The Crew

Untitled Part 4

Chapter Four

A week later, sitting at one of the blue metal picnic tables perched on the grass at St. Andy's campus, prior to the first bell, me and Cannon riffed. Tall stucco buildings surrounded us on all sides. Red-tiled Spanish roofs slanted. The river-rock pebble driveway wound through and around campus. The familiar, annoying white statue of St. Augustine stood at the edge of the lawn, by our Chemistry class.

Students crisscrossed the lush, vast lawn, heading to their respective classes. It was so bizarre, being with him in the morning now, like I'd seen him and D.D. most of freshman year, longing to know them. And now here I was. How many times had I watched the two punks from afar, with a nerd on either side of me discussing Dungeons and Dragons, talking about their useless, lame lives?

"Hey, Dog, riddle me this, guess what's on the agenda tonight?"

Cannon had picked up the mantra "riddle me this" from his father. Lorenzo was this crazy man in his early forties who was somehow a parent. Living in a sweet apartment on the sand in Oxnard Shores, he was usually gone, according to Cannon snorting coke and drinking at some local dive bar called The Rudder Room. Lorenzo would say: "Riddle me this, son, if my house ain't clean when I get back from the Rudder Room, you're going to wish you weren't born."

"I don't know, Cannon, the ultimate destruction of the world? Anarchy? The apocalypse?"

He grinned. "Even better. Punk party. My dad's house. Everyone'll be there."

The Topa Topa mountains behind the Administration building were stunning, as always, and the sun struggled to rise above the craggy peaks, which seemed sharp and jagged as a knife. Ojai was such a beautiful town, and yet, so boring. Horrendously boring.

I faced Cannon. "I'll be there."

"Hey," Cannon said, "You get your mom off your back?"

Sighing, I said, "Not exactly. I gave her your dad's number. She said she'd call him. At first she said I wasn't allowed to hang out with you guys at all, but then...we worked it out."

Cannon sneered. "I know. She called my pops."

My eyes grew wide. "Really? When? What happened?"

A cackle shot out from his mouth. "Couple days ago. Don't worry, Dog. My dad is the biggest bullshitter in the world. He covered for you."

I stared down at the grass, my eyes swiveling. She hadn't said anything about a phone call. After our fight we'd apologized to each other and "started over," one of our little rituals. She'd said I could stay out one night a week if I promised to be safe and gave her Cannon's dad's phone number. She'd decided to take a chance and trust me.

"Remember that Russian novelist I told you about, at the show," Cannon said, breaking my reverie. "Dostoevsky?"

I nodded.

"That line at the end, 'life replaced theory.' Remember how I told you that?"

"Yeah."

"In the novel it's about the protagonist realizing his immature, naïve theories about life are bullshit and discovering that what really matters is living, seeking experience, being true to himself. In the end, rotting away in prison, he realizes that the only thing which can save him is love. He's redeemed, resurrected like Lazarus."