Читать книгу The World of Normal Boys - K.M. Soehnlein - Страница 8
ОглавлениеChapter One
Maybe this is the moment when his teenage years begin. An envelope arrives in the mail addressed to him from Greenlawn High School. Inside is a computer-printed schedule of classes. Robin MacKenzie. Freshman. Fall, 1978. He has been assigned to teachers, placed in a homeroom. His social security number sits in the upper right corner, emphasizing the specter of faceless authority. Someone, some system of decision making, has organized his next nine months into fifty-minute periods, and here is his notification. This is what you will learn. This is when you will eat. This is when you go home to your family at 135 Bergen Avenue. This is how you will live your life, Robin MacKenzie.
He has climbed out his bedroom window, onto the roof that covers the kitchen and back door below, with a pile of college-ruled spiral-bound notebooks purchased earlier that day at Woolworth’s. His transistor radio is tuned to WABC, just now starting up ABBA’s new song “Take a Chance on Me.” He bobs from his shoulders, trying to harmonize, but his voice—revolting against him all the time lately—fails to hit a high note, collapsing into an ugly squawk, a bird being choked. He looks past the garage at the end of his buckled driveway and into the next yard, the Spicers’ yard, wondering if Victoria has returned from her summer visit with her cousins in Pennsylvania. He needs to compare schedules with her, to find out how many classes they’ll be in together; he needs to talk to her about high school.
The Spicers’ lawn is a perfect spring green, stretching out from the cement patio and redwood picnic set to a neatly trimmed hedge that separates it from his family’s weedy plot. The Spicers’ graystone house rises up like a small mansion: slate-tile roof, royal blue shutters, and white curtains in every window. Only one thing upsets the serenity: a rebuilt ’69 Camaro jacked up in the driveway, surrounded by tools and oil spots; Victoria’s brother, Todd, has been repairing the engine all summer long, since he turned seventeen and got his license.
He’s there now, Todd Spicer, rolling under the hood—all but his blue jeans and work boots disappearing from view—and then back out again, sitting up to swig from a paper bag stashed behind a toolbox. His sleeveless T-shirt is smeared with a greasy handprint; his arms tense up into lean ridges as he tries to make things fit into place. Even from his perch on the roof, two yard lengths away, Robin can tell the repairs are not going well, can feel Todd emitting frustration. When the hood slams violently, he knows the afternoon has been a failure.
Todd lights up a cigarette, raises his eyes. Pins Robin in his sights.
Caught staring, Robin blushes, embarrassment jetting up his neck, saturating his ears. He waves—what else can he do?—hoping the gesture reads as casual, just friendly, not eager. He knows—the way you just know how you’re supposed to act—that he shouldn’t pay this kind of attention to Todd.
Todd exhales and yells up to him, “What’re you looking at, Girly Underwear?”
Girly Underwear. Todd picked the name just for him. Robin has a clear memory of when it started: he was seven, Todd eleven. Todd was circling around the yard on his dirt bike while Robin and Victoria were acting out plays they had made up; without warning, Todd zoomed in to swat Robin on the butt. Having done it once, he did it again, and again. Then he pushed it further, grabbed the elastic band of Robin’s underwear and tugged up. His underwear that day—to his unending regret—was tinted pink; his mother had let something bleed in the wash. From then on it was, “Hey, Girly Underwear, watch your back,” “Hey, Girly Underwear, how’s it hanging?”
When he was seven or eight “Girly Underwear” could make him cry. It let Todd strip him down; it was all his weaknesses rolled up in one. He’d look at himself in the mirror: the sweep of his eyelashes, the swell of his lower lip, the curve of the bones around his eyes. His face was girly. Not like Todd’s face: behind Todd’s eyes was a storehouse of secret knowledge—how to be cool, to be tough, to get what you want. And the tone of Todd’s voice, the weight of his stare when he called out the words—it was the way a guy teases a girl, an insult that shudders like a flirtation. It used to terrify Robin. But now, after years of it—years of watching Todd, thinking about Todd—now “Girly Underwear” leaves Robin feeling less assaulted than unnerved, as if enveloped in a nameless wish—a wish like wanting to leave Greenlawn and move across the river to New York City—something you can long for all you want, though there’s no guarantee you’re ever going to get it. Sometimes, “Girly Underwear” echoes later in his daydreams as a command, Todd’s order that Robin strip off his clothes. Sometimes, in private, with his clothes off in front of the bathroom mirror, he wonders how his body compares to Todd’s, wonders what Todd’s body looks like naked.
On this late-summer day, the name and the disturbing longing associated with it evoke only anger. Maybe it’s the safe distance between Todd’s backyard and Robin’s roof that emboldens him. Maybe it’s the computer-printed class schedule he’s clutching in one hand, reminding him that a week from now he’ll be in high school just like Todd, that he’s no longer some little kid to be picked on at will. Maybe it’s just ABBA telling him to take a chance. When Todd yells, “Hey, Girly Underwear,” Robin gives him the finger. “Fuck you,” he yells back. “That’s not my name.”
Robin picks up his stuff and retreats through his bedroom window, his pulse thumping at this rare display of nerve. He glances back once before pulling down the blind: Todd is still looking his way, smiling, half a smile really. He sees Robin and nods. He might, Robin lets himself believe, be impressed.
Lying on his bed, Robin opens one of his new notebooks. High school. The hallways will be filled with boys, the speeding train of their conversation echoing off metal lockers. He thinks about popular boys from middle school, the jocks, boys whose names everyone knows. Their presence is inescapable, their actions gossiped about, their dating patterns speculated on by lesser beings like him and Victoria Spicer during late-night phone marathons. Popular boys are like TV stars: you don’t have to know them to have opinions about them. You can spend your time imagining how they will react to something you’ve said out loud in class, or something you’re wearing, when in fact they don’t even know you exist.
On the top of a page he writes: TAKE SOME CHANCES.
Must make an effort to make friends with guys
Should get into a fight to prove myself
Should find a sport to play
Get a girlfriend
Tell jokes in class—people like that
Have not yet learned to smoke (buy cigarettes)
Should stop making it so easy for other people telling me what to do, etc.
The list pours out effortlessly, his handwriting uncontrolled, the tip of his ballpoint pen chiseling the soft paper. It’s all so obvious—it’s everything that he doesn’t do. Everything normal. At the bottom of the page he writes, “Pick one to do everyday!” and underlines it twice.
The next day Victoria gets back from her cousins. Robin is mowing the Feeneys’ lawn, another lawn in a summer of lawns he has taken on at three dollars a pop. He wears his work clothes—cutoff shorts and Keds and tube socks, all licked with mint-colored grass stains. Victoria is a gusher of stories about her Pennsylvania trip: the excursion to Hershey Park, the raft ride down the Delaware, the trip to the Colonial hot spots of Philadelphia. Her return is not the reunion he’d looked forward to: for months, he’s been pushing the mower around the neighborhood, with just a couple of trips to New York City with his mother to break up the monotony, while she’s been hanging out at a swim club, going to parties, letting some guy named Frank stick his hand under her bikini top. By the end of the afternoon he has nothing to say to her. She has her high school schedule to show him, but it yields only disappointment—they have no classes together. Without warning he jerks the starter cable for the mower. The clamor swallows up Victoria’s voice and seals him into his own bubble of envy. Watching her strut away in her new pink satin jacket, like some tough-girl out of Grease, he can predict she’ll fit right in at Greenlawn High. Hands in pockets, shoulders back, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans accentuating her developing body, she looks like she’s getting away from him.
Todd is staring across the hedge. “Hey—”
“Don’t say it,” Robin interrupts.
“What?” All innocence in Todd’s voice.
“You know. Don’t call me that name anymore.” He pushes the lawn mower back into the garage. Speaking to Todd like that, telling him what to do, gives him the jitters—something bad is bound to follow.
Todd is still standing there when Robin walks out of the garage. “All right, cool out, man. Robin.”
Robin. Not “Girly Underwear.” It isn’t quite an apology, but he relaxes a little. He looks Todd in the eyes.
“So,” Todd says, shifting his gaze away. “So, you wanna cut my lawn for me?”
“I thought your mother had a landscaper.”
“That faggot quit, and now my father wants me to do it.”
Robin shrugs his shoulders. “I charge three dollars.”
Todd shakes his head. “No, see the idea is like this: you cut the lawn, and I give you a break on calling you—you know, that name.”
His face is so sure of itself, Robin thinks. He sputters out, “Like I can believe you? I’m not stupid, Todd. I’ll cut your lawn, and then you’ll just go ahead and call me whatever name you want.”
Todd moves a step closer, lowers his voice. “That’s the risk you take. That’s what life is about, man. Especially in high school. Taking risks. Don’t ya think?”
Robin stares in amazement. Has Todd been reading his notebook? Or is he just reading his mind? “I don’t know.”
Todd’s face falls. “Man, I’m not getting any money from my Dad for doing it, so I can’t pay you. How about if I give you a jay?”
“A what?”
“You know.” He pinches his thumb and middle finger and mimics inhaling.
Robin gets the reference. “I don’t think so.” He turns to walk away, but Todd is suddenly through the hedge, right there at his back.
“Think about it,” Todd says, and swats him on the ass.
Each step across the lawn, back to his house, he feels that pull. That magnetic thing Todd sends out like he’s an evil Jedi Knight wielding The Force. The smell of cut grass and gasoline on his fingers, and Todd’s voice echoing back at him. “Think about it.” How weird to have Todd making some strange deal with him, Todd wanting him to take a chance.
His mother had taken him to R-rated movies a couple of times—usually on their City Day, when they take the bus into New York, just the two of them—but she outright refused to let him see Saturday Night Fever.
“Gratuitous,” she pronounced its violence and sexual content, though she hadn’t seen it herself. Robin suspected her objection arose from her dislike of John Travolta, whom Robin had become fascinated with ever since Grease; no, it went back even further, to Welcome Back, Kotter, a show everyone Robin’s age had watched devoutly when it first premiered, but which Dorothy blamed for inflicting base expressions into her children’s conversation: “Up your nose with a rubber hose,” “Get off my case, toilet face.” Saturday Night Fever elicited from Dorothy more than one harangue about disco and polyester and John Travolta, all of which Robin couldn’t get enough of.
Robin reads that night in the Living section of the Bergen Record that the studio has announced Saturday Night Fever will be reissued as a PG. Robin is all resentment: a PG version! They’re going to cut all the good parts! He checks the movie timetable: the R-rated version is still playing at the Old Tappan Drive-In. Someone has to take him to see this version before it is pulled. Someone seventeen or older.
The plan comes to him the next day, when the roar of an engine from the Spicers’ yard catches his attention. Todd’s Camaro is fixed! Todd could take him to see Saturday Night Fever, and in exchange, Robin can mow the Spicers’ lawn for Todd. Forget about the “Girly Underwear” reprieve, Robin reasons, there is no way to make it stick. He brings the plan to Victoria, prepared to have to talk her into it, knowing how much she hates spending any time with her brother, but it takes no effort at all. She wants to see the R-rated version as much as he does. Apparently Frank had seen it, and it was one of his favorites.
Todd’s reaction: “No fucking way I’m taking you to some sucky disco movie.”
Robin: “We’ll pay for our own tickets.”
Victoria: “You don’t even have to watch it. You can bring a date and make out in the backseat.”
That part hadn’t been Robin’s idea, but it seemed to tip the scales for Todd.
The Camaro rushes from the end of Mill Pond Road, slicing open the afternoon quiet. Robin raises his face from the green of the lawn to meet the speed in the air. Sunlight on the glass and chrome, a blur of black metallic paint, the skid of rubber as Todd torpedoes into the driveway. Victoria protests the display—the noise, the skidmarks, the plume of gray exhaust. Todd struts out, lording over everything he sees.
Robin is mesmerized. This sweetens the deal, Todd eyeing the lawn, nodding approval at his work, shaking his hand. “OK, buddy. Looks like I’m taking you to the disco movie.” Buddy. Robin wishing that it would be just the two of them, no Victoria, no date for Todd. Robin and Todd, he whispers to himself. Buddies.
When Mrs. Spicer gets home, she rewards Todd with a kiss on the forehead for his yard work. Robin takes note: how easily Todd accepts this undue praise. How he gloats.
It’s been a long time since he prayed to God. He’s never been led to believe that praying was particularly important. His father’s obscure Protestant background, combined with a few years of his mother’s halfhearted stabs at raising them Catholic—the showy display of First Communion, the endless hours of Sunday School—have all added up to a lot of nothing. They’ve become what his grandmother, Nana Rena, refers to as “A&P Catholics”—“ashes and palms,” people who go to church when they can bring home something to show for it. Even on those occasions when he sits through mass at St. Bartholomew’s, Robin prefers silence over talking to God. Why would he expect anything from a Heavenly Father when he rarely asks for anything of his earthly father? If he needs something, he turns to his mother.
But now he has a secret to keep from her, and so he finds himself, without quite planning it, lying in bed, eyes raised upward, his hand moving into the Sign of the Cross. It is the night before Saturday Night Fever. He whispers out loud, “God, make it go OK.”
Across the room, in the other bed, his younger brother sits up. “What’d you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You said something to God,” Jackson persists, a mocking amusement in his voice. Persistence is one of Jackson’s trademarks. Unlike Robin, who tends to walk away from conflict, Jackson grabs hold and forces the issue. It’s only one of their differences. In a new situation, Robin hangs back and observes, while Jackson gravitates impulsively toward the center, harnesses energy, and quickly begins spinning trouble. He laughs easier, has more friends—more guy friends; he is rambunctious where Robin is tentative. Jackson’s half of their room gleams with brassy Little League trophies, Star Wars action figures, a colorful array of baseball caps lined up on his dresser; Robin has postcards bought at museum gift stores, a short stack of Broadway cast albums at the foot of his bed, scrapbooks stuffed with ticket stubs and matchbook covers collected on his trips to the city. The room’s only shared territory is a nightstand between the twin beds, lined with Hardy Boys books that they’ve both read, Robin first, Jackson several years later.
When they were young, both in elementary school, they could play together and have fun; the two of them, with their sister Ruby—be—tween them in age—could spend hours drawing pictures or creating elaborate plays to be enacted in the backyard or basement. Gradually this shifted; Jackson shifted away from them. Now he only liked games that could be won; now he shows up at the house with a group of friends, who divide up into teams and shout their way through competition, all along making fun of the slowpokes and spazzes.
“Dear God: This is Robin MacKenzie,” Jackson squawks. “Please make me not be such a jerkface.” He forces out a belly laugh for emphasis.
In silence, Robin amends his prayer. “And, God, could you please make something bad happen to Jackson?”
Maybe prayers are answered: Robin tells his mother he’s going with Victoria to see Grease again, and she consents, as long as it’s the early show, as long as he’ll be home in time to get some rest before the first day of high school. And then, at the last minute, Todd’s date cancels.
The girl collecting money at the Old Tappan Drive-In, who can’t possibly be seventeen herself, drones at Todd, “You of age?”
“No, actually, I’m twelve. These are my parents.”
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Robin chimes in.
“You two are a regular comedy team,” Victoria says, unimpressed.
During the previews, Todd lights up a joint. Robin leans across Victoria, who sits between them on the front seat, so he can study Todd’s technique: inhale from the base of the neck, tighten your stomach to hold in the smoke. It looks like a special gesture known only to high school kids, like a secret handshake.
“What are you doing?” Victoria demands. Todd ignores her. “Todd, you could get arrested.”
“You could get arrested for being so ugly,” Todd growls, smoke leaking out his nostrils.
Victoria pokes into Robin’s side. “Snack bar.” She pushes him out of the car. “I can’t believe you, Todd.”
“What’s the matter, didn’t Frank ever get you high?”
“No, he doesn’t do drugs. Anyway, this is like a totally public place.”
Robin’s eyes are on Todd, who’s stretching backward, joint propped between his lips, arms reaching upward. His T-shirt rises, revealing the chalky skin along his waist, a seam of hair laid out like a spear from his belly button to the top of his jeans, where it fans out and disappears. No sign of an elastic band under his jeans. Robin feels his throat go dry: Todd isn’t wearing underwear.
Victoria says, “When we get back, that better be gone.”
Todd catches Robin’s stare and floats the joint toward him. “There’s plenty to share.”
“I’ll wait here,” Robin blurts out. He watches Victoria’s jaw drop and adds quickly, “I don’t want to miss any of the movie.”
Her surprise dissolves, replaced by betrayal. She slaps her hands against her thighs and trots huffily through the parked cars.
Just the two of them on the front seat. Robin and Todd. Todd and Robin. If it weren’t for the scratchy soundtrack being piped into the car he’s sure Todd could hear the nervous thump of his pulse. He usually tries to avoid being alone with Todd at all costs, a preemptive strategy for dodging harassment. What was I thinking? I’m so stupid. Robin stares through the windshield, fixing his gaze on the big screen, but all Todd says is, “My sister’s a bitch,” and passes him the joint. Robin studies it, pinched inside the teeth of a metal roach clip, the rounded orange tip like the butt of a firefly.
“My parents . . .” Robin mutters by way of refusal.
“Your parents drink, right?”
“My mother drinks wine and my father drinks whiskey.” White wine and Seagrams, always in the house—he just takes this for granted.
Todd recites: “Man made booze. God made grass. Who do you trust?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I saw it on a T-shirt at that head shop in Hillsdale. Makes sense, don’t you think?” He leans closer, lowers his voice. “I told you, man: life is about taking risks.”
Robin nods, saturated with new understanding. Risk. It’s more than just a list of things to do—it’s a whole way of life, a ride off the map. Todd’s calm confidence expands until it’s a safety net stretched out beneath them. Robin imagines the two of them as high school buddies—running into Todd in the courtyard, smoking pot between classes. “What the hell,” he says, taking the joint.
The first surprise is the paper, damp with Todd’s saliva, on his lips—the intimacy of it, like using the same toothbrush. Heat coils under his nose. He tries to copy Todd’s approach, deeply drawing in the smoke, but his body rejects it. A stinging cloud explodes from his throat.
“Virgin,” Todd mocks, slapping him on the back.
Robin is still coughing when Victoria returns with buttered popcorn, Raisinettes, and a single large soda. “Move it,” she tells him with a shove. “All potheads on that side of the car.” Her eyes comb over Robin; he guesses she’s checking for signs that he’s high. Maybe he is—when she waves her hand in front of her face, fussily clearing away the smoke, he bursts into laughter.
Todd sinks down behind the steering wheel, arms crossed, dopey smile stretching. His knuckles graze the fleecy hair on Robin’s forearm. Their hips are at the edge of pressing together. Robin glances into Todd’s lap, still astonished at the idea that Todd is not wearing underwear. The folds of Todd’s jeans offer some abstract sense of the shapes beneath, just enough to make Robin nervous. Cut it out, he admonishes himself. Jesus.
From the opening moments, when “Stayin’ Alive” cranks up on the soundtrack and Travolta struts down the streets of Brooklyn, Todd is mouthing off. “Fuck, look at this fag.” He asks Robin in disbelief, “You actually like this?”
It’s the music Robin can’t resist. He knows every beat of the soundtrack. To finally see the movie is like meeting his destiny, as if by playing the album on his parents’ stereo all year long, he has conjured up this very moment. He realizes there’s something uncool about the Bee Gees’ high-pitched voices, but he feels like he understands the need in the lyrics: I’ve been kicked around since I was born . . . I’m going nowhere, somebody help me, somebody help me, yeah.
Todd pulls a Budweiser from under his seat, guzzles from it, and hands it to Robin. The can is slick with condensation. Robin takes in a mouthful, lets the fizz rub his burning throat.
“Oh, great,” Victoria sneers.
“I’m thirsty,” Robin rationalizes.
“I’ll just tell that to your mother when you’re totally wasted.”
“Do you want some?” he asks, trying to appease.
Todd retrieves the beer, his fingers covering Robin’s in the transfer. He sinks down farther in the seat, widening his legs. His thigh slaps Robin’s and stays there. Robin closes his eyes and absorbs the contact into his skin before he pulls away. His heart is pushing blood straight up to his skull, pounding at his temples relentlessly. His dick—he realizes with alarm—is trying to get hard. This happens in school all the time; he’s learned to always carry a book with him so he can cover himself if necessary. He crosses his hands in his lap, petrified Todd will notice.
He loses track of the movie’s plot, simple as it is, and supporting characters blur into each other. The actress who plays the love interest is annoying—why would anyone spend so much time chasing after her? Even Travolta seems tarnished to Robin, who starts comparing him with Todd—the two of them in a battle for coolness, which Todd, through his Force-level disdain for every aspect of the movie, is easily winning. Concentration disintegrates. Blame it on the beer, which Todd keeps offering him (which he keeps accepting); on Todd’s secondhand cigarette and pot smoke, which Robin sucks from the air experimentally; on being caught in the crossfire of Todd and Victoria’s steady bickering, which persists even after Victoria finally relents and has a beer herself. Blame it most of all on two hours’ worth of Todd fidgeting at his side—Todd’s leg/arm/hip again and again meeting his own—and on his own obstinate hard-on, impervious to any mental picture (bugs under a rock, his grandmother’s cooking, the bloody crucifix above the altar at St. Bart’s) he calls forth to banish it.
Only near the end, when the movie climaxes in a series of eruptions—a big fistfight, a girl getting gangbanged in the back of a car, a guy falling off the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge—does Todd seem at all involved in it. And then Robin gets drawn in deeper, too. He remembers that some of these scenes are going to be cut out of the new PG version, that he’s lucky to get what he wanted. The final scene has the Brooklyn boy moving out, and moving up, to life in Manhattan. It’s perfect: he gets away from his family, his lousy job, the mean streets of Brooklyn. The whole night is perfect—well, not completely; Victoria is annoyed with him. But Todd—Todd offers to drive him to school in the morning.
Nearly every window in the house is glowing as he makes his way from the Spicers’ yard to his own; he’s mashing a wad of grape Bubblicious between his teeth, extinguishing his beer breath in the sugary perfume. As he pushes open the screen door, a whine of protest is rising up from Jackson, who stands in the center of the kitchen, fists clenched at his side.
“What’s the problem?” his father, wearing the shorts and tank top he jogs in every night, is asking.
His mother flashes what looks like a glare of accusation. “He owns a very nice pair of gray trousers from Penney’s—”
“It’s a prison uniform,” Jackson whines.
“I’ll say it one more time,” Dorothy announces, “for the benefit of everyone involved.” Here her eyes meet Robin with a quick scan from head to toe; he shuffles guiltily, imagining his transgressions spelled out on his T-shirt in iron-on letters. “I am taking a picture tomorrow morning, and I would like my children to look presentable. Allow me this one motherly indulgence. After tomorrow you can go to school in your underwear for all I care.”
Clark appeals to Jackson. “Be a sport, wear what your mother wants you to wear. It’s no big deal.”
“I’ll be the only nerd in the whole sixth grade in dress pants,” Jackson says, dropping cross-legged onto the floor in front of the oven.
Robin fakes a kick toward Jackson. “Get up, Rover. No dogs allowed.” Jackson grabs his leg and pulls, knocking Robin off balance. He reaches for the counter to keep from falling. “Cut it out!”
“Jackson, leave your brother alone,” Dorothy commands, which only makes it worse for Robin: needing his mother’s protection against his little brother. He pulls his foot free and slides away.
In the midst of the scuffle, their sister, Ruby, flutters into the kitchen. Her hair frames her face in golden tubes, carefully sculpted with her curling iron, and she’s wearing a new white jumper and a gauzy flowered scarf tied tight around her neck. The steam of splashed perfume surrounds her—Love’s Baby Soft, Robin guesses, or maybe Jontue; all the girls at school smell like this. She stands in the doorway, hands on hips, ready for attention.
“Hey, who’s this beautiful princess?” Clark asks, right on cue.
A proud smile on Ruby’s lightly glossed lips. “Do I look like a seventh grader?” She skips toward her father—and then lurches violently forward over Jackson’s suddenly outstretched leg. She falls to her knees and skids across the linoleum to Robin. Her face is stricken; the impact of the fall hasn’t yet sunk in.
An expectant pause, followed by the eruption of voices.
Jackson: “It was an accident!”
Robin: “You retard.” He looks at Ruby, whose shock is giving way to misery; at each of her eyelids, a puddle hovers. “You’re OK, Ruby. Really. Don’t cry.”
Jackson: “It’s not my fault you’re a spaz!”
Ruby, brushing a dingy smudge at each knee: “You got my pants dirty! What am I supposed to wear tomorrow?”
Dorothy: “I’ll throw them in the machine tonight. They’ll be good as new by morning.”
Clark, yanking Jackson to his feet: “Accident my elbow! Get the heck up to your room!”
Robin: “You should make him apologize.”
Clark: “Robin, keep quiet.”
Jackson: “Yeah, shut up.”
Robin grits his teeth, not wanting this uproar to turn against him. He’s newly aware of his intoxication, realizes how all those swigs of beer and secondhand puffs of pot have added up, a recipe for confusion.
Ruby rubs furiously at her stained pants. “I have nothing else to wear!”
“Don’t get too worked up about it, Ruby,” Dorothy urges. “Clothes come clean.”
“I’m not going to school if there’s a stain on it. This sucks.” Ruby spins on her heels, treading heavily from the room.
“Spoken like a true princess,” Dorothy mutters, finishing off her wine.
Clark joins Robin and Dorothy at the table. “Doesn’t this happen every year right before school?”
Under the stained-glass lamp hanging by a chain over the table, Robin sees the exhaustion marked on his parents’ faces: bags under their eyes, shadows thickening their brows. Frustration snakes around their ankles like horror-movie smoke. Robin studies a triangular sweat stain dried into the front of his father’s tank top. Strange, he thinks, the way men sweat so much more than women—as if the heat under their skin can’t be contained. He looks away from his father, bothered by this thought.
“I am utterly wiped out,” Dorothy sighs. She stands up and stretches her arms over her head. Robin watches as the motion transforms her: the unfastened sleeves of her sapphire-blue blouse slide down her smooth arms, her honey-colored hair—the same color as his—falls away from her face and the skin on her neck pulls taut before relaxing into a faint pinkness. He blushes when she catches him staring.
She takes a step closer to him and narrows her gaze. “Were you and Victoria smoking in the movie theater?”
He rolls his eyes, trying to display the annoyance of someone falsely accused. “No.”
Her nose is in his hair, an arm on his shoulder to keep him still. “Someone was smoking.”
“No, it was just”—he fumbles for an excuse, and the sentence completes itself almost against his will—“Todd.”
“Todd Spicer, the blemish on the neighborhood?”
“What are you doing hanging around him?” Clark asks. “That kid’s nothing but trouble.”
Instinctively, his glance shifts out the window in the direction of the Spicers’ house. He makes a note to conceal the fact that Todd, and not Mrs. Spicer, as Dorothy expects, will be driving him and Victoria to school in the morning. “Todd just gave us a ride home. He’s cool,” Robin offers casually.
Dorothy shoots him a look as if he just told her he’d packed his bags and would be leaving home on the next bus. “Cool? Have you been watching too much TV lately? What’s that character’s name—the Fonz? Look, Robin, you don’t need any cool friends. The cool kids in your high school years are always the ones who go nowhere fast. My brother Stan was cool as ice when he was Todd Spicer’s age.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Robin asks—wanting to defend Todd against the comparison. Todd could never grow up to be like Uncle Stan—loudmouthed, ill tempered, full of prickly, conversation-killing opinions. Could he?
“Robin, you’re being difficult. You’re sounding like . . . a teenager.”
“Duh, I am a teenager.”
Dorothy presses her fingers to her temples. “I need an Anacin.”
Clark stands up and moves to the door, turning to wink at Robin. “Hope you had a good date with Victoria.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“She’s looking very pretty these days.”
“Oh, did I tell you, we’re getting married next week?” Now his head is starting to ache.
“OK, OK, forget I said anything.” Clark waves himself from the room.
Robin whips his head around to Dorothy. “God, I hate when he says that. He knows she’s not my girlfriend. I’m immature enough to have a girl just be a friend, you know.”
“You mean mature, dear. Not immature.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, that’s not what you said.”
“I know what I said, Mom. I’m the one who said it.”
Dorothy glares at him. “When you make a mistake you ought to be big enough to admit it.”
Robin kicks back his chair and stands up. He raises his voice. “Why are you all of a sudden on my case?”
“You really are watching too much television,” she says angrily. “‘On my case.’ Is that another thing from the Fonz?”
“It happens to be from Welcome Back, Kotter,” Robin barks back.
“Another wellspring of culture.” Dorothy points a finger at Robin, her voice raised. “This is your notice: there will be far less TV watching now that school is starting.”
Robin begins walking from the room, twisting sideways as he steps past her. “I could care less.”
As he makes his way across the living room floor, his mother shouts, “The phrase is, I couldn’t care less.” He stamps his feet on every step toward his bedroom. His mother’s irritated shout follows him, echoing through the house. “Did you hear me, Robin? I couldn’t care less.”
A half hour later, Robin is sitting on the roof outside his bedroom window—his head pounding as he comes down off the high of the drive-in and the buzzing chaos in the kitchen. He stares across the lawn to the Spicers’ house. On the top floor, a gable juts out, with a dormer window that leads to the attic. Todd has claimed this space for his bedroom. Robin tries to discern Todd in the shadows swimming behind the curtains.
“Mind if I join you?”
He jumps at the sound of his father’s voice. Clark’s already making his way onto the roof, squeezing his lanky frame through Robin’s bedroom window. Robin doesn’t answer the question, because he does mind. He minds very much when anyone, even Jackson, climbs out onto this little patch of shingles. It’s like having someone break into his clubhouse.
“Tight squeeze,” Clark says, landing awkwardly on the roof. “Good thing I’m jogging. Working off that spare tire.” He pats his stomach, a gentle curve under his tank top. “Yessiree, Buck.”
Yessiree, Buck—it’s right up there with “accident, my elbow.” Where does his father come up with this stuff? And what’s he doing out here anyway? Robin stares straight ahead; the less he says, the sooner his father will leave.
“Thirty-seven years old, sitting at a desk all day. Walking to the train was about the most exercise—”
“Jogging’s boring,” Robin interrupts. “Just the same thing over and over.”
“You have to admit, it’s getting very popular. When your uncle Stan and I are out at the track the place is packed. There’s plenty of teenagers there, too. You should come along.”
Robin rolls his eyes. Is that what this is about? Cornering him on the roof for an athletic pep talk? “Maybe you can get Jackson to jog with you,” he says, effectively stalling the conversation. The easiest way to derail his father’s expectations is to shift them onto Jackson. It’s always been this way. Robin only lasted a year in Cub Scouts before it became clear to everyone involved that it wasn’t for him; the only thing worse than his father’s silent disappointment was the prospect of another season of Pinewood Derbies and Wilderness Camp-o-rees. Jackson does all that stuff willingly. And Robin sees the way Jackson brings out something vibrant in his father: they’re hosing down the car in the driveway and next thing you know there’s a swell of playful shouting and a water fight going on. Or they’re watching a Giants game on TV and tossing popcorn in the air for some last minute touchdown, or wrestling in the backyard as if they’re both eleven years old. Every now and then Clark still tosses a ball Robin’s way, at which point Robin tosses it to Jackson and leaves.
Clark clears his throat. “OK, look. Forget what I said before. In the kitchen. About Victoria. That was just teasing, but now you’re mad.” Robin bites his lower lip and doesn’t reply. Clark continues, quickly. “Serves me right, butting in like that. That’s the kind of stuff you don’t need, I know. I know, I know. My father was pushing girlfriends at me for years before I was interested, and here I am doing the same thing to you and you’re only fourteen!”
“I’m thirteen,” Robin says.
“I didn’t really get serious about girls until your mother. Or just before your mother.” He slaps the heel of his palm hard against his forehead. “Geez.”
Robin smiles despite himself. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“No, this is important. You’re going off to high school tomorrow. So, you know, just as a reminder—if you have any questions, the man-to-man type, just ask. I know you and your mother are closer, but feel free, don’t be shy—” He pauses. “So what do you say?”
What am I supposed to say? Robin wonders. A tinge of panic sends his leg bouncing. He is keenly aware of his father’s impatient breathing, his father next to him, just waiting. Robin finally blurts out, “I know about the facts of life. That’s what they teach us in health.”
“Oh, of course, right. That’s great.” Clark falls silent; Robin can’t be sure if his father is relieved or disappointed to close the discussion. After a moment, Clark says, “I’d like to get a bigger house,” with such certainty it seems to be the solution to all his worries. “If we had a bigger house you could have your own room. A young man should have his own room. I’ve been meaning to build the swimming pool, too, but maybe we should just knock down the living room wall and build an extra bedroom into the backyard.” He opens his arms wide, as if the land below stretched out for acres.
Robin nods, trying to keep up. “Jackson probably wants a swimming pool more than he wants his own room,” he says, but his father keeps talking, almost over his words.
“When you’re young you don’t really know what you’ll need when you’re older, or even who you’ll be. My father used to tell me, if you want to be a man at night, you have to be a man in the morning. I didn’t realize he meant six A.M., every morning, on the train, off to work. You probably don’t know this, but I didn’t expect to be in sales. I liked science in school. I wanted to work for the space program. I never thought I’d have a teenage son—I just thought about having little kids, if I even thought about it at all. Not kids with growing pains.”
Clark drops his head in his hands. Robin is speechless with discomfort. It’s like one of those moments when his father comes out of the bathroom and the ripe stench of his shit floats out into the hallway after him—you want to ignore it, but it’s right there in your face. You can only pretend to ignore it, just like he can only pretend his father isn’t slipping into some kind of—what’s it called?—midlife crisis before his eyes.
“Uh, I’ll be OK, Dad,” he says at last.
“Yeah, you will. You’ll be a lady-killer, and a big success. All in good time.” He rises, brushing dirt from his bare legs. Robin’s eyes glance at his father’s running shorts, bunched up to reveal the lopsided package of his genitals. Does his father wear underwear under those shorts? Maybe, Robin thinks with some discomfort, maybe he wears one of those supporter things—a jock strap. It’s embarrassing to think about his father this way, even though that’s kind of what his father was referring to: his thing. If you have any questions about your thing, you can ask me, man to man. Without thinking, he moves his eyes back to Todd’s window, where a faint purple glow radiates. When he looks back at his father, their eyes meet, and his father sighs almost imperceptibly before disappearing into the house.
When he finally climbs back into his room, the lights are out, and Jackson is sleeping. Under his blanket, Robin shimmies off his pajama pants and his underwear; then he pulls the pajamas back on. The synthetic material is slippery against his ass and his dick, which makes him feel exposed and daring. Is this why Todd doesn’t wear underwear, for this sensation, this freedom?
Lying awake, replaying the night’s events in his mind, he pushes down the covers and raises up his shirt. His fingertips trail feathery across his belly. The skin along his ribs shudders with pleasure. He liked seeing that strip of hair on Todd’s stomach, but he likes the smoothness on himself. He feels his dick stretch and stiffen. With a glance to Jackson’s bed to make sure he’s really sleeping, Robin reaches under his waistband. His fingers close around his dick as if he’s giving it a handshake. Does Todd do this, touch himself this way? He must—all boys do, according to what he read in the “Ask Beth” advice column in the Record. It occurs to him suddenly that each accidental contact between him and Todd in the car was instigated by Todd; it was Robin who retreated every time. Was this some new game Todd was playing, a more crafty version of calling him names? Why else would Todd have done it? He doesn’t answer his own question; instead he rubs himself more insistently, until the friction burns so sweetly that he has to stop. He wants to keep going, but it feels like trouble.
He is sitting in the Greased Lightnin’, the ’57 Thunderbird that John Travolta soups up and drives to victory in Grease. Travolta is tensed and focused behind the wheel, and Robin sits next to him, sits on his lap—no, he’s behind him, in the backseat, his hands braided into Travolta’s lacquered hair. He keeps shifting, but Travolta stays in place. The speedometer escalates. Where are you taking me? he asks, or he thinks he asks—he’s not sure. A siren blares at his back, a squad car giving chase. Todd speeds up the car. Todd is driving, not John Travolta. Todd’s driving so recklessly Robin’s body rattles.
Gulping in air, hands over his head, fingers scratching at the headboard—he’s awake. Awake and alarmed: I did something wrong. He rolls on his side, and then he feels it—warm goop like rubber cement in his tangled pubic hair.
Morning rays push through the blue corduroy curtains, the light thick and cloudy, like something you should skim, like pool water. Jackson’s bed is empty, thank God. He pulls the covers over his head and sniffs deeply. It’s a pool smell, chlorine, with the weight of some other damp thing: moss, soggy bread, an old washcloth. He touches it, licks his finger. Slimy, sweet, bitter—all of that. He knows what this is. Nocturnal emissions, they called it in health class. Wet dreams. He remembers Travolta, the car, the vibrations of the ride. The sirens. He squeezes his eyes shut as if in defeat.
At least this morning Jackson, with his acute, bratty radar, his relentless teasing, is already up. Robin wipes himself with a T-shirt, pulls on some pants, strips the sheets quickly. It’s two flights down to the washing machine. Arms full, he heads to the stairs.
“I want to talk to you about last night—” His mother, emerging in a blast of humidity from the bathroom, toweling her hair, is addressing him. “It’s one thing for me to have an occasional cigarette, but I don’t want you to get any ideas—what are you doing?”
“Just doing some wash,” he says with a wide, false smile, as if this is normal.
“Robin, I cleaned those two days ago.” She moves forward, peering at the soiled bundle, prepared, he realizes, to take it from his hands.
He clutches the sheets tighter, wanting to trap the smell, keep his secret. His skin is heating up. A split-second image: Travolta’s face—or is it Todd’s?—laughing at his predicament.
“Mom,” he says in the firmest voice he can muster. “They need to be cleaned. Trust me.” Her face is blank for a moment before something registers. Then she blushes, too.
“Oh, well, go ahead, sure. Just throw them in the washer, and I’ll put them in the dryer later. We have to get you ready for school.” She turns away hurriedly, muttering something—scolding herself?—and closing the bedroom door behind her.
A panicky jolt: today’s the first day of high school. He’d been so focused on his dream, he’d forgotten. His first wet dream. He’s been waiting for this, a plunge into the world of puberty, of sex. A couple of years ago, Victoria had been waiting for her first period, and she let him know as soon as it happened. He feels only the pressure to conceal. If he told someone, they’d ask about the dream, and what could he say? There were no girls in it, just him and Travolta and Todd and the police. All his life police have crowded his dreams, and he always wakes sure of his own guilt. It stays with him each minute of the day, a slight burning flame in the back of his mind. Unseen, constant as a pilot light.
He takes to the stairs quickly, dragging his mess to the basement, wanting to be free of it.
Sitting in the backseat of the Camaro, Robin finds Todd’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Todd flashes him a sly smile and says, “This morning is the traditional first-doob-of-the-year party in the courtyard, Robin. You gotta be there.” Todd pretends to smoke a joint and “passes” it to him. When they get to the parking lot, Todd fakes a punch to Robin’s chest and winks at him before he leaves.
None of this escapes Victoria’s attention. “So are you two supposed to be friends now?” she challenges.
“It’s just a new way for him to bother me,” Robin says dismissively—though, in fact, he’s not bothered; he feels triumphant. Not once did Todd call him that name.
