Whirligig (2 page)

Chaz took stock of Brent's catsup-red Bulls shirt. “Points off,” he said. He dropped the accent. “Brent Bishop, right?”

Brent nodded his head.

“Bishop, like the chess piece,” Chaz mused. “Let's see if he moves back and forth diagonally, the way a bishop should.”

He stood behind Brent, put both hands on his shoulders, and guided him toward the left. Brent resisted at first, them complied, allowing himself to be treated like a toy, hating his helplessness. Abruptly, Chaz reversed direction, pulling Brent stumbling backward.

“Works fine to the left. Let's try the right.”

People were watching. Brent felt like slugging Chaz, but knew his tormentor was taller, more muscled, and the de facto ruler of their class besides. If Chaz said that easy-listening music was hip, then it was. Losing his cool here would be suicide.

“Seems to be in good working order,” said Chaz. He stopped, then turned Brent to the left. “Bishop to drinks table,” he called out in chess-move fashion. Struggling not to trip, Brent was marched across the grass, through a circle of girls, and up to the table. He felt Chaz's hands release him and prayed his host would vanish. He did.

He replaced his headphones to help shut out the scene and stood staring, dazed, at the bottles before him. He felt as if he were still onstage. Playing to his audience and his own need, he poured himself a scotch and soda, heavy on the former. He added ice and sipped it quickly, feeling it run through him like a river of lava. Discreetly, he scouted the territory. The smell of pot smoke reached his nostrils. He spotted Jonathan in a group of boys on the lawn and headed that way.

The talk was of the Cubs. Brent marveled that people could publicly root for such perennial losers. The Bulls in basketball were different. They won. Both he and his father had bought Bulls shirts their first week in Chicago. His own stood out less among the whites and blacks as darkness fell. Then lights came on above the tennis court and inside the gazebo.

“The human chess game will commence in thirty minutes!” Chaz announced from the patio.

“Should be interesting,” said the boy next to Brent.

The subject switched to hockey. Brent pretended to listen, sipping his drink and watching Brianna. He wanted to catch her alone. At the moment, she was talking with two other girls. She was drinking a beer and had a sullen look, her wavy blond hair reaching down her black dress like a hanging garden. His knowledge of her was sketchy. In his two months at Montfort he'd learned that she'd recently broken up with someone, that she stood near the top of the pecking order, and that her father, rumor had it, was worth a hundred million. He also knew, for a fact, that she was gorgeous. Having her for a girlfriend would mean instant respect. And why shouldn't she like him? He was tall, a little skinny perhaps, a bit uncoordinated, but reasonably handsome, with a square chin and no braces or acne. She was probably sick of the same old faces. She'd smiled at him off and on when they passed. They'd been assigned to the same group project in history. Making use of his newcomer status, he'd often asked her questions about Chicago, offering in return his services in math, his best subject. She hadn't taken him up on it as yet, but finals were coming. He had hopes.

He made another drink and returned, his nerves pleasantly numbed by the scotch. He took off his headphones. He was feeling more comfortable, proud of the fact that he could hold hard liquor. On the patio, Chaz had taken off the rap and put on French-sounding accordion music. It was so corny it was cool, and somehow fit the moment: a spring evening, the air warm at last, the leaves thrusting from the trees again and crowding out the sky. A faint breeze stirred the greenery.

Around Brent, the talk turned to cars, then gradually focused on Porsches. He heard his cue and roused himself.

“The 4-S really flies,” he volunteered. “But tons of repairs. Always in the shop. Don't even say the word
Porsche
to my dad.”

“He drives one?” asked Jonathan. “I always see him in that Continental.”

“Back in Atlanta,” said Brent. “Finally sold it.” It was the sort of lie that would never be found out, the sort he'd drawn on often. Moving had at least that one advantage. Over the years, he'd grown adept at creating alternate pasts for himself. He glanced to his right and was returned to the present. Brianna was crossing the grass, alone.

He slipped from his group and hurried his steps to intercept her.

“Hi,” he said.

She looked startled. She hadn't seen him in the shadows. “Hi,” she replied flatly, then moved on.

He strode beside her briskly to keep up. “So who are you in the chess game?”

She reached the drinks table and poured herself some vodka. “Beats me.”

She added tonic to her cup. He added scotch to his and sipped it. He lifted the top off the ice bucket for her. She ignored the gesture and walked away. He followed, emboldened by the alcohol to try to overcome her coolness.

“That history test was deadly,” he offered.

“Sure was.”

He tried to fight through the accordion music and the fog in his brain to find something to say, unaware she was headed for the crowded gazebo. He sipped his drink.

“If you need any help in math—”

Brianna stopped short, squeezed her eyes shut, then wheeled and screamed, “Stop hanging all over me!”

They were well lit by the light in the gazebo, where Chaz was giving a waltzing lesson. All heads turned toward Brianna and Brent. Conversation stopped.

“You're like a leech or something! Get off of me! Can't you take a hint? Go bother someone else! And that goes for at school too!”

There was silence but for the accordion's cheery tune. Brianna stormed up the gazebo's steps and disappeared into the crowd.

Brent stood, brain and limbs paralyzed, as if turned to stone by her curse. He'd never been in such a situation and had no ready response. The music and the black and white figures facing him made him wonder if he was dreaming.

“Been rehearsing that scene long?” asked Chaz for all to hear. “Drama Club needs you.”

There was laughter at this. Brent's thoughts tilted crazily. He pictured them all repeating the scene to their friends, replaying it like the sports highlights, guffawing over it at the twenty-year reunion. He turned, desperate to get out of the light's glare, and started toward the shadows. Bounding down the steps, Chaz cut him off and placed both hands on his shoulders.

“Bishop to penalty bench,” he called loudly. “Ten minutes, for sexual harassment.”

More laughs. He aimed Brent toward a stone bench. The hated grip on his shoulders again, the public humiliation, the snickers, the alcohol, all mixed and detonated inside Brent. He stopped, whirled, throwing off Chaz's hands, and swung with all his might.

“Jesus!” came from the gazebo.

The blow missed Chaz's face, scraping his ear. Both he and Brent stood in shock, caught off guard, breathless. Chaz's crown had fallen off. Brent aimed a ferocious kick at it, connected, sent it spinning over the grass, then turned and stumbled toward the patio, alone.

“Calling Miss Manners,” someone shouted out.

“Tell her it's an emergency.”

“Y'all come back, Georgia boy.”

He entered the house, his thoughts swirling. He took a wrong turn, passed through the dining room twice, kicked a wall in frustration, then charged down a hall and found the front door. He left it standing open behind him and steamed toward his car like a torpedo. Jonathan could find another ride home.

He got in and peeled out. His mind was a wreckage of sound bites and images from the last five minutes, endlessly repeating, shuffled, overlapping. It didn't seem real, but he knew it was. The consequences would be real as well. He was a leper now. No one would go near him. Certainly no girl. He'd destroyed himself.

He shot up an entrance ramp. “He
forgot to tell me
about the stupid clothes!” he yelled, and the tantrum began. “Some stupid, idiotic, goddamn friend!” He shouted out the catalog of the night's injustices, rained punishments on his enemies, wailed at his disappointments and deprivations. The flood of words seemed to bear him down the road. His head reeled with drink and despair. Then he saw that he'd gotten on the wrong expressway. This was 94. They'd come on 294, or so he thought. He rummaged hopelessly through his memory, trying to recall their route. He'd let Jonathan guide him and hadn't paid attention. He fumbled, opened the glove compartment, and let loose a landslide of cassettes. He felt around with his hand. No map. He was nearing Skokie. He began to get nervous. He wondered where 94 led. Then mile by mile the uneasiness passed. He felt strangely unconcerned. He realized that he really didn't care where he was going. Why should he? His life was a house that had burned to the ground. What was there to go back to?

He drove on, weaving slightly, aware that every car but his had a destination. He felt spent, emptied of all will. He was beyond tantrums. Instead, a measured voice began broadcasting within him, soft and unexpected, like a warm wind out of season.

There's no need to go home,
said the voice.
No need to go back to school on Monday. No need to go there ever again.

Ahead, car lights hurtled toward him just as in a video game. He was in the fast lane, steering between the white lights on his left and the reds on his right.

There's no need to feel pain. You've already felt enough.

The driver beside him honked when Brent drifted into his lane. Brent ignored him.

No need to let them hurt you again.

The voice flowed through his veins like morphine. He wove between the lights, hypnotized.

You have the power to stop the hurting.

He removed his hands experimentally from the steering wheel for a moment.

No need to be a pawn.

He put his hands back. The driver beside him honked once more, then slid several lanes over and sped up.

They are the pawns. You are a king.

He took his hands delicately off the wheel again.

You have a king's absolute power within you.

He held his hands in midair for several seconds. They shook slightly. Gradually, he lowered them and laid them lightly on his thighs. He stared blankly at the lights before him.

You have absolute power over your own life.

He saw that the car was drifting to the left. He felt his hands jerk, but kept them on his thighs.

You have the power to end your life. Now.

Very slowly, he closed his eyes.

Weeksboro, Maine

“Would you mind telling me where we're going?”

“To a motorboat waiting in a cove,” said Alexandra, “ready to take us to a French duke's estate on one of Maine's countless islands, there to join his harem.”

“Dream on.” I bumped her off the shoveled sidewalk and into the snow. “I'm serious.”

“C'est une surprise,”
said Alexandra.

“You know I'm taking German.”

“I also know you're brilliant enough to figure it out.”

“And that I hate surprises.”

“Honestly, Steph. Relax!”

The clearest winter days are the coldest. I gave my scarf a third and nearly fatal wrap around my neck. “It's too freezing outside for ouija walking.” An Alexandra invention in which you walk without any conscious plan, letting your feet go where they will.

“We're not going ouija walking,” she said.

“The Nook is closed Sundays, so we can't steal scenes.” Another of her amusements, consisting of ordering something at Weeksboro's one restaurant, listening to the people at the neighboring table, then talking about what
they're
talking about—carburetors, hysterectomies—completely ignoring them when they stare at you.

“We're not heading toward the Nook, as you can plainly see,
chère.
”

We passed the Town Hall, fanged with icicles, and turned down Beech Street. “So where
are
we going?”

“Out to the point, near Pam McQuillen's. To throw a lifeline to a friend in distress.”

“What friend?”

Alexandra smiled. “You.”

I stopped, but she didn't. I caught up, skidding on the ice. “What are you talking about?”

She sighed, producing a cloud of vapor. “You don't like surprises. You like certainties. Facts. An extremely dangerous side effect of having marine biologists for parents. So let's look at the facts. First, we're eighth-graders. We're in our biological prime. In many cultures around the world we'd already be married and bearing children. Soon our beauty will fade. Very soon. Just look at Sheila Sperl's older sister. Second, three weeks and six days ago, Trevor and I pledged our love to each other. Third, you remain unattached, as you've been all two and a half years of middle school. Fourth, it's the Christmas holidays, a time known to be especially painful for single people like yourself. Fifth and last, and most important, we've been best friends ever since nursery school. Who else but me has written you a birthday poem for six straight years? And who else besides you shows up at the Great Books discussion group I started? I don't want this to come between us, Steph. We have to find you a boyfriend.”