Californium Page 7

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Apologize right now.”

  I do, and my mom nods slow and understanding, saying it’s okay.

  Keith comes to the bottom of the stairs and my dad tells him it’s time he headed home.

  Even though you could throw a baseball from our front lawn to Keith’s, my dad says we need to watch him walk out of the cul-de-sac and across the street to his house. Astrid’s on her driveway, talking to a couple of policemen. She doesn’t look upset like you might think; she just keeps agreeing and saying, “Okay, I will. Okay, not a problem.” And maybe, if you’re Astrid, it’s not a problem. She’s not the one whose dad just ran off everyone who matters.

  I want to hop my back wall and run to Treat’s, plop down in the Jacuzzi, and ask what the Indians did when everything started changing and everything that was important to them was disappearing.

  Back in my room, it hits me how no matter what the Indians did, they couldn’t stop it. They lost everything. It’s so depressing, and staring at Astrid’s empty backyard—the cans and bottles shimmering a little from the park lights—doesn’t make it any better. I take a good look at the cinder-block wall, pull out my notebook, and start a letter to Uncle Ryan: Greetings from East Berlin . . .

  War Drums

  Sometimes back in Jersey, when my brother and sister were too little and my dad still liked to have fun, we’d go to Yankee games. One time, on a Sunday afternoon, Uncle Ryan went with us and said he had a surprise for me after the game. He took me and Dad around the outside of the stadium where the elevated subway tracks are. There’s no gate or anything there, just these blue metal doors with no handles on them. Uncle Ryan said that’s where the players come out. He pointed across the cement to this fenced-in parking lot with all these Corvettes and Cadillacs and said that’s where the Yankees park their cars. “All we have to do is wait,” he said, “and we can get all the autographs we want.”

  “Even Bobby Murcer?” I said, because he was my favorite. I think because his name made him sound like a kid and because my dad said he was supposed to be the next Mickey Mantle.

  “You bet,” Uncle Ryan said.

  My dad said it might take awhile and my mom wouldn’t like us getting back so late. Uncle Ryan said he didn’t mind waiting, that it was the least he could do since Dad bought the tickets and paid for the beer. “If you need to get going, Packy,” Uncle Ryan said, “I can wait with the kid. We’ll take the train home.”

  My dad didn’t look so happy about any of it, but then Uncle Ryan said, “Come on, Packy. Look how excited the kid is.”

  It’s true too. I was all smiles and jiggly legs while they were deciding, and I didn’t need to beg because Uncle Ryan was doing it for me.

  Finally, my dad said, “We’ll all wait.” He let out a big breath and looked right at Uncle Ryan. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things.”

  “Because you’re a good father,” Uncle Ryan said and gave Dad one of those sideways hugs. “And not too bad of a big brother, either.”

  By the time the blue doors clicked and rattled open from inside, most of the crowd was long gone. Maybe thirty people had stuck around, and everyone rushed forward. A couple security guards stepped out and told everyone to make way. A minute later, the players started trickling out a few at a time. They looked so different in their jeans and button-up shirts, leather jackets and sport coats. Everyone rushed the really famous guys first, clumping around until they got an autograph and then peeling off one by one to clump around the next guy.

  When Bobby Murcer came out, some kids yelled, “Bobby, Bobby!” and clumped around him. He towered over them, smiling and signing hats and balls and anything else they shoved in his face. Dad handed me a program and a pen and Uncle Ryan gave me a little shove. “Go on, Reece.”

  I stood at the edge of the pack, getting bounced around while people shoved past me. Bobby’s hair was slicked back, black and still wet from the postgame shower. His left hand, so huge, just glided across everything he signed, a little swirl at the end before the pen popped up and he’d sign something else.

  Pretty soon, I was the last one standing there. Bobby Murcer reached down and took the program out of my hands without me saying a thing.

  “You want me to sign this, Slugger?”

  I nodded.

  “Can I use your pen?”

  I nodded again, but he had to take it from me because my hand didn’t move. Then he crouched down in front of me and everything else went away—the noise from the elevated tracks, the last of the people yapping to the last of the ballplayers. Dad and Uncle Ryan could have walked off and I wouldn’t have known. The whole world was Bobby Murcer’s face, his aftershave lotion hitting my nose sharp and clean, his eyes right on me. “What’s your name, Slugger?”

  “Reece.”

  His hand glided across the program. He clicked the pen closed with a flick and held everything out to me. I tried to grab the program, but Bobby tugged it back a little. He smiled the way Dad would when I’d tell him about all the good things I did at school. “Don’t be afraid, son,” he said. “I’m just a ballplayer.” Then he let the program go.

  Way before we came to California, the Yankees traded Bobby Murcer to San Francisco. I kind of lost track of him then, but I held on to that autograph. I don’t know why. I mean, he wasn’t the next Mickey Mantle. He wasn’t even a Yankee anymore. He was just Bobby Murcer. One more nobody in California.

  .

  Monday morning at school, rumors about Ted Two are flying everywhere: Filibuster played until almost midnight; the cops busted Ted for minor in possession; van Doren crowd surfed onto a squad car to distract the police when Sergio Ortiz streaked out of the backyard and ran home.

  Before Algebra, Edie’s all over me: Did I hear about Ted Two? Did Filibuster really play? And she knows van Doren wasn’t on top of a police car, was he, but was there some guy in a suit there to sign Filibuster for a record deal?

  At least three girls have said they’ll vote for van Doren for homecoming king if he promises to actually go to the dance. A girl in my Spanish class said Ted was cute, and her friend, who should have said, “Gross,” or “You’re so high,” just said, “Yeah. Sort of.”

  Everybody’s talking about the party. About Ted and van Doren. Nobody’s getting it right.

  At lunch, me and Keith are in the middle of the Bog where it bends and faces the Senior Circle. Astrid’s over there, relaxed and talking to her friends and guys who either dress cool or are wearing a letterman jacket. She won’t have to move once and by the end of lunch thirty different people will have circled around until it was their chance to swoop in and talk to her.

  Treat’s eyes are huge when he comes up to us. Did we see the party? It was right next door to me at the cheerleader chick’s house? Did I see the cops? Did they really get Ted? Why didn’t I say anything about any of this in English third period?

  “Because it’s crap. If you believe any of it, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”

  Treat laughs. “Is it in Brooklyn? I could use a bridge in Brooklyn.”

  We bust up. Keith just grins, then says, “There’s no such thing as the Brooklyn Bridge, right?”

  “Are you an idiot?” Treat says.

  “No,” Keith says real serious. “It’s like Grant’s Tomb, right? Only a sucker would buy it because it doesn’t exist.” He looks at me.

  “There’s a Grant’s Tomb,” I say.

  “Keith?” Treat says. “Do you know who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?”

  Keith looks at us both real suspicious. “King Tut?”

  Treat roars. “Awesome. And where do you think Grant’s Tomb is?”

  “You’re going to tell me it’s not in Egypt, right?”

  “It’s in New York,” I say.

  Keith folds his arms. “No wonder you know. You’re from ther
e.”

  “Jersey.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Okay,” I say, “then how does Treat know?”

  “I don’t know. But none of that matters. Everyone is talking about Ted and van Doren like they rule.”

  Treat stops smiling and laughing. “That’s true.”

  A couple guys right across from us have been telling everyone who walks up that the slam pit at Ted Two was so brutal some guy got his jaw broken.

  “Who?” I yell over to them.

  “Some guy from another school,” one of them yells back. “Probably El Dorado or Villa Park.”

  Keith rubs his jaw. “Why is that cool?”

  “It’s not,” I say.

  “Yeah, it is,” Treat says. “It’s totally bitchin’, even if it is bullshit.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I say. “The party wasn’t that great. And Ted didn’t do anything except get pushed by van Doren.”

  Keith nods to Treat. “He wasn’t even dressed cool.”

  A minute goes by without anyone talking. We’re just standing here, staring at the ground like maybe the answers slipped down into a crack in the asphalt. I’m thinking, here it is the third week of school and the only time anyone notices me is to ask if I hang out with the Mohawk dude. Does he really have a tattoo of Geronimo on his chest? Is he part Apache or part Cherokee?

  “We really need to start the band,” I say. “For real.”

  Treat gets a grin so big it’s like he’s got extra teeth. “Bitchin’, but it’ll have to wait. Lyle is making me rake leaves today after school.”

  Me and Keith look at each other, like, Lyle?

  “My dad,” Treat says.

  “What if we help?” I say.

  “You can’t. Not the way I have to do it.”

  Keith looks at Treat real funny. “You got a blower? That’s how our gardener does it.”

  Treat shakes his finger at Keith. “Lyle and Margaret do not stoop to such destructive devices. I’ve got to use an all-natural rake.” He puts his hands out in the air like he’s describing the vision of some distant universe. “Made wholly from the fallen limbs and branches of sequoias. Held together with dried kelp that washed ashore in Santa Cruz.”

  “Does that mean no?” Keith says.

  “Yes,” Treat says. “It means no. I’ve got the leaves; then we’re tearing out the summer garden, tilling the soil for fall planting, turning the compost, building a—”

  “Compost?” Keith says. “Like, your trash?”

  “Like, potato peels and coffee grounds,” Treat says. “We fertilize the garden with it.”

  Keith starts laughing. “So you guys eat your own trash? Remind me never to come over for dinner.”

  Treat folds his arms and they puff out huge. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What about tomorrow?” I say, and Keith looks at Treat with me.

  Treat stares back at us, then says, “Yeah. You guys ready to do this?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But if van Dorken can do it, maybe we can too.”

  Treat slugs me in the arm. “Nice, Reece. I like the way you’re beating those war drums.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and one on Keith’s and pulls us in for some kind of a huddle. “We are so in balance, guys. We’re gonna be legends.”

  .

  Before bed, I sit down at my desk and write another letter to Uncle Ryan. I’m telling him how exciting it is to be in a band, how epic this is going to be. Astrid’s patio light is on, and the more I write, the more real the band becomes—the three of us standing on that patio with a backyard full of people staring at us; Astrid off to the side, smiling just at me and then, what? No music comes into my head. No lyrics. I’m not even sure where my hands go on the guitar that’s just drooping at my side. Astrid looks really confused and the little surges of excitement in my chest drop into waves of nervous in my stomach.

  I’m lying in bed, the letter sitting on my desk, when my dad walks in. He doesn’t notice it, or anything really. He’s looking at the carpet when he says something about Mom needing to leave early and so I’ll have to make my own breakfast tomorrow. Back in Jersey, my dad made breakfast almost every day. Only when Uncle Ryan showed up would he let someone else do it, I guess because he’s the one who taught Uncle Ryan.

  “No problem,” I say, and he starts turning around to walk out. “Hey, Dad. Was Uncle Ryan ever in a band?”

  He stops and turns back to me. One side of his mouth rises into a grin and he looks at me. “How did you know?” he says. “It was before you were born.”

  “I didn’t know. I was just wondering.”

  “Oh,” my dad says, and his eyes go back to the carpet. “They were pretty good.”

  I sit up in my bed, like, Okay, tell me more.

  “They did a lot of covers.” He looks up and says, “You know what a cover is?” I nod and he continues, “That got them some jobs at weddings and a couple bars.”

  “Wow. Why didn’t he keep playing?”

  “Well,” my dad says. “He was so young then and they weren’t making that much money.” He looks back at the carpet. “And your grandfather gave him a hard time about it.”

  Grandpa Houghton was so nice, at least what I remember of him. “Why?”

  My dad shakes his head. “Oh, your uncle liked all those English bands like the Animals and the Rolling Stones and, well, Grandpa grew up in Ireland.” He says this like it makes sense, like that completely answers the question, but I just shrug. “It was a different time,” he says and steps to the door.

  “How?”

  My dad takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “Your uncle and your grandpa didn’t always get along.”

  “Because of the band?”

  “I can’t explain it right now, Reece.” He looks up, his eyes sort of red but not like he’s angry. “It’s time for bed,” he says, then closes the door before I can ask anything else.

  Two-Car Studio

  Tuesday morning I can’t wait until English to talk to Treat, so I make Keith come with me to his locker before school even though I haven’t even told Keith what’s going on yet. Treat comes walking up alone, this green satchel slung to one side. It’s canvas, kind of beat up, and has a star and US Army painted on it. “What’s up,” he says and looks at Keith, “besides a preposition?”

  I slide one of the backpack straps off my shoulder so it’s hanging just on one side. “Well, I was thinking that Keith’s got, what”—I look at Keith—“those three guitar lessons and a little amp?” Keith nods. “And I’ve never played anything. How do we make a band out of that?”

  Treat doesn’t move or even look in my direction. Keith looks stunned, the same way he did when I told him Madison Square Garden isn’t really square and definitely isn’t a garden. “What about Treat’s Mohawk?” Keith says.

  “I know,” I say, “that helps. But I’ve got nothing. No instrument, no money.” I look at Treat. “The only way my dad’s going to be okay with this is if we play all Frank Sinatra songs while donkeys fly over a frozen hell.”

  “A frozen hell?” Keith drops his backpack off his shoulder and lets it fall down until it’s sitting on his feet. “Donkeys flying isn’t enough?”

  Treat steps around me and starts opening his locker, the dial spinning fast and the door popping open. “First off, we’re not doing covers. Maybe some Black Flag. Maybe. But Frank Sinatra? Are you kidding me?” He slams his fist on the locker next to his and the rattle makes people nearby look over like maybe there’s going to be a fight. “We’re going to play what we feel.”

  I nod and step closer to Treat. “Okay. I feel nervous.”

  “Good,” Treat says. “Nervous has energy. It’s the next best thing to anger.”

  Keith holds out his arms like he’s soaking wet. “Look at me. I’m wearing a used shirt
some guy probably died in. You know why?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Because you begged me to is why.”

  “I know, Keith.”

  “You can’t quit before we start.”

  “Nobody’s quitting,” Treat says. He’s calm and pulls two cassette tapes out of his satchel. He hands one to each of us. “It has begun.”

  Keith glances at his tape. “‘The Germs and Other Afflictions.’ Sweet.”

  Treat’s left the label on mine blank. “It’s the same five songs on both tapes,” he says. “But this will get you started on song ideas, and I’ll make you guys a better tape when I’ve got more time.”

  I take the tape.

  Keith’s happy again, stuffing the tape into his backpack. “What are we going to call ourselves?”

  Treat puts his satchel in his locker and shuts the door with a quiet click. “Good question,” he says and turns to face us again. “Let’s brainstorm all day. Write down whatever comes to you on the wind and we’ll vote on the best ones after school.”

  “Sweet,” Keith says.

  Treat points the Mohawk right at Keith and corrects him: “Bitchin’.” He turns it to me. “Remember, whatever you come up with needs to sound cool and look killer when you write it.” His face is so wide-eyed and excited he looks more like a kid on Christmas than this fierce Mohawk guy nobody will look at directly. He waits until I nod, says, “Okay,” then does a half spin and takes off.

  I take a step but Keith doesn’t move. He stares at me like he’s asked a question, so I answer: “I said, ‘Okay.’”

  He nods, says, “Okay, good,” and we start walking to class.

  .

  While Mr. Krueger’s talking atoms, I’m scribbling band names in the margins of my notebook: Mohawk Jacket, Mohawk Jock, The Mimes, and Mime’s the Word. Then I start thinking about where I am, you know, what’s on the wind: Atomic Anarchy, The Splitting Adams, and Gone Fission.

  After class, Keith looks my ideas over, then shows me what he did: no names but a really good sketch of a tour bus.