“There’s going to be a keg party out at the Sand Pits on Friday night,” Jessie says to me one day after school. We’re Scotch-taping snippets of perfume ads clipped from Seventeen to the inside of our locker door: “Embracing makes things happen!” “Give the night to Tabu.” “There’s nothing between you and me except Sweet Honesty.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, nervously anticipating trying to wrangle Mom and Father’s permission to stay out late. Obviously, I won’t tell them I’m going to a keg party, but even getting permission to go to a movie can be a hassle.
“You know, we barely went out last year,” Jessie says. “This is our year to have fun.” She has been to a couple of the parties at the Sand Pits, which is an abandoned mine pit where the popular kids go practically every weekend in the fall.
“You’re right, Jess, let’s do it.” I grab my calc and chemistry books from the top shelf and put them in my knapsack. I’ll leave the books lying conspicuously open someplace where Mom and Father are sure to see them.
“Hey, Ellen,” Tomper says to me in chemistry on Friday, “are you going to be at the Pits tonight?” His strong forearms rest on our counter.
“Of course,” I say, as if I do it all the time.
“It’s going to be a good party—we’re getting six kegs.” His eyes look turquoise next to the black counter. A pack of Marlboros peeks, like an imp, from his shirt pocket.
Kegs. Beer. An illegal party. Mom and Father would kill me if I got caught. Not to mention that I’d get kicked off the gymnastics team.
Tomper sees me staring at his cigarettes. He looks down, then shoves the red-and-white pack all the way into his pocket, until the only evidence of it is the lump it makes.
“Thanks, Ellen,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “I could really get into trouble with the football coach for these.” I squirm inside. I wish I didn’t know he smoked.
“You know,” I say tentatively, “it’d improve your running and endurance a lot if you didn’t smoke.”
Tomper looks at me, then fiddles with a beaker that I’ve just washed. “I’m trying to quit,” he says, holding the beaker up to the light as if checking for spots. “At my house, cigarettes’re treated like candy—and hell, things there are so crazy that you need to smoke two or three just to calm down. My brothers and me are always puffing away.”
I shudder. Why don’t his parents stop him?
“Hey, break it up over there,” Mr. Borglund’s voice booms. I immediately return to the lab equipment. I do not want to get on my teacher’s bad side.
Tomper, however, heads back to his lab station at a pace rivaling Marcel Marceau’s “Walking against the Wind.” He stops to turn around and wink.
“Hope I see you at the Pits,” he says.
“I’d like to go out with Jessie to the late-late show,” I tell Mom casually as I dry the dinner dishes. Mom raises an eyebrow.
“Do you have all your homework done?”
My stomach is shrinking to the size of a prune.
“Yes—all of it.” I am so glad Father is on call, because, of the two, usually Mom is more sympathetic. “Please—I’d really like to go.”
“You’ll come home right after the movie?”
Mom’s face is soft in the kitchen light. It’s hard not being like Michelle and staying in to study all the time. I want to please Mom and Father, but I also can’t imagine being a senior and not going to at least one party.
“Yes, Mom,” I say, but I’m suddenly thinking about what will happen to me if I don’t get into Harvard, not because I’m going to a party, but because I’m not smart enough. I know for a fact that I’m not as smart as Michelle—just talking to her always confuses me; she uses such big, obscure words. I wish Mom and Father would give me alternatives. Instead, I feel I have to get into Harvard or fall into a black hole. Some choice.
Still, at 8:00, I back out our Chevy Blazer from the garage and drive across town to Jessie’s.
When I pull up, her house is dark; her father doesn’t come home from the mines until late in the evening, so she doesn’t leave the lights on.
I’ve never met Jessie’s mom. One Thanksgiving, long before Jessie and I became friends, an Arkin High student killed her when he came barreling down the wrong side of the street in his pickup—apparently he’d been drinking while watching the football game.
I stare out at the night. I won’t drive drunk tonight—or any night. No way.
Jessie opens the door to the car. “Hi, Ellen,” she says. As she hoists herself into the Blazer, the flowery smell of Sweet Honesty fills the car, followed by a slight trace of cooking smell—fried something.
“Do you know how to get there?” I ask.
“Yeah, go down that dirt road behind the old Saint Andrews School, and I’ll show you. It’s a bit of a drive.”
I have visions of taking a wrong turn and pitching the Blazer headlong over a cliff. But then I think of Tomper Sandel and the way he was talking to me in chemistry. I shift the car into gear.
“Okay, Jess, you’re the navigator.”
As it turns out, the sign to Karl Pit, aka the Sand Pits, is well marked. I even see a few cars driving into it.
“Duck,” Jessie says as overhanging branches slap the windshield. I downshift and let the car bounce in and out of the ruts in the road. Our headlights bash holes into the peaceful darkness.
As the car pulls into a clearing, I feel as if we’re at the county fair, with all the lights around: from the moon, car headlights, and the huge bonfire spewing sparks into the sky.
Shadowy forms move restlessly; laughter pops and crackles out of the fire.
A jean-jacketed blob immediately approaches us in the dark. The blob is Rocky Jukich, one of the “burnout” guys in our class. If you sit around smoking on the school lawn, as I’ve seen Rocky do, you’re considered a burnout; and there has always seemed to be some kind of correlation between burnouts and trouble: smoking, bad grades, drugs, you name it. Right now, the red end of Rocky’s cigarette looks like a glowworm in the dark. I can’t tell where his mouth is.
“It’s a two-dollar contribution tonight,” he drawls.
Jessie and I dig awkwardly in the pockets of our tight Levi’s and extract dollars.
“Have a good time, girls.” He hands us two flimsy plastic cups.
“I’m sure we will,” Jessie calls gaily as she pushes me toward a thick of kids where, I guess, the kegs must be. “Ugh,” she says as we fall into a sea of kids shoving to fill cups. “Where’s the line?”
“Hey, move it, you assholes!” Tomper bursts through an opening on the other side of the crowd. A keg is firmly attached to both arms. He is in a white T-shirt, no jacket, and his biceps dance as he heaves the keg to the ground.
“You guys want to break your legs or something?” he bellows to the kids standing around the kegs. “Get out of the way when someone comes through carrying a keg, for Christ’s sake.”
I watch with fascination as Tomper pierces the dull silver keg with the tap and starts the beer running. I hope he won’t see me trying to pour myself a beer—I have no idea how a tap works. It just seems to be a long, skinny hose with some small contraption at the end, not one of those huge levers with beer logos like the ones I’ve seen on Cheers.
“Well hello there,” he says, his eyes suddenly finding me. “You made it.”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my blood pressure rise.
“Here, give me your cup.”
Tomper’s strong fingers take my cup away. He presses the little contraption and beer fizzes out—first a golden foam, which he throws away, and then real beer. He politely hands my cup to me. His eyes are navy blue in the dark.
“Here, gimme your glass,” he says to Jessie, who is standing openmouthed.
When Jessie has her beer, Tomper gives me a wave and a smile as he walks away. I’m so surprised, I almost forget to smile back.
“Wow,” Jessie says as we move toward the fire. “I didn’t know you knew Tomper Sandel.”
I take a swig of beer and am surprised by its cool, acrid taste. I am tempted to act as though Tomper and I have been buddies for a long time.
“Actually, Jess, he’s just started talking to me in chemistry and stuff,” I say as we reach the fire. I am feeling better now that I see there’s no sign of the police, undercover teachers, or my gymnastics coach.
“He’s definitely on my Gorgeous Burnout List,” she says, closing her eyes and letting the fire shine on her face. “Right up there with Rocky Jukich.”
“Do you think Tomper’s a burnout?” I ask. “After all, he plays football and hockey.” Most of the burnouts like Rocky abhor sports, and while I know that Tomper does smoke, he doesn’t seem to get into the heavy trouble—drugs, skipping classes, fighting—that people like Rocky do.
“Sure, they’re both from Rainy Lake,” she says, speaking of the wooded part of town just outside Arkin that people always seem to be talking about in hushed tones. Apparently, there are some bad biker bars out there, and a man was rumored to have been killed at one.
“Oh,” I say. No matter, anyway. Tomper is way out of my league.
Jessie and I notice Mike Anderson and some other hockey players tromping drunkenly out of the tall brush, dragging wooden railroad ties. They grab the ties like battering rams and push them through a narrow opening in the crowd of kids. The ties crash into the fire with a flurry of sparks, and Mike haw-haws like a moose.
“Some party, huh?” Jessie says to me.
“Hey, whash up?” Shari, one of Jessie’s friends from typing, swoops into our personal space. Her pale hair has been permed and bleached so much that it looks like electrical wiring, and the last button she’s unbuttoned on her shirt looks just a little too low.
“Not much,” Jessie says, looking back into the fire. “Hey, what’s the deal with the V8s?”
My head swivels and I see that Marsha Randall and some of the other popular girls are sporting cans of V8—the vegetable drink—as if this is a health-food convention. Marsha is flirting with some football players, trying to step on their toes and giggling.
“Oh, those assholes.” Shari takes a shaky puff from her Marlboro. I try to lean out of the way when the used smoke comes charging out of her nostrils. “They say they can’t drink ’cause of cheerleading.”
And gymnastics, I think to myself. Marsha is the captain of the team.
“What a bunch of show-offs, those cheerleaders,” Jessie says, loud enough that Marsha and her friends can probably hear. I admire how Jessie says exactly what’s on her mind.
In fact, the first time I met her, we were at a music recital, and she came right over and said she’d like to sit with me. I was surprised and flattered—I had no idea she even knew who I was.
She said she was going to play the Moonlight Sonata. Then she showed me her hands: she’d put on at least two cheap plastic rings—the kind you get out of gumball machines—on each finger.
“I wanted to get into the mood by wearing my Liberace look,” she said, while I tried not to laugh out loud. I thought she’d take them off before going onstage. Instead, she waved her hands around before she sat down. I thought old Mrs. Matheny, our piano teacher, would have a heart attack, but she just sat there and smiled. Then Jessie played the most beautiful Moonlight Sonata I’d ever heard—the music was so pure that it drew tears to my eyes. I couldn’t believe the sound was coming from Jessie, her big body crouched down to the piano, all those crazy rings moving to the music.
“It was the rings,” she told me modestly later. “You want to come over to my house? Ever drink coffee before? It’s good if you put a lot of milk and sugar in it.”
Ever since, we have been inseparable.
If the cheerleaders hear Jessie, however, they don’t show it. They keep giggling and talking to all the popular guys. Shari talks to Jessie about typing class. I mostly sit back and watch.
“Who needs another beer?” Jessie holds up her empty cup.
“I’ll come with you,” I say, even though I’m done drinking for the night. At the kegs, a white jean-jacket sleeve brushes mine, and I catch a whiff of a nice, sophisticated-smelling perfume. I look up to see Marsha Randall making, I guess, a V8 and beer cocktail.
Marsha glances over at me just as I realize that I am staring. I start to smile hello—as I try to do every day in gymnastics—but I stop when I see that she’s turning her back on me, as if I’m a little ant that she’s seen but not noticed.
Jessie fills her cup and then sneers once Marsha vanishes into the crowd. “So much for not drinking,” she says. “Give me an H-Y-P-O-C-R-I-T-E. Rah rah.”
“She’s so pretty, though,” I say wistfully.
“She’s a real doorknob, you know,” Jessie says. “I had her in Math One, and she could not figure out how to divide fractions for the life of her. She just sat around giggling. Finally, she got Mike Anderson to do her problems for her.”
“I’m surprised he knew how to,” I say.
Out of nowhere, I feel a touch on my back. Uh-oh.
“Hey, Ellen.” Tomper’s voice.
“Hi, Tomper,” I say. Now my back is burning.
“I’m going to get another beer,” Jessie says quickly, and she scoots away.
“How do you like the party?” he asks as the butterflies in my stomach start doing violent flip-flops. Tomper is standing before me, his biceps now hidden inside his jean jacket, which is frayed at the elbows.
“It’s okay,” I say as my mind races for something clever to say.
“A great night for it,” he says as we start wandering away from the fire into the dark brush. “You can see all the constellations from here,” Tomper goes on, looking up at the sky of obsidian and ice. The heavy metal music from the party faintly bleeds into the night.
Then, like in a dream, I feel one of his hands close around mine. My heart beats like a tom-tom.
“There’s the North Star,” he says, pointing with his other hand. You can find it by tracing the path from the Big Dipper. It comes in handy if you need to find your way home.”
I look at Tomper in fascination. He looks like an angel, his gold hair a halo in the moonlight. A warm breeze touches my neck and gives me the shivers.
“If I followed the North Star,” I say softly, “I think I’d just end up at the North Pole, not home.”
Tomper’s laugh covers me, mixing in with the sound of the wind disturbing the tall pine branches. His head moves, eclipsing the moon. The next thing I know, his mouth is gently pressing on mine. This can’t be happening, I think as Tomper’s arms close around me. Tomper Sandel and me?
I don’t know who is the first to pull away, but we both bounce away like springs. His eyes look silver for a moment, by the moon. He is smiling.
“You’re a good kisser,” he says.
“My first time,” I admit. A strand of my long inky hair flutters, bat-like, into my face, and Tomper gently brushes it away.
“Beginner’s luck, then,” he says, grinning. Why did I tell him this was my first kiss? I’m such a nerd. Then I remember to check my watch. It is almost midnight.
“Oh no, Tomper,” I say. “I really have to go.”
“You turn into a pumpkin at midnight or something?”
“No, my parents will kill me if I’m not home on time.”
“Well, see you later, ’gator,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.
I’ll never wash that hand, I think. I never imagined I’d catch myself thinking something like that. I run across the clearing to the Blazer. Thank God Jessie is there, ready and waiting—and smiling, because she knows I am going to tell her all about it, every detail.
We board the chariot, and it takes us rambling down the road, seemingly right into the huge harvest moon.