Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (7 page)

I feel like saying, “
So?
” or “
I don't have to pee
,” but I get up and join them. Chantal leads us into the basement and down a grotty hallway to a bathroom reeking of cologne. She leans against the sink. “I can't believe he didn't show,” she moans.

I try to look sympathetic while Brooke hugs her. “Maybe he'll be here on the weekend,” I say. “It
is
a school night.” Could I sound any more like my mother?

Chantal ignores me and leans toward the mirror to apply more of her cherry-red lipstick. “But I'm horny tonight!”

Brooke sighs. “Me too.”

I catch Brooke's eye in the mirror. We've never talked that way before. Brooke turns away from my questioning glance.

We walk back to the party and sit down. I blink twice when Brooke lights up a cigarette and inhales like she smokes regularly. The party continues around me, but I'm no longer in the mood to attempt conversation with random guys.

An hour later, after more smoking and beer, Brooke and I say goodbye and get on our bikes. “Thanks for coming with me,” she says. We ride side by side down the quiet, leafy streets.

I shrug.

“So what did you think?”

“It was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Well, sure, you know, it was a party.” It wasn't any different from the parties we'd gone to before—just people sitting around and drinking.

“It was much cooler than other parties,” Brooke announces.

I'm saved from having to answer, because a car comes up behind us, and I fall back to let it pass. Was the party cooler because the guys at our parties usually play silly drinking games, or was it because the girls at our parties don't announce they're horny?

Brooke drops me off and I go inside, say hi to Mom and Dad, who are holding hands on the couch—talk about gross—and then head up to my room.

I lie in bed, looking at the streetlights creeping in around the edges of my blinds. My hair smells like smoke, and even after brushing my teeth, I still taste the cooler. Also, I can't get the sound of Chantal saying she's horny out of my mind.

The Perfects don't talk about their…I don't know. I'm not even sure what to call it—their desire? Lust? The Perfects talk about how cute boys are, or how in love they are. And they always fall in love with someone safely out of range. Em will say she's “maddeningly” in love with someone from her Bible class or drama troupe who is too old or dating someone else. Chloe shows no interest in any of the boys at school who salivate when she flounces down the hall. She only talks about her sister's older friends. Even Brooke's comments about liking men, not boys, put her safely in the same category as the rest of us. Since we only obsess over guys who will never acknowledge us, we'll never have to freak out about how far to go.

And me? Well, having a crush on Jesse is perfect. He is entirely in the realm of the impossible, not the actual. I can safely fantasize about him for the rest of high school and nothing will ever come of it.

And what if it did? What would that be like? What if we walked home from school together and then came down the lane behind our houses instead of down the sidewalk? We could talk simile and metaphor some more. I could come up with my own: your cheekbones are like ski slopes, your eyes are burning coals. You make me feel like a melting candle. What if he leaned me up against the back of the garage and bent down to kiss me? Shivers crawl down my spine as I imagine what his lips would feel like on mine, how his long arms would wrap around me and squeeze my back. I jolt up in bed. It'll never happen, not with Jesse. I can't even talk to him. I sigh, turn over in bed and pull the covers tight around me.

F
ive

T
he leaves turn red and yellow, then fade to orange and begin falling off the trees. I endure a long day at temple for Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, a holiday where you fast for your sins and ask God to forgive you for anything bad you've done in the past. Throughout October, Brooke continues to hang out with Chantal and Kelly, but one Saturday night she invites Chloe, Em and me over for dinner, just like old times.

When I arrive at Brooke's, Em and Brooke are making pizza and pretending to be on a cooking show. Chloe is videoing them with her phone.

“Ah, Signora Yanofsky, our guest taster, here to try the provolone.” Brooke holds out a plate of cheese and Chloe pans the phone over to me.

I do my usual deer-in-the-headlights stare and say, “Very tasty,” while shoving a large piece of cheese into my mouth.

“Ew,” Chloe says. “Cut!” She pretends to be annoyed with me and then bounds into the living room and puts her phone in the speaker dock. She cranks up the volume, and we bounce around the living room. I follow Chloe's moves, even joining her in some surprisingly porny rolling around on the floor. This is the way it used to be: Brooke and Em doing their cooking show—“Now for another episode of the singing chef!”—and Chloe and me rocking out in the living room.

When the pizza is ready, Brooke carries it to the dining-room table. Then she brings a half-empty bottle of red wine. “Lookee, lookee, shall we start the evening with a little”—she reads from the label—“Chianti Classico? Ooh, so classy.”

“None for me,” Em says.

“But Em,” Brooke says, swinging the bottle, “this isn't mere debauchery and drunkenness, this is an Italian cultural experience, compliments of my mother's latest boyfriend.”

Em waves her napkin in the air and says, “Still, I think I shall not partake” in her poshest British accent.

Brooke shrugs and pours me a full glass. “Here, you're a lush. Drink up, babe.”

“Thanks.”

Brooke reaches for Chloe's glass. “Oh, that's okay,” Chloe says, putting her hand over the top.

“What, you going all straightedge too?”

Chloe shrugs uncomfortably. “Sort of.”

“That's retarded,” Brooke says. She starts filling her wineglass and doesn't stop until it almost spills over the top. When she puts the bottle back on the kitchen counter, I hear her mumble, “Stupid Jesus freaks.” She sits down at the table. “I bet you've even got a grace you're dying to share with us.”

I look over at Brooke and scowl. I know Jesus isn't her thing, but does she have to piss off Chloe and Em? Chloe is frowning and looking down at her hands. Em looks concerned but composed, as always. She says, “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I have the perfect grace. Yub-a dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Yay God!” She punches her fist into the air. Brooke and I stare at her. Chloe starts to giggle.

“Yay God?” I ask.

“Yep, yay God,” Em replies. “Pizza, anyone?”

We all start eating. Brooke tells Chloe and Em about some Smoker party, but I'm not paying attention. Throughout dinner, as I drink all my wine and let Brooke fill my glass up again, I wonder, Do they really believe in God? They're intelligent people—surely they don't believe a divine force created the universe. I mean, there's science, people. There's no Sky Daddy up there saying,
Em and Chloe, you better be good girls
. And think of the gazillions of wars, like the Crusades, that have been waged for religious reasons. Christians rode across Europe killing Jews to save Jerusalem from Muslims because they didn't believe in the one true God. That's insane. I consider asking, “What's the point in believing in God?” but we're finally all together, and I don't want to ruin the evening by alienating Chloe and Em. Besides, if you want to believe in God, I'm okay with that, as long as you're not using your religion as an excuse to kill other people.

Still, I feel a list brewing in my head. I think I'll call it “Reasons Believing in God is Stupid.”

1. No one has any proof.

I'm about to list numbers two, three and four (evolution, the existence of evil in the world, how prayer doesn't work) when Brooke starts describing a sex act Kelly performed on her boyfriend using cough drops during a blow job. Totally gross, yet totally intriguing.

After dinner we walk to Quilchena Park to meet the guys. I'm excited because I know Jesse will be here tonight. I dressed carefully, wearing my lucky purple jacket and my favorite skinny jeans. It's a crisp night, without a hint of the usual fall dampness, so I'm not even worried about my hair.

When we get to the park, the guys aren't there yet, so we sit on the stairs by the washrooms. I tap my toes and sip from a water bottle full of orange juice and vodka, which I took from my parents' liquor cabinet after school, when they were still at work. Brooke keeps pulling out her phone and checking her messages.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Chantal and Kelly said they'd be here tonight.”

“Oh.” Great.

In front of us, Chloe and Em practice a number from
Grease.
I pretend to watch while scanning the road for the guys' cars.

“
Summer days drifting away, to uh-oh
”—Chloe adds an emphatic pelvic thrust—“
those summer nights
.”

“
Tell me more, tell me more, was it love at first sight
?” Em sings in her clear, high soprano.

“
Summer dreams, ripped at the seams, but oh, those
summer nights
,” they harmonize.

I clap when they finish.

“So,” Chloe says, hands on her hips, “do you think Jesse will be here tonight?”

“Not sure.” I feel Brooke tense beside me. I glance at her, but she's focused on her phone.

Em sighs. “If only he was playing Danny.”

Chloe gives her a shove. “Back off, baby. He's Lauren's lover boy.”

“Oooh.” Em leans toward us and wiggles her fingers. “Lover boy.”

Brooke stands up and pushes past them. “You guys are so lame.”

Chloe and Em jump in the air and high-five each other. “Y-a-y lame!”

Brooke rolls her eyes, and Chloe and Em run across the park to the swings. I sip my drink, not wanting to get too drunk, just buzzed enough to keep the edge off.

I'm about to ask Brooke if she wants to go for a walk when a rusted old Toyota Corolla pulls up across the park. Five guys, including Jesse, pile out of the car. Then Mike Choi, the driver, pops the trunk and Tyler and Justin crawl out.

“They put people in the trunk?” I say. Mike only has his learner's permit, which means he isn't supposed drive without an adult in the car, let alone with people in the trunk.

Brooke just shrugs and calls out, “Hey!”

Justin waves at us.

We start walking down the hill to where the guys are dumping their backpacks and setting up lawn chairs. Suddenly, I feel a little drunker than I thought I was, as if my feet are farther away from my head than usual. I grab Brooke's arm to avoid stumbling as we head down the hill. More kids arrive, including some of the cast of
Grease,
and then Chantal and Kelly stroll up the hill, their cigarettes glowing in the dark.

“Hey, what's up?” Kelly says.

“Not much.” Brooke shrugs. “You?”

“Nothing. Looking for a party. Heard people were meeting up here.”

“Yep,” Brooke says, “we're here.” She points to Chantal's cigarette. “Can I have one?” Chantal silently hands her a cigarette and Brooke leans in and lights it off Chantal's cigarette as if she's been smoking all her life. Kelly holds out her pack to me. “You want?”

“Oh, no thank you.” Jeez, I sound like a dork.

Kelly shrugs and puts her pack away, and I take a purposeful sip of my vodka. It tastes worse than it did earlier.

The four of us stand and watch the boys. Usually, we try not to attract the attention of passing cars when we're at the park. Tonight the guys seem louder, drunker, less concerned with keeping a low profile. Instead of lounging with their drinks and cigarettes, they are huddled together listening to Mike Choi.

“What are the drunken fucks doing now?” Kelly says. None of us reply. We watch Mike lift his hand to his forehead, yell something unintelligible and then sharply salute. The other guys salute back and then begin marching—no, goose-stepping—onto the field. I stare at them, my hands covering my mouth.

“What the hell are they doing?” Chantal says. We walk closer. Mike is explaining something, and as we approach, I can see they all have water guns. Not the big turbo kind, but little pistols that squirt at close range. Mike yells out some drunken command and half of the guys disperse, yelling and running into the trees around the edge of the park. I see Jesse loping across the grass.

“Oh,” Kelly says, “they're playing war games again.”

“Again?” I say.

“Yeah, they did it lots this summer. It's totally stupid,” Chantal says.

“Guys are so useless.” Kelly flips her hair. She and Chantal turn back toward the road. Brooke goes with them.

“I'll catch up with you later,” I say, not bothering to check if they've heard me. I make my way closer to where Mike is standing with Mac and Tyler and some other guys, talking into his phone as if it were a walkie-talkie. I don't care that I'm alone and have no idea what I'll say to them. I keep walking until I can see their drunken grins, their slouchy jeans and black toques. Then I realize they're all wearing white armbands with Nazi swastikas on them. I stop and suck in my breath. Mike has his hand raised in another salute. “Heil Hitler,” I hear him yell into his phone. Tyler gives a war whoop. Then Mike whistles with his fingers—one short, shrill cry—and the rest of the guys take off after the others, yelling and shooting their water pistols into the trees. I stand there, gawking. Mike says into his phone, “Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Report to command central. Over and out.”

I'm still standing in the same spot, the guys streaming around me. What the hell? No, what the fuck? They're playing at being Nazis? I feel sick to my stomach. I want to run away, but where can I go? Brooke is smoking with Chantal and Kelly by the road. Chloe and Em are down by the swings, practicing their dance moves. Em is attempting an awkward cartwheel, and Chloe is doubled up laughing. I decide to dodge my way into the trees, not far from Mike. I squat in the damp grass and try to straighten out the thoughts snarling up my head.