After Dakota Part 29

They climb over each other so she's behind the wheel. Three faces trapped in the rearview mirror. She remembers her dad's S.M.T. checklist to do before starting a car: Seat, Mirrors, Traffic.

She looks out at the road, visible for a few yards before fading to black; it's a mouth, waiting for her.

The steering wheel vibrates in her grip when she starts the car. Claire shifts into drive and stomps the pedal, not bothering with headlights. They fishtail around a sharp corner. Ricky slides across, pinning her to the door.

Screams and curses from the back seat.

Claire rounds the next corner and the next, waiting to feel scared, excited, nervous, anything.

Blackness ahead and behind.

She takes the next turn too sharply and loses control for a full second, and for that second knows it's all over. The driver's side front tire spins in emptiness. They're about to go over the edge, tumbling down into the bottomless dark. Her life all their lives won't have mattered one bit. Ricky is right. The world will go on as though they never existed.

If someone dies in a plane crash, are they left intact, or exploded into a jigsaw puzzle? What about the pa.s.sengers when a car goes over a cliff?

Claire wants to look at Ricky so she can know if it's ok with him that their story ends here tonight, this way.

Then she's on the road again. The boys whack against the other side of the car on the next turn. Something branches, rocks sc.r.a.pes along the car. Buzzed Head yells, "Jane, stop this crazy thing!"

Then they're at the bottom. The car skids to a halt in some gravel. The three in the back jump out, cursing. Ricky just sits and looks at her, the two of them not in the same moment.

"What's so funny?" he asks. "You could've wrecked my car!"

Claire looks at him now, a slanted curtain of darkness across half his face.

Sometimes G.o.d sends us an angel.

She looks at him and knows she was wrong. About everything. She's close to running out to get away from him, his car, his friends. The feeling is so sudden, so complete, that she says it aloud: "I don't want to be here."

Ricky tells her they can go somewhere else, ditch the others (still visible through the streaked windshield, a safe distance away), be alone. He doesn't get it.

"I have to go home," she replies.

87.

What Bryce Does On His Spring Break: He organizes his art samples. At the copy store, the birdlike woman behind the counter flips through Bryce's stack of pages, nodding. "You did these? That's some talent."

He mails his art samples. His parents would normally veto the idea of art school, so they don't need to know until the time is right. When the time is right he can tell them it's his Last Wish.

He gets the details of s.e.x. Sort of. Bryce first heard the big news that Cam had put his quarter in Rosemary's slot the morning after it happened, but it was like a chocolate center inside the bitter exterior about the grandma. Cam's been over for dinner at their house twice already this week, and always goes home with leftovers in a Tupperware container. Grace before every meal lately (even the ones where Cam isn't present) includes a prayer for his family in their time of sorrow.

After the meal, the boys retreat to the bas.e.m.e.nt, where Bryce pries with a vengeance. When Cam hesitates, Bryce quotes the English guy from the beginning of that Iron Maiden song: "We want info-may-shun. Info-may-shun. Info-may-shun."

Cam shoots the other English guy's comeback: "You won't get it."

"By hook or by crook, we will."

And so on.

They once made a pledge that whoever got there first never really in doubt would give a full report, like someone crossing the threshold of death and bringing back news of the beyond. So Bryce hears about what a condom feels like (even though he's tried on one of his thick lambskin ones, wanting to be prepared in case the flower plan worked); what sounds a girl makes (their only other experiences being Trevor's scrambled channels and the night at the movie theater); whether Cam would consider hiding a tape recorder or camera, to share the wealth (which Cam takes as joke and Bryce plays off that way).

There's still a chance Bryce could find out for himself.

He hears from colleges. Two envelopes come the same day. We regret to inform you. We are unable to offer you.

He doesn't read past the first line on any of them, just leaves them on the kitchen counter for his dad.

He makes a playlist. The last thing he wants is a funeral like Dakota's (except for the hot chicks), so Bryce decides on a concert format. Each band will do one song; if the bands aren't available a DJ will suffice. His first draft is all heavy metal, but the audience should be emotional, not covering their ears. His second draft features Lou Reed, Bob Seger, Huey Lewis, even Air Supply for his mom.

He looks at pictures. During one more sleepless night, he brings all the photo alb.u.ms from the overstuffed hall closet downstairs and stacks them on his bed. Each alb.u.m has a theme: his parents before kids; Bryce; Claire; family vacations. Funny how life can be divided up so neatly.

Here's his dad, the young, clean-cut pilot. Here's his mom, like royalty in dark lipstick and a fur coat. Here are the two of them, all smiles, frozen inside a cloud of thrown rice after their wedding.

Here's Bryce, red and wrinkly, wrapped in a blanket. Here's Bryce's first barbershop haircut, caught mid-scream, with his dad standing a safe distance away while the barber presses bravely on. Here's Bryce unwrapping his Six Million Dollar Man doll at Christmas.

Here's Claire asleep on her big brother's stomach. Here's Claire spreading pureed disaster across the tray of her high chair. Here's Claire learning to ride a bike with training wheels.

Here are Bryce, Claire, and their dad blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Here are their parents, dressed for a formal occasion. Here's the family of four, photographed by some long lost stranger, each of them under a different president at Mount Rushmore.

Every faded 4 x 6" square is a cracked egg, the memories leaking out all over him.

Bryce doesn't realize dawn has come until he hears the grunts and squeals of the garbage truck outside.

He goes fishing. One of the photo alb.u.ms holds a picture of young Bryce hoisting a ma.s.s of trout; his dad keeps mentioning going again and Bryce finally gives in.

"Big deal I play hooky from work one day," his dad says as he unpacks the tackle box once they find a suitable spot at the lake. "They could get a rooster to do my job and no one would notice." Father and son are the only two fishermen on the bank this mid-morning Thursday, the two of them and a bucket of original recipe Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch. Like they used to.

The sun blazes behind them, cicadas work in the trees, trout bite and are loaded into the ice chest. "Isn't this great?" his dad keeps repeating. "No place I'd rather be." Lying back in the shade after lunch, he pulls out a pack of Camels, says, "Don't give me that look" as he lights one.

"I thought you quit," Bryce replies.

"C'mon, it's my day off from real life." He blows a column of smoke toward the leaves above. He says "767" to the sky before Bryce even registers the whisper of a plane.

Bryce digs in the bottom of the chicken bucket for the little crispy bits to munch on. The breeze blows wrinkles across the water.

"Gotta keep your chin up when it comes to those college applications, son. I got plenty of rejections myself. Everyone does, except those kids whose parents program 'em to be geniuses by the time they're five." He dad grinds the cigarette out against the tree trunk. "What should we do for summer vacation? Maybe your last one here at home."

How little he suspects.

"We could drive somewhere your mother wants to see the Grand Canyon again. I suppose I have to get to the point of being able to fly without being a backseat pilot."

"D'you still miss it?" Bryce asks.

"What you'll learn, son, is that marriage is a series of compromises. It was important to be near you kids during these years."

A ways down the bank, three other fishermen arrive and set up.

"Working a desk isn't so bad, all things considered."

Bryce says, "I need to tell you something. I've been trying to deal with it on my own, but I need help."

His dad says, "These are the years when you learn a lot about yourself, who you are deep down inside. And whoever you are is how the Good Lord made you. Don't be ashamed." He pauses to look at what all the new yelling's about. One of the fishermen dangles a trout as big as his arm. "Son of a gun. If we caught that, we could brag for years."

He lights another cigarette. Bryce says, "You can't tell Mom what I'm about to say, ok? I don't want her having a meltdown."

"I know your mother can be a little intimidating sometimes, but understand that we both love you to the ends of the earth."

"Well... " Uttering the sentence is so much harder than Bryce thought it would be.

"It's fine, son. Go ahead and jump. I'll catch you."

Bryce's mouth is so dry. "I think I..."

"Oh h.e.l.l, I'll come right out and say it for you: you're a h.o.m.os.e.xual, right?"

88.

What Cameron Does On His Spring Break: He has s.e.x. In the morning, evening, afternoon. Rosemary pedals over on her ten speed, or he goes to pick her up, still never setting foot inside her house. Each time is like the first time only not the first time because they know what they're doing. Or rather, he knows better what he's doing she seemed to be fine all along. Maybe he wasn't her first. Probably he wasn't her first. He will not ask about this, just focus on being with her in this intoxicating week of freedom. His box of condoms dwindles to emptiness (though one of them gets stretched inside-out and another snaps like a rubber band in mid-act).

Even when he's doing something not at all related to s.e.x say, when he and Rosemary are standing with other club kids on a busy street corner, holding THERE IS NO WINNER IN A NUCLEAR WAR signs he's thinking about s.e.x.

On the phone with his mom each night, he crosses his fingers that she won't ask him to fly to Florida and help stand vigil at her mother's bed. What good could he do anyway? She never does ask, just makes sure he's eating enough and talks about the weather. He tells her about Berkeley and she starts crying.

He eats a lot of home-cooked food. Cameron has been over for meals at Bryce's many times over the years, but never three times in one week. He is the focus of conversation every night, like Bryce's mom is a reporter and he a fascinating subject.

Topics include his mom; his grandmother (and her house, car, etc); his dad; his college plans.

On this last one, he's unsure how much to say so as not to create an awkward situation for Bryce. Cameron heard back from not only Berkeley but San Diego and University of Southern California, but to announce that would sound like bragging. Best just to tapdance and claim he's still waiting.

Bryce's dad doesn't chime in much more than a word here and there until he asks one night, "Where do you see yourself in five years, Cameron?"

Five years from now means being twenty-three. Hopefully done with college. But what comes after that? A job? A house? A family? Is that what's meant by The American Dream? His parents had followed that path and look where it took them.

He gets. .h.i.t on. On an off day because of Rosemary's headache, his mom's friend Jillian stands on his front porch, holding a foil-covered plate. Jillian is a textbook case of excelling in one area of the Holy Trinity while she's got a pretty face, her highlight is the biggest chest Cameron's ever seen live and up close. She kindly obliges his, and anyone else's, ogling by always wearing tops that highlight her build. Like today, pink with a black bra strap showing.

Bees hum somewhere above them.

She says, "I promised Molly I wouldn't let you starve," and holds the plate out. "Shake 'n Bake chicken." She takes off her sungla.s.ses, looks right in his eyes the whole time, and he is convinced one hundred percent, not an ounce of doubt that she wants to go to bed with him. Maybe she can sense he's a real man now.

Dear Penthouse Forum, I never thought this could happen to me...

When she's leaving she says, "If you need anything you know where to find me." Holy s.h.i.t, how much more obvious can she be? He watches her walk to her car, her b.u.t.t cheeks tracing the infinity sign inside her shorts. If this had occurred a year ago a month ago, even he would've dashed inside, to his room, to the Vaseline. Now, he closes the door behind him and smiles at his own bada.s.s-ness.

He meets his new co-worker. Loo from Norway got fired (something about long distance phone calls), and now comes Victor. Short guy, Cameron's age, left eye stuck in a squint. Bad vibes right away. Cameron proceeds with training like the pizza stud he is until, in a slow moment, he asks Victor where he goes to school. Victor smirks and Cameron realizes: Victor Sanchez, one of Zaplin's gang. At school he covers his slicked-back hair with a CAT baseball cap. They've never had cla.s.ses together and never will unless one of them loses or gains 100 I.Q. points but Cameron has been on the receiving end of Victor's glares and taunts plenty of times.

And now look at the low man on the red-yellow-brown totem pole. Suddenly the routine training gets a lot more fun. There are easy ways and hard ways to do everything in the kitchen the pizza conveyor belt that hasn't been cleaned since Cameron got promoted, the frozen sausage pieces stuck together in clumps and Victor will only learn one of those ways.

He makes a confession. In his bed on the last day of freedom. Late morning light and the hiss of sprinklers outside the window. Rosemary lifts her head, eyes closed, face mostly covered by wild strands of hair, and smiles at him. With that smile, forget it. Forget Raquel Welch in her cavewoman outfit on The Muppet Show, Tanya Roberts in The Beastmaster, even Heather Thomas on the wall above them.

This is the most beautiful creature he's ever seen.

He gazes at her, his stomach full of marbles. Marbles filling higher, tighter, up his lungs, up his throat, until his cheeks will explode if he doesn't let them free. He says, "I love you."

She kisses his bicep. "You're sweet."

89.

Following the sermon that Sunday ("The Truth About Easter"), the children have an egg hunt while the adults walk the outdoor labyrinth set up for the holiday. The courtyard is encircled by planters full of blooming yellow and white roses. When Bryce first heard about the labyrinth, he was chomping at the bit to get inside, but this one is only a pattern on the ground you couldn't even get lost in it. The line of walkers moves through silently on their spiritual journey without him.

Bryce sits at a picnic table back by the playground, waiting for one of the kids to find the blue egg behind the jungle gym. He remembers sitting at the kitchen table with Claire the smell of vinegar, dyeing eggs and wishes he'd suggested doing it this year.

Noel and Anna round the corner. "Hey, Bryce, did you walk the labyrinth?" Noel asks. "It's amazing."

"I see your friend's not here," Anna says.

"He had to work last night. Probably not even awake yet."

"Where does he work?"

"Chuck E. Cheese." Bryce can't remember if Cam ever called her, and of course you never mention a current girlfriend and scare off a potential.

When Anna leaves with her parents, Noel sits across from him. Sun glints off her crucifix pendant. "I have to go back to school tomorrow. No more Spring Break." She mimes wiping tears.

"Me too," Bryce says. "At least when we get back it's only like one month left of school."

Noel describes the testing regiment her school undergoes, followed by a final two weeks that sound like nothing but parties and field trips.

"Wow, the only fun thing on our schedule is prom."

"Ohmygosh, that sounds so fun. We don't have any dances."