After Dakota Part 28

85.

They climb through the loose flap in the fence and run as fast as they can across the open lawn. Bryce tries to keep up with Geoff, his only ally tonight since Cam is off b.u.mping uglies with British Betty. It's hard to run and hold on to a carton of eggs.

The kids from other schools run together in packs. Glow sticks dance in the dark like green bones. Laughter and war whoops all around. White projectiles. Everyone zigs, zags, does whatever they can to not get hit.

The moon is an oily orange yolk in a black pan.

Bryce follows Geoff over the gra.s.sy hill. Pale X's up ahead. Not X's crosses. He figures out where they are.

Crack! He's. .h.i.t in the ear.

He ducks for safety behind two headstones. He picks sh.e.l.l out of his hair; not much he can do about the ooze down his neck other than wipe it with his hand, then wipe his hand on the gra.s.s.

Geoff takes two eggs from the carton, launches them like fastb.a.l.l.s. A disembodied male voice yells a string of swear words.

Geoff says, "Got him! f.u.c.k yeah!" An egg or three return fire break on the other side of their barricade.

They're on the move again, Geoff weaving through the maze of headstones. Bryce kicks over a vase of flowers by accident and keeps going because he can't see where it is and can't risk slowing down to look.

Popopopopopopopopop explodes from his distant right.

"Sounds like some b.i.t.c.h brought a paintball gun!" Geoff exclaims.

They stop again, hidden, and catch their breath. Bryce asks, "Don't you think it's disrespectful to have an egg war here?"

"These people are dead. What do they care?"

"So you wouldn't care if a bunch of kids were running all over your grave."

"I don't even want a grave, dude. Big expensive coffin and s.h.i.+t? For what? My family has my permission to dump my body in the woods." Girls giggle nearby. Geoff says, "At your ten o'clock," takes an egg in each hand and runs.

They find the gigglers: Franny and Bibi from Sandia. In this light they could be cute, or not. Bryce chooses to believe they are. Geoff pulls a metal flask from his pocket and pretty soon the four of them aren't in the war anymore; they sit in a secluded spot and pa.s.s the drink around. Whatever's inside tastes like warm paint thinner but Bryce swallows anyway each time it comes to him.

Geoff tells dirty jokes. Bryce could contribute dozens of knock-knock jokes except none of them are dirty.

The sounds of combat seem far away across the acreage.

The girl with braids finds a piece of sh.e.l.l in Bryce's hair. The girl without braids takes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He declines her offer, ends up holding the flask while everyone else smokes. He once would've been worried about lung cancer.

He sees the words flicker in the pocket of flame but thinks he's imagining. Or hallucinating.

He borrows the lighter, gets it going after three weak tries. He wasn't hallucinating. Geoff leans against the headstone: DAKOTA MARIE VANZANT.

1963 1983 love is the sky and i am for you

just so long and long enough

Bryce stares until the flame cuts out, then keeps staring. He says, "No way" because of all the places to end up, what are the chances? He wishes he hadn't said that because now they all want to know What? What is it? Do you know her?

No, he doesn't, but he did. He knew her and now he's sitting... here.

Heavy footsteps a lot them pound the gra.s.s nearby. Geoff and the girls are up and gone. Bryce should go, too. He came here to have fun and the fun is running away.

He should go.

86.

"Claire."

She ponders the great wall of cereal boxes in Albertson's. Earlier tonight she'd been in Buzzed Head's garage, inhaling model glue fumes from a paper bag. Not the best, but when it's all that's available...

Now she stares at Frankenberry, Boo Berry, Count Chocula, and feels like she might tip over at any moment.

"Earth to Claire."

She turns toward the voice. Justin Vance. With his hair spiky again.

"What are doing at this Albertson's?" he asks. "Isn't there one by your house?"

"You know where I live?"

"Yeah, don't you remember when "

She reaches up, pats the crispy spikes on his head. "You should always keep your hair like this," she giggles. "You're way cuter."

Justin's face contorts, processing, as the boys come down the aisle: Ricky, Buzzed Head, CAT, Stringy Hair carrying the two six-packs of beer.

"What's up, skinny bones?" Ricky says at Justin.

"Just talking to Claire, dude," he answers back.

They all chime in then dood, dood, dooooood like the monkey cage at the zoo.

Victor points. "You got something on your s.h.i.+rt, dude." When Justin looks down, he gets smacked in the chin.

"Leave him alone, you guys," Claire says.

"Wow, you gonna let a girl stick up for you, skinny bones?" Ricky puts his arm around Justin's shoulders. Justin ducks away.

Her voice comes out tiny. "See you around, Justin."

In Ricky's car, parked around the back of the 7-11. Ricky and Claire sit in front, the others folded in the back.

She's going to walk in and attempt to buy beer. Ricky had a new fake ID that got confiscated at Albertson's, which he ranted about for the whole drive here: the drinking age should be eighteen and what kind of country is this where it's easier to get drugs than booze?

Ricky holds up a wad of wrinkled bills. "Get a twelver."

Claire can almost walk straight by the time she gets around to the bright front of the store.

The young-ish cas.h.i.+er listens to a Walkman, bopping his head. His glance lingers on Claire's bare legs under her skirt. Somewhere between the freezers and the beer, Claire blacks out for a second (or two?), tilts over and knocks several bags of Fritos to the floor.

She sets the cardboard box full of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans on the counter. It's no big deal because she's twenty-one and buys these things all the time. The cas.h.i.+er (Julian, according to his nametag) rings the items up.

Claire's reflection, under a thick coating of makeup, stands in the gla.s.s door. She and Julian in here under white light; outside the store could be drifting through outer s.p.a.ce.

"You got ID?" he asks, loudly.

She meets his eyes, smiles like Ricky told her. "What time d'you get off?"

He puts the headphones around his neck; the music is louder now but still not recognizable. "What time what?"

"What-time-do-you-get-off?" Like talking to a r.e.t.a.r.d. Keep smiling.

"Coupla hours. Why?"

"Let me buy this and you can come party with me and my girlfriends later."

"How old?"

"Twenty." Then she adds, "How old are you, Julian?"

"Twenty-five."

"Cool. We like mature guys." Instead of waiting for the connections to fire in his brain, she pulls a paper napkin from the dispenser and asks him for a pen.

"Why d'you only paint your nails on one side?" he asks while she writes.

"Tell you later."

"Isabel," he reads off the napkin when she hands it back. Below the name is the real Isabel's phone number; this will be better than all of Claire and Ricky's prank phone calls.

"Call us when you're off and I'll give you directions."

Back in the car, Claire holds up a bag.

"Radical!" CAT exclaims.

Ricky pulls her to him and kisses her.

From there they drive up a twisty road into the foothills, past regular houselights, then occasional houselights, then into darkness. Claire lays her head against Ricky's shoulder while he steers. The air that washes over them through the open windows cools as they ascend.

Ricky turns off the road, cuts the engine and the lights but leaves the music on. Like they're suspended in midair. The miniature Albuquerque twinkles far below like a landscape of spilled jewels.

Ricky pa.s.ses beers and his new ca.s.sette case to the back seat. "That's the t.i.tle?" Buzzed Head asks. "MCMLx.x.xIV?"

"It's like Latin or something," Stringy Hair says with authority. "Not sure how you p.r.o.nounce it."

The guys in back take turns sounding out the letters, cracking themselves up. Claire doesn't like beer, but this is cold and feels good going down.

Stringy Hair hands her the case. "Help us out here, smart girl."

On the front, a picture of a young angel smoking a cigarette. "They're Roman numerals," Ricky says. "It means nineteen eighty-four."

They look at him like he's Moses come down the mountain. "Whoa, smart girl, you are rubbing off on Ricky!" CAT exclaims.

Buzzed Head lights up the sad remains of a joint. Somewhere overhead, a plane thunders by, drowning out a song about Panama, shaking the car.

"Bomber," Stringy Hair p.r.o.nounces. "Been a lot of 'em lately. My mom called the base to complain cuz her pictures keep falling off the wall."

Ricky sucks on the joint, face folded in tight. "You guys think we're gonna bomb the Russians?" he asks in a pinched voice.

Buzzed Head says, "Ronnie will kick their a.s.ses! U.S.A., baby!"

Claire takes the nub next, sucks hard; what comes out is like car exhaust. Someone in the back seat says, "Anyone seen that old lady on the Wendy's commercial?"

"WHERE'S THE BEEF?" Buzzed Head screams.

"Where's the beef?" Ricky counters in an old lady voice, and the car is full of cackling and foot stomping. If Claire were more high she could see herself laughing with them; instead this feels too much like being with Bryce and Cameron. Being in her real life.

When the noise dies down, CAT says, "You know what drives me crazy about Wendy's? The meat's hot but the lettuce and stuff is cold. When you take a bite your mouth goes into shock."

Ricky turns the ca.s.sette over. Another plane pa.s.ses by when the first song starts, something something hot for teacher.

More drinking, cigarettes, b.u.t.ts and empty cans tossed out into the night. Some random talk about school: who's a b.i.t.c.h, who's an a.s.shole, how teaching P.E. would be the easiest job of all time. Claire wishes for any other topic but doesn't know what to bring up, so she looks for shooting stars.

By the time the beer and the tape are done, the air is cold enough to grow gooseb.u.mps on her arms. "Can I drive home?" she asks Ricky.

"Do you know how?"

"I've practiced with my dad a few times."