When I awoke Sunday morning, Curt
and his friends were passed out on the living room floor. None of
the girls were there, just the guys. There were empty beer
bottles everywhere, and the stench of stale beer hung in the air.
“What a mess! I’m not cleaning this up!” I
walked over to my father’s stereo system, found a classical music tape
and put it in. I turned the volume up pressed play. I was
already out the front door by the time the music came blasting out of
the speakers.
I rode my bike to the park to see what was going on
that day. A few kids were cleaning up the garbage left behind
from the day before, but other than that, nothing was happening.
I decided to ride around town for a while.
Just for the heck of it, I thought I would cruise by
our church. Normally, our parents make us go every Sunday, but
whenever we can get away with it, we skip it. For some reason, I
decided to go in. I took a seat near the back and recognized a
girl from my gym class, a Junior named Jessica Cartwright.
Jessica was thin and had short brown hair. She
kind of reminded me of a combination of Shirley from Laverne and
Shirley, the figure skater Dorothy Hammil, and a young Jackie Kennedy
Onassis. I was surprised to see her get up in front of the
congregation and read from the Bible. In school, you barely heard
a peep out of her.
“A reading from the book of Matthew,” she
began.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven.
Blessed are the meek,
for they shall possess the truth.
Blessed are they who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice,
for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart,
for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called children
of God.
Blessed are they who suffer persecution for justice’
sake,
for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven.”
Jessica paused for a moment, looked up at the
people, smiled slightly, and then went back to her seat like a good
little doobie.
I thought to myself, does she really believe all
that? I admit, I like Christmas like everyone else, but I
have a hard time believing in God sometimes. Maybe it’s because
Mom and Dad tell me I have to. I really don’t have any say in the
matter.
I sit here listening to stories about Adam and Eve,
Noah’s Ark, the parting of the Red Sea, and I don’t know what to
think. Is this stuff for real, or what? And if God made
everything, who made God? Mom and Dad can never explain these
things, but they insist on making me go to church. There’s no way
out of it.
Jessica met me outside the church when Mass was
over. “Hi, Crystal. Are you here all alone?”
“Yeah.” I unlocked my bike and began to walk
with it.
“I heard your brother had a party last night.
A bunch of us cheerleaders were supposed to go.”
“Did you?”
“No,” said Jessica with a laugh. “I never go
to parties. My folks would have me excommunicated.”
“No, go right ahead.”
“Do you really believe in all that stuff you were
reading in there? About God?”
Jessica thought about it a moment. “Yeah, I
do. Why?”
“I don’t know, I’m just curious.”
“Don’t you believe in God?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Neither was I for a while. Then I started to
read about Him. The really are a lot of books on the
subject.”
“But do you really believe in God?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I wish I did,” I said. “I just can’t find it
in me to believe in something that there is no proof for.”
“I believe there’s proof. Would you like me to
show you? I could let you read some of my literature.”
The mention of literature made me regret ever
bringing the subject up. “Um....yeah, sure!” I said, faking
enthusiasm. Jessica told her parents that she was going to hang
out with me for a while. They smiled at her, got into their car,
and drove off.
As we made our way toward the park, Jessica
continued to talk about her beliefs. “You know, religion is
really a wonderful thing to have in your life. It fills you with
a sense of purpose, a sense of meaning. It makes up for anything
you might be missing. It gives you the strength to do things you
otherwise wouldn’t even consider.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like get up in front of a large crowd of
people to read for them. Normally, I’m pretty shy, but when I
read Scripture, I feel as if God is right there with me.”
“Holy Scripture, Batman!” I said. “Don’t
you feel nervous?”
Jessica giggled. “No. In fact, that’s
the only time I don’t feel nervous.”
“That’s really interesting,” I told her. “Do
you ever pray?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you mind if I ask you what you pray for?”
“I pray for my family’s health, world peace...the
usual things. Sometimes I pray just to show God I love
Him.”
“Hmmm. That reminds me, I forgot to eat
breakfast today.”
“That would explain why you haven’t barfed all over
the road yet!”
Jessica and I both laughed at her little joke as we walked toward the
park. When we got there we noticed that people were beginning to
set up for the day’s activities. “They’re setting up for the big
concert in the bandshell,” Jessica said.
“Who’s playing?”
“The high school band. I play the
piano.”
“No kidding? That’s cool. I always
wanted to learn to play guitar. You know, so I could be in a
band.”
“I can just see you doing that,” Jessica said.
“Electric, of course! I play the organ in church but that’s about as
close to rock stardom I’m ever going to get. My folks think rock
and roll is Satanic.”
“I’m a Pat Benatar freak. She’s my
hero.”
“That’s interesting. I like her, too, but I’m
more into New Wave, like Duran Duran, Eurythmics, and U2.”
“You mean you don’t listen to choir music?”
“Can you keep a secret? I have an electronic
keyboard that I keep hidden under my bed. My grandmother bought
it for me because my parents refused to let me get one. I have to
use headphones when I play it.”
“You are such a rebel,” I said. We sat down on
a park bench and talked about all kinds of things for about a half an
hour. Jessica surprised me with all of the things she knew, and
as we talked, I wondered why she always seemed kind of uninteresting in
school. Even though she was very pretty, she never seemed to
attract much attention to herself. Maybe that was because she
always hung out with the cheerleaders, and the rest of them were
knockouts.
Jessica told me a funny story about a trip the
cheerleaders took to a training camp one summer, and I paid more
attention to the way she told it than to the story itself.
Although we had spoken to each other in gym class lots of times, this
was the first time I really felt as if I was getting to know her.
It was nice to know that I wasn’t the only one who was shy in
school.
When she finished her story, she stopped laughing
abruptly and seemed anxious to leave. She told me she had to get
home soon, then said goodbye and quickly walked back toward the
street. I turned around and realized why she was leaving: Casey
Winslow and his gang had pulled up in a blue van not far from where we
were sitting and were surveying the bandshell with binoculars.
Eventually they got out of the van and began to
confer among themselves in conspiratorial tones. They seemed as
though they were plotting the logistics of something, because they
seemed very concerned with the entrances to the park. When they
noticed me, they put their binoculars away and walked over towards me
as if nothing was going on.
“Hey, Sweetcheeks! Wanna catch another buzz?”
I pretended not to hear what Casey said. A. J.
Stewart laughed at
me. “Hey, where is Cartwheel going? Did we scare her
away?”
“She had to go home.”
“Probably writing another fan letter to President
Reagan,” A. J. said. Jeremy lit up a joint and handed it to
Doobie Brother, who puffed on it and passed it to Casey.
“Thanks, Doobie,” said Casey. “By the way,
Doobie Brother is our tokin’ negro.”
“Why do you call him Doobie Brother?” I asked
them. “Because he likes their music or because he’s a brother who
smokes doobies?”
“Both,” said Casey. “Hey, you catch on
quick.” He offered me the joint. I just shrugged and shook
my head.
“I can’t smoke that stuff. My brother is over
at the bandshell setting up for the concert tonight, and he would kill
me if he saw me.”
Casey smiled. “I don’t know why he cops such
an attitude about reefer. Him and his gang of jockstraps drink
beer like its Gatorade.”
“Well, I gotta get going now,” I said. I got
up and got back on my bike.
“Make sure you come back for the concert tonite,”
Casey said. “We have a big surprise planned!”
Probably a gang bang, I thought to myself. I
rode my bike to the other side of the park to watch the students set up
chairs in front of the bandshell. Curt and his friends were
setting up his drum set on the stage. I rode over and warned them
that Casey and his friends were planning something.
“Don’t worry about it,” Curt said. He was
taking a set of cymbals out of the trunk of his blue Mustang
convertible. “Those idiots can plan all they want. Nothing
they do ever turns out right. Take their band, for
instance. They’ve been talking about starting one for
years.”
“They’re starting a band?” I got off my bike
and helped him with the cymbal stands.
“They say they are. They’re so full of
shit.” He set up his cymbal stands in the back of all the chairs
on the stage. Harris and Wesley, who looked just as green and
sweaty as Curt, were unloading the sparkling white drums and almost
dropped them. “Be careful with those! They cost my old man
megabucks!” He shook his head in disgust. “Being a musician
takes a lot of patience, dedication, and talent—things Casey and his
gang of drug addicts will never have. They’d rather get stoned
than practice their instruments, if they even have any.”
“I wonder what they’re planning?”
“They’re probably just planning to get drunk and
puke on the audience. Don’t worry about it.”
I noticed Harris and Wesley weren’t looking so hot. “Speaking of
throwing up...”
“Why don’t you guys sit down before you fall
down?” Curt asked them. I took that as my clue and got back
on my bike.
I rode around the park for a while as more people
began to arrive. It was getting a bit warmer out. I put my
sunglasses on and took my usual station near the parking lot. I
had a good view of Casey and his gang. They were smoking up a
storm in their van and watching Curt and his buddies with their
binoculars. Eventually they started up the van and slowly drove
out of the parking lot. I considered following them to see what
they were up to, but I remembered what happened the last time I tried
something like that.
Instead, I waited around at the park to see if any
of my classmates would show up. A lot of them did, but none of
them recognized me in my dark sunglasses. Typical.
“Lone Wolf Larson,” I said to myself, “you’re just
too cool.”
A guy in a Darth Vader costume came walking by and
looked at me for a second, then shook his head and walked away. I
turned up the volume on my cassette player and put the headphones
on. After jamming out for about ten minutes, I went to the
concession stand, bought a hotdog and Sprite for lunch, and burped Pat
Benatar songs to pass the time.
