Prep Page 4

  We started walking toward Lexington and I checked my watch. 5:15 A.M. The streetlights would be on for another forty-five minutes. Then the garbage men would sail down the avenue. After them, you’d see stockbrokers and busboys.

  “So what’s on the list?” I said, sipping my orange juice.

  “It’s tentative,” Kodak began. “But I was thinking about starting with cats.”

  “Cats?”

  “Like the animal.”

  “You don’t have any pets,” I said.

  “But I like them a lot,” Kodak said, shrugging. “Besides, girls are supposed to love that sort of stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, I mean, I really do like cats, Thet.”

  “Why don’t you ask Dr. Rudas what to say?”

  Kodak and I had mandatory weekly visits with the school shrink, Dr. Michael A. Rudas, and we both had to deal with the same bullshit metaphors and role plays. The only thing I learned from that doctor was that I wasn’t a “car with a flat tire,” or “a painter without brushes,” or “a length of twisted rope.”

  “I did already,” Kodak said, ignoring my sarcasm. “I think I ran out of things to lie about.”

  “So what’d he say?” I laughed.

  “Not much. He kept asking me why Patty made me so nervous. Then that started to make me nervous.”

  “That’s why I’m sticking with the program.”

  Kodak and I had a bunch of different strategies to protect ourselves against the shrink. Dr. Rudas had a habit of scribbling away on his notepad during our sessions, so Kodak and I started rehearsing our comments and responses. We knew the less he had to work with, the safer we were, but we didn’t hide shit from each other. I was the only person who knew that Kodak was also supposed to be in that car, that he would’ve sat shotgun, that he would’ve died instead, and Kodak was the only one I told about my conversations with my dad.

  If Kodak and I ran out of prepared material, we’d start bullshit-ting about the Yankees or homework assignments. I could always fall back on old movies or random directors, and Kodak mastered the art of just sitting there and acting pale. Dr. Rudas would’ve given his pinky finger to know half the shit Kodak and I talked about, but we were unbreakable.

  I saw Kris as soon as I hit the lawn near the Alice in Wonderland statue. The park was littered with joggers and drifting toddlers, but Kris sat completely still at the base of our giant evergreen, like she was pulling everybody else’s strings. Halfway across the lawn, Kris spotted me and waved. I felt Kris’s eyes taking my stride in and I started to watch myself from her point of view. My footsteps: soft heel then toe. My hands: stuffed in my pockets, thumbs dangling just outside. My shoulders: tense. Sometimes I felt like her eyes were the only lenses that mattered.

  “Anybody else wake you up last night?” I said, looking for a smile.

  “Yeah.” Kris laughed and lay down like she was sunbathing in the shade. “Con Ed at, like, six in the morning.” She skipped a stone across the lawn.

  I leaned up against the gnarled trunk of the evergreen. The base of the tree was scattered with our squashed cigarette butts and an occasional bottle cap. It’s important to have your own spot.

  I’d eventually told Kris about Victoria and the kiss, but she still had no idea what was really going on inside me. “That’s never happened to me before,” I said, scratching at the bark. “You think I’m going crazy?”

  Kris grinned. “I think you’re waking up, Cowboy. You shouldn’t have gone back to her apartment in the first place.”

  I kept my gaze firmly planted on the ground. “Girls are just much cooler in my head,” I said, annoyed. “Before we go out.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” I sat down and tugged at a clump of grass. “Like if I don’t know what type of music she’s into, I imagine she likes my favorite Coltrane album. No, even better, that’s all she listens to. And then before I know it, I’ve built her up into Grace Kelly.”

  “Instead of a senior who decapitates hamsters.”

  “You get the point.”

  “Nick, I think you watch too many movies.”

  “That’s funny.” I sighed and dropped the blades of grass into the breeze. “I don’t think I watch enough.”

  Kris smiled and wrapped the stem of a leaf around her finger. “It’s not reality, Cowboy.”

  “Yes, it is,” I declared. “It’s just a nicer reality.”

  I scanned the lawn, searching the tree line for Greg’s tailored step. I could still feel that anxious buzz in my palms and fingertips. Why the fuck couldn’t I shut Greg out? I stretched my arms in the air and filled my lungs.

  Kris leaned toward me. “Are you okay, Nick?”

  “Yeah,” I said, surprised. “Why?”

  “You just seem kind of on edge or something.”

  “I’m cool,” I said, trying to push Greg and Kodak out of my mind. Kris knew some of the history but I couldn’t handle rehashing all that baggage. Besides, hanging out with Kris was the best antidote I had. “Maybe a little hungover.”

  Kris looked right through me. “Where do you go when you look like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know what I mean. You get this really serious look on your face . . . I guess you’ve always had it. Let’s call it Nickville,” Kris said, grinning.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re stuck in your head, Cowboy.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “What are you thinking about? I mean, what’s going on in Nickville?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I just have no idea how I’m going to make sense of everything. It’s like I start thinking and I feel totally overwhelmed and . . . it’s completely . . . I don’t know,” I said, trying to decide if she bought my explanation.

  “Nickville sucks.”

  “Sometimes. It rains a lot there.” I surveyed the park again.

  A terrier prowling around a small patch of grass took off in a flat sprint after a squirrel, around two oaks and under a bench. Finally, the squirrel made a sharp turn that the terrier couldn’t.

  I wanted the afternoon to be about Kris and me, but I couldn’t stop wondering why Kodak hadn’t called me last weekend. “I ran into Greg,” I said, looking over at Kris. “Right before we met.”

  She nodded understandingly. “What’d he say?”

  “Just the usual bullshit,” I lied.

  Greg and I slapped hands.

  “Morning, boyz,” Greg said, grabbing Kodak’s hoodie and rubbing a nuggie into his scalp. Kodak elbowed him and Greg let him shake the hold.

  I pulled my black book out of my backpack and flipped through the pages. I’d spent three hours last night sketching out my next piece, and I was dying to show Greg. The lettering was getting more jagged, more jigsawed, but I could never predict the color blends. I wanted the blues and reds to stream together, throughout the characters, but I wasn’t going to force it. Besides, piecing was all about that spontaneous instant, when I saw something new and didn’t hesitate.

  I handed Greg the sketch and walked up to the white wall. Quik Park had leveled an old tenement in the middle of 95th Street and paved a concrete quadrangle. A pair of Chinese restaurants hugged the lot. Near the sidewalk, a convention of pigeons was working their way through last night’s garbage. They were willing to share Third Avenue with us.

  “This is dope,” I whispered. The spot was perfect. From the street, everyone would see my wildstyles, but the angle of the buildings would keep us in the shadows for at least another hour. I needed four cans, five at the most. And suddenly it didn’t matter anymore that it was five-thirty in the morning, that I had a Trig quiz first period—the piece was the only thing.

  “Your shit’s crazy angular,” Greg said, handing me back the black book. “But it’s mad chill.”

  “Thanks.” I picked up my backpack and searched for my favorite fat cap nozzle. I’d stolen it off a bottle of WD-40 or Lysol, and doc
tored it with a razor until I got the right effects. It was perfect for outlines.

  Flipping a can of Krylon Black into my right hand, I tossed it, end-over-end, like a martini shaker. I popped the top with my thumb and then swung my arm through the shadow of the first letter.

  “Rolling,” I said, turning back to Kodak and Greg. I felt like such a hero.

  The paint hissed out of the can and smacked the wall. Every writer learns to love the sound of a full can. Some nights, after a movie has finished and the credits have rolled, the static on the television will nudge me awake, and I’ll think for a second that I just cracked open a new canister.

  Greg moved into the spot on my left. Dropping his backpack at the foot of the wall, he ran his palm across the damp brick.

  Kris and I walked into the Slate just as dollar-drafts Happy Hour was ending. After the park, we’d killed a few hours in the Barnes & Noble on Broadway, just reading magazines and flipping through books. I’d found out about a ten o’clock revival showing of The Sheltering Sky at the Forum, and we figured we’d have a couple of well drinks at our favorite pub and then walk over.

  The Slate was an NYU bar on 13th. It had a small stage in the back and a dozen wooden tables spread out across the floor. Most of the clientele were either underage or collecting Social Security. Even though the band was getting worse, the bar was filling up quickly. The singer had been trying to scat for the last few minutes, but she never really found her groove and ended up sounding more like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

  We found a small table in the back and flagged a waitress. I could tell that the two guys in front of us were talking about Kris. The first guy gave a quick nod to tip off his friend and the second guy turned nonchalantly around on his chair, like he was checking the clock on the wall. When the first guy shifted his glance over to me for a second, I smiled right back at him.

  “I got a letter from Luke,” Kris said. “He says hi.”

  Luke could kiss my ass. Why did he have to keep writing her? “Tell him I say hey.”

  “He was passing through Vermont. He had two gigs in Burlington,” Kris said, sipping her beer. “He was talking about getting back on the water over the summer. I think he found a pretty nice boat to work on. They’re going to Santa Cruz.”

  “Great.” I just wanted him to get the hell out of my way.

  Kris sat up and slid a crumpled letter from the back pocket of her jeans. As soon as I saw it, I felt like grabbing my pack of matches and torching it. She flipped through a couple of pages and then offered me the final sheet. I leaned forward slowly and lifted the flimsy paper from her palm.

  “Tell me what you think he means,” Kris said. “He can be so cryptic.”

  The page had a dozen creases across its body, like she’d been carrying it around with her since she opened it. At that moment, I would’ve paid somebody twenty bucks to trip the Slate’s fire alarm.

  I miss your shade, K. This country will wear you down if you don’t watch out. New Orleans, Memphis, St. Louis. I keep trying to let my guard down (like you always tell me to), but I’m not strong enough to handle the emptiness. The highways are starting to play tricks on me, telling me they’re stronger than my music. But what’s one more burden on these shoulders? I’m doing the best I can, I promise. . . . I can only sleep knowing that you believe me.

  Love, Luke

  “What’s it mean, Cowboy?”

  “Say no to drugs,” I said, smiling.

  “Very funny.” Kris yanked the sheet out of my hand and tucked it back into her pocket. “He sounds really depressed.”

  I nodded. “Maybe he’ll sort it out in his next letter,” I said, trying not to sound bitter.

  “Actually, he’s supposed to be driving into the city tonight.”

  Fuck me. “Really. Why?”

  “He wants to record some of his new songs. I think he’s got some people pretty interested,” Kris continued. “He sent me a couple pages of lyrics and there’s a lot of great stuff about being on the road.”

  I sipped my Jameson and surveyed the crowd at the bar. “Good for him.”

  For the first eleven years of my life, I’d only seen my dad drink two types of booze, champagne and Jameson. Champagne was all he would touch on New Year’s Eve, and Jameson owned the other three hundred and sixty-four days. My mother would usually cut him off after three drinks, but he’d sneak a few once she went to sleep. If I caught my dad by the liquor cabinet, he’d always fix me a splash. Jameson used to burn my throat and sinuses, but I loved sitting there next to him on the couch, clutching our little secret.

  Kris waved her empty Amstel in the air until our waitress saw. “Do you want another whiskey?”

  “I’m fine.” I didn’t want to drink too much early, or I’d end up praying to a porcelain god for a quick death.

  “Kris,” I began, just wanting to change the subject, “where do you see yourself in ten years?”

  “I don’t know. Can I have more than one choice or does that ruin it?”

  “Two’s the limit.”

  “Okay, I guess my first fantasy is to be a writer,” Kris said. “But I could also see myself as a journalist who writes fiction on the side. You know, just so I have some money coming in if things didn’t work out with my novels. But sometimes I worry that being a writer is too antisocial. I have this image of myself sitting in front of some old typewriter getting crazier and crazier. So even if I wrote a really good novel, I’d be so wacko that I wouldn’t even be able to step outside my house. You know, like Salinger.”

  “And life number two?” I asked.

  “I think I’d like to be a sailor, like in the America’s Cup or the Whitbread.”

  “Do they let women?”

  “Yes, buddy,” Kris said, glaring at me. “Hell, I’d be just as happy racing Lasers or Hobies.”

  Kris’s father had taught her how to sail as soon as she learned to swim. Their family used to own a house near Mystic, Connecticut, and they spent their summers there until her parents split up. Her father would take her out on all these different sail-boats, and she kept logs and records of their trips. Kris says it’s how she started writing in journals.

  “So are you married during this writing or sailing career?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kris said.

  “Oh, come on,” I said, biting down on an ice cube. “Don’t you want some happily-ever-after guy?”

  “I don’t think I want to get married until I’m much older. I might live with some guy, but marriage . . . no, that’s a ways off.”

  “Could you see yourself ending up with a guy like Luke?”

  “I don’t know. Definitely not Luke the way he is now.” Kris sighed. “But who really knows anyway, right?”

  “Right,” I said, squeezing my glass.

  “What about you, Cowboy? Where do you want to end up?”

  I’d been thinking about it all day, and I’d decided that there would be approximately two seconds between when I told Kris that I was in love with her and she responded. It’s amazing how I can let millions of seconds fade away but two seconds can be everything, two seconds can decide everything.

  Sitting on the next stool, I placed Kris’s lighter on her napkin. “Hi, I’m Nick.”

  “Kris,” she said so softly that her name trickled into my ears. She slipped the lighter into her jacket.

  “What are you writing?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t really matter.”

  “Are you writing a story or is it like a diary?”

  “It’s both.” She gave me a look that said “Why are you still here?” but I didn’t falter.

  “Truth is stranger than fiction, you know,” I said, trying hopelessly to liven up our conversation. If this didn’t work, I was out of there. “It has to be. Fiction must be plausible.”

  Kris’s head was bent over her book, and her hair was hiding most of her face, but I’ll bet a lap around Central Park in the middle of the night that she smiled.

  “
You make that up yourself?”

  “No, it’s Mark Twain,” I said, remembering when my dad first used that line on me.

  “It’s pretty funny.” She hit the bottom of her soft pack and the tip of a cigarette popped out.

  I reached quickly for the matches I had in my pocket and lit one using only my left hand. It was a trick I’d learned from Kodak, and I was so proud to show it to her.

  “I thought you didn’t have a light.” Kris closed her diary, and my ego popped like a circus balloon. I wanted to say something cool to try and make up for it, but I couldn’t think clearly. I felt like that poor kid who runs into the wrong end-zone with the football and celebrates.

  “What did you say your name was?” Kris asked.

  “Nick.” I lowered my head. I don’t know why, but her blue eyes scared the hell out of me. I was sure that if I looked into them, I wouldn’t be able to find my way home.

  “Remember yesterday when you sat in the corner booth?” I nodded and felt my cheeks heat up. “You sat there for nearly an hour. It was so ridiculous, it was kind of nice. And then when you came back tonight . . . I don’t know.”

  “You saw me watching you?”

  “There are mirrors all over this diner,” she said, grinning.

  “What should I have said?”

  “I don’t know. What kinds of lines do guys say these days?”

  “I wish I knew,” I muttered.

  “How about ‘Hi, my name’s Nick. I was hoping to buy you a cup of coffee, and I have my own matches.’ ”

  “Kris,” I began, and I suddenly realized how nice it was to simply say her name.

  “Nick?”

  “I don’t know,” I finally said to Kris and myself. “I can’t even figure out what I want to do tomorrow.”

  “What about tonight?” Kris laughed.

  “Seventy-millimeter screening of Storaro’s best film.” I couldn’t handle listening to her talk about Luke. What was it going to take for me to stop being such a pussy? “You’re going to love the print.”