Dr. Bird's Advice for Sad Poets (4 page)

“Oh.”

“Are you gonna be there, though?”

“I want to go, but I’ve got this drama with my boyfriend. It’s a huge pain in my huge ass.”

She laughs and I fight an urge to comment that her ass is not huge.

“Is it like an episode of
Drama Mavens?
” I ask.

“Exactly like that! Only stupider.” Thank god she laughs.

“Well, then you need to go to this party. Isn’t that how the people on the show would solve their problems? Get all the people together at a social function, drink a little, have it out in a big melodramatic shouting match?”

“Totally! Someone falls in the pool, someone gets rufied, someone comes out of the closet, someone becomes emotionally vulnerable.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that show. But it sounds awesome.”

Beth laughs and admits she’s never watched the show either, which makes the snobby part of me very happy.

“If you’re gonna be there, I’ll try to get there too.” This is the bravest thing I’ve said in weeks, but the butterfly monster in my stomach roars. Will I just end up telling Beth tomorrow that I’m not going? Will she be disappointed or echo Derek’s “whatever, dude”?

“What role will you be playing in my little
Drama Mavens
plot line?” she asks.

“Oh. I guess I’ll be the new friend who your boyfriend thinks is threatening but turns out to be harmless.”

“Nah. You should be the guy with the accent who everyone thinks is mysterious but who just turns out to be poor.”

“What kind of accent?”

“A mixture of Russian and Vietnamese.”

“I’ll work on that.”

For the rest of the day my anxiety is unbearable because I have agreed to go to a party that I’ve already backed out of and the girl who convinced me to go has a boyfriend and drama and might not even be the kind of girl I like even though I think she’s really, really cute and reads poetry.

But what would my week be without a massive cloud of worry? It would be a different week. And my weeks just aren’t different.

WHEN I CALL DEREK
to say I’ve rechanged my mind, he doesn’t act surprised. In fact, he doesn’t pick on me or call me a dick or anything. Just says he will pick me up at eight.

By seven-forty-five I’ve narrowed my outfit choices down, but every time I put on a shirt I feel like a dork. The arm cast doesn’t help. I want to look normal, inconspicuous, approachable, but also somewhat invisible. I have a black Radiohead shirt with a bunch of white houses on it. It suggests I have good taste in music but also that I need to let everyone know I have good taste in music.

My other option is a gel-toothpaste-green polo shirt that makes me feel minty fresh. A nice color but not conversational. I imagine Beth passing me by because she can’t think of anything to say about my outfit.

For pants I have the choice of corduroy (which feel about a year past freshness) or jeans (always classic) or khakis (too formal).

I have only one pair of shoes, casual sneakers made of hemp that are in desperate need of new laces but will suffice for this evening.

Derek shows up and I throw on jeans and my Radiohead shirt as he comes up the stairs.

“Are you decent?” he calls down the hall.

I tell him to come in.

“Your parents give you any shit about tonight?” he asks.

“I’m planning an out-the-door announcement of ‘Going to the movies with Derek.’ We’ll see how that works.”

“They love me; it’ll be easy.”

Derek stares at my shirt for a lingering second.

“I know you’re not a fan, but it’s either this or that.” I point to the minty shirt.

“I don’t care what you wear. I just think that band is boring.”

“Is the
shirt
boring?” I ask. “Because it’s not like the shirt plays music.”

We laugh. It’s going to be a good night.

At the front door I yell my perfected line down to the family room. The Banshee and the Brute will have less than ten seconds to evaluate and respond. Still, they rarely give me crap about going anywhere because I rarely go anywhere.

Derek trots outside, confident that there will be no restrictions placed on his evening.

But rather than “Okay” or “Be safe” or “Who are you again?” I hear footsteps, and then both of my parents are looking at me like I’ve lied to them. Which I have, but they shouldn’t know that.

“Where are you going?” my father asks.

“Movies. With Derek. He’s outside.” I point to the porch and Derek waves and grins like a goof.

“Be back by eleven,” my father says.

“The movie might not be done by then.”

“You should see a shorter movie then.”

“Or you should see an earlier one,” my mom says.

“Why do I need to be home? Are we getting up early tomorrow?”

“It’s your curfew.” The Brute points at a plastic clock on the wall.

“I’ve never had a curfew.”

“You have one. It’s eleven.”

I consider staying home. My eyes burn like there’s a weird, tiring, hot dust in the air. Derek will kill me if I bail. He’ll also kill me if we have to leave the party to get me home by eleven. Either way, he’ll attempt to murder me.

I look down at my shirt. What a stupid shirt! I’m a stupid kid. Why do I think I deserve to go to a party anyway? I’m just going to clam up, sit in a corner, watch the clock, not drink, not smoke, not enjoy myself. I’m going to end up hating how happy everyone seems.

“Let me tell Derek,” I say.

I go outside and tell him that I have what is known as a curfew.

“Whatever. We’ll go and I’ll bring you back. You need to get out of this house.”

“Maybe I can say we’re going to a theater that’s far away?”

“Rule Number One of Teenage Happiness:
Less detail makes for an easier lie.
Just tell them you’ll be home.”

“
Will
I be home?”

Derek sighs, then goes inside my house. I watch him talk to my parents, charming them, being the kind of son they might like. The Banshee tends to respond well to him for some reason. She has very easy rules for people who are not her kids.

My father, on the other hand, is suspicious of everyone. But whatever Derek says seems to get us permission to leave. In the car I ask him what he said.

“I said you would be home disease-free and sober by midnight.”

“You’re a goddamn magician.”

Mike Redman’s house overwhelms all of my senses. The air smells of cheap beer and burnt hamburgers. Bass thumps the floor, rattling expensive vases. I immediately look for a wall to stick my back against. I get a soda from a cooler out on the deck but not because I’m thirsty: the can will protect me. I tend to need talismans in crowds. Tortilla chips, napkins, my cell phone, all work well.

Someone acts like I bumped into her, but actually she bumped into me. I say sorry automatically, because I always say I’m sorry automatically.

I look around for recognizable faces at this classy affair. It’s strange how similar but different people look outside of school. The ladies seem to be wearing more makeup than normal and the gentlemen seem to be wearing their dressier baseball caps. My T-shirt feels a little too hipster, but at least I’m not wearing a baseball cap.

When people at school talk about parties they’ve been to, I tend to glaze over as the list of who-said-whats carries on and on. Now my anxiety, boiling away at my insides, makes it hard for me to really take in details. I’m constantly looking at the time, wary that the hour of midnight will suddenly happen and I’ll be hours away from home and destined for punishment.

Derek doesn’t ditch me right away, which is a nice surprise. I fully expected this to be a night of flirtation for him, even though he does have a sexual mentor now. He’s amazing to watch at a party. He manages to hold conversations while constantly checking his phone and acknowledging people who pass through the room.

Derek tells me to have a beer so I have a beer. It’s not peer pressure: it’s survival. I realize that the risk of a vicious panic attack is greater than the risk of getting caught beer-breathed on my return home.

The beer is cold and erases the soda film from my teeth.

The beer and anxiety make time skip around.

9:29
—Someone yells out, “You are my number one
bitch friend forever!
”

9:35
—Derek says: “I think if I lived next door to secret Muslim terrorists who were going to attack America, I would figure it out.”

And then: “But I think that if they knew me, if they got to know me, they’d probably reconsider what they’re planning to do. I feel like I can get along with lots of different people.”

8:37
—Beth appears. As if by magic. She comes around the corner acting like she’s been here forever. I stare her down, hoping that we’ll make the kind of eye contact reserved for people who are meant to be together. Imagine my shock when she comes right up to me and says hi in the kind of peppy-drunk way that I’ve only wished to experience.

“Hi yourself!” I yell over the distorted music urging everyone in the house to bop their heads and make terrible dance moves in shadowed corners.

“How long have you been here?” she asks, somewhat hyper.

“I looked for you, briefly. I’m a little overwhelmed by this whole thing.”

“It’s loud in here. But not crazy. I expected craziness!”

“Well, now you’re here. Maybe these people will get crazy!”

8:36
—I’m in the kitchen, wishing I had stayed home. The kitchen is bright white, the brightest room in the house, and I’m the guy standing next to a bowl of broken chips atop grease-soaked red napkins.

9:15
—Beth and I drink and talk about things we never knew we had in common. We recite lines from movies. Beth tells me she wants to be a journalist. I tell her that journalists don’t appreciate the nuance of language. Beth says poetry doesn’t mean anything for anyone besides the poet and maybe five of the ten people who read it.

“Poetry is like self-abuse,” she says.

“You mean like suicide or something?”

“Masturbation!” she yells over the din of the party.

I blush.

9:02
—Beth notices me staring a little too long at her boobs. She adjusts her shirt by doing that pulling-back-of-the-shirt-shoulders thing, but it’s all loose and slips down again. I get hot in the face. I want to tell her that she’s got great boobs, but there’s no polite way to say so. I want to talk about the lines that make the curves and the shirt that makes the other lines. Is this making sense? Basically, I want to compliment her tits! How can I not, when they’re being offered there, plentiful, wonderful, well lit even in the dull house with dull people who don’t read poetry!

YAWP!

9:47
—Derek says he has to go pick up his lady friend but promises to be back.

8:50
—Beth offers to get us more beer and I ask for a soda to pace myself. I make a great joke about cutting back on my drinking to make a good example for my parents.

9:21
—Someone yells out: “I’m not sure these are my pants!”

Someone else: “Well, give her shoe back then!”

9:54
—Beth and I have a conversation with a few other people that seems to have no beginning and no end. It involves why I don’t eat chicken, something strange Beth remembers from a third grade spelling bee, this guy’s secret crush on his second cousin, and another girl’s crush on the aforementioned cousin-lover.

10:15
—Beth introduces me to her fashionably late boyfriend, Martin, a delirious-looking, corduroy-wearing dude with a goatee. I laugh at his pants. Out loud. I just laugh at them, but I can’t explain why they’re so funny.

10:01
—Beth calls her boyfriend and learns that he’s been at the party for an hour but that he didn’t come find her.

“
Drama Mavens?
” I ask.

“All the
fucking
way, my friend.” She touches my broken arm for two billion nanoseconds.

We’re friends! I note the time and the position of the moon and the song playing and I look at her eyes not her cleavage and her eyes glisten but she seems to have trouble with my eyes so she looks away. My eyes are probably cloudy, sad, mean, boring. Not blue enough or brown enough or bright enough.

10:33
—I explain to Martin, with the help of four beers in a body that doesn’t drink much, that I work with Beth on the literary magazine.

“Poetry is for chicks and gays.” He laughs because he’s trying to lighten the mood by saying stupid things. This makes sense because we’re drunk and having a wonderful time.

“Don’t be mean, Martin,” Beth says.

“How’d you break your arm?” Martin asks.

“Saving a Tastykake from a bus.”

Martin thinks I’m joking.

“It was a sentimental Tastykake.”

10:45
—Derek shows up with my sister, Jorie. I’m enraged! Is this his lady friend? Is this is his brilliant way of telling me? Should I have known this? I’m racing through all the things I should say, but my anger is showing. Jorie gives me a hug that calms me down even though I want to shake her and punch him.

What are they doing? They cannot be in love!

I’m not sure why not.

Then he introduces me to a lady who is
not
my sister. Her name is Sally Something. She is his lady and she is apparently Jorie’s boss at Fillmore’s, a chain restaurant famous for naming burgers after ex-presidents and side dishes after their vice presidents.

I am relieved more than I can describe. His lady is the kind of lady I expect Derek to have been seduced by. A lady a few years older than us, conspicuous at a high school party (maybe she’s a college dropout). She’s got blond hair and a tight shirt and legs and things, but who cares?

Jorie is here!

Jorie!

THE REST OF THE PARTY
is just me and Jorie and Beth and sometimes Derek when his lady runs off to use the bathroom to do some coke or to trigger an allergy attack (either way, she seems to have nasal issues). I’d like to celebrate SaraSally- Something and assume she’s just living the life she wants to live, but something tells me doing coke at a high school party is not what she dreamt of when she was little. Then again, who knows. Everyone has different dreams.