The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine (15 page)

“I don’t know, Dylan, I swear.”

We’re in Nick’s bedroom. The door is closed and his parents are downstairs. I point to the metal bracelet on his ankle. “There’s no, like, microphone on that thing, is there?”

“No,” he says. “It’s just a tracker. If I leave the house, the cops find out.”

“All right, then.” I march up to Nick and look him straight in the eye. “I know what you’ve been doing all along, dude. Stashing weed in our house, in our backyard. We
all
know. Your game’s up. And now you gave the police Randy’s name, didn’t you? Hung your best friend out to dry. Just to get back at him for hooking up with Chloe. The girl he’s crazy about.”

“No,” he says. “You got it wrong, Dylan. Yeah, I hid the weed in your house, and in your backyard, but it was only temporary until I could move it somewhere else. It was never there for more than a day or two. You see, the band needed money for the tour, for the van—that’s the only reason I did it. I knew Randy wouldn’t agree, none of the guys would, so I kept it a secret. And sure, I was pissed about him and Chloe, but you got to believe me, Dylan, I’d never rat him out. It was
Franz
. He’s the one. He got busted, and the cops told him he’d have less jail time if he gave them some names. Next thing I knew, they were knocking on my door.”

It feels like someone has just punched me in the stomach. I think about what I said to Randy. How I blamed Nick for giving his name to the police. Deep down, I know that’s why Randy ran. Why he hasn’t come home. He thought Nick betrayed him in the worst possible way. “You had no right,” I say. “You had no right to put Randy in danger. To put all of us in danger.”

“I know that, Dylan. And I’m sorry. I swear, I’d do anything to take it back. I never thought it would turn out this way. Listen, I can’t leave the house, but I’ll make some calls. I’ll find out where Randy is. I promise. When I hear something I’ll let you know.”

I look at Nick. Surprisingly, there are tears in his eyes. He looks scared, but not for himself. For Randy. I muster everything inside me to hate his guts, but I can’t. Right now I can only hate myself.

That evening, my dad calls my mother. After hearing the news, she’s at our doorstep in less than an hour. The three of us go to the police station and file a missing persons report. When the detective interviews my parents and discovers all the problems we’ve been having at home, he checks off the box labeled
RUNAWAY
. Only, I know better. And now I have to find my brother.

Seventeen

T
HE NEXT FEW DAYS ARE A BLUR
. The police, who are accustomed to this sort of thing, tell my parents that runaway teenagers generally return within a week, when they get hungry and lonely and tired of sleeping in strange places. Personally, I think it’s their excuse to do nothing. “I’ll help you, Dylan,” Angie says at school the next day. “Just get me a picture of Randy. I’ll make flyers on my iMac. We’ll post them up around the neighborhood. Someone’s bound to have seen him.”

So that’s what we do. Jonathan and Jake help out, and when we’ve finished the job, Randy’s face is plastered on telephone poles across Bay Ridge, Dyker Heights, and Bensonhurst. In the meantime, my parents cruise the streets in my father’s Volvo looking for Randy while Moser, Headbone, and Chloe go around the neighborhood on foot. Nick continues to make calls from his house, but so far, no one has seen or heard from my brother. When I wake up the next morning, there is this brief moment when I don’t remember Randy’s gone, but soon enough, everything turns black.

Saturday night, Angie begs me to come to a movie with her. “You’ve done everything you can, Dylan. It’s up to Randy now. Please, let’s go out. It’ll take your mind off things, at least for a while.”

We argue back and forth, and finally I give in. We go to see this artsy movie starring that nerdy dude from
Napoleon Dynamite.
I know Angie’s chosen the flick because she thinks I’ll like it, which I normally would, but tonight the whole thing seems pointless. I can’t even follow the story line.

No one’s around when I get home. There’s a note from my dad saying that he and my mother went out for dinner.
It’s funny,
I think as I lie on my bed,
just a week ago Randy and I were together, right here, shooting the breeze, playing that game we used to play when we were kids.
And then, a minute later, it hits me. Our handshake. Randy’s promise. I look at the clock. It’s 10 p.m. There’s still time.

I grab a jacket and race out the door. I run to the train station and hop the R. When I change for the D, the subway is surprisingly crowded, but soon I realize,
Of course it is
. This is New York City. The Big Apple. And right now there’s a jam session going on at Sixth and Waverly. Inside the student lounge at NYU. My brother is there. I know it. He always keeps his word.

When I arrive, I see Randy on the makeshift stage. Someone has loaned him an electric guitar and he’s showing the crowd what he can do. Surrounding him are a half dozen other musicians. A girl with spiky hair and a nose ring is plucking a bass, a guy in a suit and tie is blowing out notes on a harmonica, and a strikingly tall Asian girl in a miniskirt and black boots is banging out a rhythm on drums. Paul, coolest dude in the universe, is moving his magic fingers up and down his sax.

Right now they’re doing one of Springsteen’s old tunes from
Greetings from Asbury Park
,
N.J.
, “Spirit in the Night,” and the guy on vocals sounds just like the Boss. Paul and Randy and the harmonica player take turns on lead. The audience is really into it. When Randy finally sees me he nods, and when the song is finished he leans over and whispers something to Paul. Paul looks around and spots me in the crowd. He smiles wide and holds up an acoustic guitar—the same one I played with him in Washington Square Park. “And now,” he announces into the mike, “please welcome Mr. Dylan Fontaine.”

The crowd begins to clap. I’m so jazzed, I forget the fact that I want to wring Randy’s neck for leaving home. For scaring the crap out of me for the past several days. I go up there, and together we perform “Little Wing.” Paul and Randy swap off on lead, and the notes float smoothly while I strum the rhythm. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a better time playing a piece of music.

When we’re done, Paul sets down his sax. “Dylan, hey.” We shake hands. “I’m glad you finally showed up, man. Randy said you’d definitely be here, but I was getting worried. Anyway, as you can see, we’ve been having a great time. You were right about your brother.” He jabs his thumb in Randy’s direction. “He’s the best lead guitarist I’ve heard in a long time.”

“Aw, come on,” Randy says. He smiles shyly, but you can tell he’s grateful for the compliment. “Anyone would sound good playing with you on sax. Thanks for that song, man. It’s one of my favorites.”

Paul winks at me. “Yeah, I kind of guessed that.” Randy lifts the guitar strap from his shoulder and hands the instrument to Paul. “I’m going to take a short break, all right? I need to talk to my brother.” Paul nods, and as the musicians start up another song, Randy and I walk outside into the cool night air.

Now, away from the magic of the jam session, I’m angry all over again. In fact, I’m furious. I throw up my hands. I want to throttle him. “What were you thinking, Randy? Why didn’t you call me? Damn it, we’ve been looking all over for you. Hanging up posters and everything. The police have you on file as a runaway. And you should see your friends—they’re going nuts. Chloe’s a mess. Mom and Dad are freaking out!”

A little smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He seems to be enjoying the fact that he’s been missed. “Really? Wow. Sorry, Dylan, I—”

“Sorry? You’re not sorry. Look at you!”

He starts to laugh, and I seriously want to kill him. “Dude, I
am,
” he says pleadingly. “You gotta believe me. It’s just, well, I didn’t realize you’d be so upset. I figured you’d know I needed some time to think. After what happened. I figured everyone would.”

“Time to
think
?” I reach out and give him a hard shove. He stumbles back. “You could have been dead for all I knew. Where
were
you?”

“Chill out, Dyl. I was in Queens. Nick has a cousin there—Mike Hewitt. Mike made a few calls and let me know everything was cool at home. I asked him not to tell anyone where I was staying.”

“You
asshole
!” I scream. “God, don’t you ever think of anyone besides yourself?” I turn away, breathing hard. I’m about to run, but Randy grabs my arm.

“Dylan, hey, come on. Please.” He pulls me toward him. I struggle at first, but he’s stronger than me. Finally I give in. He hugs me tight to his chest. He smells like leather, smoke, and sweat. I can’t help it. I break down and start to cry. “You’re right,” he says. “You’re absolutely right. I should have called you, Dyl. I should have let you know I was safe. But listen, everything’s okay, right? You’re not in any trouble because of me, are you? Right now, that’s all that matters.”

“No.” I’m slobbering all over his shoulder now. “I dumped the weed in the bay. No one saw me. But the cops came to our house with dogs, just like Chloe said. They didn’t find anything.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Dylan. You didn’t have to bail me out.”

“Yeah, I know.” I take a step back and look him in the eye. “Randy, Nick didn’t rat on you. He admitted to hiding the weed at our house, but he said it was there for just a day or two, until he could move it somewhere else. It was a jackass move on his part—he said he needed the money for the tour, for the van—but he didn’t mean you any harm. It was Franz—the cops were on to him, so he gave them your names.”

Randy sighs. “Franz. Yeah, I guess that’s no surprise. Thanks for telling me. Sorry to get you in the middle of it.”

“Nick’s on house arrest,” I say. “The cops found some weed in his room, but not enough to press distribution charges.”

Randy nods. “Yeah, his cousin told me.” After a minute he gives me a wry smile. “So it looks like the Dead Musicians Society won’t be going on that tour after all. I suppose it’s just as well. The Sewer Rats
suck
.”

I manage to laugh a little. “You got that right.” It’s my turn to grab my brother and hug him tight. “Thank God I found you. I felt like it was my fault, you know, for blaming Nick. I figured that’s why you ran.”

“Hey, nothing’s your fault. You were just doing your job.” He smiles a little. “Looking out for me. Now, come on, let’s go back in and play some music.”

After a few more songs, I look at the time. It’s almost 1 a.m. I’d love to stay, but I know my parents are probably worried. “We should go,” I say to Randy.

“Listen, Dylan,” he says. “I’m not ready yet. I still need a couple more days to sort things out. Paul said I could crash at his place. Just tell Mom and Dad I’m all right, and I’ll be back soon, okay?”

I don’t like the sound of this arrangement, but by the look on Randy’s face I can tell he’s not going to budge. I hold out my hand. “That’s a promise, right, dude? You won’t bag on me?”

He grips my hand tight. “You got my word.”

When I make it home, my parents are in the living room, anxiously awaiting my return. “Dylan! Thank God!” My mother jumps up and runs to me. Without even thinking, I wrap my arms around her.

“Randy’s okay,” I say. I look at my dad, sitting on the couch. He closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of relief. “I was with him, just now, in the city,” I go on. “He’ll be home in a few days.” I expect my father to start ranting about asinine teenagers, barraging me with a million questions about why Randy left in the first place, but instead he gets up and puts his arms around both my mother and me. The hug feels clumsy and awkward, but good at the same time.

The following morning I wake up to Tripod meowing his head off. I figure he’s gotten himself locked in my mom’s studio again, but when I open the door I find my mother sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes. Tripod is perched on one, screeching his dissatisfaction. Already she’s packed her computer, her books, the Japanese chest where she keeps her paintbrushes. In the far corner is the easel where her pastel portrait once sat, folded up and ready to go. “Hey,” she says, attempting a smile.

I’m not sure what I’ve been expecting. After all the time my parents spent together searching for Randy, I thought maybe there was a chance my mom might stay. I guess I was wrong.

I don’t say anything. I close the door and go back to my room. I search through my vintage LPs and finally choose
Led Zeppelin II
. The chaos of the music matches my mood. As Robert Plant belts out “Ramble On,” there’s a knock on my door. “Dylan, may I come in?” When I don’t answer, my mom enters, lifts the needle, and sits beside me.

The room is deathly quiet now. There was a time when my mom and I could talk easily about ordinary, everyday things, but that time is past. “So you’re leaving again,” I say.

“Yes, honey, I am.”

I nod, and there’s a long stretch of silence. “Dylan,” my mom finally says, “I want to thank you for stopping by the studio last week. It meant a lot to me. And I’d like to explain something. I painted those pictures because they’re happy memories. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I stare out the window. A blue jay flies by with a piece of straw in its beak. It’s building a nest. A home.

“I know this is hard for you to accept, Dylan, and I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but when I was here, living in this house with your dad constantly gone, I felt so alone. When he was home, it seems like all we did was argue. Where I am now, it’s…where I need to be. I have friends, people who care, my art. It’s a community.”

The words sting. What am I supposed to say?
Gee, Mom, I’m so happy for you? So glad you found people who care?
But the truth is, I’d known for a while that my mother was unhappy. I just didn’t want to admit it.

“I still love your dad,” she says. “I always will. He’s a good father to you and Randy. But the two of us together…it doesn’t work anymore. I tried for a long time. In a way, he’s married to his job.”

I think back to when Randy and I were young, when my dad was still a resident at the hospital, before he got his own practice. Things were different—sure, he worked a lot, but he was there for us and for my mother, too. I guess I understand why she painted those pictures. She wanted to remember the good times.

My mom reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “This is my new address. While I was in Paris an apartment opened near Philippe’s place in the Village. I’m taking it. It’s got an extra bedroom and, well, I’d really love if you’d come stay with me on the weekends, or whenever you can. Randy, too.”

She hands me the paper. I stare at the address. None of this makes sense. “But…I don’t get it. I thought you and Philippe were together.”

She gives me a strange look. “Oh…no, honey. We’re friends. Good friends. I thought you knew that. He was helping me out until I could find a place of my own.”

“Oh.” For some reason this makes me feel even worse. My mom’s not leaving us for someone else—she’s just…leaving. “Does Dad know that?” I ask.

“Of course. Why? He didn’t lead you to believe something else, did he?”

I think for a moment. My dad never came out and said my mom was having an affair with Philippe, but then again, he never said she
wasn’t
. “Um, no, he didn’t,” I say. “I guess…it was my mistake.”

She shakes her head. “Wow, all this time you thought…Randy, too? Well, that explains a lot. I’m sorry, Dylan. I wish I’d known. I would have cleared it up right away.” Tentatively, she reaches over and takes my hand. “Anyway, I hope you’ll come and stay with me. You don’t have to answer right now, just think about it, okay? And maybe you can talk to Randy when he comes home? He won’t speak to me at all.”

I stuff the paper into my back pocket. “Okay, Mom. I’ll think about it. I’ll talk to Randy, too.”

“Thank you.” She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze. “Dylan? I saw the sketch of the girl hanging in the studio.” For a moment I think she’s mistaken the drawing for Randy’s, the same way Nick did. But I’m wrong. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “Your best piece yet. I was wondering if I might take it with me, to hang in my new place. I know it’s asking a lot, but I really love the piece.”

I look at my mom. Her eyes are hopeful. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “I drew several of those, so it’s no problem. I…want you to have it.”

“Thank you, Dylan.” We sit there together for a while, and when Tripod begins to screech again, my mother returns to the messy business of packing.