LUCAS AND CHRISTOPHER MANAGED TO drag and carry Jake from the landing across the ferry parking area, past the Passmores’ restaurant, and along the curve of Town Beach. But they still weren’t half the distance to Jake’s house.
“Man, I was hoping to get an hour of sleep before I had to get up and go to work,” Christopher complained.
“I gotta take a rest,” Lucas said. He sloughed Jake’s arm off his shoulder and the two of them tumbled Jake over the low concrete retaining wall onto the beach.
“We could just leave him there,” Christopher suggested hopefully.
Lucas shook his head. “He’s had a bad time of it tonight.”
“He’s hammered. How bad a time could he be having?”
Lucas slumped down gratefully onto the sand, resting his back against the wall. Christopher sat down wearily just on the other side of Jake.
“Why does this remind me of a scene from Weekend at Bernie’s?” Christopher asked dryly. “Two of us and a dead guy.”
As if to deny that he was dead, Jake began snoring fitfully.
“So. What hit the fan with Jake here?” Christopher asked.
“Claire told him I’d slept with her,” Lucas said.
“You slept with Claire?” Christopher demanded, simultaneously shocked and envious.
“No. I told you about it, Christopher. We kind of made out was all.”
“Yeah, I remember that.”
“So Claire told Jake we’d done it. Jake gets upset and proceeds to get roasted. Then he goes off and tells Zoey the big news.”
Christopher was absently sifting sand through his fingers. “Why’d he tell Zoey?”
Lucas shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. But basically I guess Jake still kind of likes Zoey. Maybe she still likes him, too, I don’t know.”
“Oh, so it’s like he’s warning her that you’re a dog. He figures when she hears about this, she’ll dump you and go running to him?”
Lucas sighed. “I don’t know, dude. I’m too tired to figure it all out. Except that for whatever reason, Claire lied to Jake. Maybe she was trying to make him jealous. Maybe she just wanted to make him mad enough to kick my ass.”
“Women,” Christopher said without elaboration.
“Claire,” Lucas said darkly. He dug his hand down into the cold sand. The tide was coming in, lapping closer and closer, inch by inch. But they were well up the beach, beyond the reach of the water.
“Maybe she told Jake figuring he’d be sure to tell Zoey,” Christopher suggested. “Maybe she wants to break you and Zoey up.”
“I’m sure she has some reason,” Lucas agreed, “but with her, who knows? No one understands Claire, except maybe Benjamin.” He nudged the unconscious Jake. “This poor dude, man, he’s just helpless.”
“So what are you going to do about Zoey?” Christopher asked. “Tell her, ‘hey, babe, I didn’t do it with Claire. I tried like hell but I didn’t because she wouldn’t let me’?” Christopher laughed cynically.
“I’m glad you’re entertained by my life falling apart,” Lucas said grimly. “Christopher, do you ever think maybe you’re just the world’s biggest screwup?”
“No, man,” Christopher said. “You shouldn’t think that way, either.”
Lucas stared out into the darkness for a while. “You know what I have going for me if I lose Zoey?” he said at last.
“No. What?”
“Not a single goddamned thing, Christopher,” Lucas said. “Not one single thing.”
Christopher had no answer for this. He sighed and looked mightily uncomfortable, and at last Lucas forced a lighter tone.
“So. How about if we drag Jake down to the water? Cold seawater in the face might wake him up enough to stagger home.”
Christopher climbed to his feet, brushing sand from his pants. “Worth a try.”
“Come on, Jake,” Lucas said gently. “Time to hit the cold shower.”
Aisha sat in her room, on her still-made bed, with her personal photo album open on her lap. The lamp was on, casting a gentle yellow glow. She wore a long flannel nightgown, light gray with pink flowers. On the wall above her bed was a mounted poster of Einstein. On the opposite wall a poster of Stephen Hawking against the backdrop of his book A Brief History of Time. Over her desk were photos of Ronald McNair, the astronaut and physicist killed in the Challenger explosion, Barack Obama, and Dr. King.
In the book on her lap was a photograph of Jeff Pullings and her, hugging extravagantly. To Aisha’s critical eye, she looked like a toothpick topped with lots of hair. Jeff was a head taller, hair cut in a stylish fade, muscular arms bare in a torn, sleeveless denim jacket that was open in front.
She could remember the day the picture had been taken. Aisha with Jeff and his friends, all on a Saturday hanging out by Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Jeff and three other guys had decided they were going to get serious making music, and armed with a turntable, a small amplifier, a tape player, and a lot of D-cell batteries, they were going to entertain the tourists at Faneuil Hall and, no doubt, be overheard by someone with connections to the music industry.
Aisha had thought at the time that it was a silly plan, but Jeff was three years older, an actual senior while Aisha was a lowly freshman, so she kept quiet.
As it turned out they played for a while, picked up nine dollars in donations, and finally got rousted by two good-humored cops. The police informed them that there was a city bureaucracy that had to be dealt with if you wanted to play music in public.
Unlike Jeff, Aisha had the patience to learn more. And three months later Jeff got a regular spot rapping in one of the T stations, Boston’s public transportation system. During the week commuters on the system got a few minutes of a string quartet as they waited for trains. But on Saturday and Sunday the spot was turned over to Jeff, now, in honor of the “T,” calling himself T-Bone.
That’s what he was doing when Aisha and her family left Boston. Now he was opening for Afrojack and Tiësto. Or Tea Stew, as her father said. Jeff had come a long way. He was a success, against all the odds. And now he wanted to see Aisha again.
Aisha went to her closet and after some digging pulled out her old diary. In those days she had written her private thoughts down on paper, protected only by a tiny brass lock that had long since broken. Now when she felt like writing, she put it in her computer, protected by passwords. Only, she seldom wrote anything anymore.
Dear Diary: Got an A plus on the stupid math test today and Mr. Lass naturally made a big deal because it was the only perfect score in the class, which was so embarrassing. That little bitch Breonna (gag, retch) called me a mega-dweeb . . .
Aisha smiled ruefully and thumbed forward. Fortunately she’d gotten over being embarrassed that she was good in things like math.
Dear Diary: Guess who asked me out? Jeff PULLINGS!!!! He’s a SENIOR!!!! I nearly screamed when he said it. No one EVEN believes it’s true . . .
Dear Diary: Mother is totally MENTAL because I’m going out with Jeff. Like just because he’s older he’s only after one thing. Duh. Like guys my own age aren’t just the same. And being older he’s so much more mature, so he’s not all gross about things. I am so absolutely in LOVE with Jeff. I think someday he’ll be a famous musician and we’ll be married and I’ll be a model. Like John Legend and that Chrissy girl only not so dorky . . .
Dear Diary: Jeff just left this minute and I had to write about it instantly. It was so magical and amazing. He is so mature and so cool. We french-kissed for a really long time and I even let him touch under my bra!!! Scream!!!
Aisha closed the book. The fourteen-year-old Aisha seemed like another person. A slightly embarrassing person, gushing over Jeff like that. But there was one more entry she wanted to read again. She remembered the date.
Dear Diary: This was the night. The night when I absolutely became a WOMAN and not just a little girl. That’s what Jeff told me, that now I was his woman, not his little girl. In case you can’t guess, dear diary, we finally—
There was a light tapping sound at her window and Aisha started guiltily. She slammed the diary closed and slid it under her pillow.
She caught her breath for a moment, then drew the curtains back. What she saw was a familiar, though distorted face. A Joker mask.
She opened the window. “Hi, Christopher.”
“Why so serious?” Christopher asked.
“Wait, you’re not Christopher,” Aisha said, feeling guilty but trying to act normal. “You’re so much prettier than he is.”
Christopher pulled off the mask. “Very humorous.”
“Now, what if I had screamed at the top of my lungs and woken up my father and mother?”
Christopher looked thoughtful. “Hmm. I guess I’d have had to run for it.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Can I come in?”
“No, you can’t. I’ll be right out.”
Aisha closed the windows and drew the curtains again. She pulled on her galumphy L.L. Bean boots, leaving them unlaced, and her puffy green parka over her flannel nightgown. She hazarded a look at herself in the mirror and had to laugh. If Christopher could love her looking like this, he must really love her. What would Jeff think if he saw her in full Maine regalia, looking like a cross between Minnie Mouse and Frosty the Snowman?
She crept silently down the hall and opened the front door carefully. The air was a cold slap, making her face tingle, immediately finding its way under the hem of her nightgown. Christopher came up with the mask back on.
“Kiss me,” he whispered.
“It’s freezing out here,” Aisha said.
Christopher pulled off the mask again, obviously a little disgruntled that she didn’t find it as hysterically funny as he did. He put his arms around her, squeezing air from her parka, and pulled her close.
His first kiss was infinitely gentle.
Jeff had always been playful when he kissed her.
His second kiss was deeper, not aggressive, but yearning. She opened her lips.
She remembered the first time Jeff had ever french-kissed her. She’d been shocked and slightly disgusted. But later, when she’d gotten used to it, she’d found it incredibly exciting.
As she did now with Christopher.
As she had then with Jeff.
Christopher’s lips were fuller.
Jeff’s thinner. And there had been a rasp of whiskers.
Christopher was taller.
Jeff had been broader.
Christopher trailed kisses down her throat, lowering the zipper of her parka to expose more. “Let’s go sit in my car,” he said in a low whisper.
They walked across the yard to Christopher’s shattered, horrible island car. Aisha glanced back nervously at the house. Fortunately her parents’ windows were at the back. Unless they came into the family’s private living room, they couldn’t see the front yard.
Inside the car it was marginally warmer. The radio was on, playing scratchy, staticky, but unfortunately recognizable music. Tiësto. “Feel It In My Bones.” Aisha snapped it off.
“You don’t like the music?” Christopher said.
“It’s not coming in very well,” Aisha said.
Christopher smiled self-deprecatingly. “It’s not exactly a great sound system. But the sad thing is, it’s one of the best parts of this car.”
“You think this is bad?” Aisha looked around at the interior, the sagging headliner, the fact that there were no backseats, the plastic wrap and duct tape that were the right rear window. “For an island car this is nothing. You still have a windshield.”
“Don’t be dissin’ my ride,” Christopher joked. “This is as big a piece of crap as anything on the island.”
“No way. You have a muffler.”
“Well, I have to since I drive around at night,” Christopher said defensively. “But how about the paint job? How about the fact that one headlight points left and the other points almost straight up?”
“Hey, in our island car only one door opens. And our radio only gets one station, and that’s a country station.”
“Oooh. That is good,” Christopher admitted.
“But I will say you have an excellent stench of mildew,” Aisha allowed. “And I like the way the rear bumper is attached with yellow nylon rope. That’s a nice touch.”
“I’ll show you a nice touch,” Christopher said in a low, sexy voice.
“You wish.”
There was a loud rapping on the roof of the car that made them both jump.
“Uh-oh,” Christopher said. He lowered the window on his side. “Hi, Mrs. Gray.”
“Well, hello, Christopher,” Aisha’s mother said.
“I was, uh, delivering the papers?”
“I see them there on the porch,” Mrs. Gray said. “Also, I believe I see my daughter. In your car. At three thirty in the morning.”
“We were just saying good night,” Aisha said.
“Then say it,” Mrs. Gray said, putting some steel into her voice.
“Good night, Aisha,” Christopher said, extending his hand formally.
Aisha shook it. “Good night, Christopher.”
She climbed out of the car and started toward the house, followed by her mother’s vow that they would be discussing this tomorrow. “Oh yes,” Mrs. Gray said. “We will definitely be discussing this.”
Aisha
I’ll tell you what’s scary: snakes. I mean, I know it’s a real common thing to be afraid of, but still, snakes can be bad news. You can show me Nightmare on Elm Street one through seventeen and I don’t care. But don’t get me around snakes. You can’t trust an animal that has no legs. I mean a land animal, of course. Dolphins have no legs and I’m sure they’re fine, but a thing on land with no legs is not to be trusted. Snakes, worms, slugs: I have nothing good to say about any of them.
The other thing that’s always kind of scared me is insanity. You know? Like the possibility that one day you’d be going along fine, minding your own business, and then, all of a sudden, your brain just loses it? You start hearing voices in your head, seeing things that aren’t there? You start gibbering like an idiot and talking about conspiracies? It happens. And it’s usually during the teen years that insanity starts showing up. That’s true. They say it’s all the hormones associated with going through puberty, and the fact is that the closest I ever came to going crazy was mostly because of hormone-related things. It was like all my life growing up I’d been this perfectly normal girl. Some might even say boring. I mean, I was still in Girl Scouts when I was fourteen, which tells you I wasn’t exactly running with the wild and crazy crowd.
But then, when I was fourteen, I did sort of go crazy. Dangerously, stupidly crazy. Only for a while, but enough to know I didn’t want to stay that way.
What made me go crazy? Duh. A guy, of course. What else would it be?