Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

Sunday, October 31st

Halloween

“Where are you going?” Mom asks. There’s always an edge of her assuming the worst.

“Some of the creative writing club people are getting together,” I remind her. She doesn’t press me if ‘get-together’ is just another name for party. It is, but for me the word party is a noun, not a verb.

“You’re feeling better?” she asks. I launch into a fake coughing fit. I spent most of yesterday looking for Caitlin. I found more photos, but still no way to find her. I sent out more emails to companies, but no one ever responds. Writing to porn companies in Chatsworth, CA, is like a child writing to Santa at the North Pole—the mail goes out, but it never comes back.

“Just tired,” I say.

“I’m sorry you haven’t found work. Maybe next month,” she says, trying to sound upbeat.

I zip up my gray hoodie then head out to Mom’s Malibu. In the good days, Mom and Dad got a new GM car every year, but the good days are gone. The Malibu stays until it falls apart. It survived many Caitlin-caused accidents. Our family flows so nicely—Carol was an accident, Caitlin caused accidents and I’m accident-prone, although I’ve yet to bend the fender.

Before I pick up Tim to join me at the party, I drive around the neighborhood where lawns fill with ‘For sale’ signs like weeds. I think I should tell my parents about Caitlin, but can’t imagine how. Do I say, Mom, Dad, I’ve got some good news and bad news. The good news is Caitlin’s alive, the bad news is she’s fucking men for both money and show. Good times.

I bury my dark thoughts and pick up Tim at First Wok. He looks glum when he climbs in.

“Sorry. I asked my uncle. He can’t hire you,” Tim says as he sits down. He’s slurping from an oversized cup of Mountain Dew, the drug of choice of straight edge Honor Society types.

“It’s okay,” I grumble. “It’s not like I have anyone to spend money on anyway.”

“I resemble that remark,” Tim cracks, although he’s not laughing.

“You don’t need a girlfriend. You need a secretary,” I say. “You’re too busy.”

“Just because I’m a math and science AP class taking, NHS participating, hard-working and obedient son, doesn’t mean that I’m not interested in getting laid,” Tim says. “But alas…”

“I know a lass who would be perfect for you!”

“Who’s that?”

“Thien Nguyen,” I say. “It would be beauty and brains, but no breasts.” Despite my lust of big-boobed porn blondes, in real life, I favor girls with tiny tits like Thien and Charlotte.

“Dude, I don’t think so,” he says, oblivious to my conflicted enthusiasm.

I want my best friend to get a girlfriend. That’s a guy thing. I want my ex, Thien, to be happy. That’s a guilt thing.

“Well, tonight I’m taking a chance,” I say. “The first drunk girl I see, I’m hitting on.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of party,” Tim says, then opens up the brown paper bag he brought with him. “Alrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrright!”

Tim pulls out and puts on a black eye patch. He dons a pirate hat and tosses the bag into the back seat filled with Mom’s ‘For sale’ yard signs. I’ve never seen a ‘Sold’ one in the car.

I try not to laugh too loud as I ask, “Where’s the rest of the costume?”

“This is enough,” he says, trying to act serious. As serious as an eighteen-year-old overweight Chinese guy wearing an eye patch and oversize Star Wars shirt while drinking an ocean full of Mountain Dew can be. We drive to Charlotte’s party she’s holding at her parents’ lakefront McMansion. Josh junkies and Charlotte’s friends—newspaper nerds, writing clubbers and tennis types—should fill the place. They’ve got many major cliques covered, but entering the house is more like walking into the costume room in the theater department. Everybody’s dressed up but me.

To no surprise, the most dressed up is Josh. Unlike Tim with his stupid eye patch and stupider hat, Josh is a full-blown pirate and his merry mates are gathered around him. Charlotte’s decked out in a similar costume and attached to his right hip like the fake sword is to his left. I scan the crowd for guys I know and girls I want to know, which is every girl in school except Thien and Charlotte. She’s taken and Thien’s not talking to me, for good reason. Tim heads off for food, while I move away from the glorious glow of Josh, the Sun God Pirate.

“Welcome to the no-costume club,” I hear a girl’s voice say. I turn around and there’s Gabrielle Gibson standing behind me. Like me, she’s dressed normally. We both sport gray hoodies, blue jeans, Chucks and white T-shirts, like identical twins, except for gender, skin color and hairstyle. My hair’s styled, hers natural.

“Why bother?” I say with a shrug.

“Just be yourself, right?”

“Even if I dressed up for Halloween, no way I’d impress anyone in this crowd.”

“So, if you can’t win, then you don’t play?” she asks. A bemused expression coupled with a shrug serves as my reply. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

“Wayne Gretzky said that,” I say. “Sorry. I’m loaded with useless sports trivia.”

She takes a step closer, then asks, “Have you worked any more on Autumn’s story?”

“Why do you think I wrote it?” I whisper. I’m trying not to smile, but failing badly.

“Because it was the best story.”

“Except for Josh’s perfect prose.

“I guess.” She shrugs. She seems unimpressed by Josh and his assembly of acolytes, while I’m both appalled and envious. She kicks the floor with her right foot, which seems to set off a mischievous look on her face. “I bet Josh didn’t drive here from school.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“I assume he just walked across the lake,” she says, but unlike me, she doesn’t hide the big smile on her face—a face I’ve never looked at before. Just like she’s a little taller than most girls, Gabrielle’s face… Well, her features seem larger, in particular big brown eyes that squint when a smile breaks out over her less than perfect light brown skin. “Sorry. That was mean.”

“You miss one hundred percent of the insults you don’t deliver.”

She laughs, then that smile follows. She’s too smart, pretty, funny and impressive to be available. She must be a lez.

“I just saw him and Charlotte head off. Everybody is pairing up. Who you here with?”

“Tim Wang. The Chinese Pirate. No beard. Johnny Dweeb. Wrong John Silver.”

She laughs. “I shouldn’t have laughed. That was wrong. Funny, but wrong,” she adds.

“I think you just wrote my epitaph.”

“Epi-what?” she asks.

“That’s the saying they put on your grave,” I tell her.

“Mine’s going to say Gabrielle Gibson, three-sport Olympic Gold Medalist.”

“If you win three gold medals, then everyone will call you The Great Gabby.”

“Maybe you can be my press agent?” she asks.

I fake a cough to kill time. Is she flirting with me? She must be, because the response from deep in my brain and between my legs wants to be I’d love to press against you. I’ve talked with Gabby twice before, but it’s like the horny switch just clicked up to ten.

“Carson, don’t you wanna be my agent?” she asks, breaking the silence. Before I can answer, she looks away from me, staring now at the floor. “Don’t bother. I suck.”

“Don’t say that. You’re great.”

“If I’m so great, then why did our volleyball team lose yesterday? Because I suck.”

“Well, volleyball is a team sport. It’s not your fault. What’s that line coaches always use? There’s no ‘I’ in the word team?” I remind her.

“Yes, but there is an ‘I’ in the word win,” she says. Now, it’s my turn to laugh.

“Who are you here with?” A minute ago I wouldn’t have cared, but now, it matters.

“My friends don’t really go to parties like this.”

“Why not?”

“Well, do you see anybody else here who looks like me?”

“Point, Gabrielle Gibson,” I say, trying to sound like a TV tennis announcer, but she gives me a fake dirty look, complete with hands on hips. “Um, I mean, point goes to The Great Gabby.”

“I should be studying for the SATs.”

“I took the SAT,” I say. “Do you know what the perfect score is on the SAT?”

She shrugs her strong shoulders.

“Twenty-four hundred,” I tell her. “Now, ask me what I got on my SAT?”

“Okay, Carson, what did you score on your SAT?”

“Twenty-four hundred!”

She mouths the word ‘wow’, then I say, “Four hundred the first time, eight hundred the second time and twelve hundred the third time.”

She laughs and that wide, gorgeous smile lights up her face.

“Shouldn’t you be at home studying then, to obtain such greatness?” I ask.

“Shouldn’t you be writing about Autumn?” Gabby counters.

“How did you know that I wrote—not that I’m admitting anything—the Autumn story?”

“When people talked about that story, you were wearing your game face,” she says.

“Man, you’re good,” I say. “You can spike, shoot and serve. What can’t you do?”

“Party,” she says as she holds up a can of Diet Coke. “I bet you don’t either, do you?”

I nod, but I should have been shaking my amazed head. How does this girl know me so well?

“Because of Autumn, right? In the story you wrote how she partied, so you avoid it.”

“Autumn’s just somebody in a story,” I lie. “She’s not real.”

“She’s real to me.” Gabrielle takes a sip of Coke, but I feel a gulp in my throat.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” I mumble. I can dream about girls, but I so can’t talk to them.

“Remember, the story needs a happy ending.” Her smile vanishes. There’s a darkness at the edges of her eyes. She curls her big left hand into a fist. “We all need happy endings.”

“I promise,” I say as she moves closer. “What’s wrong, Gabrielle?”

“Don’t you mean The Great Gabby?” she whispers. “I just hate feeling like a loser.”

Before I can say anything else, she walks away. Since Josh has made me feel like a loser, I know how that feeling destroys a person and distorts your judgment. She throws the pop can in the trash and heads outside. I follow her outside and down into the big back yard. A cool fall wind blows out here. Inside Josh’s light warms everyone. Something’s got to change. Now.

“Gabby, you’re not a loser.” I put my hands gently on those strong shoulders. I take a deep breath, then serve the ball across the net. “What can I do to make you believe that?”

She uncurls her fist, opens her hand and puts it on the back of my neck, pulling my face next to hers as she returns the volley. “You could kiss me.”

As our lips come together, I swear I hear a click, because the kiss is not too soft, not too hard. It’s just right.