The Big Crunch (16 page)

“Naomi is his campaign manager.”

He thought she would think that was funny, but all she said was, “I bet she’ll do a good job.”

Somehow they burned through all their cell minutes in less than a week, and he never got around to telling her about The Plan.

June tried not to think about the in-between future.

The
immediate
future, that was easy. It was about getting through the week. And the
distant
future — things she’d dreamed about when she was a little kid — being an astronaut, living on her own island, becoming a movie star … that imaginary future was fun to think about. She could make it anything she wanted. Like Jerry Preuss becoming President of the Universe.

But the
in-between
future — a month, a year, two years — she tried to shove to the back of her mind. Because it was way too fuzzy and scary.

She tried not to think about it, but her mind betrayed her several times a day. And every scenario she came up with came to a crashing, utterly impractical end. If she tried to run off with Wes, her parents would call out the National Guard, or worse. And she didn’t think any of her Minnesota girlfriends would agree to put her up for the summer. As for Wes moving to Omaha … she could just imagine what her dad would say.

“Are you okay?”

June looked toward the voice. A boy — tall, rail thin, tousled black hair, honey-color eyes — was giving her a concerned look. They were standing in front of her open locker. The final bell had gone off a few minutes earlier. The hallway was crowded with a stampede of students heading for the exits.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Why?”

“You looked upset,” the boy said.

“Not really.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He smiled. One crooked tooth, the rest nice. “I’m Kel,” he said. “Are you new?”

“I’ve been here since January.”

“Oh.” He shrugged the way boys do when they are trying to say, “Sorry,” but they really aren’t.

“I’m June.” She had seen him around. Not actually
looked
at him, but noticed him in a peripheral sort of way because of his above-average height and supernaturally black hair. Dye job? Probably. His black T-shirt was printed with the words
Alien Sex Fiend
beneath a nail-pierced skull and crossbones. A band? It looked goth. She saw no piercings or tats, but that didn’t mean anything — he might have an anarchy sign tattooed on his butt.

“Nice to meet you,” said Kel. “Are you going out the front?”

For a second, June didn’t get what he was asking.
Going out the front?
Then she realized he was asking her which school exit she was planning to use.

“West side,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction.

“Oh, well, see ya!” Kel headed off toward the front foyer. He had a loose, long-strided way of walking that looked graceful even in those thick-soled motorcycle boots. June watched until he was out of sight, then set about rearranging the contents of her locker
as the hallway slowly emptied. She took her time. Because she had lied. Because she planned to leave by the front, and she didn’t want to run into Alien Sex Fiend Kel.

It was never a good idea to get to know anybody too interesting.

You’ll just miss them when you leave
, said Pragmatic June.

“Like Wes,” June whispered.

Your preposterous fantasy lover
, said Sarcastic June.

“Shut
up
!” June slammed the locker door.

“Whoa there! Don’t blame it on the hardware.”

June whirled to tell off whoever it was — but it turned out to be the custodian, pushing his six-foot-wide broom down the hallway.

“Contrary to what you kids think, these lockers are not unbreakable,” he said.

“Sorry,” June said.

The janitor nodded, satisfied, and continued pushing his broom down the hall. June slung her bag over her shoulder and followed him toward the front entrance.

In April, as the last curbside piles of dirty gray snow grew smaller, Wes discovered a new source of income in Alan Schwartz’s poker games. The Texas Hold’em game in Alan’s basement had become a regular Saturday afternoon event. Wes had been avoiding
the game because in the past he’d nearly always lost, but he’d gotten talked into playing one day and, grudgingly, had bought in for twenty dollars.

Determined to retain as much of his money as possible, he’d played his cards conservatively. No bluffing, no long-shot draws, no raises with anything less than top pair, folding with anything less. His cautious play had paid off. He’d begun to win, slowly and steadily. By the time the game broke up, he had doubled his money.

After that, he played every Saturday. When Alan Schwartz accused him of playing like an old lady, Wes just smiled and stacked his chips. When Robbie told him he was freakishly lucky, Wes shrugged and said he was due. Within a few weeks he had amassed more than two hundred dollars in poker winnings.

One rainy Saturday in late April, he hit a lucky streak and was up nearly eighty dollars. Robbie, watching sourly as Wes raked in another pot, said, “You had trip kings. How come you didn’t raise?”

“You were doing the raising for me,” Wes said.

“What a wuss. Poker is supposed to be about
betting!
“

Wes shrugged. “I thought you might have a flush.”

“Tightass.” Robbie pushed his chair back. “I’m out of here.” He threw on his jacket and stomped up the stairs.

Wes smiled. Turning a profit made it easy to put up with the ribbing.

That day he walked home in the rain and thought about how just three months ago he had been walking in the snow with June. Funny how the longer he went without seeing her, the more dreamlike and unreal she became.

June had decided a week earlier to turn her cell phone off during the day. Because she was driving herself crazy checking it all the time, not to mention burning up minutes and hours talking to Wes. Not that she didn’t love talking to him, but it had gotten to the point of obsession. So she left it off between eight in the morning and seven at night.

It was
hard.
By six o’clock every night, she was bursting with things to say that she couldn’t say to anyone else. Sometimes it was so intense she could almost taste him.

Such a waste. You’ll probably never see him again
, said Sarcastic June.
Dad will get a job in Alaska. You’ll be living in an igloo and eating seal blubber.

“Shut up!” June muttered. She leaned forward over her dressing table and shook her head so her hair fell in front of her face. She stared through the tangled strands.

Time to grow up,
said Pragmatic June.

“Grow up, yourself,” June said. She flipped her hair back, ran her fingers through it, then went to work on her face. She was having a good week, complexion-wise, so there wasn’t much to do. A little eyeliner, lipstick not much different from the natural color of her lips, a touch of eyebrow pencil. “Good enough for the Drood,” she told herself.

The Drood was a notorious bar and dance club normally open to adults only, but on the first Saturday of every month they had an all-ages show from six until ten, with two bands. June had never been there, but she was going that night with the Three Ts.

At first, she had said no, but Tabitha had been relentless.

“It’s totally cool,” Tabitha had said. “Just like a real dance club, only they just serve soda and fruit drinks.”

“They have piña coladas and Bloody Marys,” Tara had added. “But with no alcohol. They kick everybody out at ten and open it up to adults. One time, Sheila Murphy hid in the bathroom and got to stay past ten. This guy bought her a Champagne Blue.”

“What’s a Champagne Blue?” June had asked.

“It has real champagne in it, and it’s blue. She said it was really good.”

“We should totally do that,” Trish had said. “I want a Champagne Blue. I want two!”

“Wrathskell is playing. They’re crazy.”

“Rumfuddle too.”

June had never heard of either band.

“
Everybody’s
going to be there, June. You
have
to come.”

In the end, she had agreed to go. But she wasn’t going to hide out in any restrooms. Or drink any blue champagne. In fact, she was determined to have no fun whatsoever.

“How come you aren’t talking to June?”

Paula stood in the doorway to his bedroom, looking in at him. For weeks she had been observing him with catlike intensity, following his long-distance romance as if it was her own personal soap opera.

Wes, sprawled on his bed, lowered the X-Men comic he’d been reading. “I don’t talk to her twenty-four hours a day.”

“You should.”

“Well, I don’t. Besides, I already used all my minutes.” He went back to reading the comic book. Because he was saving money for The Plan, he hadn’t been buying any new comics lately, so he was rereading the last twelve issues of Astonishing X-Men.

“Are you going to go see her?” Paula asked.

“None of your business.”

“I bet you are. You should take her to Paris, like in that movie.”

“What movie?”

“The one where they go to Paris.”

“You don’t even know where Paris is,” said Wes.

“In France.”

“You don’t know where France is.”

“In Europe.”

“Okay, you win. Now leave me alone.”

Paula did not move. Wes concentrated on pretending she wasn’t there. He had almost succeeded when she spoke again.

“She could come here. She could stay in my room.”

Wes said nothing. After a time, Paula left. Wes put down the comic and closed his eyes and thought about Paula’s first question:
How come you aren’t talking to June?

He did not have an answer. June had told him she was going phoneless during the day. He respected that. He even understood it. And she was right, talking and texting only at night made it better. But where was she tonight? Wes attempted to form a psychic link with her. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and stared at the spots and lines and patterns until a face emerged, fuzzy and indistinct. He made it into a June-shaped face, then added details.

He and June had spent hours back in March trying to send each other ESP messages. It never worked.

He didn’t believe in ESP anyway.

Why hadn’t she called him — or at least texted?

There could be lots of reasons. But the more time that passed, the more out of control the whole thing felt — he had no idea what was really going on with her in Omaha, what she was really thinking, what she might be doing on a Saturday night instead of calling.

“Are you asleep?”

Wes opened his eyes to find Paula standing over him in her pajamas, staring into his face with those enormous brown eyes.

“I thought you went away,” he said.

“I came back. Are you sad?”

“No.”

“You look sad.”

“Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”

His cell phone chimed. A new text message.

“That’s her,” said Paula. She turned and shuffled off in her bunny slippers as Wes reached for the phone.

T
HE
D
ROOD,
located in one of Omaha’s grittier neighborhoods, looked like a dump from the outside — walls covered with graffiti, cigarette butts littering the sidewalk, double doors painted with several layers of black paint and studded with staples and the torn corners of old handbills … not the elegant nightclub she had imagined.

Inside, it was nicer. An old-fashioned mirrored disco ball hung above the dance floor, and a curved staircase led up to a balcony with lots of tables and chairs. There were two bars, one against the back wall and one upstairs. Several hundred noisy, energetic teens were milling about, waiting for the first band to start.

June followed Tabitha to the bar and ordered a Coke. The bartender put a slice of lime on the rim and set the drink on a coaster shaped like a guitar. She liked that. He charged her three dollars for it. That, she didn’t like so much.

Tara and Trish were already on the dance floor, gyrating to the thumping house music while the first band — Rumfuddle or Wrathskell, she wasn’t sure — set up their equipment on the stage.

Tabitha yelled something in June’s ear.

“What?”

Tabitha pointed, grabbed June’s arm, and pulled her across the room to a table where some kids she recognized from school
were sitting. June and Tabitha dragged a couple of chairs up and joined them.

Bart Hanson, a quiet type in school, must have had a few beers before coming. He was talking — yelling, more like — something about a slasher movie he’d seen. Jenna Stiles must have been drinking too — she looked a little slack-faced and out of it. June didn’t know the other two, who were trying to talk over Bart, relating their own favorite parts of the movie. Tabitha said something about slasher movies being stupid, and everybody started arguing loudly, but in a fun sort of way. June listened, trying to find a place to insert herself into the conversation, but she hadn’t seen any slasher movies lately. After a few minutes, she got up and went to search for a restroom.

By the time she returned, the band had started playing. The table she had been sitting at was empty. She looked around, hoping to spot a familiar face. A tall guy wearing a black leather jacket and shredded jeans approached her from the bar, smiling.

“June?”

She stared at him.

“It’s Kel,” he said. “We met at school?”

“Oh!”

“You here by yourself?”

“No, I came with, uh, you know, Trish and Tara and Tabitha?”

“Tabitha Kane? I know Tabitha. You want something to drink?”