The rain is cold and ferocious. I can’t see out the front of my Subaru. The water veils my station wagon in a sideways sheet of foreboding. Jack is standing outside, waiting for me. He runs to my car, his clothes soaked through to his wiry teenage frame.
“Need a ride?” I say, opening the door.
Jack slides into the car, shuts the door. He runs his hand through his wet hair and pulls his Prep letter jacket around his face, trying to shield his bloodshot eyes from me.
“Can we just go?” he asks.
“Where?”
“Somewhere, anywhere.”
Jack is about an inch taller and twenty pounds lighter than me. Fifteen years old, a month and a half into his sophomore year in high school, his jacket bears his athletic accomplishments: a block-letter P on his left chest; two chevrons, one in soccer, one in golf; a couple all-conference recognition patches in each sport.
“Where are Mom and Gillman?” I say, shifting the car into reverse.
“They went to Brown County for the weekend.”
“Car still in the shop?”
“Yep.”
In the great Fitzpatrick tradition, Jack’s car seems to spend more time in the body shop than on the road. He only has his permit, and he’s already wrecked his car twice.
“So how stoned are you?”
“Whatever happened to ‘no questions asked’?”
“I guess I forgot about that after I picked up my brother standing in a monsoon in front of a strange house with liquor and marijuana on his breath.”
“You can smell all that?”
“I’m guessing Jim Beam and a couple rounds of bong hits in a small enclosed room.”
“How the hell did you—”
“The Beam was easy,” I say. “Cheap bourbon has a fairly distinctive smell, and I still drink it enough to recognize it almost immediately. As for the bong hits, your eyes are redder than Ben Johnson at the ’88 Seoul Olympics, and the cannabis smell coming off your skin, clothes, and hair is way too strong to be delivered by just a joint or bowl.”
“Who’s Ben Johnson?”
Man, I’m getting fucking old. “Never mind,” I say.
We head to Wagon Wheel, the late-night greasy spoon on Central Street that’s frequented by no one under the age of seventy-five. I used to take Grandpa George here when I was a teenager, a few months before I learned it wasn’t cool to hang out with your grandfather in public and a few years before his death taught me I was a dipshit. The waitress brings us two plates of biscuits and gravy.
“Not hungry,” Jack says, pushing his plate away.
“Like hell you aren’t.” I push his plate right back at him. “Now eat and talk to me.”
“I can’t do it anymore, Hank.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Live under the same roof as Gillman.”
“Come on, Jack. He means well.”
“Does he?”
“So he’s a little controlling.”
“Last night he found a couple of those little travel bottles of whiskey in my nightstand.”
“And I assume he grounded you, which is what parents are supposed to do.”
“He grounded me all right. He said when he and Mom get back from Brown County I’m losing all cell phone privileges for the rest of the semester.”
“Damn!” I say. “That’s like cutting off your arm.”
“I know, right?”
“I’m kidding, buddy.” I sip my black coffee, slowly and with intent. I return my coffee cup to its saucer. I have to get these words right. I’m more than his big brother, and I need to start acting like it. “Look, as much as I want to back you up, I’ve gotten to the age where I’m not allowed to be on your side sometimes. Does that make any sense to you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think it would, so tell me, what’s really bothering you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Saying you have problems with Gillman is like saying the sky is blue. We all have problems with Gillman. He’s a dick.”
“What happened to ‘he means well’ and he’s just ‘a little controlling’?”
“I was being nice. So come on, fess up. You having problems at Prep?”
“No, Prep is awesome. The Ridge sucks, dude.”
“Excuse my French, little brother, but fuck you.”
“Ha.” Jack’s first smile of the night. “I love getting you all amped up.”
“Well, it’s working.”
“Like I said, Prep is cool. I just had an issue tonight, at the party.”
“What kind of issue?”
“It’s a little embarrassing.”
“Try me.”
“There’s this game kids at Prep and the Ridge are really into right now. It’s called a lipstick party.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s big in New York and LA, I guess. Last year somebody transferred in from Culver and brought the game with them.”
Culver is a military academy in northeastern Indiana that could have been ripped right out of a Bret Easton Ellis novel. An oasis of old East Coast money, its alumni include George Steinbrenner and Roger Penske. I took a weekend tour of the campus when I was a sophomore in high school and saw somebody snort cocaine out of a girl’s cleavage at a party involving a lot of kids with Roman numerals at the end of their names. Whatever a lipstick party is, if it came from Culver, it can’t be good.
“I’m listening, Jack.”
“A lipstick party is when a bunch of girls put different colored lipstick on their mouths and then give guys blowjobs in the dark. When the lights are turned back on, the guys try to guess which girl gave them the blowjob.”
“You got to be kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“That’s not just a plot for a bad TV show on Fox or an exploitative YA novel?”
“It’s very real, Hank.”
“So you were at one of these lipstick parties tonight?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do?”
“What do you mean, what did I do? I chickened out.”
“And?”
“And everyone is going to make fun of me at school on Monday.”
“Not everyone.”
“You don’t know, Hank.”
“Don’t tell me what I don’t know. In fact, I’d be willing to bet almost no one makes fun of you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What I’m telling you is not for you to believe or disbelieve. It’s a fact. There will be a couple douche bags who give you a hard time, but high school is like an all-you-can-eat douche bag buffet. And sure, maybe a few sluts will no longer look your way at a party. But is empty validation and a sexually transmitted disease really something to lose sleep over? Trust me when I say there will be a lot of girls who are going to respect you more for doing what you did, and out of those girls, you’re going to find one who will run through fire for you. Maybe you don’t find her tomorrow, or even next year. Maybe you don’t find her until college. Or maybe you find her, and for whatever reason the timing just isn’t right for you two. But when you do find her, and when the timing is right, hold on to her. A real man only needs one tube of lipstick.”
“Why would I need a tube of lipstick?” Jack asks. “I’m not gay.”
“You know, little brother, you really suck at metaphors.”
Jack smiles. I can almost see a little bit of Dad in him. It’s a wise look bordering on mischievous. “And you, big brother, seem to think everything in life needs one.”