Call Me Jane (The Oshkosh Trilogy) by Anthea Carson

Author:Anthea Carson [Carson, Anthea]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2012-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

Because Gay had basketball practice that night, she wasn’t there. I didn’t know where we were going. Krishna said, “Turn left here,” and “Go right now, right!”

I screeched my tires till I pulled up at Walter Owens’s house. You could hear the music from outside. We went downstairs to Walter’s basement. Everyone was there.

Those who weren’t sitting on the couch were on the floor, gathered around a small black-and-white TV.

The movie hadn’t started yet. But in those days, if a movie came on TV that you wanted to see, you’d better jump on it. You weren’t going to have another chance.

Ziggy was the most excited, but everyone was somewhat.

“Ow!” I screamed at Dave, who sat to my right. He was the drummer. He always wore that black-leather jacket with chains. His hair was spiked. He had very black hair, and you couldn’t tell he had put gel in it. Dave was short, with high cheekbones like an Indian.

“What’s wrong?” he screamed back.

“My ears hurt!”

“Yeah, I have to get mine waxed every month!”

“What?”

“I have to get mine waxed once a month!”

“What does that mean?”

“I have to have the wax removed! By a doctor!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. Right then there was a break between songs. So everyone looked over at him.

“How do you get your hair to stand up like that?” I asked.

“What?”

“Your hair? How do you get it to do that?”

“Egg whites!”

Yep, he was punk. Anyone who would put egg whites in his hair was punk.

“Doesn’t it seem like we just passed this?” Dave was to my right. He handed me a beer and a joint.

I passed the joint to my left. Ziggy was sitting there in his green parachute suit. Where was Paul? Wait a minute. No Lucy, no Paul! That’s who else was missing.

“It’s ten, turn that stereo off!” Ziggy turned on Walter’s TV.

Someone else tried to sit next to me and Ziggy butted them out of the way. He practically sat on them.

“Where’s Lucy?” I asked.

“Lucy?” someone answered. “I don’t know. She’s probably with Paul.”

“No,” someone said, “Paul’s not with her tonight, I don’t think.”

“Where is Paul?” It was Walt who asked this. Thank God someone asked. I froze, straining to hear the answer.

“Paul?” Dave shrugged, passing me the joint again, tapping my knee so I’d snap out of my stupor and grab it. “Isn’t he coming?”

“No,” Tom Hughes said. He was the band’s bass player. When pressed as to where Paul was, Tom avoided the question with long cigarette drags, confusion about where his beer was, and an announcement to the crowd that the movie was starting. Even more lights were turned off, which I hadn’t thought possible. Ziggy scooted over to me, which caused Dave to look at me with a sort of half grin, half question on his face.

“Do you need more room?” Dave asked.

“No, no,” I said, “I’m fine.” But my beer had spilled on both him and me, and I was trying to smoke a cigarette with the other hand and not burn Ziggy, who seemed insistent on scooting closer and closer and closer.

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