Californium (10 page)

Keith starts in on his dad right away about the band and how we're ready to start practicing, how my garage is way too crowded while their house is perfect because we could practice late and I'd just be a block from home.

From the backseat, I can't tell how Mr. Curtis is taking it. He's wearing these pilot sunglasses, his mouth steady like he's keeping his eyes on the road and barely listening. Then he says, “What about your parents, Treat?”

“What about them?”

“Would they be worried if you walked home late at night?”

“Nah.”

Mr. Curtis keeps staring straight ahead. “Not even with all the news about kidnappings and child molesters?”

Keith looks at his dad with his eyes bugging. “What are you talking about, Dad? What child molesters?”

“I'm just saying, his parents may not be comfortable with him walking home alone at night.”

“Nah,” Treat says. “They think people are basically good inside, so stuff like that doesn't bother them.”

Mr. Curtis nods and smiles. “Well, they sound like good Christians. Strong in their faith.”

The first time I met Mr. Curtis, he said, “So your family moved all the way out here on their own? They sound like good Christians, letting the Lord guide them like that. Strong in their faith.”

“We're not Christians,” I had said. “We're Catholics.”

Back in Paterson, everyone was Catholic. That, or Jewish. Just because you didn't see a guy in church didn't mean he wasn't Catholic. My uncle Ryan hadn't been to church since Grandpa Houghton's funeral, but every Christmas Eve, while everyone else went to midnight mass, he sat home with a glass of wine and watched the pope on TV from Rome.

When I told Mr. Curtis I was Catholic, he said, “You could think of Catholicism and Christianity as different things. A lot of people do. But a lot of people would say they're essentially the same thing. That's what I think. We're both followers of Christ, Reece. We'll all be saved come Judgment Day.”

“My parents aren't Christians,” Treat says. “They're Unitarians.”

Mr. Curtis moves his head sideways a little. “You're a Unitarian Universalist?”

“I'm not.” Treat laughs. “My parents are. I'm an atheist.”

Mr. Curtis takes off his sunglasses and stares at Treat in the rearview mirror. I don't know what's keeping us on the road, though I'm sure Mr. Curtis would say faith. “Atheist?” he says. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, I don't believe any of that religion crap.”

Keith can't look. He's staring out the window like there's something so amazing just over there, just on the other side of that other thing.

“Who do you think made the universe?” Mr. Curtis says.

“I don't know,” Treat says. “I wasn't there.”

“God made it, Treat. He made it for all of us.”

Treat straightens up and nods, the Mohawk scraping against the roof lining. “Yeah. Right after we made God.”

Even though the sun is pretty much hidden away now, Mr. Curtis puts his sunglasses back on. “Yeah,” he says without sounding annoyed, like maybe he's on Treat's side. “You could see it that way. I don't, but some people do. Some people think it takes more faith to be an atheist than to believe in God.”

“Thanks,” Treat says.

“But what if Christians are right and atheists are wrong, Treat? Wouldn't it be a good idea to try and believe? Just in case?”

“I never thought of it like that before,” Treat says. “Preventative maintenance.”

We stop at a red light, the whole car quiet and everyone looking out the windows. The Buick hums to a kind of rhythm that's broken with a quiver about every three seconds.

“Bitchin',” Treat says out of nowhere. “Look at that boss 280.”

We all look out the back window by Treat. There's an orange Datsun 280ZX behind us, its body molded into curves and low, flat hills.

Mr. Curtis says, “You like those Japanese cars, Treat?”

“I love the Z's.”

“A lot of people think those cars are ugly as sin.”

Treat says, “Doesn't the Bible say, ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder'?”

Mr. Curtis grins. “Maybe in a roundabout way. But you're right. Some people might think they're ugly. But they don't see them the way an engineer does. Have you seen those Hondas?” He turns back around to check the stoplight, then looks at Treat in the rearview. “Ugly as sin. But that's a great little engine they've got there. And when they start making those cars look nicer, Ford and GM better watch out.”

The light turns green and that Z shoots past us at the speed of light.

Mr. Curtis nods as the Buick pushes us back in our seats and pulls us forward. “Look at that. He doesn't carry half the weight of this boat.”

Treat looks around the Buick. “Why'd you buy this?”

“Politics, Treat. My company has a lot of government contracts, so it wouldn't look too good if I pulled up in a hot little Japanese number.”

“Oh, so you're a sellout.”

You might think that'd make Mr. Curtis mad, but he laughs and pats Keith on the shoulder. “Sometimes you have to keep the people you work for happy to keep the people you
really
work for happy.”

The rest of the drive, Mr. Curtis's hand rests on Keith's shoulder, which keeps Keith frozen and quiet until we pull into the Del Taco parking lot across the street from the stadium. “I'll be back at nine to pick you boys up.”

Keith slips away from his dad and out the door. “Make it ten.”

Mr. Curtis leans over, looking out the open door. “Nine thirty.”

Keith leans in. “Nine forty-five.”

Before Mr. Curtis can answer, Treat yanks Keith away from the door and says, “Nine'll work, Mr. Curtis. Thanks.” He shuts the door and waves good-bye.

“Why'd you do that?” Keith says. “Now we can't hang out after the game.”

“Exactly,” Treat says.

Across the street is a park and Glover Stadium is maybe a
hundred yards in, the lights glowing over the trees, and people weaving their way through the paths like it's this giant magnet. “You know this is all propaganda,” Treat says, “to get us used to uniforms and violence.”

I nod real slow, like that makes complete sense and I totally agree. “Yeah, but we're stuck here now. We might as well go in.”

“We're really going to the game?” Treat says.

“At least there'll be chicks,” Keith says.

Treat throws his arms up. “Fine. But you're the sellouts. Not me.”

The stadium is packed. Treat says he doesn't want a bunch of people looking down on him, so he pushes through everyone, stomping onto the bleachers and leading us all the way to the top.

I start scanning for Edie, but before I can even start to figure out what the back of her head might look like, there's Astrid on the fifty-yard line. Even from so far away, she's easy to pick out, her hair done up in maroon and gold ribbons, her white sweater glowing from the stadium lights. It's hard to focus on the game with her smiling and chanting and bending and stretching.

Keith's totally into the game—jumping up, sitting down, oohs and aahs. Treat's disgusted. He says we're really just Hitler Youth—everybody wearing the same colors, knowing the same cheers, and doing them on cue. “Look at everybody getting excited for blitzes and long bombs. There
will
be a World War III,” he says. “And we'll be the ones who start it.”

Just before halftime, the cheerleaders disappear and then, two by two, start reappearing in these skintight maroon leotards. “I'm going to the bathroom before it gets crowded,” I say.

Keith stands up with me. “I'll go.”

Treat's head turns so fast he nearly knocks Keith down with the Mohawk. “What are you, a girl?”

“Yeah,” I say, and Keith shakes his head and sits back down.

It's crowded at the bottom of the bleachers, people heading out, heading in, some just stopped and talking. I'm up against the front rail as the whistle blows for halftime, only moving along about an inch a minute, my eyes on the field as the cheerleaders run out and start some routine, bouncing around and building things out of themselves. Astrid is everywhere, lifting other girls, spotting them, stacking them. Her boobs are smashed so tight in her outfit they don't move the entire time. It hits me that that's what they must look like when she's lying on her back.
When she's underneath you.
Then the whole squad drops to the grass and rolls over onto their stomachs. Astrid smiles, a sly red line of a grin, and my knees go soft and my heart knocks at the door like something's about to happen.

The routine ends and the cheerleaders come strutting back to the sideline, maybe five feet from me. Astrid's sweaty and glistening and gulping down water, and if I don't stop looking I'll have to hug this rail the whole second half. So I lean my head on the cold metal and close my eyes to let everything calm down.

“You gonna barf?” some guy behind me says.

“No,” I say. “Just a little dizzy.”

He leans in close to my ear so no one else can hear. “If you're gonna barf, get to the park. They can nail you here for being drunk at a school event, but not in the park. It's public property. Neutral. The DMZ.”

I open my eyes, which are facing the ground, and see these
bowling shoes behind me—the number 10 stamped on each tongue with screaming faces penned into the zeroes.

The guy steps away before I can say thanks. His back is to me and he's wearing a hat, but not a normal one. It's a bowler, like English guys wear. I know because sometimes when Uncle Ryan was over at our house, he'd watch
Monty Python
until my dad would see it and tell him to change channels.

The guy keeps going up the steps and when he turns down a row I see who it is: van Doren. He's got suspenders on over a white T-shirt with a big red circle on it. There's a blue rectangle going through the middle of the circle and the words
Piccadilly Circus
in white. I know this isn't a real circus, but what else could it be? A pizza place? A punk band?

The stands are grouped with most of the freshmen way down the ends or up top, except for the freshmen football players and cheerleaders. They're near the middle, just outside some of the upperclassmen. Guys from the soccer team sit by girls from the soccer team who sit by girls in student government who sit by guys in student government. Some of the groups talk to the people in the groups next to them, kind of blurring things. Some don't.

Van Doren starts walking across the bleachers diagonally, stopping near some freshman pep-squad girls, then over with the soccer teams. He sits down for a few seconds, everyone stopping what they're doing and turning their heads to him while he passes out yellow flyers. Some guys shake his hand or slap his back before he climbs over a few bleachers to another group and starts all over again. If there were babies in this crowd, he'd be kissing them.

As I get back to our spot at the top of the bleachers, Edie
and her friend Cherise are sitting next to Keith. Edie's sideways, talking to Treat in the row behind her. And Treat, amazingly, is leaning down and listening to her, laughing and saying stuff back. She glances at me, though she doesn't say anything.

I sit next to Cherise, who isn't talking to anyone. “What's up?”

“Nothing.”

“Where are you guys sitting?”

She looks at me funny, like, how can I not see her sitting right there. Then she laughs at herself and points a couple rows down and across the aisle. “We've been right there the whole game. Edie waved to you guys.”

“She did?”

“You didn't see us.”

“Sorry,” I say. “It's been a good game.”

“You think so?” she says. For the first time all night, I look at the scoreboard: Esperanza—7, Katella—6. “We keep dropping the ball.”

“That's what I mean,” I say. “Normally, we'd be killing these guys by a lot more, and that's kind of boring.”

“I guess,” Cherise says, then goes quiet.

“I don't know if I ever told you my name,” I say, and Cherise looks at me. “It's Reece.”

“I know,” she says and laughs one of those girl laughs that's real short and makes you wonder what it is she thinks she knows about you.

“What?” I say and force a smile. “Is it because our names rhyme?”

She waits a second. “Reece and Cherise. That's funny.” She laughs. “We could never get married.”

“Yeah,” I say and take a good, long look at her then, like, what if we were married? Cherise has wavy brown hair, kind of long, totally different from Edie's short black hair. It's pretty, even if it hides her face and she wears it the same way all the time. And like a lot of freshman girls, she's a little plain, kind of boyish and square, not real curvy the way juniors and seniors are. Edie has a boyish body too, but her face is different, real smooth skin and pretty cool eyes—and not because she's Japanese, more because her eyes are black and shiny and always, always curving into a smile, even when she's shushing me because she wants to hear what Mr. Tomita is saying about study groups.

At the end of the third quarter, Edie and Cherise get up to go back to their row. Edie smacks me on the shoulder as she goes past. “You know, she can't see you all the way up here.”

“Who?” I say, but Edie keeps walking.

The rest of the game is Treat making more Hitler Youth comments and saying, “We should go. We can go back to Del Taco and get something to eat while we wait for Keith's dad.”

“Not yet,” Keith keeps saying. He's staring a few rows down and over where Edie and Cherise are sitting. When he isn't staring, he's all questions: Is Edie really smart? Is she smarter than him? Is she cool in Algebra? Where'd she go to junior high? Where does she live?