Be More Chill Page 13

  All I’m good for is sex on the Internet. Shutdown.

  “Jeremy, do you want some water?”

  “Yes please,” I say, not knowing who I’m saying yes to, only that it’s a girl. And that I said please (like I’m supposed to). I turn around like a dolphin. My eyes have been open on this couch, but I don’t know how long.

  “Here,” the girl kneels in front of me. She hands me a cup. “People said you got bad E and you were freaking out.”

  “Christine!” I say. I reach out to touch her hand. She doesn’t mind; she touches back. I sip water from her cup. “I don’t know if it was bad E,” I mumble through wet lips. The water slides down my throat as if gravity just got doubled. “It was bad, though. I don’t know. I never did it before.”

  Christine nods. “You don’t look like you’ve done much.”

  “Yeah…at least it’s, uh, better now. The world stopped shaking.” Hkkkk, sputter; I drink more water. “You don’t look like you’ve been having such a great time either.”

  “No.” She shakes her head twice, very deliberately. Her eyes are red and streaked, but they’re still dense and brown and beautiful. Her hair is still shiny.

  “Sorry,” I say, sitting up in one corner of the couch and scrunching my knees to my chest with the cup perched on top of them. The cup has Cupid on it. Maybe if I sit in one corner she’ll sit in the other corner. “I’m sorry about Jake.”

  “Oh,” she waves her hand, squatting on the floor. “That was like, way over. That was over two days ago. He can do whatever he wants with skanky girls in rooms while boys watch. _ _ _ k _ _ _ a_ _ _ _ _ e.”

  I’m tired of Christine not being next to me, so I pat the couch to my left. She sits down. “He totally just started acting really weird a week ago. Like, he had layers to him. On the outside he seemed like a very confident high-school magnate, you know? You know what a magnate is?”

  “Yes. Like a business guy.” I look around the living room—it looks like winos have been fighting in here with baseball bats. There are liquor bottles strewn around and dents in the walls and ash and cigarette burns.

  “Right. And then under that he had this whole other layer of sensitive, misunderstood wannabe-writer-type stuff, you know?”

  “Jake’s a writer?”

  “He writes journals.”

  “Okay.”

  “But then the third layer was like his underlying evil dick layer.”

  “Ah.”

  “I mean, I couldn’t believe it—you remember my system of stages?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, we went from Going Out to Him Just Being an Evil Dick really fast.”

  “Heh,” I huff. “I thought you came with him tonight.”

  “No. I came by myself.”

  “Really? I went to the Halloween Dance by myself.”

  “You were there?” She inches closer. “I had no idea!”

  “Yeah, for like forty minutes.” How long ago was the Halloween Dance? A month? It seems like a month. A proper month of activity. I don’t believe those people who say that “time goes so fast” and “your life is short.” I’m bored enough that I always have a realistic sense of the actual, agonizing pace of a month. When you’re in a room with no TV and just the Internet and not much homework and no friends, a month is a month. And this last month feels like a month, so full of unbelievable—

  “Jeremy? Still with us?”

  Right. “Sorry. I saw you dancing,” I say.

  “At the dance?”

  “Yeah. You had that hat on, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah….That’s a traditional Sardinian princess hat. My mom made it out of linen. She’s a historian.”

  “Oh.” It’s a good thing Christine didn’t ask me what linen was, because I really don’t know.

  “What about you?” she continues. “I didn’t see you dancing.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Christine sighs. “You never do. Right?”

  I nod.

  “You nerdy boys, all the same.” She kicks her heel against the couch and turns her head away, then back. “You’re always so proud of what you can’t do.”

  “That’s not true!” I stand up. How did things turn out like this? Christine is here—and Jake isn’t! This rocks. “I’m not happy I can’t dance! I just can’t! It’s like a birth deficit! I mean defect!”

  “That’s not true,” Christine says. “If you stopped thinking about yourself and just thought very academically about moving lightly so the girl could follow, you’d be fine.”

  “So come dance!” I beckon to her. I steady myself in the middle of the living room, shake my groin, close my eyes, bite my lip, put my hands on my hips and gyrate. Oh yeah.

  “I’m tired,” she dismisses. “Maybe some other time. There’s no music.”

  “Blukhuhuhuhuhuh—” Laughter from across the room. “Shot down!” It’s Rich, lounging on his own couch watching an infomercial set to mute, curiously without a girl on his stomach. There’s a glass ashtray next to him on the floor with a cigarette in it. He looks up at me. “You two are so-o-o cute.”

  “Shut up, Rich.” I turn to him. He throws the ashtray at me; I duck. The cigarette tumbles out and lies on the carpet while the ashtray hits a piano across the room, sounding middle C. (I used to take piano.) We all laugh.

  I sit back on the couch with Christine, closer to her now. I like this—this late-party laid-back atmosphere, minus the music and the public sex and the angry jocks and the Spanish voice in my head. Somehow, like coming out of a tunnel, I’ve ended up with one person I really like and another—I look over at Rich—who I’ve kind of come to tolerate. Bombs have dropped and I’m happy in craters. I’m tired, though. I have to get home. I’ve got to start up—

  HERE.

  “You! Back in English!” I yell, getting up from the couch. Then I instantly sit back down as if nothing happened.

  NICE ONE.

  “What was that?” Christine asks, her eyes bugged.

  “Rookie mistake!” Rich laughs, slapping his hand against his face. “Aw, you talked to your squip! Rookie mistake!”

  YEAH. GOOD JOB. AND WE NEED TO TALK.

  “Shut up,” I hiss, sitting with my arms crossed, though I’m not sure who I’m talking to.

  “What’s yersquip?” Christine asks, looking at me.

  “That’s…my…imaginary…friend,” I explain.

  “Huh, yeah,” Rich keeps laughing. “It’s what he calls his p-penis.”

  “Would you shut up?” I throw a cushion at Rich.

  “You have a name for your penis?” Christine asks. “Boys really do that?”

  YEAH. RICH’S IS NAMED LI’L’ CHEESE HEAD.

  “Yeah. Rich’s is named Li’l’ Cheese Head,” I say. Christine laughs and laughs and smiles, so I smile back at her. Rich throws his heavy shoe at me.

  WE STILL NEED TO TALK.

  “Uh, excuse me.” I shinny out of the living room, duck the other shoe. “Back in a minute.”

  “Going to play with your imaginary friend?” Rich yells. Then: “Freak!”

  But he says it with love.

  I walk upstairs to the only bathroom I’m familiar with, the one where I saw Stephanie. I peek inside to make sure she hasn’t returned. I close the door behind me and look at myself in the mirror. I do this at home; it’s the easiest way to talk to the squip. Screw what it says—telepathy is hard on the brain.

  “Okay, what do you want?” I stare at the mirror.

  WHAT DO I WANT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME? I’M JUST GETTING BACK UP TO SPEED AFTER A RUDE DRUG INTERRUPTION.

  “Yeah, I caught that. You weren’t too functional back there.”

  I TOLD YOU TO TURN ME OFF.

  “Whatever. You have too many rules.”

  SO WHAT DO YOU WANT, JEREMY? CLEARLY, IT’S NOT TO GET LAID. I WORKED INCREDIBLY HARD TO GET YOU IN THE POSITION YOU WERE IN TONIGHT. I UTILIZED QUANTUM TELEPORTATION TO MINE OTHER SQUIPS FOR INFORMATION; I DELV
ED DEEP INTO MY OWN HUMAN MODELING ENGINES; I PLANNED DRIVING ROUTES, VERBAL ONE-LINERS, AND POINTS OF ATTACK ON THE FEMALE BODY; I SET YOU UP WITH A GIRL TO BRING YOU HERE AND A FEW BACKUPS IN CASE YOU MADE MISTAKES, AND I MADE SURE THEY WERE ALL, HANDS DOWN, THE MOST GORGEOUS FEMALES IN YOUR LIMITED UNIVERSE. AND YOU THREW IT ALL AWAY. SO WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? ARE YOU REALLY GAY?

  “No. I didn’t throw it away. Bad things happened.”

  YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN WITH STEPHANIE. AND CHLOE…YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN HER DRUGS. IF I HAD BEEN ON I WOULD HAVE TOLD YOU TO STAY OUT OF THAT BASEMENT. PROBABILITY AMPLITUDES WERE UNSTABLE IN THAT BASEMENT.

  “Yeah, but see, this doesn’t matter. Because I want Christine.”

  SO?

  “That’s it.”

  SO?

  “That’s who I like and that’s who I want to be with, and when I think about it, that—I mean, she—is the reason I got you in the first place.”

  SO.

  “So you are going to start listening to me, now, because I am the human being and I make the decisions and I don’t care how many qubits you have or whatever because you are supposed to give advice like you said at the beginning!”

  SO YOU WANT A COMPLETE PARADIGM SHIFT.

  “I’m sorry?”

  A COMPLETE SHIFT. A TOTAL MOVEMENT AWAY FROM WHAT YOU WANTED BEFORE. A NEW ANGLE. A NEW SET OF GOALS. A NEW DIRECTION FOR YOUR ENTIRELY PREDICTABLE AND MODELABLE LIFE. YOU NOW REJECT THE NOTIONS THAT YOU HAVE BEEN FED BY TELEVISION AND THONGS AND XXX THE MOVIE AND XXX ON THE INTERNET. YOU NOW WANT TO DEVOTE YOURSELF ENTIRELY TO THE CARE AND REDEMPTION OF CHRISTINE CANIGLIA, WHO SETS YOUR HEART AFLAME?

  “Jesus. Are you still on drugs?”

  NO, YOU ARE. AM I RIGHT?

  “Yes. I want to be with Christine and then I’ll be happy.”

  WHY DO YOU NEED ME, THEN?

  “What?”

  YOU’VE TALKED TO HER WITHOUT ME. YOU WERE JUST TALKING TO HER WITHOUT ME. MY PLANS TO WIN HER AFFECTION HAVEN’T WORKED. WHY NOT RELY ON YOURSELF?

  “Well, _h_ _.”

  WHAT ABOUT IT?

  “You’re my squip.”

  YES.

  “I need you. You’ve been here all along.”

  TRUE. OFF AND ON.

  “I mean, I need your help. Advice. How to win her over. What to say. What kind of gifts to get her. When to make disapproving noises when she talks about which one of her friends. How to touch her. All the sexual stuff. I still need that, I think.”

  SO YOU NEED ME.

  “Yes.”

  THEN LET’S DO THIS. AND LET’S NOT WASTE TIME. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM OPENS IN TWO WEEKS.

  “Yeah.”

  BY THE TIME YOU DO YOUR BOWS, YOU’LL BE WITH CHRISTINE. I HAVE A NEW PLAN.

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  NOW, GET BACK TO THIS PARTY, OR WHAT’S LEFT OF IT. YOU’VE GOT UNFINISHED BUSINESS WITH MICHAEL, CHLOE, AND BROCK.

  “_ _ _t, Brock.”

  DON’T WORRY. YOU’LL FIND HIM MORE DOCILE NOW. HE WON’T HIT YOU.

  “I’m glad we cleared this up.” I back away from the mirror and wink at myself.

  YOU’RE STILL COOL.

  When I return to the living room, Chloe and Brock are arm in arm, playing with each other’s shirts. I guess they’re back together; they look very right for one another. Brock’s ponderous bulk nicely shadows Chloe’s small curvaceousness.

  “Jeremy, heyyyy,” Chloe waves, struggling to stand. I guess she was smoking and drinking in addition to rolling, since she knew she had a ride home from me.

  SHE WAS SNIFFING RITALIN.

  Oh, great. “Hi, Chloe,” I say, staying far away from Brock. “How are you?”

  “Don’t be worried about Brock or anything,” Chloe says. “I _ _c_ _ _ him, so he’s happy now. He’s my boyfriend again.”

  Brock smiles. “Yeah, sorry for chasing you, dude. This girl.” He strokes Chloe’s cheek and they kiss, facing Christine on her couch, with their butts pointed at Rich on his couch.

  “Turn around!” Rich yells. “I want to see you lick her tongue! I’m bored.”

  Brock and Chloe keep kissing, but that doesn’t stop Brock from sticking his hand out for me to slap it, a gesture of solidarity. I can’t believe this happy ending, either.

  HOW COME YOU’RE SURPRISED BY MALE BEHAVIOR?

  I’m sorry?

  DON’T YOU SEE THAT THIS IS HOW MEN INTERACT? THEY STAGE FIGHTS WITH ONE ANOTHER TO DETERMINE WHOM THEY CAN CONTROL. WHEN A FIGHT ENDS IN AN UNEXPECTED WAY, THEY FIND THEMSELVES WITH AN EQUAL OR SUPERIOR INSTEAD OF AN UNDERLING. THEN, OUT OF FEAR, THEY BEFRIEND THE PERSON WHO BESTED THEM. YOU BEAT BROCK, SO NOW YOU GET TO BE HIS FRIEND. SEE?

  Oh. I slap Brock’s hand dutifully.

  BUT FORGET THESE TWO. GO OVER TO CHRISTINE AND OFFER HER A RIDE HOME.

  “Christine?” I ask. “Do you want a ride home? I’m going to give Chloe and, uh, I guess Brock a ride.” I shrug my elbow at them.

  “You’re okay to drive?” she asks, looking up from whatever she had in her lap and hiding it. But I saw it: a worn, highlighted copy of the Midsummer Night’s Dream script, folded in quarters.

  WORK THAT.

  “Wait, you’re doing your lines now?” I ask. I put the emphasis on lines instead of now to make it friendly.

  “Yeah, shh.” She puts a finger to her lips. “I’m a serious dork about this play.”

  “Me too.” I move closer to her. NO. DON’T BE SALACIOUS. I move away. “We can go over some scenes in my car. And I am okay to drive,” I reassure her.

  “Uh…I can’t even believe you have a car, Jeremy. I didn’t know you could drive.”

  “How do you think I got here?”

  “Huh.” She dips her head down, then up. “How come you don’t drive to school?”

  EXERCISE.

  “Exercise.” I stretch.

  “Well, are you ready to go? It is like three in the morning. I was going to call up a car service. I have to do the whole sneaking-into-my-house thing.”

  “Me too.” I stand up. “Okay. Chloe and, uh, I assume you too Brock”—he nods—“head out to the lawn. I’m going to find Michael Mell and then we’re all out of here. I’ll drop everybody off where they need to be.”

  “Jeremy Heere, taking charge like a big boy,” Rich smirks. “Good luck with that full load of heads, man. You okay to drive?”

  YES.

  “Yes.”

  “All right. See ya,” Rich slaps my hand. Chloe and Brock walk out to the lawn (they listened to me); Christine and I delve back into the party-sore house to find Michael.

  “This is that guy with the ’fro, right?” she asks. “The one you’re always hanging out with?”

  “Yeah. He’s, like, my best friend, y’know—if I could still say ‘best friend.’” We walk down the hall with our hands pocketed. “I guess now that I’m older I’m supposed to call him something else.”

  AT LEAST YOU’RE NOT CALLING HIM “BUDDY.” THAT’S HIGHLY UNDESIRABLE.

  “Best friend is fine,” Christine says. “Girls use best friend till they’re, like, dead.”

  “Okay,” I smile.

  We do a random room check, opening doors on kids lying in their own puke, crying, drinking beer out of ashtrays, sleeping or playing Kill All People in a sedentary frenzy. In each room we ask for “Michael” and an impostor Michael turns around, deadened by the sound of his own name, burned out. It seems like a lot of kids (and a special contingent of Michaels) are staying at the Finderman house tonight—Jason Finderman’s parents must really be in Barbados. It’s like the Land Without Parents, a Lost World.

  TELL THAT TO CHRISTINE.

  “It’s like Lord of the Flies in here,” I say as we leave a room that had a bunch of jocks standing in a circle chanting and pumping their fists at another jock doing one-armed push-ups on the floor.

  “I was thinking the exact same thing,” she says. “Do parties always get this weird when it’s late?”

  I await instruction fro
m the squip. TELL THE TRUTH.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never really been to a serious party before.”

  “Me neither!” Christine grins. She grabs my shoulder just for a second. “Me neither.”

  We’re upstairs. I peek into one door while Christine tries another. “Hey, is that him?”

  She’s looking inside a bathroom—one I didn’t know about, without a crazy self-abusing Hot Girl inside. This room has party scars: the sink is full of what appears to be shaving cream; someone has tagged FROG: MY BIZNESS IS OUT OF THIS BIZNICH in permanent marker above the toilet, and in the bathtub, Michael Mell is covered with a small Asian girl, who’s wearing a towel. They look asleep. Michael’s afro is compromised by the back of the tub.

  “Michael,” I hiss. “It’s me!”

  “Wuh?” He looks up, eyes disturbingly white. Then his irises and pupils rotate out of his skull and his face lights up. “Dude! Look! Isn’t she beautiful?”

  I try to make a judgment about the compact and somewhat oily-looking lump who lies on Michael; all I can think is that she’s got black, short hair and her arms are plump and she’s very asleep.

  “She’s snow_bunny,” Michael says.

  “From where?” I know that’s a username.

  “Raptalk-dot-net, this, uh, underground hip-hop board,” he admits. “She’s a moderator there.”

  “I thought you hated rap.”

  “Yeah. Well. I still do.”

  “What’s her real name?”

  “Nicole. Snow_bunny was how she introduced herself to me, though. I was trying to change that horrible music in the den. We had a connection.”

  “This house has a den?” Christine asks from the sink. “I always wanted a den.”

  “Who’s…” Michael squints. “Whoa, it’s Christine!” He turns his chin up to me. “You got—”

  “Eccch…” I warn, pinching his shoulder. Hard.

  “Right. Hi Christine!” he nods. “I’d wave but my arms are pinned.”

  “Hi,” she waves, bending her elbow but keeping the rest of her arm rigid. It’s a cute wave. “I want to see the den.”

  “No. We’re staying together.” I kneel down to Michael’s level. “You want a ride home?”

  “Well, yeah. I need to get my car back, remember?”