The Cake is a Lie (38 page)

“
I’ll try and make it,” I
lie compassionately.

After Corky leaves I turn to Mia. “You
should write a book Mia, about the… What did they used to call you
guys?”

“
The musketeers.” She says.
Why can’t I remember that? I smoked myself dumb. You’re not dumb,
Marco, people forget stuff. Just yesterday you remembered the name
of that song when no one else could. You’re really smart. Relying
on the internet has probably made your memory lazier than anything
else. Plus, the brain is constantly producing new brain cells, even
into your 90’s. Oo, that’s a good one.

Feeling like I just solved a puzzle I
subtly reach my hand over my shoulder and lightly pat myself on the
neck. Good job. I imagine striking a big blow to the cranky gremlin
living in my brain. I imagine a white knight cutting off his head.
I imagine him getting smaller and smaller.

“
Ya. God, could you imagine
how great that’d be?”

She laughs, “I don’t remember any of
it.” That’s what I keep hearing over and over again. I’m tired of
hearing it, the exact same thing. From all the legends. She says it
with the same stunned vacant look they all say it with.

“
We used to get so drunk and
go to assemblies, it was so wild...” She begins, and then pauses in
thought. “..I just don’t remember any of it. We didn’t even take
enough pictures.” I imagine if Mia had kept a diary, how much it
would be worth.

“
Do you have any regrets?” I
ask her, old soul to old soul.

“
I don’t regret shit,” She
snaps. Just when you think she’s deep down really sweet, Mia’s sour
scowl burns you. You can see the gears in her mind working.
Something about me bugs her. What ground does she have to judge me
on? Her skin’s disgusting. Would I still hit it? I ask myself.
She’s definitely kinda chubby, but I mean it’s Mia Illy, what an
epic spirit. No, I couldn’t even hit anymore. She probably still
thinks I like her. That I’m hitting on her. Why am I still so
nervous around her?

“
I regret like some nights,”
Mia says after staring away from me for a while. “Like some nights,
I’d get home at 4 in the morning after doing an eight ball or
whatever. And just stay up all night, in my bed, tweaking out.” The
frustration creeps across her face as she can’t get it out quite
right. “Like my parents knew what I was doing. But what were they
gonna do? They’d tell me, ‘We know that you’re partying Mia, but
what can we tell you? You get better grades than we ever
got.’”

Her words tug at my own pain. Tapping
into my own nights spent up all night high in bed, on all kinds of
different drugs, by myself. I look around E-Rock’s deteriorating
house. It used to be paradise. One of the greatest hits from my
childhood begins playing on the stereo. “If you wanna go and get
high with me, smoke an L in the back of the benz-y.” The kick snare
over the sample calls out something inside me. The exhilaration of
playing hide and go seek in an empty school while my mom was in a
parent teacher conference. Struggling to stay standing in some
circle of older kids while triumphantly hugging a shiny forty. My
nostalgia’s all messed up, I conclude. My past is broken, I’m
broken.

I breathe into it. Some of the best
moments in your life are still to come, Marco.

I look over at E-Rock across the pool,
shirtless in his pajama bottoms. Eric can approach a group of 20
total strangers and fearlessly befriend them, I remind myself. He
can dance. He can jump out of a plane. He still has like 60 friends
that adore him, way, way, way more than most people. The last time
we hung out we had a great time. His friendship’s still valuable
and even without him I have 5 best friends that are great, have
career opportunities. Plus, I can make new friends, I’m very
friendly. And even if I never make another friend again I made more
in high school than most make in their whole lives. I start to feel
better.

“
What’s Kate up to?” I ask
Mia. Kate is Mia’s bff for life. You could write a whole other
three books on Kate’s life.

“
We’re not friends anymore.”
The way she says it, it’s cold enough that I don’t ever expect them
to be friends again. Mia’s different from me.

I’m shocked. “Didn’t you guys just
travel across South America together?”

“
I found out she’s been
talking mad shit to everyone about me behind my back.”

“
Why?”

“
Cause that’s all she does.
Like honestly, when I think back on it. All we did during our ten
year friendship was talk shit about other people. Like 80% of the
time, that’s all we did. I’ve never met someone who spent so much
time criticizing other people. She’s just a mean person. I don’t
know anyone more into status.”

I’m enjoying the gossip. Picturing Kate
scowling at me with her nose in the air the last time I tried to
talk to her.

“
Like this one night a few
months ago,” Mia continues. “She slept with this guy at the
compound. Dude wasn’t even cute, he was just some ugly random. And
they stayed up all night doing molly together. After that she went
on a molly binge for like two weeks. It was crazy.”

Listening to Mia, tingles of pure
euphoric joy start crawling up my back. It’s been happening a lot
lately. It first came a few months ago, towards the end of one of
my mediations in the woods. Out of nowhere, euphoric emotion began
bubbling and exploding up my back. It was so powerful it
overwhelmed me to tears. A few days later it came again while I was
walking around Greenlake, then again at the soup kitchen. Now it’s
been happening almost every day, at the end of dorky emotional T.V.
shows and commercials, it happens a lot when I listen to music,
workout and read. Usually after meditation. Sometimes
randomly.

“
I think she’s back on oxy…”
Mia continues.

The tingle is bubbling over into
euphoric rushes pulsing through my whole body. All my nerves shiver
with pleasure. It feels like I’m close to god. I want this feeling
to last forever. I’m addicted, I can’t get enough. I take another
deep breathe of the fresh air, it intensifies the feeling. I have
to hold back my tears it feels so amazing. I feel like I just did a
10 day meditation. I can feel my body healing, my bodies producing
feel good stuff again. I’ve been so calm lately, so engaged. My wit
has been getting better, jokes and punch lines have been popping
into my head quicker.

Life’s an acquired taste, enjoy the
good sensations for what they are, brief powerful moments, and the
rest of the time keep focusing on the present moment until you fall
into a groove. Steer your little row boat against an ocean of
sensations and impulses. Keep spitting out all the
seeds.

Just when I think the tingles can’t get
any stronger a positive thought causes them to explode for a few
heavenly seconds. I feel really good, I think. Without a doubt, I
positively feel amazing.

I know writing this won’t get me
Oakley. Even if… Well, no. I have to radically accept that. You
don’t have to put off your happiness until you accomplish some
great magical dream.

But there’s a conciliation prize–she’ll
read this. When someone writes a book about you, chances are you
read it. And these sentences will bring a smile to her face, a
scowl. As she busily combs through my words some will find
permanent homes in her rich mind. And it won’t bring me enough
satisfaction for a lifetime, but for a quarter of a lifetime, it
helps.

Besides, this is only a prequel to a
classic, to Oakley’s book. Now that’s a book I’d read. All her
important life moments, her thoughts, her beliefs, her anxieties.
Her favorite trends, her beauty routine. Her stories are 50000
times better than mine. You can’t learn how to be great from me,
but from her, you might learn something. I’d buy the first
copy.

The cross-state highway runs taut as a
clothes-line from Western State College inland towards Helm Lake. I
usually can drive it in four hours without turning the wheel, but
this clear December morning I find myself taking the first exit and
doubling back towards the coast. I’ve had the feeling since
Wednesday. It draws me now, as I skate the car over the back gravel
roads and through the evergreens, until, finally, from the top of
the last hill, I sight the town. It lies, as always, an irregular
stepping-stone between the great green forests and the vast grey
ocean. The glass, A-framed summer homes are unfamiliar to me, but
the white-washed colonials in the center of town seem peacefully
the same. And as I drive down the two tiny blocks called Main
Street, I feel the same chills through my stomach that I had felt
the first day we came to this town.

I was eleven then, with long, pale
blond hair and the innocence of an only child who has spent all of
the few years of her life moving from one big-city apartment to
another. I remember swallowing hard to keep my stomach down as we
drove into town, and sitting high as I could between my parents to
make sure that my eyes missed nothing. It was an evening in early
summer, and the last clear, glowing light of the sun lay on the
rooftops, waiting to be caught by the shadows from the street.
People were closing the tiny shops along Main, all except for the
empty mahogany-and-glass one tacked onto the last
corner.

“
There’s my shop,” Dad said
as we turned the corner. “Nelson’s Realty—for Oceanside Park. The
first realty in these parts, would you believe.”

Our new brick home lay on the edge of
town, with only a gravel road and marsh between it and the ocean.
That first night, as I stood on a packing-box and stared out my
window, I fell in love with the quiet ocean. I also saw some kids
on the next block. Excitedly, I buckled on my new skates, and
skated up the street towards them, showing-off as best I could.
They stared at me for one long, lonesome minute, and then they all
stood up and went inside a house. Only the oldest boy turned back,
“Get out of here, ya dumb city-sissy,” he taunted. “We don’t want
you.”

I pulled off my skates and walked
aimlessly, until an eight-year-old with buck teeth rode up on his
trainer-bike and stopped next to me.

“
I’m Jeff,” he said. “You’re
pretty.”
“Get out of here.” I kicked his bike. “I don’t want
you.”

“
Hey, don’t do
that.”

“
Why not?” I said, and
kicked it harder, until he almost fell off.

“
Because if you do, I’ll
tell Driftwood Annie, and she’ll get you.”

“
You’ll tell
who?”

“
She’s the crazy lady that
lives in the marsh.”

“
Show her to me.” It sounded
as good as a T.V. show.

“
Well, I’m supposed to go in
now–”

“
So am I. C’mon, show me,
and I’ll never kick your bike again.” My blond hair must have
fascinated Jeff because he agreed.

“
O.K.,” he said, pushing his
teeth in with his fingers. “I’ll show you her house, but that’s
all.”

The house was on the same side of town
as ours only much farther up, where the beach widened and stretched
for miles. We left our skates and bike at the edge of the marsh and
trudged cautiously up to the shack. It was small, square, and
dirty-grey, except for the remnants of green paints and the white
droppings of seagulls. The stone foundation rose above the marsh,
so that a makeshift ramps had been laid up to reach the
door.

“
I’m going to knock.” I
whispered.

“
No, she’s probably not in.”
Jeff was nervous. “We better get home, anyway. It’s almost dark.”
Suddenly a light came on and someone called, “Who’s out there?”
Jeff ran for his bike and the safety of home, but I waited, then
climbed the ramp, and knocked. She came to the door and invited me
in, but I stood mute, half sliding back on the ramp. Her eyes
overwhelmed me. My years of watching grown-up parties alone from my
bedroom had taught me to recognize the pouched eyes of an
alcoholic. She had those eyes, but she rolled and widened them
magnificently.

“
Well, do you want
somethin’, kiddo?”

“
Uh-uh. I mean I just
wanted…”

“
What?” She leaned out a
little farther.

“
N-nothing,” I said,
terrified, and turned and raced for home.

The next morning I started out again
for her house.

“
You’re crazy,” Jeff said as
he caught up with me. But I only laughed. I couldn’t explain to
myself, let alone to him, the fact that other children frightened
me more than any adult ever could. Jeff left me at the marsh, and I
squished across it until I found her on the other side of the
house.

“
Well, hello, kiddo.” In the
daylight, she looked very small and thin. She wore a dirty, tight
sweater and a too-long skirt with a pair of pink high-heeled
slippers. The veins stood out from her pudgy feet and the toes
showed—all painted bright red. She smiled pleasantly enough, but
her strange eyes still fascinate me.