Free Californium by R. Dean Johnson Page B

closer to the backyard sends an achy tickle up my legs.
    I come around the side of the house right next to the patio, right next to the band, and everyone’s packed tight in the yard. It’s between songs, so the hurricane isn’t swirling. There are so many people around the patio whose faces I’ve seen, even if I don’t know their names. Then I can’t believe it, but I see other freshmen—a couple people from student government and some football players who are hanging out near Petrakis. It’s only about five people from the entire freshman class, but it makes me feel stupid. They got invited to a party that I didn’t even know about, that I still wouldn’t know about if I wasn’t playing on my back wall like a ten-year-old.And here are these guys already bonding with the right people, already exactly where Keith says we need to be. But I’m never going to be varsity this or vice president that. So do I have to pull a van Dorken, flip people off and shove them around so they can smile and give each other high fives for getting abused? Who wants to be the emperor of idiots?
    Van Doren leans into the mic, says, “Let’s do this motherfucker,” and the guitars, drums, and hurricane all start at the same time. People like Astrid, who just want to stand, are on the other side of the patio, and it takes me the whole song to squeeze over there. The next song starts right away, and van Doren sings, “The fucking queen and / the fucking king / fuck all the fuckers / fuck ’em clean.”
    Astrid’s hair swings back and forth with a rhythm you wouldn’t think a song like that could have. She’s wearing a sleeveless sweater and pink pants that are so tight all the way down to her ankles they must have grown on her. She’s worn the pants to school before, but now, this close, I can see the stitches running down to little zippers at the bottom of each leg. Her arms are skinny but with just enough muscle that they’re not scrawny, still summer brown with tiny blond hairs shining from the patio light. I tap her shoulder with my whole hand and it’s hard and tight and soft and hot. Everything at once.
    She looks over her shoulder to the crowd at first; then she sees me.
    â€œHey!” I shout.
    Her whole body turns to me. “Hey, neighbor. I’m glad you came.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah,” she says. She grips my arm kind of serious and leansin close, her breath warming the whole side of my cheek. “Have you had any beer?”
    The only beer I’ve ever had in my life are the sips Uncle Ryan gave me once on Thanksgiving and once at the shore on Labor Day. I shake my head and she says, “Good. Promise me you won’t drink, okay?”
    I nod, then shout through the waves of music, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
    She lets go of my arm and turns her ear to me. I cup my hand and lean in close. She smells like flowers and something else, not sweat or anything gross, something natural, almost sweet, and I’ve got that drunk feeling again, like when van Doren first hit me with a folder, but in a good way this time. “My dad is thinking about maybe calling the police if the band keeps playing.”
    Astrid pulls away and looks around the yard, then at her watch, which is pink with polka dots all over the face and only the number twelve at the top. She must be able to read it, though, because she nods and says, “Go tell your dad I’m sorry and that I’ll take care of it, okay?”
    â€œI’m sorry. He’s really being a—”
    â€œIt’s okay.” She looks toward the side of the house where I came in, then back at me. “Just hurry up and go tell him.”
    By the time I’m back at my front door, a police car is creeping down our cul-de-sac, blue lights twinkling off my dad’s truck, but no siren.
    My parents are still on the couch, acting