Christopher Pike - Weekend

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Weekend
by Christopher Pike
ONE
The road was painful. Last summer's hurricanes had dug strategically placed potholes across the narrow
asphalt highway. Every time their dusty Datsun hatchback hit one — every sixty seconds — Shani
Tucker's head kissed the car's ceiling. She wanted an aspirin, but they upset her stomach, and it was
already worse off than her head. Long drives were not her forte. She wished that there was room in the
front seat with Kerry and Angie, where at least she could have tied herself down with a seat belt. But
Angie was driving, and Kerry's hand was glued to the radio, searching vainly through static bands.
Though the road was doing its best to slow them down, they were, nevertheless, too far south into
Mexico to catch San Diego's stations. Glancing out of the window at the brittle tumbleweed, the baked
orange hills, and dry, cracked ravines, Shani felt as if she had crossed into another world, rather than
merely into another country.
"Can't get anything on this damn thing," Kerry Ladd said, fretting as usual.
"Turn it off," Shani said. "I have a headache as it is."
"I've got to have music," Kerry said, snapping in a cassette. Pat Benatar started wailing about precious
time. Kerry wasn't the most considerate of friends. But Shani didn't complain. The grinding guitar was the
lesser of two evils. Constant external distraction was necessary to keep strung-out Kerry from exploding.
"I've got to turn off the air conditioning, again," Angie Houston warned, wiping a long straight strand of
blonde hair from her hazel eyes as she flipped a switch next to the radio. "We're beginning to overheat."
"I don't want to sweat," Kerry complained. With the cool air turned off, the rise in temperature was
almost immediate.
"Do you want to walk?" Angie asked, turning down the song's volume. "Shani, how far do you think we
have left to go?"
Shani studied the map her father had insisted she take. The trip from Santa Barbara to San Diego
yesterday after school had been a breeze. They had checked into a Motel 6 and had got away early for
what they had anticipated as a six-hour jaunt to Robin and Lena's vacation house located on the beach
near Point Eugenia. Today was only Friday - unofficially, Senior Ditch Day - and they'd felt that they'd
managed a good jump on the weekend's fun. But they were now over eight hours on the road, and
making miserable time.
Odd, how they hadn't seen anyone else from their class on the road. Supposedly, Robin and Lena had
invited the whole gang.
"Well," Shani said, "we passed Point Blanco over three hours ago, and going by map inches, that's only
a hundred miles from where we're supposed to turn off, so we should be getting close."
"Could we have passed it?" Angie asked.
"I haven't seen anythingto pass," Shani said. "But no, Lena said that we'd see a Margarita Ville Canteen
- that's the name she gave me — about half an hour before the dirt road that leads to her house. She said
the canteen was impossible to miss."
"What does Lena know?" Kerry grumbled. She hated Lena, and Lena hated her. If either of them died
this weekend from mysterious causes, Shani would not be terribly surprised. Only the promised presence
of Sol Celaya - Kerry's ex, stolen away by Lena - had given Kerry the incentive to approach her arch
rival's house. At least, Sol was the reason why Shani figured Kerry had come. Despite having known her
since first grade, Shani didn't altogether trust her. Kerry was too temperamental, too impulsive. But then
again, she didn't trust Lena, either. God probably didn't trust Lena; she could be one shrewd terror.
"Don't start that again," Angie said.
"She had just better not hassle me," Kerry said.
"And you had just better not fight with her in front of her sister," Angie said.
"It sure was nice of Robin to organize this weekend," Shani said, wishing to change the subject.
"Yeah… it wa - was," Kerry agreed, stuttering, as she often did at odd moments. "How… how is…
Robin?"
They - everyone at school - always asked her this question: How is Robin? Have you seen Robin? Is
Robin better? Shani did not resent the concern, nor even the painful memories the questions always
brought. After all, Robin was her best friend. It was only natural others should come to her for updates.
What she did dislike was the false optimism she felt she had to project, to give them what they wanted to
hear, and to salvage her own guilty conscience. But one sad day she would have to speak the truth, for
then it would be too late:Robin is dead. We killed her .
"I talked to her on the phone Tuesday night," Shani said. "She sounded in good spirits, into getting
everything organized. She was spending a fortune on food."
"Hope she isn't buying local," Angie chuckled. "But that's great she's feeling better."
"Yeah," Shani muttered. Didn't they understand that when your kidneys were gone, you didn'tget better?
"Has she been singing much?" Kerry asked.
"I don't know. Probably," Shani lied. Lena had said Robin's voice was all but gone. Prior to the
accident, Robin would have rivaled Linda Ronstadt.
"I wonder what her nurse is going to think of having all us wired teenagers sleeping on the beach outside
their house," Angie said.
"The nurse won't be there," Shani said. "Lena can do the dialysis." Lena was Robin's sister. They were
the same age, both of them having been adopted at infancy by Carlton Records emperor Charles
Carlton. Mr. and Mrs. Carlton had no other children. They were getting to the stage in life where one had
to shout at them to be heard. However, despite his wrinkles, Mr. Carlton, like so many other self-made
millionaires, was intimidating. Whenever Shani talked to him, she always felt like a fool if she didn't agree
with all his opinions — he had that kind of influence over people. Neither he nor his wife would be there
this weekend. With their unlimited capital, they had bought Robin two dialysis machines, one for their
mansion in Santa Barbara, the other for the beach house that was taking forever to get to.
When Mr. and Mrs. Carlton died, Lena and Robin would inherit a mint. At least Lena would.
"I wouldn't trust Lena to cut my nails," Kerry said.
"Ouch!" Shani said. They had hit another hole and her head had received another slap. "I understand that
she's quite competent, has been trained by the doctors and all. The procedure is supposed to be simple."
"Hey!" Angie burst out suddenly. "Shani, I forgot to tell you! I called Park from the motel last night and
guess who's riding down with him and Sol and Bert?"
"Who?"
"Guess!"
"David Bowie. I guessed, now tell me!"
"Flynn."
"Flynn!" Flynn Powers was the new boy in town, from England. He'd only arrived in February, at the
semester break. He was a dream: curly brown hair, dark green eyes, a walk as smooth as liquified
charisma; and a hypnotic, accented voice that could literally put her in a trance. He had the largest hands,
beautifully formed and eloquent; they could have been stolen from a Michelangelo. Everyone said it —
even the guys. Flynn had something about him, an indefinable aura of depth that spontaneously
commanded respect. He was neither tall nor well-built, but he was a babe. All the girls wanted him, and
Shani was trying to get in front of the pack. Trouble was, he probably didn't even know she walked the
earth. He didn't seem much interested in the girls at their school. Lena - she was an exception to
everything — thought he was gay.
"Do you have a plan of approach?" Kerry asked. She was neutral as far as Flynn was concerned, as she
was still trying to get Sol back. ,
"Jump on him, I don't know," Shani said, the concentration of acid in her stomach abruptly doubling.
Thinking about doing anything made her nervous. Sometimes she swore she was getting an ulcer. She
chewed Rolaids instead of gum. "What can I do?"
"What you suggested might work," Angie said.
"If I thought there was a chance, I would do it," Shani said, not taking herself seriously. She had to be
the most sexually inexperienced girl in her senior class. She hadn't even "gone all the way" through a
Playgirl magazine. Getting dates had been no problem, but the guys would only kiss her cheek at the end
of the night, or else shake her hand; she had that kind of reputation. Perhaps she should talk to Lena,
have a filthy rumour started in connection with her name. Not that she was obsessed - she was merely
very, very interested in sex. What she really wanted was what all of them wanted: a relationship.
Unfortunately, she had taken physics, and had received a good grade, and had won a scholarship to the
University of California at Santa Barbara, and had listed "psychiatrist" as her ambition in the yearbook
and had read too many of the classics, and had the repulsive habit of sounding intelligent, all of which was
enough to make any adolescent male ego insecure. But in reality she had hated physics, and had got an
"A" only because she had studied hard. She was not that smart, not that secure. Often, she felt lonely.
Often, she watched Flynn from the other side of the campus, and wondered if he couldn't change all this.
"Accidentally lose your bikini top while swimming beside him in the waves," Angie said. "Better yet, lose
your bottoms. It'll take a lot to catch that guy's cool eye."
To her own amazement, Shani realised she was actually considering the idea. She was afraid to say
hello, but accidentally stripping seemed within her reach. "Is that how you got Park?" she asked. She had
known Park Jacomini since they'd been two. He pretended to be intellectual — and hewassmart, their
class valedictorian - but there had never been born a more natural peeping tom. He was one of the
closest people to her in the world.
Angie laughed. "That's personal. But I will tell you, to keep them, you've got to come up with pretty
exotic—"
"Could we please change the subject?" Kerry interrupted, extremely agitated. Angie was quick to
apologize.
"I'm sorry, Kerry. I'd forgotten. That was thoughtless of me."
"You said it to… upset me… on purpose."
"I'm the one who brought it up," Shani said. "Sorry."
Kerry turned off the cassette player, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "I
don't know what's wrong with me, I'm so jittery. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I guess it still
bothers me."
"That's okay. We understand," Shani said. From that point on, the conversation sort of died. The
potholes thickened. Sentinel cacti and sleeping lizards bumped by while the Datsun interior warmed and
they sweated. To pass the time, Shani reached for her yearbook, browsing through the pages, reading
notes from her friends and from those she had not spoken to during her entire four years at Hoover High.
They had only received the book on Tuesday, and there were still many she wanted to have sign it. This
weekend would fill it up. She chuckled when she came to the place where Park had placed his note,
across a full-page colour picture of the varsity football team.
Dearest Shani,
Of all the girls I've known these four blissful years, you have been — with only a handful of exceptions
—the closest one to my soul and body. If not for you, and two or three others, I would not be where I
am, king of the class, the one voted least likely to end up on welfare. I owe all my magnificent
accomplishments to you, and another girl or two .
I hope that when you become a psychiatrist that you don't discover that you're nuts. You see, I
understand you — your dark lusty longings—and that would mean that I'm nuts, too, along with perhaps
my close female friends. However, if in the middle of analysis you uncover deep Freudian inhibitions, feel
free to come to me for relief, for the sexual freedom I have given to other girls of your like predicament, a
few here and there .
All my love, all that Suzy and Bunny and Clairice have not drained, I give to you. And once again, if in
the lonely years to come you should ever need - or simply desire — an intimate pal, be sure to think of
Pretty Park (and friends) and make an appointment to visit us.
Love you (amongst others), Park
Park had quite a wit, but, in his own way, street-tough Sol outdid him. Shani flipped to the picture of
their pudgy, smiling school principal, whom Sol had practically obliterated with a thick, black cato pen.
Hi!
I hardly know you and I don't think you're that interesting a chick, but you've got something I want and
you know I've got something you need. If I let you see me, we don't go nowhere fancy and I expect my
money's worth right from the start. I don't want to hear about your feelings and your goals cause I have
no feelings and I can tell already you ain't going nowhere. If we get together, it will be for one thing only.
My number's in the book. Look it up.
Wait a sec, this isn't Debbie's book? Hell! Pay no attention to what you just read, Shani dear. It sure has
been grand knowing you and I just know deep in my heart that you will go far and better the world for all
of mankind. I really feel that you are an 'extra special person.' I have found our friendship profoundly
satisfying, and I will treasure your memory in the many days to come. God bless you!
Hey, by the way, Shani, how's about you calling me this summer and us getting together and going to a
drive-in. I'll buy you popcorn, with butter. We can rock my van's shocks.
Love your legs, Sol
She had better be careful not to let Kerry see his note. Thankfully, he hadn't written it onthat page. Sol
could be crude, but - once again in his own way - he was also sensitive. Though he was now seeing
Lena, he was extra careful to treat Kerry kindly. However, his politeness was a mixed blessing. Kerry
took it as a sign that he was still interested in her. Neither Angie nor she wanted to drive home the harsh
truth, that Kerry didn't stand an outside chance, hadn't from the moment Lena had curled her little finger
and let Sol know she was available, hadn't from the day of that disastrous pep rally.
It wasn't that Kerry was ugly. Though on the short side and a few pounds overweight, she had a
pleasant face and a fine figure, plus a genuinely striking smile, which she - sadly - flashed all too seldom.
Lost somewhere between blonde and brunette, her short shaggy hair needed styling. But with a good cut
and the right clothes — which neither she nor her parents could afford — shecould have competed with
almost any girl at school.
Except for Lena. Except for a perversely timed rip.
It happened in November, during the week preceding the homecoming game when they were to play
their cross-town rivals and crown their new queen. Yet it had happened many times before, in cheap
teenage exploitation films, the thoughtless kind without a shred of realism or warmth. Perhaps that was
what had made the trick seem so especially base. However, though the fundamental idea had been
boringly simple, its implementation had never been so wickedly crafty.
In those days, Sol was going with Kerry. When he was not cutting classes, they could be seen laughing
hand-in-hand, one of the few happy couples on campus. Now Lena already disliked Kerry from aeons
past, and she began to take a fancy to Sol, and spread hints to the effect, thinking that would be
sufficient. It probably would have been, but Lena wasn't used to waiting. When Sol didn't immediately
come running into her arms, sheapparently decided to hasten his break up with Kerry. To this day,
Lena's guilt had not been definitely established. However, few believed her expressed innocence. Simply
no one at school had the mind to hatch an elaborate, evil plot - other than Lena - and the facts pointed a
mighty guilty finger her way.
Along with Angie and Robin, Kerry was a song leader. In honour of the homecoming festivities, they had
developed a new routine to perform at the pep rally to be held at lunchtime in the gym, the day before the
big game. It involved the usual bouncing through the air and spread-eagled stretching. Lena was well
aware of the specifics of the routine. Though not a member of any cheering squad — she had passed
such adolescent displays, so she said - she contributed, through her sister, extra twists. One of Lena's
exotic suggestions was the straw that broke the camel's back, the twist that tore the panties.
Because the song leaders' uniforms were warm, and Santa Barbara was sunk in a rare heat wave, the
girls wore regular clothes to the morning classes, leaving their uniforms in their gym lockers. While on her
way to the locker room at the start of lunch, Kerry was stopped by Lena, who wanted to chat. Under
normal circumstances, Kerry would not have had the slightest inclination to "chat" with Lena, and now
that she was in a hurry to change, she was less anxious. Nevertheless, Lena succeeded in delaying her to
the point where Kerry was cutting it close. To top it off, as they parted company, Lenaaccidentally spilt
her Coke on Kerry's shorts, the soft drink soaking through to her underwear. No big problem, though
Kerry was mad. She was going to change into her uniform in a minute anyway. The only difference now
was that sheprobably wouldn't be able to wear her underwear. When Kerry reached the locker room,
she rushed into her song clothes, not having a chance to take note of any irregularities.
The pep rally started like so many other boring pep rallies. The punchy football coach strutted to the
microphone and mumbled a couple of slow lines about how smart - football-wise - their team was this
year, and introduced a few key players that everyone already knew. Shani was sitting in the front row of
the audience with Park. They cheered loudly for good-natured "Big Bert" — an unusual member of their
unusual gang — but otherwise they were hardly listening. It was only when the song leaders came on that
she sat up and took notice. Of course, three of her friends were in the group, but perhaps she also had a
premonition of danger, for her stomach had begun to ache like it did when she was worrying deeply.
Park also stirred to life. His girl friend, Robin — whom he supposedly loved very much — was the
leader of the group. He had his camera primed and was clicking away the second they launched into their
routine. Even then, Shani had felt that he had taken an unusually high number of pictures of Angie.
In the middle of the skit, Kerry flew spreadeagled over Robin's shoulders and Shani thought she heard a
rip. But at first she decided that she must have been mistaken, for no one else appeared to have heard
anything. Then a low murmur began to spread through the audience, a sound that quickly built to loud
whistles and hoots. This was an example of how fast gossip could spread, for, although she was sitting in
the front, and although the song leaders' dresses were short, Shani could see nothing unusual as far as
Kerry was concerned. Neither could Park — Shani asked him twice what was going on. But a few
people, probably only a handful in the entire crowd, hadthought they had caught a flash of Kerry's bare
bottom. Afterwards, of course, there weredozens of guys whoswore they were one of the chosen few.
The fact that they wereall liars made no difference. Ironically, Kerry was probably the last one in the gym
to know there was a problem. The record they performed to continued on, though it was practically
drowned out in the commotion, and Kerry continued to swirl and twist and bend, not noticing any
draught. Shani finally got the word through the grapevine of what wassupposedly happening, and then it
seemed ages to her before Kerry found out. In reality, from the moment of the rip to the instant of her
bewildered halting, possibly twenty seconds had elapsed. It was Angie who finally stopped her and
whispered something in her ear, probably just a line to get Kerry to leave the gym as quickly as possible.
Angie even escorted her to the door. As they crossed the basketball court floor, the audience granted
them a brief respite. But the second they were out of view, they flew back into ecstasy.
Shani left her place in the stands and hurried to the girls' showers. There she found Kerry slumped on the
bench that ran in front of the lockers, Angie standing nearby. The place was otherwise deserted. Kerry
was more confused than upset. She did not understand what the big deal was. Her dance pants had
ripped and she had flashed her underwear. So what? Shani agreed with her that there was nothing to
worry about. She was lying. She didn't tell Kerry that those flesh-coloured panties she'd been wearing
could be mistaken for bare flesh, at a distance. That theyhad been mistaken for Kerry's backside, by
more than one person.
As Kerry began to change into her street clothes, muttering about how she hoped the confusion would
get cleared up quickly, the three of them made an interesting discovery. Someone had replaced Kerry's
nylon dance pants with blue cottonpaper pants of the same size. No wonder they had ripped. Normally,
Kerry would have immediately spotted the switch. But she had been in a hurry before the pep rally, and
hadn't detected the difference in the fabrics.
When Kerry remembered how Lena had soaked her underwear, forcing her to be late, Shani
immediately put two and two together. The connection was obvious. Lena must have figured Kerry
would discard the wet panties. Lena must have also been thesomeone who had switched the dance
pants. She had undoubtedly been hoping that Kerry would be caught flashing her bottom. This fortunately
hadn't happened, but it easily could have. Lena later denied the accusations, but she did so with a sly
smile, and her deepest admiration for whoever had thought up the plan.
In the following days, Angie and Shani told anyone who would listen that Kerryhad been wearing
underwear beneath her dance pants. Few believed the truth; they apparently preferred not to. Kerry had
to endure ceaseless catcalls. She also lost Sol to Lena. Shani had been disgusted with him for deserting
Kerry in her hour of need, but he swore that the pep rally incident had absolutely nothing to do with their
break up. He explained that Lena had simply made him an offer that he couldn't refuse.
Shani checked on Kerry in the front seat before opening the annual to page fifty-eight. As a further
example of how unreal Kerry's "flash" had been, there had been at least a dozen people taking pictures at
that pep rally and not one of them had caught anything even remotely x-rated. Nevertheless, tucked in
one corner there was a small black and white picture that had captured all but the "highlight" of the
afternoon. It had been taken from the rear of the audience, and showed the crowd on its feet laughing
and pointing at an innocent smiling Kerry, whose life was about to come to an end. There was nothing for
the guys to gloat over, but it clearly brought back the day. Park had been on the yearbook staff. Shani
would have to speak to him about who had allowed the picture in the annual.
Was it a coincidence, Shani often asked herself, that Robin's accident had happened less than a month
after Kerry's humiliation?
"Hey girls," Angie said. "Looks like we're no longer alone. Sol's van is just up ahead."
Shani tossed the annual aside and peered between Angie and Kerry. The glare of the blazing sun made
seeing difficult, but it was clearly Sol's faded black Dodge. Farther down the road, perhaps a half mile,
was a solitary brown clay building, probably the Margarita Ville Canteen. That meant they were almost
there. But who cared? Huddling near the rear of the van, beside Sol and Park, was a guy with the
smoothest walk this side of England.
"Flynn!" Shani cried.
"God, Shani, not in my ear," Angie said.
Shani grabbed her Rolaids and downed the whole roll as if it were candy. The furnace in her stomach
roared on unchecked. She had been dying to see Flynn again, yet, all of a sudden, she wished that she
was invisible.
TWO
"This tyre isn't getting less flat with us looking at it," Park said.
"Why didn't you go to the cantina down the road with Bert and Flynn?" Sol asked.
"I still can. Why don't you come with me?"
"I have to guard my van. No way I trust the Cholos down here."
"You're a Cholo."
"Used to be," Sol muttered, lighting a cigarette. Sol chain-smoked.
Park was tempted to split. The inside of their lame van was incredibly stuffy, and out here on the broken
asphalt it was like standing on a frying pan. They had a much brighter sun down here than they did in the
States. His nose would peel this weekend. It would probably rot and fall off. He sure could use a cold
beer. Unfortunately, the strap on his sandals — his only available footwear — had snapped and it was a
good ten-minute walk to the canteen. He should have taken Big Bert up on his offer to carry him. He
knew Sol was intentionally mocking him, standing barefoot on the blistering pavement. Sol had feet like a
caveman.
"Why don't we check on your spare?" Park asked for the third time.
Sol chuckled, the sound oddly frightening coming from him. Shani imagined Sol a modern Fonzie, tough
outside but with a heart of gold. Park could attest to the fact that he had a heart, but it was made of a far
less precious metal. Sol was tough to the core. Brought up in L.A's barrios, he'd once admitted to
stabbinghis first person — a member of a rival gang — at the age of twelve. He had never said it outright,
but Park had the clear impression that not everyone who had got in his way was still alive. He'd been
arrested twice in his fifteenth year: once for stealing a car, the other time for carrying a gun - a sawn-off
shotgun. He hadn't told him these stories to impress him. Sol didn't give a damn what anyone thought.
Park knew the horrors he'd related had only been the tip of the iceberg.
Once, old friends — the meanest, most wired Cholos he'd ever seen — had visited Sol while they were
playing a rough game of one-on-one at the school yard on a Saturday afternoon. Both wore wads of
jewelery and picked at their oily nails with shiny switchblades, talking in guttural Spanish with Sol about
Satan only knew what. In the midst of the conversation, they said something that bothered Sol and he
snapped at them. They paled noticeably and apologized frantically, like their lives depended on it, which
may well have been the case. Afterwards, Sol explained that they had made an obscene reference to
Park. The loyalty hadn't comforted Park.
Park wasn't sure how Sol's father had managed to get his two children - Sol had a ten-year-old sister of
whom he was maniacally protective, the cutest little thing - out of the barrios; probably hard work. Mr.
Celaya currently had a flourishing gardening business in Ventura. But apparently, he hadn't felt that
Ventura was far enough north of his son's friends. He rented a house on the outskirts of Santa Barbara,
and Sol ended up in laid-back Hoover High like a wolf among sheep.
Park still remembered the first day they ran into each other - literally. Sol had knocked him out of his
way in the hall. Initially, no one could understand hisSpanglish , and it was probably just as well, for in the
first few days he seemed one angry young man. But first impressions are not always complete. The
passage of a couple of weeks presented a different profile. Sol had his mean streak, and it cut pretty
deep, but he could also be kind, and no one could doubt his intelligence. A month after arriving at
Hoover High, after a couple of expulsion threats from the principal, he apparently made a firm personal
decision to develop his positive qualities, and to only behave like an animal when he could get away with
it. The most immediate demonstration of this decision was the change in the way he spoke. He would
never be mistaken for an upper-middle-class white boy, but he developed a knack for using English
concisely. And damn if he didn't take to spending hours in the library. He wasn't easy to fit in a category.
Of course, he seldom returned a book.
At the end of his junior year, he went out for track and smashed the shot-put record. His bulging
muscles and blinding reflexes made him a natural at the event. Park was also on the team - he ran a
mediocre mile - but what really brought them together was Sol's sudden discovery of surfing. Before
moving to Santa Barbara, he once confessed, he hadn't even seen the ocean and he'd despised, because
of his upbringing, anything associated with the wordsurfing . Yet the sea proved an asylum to him that
seemed to wash away the weight of past cares. Park had already won two minor surfing championships.
Hearing of Sol's interest in the waves, he boldly loaned him a board and taught him a few tricks of the
trade. Soon they were surfing together regularly. Park still wasn't sure what Sol liked about him outside
of his skill on the waves. He had asked once, and Sol had said that hanging around with the school brain
was good for his "tough-but-heart-of-gold-guy image". On the other hand, Park didn't fully understand
what he liked about Sol. Certainly, there wasn't anyone else quite like him.
Shani didn't know anything about Sol's background. She didn't know that five days ago he'd been
kicked out of his father's house and was now sleeping in the park in his van. She didn't know that he was
low on money and was looking to his old ways to get some. Without explanation, while driving through
Tijuana, Sol had dropped Park, Flynn, and Bert off for an hour. Afterwards, he had only allowed
ever-agreeable Bert to sit in the back, with strict orders that he not touch or smell anything. Why didn't
Sol want him to check on the spare? Probably because he'd dumped the tyre and jammed the space with
illicit substances. Sol was reading his mind.
"What's the matter, Preppy Park?" he asked. "Don't you trust me?"
Sol had taken to putting "Preppy" before Park's name, since Harvard had written saying that one Park
Christopher Jacomini looked like Ivy League material to them. Park did not resent the title. It reminded
him of how Ali McGraw had annoyed Ryan O'Neal at the beginning of the movie,Love Story . He
strongly identified with the character Ryan O'Neal played. He also had an annoying rich dad, and also
was going to go to Harvard, and also wanted to be a lawyer and marry a girl with a body like Ali
McGraw's. He even fancied that he resembled Ryan O'Neal, somewhat. Angie said that he did. Of
course, she was always quick to flatter. Robin hadn't done that… hadn't needed to.
Before she'd been hurt, Robin had had a body like Ali's. And he'd always figured that he would have
married her. She had been - still was - the one with the heart of gold. He glanced south down the road, in
the direction where she waited to see him again. He didn't want to think about it. People his age got
busted for smoking dope, they got depressed and made fools of themselves over meaningless crushes,
they got lousy grades and hated their parents. But they didn't die, not in his world. They couldn't die
slowly and take a piece of him with them. God, how he hated himself for having left her for Angie! But
what could he do? He simply couldn't handle it. Was this the real reason he identified with Ryan O'Neal's
character inLove Story ? What can you say about an eighteen-year-old girl who died…
Park kicked the flat tyre. "What the hell. I don't care if we ever get there."
Sol went right on reading his mind. Blowing smoke in his face, he said, "You're such a wimp."
"Just because I won't go back across the border with you and your stash?"
"Who said I picked up anything? But don't change the subject. A real man would stand by his babe
when she's in a tight spot. Robin's a great chick. She gets in trouble and you dump her." Sol spat.
"You should talk," Park snapped, throwing all caution aside. "What about Kerry and tight spots?"
"That was not the same. Kerry got humiliated, and we all felt bad for her, but it was only a joke. Dying
is… it's no joke." He added quietly, "I know."
Park wondered at the change in his tone. Probably a memory of a friend stuck with a bloody knife had
surfaced. Park pulled off his shirt, and wiped the sweat from his face. "I'll have a talk with her," he said.
"If that's the best you can do, then do it."
Park wanted to change the subject. Peering in the direction of the canteen, he remarked: "What are
those guys doing? They've been gone awhile."
"Probably getting drunk."
"I don't think Flynn drinks."
"Bert will down enough beer to make up for him."
"Hey, Sol, what do you think of that Flynn?"
"I don't think he's a wimp."
"Give me a break, would ya?"
摘要：

  Weekend byChristopherPike  ONETheroadwaspainful.Lastsummer'shurricaneshaddugstrategicallyplacedpotholesacrossthenarrowasphalthighway.EverytimetheirdustyDatsunhatchbackhitone—everysixtyseconds—ShaniTucker'sheadkissedthecar'sceiling.Shewantedanaspirin,buttheyupsetherstomach,anditwasalreadyworseoffth...

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