The Tragic Age (7 page)

Sidebar.

Red is the color of blood and fire. The Greek philosopher Aristotle believed that redheads were emotionally unhousebroken. Redheads are sensitive to physical pain.

The girl with the light red hair and green eyes stares at me. She didn't have to tell me the first time that her name is Gretchen Quinn.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Gretchen Quinn says.

“No,” I say. At least I think I say that. My mind is not quite sure if my mouth is talking.

“Am I stupid?” Gretchen says. “Ugly?”

“No.” She isn't. Not even a little bit.

“So why do you act like you don't even know me? Dorie was my best friend. I thought you were my friend too, Billy.”

“I don't really know you anymore,” I say. It's a totally moron thing to blurt out, but spur of the moment, it's the best I can do. Gretchen Quinn stares at me. She quietly nods. She rises and moves away from the table. She leaves the library as quietly as she came in. The side of my face is freezing cold.

Point of reference.

Dorie and Gretchen met in the second grade and from that moment on were pretty much inseparable. There was this old bedtime story Dorie and I had read as kids about two sisters, Snow White and Rose Red, who were crazy about each other and did everything together and that's what I'd call them. Dorie was Snowy and Gretchen was Rosy. Rose Red was chatty and cheerful and Snow White was quiet and thoughtful and that sort of suited them too. In the fairy tale Rose Red and Snow White had this bear that would come and visit them. And they'd ride him like a pony and pull his fur and tie his feet together and then tickle him. And the bear would yell out, “Snowy-White and Rosy-Red! Will you beat your lover dead?”

A lot of times I'd pretend to be the bear.

The other thing about Snow White and Rose Red is they promised they'd never leave each other. That didn't happen. Dorie—
Snowy
—died.

Gretchen and I didn't see each other much after that. I sort of had to take a little time off, and then after that, I got stuck in the special, big-deal middle school before ultimately bailing on it. In the meantime, Gretchen's father, who was a hotshot doctor of infectious diseases, took the entire family off to Africa so they could save people who were dying of AIDS and whatnot. So she really was gone. But now, she had said it all that day on the beach. “We're back.”

It goes without saying that girls make you do insane things. One minute a guy can be, if there is such a thing,
normal,
the next, he's cracking stupid jokes and running and dancing in place like a babbling, mindless idiot. Another word for this is “dating.”

This had to be immediately nipped in the bud.

 

17

“Your parents ever let you out of the house?”

It's later in the day between classes and Gretchen Quinn is at her locker. If she's surprised to see me standing there, she doesn't show it.

“No, they keep me in a cage in my room,” Gretchen says.

This is called “flirting.” Flirting often precedes dating and is an equally sinister endeavor.

“To do what?” Gretchen says.

“How about I drag you to a deserted cabin in the dark woods and do a vivisection with a chain saw?”

Actually, I don't say that. In all honesty, it freaks me out that I even think it.

“The movies?” I say. I sort of shrug. I hate the movies. Vivisections with chain saws are the basis of a lot of movies.

“They'd want to meet you,” Gretchen says. “My parents.”

“They have already,” I say.

“They'd want to meet you again,” Gretchen says.

“Why?” I say. “To see if they can still trust me?”

“They're funny that way.”

The side of my face begins to feel warm, but it's not unpleasant. “How do you know
you
can trust me?” I say.

“I just do,” Gretchen says.

Fact.

Leonardo da Vinci's
Mona Lisa
is believed to have been painted between 1503 and 1506. The ambiguity of her expression is often described as mysterious.

Not anymore.

Looking at Gretchen Quinn, the stain on my face just about
glowing,
I know, without a doubt, what Mona Lisa was smiling about.

Me.

 

18

From having been there before, I know that Gretchen and her family live in this old-fashioned, Craftsman-style house that looks as if it was actually built with materials and colors that in all probability exist in nature. It's not really superhuge but, still, it sits on almost a half acre of land, which is pretty much unheard of in High School Highville. Inside it's open and clean with hardwood floors and throw rugs and shelves with books and walls with framed children's drawings. There's a living room that looks like people sit in it as opposed to visit it on rare occasions. There's even a fireplace that has the remains of actual wood logs in the grate.

I like it.

Gretchen's parents are in the kitchen and they immediately jump to their feet, all smiles, as if they're happy to see me. They don't seem to have changed much or gotten any older even though I'm sure they have. Dr. Quinn—
Jim
—is still this guy who you can tell was a terrific athlete when he was young. He probably made about a million baskets and led his team to the state championship before going on to college and then medical school, where he no doubt graduated first in his class. And now he gets up every morning and runs five miles without fail, does pushups and calls it quality time. He's the one Gretchen gets her red hair and green eyes from. Mrs. Quinn—
Kath
—is the sort of no-nonsense woman who's smart and organized as hell, and you just know she was the one who decorated the house and that she has a ton on the ball because not only was she once a big-deal hospital administrator, she also landed Dr. Quinn, who was a catch.

Don't tell me all people are created equal because they're not.

Dr. Quinn crushes my hand and Mrs. Quinn gives me a smile and asks what I've been up to.

“Not much,” I say.

“A senior,” says Mrs. Quinn. “Any plans for next fall?”

“Not really,” I say.

“How are those folks of yours?” says Dr. Quinn.

“How are they supposed to be?” I say, wrinkling my brow as if I don't quite understand the question. I'm coming off like a real ignoramus. At least I hope I am. My problem is I like the Quinns. This might be seeping through and so I make a point of being especially rude as we leave.

“You two be careful,” says Mrs. Quinn.

“We're just going to do drugs with used needles and have unprotected sex,” I say.

Actually, I don't have the balls to say that.

“We'll try,” I say.

“And have a good time,” says Dr. Quinn.

“As opposed to what?” I say.

It's just starting to get dark when Gretchen and I come out. Gretchen is starting to look a little uncertain. So far, so good.

“Listen, there's something you should know,” I say.

“What?” she says.

“I don't drive,” I say.

“Oh. Well, I could probably get the car,” Gretchen says. She doesn't sound too sure.

“No, it's covered,” I say.

I point and Gretchen turns to see the old hulk of a Cadillac parked at the entrance of the Quinn driveway. It's like something out of an Elvis Presley in his grilled-peanut-butter-and-banana-sandwiches period—a faded beast with pointed fins, rusting chrome, stained whitewall tires, and a grille that looks like a bum with several teeth knocked out. The chauffeur is waiting by the rear door, grinning like a bloodthirsty fiend.

Twom.

“He offered to drive,” I say.

Gretchen sort of slowly nods. “Okay,” she finally says.

I make the introductions.

“Little Red,” says Twom, looking as if he could eat her. Gretchen is polite but it's tough. It's not so much the tattoos, spikes, and hoops, which are actually sort of
normal
these days, it's the wild eyes and the deranged, high-octane grin. With a bow and a big sweep of his arm, Twom opens the rear door of the Cadillac.

“Your chariot awakes,” he says. Gretchen quickly slips in past him.

“Awaits,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Not wakes—
waits.
”

“Get your ass in there, dude,” Twom says, “before I do.” I can tell he's more than a little impressed with Gretchen, and for some weird reason, I feel annoyed about it. The car, which belongs to Twom's grandmother, smells of dogs, pine freshener, cigarette smoke, and molding leather. There's dog hair and bits of crumbled kibble on the seats and floorboards. Gretchen's hands are tight in her lap and her knees are up and together as if she's trying not to touch anything.

It's really perfect.

Twom gets in the front, slams the door behind him with a crash, and ignoring his seat belt, starts the car. Elvis turns over, falters, starts again, and with a billow of blue exhaust, settles into a deep, ragged thrum. Twom turns the radio on.

“How about some tunes!” he yells.

It's a crazed speed metal station and he turns it up full blast. The song, if you can call it that, sounds like someone whipping a horse to death. It makes further conversation all but impossible and is a totally terrific choice for the occasion.

Twom puts the Caddy in gear and we back up and out of the driveway. There's a horrible grinding sound as the undercarriage of the car hits the street.

“Next stop, AMC12!” Twom screams over the sound of the radio.

The evening can't get any better. I'm counting on it.

 

19

In 1891, Thomas Edison, the so-called inventor of the lightbulb, designed and patented the Kinetoscope. This was a simple box device that was the predecessor to all film projectors.

Better he should have electrocuted himself with his fluoroscope.

Exploding cars bear down on me. Exploding planes immolate in front of me. Exploding, bullet-riddled people scream and show their insides. And we haven't even gotten through the coming attractions yet. I look around and, much to my dismay, see nothing but enraptured faces.

What
is
good, though, is that Gretchen looks as awkward as I feel. This is because on the other side of Gretchen, Twom and Deliza Baraza are sitting together, heads close, whispering and giggling about something. By sheer luck, the evening has turned into a double date. In fact, it's a double date plus one because on the other side of Deliza and Twom sits a forlorn-looking, totally ignored Ephraim.

It happens like this.

Gretchen, Twom, and I are in the refreshment line, buying popcorn with artificial butter that will probably cause stomach tumors, when someone calls my name.

“Billy!”

I turn to see that Deliza has entered the lobby with a group of well-dressed Latinas. They stop and hold back as she comes over to us. Deliza's wearing riding boots, cream-colored jeans, a tight T-shirt, and a butter-soft leather jacket. As usual, she's carrying about half a ton of self-assurance.

“You got your skateboard?” she says to me.

“It's parked outside,” I say.

Across the lobby, one of Deliza's friends calls out in Spanish. Having taken four years of high school Spanish, which means I haven't actually learned to
speak
any Spanish, I think it translates as something like …

“Deliza, come on, we told Paco we'd save seats.”

Deliza replies, saying something along the lines of …

“You want a seat, go sit on Paco's face!”

She turns back to us. “Slum night with the
cateto
side of the family,” she says.
Cateto
means peasant.

“Hi, Deliza,” says Gretchen.

Deliza turns and regards Gretchen a moment. “Hey,” she finally says, as if it's an effort. I realize that she considers Gretchen a rival, and for some odd reason, I'm pleased that she does. Deliza turns now and stares at Twom, full bore. Twom is staring back.

“Gonna do the honors, Billy?”

“Twom, Deliza. Deliza, Twom.” Not that this is news.

“So you're the guy,” says Deliza, “who spanked John Montebello's ass.”

“What if I am?” Twom says.

“You gonna spank mine?”

“You want popcorn first?”

“You gonna butter it?”

“Salt it too.”

It doesn't seem to be popcorn they're talking about. And then, all of a sudden, wouldn't you know it—

“Hey! Hey, guys, hey!”

Ephraim approaches across the lobby at a half run, so excited, he's like a baby giraffe about to trip over his own feet.

“I didn't know you were going to the movies! Cool! Way cool!” He's so loud and daffy sounding, it's beyond excruciating. “Hey! Hey! We can all, like, sit together!”

Fate.

The great thing about fate is you can blame it for absolutely everything.

 

20

Whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo!

The movie is a second remake of
The Three Stooges,
and despite me wondering why we ever needed a first one, everyone thinks it's hysterical. The movie star moron playing one Stooge runs in circles, barks like a dog, and then pisses on a fire hydrant. The “comedian” playing the second Stooge hits him in the head with a hammer and then rips out handfuls of the third Stooge's hair. It's beyond terrible and I feel like I'm being swallowed by my seat. I'm also sort of dismayed that Gretchen seems to be enjoying it as this would mean the evening might be taking a positive turn.

It doesn't.

A little more than an hour later, Gretchen and I are standing on a sidewalk watching Twom get handcuffed by the police.

It goes like this.