Weird Girl and What's His Name (17 page)

“I don't know. I didn't plan this.” I really didn't. “I just . . . didn't want to be alone anymore.”

“Lula.” Samantha Lidell cringed as if I'd hurt her. “Don't say that. You're not alone. But you shouldn't be here.”

“Then where should I be?” I asked.

“Home,” she said, softly. “You should be at home, studying for my midterm.”

Ha ha. I gave her half a smile. Home. Where's that, anyway?

“Trust me on this, will you?” she sighed. “Go home and write this down. You're still keeping that journal I assigned? Just go home and put this in it. Put everything in it. You don't ever have to show it to me if you don't want to. You can tear it up and burn it, for all I care. But, before you do anything else, will you please promise me that you'll write this down?”

Write this down.
I almost laughed.

“Will do, Teach.” I gave her a little salute, and turned quickly, darting out the door. Feeling like I already had evaporated. I walked back the way I came, pushing my bike alongside me. The air was cool and damp. I felt, oddly, like something was clicking into place. Like I had truly shed every last bit of my skin. My guts, my muscles, my blood. I was plain bones walking around now. Walking without a shadow.
Just write it down.
Okay, Sam. You want a chronicle, you got it.

ten

I
WALKED ALONG THE EDGE OF
the school parking lot, my hands jammed into my black hooded jacket. The game was won. Everybody was leaving. Cars in a line, headlights on, honking. Maybe one of them would hit me.

“Lula! Tallulah Monroe!” Somebody yelled out of one of the cars. I kept my head down. The car caught up to me. A big old Buick station wagon with wood panels on the side. I knew it by heart. Rory's car. The Beast. The guy in the passenger seat calling out to me was Sexy Seth Brock, the Fighting Eagles' undefeated varsity quarterback.

“Yeah?”

“Need a ride?” Sexy Seth asked.

“No, thanks.” It was only ten more feet or so until the break in the fence. I could slide in and cut through the woods.

“Are you sure? We don't mind taking you home,” Seth chirped. I looked over at him, leaning out the window with his floppy blond surfer hair, his perfect cheekbones, his long, sunburned nose. Rory kept his eyes on the road. The line of traffic stopped. I kept walking. Then I stopped. This was why I came, wasn't it? To talk to Rory. To try and fix this. Isn't this what I wanted? I never knew what I wanted.

I turned back around. Walked to the car, opened the back door. Next thing I knew, I was climbing into the backseat of the Beast, shoving aside a pile of cleats and helmets and sweaty shoulder pads that smelled like wet goat.

“Sorry about the mess,” Seth apologized. “So . . . how's college?”
How's college?
Weird. Why was Sexy Seth speaking to me as if we were friends or something?

“It's . . . fine, I guess.” What was I supposed to do, get into a whole long thing about community college? Rory inched the car forward. He looked different. Older, maybe. He'd grown a little scrap of a beard, just some chin scruff. I wasn't sure how I liked it. A car blew by, going the other direction, blasting music and honking the horn. A girl leaned out the back window and shrieked Rory's name. Rory gave a little wave and beeped the horn.

“Man, you guys are like rock stars.” I couldn't believe some random girl just shrieked Rory's name.
My
Rory.

“People love football,” Seth said, attempting modesty. “Hey, we're having some people over—you wanna come? Just, you know, kick back, celebrate the win.”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” I leaned forward and smacked Rory on the shoulder. I couldn't help myself. “Theodore, are you hearing this? Weird Girl is being invited to a Sexy Seth party. Has the polarity of the earth shifted? Might pigs actually fly?”

Sexy Seth actually laughed. “What did you call me?”

“Sexy Seth. Come on. You have to know. It's what everybody at school calls you.”

“Sexy Seth? Man.” He chuckled. “I thought it'd be Stupid Seth or Slovenly Seth or Smartass Seth. Sexy is a step up. I can live with that.”

“You don't wanna come over.” Rory finally spoke. “You won't like it.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I'll have the time of my young life. I think I'll take you up on that offer, Sexy.”

“Right on. It's a party now.”

The car lurched forward. There was finally a break in the traffic, and Rory wheeled the roaring Beast out into the street.

T
HE PARTY AT
S
EXY
S
ETH
'
S WAS
not at all what I expected. There were about fifteen or twenty people down in the basement, playing Wii Tennis and pool. There were Foo Fighters songs playing really low in the background. Nobody was drinking or smoking. There was fruit punch and pizza and healthy snacks. Seth's mom and dad were upstairs, chaperoning. It was all so civilized. Rory immediately busied himself at the pool table, taking charge of a very competitive mini-tournament. Meanwhile, Seth was going completely overboard trying to make me feel welcome.

“Can I get you another drink?” he asked. “We've got tea upstairs. We don't drink soda, but I think there's some Dr. Pepper one of the neighbors brought last time we had a barbecue.”

“I'm fine, thanks. You guys really don't drink soda?”

“Nah, my mom's all about organic food, no high fructose corn syrup. Hey, my iPod died, so I was gonna run upstairs and get some CDs. You wanna come see the house?”

“Sure.” Did I want to see the house? What am I, a real estate agent? I didn't really care what Seth's house looked like, but I couldn't help feeling like he had a room full of supermodels in a hot tub hidden away somewhere. I followed him up the basement steps. “I gotta tell ya, Seth. I always thought these post-football parties were like, total Roman Empire debauchery. I'm a little disappointed I'm not being ravaged by linebackers right now.”

“Nah,” Seth laughed. “That's Speed's deal. I mean, he doesn't ravage anybody. But he's a serious party guy. You know Speed Briggs, right?”

“Everybody knows Speed.” Speed Briggs was probably the only guy on the team who was bigger than Rory. His nickname was a testament to the notion that even a football dumbass can grasp the concept of irony.

“Yeah, he's definitely Mr. Popularity. Hey guys—Mom, Dad, this is Lula. She's a good friend of Rory's.” Seth paused outside the den and introduced me to his parents, who were parked on the sofa in front of an old Regis Philbin-era episode of
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
“Lula, these are my folks, Sherry and Don.”

“Hi Lula, nice to meet you,” Sherry waved. She was so pert and blond, like the mom on
The Brady Bunch.
Seth's dad was older—they both were, but not as old as Janet and Leo.

“What is the Colorado River?” Seth's dad shouted at the TV.

“Honey, you don't have to answer in the form of a question. That's only on
Jeopardy.”
Seth's mother patted his arm.

“Right, right.”

“Say hi to Lula, honey.”

“What? Oh, hi Tallulah Honey. Rory's friend, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

“Glad to have you back in town.”

“Regis, I'd like to phone a friend,” the contestant on the show said.

“See you guys later,” Seth ambled up the stairs.

“Nice meeting you.” I caught up to him.

“Sorry about that,” he said over his shoulder. “You can't talk to my parents when they're watching
Millionaire.
Even in reruns.”

“It's cool. Your dad's funny.”

“Yeah, he's awesome. Anyway, Speed's the one who throws the huge parties. I've been a couple of times, but it gets
rowdy.
You, like, wake up at four in the afternoon the next day, face down in the backyard. And you don't even know whose backyard it is.”

“Ahh, male bonding.”

“I know, right? I figured I was either gonna get arrested or end up in the hospital if I kept going to Speed's, so I started doing my own thing, having a few friends over, you know, keep it simple. It's mostly kids I know from church. Anyway, here's the upstairs. Not much going on. That's my parents' room down there. Bathroom. That's my brother's room. And that's Rory's room. This one's mine.”

“Rory's room?”

“Yeah.” He flipped the light on in his bedroom. “Rory came to live with us when his mom threw him out. I thought you knew.”

“No, I didn't. So.” Wow. Okay. “How long has he been living here?”

“I dunno, couple of months? Since the summer.” Seth flipped through a tall stack of CDs on his desk next to his laptop. His room was immaculate, the furniture dark wood, the bedspread dark green. There were posters on his wall of football players—Tom Brady, Tedy Bruschi, David Garrard, Drew Brees, the names in bold, all-caps print. And then there was—

“Is that . . . a Guided by Voices poster?”

“Yeah! You like GBV?” Seth brightened. “My brother gave me that poster, right before he died. They're basically my favorite band of all time, ever. How do you know about Guided by Voices?”

“Um, there used to be this DJ who played them, on the college station—”

“Midnight Pete?”

“You've
heard
Midnight Pete?”

“Have I heard Midnight Pete?” Seth exclaimed. “Dude! I've
met
Midnight Pete!”

“No way!” I couldn't believe it. I thought it was basically me and ten other insomniac losers listening to Midnight Pete. He used to play all this old stuff like the Pixies and Pavement and eighties REM, and really old stuff like Elvis Costello and the Ramones. Sometimes he'd even play these crazy rockabilly songs from the fifties, or some random sixties stuff like Herman's Hermits. Almost every night of the week from junior high through sophomore year, I fell asleep with my clock radio tuned to Midnight Pete.

“My brother actually took me to hang out with him in the studio one time,” Seth told me. “I can't believe you used to listen to Midnight Pete.”

“I can't believe you
met
him. How much did it suck when he finally graduated and left us with Midnight Steve?”

“Dude. Midnight Steve bites the big one. All he ever plays is, like, stale emo.”

“Don't remind me,” I sighed, leaning back against Seth's bureau. “So, what did he look like? I mean Midnight Pete.” I'd always been curious.

“He kind of looked like a fat version of that guy from The Cure,” Seth said, still in obvious awe. I giggled. “Seriously. Donnie met him at this party, right after he moved back home, and they hung out a bunch before he got too sick. The night Donnie took me to hear Pete do the show was like going to the Super Bowl or something.”

“Right awwwn, man,” I imitated Midnight Pete's drawl. Seth laughed. “But, uh, seriously,” I said. “I'm sorry your, um. Your brother died.”

“Thanks. Uh. It's been a few years now. He was twenty-six. Twelve years older than me. I was the Accident Baby.” Seth gave an apologetic half-shrug. “You wanna see his room?”

“Um. Okay,” I said. Seth walked across the hall, opened the door to his brother's room, and flipped on the light. I hung back. This felt a little strange.

“My mom and dad call it the guest room now, but they left all his records here. I guess they sorta did it for me.” Seth walked in. I followed. I couldn't believe my eyes. It looked like a cross between a record store and a museum. There were tall shelves full of real record albums, racks of CDs and cassettes. Faded posters covering the walls. I recognized some of the names as the old bands Midnight Pete used to play. Yo La Tengo. Teenage Fanclub. Superchunk. Liz Phair. Pavement. Guided by Voices. Guided by Voices. Guided by Voices.

“Donnie was a total music nerd,” Seth explained. “He went to school in New York just so he could intern for Matador, the record label. I still come in here and listen to 45s on his stereo. It's kind of like hanging out with him, you know? He used to talk about how, when he got better, he was gonna take me to my first GBV show, because they were, like, the best live band ever. But we never did make it . . .” Seth trailed off.

“You could go see them now. I'm sure that's what your brother would've wanted,” I said.

“Except that they broke up, like, right after he died.” Seth shrugged. “It sucks pretty hard, but I'm optimistic. Bob Pollard, you know, pretty much the mastermind of the band, he has this new group, Boston Spaceships. Their album just came out and it's pretty awesome, so . . .” Seth shrugged again. Optimistic or no, he looked like he was trying not to cry.

“Maybe they'll play an all-ages show at Cat's Cradle or somewhere.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I hesitated. “How did he die? Your brother, I mean.”

“Don't laugh. Testicular cancer.”

“Who's laughing? That's terrible.”

“He never got it checked out, and it metastasized. The worst thing about it is, you don't have to die of it. I mean, look at—” Seth stopped, catching himself. “Donnie used to get so sick of people saying, ‘Look at Lance Armstrong,' but, seriously. Look at Lance Armstrong. That guy had it, and now he's won, like, seven Tour de Frances. When I first made the team, junior varsity, I was telling some of the guys about him, saying, like, hey guys, you gotta check your balls and make sure there's nothing crazy going on down there.”

“You told the guys on the football team to check their balls?”

“I know. They just about laughed my ass outta the room. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Just last winter, this guy Darryl Harris—you remember him? Played right guard? He was a senior when we were freshmen. Anyway, he called me up from college, out in Texas.” Seth had this very serious look on his face as he related this story. “Sure enough, dude found a lump on one of his balls. Cancer. They caught it in time, and now he's totally healthy. He even started in the game last Saturday.”

“Wow,” I tried not to cringe.

“So, there you go. My brother may be gone, but he already saved one life. I try to look at it like that because otherwise. You know.” Seth exhaled, looking around the room. “I just miss him too much.”

I was afraid that Sexy Seth was indeed about to cry. I reached out to give him a friendly pat on the back. And then somehow, all of a sudden, he hugged me. My face was pressed against his Fighting Eagles sweatshirt. He smelled clean and familiar. It took me a minute to remember. My mom's soap. Made out of organic hemp.

“I bet you think I'm so weird right now,” Seth said into my hair.

“No, this is totally normal. I'm into random hugs and stories about testicles.”

“Sorry about that.” We pulled apart. “Am I grossing you out? Some girls get grossed out.”

“No, it's actually enlightening,” I told him. “Just for you, I'm going to go home and check my balls.” Seth laughed. “For real, though. I'm really sorry about your brother. I'm sorry for you. I really am.”

“Thanks.” He looked at me. I mean, he
looked
at me. For, like, a ridiculously long time.