After Dakota Part 17

"Not unless you have a time machine. Or you know where I can get a lot of money fast."

You tell her, "I have a hundred and fifty eight dollars in my bank account. You can have it."

Half a smile. "You're cute, Claire." Dakota runs the back of a gloved hand across her eyes. "Wanna know something? Men suck."

"Steve and Bo don't," you say. The new neighbors, who smile and wave, stop to toss a Frisbee or watch bike tricks. They're also the only people you've ever seen who always dress nice, even on weekends, and whose clothes never look wrinkled like maybe a wizard brought two department store mannequins to life.

"That's different, they're h.o.m.os."

You're not entirely clear what the word means. You've heard it used before boys at school call each other that all the time but have never been sure till that moment it's a real thing. "I know."

Dakota unfolds the Swiss Army knife from her pocket, the blade catching a slice of the winter moon. "You're the lookout, ok?" She runs across the street, crouched low, toward the man's car before vanishing into shadow. The car sinks corner by corner.

Through the window inside, oblivious, the man lifts the little kid up high and spins him around. A woman watches and claps.

Dakota jumps back in, breathing hard, her nose red. Smiling, if only for the moment. "The blade broke off," she says, holding up the incomplete knife. "Piece of c.r.a.p. No wonder the Swiss never fight anybody."

She honks the horn three long times before driving away.

Back at home, the two of you have coffee cake and root beer. "Tonight is our secret, ok?" Dakota says. "No one else gets to know."

"I won't tell."

"You have to swear."

"I swear."

Dakota stares at you for what feels like five minutes, with eyes ringed in smudged mascara. "I trust you, Claire. You're my favorite girl in the whole world."

You and Meredith have secrets, but none like this, which seems something altogether more serious, beyond your middle school games. Maybe you and Dakota are best friends now.

Dakota doesn't smile again that night.

As time pa.s.ses, you have ideas about the nature of the secret she's keeping. If it was anyone other than Dakota, there would be a likely explanation like what supposedly happened to Jeanette Jordan but you simply can't picture your neighbor doing something with a guy who has a mustache. Disgusting.

Claire sticks her tongue out and catches a snowflake. A car engine from somewhere disturbs the silence momentarily, like a boat crossing calm water. She lies on her back in the street and makes a snow angel.

If she wanted to really disappear, this would be the time. Her footprints would give her away, but if more white comes it will be like she'd never been here.

Like there was never a person named Claire Rollins.

WINTER BREAK.

56.

Cameron wakes at 10 a.m. on the first Monday of break, makes two Eggo waffles and tops each with a scoop of chocolate ice cream, then sits down to watch TV. Rosemary left for England yesterday and his plan is not to think about her while she's gone. Well, not to think about her much. He certainly won't spend every moment doing so.

Halfway through The Price is Right he can't think about anything else, not even the hot model Janice. He takes the wallet-sized copy of Rosemary's senior portrait from his desk drawer and stares at it; he could do so all day.

He has to get out of the house.

"Let's go do something," he says to Bryce on the phone. "We can see that movie about the killer car. Christine."

"I'm sick."

"So don't kiss me, f.a.g. Come on, we'll go to the arcade too."

"I can't, ok? Sorry."

Cameron still has to get out of the house.

After lunch at Lottaburger, he wanders around Grand Central to kill time. "Yo, b.i.t.c.h!" Geoff shouts in the music section. "I'm here to get a present for my girlfriend. Prolly some jewelry. Chicks dig that."

Cameron has never heard of this girlfriend before; he wishes Bryce were here for confirmation.

Geoff goes on to explain he also wants Michael Jackson's "Thriller" tape but doesn't have enough money for both. "So I may just steal this." Suddenly everyone likes it since the video with the zombies came out.

"Dude, they have hidden cameras and stuff," Cameron says.

"You think I can't beat those?" Geoff laughs. "Just kidding. Or maybe I'm not kidding, maybe I already have the tape stashed in my underwear. Nah, Michael Jackson sucks anyway."

In the parking lot, where Geoff has somehow followed Cameron out, he says, "So what are we doin' now?"

The sign at Coronado mall welcomes them to Holiday Wonderland. They're relegated to parking on the outskirts of the lot, stepping through ice and slush to the entrance. Inside, garlands, giant candy canes, disembodied voices singing Christmas carols. People everywhere, some appearing no more than pairs of legs connected to ma.s.ses of bags and boxes. Kids bounce in line for Santa Claus, who holds court on his throne under a tinseled gazebo. Plastic reindeer stand watch in puffy cotton.

The songs change from "Winter Wonderland" to "Sleigh Ride" to "Silent Night."

In the arcade, the boys debate whether Dragon's Lair, which has real cartoon figures instead of regular graphics, is worth fifty cents per play. Cameron says no, having been burned multiple times already by miscommunication between the joystick and the knight. Geoff says yes, and all his quarters are gone in five minutes.

The movie theater is a big one two different screens! and after Christine (cool deaths but a disappointing amount of s.e.x), Cameron starts toward the exit in the lobby when Geoff stops him. "Watch and learn." He walks up to the usher, a college kid in a bowtie and vest, and spins a story about forgetting his wallet in the other auditorium. Cameron looks out toward the lobby so his face won't be a.s.sociated with this pathetic lie.

Then they're walking into Scarface without paying anything. "That's how you do the Obi-Wan Ken.o.bi s.h.i.t," Geoff says.

In the dark, Geoff grins and makes weird sounds as Tony Montana dispenses b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance with a variety of weapons. Cameron slumps low in his seat, convinced the usher is about to burst in with a team of employees. They'll drag the two lowlifes from the auditorium while the rest of the audience shakes their heads at the state of youth today.

About halfway through the movie, he stops worrying about being busted and gawks in fascination at the couple necking hot and heavy down in front. First, who sits in the front row when the place is mostly empty? And who comes to a movie like Scarface to make out? Soon both boys are looking back and forth from the couple to the bloodbath unfolding on the screen. Geoff says, "Come on, baby, go down on him."

The lights come on the couple is still going at it. "My girlfriend and I do that all the time," Geoff tells Cameron. The couple stops and stands, realizing they're not in the dark anymore.

It's Zaplin.

What nasty girl did he find to...

Claire.

Cameron thinks he's not seeing it right. He stops and stares, waiting for the moment when he realizes it's not them at all and can tell Bryce about the horrifying illusion he conjured.

It's Zaplin. The apelike walk gives him away. Cameron hurries out after Geoff.

"That was a blast," Geoff says, back in the Grand Central parking lot. He zips up his jacket against the descending darkness. "Now I've gotta go see the missus for a little you-know-what." Normally Cameron would indeed know what, but he can't imagine the girl who would date Geoff, or what that couple would do for fun. Is there such a thing as a female ninja?

Cameron plans to drive home and break the news to Bryce, but as he listens to that lame song about turning j.a.panese, he has a change of heart. He doesn't think he'd want to know, if he had a sister and his sister was making out with the Sp.a.w.n of Satan.

The lead story on the news that night is a bomb going off at Harrods department store in London. He can't remember if Rosemary said anything about shopping there. He sits through speculation about the number of dead or injured, waiting to hear mention of a teenager from Albuquerque. He bites his nails without realizing it.

He knows she's gone. He looks at her photo again, wonders if he'll keep it or rip it up when he gets confirmation.

His second chance with Dakota was nothing but a giant tease.

She's not mentioned in the morning paper. Or the next morning's, or the next after that. As Cameron makes pizzas, watches TV, listens to music, or pretty much anything else, he marvels at the laughably naive version of himself who had planned not to think about a certain someone.

As the Emperor said to Luke in Jedi, "Young fool, only at the end do you understand."

57.

On a bitter, sharp-edged day right before Christmas, Claire and Bryce sit low in the brick edifice of the backyard hot tub, the roiling water reaching up to their chins. Bryce makes a point not to look at the curves his sister's body is taking. In the old days, when the pool was covered for winter, Claire, Bryce, Cam and sometimes Dakota lingered in here, having breath-holding contests (record holder: Claire, with twenty-one seconds); afterwards they'd climb out on the deck, shivering, bodies steaming like the Human Torch, seeing who could last the longest before scampering back in.

That evening, Granpda and Grandma Salter (Mom's parents) unpack their suitcases in Bryce's old bedroom, deposit all the gifts under the tree, and sit down to dinner of meatloaf with ketchup baked onto the top. Of course they have to hear every detail of Bryce and Claire's lives, no matter how insignificant. Bryce does a good job at maintaining conversation while avoiding looking either of them in the face; it's been almost a year since he's seen them, and in that time they've gotten so old.

Grandpa has moles on his face, some of them sprouting black wires, his eyebrows like a sea anemone reaching out to grab some unsuspecting prey. Grandma appears to be simultaneously shriveling and melting.

So there's one good thing: Bryce won't have to worry about turning into them. All the pretending to be an old man will be just that, pretending.

Grandma leads grace before dinner that night. "Creator, Sustainer and Life-giver, Bless this food to our use, and us to your service..." then loses her way, keeps adding people for whom they should pray.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Grandma asks Claire as the breadbasket makes its way around.

"Mother, she's too young for that," Bryce's mom says. "Besides, she's giving all her attention to school right now."

"Come again?"

"SHE'S GIVING ALL HER ATTENTION TO SCHOOL!"

"What's your favorite cla.s.s, honey?" Grandpa has a smear of ketchup on his chin after one bite.

"Maybe photography."

Bryce's mom dabs Grandpa with her napkin. "She's let us see some of her pictures. They're quite good."

Bryce hopes they keep this going. The more talk about Claire, the less about him. Ask about all her cla.s.ses! Ask about her friends!

"My teacher asked me to join advanced photo next semester," Claire says. "I'll be the only freshman." Praise flies around the table; the spotlight has landed and isn't moving. Perfect.

After dinner comes the traditional walking tour of the neighborhood. Bryce is surprised Claire doesn't protest as usual, probably because she knows she'll be overruled with a reminder of how far her grandparents traveled just to see them and there are times to think of someone other than yourself. He puts on his hat, coat, and scarf and joins the procession out the door, leaving Baloo to guard the castle. Smart cat, stay inside where it's warm.

A ceiling of chimney smoke above the street. Air that feels like ice crystals growing on your face. Luminarias little paper bags with candles inside line the edges of the white dusted lawns. On holiday nights, the streets glow like there's a great fire burning nearby. Bryce imagines being in a plane, seeing the hundreds of dots of orange light from up there.

Would they spell out a message?

Stay away, nothing to see down here.

As the six of them get to the end of the cul-de-sac, past the Cohens' house (the one without any luminarias, a black hole in s.p.a.ce) there's the reminder from Bryce's mom about the Cohens being Jewish and the accusatory silence from Grandma. Something about the Vanzants floats into the air and is gone.

Bryce sucks in a deep gulp of the cold. He'll miss this time of year. He'll miss all times of year.

They start up the next street, with the same old lit-up Santas and manger scenes as every year. Grandpa throws question after question at Bryce, about college and succeeding in the big world. From under his furry hat with its furry earflaps, Bryce's dad cuts in from time to time with comments like "That's some good advice" and "I hope you're listening, son."

Grandma is so slow, Grandpa only a little faster. Bryce walks at half speed. Claire keeps up her pace, a few feet ahead of the pack.

Bryce's large envelopes have trickled in over the past weeks, from art schools in San Francisco, New York, Chicago. Inside are the brochures he requested; luckily no one wears a sweater in any of the pictures. This his life as a student at one of these places lives only in the realm of fantasy, but there's no harm in simply reviewing the application requirements.

Which is what he's doing at his desk when someone starts down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. Bryce plops a stack of sketchbooks atop the brochures, in a mini-panic, then tries to sit casually so the intruder won't suspect.

Watching Grandpa make his way down here is like watching a baby deer try to stand while wearing roller skates. Bryce comes over to help, but the staircase is too narrow for two.

"So this is the ol' bachelor pad," Grandpa says when he's finally on terra firma, surveying the room. "I would've given anything to have this room when I was your age, 'stead of sharing with two brothers."

He moseys around, poking here and there, picking the top issue off the stack of new comics on the nightstand. "Used to be ten cents," comes the mumble. Bryce knows the next part of the story, the part that's hard to listen to, about the Golden Age comic collection and the garbage can. He rolls the issue tight in his hand and Bryce's sphincter tightens to a marble.

"So whaddaya do down here?" Grandpa asks, smacking the comic against his open palm. It's gone from mint condition down to very good in twenty seconds.

"Play games. Read. Draw."

"We've still got that Mickey Mouse picture you drew us, hanging in the kitchen. Glad to hear you've kept up the hobby." He wanders some more without really moving.

"Do you, uh, want to play a video game?"

"And embarra.s.s myself? No, siree. I'll just look at the pretty lady. What's her name?"

"Heather Locklear."