Behind the Song Read online

  From then on, Troy and I had to hide our friendship, sneak it in here and there. We were like Romeo and Juliet, only without all the kissing and wherefore-art-thous and fake-suicide-producing-actual-suicide fiascos. So nothing like them, really. More like—shit, I don’t know any comparable duos.

  We were a duo of dudes.

  A bargain at half the price.

  • • •

  “Smells like shit in here,” says Troy, navigating the streets of our neighborhood.

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “How do you not smell that?”

  I take a long, exaggerated sniff, hoping against hope Troy doesn’t look in the back seat. It’s dark and he’d have to spin a total one-eighty to see it, but still.

  “Now that you mention it,” I say, “it does smell a little musty. Does AIMerica sell cologne?”

  As I suspected, the mere mention of AIMerica kills that line of conversation. Troy rolls through a stop sign, says, “So your plan is…what? We just walk up and knock on Calvin Reid’s door? Ask if he indulged in any wayward or otherwise criminal trick-or-treating activities last night?”

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  “Which is?”

  I could tell him now. I could pull my plan from the shadows of the back seat and show him exactly what’s going to happen. But in addition to spoiling the fun, Troy would most likely veer his parents’ automobile right off the road.

  “I’m going to improvise,” I say. “Take a right on Dolan.”

  “I know where the Harcourts live,” says Troy, turning right. “And you just might improvise yourself into oblivion.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Remember last year when a couple members of the PTO tried to organize a school trip to the gun range, which obviously got shot down because it’s batshit crazy, but—”

  “Pun intended?”

  “What?” says Troy.

  “You said shot down. Referring to the gun range.”

  “Look, whatever, point is I heard from a reliable source the idea was initiated by none other than Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt, and if they feel that strongly we should be taking up arms during school hours, I can’t imagine they’ll have any qualms about doing the same after dark on their own property.”

  “Who was it?” I ask.

  “Who was who?”

  “You said, ‘a reliable source.’ Who was it?”

  “Nobody. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Was it Todd?”

  For about a month last year, Troy and I had a brief falling-out wherein he very quickly found my replacement in Todd Blakely, a kid who deified Fox Mulder, who had every episode of The X Files memorized, who, above all, prized conspiratorial knowledge of government cover-ups and the inalienable (so to speak) proof of the existence of extraterrestrial life. Oh—on earth, I might add. Forget UFOs. Those suckers had been identified. They were among us.

  “Who cares about my source?” says Troy. “We’re talking about a couple of gun-toting, NRA-parading fanatics.”

  “Says Todd.”

  Troy sighs. “Doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

  “Well, you rack up enough conspiracy theories, eventually one of them is going to pan out, I suppose.”

  “Danny—”

  “Troy,” I say. “We’ll be careful. If a parent answers the door, we’ll just, you know, play it cool.”

  “You’ll play it cool. I’m staying in the car. This is your whacko idea.”

  “Did you just say whacko?”

  “Ridiculous, goofy, dangerous, preposterous. It’s in that family.”

  “Okay, well excuse me for wanting to confront my nemesis.”

  “Confront your nemesis? He stole your candy, dude. It’s not like he’s Doc Ock.”

  “First of all, Doctor Octopus was absolute cake compared to the Green Goblin, and second of all—shit, I forget what we were talking about.”

  “Nemesis confrontation.”

  “Right, and second of all, Calvin Reid Harcourt is worse than the Green Goblin and Doc Ock combined. He’s the most nemesistic nemesis in the history of nemeses, and I fully intend on Super Frogging his ass.”

  Troy shakes his head. “You have serious problems. You know that, right?”

  “I do, in fact.”

  The two of us sit in a peculiar silence as if the cushiony interior of the Honda Pilot muffles more than words, but thoughts too. Doesn’t matter. We’re almost there.

  Looking for something to say, I pat the dashboard. “So when do the robotic parentals return?”

  Troy sighs, says nothing.

  “You think they figured it out yet?” I ask.

  “You mean that the company they’ve devoted their lives to is a scam, or that they’ve traded away every friend they ever had all in the name of fry pans?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  Troy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

  • • •

  In 1897, four students chose Texas Christian University’s mascot. This was back in the day when the school was located in Waco and called AddRan Christian University, or some such shit. Sometimes I wondered what compelled those four students to go with the horned frog as a mascot, but mostly I wondered why no one else had. Troy and I were both fairly obsessed with Super Frog, inasmuch as teenagers can be nonsexually obsessed with a thing. Neither of us said it out loud, but Super Frog had factored into both our decisions to attend TCU next year. As in-state universities go, who’s going to mess with Super Frog? Bevo the Longhorn Steer? Bruiser the Baylor Bear? Rowdy the Roadrunner? My dad was a TCU baseball coach and even during losing seasons there was something in the air, something felt by players and fans alike. I like to think that thing was pride.

  Or maybe it wasn’t. Who could say.

  Point is, our future seemed pretty freaking bright. Whole lives ahead and all that jazz. So one might wonder why we would bother seeking justice against a high school delinquent who has so little going for him that he resorts to following two relatively older trick-or-treaters (himself no spring chicken, but whatever), and then, after ninety minutes, 154 houses, and two pillowcases brimming with candy (and if you think Troy and I didn’t labor over that mathematical equation, you may as well join the ranks of the adult Callahans and their fry-pan-loving, soul-trading ilk), sneak up behind those two trick-or-treaters, grab their pillowcases, and run.

  There were five of them. Much bigger than us. But Troy and I hadn’t spent all that prep time clocking maximum efficiency of seconds per house (thirty-five, to be exact, which allowed time for some modicum of politeness without encouraging actual conversation) only to watch our hard-earned loot disappear into the dark without a fight.

  We ran after them like the ever-loving wind.

  After a few blocks the Halloween Bandits cut left between two rows of houses, stopping short at a high wooden fence. Troy and I blocked their only way out, and even though they outnumbered and outsized us, they seemed temporarily perplexed by the current state of affairs. Each of them wore masks, so up until this moment we still didn’t know who exactly we were dealing with. Eventually the taller one sighed, shrugged, and slid his hockey mask up, revealing a decidedly ugly mug.

  I knew that sigh, that shrug, that mug.

  “What’s up, guys?” said Calvin Reid Harcourt, seemingly pleased as pudding to be having this conversation.

  Now look, if history has taught us anything, it’s that people with three names have it way harder than the rest of us. From the extra effort in preschool (spelling three names instead of two), all the way into adulthood (when one must choose between a variety of occupations including professional assassin, amateur skier, washed-up musician, or run-of-the-mill douchebag), toting around three names ain’t no picnic. Calvin Reid Harcourt had, thus far, proven to be nothing more than a run-of-the-mill
douchebag.

  “Give us the candy and we’ll let you go,” I said.

  I could almost hear Troy next to me. Dial it down, dude.

  Calvin Reid laughed, which seemed to be just what his minions were waiting for—some sign as to how they should adjust their own moods. They laughed accordingly, looking around at each other from behind their respective façades (mostly hockey masks, but there were two or three Scream costumes thrown in for good measure).

  Calvin Reid wiped a lace of sweat off his upper lip. “What the hell are you guys dressed as?”

  Troy and I looked at each other. What had once seemed a hilarious idea—Ewoks—now seemed exceptionally childish.

  “You know what’s funny?” said Calvin Reid. “We thought we were trailing a couple of middle schoolers all night.” The minions laughed. “You guys are huge nerds, you know that right?”

  We did, in fact, know this, but neither Troy nor myself were willing to concede that to the likes of Calvin Reid Harcourt.

  So I said nothing.

  Troy chose the far nobler path of clearing his throat.

  Well played, dude. Well played.

  Calvin Reid sort of chuckled and shook his head at us like we were hamsters doing complicated tricks. “I mean, really, it’s just a couple bags of candy. What are you guys, like, in the fucking fifth grade?”

  I wanted to ask what grade that made him, seeing as how he was stealing our candy. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, a furry little idiot, wondering why trouble seemed to follow me around. It’s not like I asked for it. It’s not like I went in search of it.

  Calvin Reid raised both pillowcases chest-high. “This is ours now. Get it? It belongs to us. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

  In my mind, I morphed into Super Frog, did a triple backflip right up into Calvin Reid’s grill, spin-move, spin-move, open palm to the face, smack! roundhouse to the junk, thut! effectively incapacitating him at present, as well as diminishing any reasonable chance of future Harcourts terrorizing my neighborhood. In my head, Troy took out the minions with supreme ease, his martial-arts skills second only to my own, and together, victors at last, we feasted on the blood-candy of our slain foes.

  We didn’t actually move. Like, at all.

  “Peace out, teddy bears,” said Calvin Reid, sliding his mask back down over his face. His cronies nodded in Labrador-like approval, and as one, they walked right by us onto the street.

  “We’re not teddy bears!” I yelled into the dead of night. “We’re freaking Ewoks!” I looked at Troy. “Dude.”

  “Don’t dude me,” he said, turning and walking the other way. “You didn’t do jack-shit either.”

  And so it was that I found myself standing alone in an Ewok costume, in a stranger’s lawn, contemplating my existence. And I began to perceive something new, something deeper than loneliness or my impending existential crisis. I felt the long, cold tentacles of vengeance wrap around my heart. It wasn’t about stolen candy, not even the sobering loss of our full-sized Butterfinger bars from Mansion Row. It was about justice. Suburban justice. It was about not letting Calvin Reid own my ass every single time. It was about growing up. It was about channeling the bravery of Super Frog, about standing up for what was right in the face of a half dozen hockey masks (and a couple Scream ones for good measure). It was about the cessation of doing nothing. It was about action.

  “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

  The owner of the house (whose lawn I was standing in) had just walked out on the front porch.

  “I’m an Ewok,” I said.

  He nodded. “Get off my lawn.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  I ran the whole way home, too excited to be upset.

  I had a plan. One that involved a short trip to Texas Christian University.

  • • •

  Troy shifts to park in the Harcourt driveway, but leaves the engine running. After my covert op to TCU last night, this makes two evenings in a row when I can basically feel my heartbeat in my toes.

  The head of Troy’s Ewok costume is still on the dashboard, staring me down like it owns the place.

  “Danny,” he whispers.

  “Troy.”

  “You don’t have to do this. They stole our candy. Big deal. We can buy more.”

  “It is a big deal, Troy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because today, it’s candy. Tomorrow, it’s my girlfriend.”

  “Dude. You don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Dude. I might tomorrow.”

  We both chuckle, but the joke doesn’t really land. I fight the urge to crack another one. I fight the urge to say dude and be done with it. I fight the urge to, once again, cower in the towering shadow of confrontation. We could turn around now. We could keep being sweaty little Ewoks who stand for nothing. The thing is…

  “I’ve had it,” I whisper.

  “With what?” asks Troy.

  I take a deep breath and look out the front windshield where the Harcourt house looms large and dim. “You ever think about why your parents joined AIMerica in the first place?”

  “Almost exclusively,” says Troy. “Well, that, and having sex with Stephanie Preston.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well now I’m thinking about that too.”

  “Yeah.”

  I shake my head, melting away all thoughts of Stephanie Preston, then twist around and reach into the back seat, pulling out the pièce de résistance of my revenge, the proverbial cherry on top.

  “Whaaaat the fuuuuu—?” So shocked by the weight of what he sees, Troy’s vocal cords are rendered temporarily useless. In one fluid motion, I raise the giant gray, stubby-horned fabric in all its preposterous glory, and slide a musty-scented Super Frog’s head over my own.

  Whoever wore this thing last must bathe in Old Spice.

  I look left, but can barely see anything through the slit in the mascot’s mouth. I see enough, though. Troy’s face is a combination of awe, confusion, and laughter.

  “Whaaaat the fuuuuu—” he says again, apparently still vocally incapacitated.

  “Last night”—I slip into a fit of coughs, the overwhelming Old Spice scent getting the better of me.

  “You okay?” asks Troy.

  I pull it together, start over again. “Last night, I had a vision.”

  Troy stares a solid foot over my eyes, into the eyes of Super Frog.

  “Hey,” I say. “Down here. My eyes are in his mouth.”

  Troy lowers his eyes to meet my own, but only for a moment. Eventually, they drift back up to Super Frog’s eyes, and I accept this as part of my new identity.

  God, it’s getting hot in here.

  “We’re at war, Troy. Suburban war.” I clench a fist and raise it in front of my face. Something about the anonymity of wearing a giant frog’s head makes me feel powerful, brave, and a little drunk. (Though that could actually be from the Old Spice fumes.) “Calvin Reid has had it out for us for years. And he always wins.”

  I consider the many nights of fallen Zelda, and red-cheeked parents, and buzzing on margaritas. I consider the fire pit out back, and how Troy and I waited until our parents got cold and went inside so we could duel to the death in a game of smoke swords. I think about the mucho ass Taco Saturdays kicked—until they didn’t. And all because the Callahans continued to lie down to the Man time and time again, until they no longer knew they were lying down.

  And now they deal in fry pans.

  “Remember when Calvin Reid egged your house?” I ask, all-out sweating now, my words muffled by the lower lip/upper neck of Super Frog. “We knew it was him, and we did jack-shit about it. Or how about the time he stole the entire neighborhood’s bike chains during the Tour De Frankie? Not to mention t
he steady dose of torture and humiliation he serves up at school each and every day.” Troy still stares a foot above my eyes, and this thing is really heavy, so each time I nod or make any strenuous hand gestures, Troy jerks back a little in his seat. “Calvin Reid roams our streets like a king. He answers to no one like the rest of us are just a bunch of jokers who owe him the very air we breathe. We make fun of your parents joining AIMerica, Troy, but we’re no better. We’ve been lying down so long, we forgot what it feels like to stand up. We’re losing the war, and I’ve had it. Tonight, all debts are paid. Tonight, my anger is righteous and justice is served. Tonight, Calvin Reid answers to me. Tonight, we stand up, Troy.”

  Cue the Honda Pilot silence.

  We stare at each other for a second while I wait for Troy to break into applause, or show me chill bumps on his arm, or start sobbing uncontrollably—anything to indicate the spectacular-ness of my rousing oratory.

  He glances in the back seat. “How the fuck did you get that thing in here without me knowing?”

  Okay. Not what I expected.

  “I know where your mom keeps the keys,” I say.

  He swallows, stares back up at Super Frog’s eyes. “And where did you, um, acquire it?”

  “The TCU locker room. It’s the off-season, so I figured who’s gonna miss it?”

  “You broke in?”

  “Dude. No. I know where Dad keeps the keys.”

  Troy nods a little. “You pay a lot of attention to where people keep their keys.”

  “Yes I do.”

  More silence.

  “So,” I say. “What did you think of my little—you know—speech?”

  Troy nods. “Oh, you’ve lost it entirely.”

  I clear my throat. “Right. But I mean. You love me.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’re with me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” I look back at the Harcourt house. “Because I am actually a little scared.”

  Troy unlocks the doors. “You think you’re scared. At least you’ve got Super Frog to hide behind. I’m going up there with nothing but my smoke sword in my hands.”