm of thumps force their way through our living room wall.

“I'm calling,” my dad says.

“Wait,” I say. “It's the weekend.”

“It's almost ten o'clock,” my dad says. My mom puts a hand on his arm and he looks at her. “Well, I can't just let them keep going all night, Eileen.”

“Maybe,” I say and don't know why I'm saying it, “I can talk to them.” I look at my mom and she looks at my dad.

His chest heaves once, a big, thinking breath. “If you go over there and tell your friends to quiet down, I won't call the police.”

“Okay,” I say and head for the stairs to get Keith.

“Now,” my dad says, stopping me at the first step. “Right now.”

.

It doesn't feel real walking through Astrid's side gate, through the dark, past the trash cans and two guys going the other way. It's Yankee Stadium half an hour before the first pitch—the nerves and excitement about what could happen—and each step closer to the backyard sends an achy tickle up my legs.

I come around the side of the house right next to the patio, right next to the band, and everyone's packed tight in the yard. It's between songs, so the hurricane isn't swirling. There are so many people around the patio whose faces I've seen, even if I don't know their names. Then I can't believe it, but I see other freshmen—a couple people from student government and some football players who are hanging out near Petrakis. It's only about five people from the entire freshman class, but it makes me feel stupid. They got invited to a party that I didn't even know about, that I still wouldn't know about if I wasn't playing on my back wall like a ten-year-old.
And here are these guys already bonding with the right people, already exactly where Keith says we need to be. But I'm never going to be varsity this or vice president that. So do I have to pull a van Dorken, flip people off and shove them around so they can smile and give each other high fives for getting abused? Who wants to be the emperor of idiots?

Van Doren leans into the mic, says, “Let's do this motherfucker,” and the guitars, drums, and hurricane all start at the same time. People like Astrid, who just want to stand, are on the other side of the patio, and it takes me the whole song to squeeze over there. The next song starts right away, and van Doren sings, “The fucking queen and / the fucking king / fuck all the fuckers / fuck 'em clean.”

Astrid's hair swings back and forth with a rhythm you wouldn't think a song like that could have. She's wearing a sleeveless sweater and pink pants that are so tight all the way down to her ankles they must have grown on her. She's worn the pants to school before, but now, this close, I can see the stitches running down to little zippers at the bottom of each leg. Her arms are skinny but with just enough muscle that they're not scrawny, still summer brown with tiny blond hairs shining from the patio light. I tap her shoulder with my whole hand and it's hard and tight and soft and hot. Everything at once.

She looks over her shoulder to the crowd at first; then she sees me.

“Hey!” I shout.

Her whole body turns to me. “Hey, neighbor. I'm glad you came.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. She grips my arm kind of serious and leans
in close, her breath warming the whole side of my cheek. “Have you had any beer?”

The only beer I've ever had in my life are the sips Uncle Ryan gave me once on Thanksgiving and once at the shore on Labor Day. I shake my head and she says, “Good. Promise me you won't drink, okay?”

I nod, then shout through the waves of music, “There's something I have to tell you.”

She lets go of my arm and turns her ear to me. I cup my hand and lean in close. She smells like flowers and something else, not sweat or anything gross, something natural, almost sweet, and I've got that drunk feeling again, like when van Doren first hit me with a folder, but in a good way this time. “My dad is thinking about maybe calling the police if the band keeps playing.”

Astrid pulls away and looks around the yard, then at her watch, which is pink with polka dots all over the face and only the number twelve at the top. She must be able to read it, though, because she nods and says, “Go tell your dad I'm sorry and that I'll take care of it, okay?”

“I'm sorry. He's really being a—”

“It's okay.” She looks toward the side of the house where I came in, then back at me. “Just hurry up and go tell him.”

By the time I'm back at my front door, a police car is creeping down our cul-de-sac, blue lights twinkling off my dad's truck, but no siren.

My parents are still on the couch, acting like they haven't moved a muscle. I leave the front door wide-open, the blue light pulsing off it: “You didn't even give me a chance.”

My dad sits up straight and looks at the door.

“Why didn't you wait? Astrid said she'd take care of it.”

He looks at my mom, then at me. “I didn't call them, Reece.”

“Come on, Dad, I'm not stupid.”

He walks over to the window and my mom says, “We didn't call them.”

“Oh, right, Mom, they just appeared out of thin air.”

Before my mom has a chance to say anything, my dad's in my face, his finger an inch from my nose. “You do not talk to your mother like that.”

“I'm just saying—”

“Apologize right now.”

I do, and my mom nods slow and understanding, saying it's okay.

Keith comes to the bottom of the stairs and my dad tells him it's time he headed home.

Even though you could throw a baseball from our front lawn to Keith's, my dad says we need to watch him walk out of the cul-de-sac and across the street to his house. Astrid's on her driveway, talking to a couple of policemen. She doesn't look upset like you might think; she just keeps agreeing and saying, “Okay, I will. Okay, not a problem.” And maybe, if you're Astrid, it's not a problem. She's not the one whose dad just ran off everyone who matters.

I want to hop my back wall and run to Treat's, plop down in the Jacuzzi, and ask what the Indians did when everything started changing and everything that was important to them was disappearing.

Back in my room, it hits me how no matter what the Indians did, they couldn't stop it. They lost everything. It's so depressing, and staring at Astrid's empty backyard—the cans and bottles shimmering a little from the park lights—doesn't make it any better. I take a good look at the cinder-block wall, pull out my notebook, and start a letter to Uncle Ryan:
Greetings from East Berlin . . .

S
ometimes back in Jersey, when my brother and sister were too little and my dad still liked to have fun, we'd go to Yankee games. One time, on a Sunday afternoon, Uncle Ryan went with us and said he had a surprise for me after the game. He took me and Dad around the outside of the stadium where the elevated subway tracks are. There's no gate or anything there, just these blue metal doors with no handles on them. Uncle Ryan said that's where the players come out. He pointed across the cement to this fenced-in parking lot with all these Corvettes and Cadillacs and said that's where the Yankees park their cars. “All we have to do is wait,” he said, “and we can get all the autographs we want.”

“Even Bobby Murcer?” I said, because he was my favorite. I think because his name made him sound like a kid and because my dad said he was supposed to be the next Mickey Mantle.

“You bet,” Uncle Ryan said.

My dad said it might take awhile and my mom wouldn't like
us getting back so late. Uncle Ryan said he didn't mind waiting, that it was the least he could do since Dad bought the tickets and paid for the beer. “If you need to get going, Packy,” Uncle Ryan said, “I can wait with the kid. We'll take the train home.”

My dad didn't look so happy about any of it, but then Uncle Ryan said, “Come on, Packy. Look how excited the kid is.”

It's true too. I was all smiles and jiggly legs while they were deciding, and I didn't need to beg because Uncle Ryan was doing it for me.

Finally, my dad said, “We'll all wait.” He let out a big breath and looked right at Uncle Ryan. “I don't know why I let you talk me into these things.”

“Because you're a good father,” Uncle Ryan said and gave Dad one of those sideways hugs. “And not too bad of a big brother, either.”

By the time the blue doors clicked and rattled open from inside, most of the crowd was long gone. Maybe thirty people had stuck around, and everyone rushed forward. A couple security guards stepped out and told everyone to make way. A minute later, the players started trickling out a few at a time. They looked so different in their jeans and button-up shirts, leather jackets and sport coats. Everyone rushed the really famous guys first, clumping around until they got an autograph and then peeling off one by one to clump around the next guy.

When Bobby Murcer came out, some kids yelled, “Bobby, Bobby!” and clumped around him. He towered over them, smiling and signing hats and balls and anything else they shoved in
his face. Dad handed me a program and a pen and Uncle Ryan gave me a little shove. “Go on, Reece.”

I stood at the edge of the pack, getting bounced around while people shoved past me. Bobby's hair was slicked back, black and still wet from the postgame shower. His left hand, so huge, just glided across everything he signed, a little swirl at the end before the pen popped up and he'd sign something else.

Pretty soon, I was the last one standing there. Bobby Murcer reached down and took the program out of my hands without me saying a thing.

“You want me to sign this, Slugger?”

I nodded.

“Can I use your pen?”

I nodded again, but he had to take it from me because my hand didn't move. Then he crouched down in front of me and everything else went away—the noise from the elevated tracks, the last of the people yapping to the last of the ballplayers. Dad and Uncle Ryan could have walked off and I wouldn't have known. The whole world was Bobby Murcer's face, his aftershave lotion hitting my nose sharp and clean, his eyes right on me. “What's your name, Slugger?”

“Reece.”

His hand glided across the program. He clicked the pen closed with a flick and held everything out to me. I tried to grab the program, but Bobby tugged it back a little. He smiled the way Dad would when I'd tell him about all the good things I did at school. “Don't be afraid, son,” he said. “I'm just a ballplayer.” Then he let the program go.

Way before we came to California, the Yankees traded Bobby Murcer to San Francisco. I kind of lost track of him then, but I held on to that autograph. I don't know why. I mean, he wasn't the next Mickey Mantle. He wasn't even a Yankee anymore. He was just Bobby Murcer. One more nobody in California.

.

Monday morning at school, rumors about Ted Two are flying everywhere: Filibuster played until almost midnight; the cops busted Ted for minor in possession; van Doren crowd surfed onto a squad car to distract the police when Sergio Ortiz streaked out of the backyard and ran home.

Before Algebra, Edie's all over me: Did I hear about Ted Two? Did Filibuster really play? And she knows van Doren wasn't on top of a police car, was he, but was there some guy in a suit there to sign Filibuster for a record deal?

At least three girls have said they'll vote for van Doren for homecoming king if he promises to actually go to the dance. A girl in my Spanish class said Ted was cute, and her friend, who should have said, “Gross,” or “You're so high,” just said, “Yeah. Sort of.”

Everybody's talking about the party. About Ted and van Doren. Nobody's getting it right.

At lunch, me and Keith are in the middle of the Bog where it bends and faces the Senior Circle. Astrid's over there, relaxed and talking to her friends and guys who either dress cool or are wearing a letterman jacket. She won't have to move once and by the end of lunch thirty different people will have circled around until it was their chance to swoop in and talk to her.

Treat's eyes are huge when he comes up to us. Did we see
the party? It was right next door to me at the cheerleader chick's house? Did I see the cops? Did they really get Ted? Why didn't I say anything about any of this in English third period?

“Because it's crap. If you believe any of it, I've got a bridge to sell you.”

Treat laughs. “Is it in Brooklyn? I could use a bridge in Brooklyn.”

We bust up. Keith just grins, then says, “There's no such thing as the Brooklyn Bridge, right?”

“Are you an idiot?” Treat says.

“No,” Keith says real serious. “It's like Grant's Tomb, right? Only a sucker would buy it because it doesn't exist.” He looks at me.

“There's a Grant's Tomb,” I say.

“Keith?” Treat says. “Do you know who's buried in Grant's Tomb?”

Keith looks at us both real suspicious. “King Tut?”

Treat roars. “Awesome. And where do you think Grant's Tomb is?”

“You're going to tell me it's not in Egypt, right?”

“It's in New York,” I say.

Keith folds his arms. “No wonder you know. You're from there.”

“Jersey.”

“Same difference.”

“Okay,” I say, “then how does Treat know?”

“I don't know. But none of that matters. Everyone is talking about Ted and van Doren like they rule.”

Treat stops smiling and laughing. “That's true.”

A couple guys right across from us have been telling everyone
who walks up that the slam pit at Ted Two was so brutal some guy got his jaw broken.

“Who?” I yell over to them.

“Some guy from another school,” one of them yells back. “Probably El Dorado or Villa Park.”

Keith rubs his jaw. “Why is that cool?”

“It's not,” I say.

“Yeah, it is,” Treat says. “It's totally bitchin', even if it is bullshit.”

“It doesn't make sense,” I say. “The party wasn't
that
great. And Ted didn't do anything except get pushed by van Doren.”

Keith nods to Treat. “He wasn't even dressed cool.”

A minute goes by without anyone talking. We're just standing here, staring at the ground like maybe the answers slipped down into a crack in the asphalt. I'm thinking, here it is the third week of school and the only time anyone notices me is to ask if I hang out with the Mohawk dude.
Does he really have a tattoo of Geronimo on his chest? Is he part Apache or part Cherokee?

“We really need to start the band,” I say. “For real.”

Treat gets a grin so big it's like he's got extra teeth. “Bitchin', but it'll have to wait. Lyle is making me rake leaves today after school.”

Me and Keith look at each other, like,
Lyle?

“My dad,” Treat says.

“What if we help?” I say.

“You can't. Not the way I have to do it.”

Keith looks at Treat real funny. “You got a blower? That's how our gardener does it.”

Treat shakes his finger at Keith. “Lyle and Margaret do not stoop to such destructive devices. I've got to use an all-natural
rake.” He puts his hands out in the air like he's describing the vision of some distant universe. “Made wholly from the fallen limbs and branches of sequoias. Held together with dried kelp that washed ashore in Santa Cruz.”

“Does that mean no?” Keith says.

“Yes,” Treat says. “It means no. I've got the leaves; then we're tearing out the summer garden, tilling the soil for fall planting, turning the compost, building a—”

“Compost?” Keith says. “Like, your trash?”

“Like, potato peels and coffee grounds,” Treat says. “We fertilize the garden with it.”

Keith starts laughing. “So you guys eat your own trash? Remind me never to come over for dinner.”

Treat folds his arms and they puff out huge. “Don't worry about it.”

“What about tomorrow?” I say, and Keith looks at Treat with me.

Treat stares back at us, then says, “Yeah. You guys ready to do this?”

“I don't know,” I say. “But if van Dorken can do it, maybe we can too.”

Treat slugs me in the arm. “Nice, Reece. I like the way you're beating those war drums.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and one on Keith's and pulls us in for some kind of a huddle. “We are so in balance, guys. We're gonna be legends.”

.

Before bed, I sit down at my desk and write another letter to Uncle Ryan. I'm telling him how exciting it is to be in a band,
how epic this is going to be. Astrid's patio light is on, and the more I write, the more real the band becomes—the three of us standing on that patio with a backyard full of people staring at us; Astrid off to the side, smiling just at me and then, what? No music comes into my head. No lyrics. I'm not even sure where my hands go on the guitar that's just drooping at my side. Astrid looks really confused and the little surges of excitement in my chest drop into waves of nervous in my stomach.

I'm lying in bed, the letter sitting on my desk, when my dad walks in. He doesn't notice it, or anything really. He's looking at the carpet when he says something about Mom needing to leave early and so I'll have to make my own breakfast tomorrow. Back in Jersey, my dad made breakfast almost every day. Only when Uncle Ryan showed up would he let someone else do it, I guess because he's the one who taught Uncle Ryan.

“No problem,” I say, and he starts turning around to walk out. “Hey, Dad. Was Uncle Ryan ever in a band?”

He stops and turns back to me. One side of his mouth rises into a grin and he looks at me. “How did you know?” he says. “It was before you were born.”

“I didn't know. I was just wondering.”

“Oh,” my dad says, and his eyes go back to the carpet. “They were pretty good.”

I sit up in my bed, like,
Okay, tell me more.

“They did a lot of covers.” He looks up and says, “You know what a cover is?” I nod and he continues, “That got them some jobs at weddings and a couple bars.”

“Wow. Why didn't he keep playing?”

“Well,” my dad says. “He was so young then and they weren't making that much money.” He looks back at the carpet. “And your grandfather gave him a hard time about it.”

Grandpa Houghton was so nice, at least what I remember of him. “Why?”

My dad shakes his head. “Oh, your uncle liked all those English bands like the Animals and the Rolling Stones and, well, Grandpa grew up in Ireland.” He says this like it makes sense, like that completely answers the question, but I just shrug. “It was a different time,” he says and steps to the door.

“How?”

My dad takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “Your uncle and your grandpa didn't always get along.”

“Because of the band?”

“I can't explain it right now, Reece.” He looks up, his eyes sort of red but not like he's angry. “It's time for bed,” he says, then closes the door before I can ask anything else.