Betwixt Page 3

  NIX TOOK A RIGHT PAST WHAT HE’D HEARD was the biggest Doug fir in PDX and down the trail marked with cross-country ski signs. At the split hemlock he veered right, careful to arrange the branches so as not to show the trail. Even a few pass-throughs would reveal where the squat was, and this one was so well hidden they’d already been there three weeks. Portland’s cops weren’t pigs — they fought crime on mountain bikes — but every so often they did their sweeps so that the Nike/Adidas/Intel nation up in Southwest could have something to talk about over their lattes.

  “Yo, Nix! Help me with this radio, son.”

  Nix looked across the small clearing at the center of the tangle of bush a dozen or so people called home. A blond, skinny boy, about sixteen, with shoulder-length sun-bleached dreadlocks and trimmed Lincoln sideburns sat there in the dimming emerald afternoon. He balanced an old transistor radio on his lap. Finn Terwilliger was the squat’s resident mad scientist. Usually he spent his time at the public library downtown, but during the day, when most of the kids were at jobs or hanging out downtown, Finn sometimes volunteered to stay behind at camp — watch the stuff while he worked on his inventions.

  Nix had heard Finn’s family were some kind of millionaires from down South but he’d never talked to him about it. All he knew was that the kid was cool—and smart. Lately Finn had been working on something he called a crystal radio, which he claimed would pull electricity out of the air. He said the area around Portland was a good place for it — lots of static on account of the mountains.

  Nix stood over the boy, who hadn’t yet looked up.

  “Hey, bro.” He clapped him on the back. “Bleek been by?”

  Nix was talking about Tim Bleeker, one of Portland’s busiest drug dealers. He kept his tone light, though he knew Finn hated the guy, since Bleek used to deal heroin to Finn’s girlfriend, Evelyn. Nix also knew that Finn knew about his — habit. The thing for which he didn’t have a better name.

  Finn shook his head and hunched his shoulders. “Naw, man.” He looked up. “Dust?” he asked, and then, almost inaudibly: “Already?”

  Nix looked at his shoes. Nut-brown leather boots, twice patched. He’d worn them since Alaska.

  “Nix, man, why are you messing with that shit?”

  Shrugging, he looked off into the tangle of blackberry and nettle at the edge of his vision. Finn was straight, and even though dust was no stronger than Prozac, Nix knew the boy didn’t agree with it — didn’t agree with Prozac either, for that matter. Still, it helped Nix sleep and he liked the dreams it gave him. More like waking sleep: Bettina working in her garden; Daddy Saint-Michael and him on a boat, fishing. They were memories, he knew, but good ones, refined and scrubbed of everything that made real life so sad.

  Jacob didn’t wear the light in the dreams. His daughter, Neve, was grown up and Jacob was watching her get married. In the dream she looked like the girl from the squat who got murdered. She wore a white ribbon around her neck and carried a bouquet of pale blue sweetpeas.

  “It helps me sleep, man. You know how hard it is for me to sleep.”

  Finn took a handkerchief out of his flannel pocket and blew his nose.

  “You should try drinking chamomile tea.”

  Nix laughed.

  “Naw, man, I’m serious. Dust is bad news, man. That shit’s not strong, but now you got Bleek coming around here and Evelyn’s starting to jones and this is a clean squat. We agreed at the beginning.”

  Nix shook his head. “Dude, dust is no stronger than Excedrin PM.”

  Though he wouldn’t know. Dust didn’t work on Nix the way people described it. No. It was much, much stronger. But he never let anyone know that. The closest he could come to describing it was that it was like everything slowed down but sped up at the same time. As if the world were bent. He didn’t know how else to put it.

  Still, it was a question. Why was he messing with that shit? Hardly known, definitely controlled. Something kids on the West Coast had been passing around at parties for the last couple years, but not even big yet back East. The hype was predictable: No, no, not angel dust, man. Totally different. Not addictive. Just mellows you out. Helps you study better. Awesome for fooling around. Girls love it. Like Ambien, but it doesn’t make you go to sleep. All the same stuff Nix had heard about everything else.

  It did do one thing, though. It made the lights he saw seem natural. There, but not as harsh. Controllable somehow, though he wasn’t doing anything to change them. He’d needed that, because his “gift” was coming back with a vengeance — as if to punish him for starting to relax.

  Hardly a way to explain all of this to Finn.

  The dreadlocked boy passed Nix two glass tubes, coughing. “Hold these.” It had been a wet spring and most of the kids at the squat were sick, except Nix, who had never been sick in his life — or as long as he could remember. Sometimes he wondered if, when his time came, he’d be able to see the light around himself; or if his own death, at least, would be a mystery.

  “All I’m saying is that you’re bringing Bleek up here and soon the cops are going to get wise and we’re going to have to find another squat. We’ve been here almost a month, man. We move now and we’re gonna be moving all summer.”

  Nix rolled the tubes between his fingers and nodded.

  “And berry season is coming, dude. You know how much I’ve been looking forward to berry season.”

  Nix laughed. “I hear you, man.”

  “I thought you would.”

  Just then the bushes moved behind them and a sandy-blond head appeared amidst the greenery.

  “My brothers!”

  Nix shrugged at Finn, who shook his head.

  “Bleek,” Nix said and offered a hand. Finn sat on the stump, staring at the muscular, clean-shaven kid who was now standing in khakis and a bright red fleece, his arms outstretched above him at the center of the clearing. Bleek’s straight blond hair, already receding, was short and his beard was shaven. He sported tiny silver hoops in both ears.

  “Ah, the great outdoors!”

  “Keep it down, man.” Finn hushed him from the stump. “This isn’t Yosemite.”

  “Finn Terwilliger.” Bleek arched a brow and showed a tight smile. “Always the sunny disposition. And how are you progressing with Evelyn? Off the tit yet?”

  Finn narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

  “I saw her at Krakatoa yesterday, and she seemed …” Bleek paused, looking up into the feathery branches. “Well, how shall I put it? She seemed very moved by seeing me. I think she’s starting to like me. Not for what I offer her, like she used to, but for who I am.” He smiled again and tilted his head, picking a few pine needles from the front of his fleece.

  “She is lovely, that Evelyn.” Bleek stopped. “Even with the track marks.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Nix growled.

  “Of course.” He laughed. “That was rude. It’s just that Finn has a problem with me for some reason, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.”

  Bleek took a step toward Finn, who kept his eyes on his radio.

  “Finn, I am a lowly drug dealer. Some of us have to make a living so that we can pay our way through college. Some of us did not grow up with two last names followed by a number, Phineas Terwilliger the — what is it? Fourth? Fifth? Some of us weren’t lucky enough to get kicked out of prep school after dropping sixty gees on our edumacations.”

  Finn looked at Nix and shook his head.

  “See what I mean? This is what you’ve brought to this place now, and it’s not going away.”

  “Calm down, brother. I’m leaving.” Bleek took a rolled Ziploc from his fleece pocket and tossed it to Nix. “Here’s your medicine, my friend. Doctor’s fee will be thirty.”

  Nix eyed him. “Last week it was twenty.”

  “Supply has been down lately, bud.”

  He took a twenty out of his wallet and passed it to the dealer.

  “I owe you ten. Next time I’ll meet you downtown. You g
ot to chill on Finn, man. He’s not doing anything to you.”

  Bleek waved his hand. “Self-righteous hypocrites like Master Terwilliger bug me, Nix. It’s really not your problem.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I don’t do IOUs.” Bleek looked up and sighed. “But I’ll tell you what you can do. You hear about the party that’s happening in a few weeks? Around the solstice?”

  Nix shrugged. He had heard there was something big happening around the 21st of June. A party somewhere around Portland where the Flame was supposed to play. He had heard the band only on other people’s iPods. They didn’t make albums — just bootlegs here and there — and there were only a few photos of them floating around on the Internet. Yet every kid in Portland knew every word to every song — which hadn’t happened in the northwest since Nirvana, when Nix was still in utero. It would likely be the biggest gathering of freaks in the region all summer, but no one seemed to know where it would take place.

  “Yeah, I heard something.”

  “When you get the four-one-one, you let me know and I’ll call this transaction even, and throw in the next two rolls.”

  “Whatever, man. Four-one-one. I’m not going to help you deal to thirteen-year-olds in their daddies’ BMWs.”

  Bleek smiled and sighed as if the idea pleased him. He nodded to Finn. “Ah, Evelyn. I remember her when she was just a wee thing.”

  Finn started. “Was it life that turned you into such a complete asshole, or were you born this way?”

  “Born this way.” Bleek smirked. “Just like you. Except with balls.”

  “Get the fuck out of here before I kick your ass.”

  “What are you going to do? Strangle me with your hairdo? You’re pathetic, Terwilliger.” He sniggered then turned to Nix. “Nothing like two fucked-up teenagers with nothing better to do with their time than harass hardworking men like myself! Fine. Deal’s off.”

  “It’s yours.” Nix passed the roll back to the dealer.

  Bleek parted the brush. “Nice talking to you, gentlemen.”

  “Uh, Bleek?”

  When he turned and saw Nix’s outstretched hand he smirked, then reached in his pocket for the twenty. He wadded it up and threw it at Nix, who caught it left-handed, never taking his eyes from Bleek’s. The older boy’s gaze fell first.

  “Nix, buddy, you got to start hanging with some more motivated people.”

  Bleek let go of a branch and disappeared into the gathering darkness.

  CHAPTER 3

  IT HADN’T BEEN A PLAN EXACTLY. More like triage. Something to make Ondine feel better after her parents rolled out of the driveway; something to get her out from under her cornflower-and-cream-striped duvet before she convinced herself she’d made a huge mistake and called up Trish and Ralph and begged for a ticket to Glen-ho, Evanston, whatever. It was strange: just at the moment her “mirages” intensified — she didn’t know what else to call the visions she’d had since she was little — she’d chosen to distance herself. Desperate to believe she’d made the right decision by staying, she’d come up with a distraction. Ergo (with impeccable teenaged logic), party. She’d been thinking of it for a while, a real grown-up affair with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Trish had left phyllo dough in the freezer and a few bottles of booze in the liquor cabinet. The Masons trusted their daughter, and why shouldn’t they? Ondine was always trustworthy.

  She supposed she should celebrate her newfound independence — isn’t that what unsupervised kids her age did? — even if she didn’t feel much like celebrating. Truth was, it was four in the afternoon and already she missed her family. She’d even made another cup of Starbucks just so that things wouldn’t feel so empty. She’d taken a nap in Ralph and Trish’s bed, pressing her head to where her mother slept. The pillow smelled like Trish’s sandalwood-scented hair.

  In her dreams, butterflies with women’s heads flitted through red maple leaves. Max had turned into a huge white worm and was trying to climb onto a branch where Ondine and her father sat. Trish called to them from the house. Her voice sounded like bells ringing —

  Ondine stumbled to her bedroom to pick up her cell.

  “Hey,” she mumbled. It had been drizzling most of the afternoon, but now the sun had broken through the clouds and was shining outside her window in greenish yellow beams. She rubbed her eyes then glanced at the clock. “Right on time.”

  At the other end of the line, Morgan D’Amici laughed.

  “Yeah. I learned it in ’Nam. Jesus, Ondine, relax! It’s a party we’re throwing, not a tea for Laura Bush.”

  “Oh, right. You’re right.” Ondine giggled awkwardly. She didn’t know her fellow senior very well, but one thing she did know was that Morgan D’Amici was funny, if a little pushy. Flirtatious, Ondine was used to. Girls half hit on her all the time. But Morgan: the chick was beautiful all right, but wow. Intense.

  The two girls had just started to be friends when they found out they’d both be taking Raphael Inman’s painting class that summer at Reed. Ondine had always admired the girl from afar — student council; all APs; casually, indestructibly pretty — and had known her younger brother, K.A., since they were kids and played AYSO together. But she hadn’t known Morgan as well. They’d hung in different crowds, Ondine gravitating toward the artsy kids and Morgan sticking with one or two quiet, admiring girls who’d rotate out every few months. She’d always been aware of the dark-haired girl, though, as someone would be aware of one’s shadow.

  Once they got to know each other, it turned out Trish Mason knew Morgan’s mother, Yvonne D’Amici, from the hair salon Yvonne worked at, and Trish frequented. Trish invited the D’Amicis — without the father, whom Yvonne had divorced a few years before — to their last Christmas party. Over virgin eggnogs and complaints about little brothers, Morgan and Ondine got to know each other.

  “So what time are we on for?” Morgan paused and her light, scratchy voice became serious. “And how are we going to get the booze?”

  Ondine was again impressed by the other girl’s initiative and laughed.

  “Damn, Morgan. You’re not joking about being ready for a party.”

  Morgan moaned. “I’m sorry — it’s just the end of school was a few weeks ago and all the graduation parties sucked ass and I’ve been so bored lately. I want to make sure our class gets senior year started right.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “And I guess I’m just excited. You know — end of the year, Raphael’s class.” Her voice sweetened. “Our becoming friends …” Ondine smiled into the phone. She liked the girl’s straight-forwardness, even if it was a little much. Half pushy, half pleading. “Right?” Morgan said now. We’re friends, right?

  “Totally.”

  A picture of Morgan flashed in Ondine’s mind — except that it wasn’t her, quite. It was Morgan’s head — black-haired, doll-like — on a moth’s body. Dark wings; dark breast; clinging to white satin, spattered with red. It was a tiny, odd vision, but it made Ondine’s heart skip a beat. She took out a pen and a piece of paper from her bureau and shook her head. “All right. Party,” she said, writing it down then crossing it out. “No. Best — Party — of — the — Year.” On the other end of the line, Morgan mm-hmmed. Ondine added Ondine & Morgan presenting.

  “So what do we need?”

  “Well …” Morgan contemplated. “Those little spinach squares my mom put in her purse during your last party. And frankfurters. We definitely need frankfurters. Cheez Whiz, three-layer bean dip. You know, all the really classy stuff.” The girl’s voice lowered to a sultry pitch. “Baby, all we need is al-kee-hol.”

  Ondine groaned. At five three and small boned — despite the fact that she was grown-up enough for her parents to trust her to live alone for a year — she looked very young. She always hated it — even the perks, like getting into movies on the cheap. Morgan, too, was small, five four and petite as a ballerina, although something about her demeanor seemed older. Not old enough to buy liquor without ID, ho
wever.

  “You don’t have a fake, do you?” Ondine asked.

  “No.” There was a pause. “But you know, I’ve bought before, at O’Brian’s, out on Southeast Seventy-seventh. Even Tania Rabani bought there last week, and she looks about twelve. Except, of course, for those —”

  Ondine dragged her pen across the page before her. An image flashed of Tania Rabani’s twinkly-eyed baby face, perched above dauntingly ample cleavage.

  “Ah, I’m beginning to understand.”

  Morgan laughed in a way that didn’t sound quite happy.

  “We just have to make sure it’s a guy in the cashier’s cage when we go.”

  “Preferably around fifty,” Ondine added. “Trucker’s hat, plumber’s butt.”

  “Who just can’t say no to a sweet li’l thing.”

  “You’re bad.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Morgan’s voice was low. “Some potential girl-on-girl action for him to chew on all night? It’ll be cake, baby. Ho Hos.”

  Ondine wondered what it was that drew her to Morgan. She was so intense, her vision so focused. What was going on inside the chick’s head?

  “All right then. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Seven it is,” Morgan replied.

  Tossing her phone on her bed, Ondine smoothed her braids, and noticed her heart was beating — fast. She also noticed she’d drawn yet another butterfly below the list that so far had nothing but her made-up party name written on it. Nothing out of the ordinary, the doodling, but something about the last image haunted her. It was urgent, even deranged: insistent, thick lines and a wicked face peeping out of an insect’s body. She tore off the first page and started again, continuing to work until the sun went down. She drew bodies with wings, trees, worms — all the things she remembered from her dreams. It was the way she felt normal, when she drew. Emptying out the well of her obsession, it allowed her to release her mind from its track. When she awoke, a world would have been created on the page. Not real, but something like it.