The Voice on the Radio

  Reeve looked down and breathed deeply.

  “She didn’t kill you?” said Derek, interested. “I would have.”

  “She broke up with me. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “If she broke up with you,” said Vinnie, “you can still do the janies. You got nothing more to lose. Problem solved.”

  “I promised I wouldn’t,” said Reeve.

  “Promises to girls you broke up with don’t count.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Reeve. You didn’t keep the promises when you were going out with her. Why would you decide to be honorable now that you’re not going out with her?”

  Reeve must have used the right tone of voice. When he said again, “No. I’m not doing it anymore,” they knew he meant it.

  It was not Vinnie who attacked, but Derek. “You took my hour,” he said. “I had that hour, Reeve, and I had to give it up.”

  For the second time that week, Reeve stood in a small, crowded room while people said how much they hated him.

  “I had a perfectly good program, Reeve!” Derek was shaking with the kind of rage that wants to wrap itself around something, like a throat. “You took it, and I became nothing but your lead-in. Vinnie put me on the shelf. And did I put a bullet through you or trip you up or do any of the hundred things I could have done to make you fail? No. I didn’t. Even I had to admit how good you were. And even if it isn’t me doing it, this station has gotten the importance it deserves. I love this station. You’re going to take the audience you’ve built up and throw it away? I’ll throw you away first! Don’t even think about it, Reeve. You’ll be here Tuesday, and you’ll do janies, and you’ll be back after Thanksgiving, and you’ll do your best, too.”

  So, his resignation hadn’t gone that well.

  The dorm did not prove to be safe.

  Vinnie followed Reeve to his room. He’d called in reinforcements. Visionary Assassins came with him.

  Naturally Cordell and Pammy stayed to see what was happening. The room had never been so crowded. When everybody was seated, mostly on the floor, Vinnie closed the door and leaned against it, to prevent Reeve from leaving.

  “Visionary Assassins,” explained Vinnie, in a new, gentle voice, “has a special club date. Big-name recording companies are sending representatives to hear them play the week after Thanksgiving at Peaches n Crude.”

  Reeve was genuinely surprised and thrilled for them. “That’s wonderful!” he said. “What’s the label? When did you find out? Which tape did you send them?”

  “We need you,” said the Assassins, brushing aside detail. “WSCK will announce this week and next week that you’re going to do a live janie that night. We’ll have lines out the door of Peaches n Crude. Think how impressed the studios will be! They won’t know it’s for janies and not us. We want a packed house.”

  Reeve thought of introducing the Assassins at the club. A live audience. He ached, wanting that mike. “No,” he said. “I’m not doing janies anymore. Good luck with your club night, and—”

  “It could be your chance, too, Reeve,” said Vinnie, still in the new, gentle voice.

  “The big time,” said one of the Assassins. The kid’s eyes were glowing, heat produced by the fantasy of the big time.

  Reeve’s fantasies were just as big. He was in the Little League of radio. He had a chance to make the majors. Stop, he said to himself, stop, stop, stop. “I’m not going into radio, I’m just having fun while I’m getting my degree.”

  “Come on,” said Cordell, “you don’t even know what courses you’re taking.”

  “In the really top radio markets,” said Vinnie, “they pull in thirty, forty million dollars a year in advertising. You’re wasted on a college station that can’t take advertising, Reeve. We got plans to spring you from this little station. Make you big-time.”

  Reeve had never had a close encounter with willpower.

  Mostly, he did what he felt like doing.

  Okay, senior year in high school he had buckled down to study, so that he could get into college after all. But it had taken no willpower. It had just been the right time for studying.

  Reeve made himself think of the Johnsons and the Springs. “No,” he said. “You’ll pack the club on your own, you don’t need me, and I’m done with the janies.”

  He thought Vinnie would kill him. Vinnie yanked the wooden school-type chair out from underneath Cordell and raised it like a lion-tamer.

  “We don’t mind filth and roaches, Vinnie,” said Cordell, “but we hate blood.”

  “What do you think college is for?” Vinnie spat at Reeve. “It’s for finding a place in the world. We’ve got a chance at a terrific place. Reeve, you have to do it.”

  I don’t want to be a shock jock, Reeve said to himself, it’s a scum career for scum people. Course, I’d fit right in.

  He ran his hands over his unshaved face. Maybe he’d grow a beard; hide behind stubble. “No,” he said.

  Vinnie tried to steady himself by setting the chair down very carefully, centering it on some invisible quadrant. “Reeve, she’s not gonna know. You’re making this big sacrifice for a girl who won’t talk to you anymore. So who cares? You’re doing this for somebody who isn’t going to give you points.”

  “Rich and famous,” said Pammy, “is always good.”

  Reeve didn’t sleep much that night.

  Sleep was one of the surprises of college. The dorm divided between people who never slept, who began partying at midnight and were going strong hours later, and people who slept continually, napping, dozing, sleeping on their bed, sleeping on your bed, sleeping through riots and marathons and ringing phones—Olympic levels of sleep.

  Reeve envied both.

  He could neither party nor sleep.

  He could only lie there.

  I’m weak, he thought. I managed to say no to Vinnie and the Assassins, but they’ll work on me, and Thanksgiving will be filled with Megan, Todd and Lizzie, who are all better than I am, and Janie will be right next door refusing to talk to me. So I’ll get back here feeling low and crummy and Vinnie will tell me how wonderful I am, how they need me, how I matter, and I’ll fall for it.

  So even quitting the station isn’t enough! I have to quit school. Live at home. Work for a while. Maybe next fall go to some college where they don’t have a radio station.

  He thought of Janie, and Sarah-Charlotte’s advice in the gym. Fight or flight. He would never have said, never, that he, Reeve Shields, would choose flight.

  He wanted to talk to Janie. Nobody knew him better. But she had known the old him; the nice, bland high school him. She didn’t want to know the new him.

  Neither do I, thought Reeve.

  He had the experience of waking up in the morning, so he must have fallen asleep. He tried to remember if he had attended a single class the previous week. Nothing came to mind.

  He went to the cafeteria for breakfast. Maybe a nice, wholesome start—bananas, orange juice—would make him a nice, wholesome person. Two pretty girls in heavy sweatshirts walked in as Reeve did.

  “Reeve,” said one, delighted. “I love your show.”

  He couldn’t help grinning.

  She blocked his path to the breakfast line. “What’s this rumor I hear that you’re quitting the station?”

  “It’s not a rumor.”

  “No, Reeve, come on! Our whole floor listens. We’ve even gotten used to Visionary Assassins. Are they paying you or something?” The girls were bouncing around him, as if he were a star.

  “Thanksgiving is such an interruption,” said the other girl. “We leave school tomorrow afternoon! You’ve got to do tonight, anyhow.”

  Reeve pretended to look at his watch. “I gotta run. You have a great day.”

  “But are you doing a janie tonight?” they called after him.

  He waved, jogged out of the building, and kept jogging. The muscles pulling felt good. His body, at least, was pleased with him. He ran down one Boston street
after another, until his unaccustomed calves were aching and the stitch in his side could no longer be ignored.

  After so much running, he was starving and made the mistake of going back to the cafeteria, where Derek caught him. Reeve had a loaded tray, was coming down the checkout line with his ID card, had nowhere to set the tray except on a table, and Derek joined him. “You coming tonight?”

  Reeve began to chew on his food.

  “There’s the Visionary Assassins club date to push,” said Derek mildly, “and we’ve logged a lot of calls for more janies before vacation.”

  Any from Hannah? Reeve wanted to ask.

  “Why don’t you just answer the phones?” suggested Derek. “Or you could study in the hall.”

  Vinnie and Derek knew perfectly well that Reeve couldn’t stand it. His tiny, pathetic willpower would be gone. He’d seize the mike.

  So he must not go.

  On the other hand, here was his chance to field that hannah call. Everybody who listened knew the janies were Tuesday-Thursday. If there was to be another call, it would be tonight.

  Reeve imagined the pause before the woman spoke. The rasping voice.

  The heavy copper taste filled his mouth again.

  If radio stations pay a lot for a decent jock, he thought, what would they pay for a guy who could draw a kidnapper out of thin air?

  The image of himself, on talk shows across the nation, featured morning, evening and postmid-night, glistened like gold.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Reeve’s brilliant sister Megan looked solid and stunning.

  His more brilliant sister Lizzie looked thin and stunning.

  His slightly less brilliant brother, Todd, looked tan, joyful, proud, in love and of course not only stunning, but also equipped now with an equally stunning bride.

  Nobody got around to asking Reeve whether he was stunning.

  I have a stunning amount of willpower, he said silently, across the turkey and mashed potatoes (for Dad) and sweet potatoes (for Megan) and scalloped potatoes (for Todd) and brown rice (for Lizzie). My willpower has lasted me one entire week.

  He gathered his willpower in his bare hands and walked next door to corner Janie in front of her parents.

  The Johnsons had gone to a restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner.

  Mrs. Johnson was regal, in very high heels, everything plum-colored: skirt, jacket, stockings. She looked beautiful, in a sixty-year-old way. Mr. Johnson wore the kind of suit Reeve associated with Wall Street, with a vest and a red bow tie that would have looked ridiculous on Reeve, and a cigar in his pocket. Reeve wanted a cigar conversation. How did they taste? Did Mrs. Johnson allow him to smoke it in the house? Would Mr. Johnson let Reeve try?

  Mr. Johnson was laughing. “That’s a cigar look,” he said. “I know a cigar look when I see one.”

  “And the answer, Reeve,” said Mrs. Johnson, “is no. Absolutely not. You may not begin smoking, you may not share a cigar, and in order to prevent cigar fantasies, you and Janie may go for a ride. Just be back in an hour because we have guests coming over.”

  “Guests now?” said Reeve. “On Thanksgiving Day, but not for dinner?”

  “That’s the best kind, the not for dinner kind,” said Mrs. Johnson. “They’re here for dessert and coffee.”

  Janie had not said a single word, or looked at Reeve, either. But he had just been handed time alone with her. Thank you, Johnsons.

  He turned. He faced her. She was expressionless. He fastened a smile on his face. She got her coat, got her mittens, got her scarf. There was going to be a lot of knitting between him and Janie.

  In her driveway, divided from his own by a row of sorry-looking shrubs, Janie said, “I’m going with you only so I don’t have to make explanations to my parents.” She opened her door, got in and slammed it, before he could touch her or her door.

  He drove down the old roads they used to love in high school: a view, a bridge, a sharp corner where he liked to leave a patch.

  Janie said nothing.

  In college, when they were apart, she had seemed so distant that she hardly seemed to exist. Now her presence consumed him. “Oh, Janie,” he said miserably.

  She shrugged.

  At the next stop sign, he looked at her. She was crying. “Janie, please don’t cry.”

  “Just drive,” she said. “Don’t talk to me, don’t comfort me, don’t do anything but kill time until we can go home. I’m going to tell my parents you have a girlfriend in Boston, the distance was too much, you forgot me. That’s the only explanation I can think of for why you’re not going to call, fax, e-mail, or Hallmark-card me again. We’ve broken up.”

  He actually felt broken.

  He had known from the moment Brian called WSCK that this would happen, and yet he had refused to believe it.

  It took him a few blocks to put his speech back together. “I don’t want to break up, Janie.”

  She did not bother to respond.

  “I’m going to quit college, Janie. It’s the only way to keep myself off the radio.”

  “You loved it that much, selling me? The only way to quit the radio station is to quit college?”

  He arranged his thoughts, which was not easy. Being with Janie disarranged every thought. He needed to explain the pressure on him; the anger of his friends; how he could not face that for three and a half more years.

  Before he’d thought about it, he had put his hand on her mitten.

  She ripped her hand away. “You’re nothing but a quitter anyhow, Reeve. Compared to your sisters and your brother, you’re nothing. How does it feel to be with them and see that? They’re trying to do good in the world, while you’re out there trying to destroy it. And then you don’t even have the guts to face it.”

  He wanted to argue with each sentence, but he didn’t know how. “I just tried to fill airtime, Janie.”

  “You could have thought ahead five minutes.”

  He had thought ahead five minutes. Right up to the next janie.

  He wanted to talk about the capital letter, but he could not imagine it. See, I reduced you; once I made you a lowercase letter, it was easy.

  He’d put the heat on. Janie snapped it off, as if to prove she was stronger than car fixtures. She was blazing. He found her incredibly attractive. Her hair was flying up, flying out, taking control of the scarf, getting in her mouth, getting in her way.

  “Janie,” he said, “could you consider my virtues instead of my vices?”

  “No.” The rage was over, she was just sick of him. “Take us home, Reeve.”

  “Janie, if I could turn the calendar back, I would. I’d go to football games instead.”

  “But you didn’t, Reeve, and I don’t want to talk about what could have happened.”

  “Janie, listen!” He yanked the car to the side of the road, leaving the signal on. She turned her back on him and looked out her window. “I was weak. I knuckled under. It was like being offered gold. And it was gold, Janie. I was gold. I never had success before. I never had people treat me like a celebrity. I knew I shouldn’t do it. I knew it wasn’t me, it was you. Your story, not my voice.”

  He wanted her to turn. He wanted to see her eyes, wanted this audience, of all his audiences, to be live.

  Janie did not move.

  Barbie has Ken, thought Janie, and Ken is great, but Barbie doesn’t have an outfit that makes her into a Ken accessory. Barbie has a life. Or actually, dozens of lives.

  I was planning to be a Reeve accessory. That way I wouldn’t have to have a life. I was going to lie out on the teak deck of our yacht, while he did the sailing. After all, if you run you own life, you might screw up. Like my parents with Hannah. Like Reeve with me.

  That’s why I don’t even want a driver’s license. I wanted Reeve to drive.

  She was only inches away from Reeve, but he wasn’t there; not her Reeve; and she missed him so much that she wept for him. She looked out the side window at the frozen ground and the f
allen leaves, instead of across the Jeep at the person pretending to be Reeve.

  Who’s pretending to be whom? she thought. I’m the only real life person I know who gets two lives and two names. I don’t want either of them. I want Reeve, the way I planned for him to be.

  He had primed himself to use that terrible word rape, that awful knowledge he’d had, that his talk radio had been the rape of her soul. He could not utter the word. He could not stand the thought of himself in that role.

  He said, “Janie, I love you, but I’m not a saint, any more than you are.” Out came the words he knew he should never say, just as the wrong words had continually come out on the air. “You were a brat to the Springs, Janie. You’re the one who made it so hard for everybody. I admit that I—”

  “I hate you. Don’t you compare us. I was forced into the choices I made. Nobody forced you, Reeve. Don’t pretend you’re a victim. You chose your little golden opportunity. Don’t you dare tell me you love me. There is no love in what you did.”

  He was pressed as hard against his window as she was against hers. “You’re right, there was no love in what I did, but I love you anyway.”

  “I do not love you anyway. Take me home.”

  He took her home.

  When they reached their double driveway, he wanted to hold her in the car by force. Make her listen. He stopped himself. It would be proof that not only was he stupid, but he could get stupider.

  On Friday Reeve watched from the window when Jodie and Brian pulled up at the Johnsons’, stayed an hour, and left with Janie. Exchanging Janie remained something the kids could do fairly easily and the parents could hardly do at all.

  His sisters and brother and Heather had gone into New York City for the day. He wished he had gone. He found his parents and came out with it.

  “Boston isn’t right for me,” Reeve told his parents. “I’ll finish the semester, and then I thought I’d come home and work for a while. Maybe go back to college next September. I saw an ad in the window at Dairy Mart, and I could probably—”