Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me - Gae Polisner Page 0,37

all stupid and stoned.

“What’s that weird smell? Is that pot?” you had asked one of the first times you slept over.

“Clove cigarettes,” I’d lied, and the next morning I’d told Mom and Dad I’d tell all my teachers if they ever did that again while you or any of my other friends were over.

Now I carefully move the bowl to the floor of my room, grab my laptop and pillow and blanket from my bed, and set up camp in front of it. It’s not even 10:30 p.m. Maybe if I FaceTime you, you’ll stay awake and watch with me.

I call regular first. You answer on the second ring.

“Hey, Aubs,” I say. “It’s me. Are you sleeping? Turn on FaceTime. Can you? I think the Swallowtails are hatching.”

“Really?” You sound confused. Maybe I woke you.

“You were sleeping, weren’t you?”

“No, no. It’s okay.” There’s a shuffle of things: you sitting up, your bed squeaking. “Okay, tell me. Right this minute? Tell me everything.” Your voice is solid now. You sound excited. I switch the camera on and you’re there, smiling. “Is the cocoon thing opening?”

“No, not yet. And it’s not a cocoon, Aubs. That’s what moths make. It’s a chrysalis. And it’s not open, but it’s turned totally clear and it’s shaking.”

“Wow, that’s so cool.” You yawn. “How long will it take?”

“I don’t know,” I say, honestly. “I’m not sure. It could be five minutes. It could be all night.”

“It’s okay. Butterfly babies. We should see that together. I’ll stay on,” you say.

LATE MAY

TENTH GRADE

Max returns with a six-pack, and hands one to me.

“Secret stash,” he says. “He’s too lazy to look for it. It may be warm, but it’s way better stuff.” I turn the label toward me.

“Max…” I don’t really drink much, and he knows it.

“What? Come on. It’s no big deal. Live a little. We’re celebrating.” He tips his bottle to his lips and chugs.

“Celebrating what?” The night with Ethan flashes through my mind, the feeling of free-floating, a moth on a carnival ride. I want to be that moth again, instead of the kid strapped in tight, watching, and waiting. I press the bottle to my lips and drink.

“Us. California. The possibilities,” Max says. “You being here. Whatever you want.”

I swallow sip after sip, my mind spiraling to Ethan. But I force him away. That’s a blip. Ancient history. Nothing.

I’m here with Max. And Max is everything.

“Well, look at you,” he says, and holds his bottle to mine. I clink it and drink. He polishes his first bottle off before I’m a third through mine, returns it to the empty slot in the carton, and pulls out another and uncaps it. “Salut,” he says, downing that one.

A few more sips and I’m feeling warm and fuzzy inside, and I don’t exactly hate it. So I drink some more, enjoying the feel of my cheeks flushing, and the swirling rush that goes to my head.

My eyes scan the room.

“Who’s that?” I point to a poster on the far wall, a black-and-white photo of a black guy with an Afro, a pale purple waft of smoke curling from his mouth. Beneath the poster there’s a guitar on a stand, and I suddenly remember Max told me he plays.

I finish the bottle, and lie back on Max’s bed. From beneath me, the musky, strong smell of Max wafts up like that smoky curl.

“Hendrix, you mean?” He takes my empty away, and hands me another. I sit up and take a few sips before lying down again.

I close my eyes and imagine him crawling on top of me, pinning my hands over my head, his lips moving down my bare skin as I arch against him. Ethan … I snap my eyes open.

“Only the greatest guitarist to ever live,” Max says. “Please tell me you know who Hendrix is.”

“Oh, yeah, him. Hendrix. Right.” My words are distant. I feel loose and giddy. I suddenly can’t stop smiling.

“Hey, Max, play something for me,” I say. “I want to hear you.”

“No can do.”

“Please.” He shakes his head. “I’ll make you a deal,” I say. I sit up, and locate the bottle, waving it toward him. “I’ll finish this, if you play a song for me.”

“And what else after that?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “We’ll see?”

“Fine. Deal. I’ll take those chances,” he says.

He carries the guitar over and sits back on the edge of the chair. He plays a couple of tunes that I don’t know but love, and I close my eyes, letting