I smiled as I changed into some black leggings, an oversized light-pink sweater, and a pair of hot-pink Keds. I kept smiling as I put my hair in a side ponytail and grabbed my black backpack. I was smiling still as I waltzed out the door, waving to Mom and Dennis.
They looked like they felt sorry for me more than anything else.
Now, Max’s land was really his grandfather’s land. Of course, Max gets his grandfather’s land when his grandfather dies, but that’s another story. The place was up on Crow Mountain. It was too far to ride my bike. People had been coming out here since the 1960s. Meaning people like my mom, which was kind of weird if you thought about it—since there was a ton of drinking and sex. Lots of unplanned pregnancies were conceived here. Probably followed by vomiting and dry heaving. Ahh… memories.
Max’s grandfather was a bootlegger. During Prohibition he was the area’s biggest supplier of moonshine. (Commonly overlooked bit of Griffin Flat trivia: moonshine is the reason why our high school mascot is called the Shiners.) He made it in this cave on his land. It was dry and open. But the cave was like a small factory. He had this huge distiller. Even after Prohibition he continued making moonshine. Max’s dad continued the family tradition, even though it was so illegal. Max’s grandfather made the best illegal but tasty stuff. Max’s dad kept it in an underground shelter that his parents built during the brink of the Cold War. Back during the Cuban missile crisis. Back when we were almost annihilated by the Russians. Again. But everyone bought from him, even my grandfather, and Pops. There were quite a bit of “accidents” that occurred around here. When caught, a lot of men and a few women decided to make a break for it and run. And within a hundred feet of the cave is a drop. Watch your step, ’cause it will be your last.
Everyone from high school was here.
It wasn’t really saying a lot: Griffin Flat High School wasn’t that big, and neither was my class. I pulled up right behind Kevin Barnes’s beat-up old truck, got out of my car, locked it. An unlocked car equaled the perfect place to do the nasty. Many parties ago, after an incident that happened that one does not speak of, someone created a sign and nailed it on an old oak tree.
“Laura,” Max yelled, running toward me, “I have been waiting for you.”
“Are you drunk?” I asked.
“Nooooooo, honestly, I’m not. It’s soda.”
“Max—Max—Max—Max—Max—Max—Max…” the crowd chanted.
Max turned to the crowd, raised his cup in the air, and then proceeded to chug.
“Max—Max—Max—Max—Max—Max—Max…” the crowd chanted again.
Max stuck out his tongue, shook his head, crushed his cup with his left hand, and threw it to the ground. “Yeah, boy.”
The crowd cheered and went back to their drinks.
“What?” I asked, laughing.
“We all just formed a cult—and I’m their leader. Does this mean I should go to the store and pick up some Kool-Aid?”
“Don’t drink the Kool-Aid. Wait—” I said. “You’re the leader?”
“I know, I know. Last week they didn’t know my name. This week, damn, I’m—Max!” He yelled his name and everyone in unison proceeded to chant, “Max—Max—Max—Max.”
“I am a god,” he whispered in my ear.
I laughed.
“You’ll never guess who’s here,” he said.
“Who?”
“Come—you’ve got to see.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the cave. Sitting on a crate of dried apple slices was one celebrity—Astrid Ogilvie. Her blonde hair was so big. And her curls were permed, by the way; I can spot a perm a mile away thanks to Brenda Leigh’s Beauty Parlor. Plus, I get perms. Astrid kept moving her curly hair out of her face, blowing it back, but eventually asking some random girl at my high school for a scrunchie. There’s something about our weather down here that makes our hair rise to the occasion. Some say it’s the humidity, others say it’s to be closer to God, either way. No one knows the struggle of having to iron your hair just to get through a day.
No one in the cave was talking—they were just staring at her like we had just seen three seconds of unscrambled Cinemax or something.
Max grabbed my arm and pulled me toward her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked, trying to get him to let me go.
“You have to meet her. She’s just a person. Just like us.”
“No. She’s famous. We’re not.” Hearing my words in my head, I realized I sounded like Dana. Now I wanted to puke, and I hadn’t even had a single sip of beer.
“Come on.”
“If this isn’t rock bottom, then I don’t know what is,” Astrid said, clearly to us, but pretending as if she were just talking out loud to herself. Her eyes caught mine.
“Something I can help you with, miss?”
“I was just coming over here to say hi, that’s all.”
“Well, hi,” she imitated, emphasizing the southern drawl that was apparently my speaking voice.
I turned to walk away.
Max grabbed both my arms and said, “This is my friend Laura. She’s going to be in the movie too. She won the radio contest.”
Astrid flashed a big, fake smile. “Congratulations.” She sipped her beer with a straw. “I bet you’ll do great playing a hick.”
“Why don’t you reach down with both hands, firmly grasp the stick, and pull it out of your anus,” Max replied.
I laughed.
Her straw fell from her mouth. “Excuse me?”
“Take that stick, ya hear?” Max used the same exaggerated cowpoke lilt she’d just used with me. “Out. Of. Your. An-u-u-s.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” Astrid snapped.
People were staring now.
“Do you know who I am? Because you can’t talk to me like that. Who invited you to this party, anyway?”
“It’s my land. Who invited you?”
She didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “Kathy Baker.”
Of course. Kathy Baker: spoiled, stuck-up, and pretentious. The problem was that Max might not have been afraid of celebrities, but he was afraid of Kathy.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me away.
“I think I need a new pair of underpants,” he said once we were outside the cave.
“I can’t wait to see Astrid’s character die as a fireball engulfs her as she runs across Main Street searching for shelter,” I said.
My Lord. I really am Dana.
“Where’s Peony?” I asked Max.
Max put his index finger to the side of his nose and sharply inhaled.
“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Rehab.”
“Fifth time’s the charm,” he said.
Members of the football team were trying to pump the keg. I opted for a can of Coke. I nearly bumped heads with Kathy Baker as she grabbed a Diet Coke from the ice chest and shook the can to remove the excess ice. She would regret that later when she popped the tab.
“How’d you get Astrid to come?” Unlike Max, I felt only pity toward Kathy.
“I, like, asked her,” Kathy said under her breath. (As if talking to me would infect her with radiation poisoning.) “My dad was refilling a prescription for her. I, like, asked, and she came.”
I can just imagine how that conversation went:
“The Woods, it’s like where we party, and, like, we get drunk and hang. Making out is optional. [Insert laugh.] Please come and meet us there. You’ll, like, have lots of fun. It’s up the mountain and, like, go half a mile and turn right and you’ll see a big oak with a sign nailed on it—what you see here what you do here what you hear here when you leave here let it stay here and, like, around the corner is a cave, and that’s where we’ll be. There’ll be, like, beer and moonshine—tasty, trust me. See ya!”