Californium (4 page)

“That's not an accident?” Keith says.

I take it from Treat. “I'll give it a shot.”

It's weird trying on the clothes. The jeans are already worn in, not stiff like cardboard, and they aren't scratchy. Everything feels like it just came right out of my closet.

Keith steps out of the changing room in the ripped jeans and one of the long-sleeve button-ups, and it looks pretty decent.

Treat folds his arms and nods, the Mohawk shooting forward. “Yep. A little bleach and those will be totally punk rock. Now all you guys need is boots.” He tears out across the store.

When Treat gets far enough away, Keith says, “Are you buying any of this crap?”

“I think so.”

“None of it's new,” he says.

“That's why it doesn't cost as much. And this guy's cool, isn't he?”

Keith looks over at Treat firing through a big bin of shoes. “I guess. He looks like one of the Plasmatics.”

“You think Petrakis would ever stuff that guy in a locker?”

Keith squints at me because I've sworn never to bring that up again. “I didn't say I don't want to be his friend. I'm just not sure I want to look like him.”

Treat comes back a minute later empty-handed. “Boots are the hardest thing to find,” he says. “You have to get lucky.”

I tell Treat I already feel pretty lucky with the jeans and shirts. He turns on this half grin and asks Keith if he likes the stuff he's got.

“I guess,” Keith says.

The Mohawk shakes from side to side. “Look, you can go over to Miller's Outpost, get your school uniform, and look like every other freshman. Or you can be totally punk rock, be your own man.”

Keith doesn't look real convinced, but he buys a bunch of stuff anyway.

When we're walking back toward the park, I ask Treat if he's going to the dance tonight.

“No way, man. I'm not buying into the system.” He says he'll see us at school Monday and that he'll keep his eye out for some boots. He turns around, waits, waits, waits, then runs across all six lanes of Yorba Linda Boulevard and disappears down a side street.

Keith wants to go back to Miller's Outpost. I say to give it a week, to wait and see what happens at school. “I'll see what happens tonight at the Howdy Dance,” he says. “After that, I can't make any promises.”

In the park, the older guys are playing soccer now. They
look real sharp in their uniforms with their shirts tucked in and socks pulled up high. They spread out over the entire field the way they're supposed to. We could still cut the corners on the way to my back wall, because even with the coach yelling, a few of those guys can't resist drifting in a little. But this time, I don't bring it up. We just decide what time to walk to the dance and swear to each other that we'll wear the clothes we just bought.

M
y whole life, the only reason to get dressed up on a Saturday night has been for confession. There's ice cream after if we're good, but the scratchy shirts and choking ties don't really feel like an even trade, especially with how long it takes Brendan to get through his list of sins. When he was eight, my mom used to catch him throwing rocks at birds. All the time. She's not a yeller, but she stays on you like a tick. Like you don't even know she's there until you turn around and can tell by the look on her face she just saw everything. Or enough. Then it starts:
Do this; don't do that; pick that up; put that down; get going, mister; don't you walk away from me; God helps those who help themselves;
and my favorite of all:
I love you, but if you keep acting like that, I'm the only person in the world who will.
It always gets me to stop what I'm doing wrong, or to get moving, or to straighten up and fly right. But not Brendan. She could bust him for throwing rocks at birds in the morning and then catch him doing it again in the afternoon.

One Saturday, Brendan's in the confessional going as fast as he can and leaving out as much as he can so he's not stuck with a rosary and a million Hail Marys. Then it stays quiet even longer than it normally takes for the priest to add up Brendan's sins, and finally Father Nash says, “And what about the birds, Brendan? Aren't you sorry about trying to hurt God's creatures?”

It scared him to death, and when Brendan told me about it later it was pretty clear he had no idea Mom had called Father Nash beforehand. Now he's in there every confession racking his brain for every little sin, even the ones he's only thought about. By the time he's done with his penance, my clothes are at war with me—the collar slicing my throat, the pants crawling over my thighs like I'm strapped to an anthill. It's worse than any penance a priest has ever given me.

So even though I'm dressed up for the Howdy Dance, it's my new/old clothes: faded jeans and the bleached red paisley shirt Treat found for me. When I asked my mom if my dad had any old boots, she came back with this ancient pair of black Converse All Stars and they seem to fit. Everything feels like warm sheets on a cold morning and yet I look different to me. New.

Keith says the dance is just the opening act. After this, it's football games and parties and formals. Then basketball games, more parties, and more dances. We don't have to get this perfect; we just can't mess up and start a chain reaction that blows the whole year for us.

At the dinner table, Brendan gets a look at my shirt and laughs.

My mom glares at him and he goes instantly quiet, shaking to hold it in.

My dad looks up and leans sideways in his chair to see what the big deal is. “Are these your new clothes?”

“They're new?” Brendan says and starts laughing out loud again.

Colleen's across from me and her head disappears under the table to see. “What's so funny?”

My mom reaches over and pulls her up. “Be a lady.” She waits until Colleen is settled and looks over at me. “Do you like these clothes?”

My dad's in his machinist uniform, about to leave for his extra shift. My mom's in a housedress that's softer than a pile of kittens. Brendan's got grass stains on his tube socks. Colleen's pink play clothes are smeared with jelly.

My dad says, “You want people to think we're poor?”

“Pat,” Mom says, “it's a style.” She looks at me. “Right, Reece?”

“Yeah, it's pu—” I say, stopping myself just in time. “Puh-retty rockin'.”

Brendan breaks into a new round of laughing. Mom looks at her watch and says, “You know, Pat, we may have enough time after dinner to make confession. Do you think anyone needs to go?”

Brendan doesn't make a sound after that, except to thank me for passing the butter, then the salt, and later a second serving of broccoli, which means he's laying it on pretty thick since he hates broccoli.

On my way out the door, Colleen says my new/old clothes
look neat. With my Packy jacket on, I get a curfew and kiss from my mom while my dad makes Brendan clear the table. It's not exactly a blessing, but it gets me out the door.

.

Me and Keith walk into the cafeteria and it's a different world. It's not just ribbons and posters like a junior high dance. The punch table is in a corral, a real wooden fence with a working gate and straw covering the tile floor. There's a red barn made out of cardboard boxes with a real deejay inside. And even though it's nighttime, nearly all the lights are off.

Keith's got on the ripped jeans he bought and some plain green T-shirt Treat found. He says he can't believe he dressed up to look like nothing, but it kind of doesn't matter what any of the freshmen are wearing. They're all standing along the walls and only talking to other freshmen. Out on the floor are clumps of people you know must be sophomores and juniors because they're all over the place, changing groups and people hugging or giving high fives because they haven't seen each other all week and
It totally sucks; I thought we'd have at least one class together.
They're sipping their punch and talking to each other relaxed, the way James Bond walks into a casino and fits right in.

Keith points at the barn and says, “There's your neighbor.” Astrid's standing around with some other girls from varsity cheer. They're all wearing straw cowboy hats, Levi's, and Howdy Dance Committee T-shirts in maroon and gold, our school colors. Astrid wears everything better. Her shirt and jeans hug her body like a Christmas present that can't hide what's beneath the
wrapping. And instead of a belt, she's got a red bandana going through the loops around her waist. Most of her hair is hidden in the straw hat, and even though the strands pouring out each side are tucked behind her ears, they're splashing onto her shoulders so you can see how long and blond it really is. She's perfectly symmetrical except for this big silver hoop earring in her left ear. You might think that would throw everything off, but every few seconds there's this flash of light from a tiny diamond in her right ear. Then the hoop shimmers and I can't decide which side of her face looks better with which earring because they both look so good at the same time.

Keith jabs me in the ribs. “Go say hi.”

I swipe his arm down. “Yeah, right.”

“Seriously,” Keith says. “You're probably the only freshman she knows. Tell her you found her other earring.”

Theoretically, I could do this: walk up to Astrid and go,
Hey,
and maybe she smiles and says,
Hey, yourself.
Then my stomach tightens and my arms ache like they've fallen asleep. It's not even real, and I'm a mess.

For real, though, Mr. Krueger appears in front of us. “Mr. Houghton. Mr. Curtis. You gentlemen are in my first-period class, are you not?”

“Yes,” Keith says.

“Yes, you are not? Or, yes, you are?”

“We're in your class,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “Tell me, Mr. Curtis, what does
Fr
stand for?”

Keith looks stunned. Mr. Krueger said we'd get pop quizzes; we just didn't think that meant he'd pop up places and quiz us.

Keith throws his arms out like he surrenders. “I don't know. Freshman?”

Mr. Krueger rubs his chin and says, “I'll accept that as a valid answer, Mr. Curtis. On the quiz, however, you'll want to answer, ‘francium.'” He claps us each on the shoulder. “Have fun, gentlemen.”

“Jeez,” Keith says as Mr. Krueger walks away. “He got one look at my clothes and labeled me an idiot.”

“No, he didn't.”

“Yeah, he did.” Keith tugs on the ripped part of his jeans. “I'm going to check my hair. At least I can fix that if it looks stupid.”

With Keith gone, it's easy to pretend I'm watching people dance and not looking over them to the other side where Astrid is. She's been standing there the whole time with her friends, her head tilting every so often, talking, listening, smiling, laughing. No one's asked her to dance, which makes sense, because who would have the nerve? My heart's gone hummingbird just thinking about being wrapped up with her in a slow song, my thumbs looped through the bandana on her hips, and then a voice whispers in my ear, “It sucks being cool, huh?”

Edie from Algebra is right next to me and I don't know how she got there. Or when. She's wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing her arms, which are skinny but not bony. She's grinning like maybe she's been watching me watch Astrid, or maybe she's just happy to see me. I say, “Hi,” and she says, “When it is time to work, work. And when it is time to dance, dance.”

“Are you asking me to dance?”

She grabs hold of my sleeve. “Now is the time to dance!” She pulls me through pairs of people standing still at the end of a song. We're in the middle of the dance floor and the deejay says to get ready for “What I Like about You,” and Edie does. She squares off in front of me as the new record starts hissing. “Do you know how to pogo?”

A guitar riff launches out of the speakers and Edie is airborne. Everyone is. They're bouncing up and down to the music, and as soon as Edie lands I take off with her on the next jump. It's not so complicated, you know, and near the end of the song I'm turning myself sideways in the air, hitting the floor, bringing my knees up then down, hitting the floor, scissoring my legs out and back, hitting the floor. Edie's laughing with each move, bouncing along with me and trying my moves herself.

When the next song starts, Edie's legs go stone-still, which is funny because it's “Shake It Up,” by the Cars. Her arms start moving, though, and as the song picks up she flails them around and shakes her head side to side. I'm mirroring her the whole time, my arms swinging a little more crazily, my head shaking a little harder.

“You're good,” Edie says as the song ends.

I'm breathing heavy, beads of sweat rising in my hair and tickling my scalp. “Thanks. You are too.”

The next song comes up quiet, a synthesizer rising and a slow drumbeat. Neither of us move; then Edie sticks her hand in the middle of my chest and pushes me back a step. “Come on; I don't dance to slow songs.”

We find Keith near the wall and I introduce him to Edie.
She shakes his hand, says how nice it is to meet him, and takes off to find her friends.

For the next half hour, Keith's bugging me to go find Edie and her friends so he can dance too. It's pretty easy to ignore until he says, “If you're not going to talk to Astrid, it'll look a whole lot better if you're dancing with girls instead of talking to me.”

We find Edie with three other girls. Keith already knows two of them from his junior high. The third girl, Cherise, is someone Edie must know from her junior high. Cherise doesn't talk much, and between her long hair and the darkness, you can't tell if she's a fox or a dog, or something in between.

We all end up dancing in a circle so no one is really dancing with anyone, but it's fun. The only time anybody even touches is when one of Keith's moves goes wrong and he stumbles into somebody, which is fine since he apologizes each time and you can tell he's not doing it on purpose.

By the time the lights come on, we must have danced to ten songs, with little breaks for punch or the girls saying they'd be right back whenever a slow song came on. One of the girls from Keith's junior high asks if Filibuster is playing somewhere after the dance. “Yeah,” Keith says, “van Doren's always got something up his sleeve.”

The girls wait like maybe Keith actually knows something. Then the deejay crackles over the sound system that everyone rocked, and disco sucks, and it sucks if we leave the gym trashed like a disco, so it would pretty much rock if we all threw some trash away as we left. Keith grabs Cherise's cup and says, “We'll get them.” Edie hands me her cup and Keith grabs the rest.

Two of the girls walk away, leaving Edie and Cherise. “Thanks for dancing with us,” Edie says.

“No problem,” Keith says.

Cherise gives Edie's arm a little tug and Edie looks at me. “Now is the time to leave, and when it is the time to leave . . . ,” she says and waits.

“Don't dance,” I finish.

“And when it is the time to dance . . .”

“Don't leave,” I say.

Edie tilts her head sideways. “Ah, that's sweet, but I've really got to go.”

We both burst out laughing, and Edie gives me a little wave as she steps away.

Keith's smiling until we turn and head for the closest trash can. “What was so funny?”

“It's a math joke.”

“There's no such thing,” he says, and then just stops and stares. For a second I wonder if Treat is here, but Keith mouths,
Astrid.
He forces the cups in his hand onto me, then turns around and walks away.

Astrid gets to the trash can right when I'm tossing in the cups. “We have to stop meeting like this,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say and nod once like that means something.

She smiles, drops in a stack of cups, smacks her hands together like she's dusting them off, and walks away, the bandana swaying as she goes.

Keith's waiting for me by the big exit doors. “She smiled at you.”

“To keep from laughing.”

“No.” Keith shakes his head. “She saw you in your cool new clothes.”

He must be razzing me. “No one said we looked cool.”

“We talked to girls. We danced with girls.” Keith squints the way he did when Mr. Krueger asked him what
Fr
stood for. “That's what we want, isn't it? The experiment is a success.”