After Dakota Part 22

Tail pipes belch exhaust all around. A car full of cheerleaders drives past, toots the horn at someone.

Bryce scoops Tic-Tacs into his mouth. "Is she still coming? How far away? Wait, don't look toward her pretend we're just talking."

"What should we talk about?" Cam asks.

"I don't know. Anything. Comics. No, not that. Music." He raises his voice. "Yeah, man, that is a rockin' song."

Sonja holds the rose toward him like a magic wand. Can't she see he's already Prince Charming, no spell needed? "You sent me this?" she asks in the wrong tone.

"Guilty as charged," Bryce says.

She drops the flower on the hood of Cam's car. "Thanks but no thanks." Bryce doesn't watch her walk away, back to her friends, doesn't watch them watching him, making comments.

Cam and everyone else nearby stares at Bryce. He smiles and shrugs but it feels so fake next to the burning pit in his gut. He knew he wouldn't hit a hundred percent that's why he bought a dozen roses instead of one. This is no time to think about the fact he started with Sonja because she seemed like the easiest target.

68.

Claire's P.E. cla.s.s is the unlucky one that gets swimming in January. At least one girl per day claims to be on her period so she doesn't have to dress. Thick steam rises off the water like some primordial swamp. Coach Bowles sits in a lifeguard chair on the deck, blowing her whistle when the boys start dunking and splas.h.i.+ng. Doing laps is no problem for Claire after all the swimming lessons and practice at home she's still going while many of the others hang off the edge, nothing more than shapes in the mist.

Everyone in Advanced Photo seems to know each other already. Claire sits as far in back as she can; the "My Life" collages from last semester hang on the wall above her. After all the time she spent making her pictures perfectly straight, she sees from this distance that one is crooked Bryce playing a video game on his beanbag and fights the urge to climb up on the counter and straighten it.

"You totally look like Pat," Claire says to Meredith as they walk to the pharmacy. The post-holiday cruise version of Meredith has a face bronzed to the edges of her scalp; the rest of her is wrapped in winter garb.

"Pat's on a grapefruit diet because of how much weight she supposedly gained on the s.h.i.+p. You can literally eat twenty four hours a day aboard those things."

"Is she a total whale now?"

"She thinks so." They slide along a patch of ice on the street, arms out to their sides. "What was your report card?"

"Two B's. My parents think high school is so much harder than middle school, so now I'm like some kind of kid genius," Claire says.

"My dad said he'd buy me this necklace for straight A's. I got one B."

"That sucks."

"It's because of my stupid English teacher, Mr. Holliday. He wouldn't take this book report I forgot to bring on the due date. He said, 'I'm not penalizing you, I just can't give you the points.' Like, thanks a lot, d.i.c.ko, now I don't get the necklace."

They unwrap their scarves in the pharmacy's baking air. Out pop Meredith's new hoop earrings. Right inside the door is a 50% OFF sign. Below it, a display of leftover Christmas cards, boxes of chocolate, and little stuffed snowmen that play music if you squeeze them.

While Meredith looks at the romance books, Claire can't decide between two colors of nail polish. She takes both; the pockets in the new coat are nice and deep. An old woman with a feather duster freshens up the shampoo aisle.

On the walk back home, Claire offers Meredith half a Twix bar. "No, thanks."

"Since when? Are you on the grapefruit diet, too?"

"I've been getting a ton of zits lately."

Claire eats both halves. The nail polish bottles click together in her pocket.

"I also don't really wanna steal anymore," Meredith says. "You shouldn't either. If you ever get caught..."

"C'mon, it's the dumb old pharmacy."

"I don't think it's right, is all."

Claire had been waiting for the topic of Ricky to come up; then she'd mention doing it with him all casual-like and watch Meredith freak out. Now she looks at the person next to her on the sidewalk and feels like they might as well be walking in different countries.

Claire's mom sets the humidifier on Claire's desk, facing the bed.

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well," she says. "Can I get you anything else? Some juice?" Crinkles all around her eyes when had this happened?

"No, I think I'll go to sleep," Claire replies.

"I remember when you were little, your favorite thing to eat was tomato soup with little crackers. Do you remember how you'd count the crackers?"

"Can we not talk about that? Thinking about food makes me want to gag."

Her mom adjusts the covers. "Your father and I are so proud of you getting into that photography cla.s.s."

"Thanks."

"I hope we get to see all your pictures."

Claire yawns; her mom finally gets the hint and stands up.

On her way out the door she says, "When you're feeling better, I think we should go get our nails done at the salon. Does that sound good?"

"Sure."

A fake cold isn't the worst thing you get to eat dinner in your room and everyone's nice. The humidifier hums soothingly as dampness settles in the air. Claire mentally recites the most recent poem, which was waiting in her locker after school today: Now that I've found you my life is complete You have put an end to my wandering feet I want only to hold you by night and by day And let the rest of the world go away

69.

Whatever happens tonight is ok.

Rosemary has shown no allegiance to Cameron, so why should he have any to her? Their most recent conversation was at the snack bar, when she stood in front of him, Bryce, and Geoff and invited them to a Peace Club demonstration outside Los Alamos National Lab. Cameron hadn't even gotten his own personal invitation.

He wasn't sure Anna would remember him from Halloween when he called her on his break at work, but she said, "Hi, Legolas" before he was halfway through reminding her where they'd met.

His first suggestion: "We could go to this party."

Her reply: "I'm not really into drinking."

His next suggestion: "We could go for a drive."

Her reply: "For sure."

And so they end up with Jack-in-the-Box takeout, his car alone on the roof of an empty parking garage.

Anna isn't as cute out of costume as he'd hoped no more than a six, skinny, with half a b.u.t.t but she must like him in order to even be here. Plus, he's never been out with a white-haired girl before.

They chomp their food and fill the time with chitchat about their respective schools, when what he really wants to do is kiss her.

He pounces right as she's saying, "Hey, I saw a shooting star" so the last word gets swallowed by his eager mouth. She has chocolate shake on her chin, he has curly fry salt on his lips. So what.

Pressed against her. Hand on knee, then thigh. He wants her hand on his crotch. He wants her to give him the signal that they can climb in the back seat. Competing with his near-overwhelming horniness is a voice that doesn't want his first time to be in his dad's old car, but that voice is going to lose the argument.

She pulls back. "Can we slow down?"

"Don't you want to... you know?"

"I think so. But not tonight. Not like this."

He catches the shake cup before it lands on the upholstery. "Then why did you suggest parking up here?"

"So we could talk and stuff."

"Talk? Wow, chicks love messing with guys."

"I'm not messing with you, Cameron. I like you. You're a nice guy."

He retreats back to the steering wheel. "No, I'm not. Don't call me that."

"Sorry," she says. He thinks she might be crying, but refuses to look over or acknowledge it at all he's had enough of that to last from now all the way through college. Perhaps even longer.

"I should've gone to the party," he says.

Which is what he does, after dropping her off at the curb outside her apartment building.

Cameron will remember the following from his next stop: Walking into Zane Johnston's house.

The crowd mostly Preppies.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers on the stereo.

The shouts of "Pizza Man!"

Some girl's cleavage (but not her face) holding the tray of Dixie cups filled with blue Jell-O.

That the first one tasted good.

And the next.

The rest of it, when his eyes creak open the next morning, is an eclipse. Still in his clothes and one shoe. Atop his bedspread are a banana peel, his toothbrush, and two books Splinter of the Mind's Eye and Salem's Lot. He has no clue how any of those items got there.

At least he didn't dream last night.

He's in the process of willing himself back into unconsciousness when his mom knocks on the door. "What happened to you?" she asks from the hall.

The $64,000 Question.

"What d'you mean?" he groans.

"Your car is parked halfway on the lawn. Please tell me you weren't drinking and driving."

"I wasn't drinking and driving. I got food poisoning and I had to run inside." Amazing how fast the lie comes.

"That explains the vomit on the walkway."

"Right. Yeah. I'll get that cleaned up."

"Already done. I couldn't leave that out there what would the neighbors think?" Thankfully she isn't a concerned parent at moments like this. "Well, you know where the Pepto is. I'm off to the clutter seminar with Jillian."

"The what?"

"They talk about how to cut down on things you own. I may have too much."

"Better not tell them you have to keep a rack of clothes in the garage since your closet's full."

"Maybe I'll make a real New Year's resolution, to focus only on the important stuff in life and ek cetera."

He has peace and quiet again just as a slice of suns.h.i.+ne comes in under the curtain, onto half his face. He can't make the effort to do anything about it.

Maybe he didn't drive home last night. Maybe someone trustworthy... Nope.

When the sun wheels right and warms his whole face, he sits up. His head full of hot cement, his mouth sticky and terrible. Latin, Government, and math homework await him today.

The phone is right there, easy reach from the bed. He could call Anna. Try to salvage things. But he doesn't want to salvage things.

He swipes at the curtain but only knocks the Red Baron Fokker model plane off the windowsill. It can stay down behind the headboard it was never that good of glue job anyway.

He stands, only to find his pants down around his ankles.

He takes the British Spitfire off the bookshelf. The P-47D Razorback. F-16. DC-9. He stands on his chair, yanking down the planes that dangle from the ceiling. Reaching for the last one the Cessna 180 sportplane he loses his balance and lands half on his knees, half on his bed.