Blowin' My Mind Like a Summer Breeze, page 9
My family has this weird voting system for things.
“Before we’ve even discussed it?” Mom asks. “I haven’t even had time to process what I’m looking at. And I’m personally not very happy about the influence Rainey’s new friend is having.”
“I’m not voting for that,” Walden says, “she didn’t ask permission.”
“It’s her body,” Dad says. “She doesn’t need permission.” He raises his voting arm.
“You’re kidding, right?” Walden says.
“No, I’m not kidding,” Dad says.
“Luce, she’s fifteen years old,” Mom says. “Do you really want her walking around with a nose ring? Especially without talking to us about it first?”
“Well, if I’m being totally honest, no, I’m not sure that I do. But I’m trying to look past what I want. If this is how Rainey wants to look, then I respect that. I think we all should. We ask a lot of you kids and you’ve earned the right to make some of your own decisions.”
An uninvited burp releases traces of grape flavored vodka in the back of my throat. Oh no. I pray my breath only smells like the mint gum Juliet gave me before I left, which I’m fiendishly gnawing at, trying to unleash its full minty power. I feel lightheaded and sweaty, like I have the flu or something. Is this what being drunk feels like? I feel guilty for drinking. For piercing my nose. For everything. Why is everything so hard all the time?
A couple of kids speed by on dirt bikes, laughing like maniacs. Occasionally, I can hear the blast of a lifeguard’s whistle from the beach.
Surprisingly, a look of reluctant acceptance settles onto my mom’s face.
“Just, no tattoos, okay,” she says, raising her arm.
“You have tattoos,” I say, the words slipping out of me.
“I’m not fifteen. And I don’t appreciate that tone, young lady. Walden?”
“No way,” Walden says, grinding the metallic pieces of his dog tags together, glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. “If I showed up with a nose ring, or something like that, there’s no way in a million years you guys would let me keep it.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” my dad says.
“This is gender bias and a complete double standard. And totally unfair.”
“That’s two yesses, one no,” my dad says.
It’s here, of course, that I expect Walden to begin blabbing about my mix tape. About Fuck and Run. About my secret listening life. If he does that, I know I’ll really be screwed.
But for some reason, he doesn’t. He holds his tongue, and says, “Fine, whatever.”
As brothers go, my brother is pretty great sometimes. I want to hug him.
Track Fifteen
The Opposite of Ordinary
I’ve survived their reaction to the nose ring. Now I have to survive school. Unfortunately, it’s debate day.
“Today’s dilemma is a good one,” my dad says, shaking a Camel loose from his pack of cigarettes and snagging it with his lips. At the same time, he slaps his Zippo to flame with a single quick flick against his jeans and is having his first drag as he slips the Zippo neatly back into his pocket, all in one effortless, ninja motion. It’s a trick I’ve always loved, something you’d see a street performer do.
“And I think with this one,” he says, blowing smoke over his shoulder where it trails away in the sunlight, “Rain Man is poised to make a big comeback. Tracy, what’s the score?”
“Uh, sorry, hold on,” Mom says, reaching into her large canvas teaching bag and taking out a small chalkboard. My and Walden’s names are written on either side with hash marks beneath to indicate the current debate score. “Oh jeez. Four to two, Walden.”
First person to five wins the round—no real prize, just bragging rights—then we wash the board clean and start over.
“Soon to be five to two,” Walden says.
“Shut up,” I say, feeling in no mood to debate my brother again, who’s a brilliant debater and almost always wins.
“There are one hundred people within a town,” Dad says, “who have each contracted the same terminal disease.”
“What disease?” Walden asks.
“Itsdoesntmattertosis,” Dad says.
“It might matter,” Walden says.
“Assume it’s something terminal and they’re all at the same stage with the disease.” Dad takes a final drag of his cigarette, then puts it out on the bottom of his shoe and slips the butt into his pocket. “One day, a scientific breakthrough leads to the creation of a cure, but here’s the catch, only fifty doses of the cure can be made. Therefore, fifty people will be saved and live. Fifty will die. The question is, who gets the cure?”
“Why can’t they make more doses?” Walden asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s just a scenario. Like every single other time we do this. Why do you have to know every little detail?”
“I’m just trying to get all the information so I can construct the winning argument,” Walden says.
“Assume that this is all the information that’s available at this time,” Dad says. “Walden, let’s see, you’ll be arguing in favor of randomness. Rainey, you’ll be arguing in favor of a merit-based system.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Sorry, you’ll have to figure that out. There’s a dictionary available. The winner will be the person who makes the most compelling argument, not necessarily the person who is most right. Same as always, you’ll have twenty minutes to think and prepare written notes. Opening arguments, rebuttal, questions, closing arguments.”
I feel miserable. We’ve already done algebra and English and it’s like somebody has scraped out the inside of my brain, cantaloupe style. There’s a cauldron of acid boiling in my stomach.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks. “You don’t look so good.”
“You’re telling me,” Walden says.
“That’s not what I meant. I mean you look like you don’t feel good.”
“I’m fine,” I say, lying. I am the definition of not fine. I feel hot and clammy at the same time. I feel like I’m going to throw up. This one mosquito won’t leave me alone. The wooden bench is unforgivingly hard beneath my body. But there’s no getting out of debate, and I force myself to concentrate. You can do this Rainey. C’mon. Merit-based system. I pick up the dictionary and flip its thin pages until I find the word “merit.”
Merit, noun. The quality of being particularly good or worthy, especially so as to deserve praise or reward.
Huh? A second definition, though, makes more sense. The state or fact of deserving.
Okay. So, I guess in this scenario, a merit-based system would be one where the people who get the vaccine are the ones who deserve it the most.
But how do you decide who deserves it the most? How do you decide who deserves to live or die? That, I guess, is my problem to solve. Reaching down and gathering up what’s left of my energy, I start making notes.
The winner of the last debate presents the first argument.
“In a sad situation like this,” Walden begins, “the only way to achieve true fairness is through a system that gives the cures out at random. We’re all equal in our hearts and souls, which means we all deserve an equal chance at life. We could never trust anyone to be fully unbiased when choosing the fates of others, and therefore, the fairest way to decide would be to create some kind of system where the names were chosen by chance, a lottery, maybe, where no one had any control so that there could be no possibility of rigging the outcome in anyone’s favor. Of course, it would be difficult to live with the results, especially if you were a person whose name wasn’t chosen, or one of their family members. But in this way, at least you could go on knowing they were fair and untainted. It’s not perfect, but it’s the only way. Furthermore…”
As I listen to Walden, my mind drifts. I feel flushed and fan my face with my notebook. Not only that, my nose itches and throbs from where the nose ring went through. It feels like my nose has been stung by a bee, but I can’t see or even touch the sting spot, which is agonizing.
“Rainey?”
“Huh? What?”
“Your turn,” Mom says.
I take a deep breath and look down at my notebook. My notes and bullet points swirl, then snap back into focus. Swirl, then snap. C’mon adrenaline, get me through this.
“Though at first it might seem like randomness is the only and best choice,” I say, “the system my opponent speaks of has some flaws. Since this situation isn’t happening in a vacuum but in a place where societal factors would be involved, like it or not, the powerful would always find a way to rig the system. True randomness, therefore, could never be achieved in a societal structure, even in the best of situations. Even if it was made to look random. Like, who’s creating this supposedly random system? Probably someone in a position of power, right? And who’s more likely to be in a position of power? Someone with money. It’s too much to ask that people in positions of authority could remain truly neutral when they would certainly have family members or maybe close friends who had the disease. True fairness is only a myth.”
As I read, I find myself feeling more committed to my ideas. I want to be right. Even more, I want to beat Walden. I look at my parents.
“What would you both do to protect me? Or Walden? You’re fair people, but if it was my life or his on the line, if we had the disease and you didn’t, I don’t believe you’d be able to remain truly neutral—even if you wanted to. I don’t believe you’d be content to live with only a random chance at saving our lives, not when you could increase the odds. Your instinct to protect us would overwhelm your desire to be fair to others, and you’d take some sort of action to tip the scales in your favor.”
“How? That doesn’t even make any sense,” Walden says.
“No interrupting,” Dad says.
“Additionally, my opponent is preoccupied with fairness, but since when is fairness the most important consideration when people’s lives are on the line? Like, who usually ends up going to war? Poor kids. Not rich kids. Dad, what’s that CCR song?”
“Fortunate Son?”
“Yeah. Fortunate Son. And fairness isn’t as black and white as he would have you believe. Like, who creates the terms of fairness? God? Our leaders? Our parents? They can’t be trusted anyway.” My dad chuckles at this. “There are also different ways to talk about fairness. For instance, economic and social fairness. In a poor family, if one of the people with the disease is the main money maker in his family, and he doesn’t get chosen in the lottery, his family suffers too, and maybe even dies for his bad luck. Whereas, if it’s a rich person who doesn’t get chosen, his family will probably be fine because they’ve already got money. In that situation, randomness seems cruel and biased, not necessarily fair.
“And what about a person’s age? Should a ten-year-old girl have the same chance of not getting picked as a seventy-year-old woman? That’s not fair. The seventy-year-old has already had a long life and doesn’t deserve extra years more than the ten-year-old. Who would want to take part in a system that blindly gives a seventy-year-old an equal chance at more life as a ten-year-old? Not me. Therefore, I put forward that access to the cure should be prioritized by age, and then to those families who would be most affected in the case of death.”
After the opening arguments, we trade rebuttals, then take questions from the judges (my parents), who try to poke holes in our positions. We’re each given ten more minutes to prepare a closing argument, but I’ve used all my energy, and only manage to scribble a few more words. Walden gives a strong closing. Of course, he does. It’s my turn, but I’m spent. I can feel that my shoulders have slumped, and I just want to go back to bed.
“Rain Man?”
“It doesn’t matter what I say. You guys are going to say Walden won anyway.”
“Wait a minute, not necessarily,” Dad says. “You’re making some very compelling points. I’m on the fence at the moment. But if you don’t give a strong closing, you’re going to tip the scales toward your opponent no matter what.”
“Fine, whatever,” I say. “I kind of don’t really care right now.”
“How can you not care? You put so much into the argument.”
I shrug.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“She’s just mad because she’s going to lose again,” Walden says.
“Shut up,” I say, feeling really angry all the sudden. But he’s not the problem. Everything is. My whole life. Suddenly, sitting here on a July day having school, debating things that aren’t even happening and will never happen, while other kids swim and eat ice cream feels totally absurd. And colossally unfair.
“I don’t want to have school like this anymore,” I say.
“What do you mean? This is only our second school day in a week,” Mom says.
“We’ve been slacking off all summer.”
“No, I mean I want to go to a normal school, with normal teachers and a classroom, and gym class and lunch, like normal kids do.”
“Where is this coming from all of the sudden?” she asks. “First that thing you said in Saint Louis, and now this.”
“What thing she said in Saint Louis?” Walden asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “None of your business.”
“I went to so called normal school,” Dad says, making air quotes. “You’re not missing much, kid.”
“But you turned out okay. What’s so wrong with regular school? With a regular life? The way we do things is so weird.”
“Regular is subjective,” Dad says. “It all depends on where you’re sitting.”
“Rainey,” Mom says, and I can feel a patented Tracy Cobb treatise on the meaning of life coming my way—the last thing I’m in the mood for. “We’re giving you something far more valuable than a school could ever give you. In a, quote, un-quote, regular classroom, you’re one of only twenty students and hardly ever get the kind of challenge or attention needed for you to truly grow. Not to mention we’re showing you the world. Or the country at least. And helping you develop a talent you can use your whole life to make yourself and other people happy. And earn a living from, if you choose to.”
A living? I think about rusty old Howard the Duck. The way my bunk shakes with every bump in the road. The way Walden and I still share a bedroom at home. All the boxes of CDs we have left.
“I feel like I’m missing out on a lot of things.”
“What? What things?”
“I don’t know. Things that kids do.”
“Rainey, I know you can’t see this yet, but you couldn’t be more wrong.” Mom pauses, as if she wishes she’d chosen different words. “You’re getting the kind of exposure to people and places, to real life, that most kids could only dream of getting. You’re going to be ready for the real world in a way they won’t ever be.”
“I don’t even know any other kids. I don’t even have friends.”
“That’s because you’re so mature for your age. You’re more comfortable around adults. You always have been.”
“I don’t want to be mature for my age,” I say. “I just want to be an ordinary girl!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re not,” my mom says. “You’re not just an ordinary girl. Not even close. You’re the opposite of ordinary in about every way imaginable. And the fact that you can’t see the beauty in that, well…” and here my mom trails off. But then she gathers her thoughts for one more burst. “What I’m trying to say is that ordinary, or what you’re describing as ordinary, is fine for other people. But not for us. Not for you.”
Track Sixteen
A Bubble Balanced on the Tip of My Finger
I manage to make it back to my room before throwing up, but then all the food I’ve ever eaten in my life comes flying out of me, like somebody has flipped an ejector switch in my stomach. Stand back, men, she’s going to blow! I kneel over the toilet and get sick over and over and over again.
Here’s a list of the stupidest things I’ve ever done:
Drink too much vodka.
Drink too much vodka.
Drink too much vodka.
Drink too much vodka.
Drink too much vodka.
I’m sure there are others that deserve a place on this list, but that’s the only one that matters at the moment. I do, though, cross #9 (done anything rebellious) off my “Nevers” list and add a second item to my list of Things I Did for the First Time When I was Fifteen.
Kissed someone.
Pierced my nose.
Then I lay down on my bed and pass out.
I make it through Wednesday night’s show on a wave of desperation-fueled adrenaline, nearly throwing up again during the electric set when the crowd is stomping their feet during “I’ll Take You There,” imagining grape soda Nutter Butter vodka vomit spraying all over the piano keys and my black dress. This horrible image, somehow, manages to help me choke it down and keep my rhythm steady-ish and my singing on-key-ish. I don’t know how Janis Joplin did it.
I can’t help but notice, though, that every seat in the house is filled. Finally. We did it. A sellout.
Backstage, as the audience claps for the encore, each clap a whack against my temple, I tell my mom I don’t want to go back out, and I’m not even aware of what’s played for an encore, or by whom, because my head is in the nearest toilet. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so grateful for indoor plumbing in my life. Hollowed out like a Jack O’ Lantern, I’m not even sure what could be left in my system at this point.
“Drink lots and lots of water, so much you can barely stand it,” Dad says, pulling me aside. “And take these.” He drops six aspirin into my palm. “Take three now, the other three when you wake up in the morning. Live to fight again another day.”
“Does Mom know?”
He shrugs. “I think she was a little too distracted to suspect,” he says, pointing at my nose ring. “Plus, I think maybe you just ate something funny that upset your stomach, don’t you?”
