The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine Read online

  “Oh…yeah, I guess it is.” I swallow and a strange silence fills the room.

  “Dylan?” Angie says. “Where is your mom?”

  The million-dollar question. I take a deep breath, pull up a chair, and sit beside Angie. As I struggle for words, Tripod jumps into my lap. I want to swat his mangy behind, but instead I pet him a few times. “My mother is…well…she’s gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean?”

  “She left,” I say. “Moved in with that guy, her old art professor, Philippe LeBlanc.”

  “But…,” Angie says. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  I give her a look like Must I really spell it out?

  “Dylan, you can’t mean she’s having an affair? I thought you said…”

  It’s kind of ironic, because Randy and I used to joke around and call Philippe LeBlanc Philippe the Fag, since he fit the whole clog-wearing, purse-toting gay artiste stereotype. At the time it was kind of funny. Not anymore.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess we all thought Philippe was gay. But apparently not. Anyway, he and my mom are in Paris right now. They have a show together.”

  “Oh, God.” Angie reaches for my hand, and I let her take it; in fact, it suddenly feels like I’m holding on for dear life. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. I had no idea. What about your dad? How’s he taking it?”

  “I don’t know, really. We don’t talk much, since he basically camps out at the hospital.” I look into Angie’s eyes, and before I know it I’m spilling my guts. I tell her about getting arrested with underwear shoved up my shirt, about the Franz Warner drug deal gone awry and the piss test performed by Officer Greenwood.

  “Unbelievable,” she says. “Man, you sure got the bum rap.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve got to go to court next week too, and there’ll be some hours of community service. But at least the drug thing isn’t on my record.”

  “What did Randy say? I hope he apologized.”

  I shake my head. “No, but he did manage to hook up with Franz Warner in the middle of the night. When I left for the game this morning, he was outside smoking weed on my parents’ balcony.”

  Angie studies me for a while. “You’re worried about Randy, aren’t you?”

  “Um, mostly I want to kill him, but yeah, I’m worried. Since my mom left, he’s been getting high with his friends every day.”

  Angie sighs, shoos Tripod off my lap, and leads me back to my room. We sit on the bed and she gives me a hug. Man, it feels good. I’m not even thinking about sex right now; all I know is that my best friend is back.

  Suddenly I hear a loud “Ahem!” and when I look up I see every member of the Dead Musicians Society—Moser, Headbone, Randy, Nick, and Chloe—standing in the doorway grinning at the two of us.

  “Well, hello again, stranger,” Randy says to Angie. “Looks like you and Dyl finally hooked up, huh?”

  Angie smiles, keeping one arm around my waist. “Hey, Randy, hey, guys.”

  Moser scratches his neck, which is beginning to resemble a stalk of strawberry rhubarb. “You, uh, enjoying yourself there, Dyl?”

  “You know it, dude. Keep showering and one day this may even happen to you.”

  Everyone laughs, except Moser. “Hey, come on, guys, you know I have a problem!”

  Nick swaggers in and takes a seat atop my dresser; the rest of them follow. “Welcome back, Angie,” he says, and right away I can tell what’s going through his devious mind. Now that Angie’s home, it’s one less guy to get between him and Chloe. We’ll see about that.

  Meanwhile, Chloe has put on my Sticky Fingers LP, and surprisingly, I don’t even freak out about scratches and depreciation. As “Brown Sugar” begins to play, she gives Angie one of those mysterious girl smiles. “So, I thought you and Dylan were just friends,” she says. I’m not sure, but I think Chloe might be jealous.

  “Yep,” Angie says, tousling my hair. “We are. Best friends.”

  And then Headbone, who looks likes he’s been smoking some pretty strong reefer, elbows Moser and whispers something in his ear, and the two of them charge toward the bed, yelling, “Upset the fruit basket!” Like maniacs, they hop on and begin bouncing us around until my head rattles.

  Angie grabs the pillow she smacked me with and flails it at the two of them. That’s when I see Nick and Chloe in the corner of the room, dancing to my LP. His hands are moving up and down her hips. I glance at Randy leaning against the opposite wall watching the two of them, and suddenly I know what I have to do. I walk over to Nick, tap him on the shoulder like those guys in the old movies, and say to Chloe, “Excuse me, but may I have this dance?”

  Chloe doesn’t even hesitate. She ditches Nick, and while he stands there, jaw flapping, I take her in my arms. We dance for a while, looking into each other’s eyes, and the next time Mick wails out “Brown sugar!” I do this amazing deep lunge tango move and kiss Chloe right on the lips.

  Headbone puts his fist in the air. “Whoa, Dylan! Studmeister! Give us lessons!”

  Chloe laughs and I twirl her around, taking a quick glance at Angie to make sure she’s watching. She is.

  “Hey, Dylan,” Randy says, looking oddly proud of me, “you sure you haven’t been smoking Headbone’s Hawaiian?”

  “No, man,” I say, grinning wide. “Unlike you clowns, I’m high on life.”

  Moser and Headbone groan loudly, like this is the lamest thing they’ve ever heard, but I ignore them, lead Chloe over to Randy, and offer him her hand. She nods approvingly, and he takes it. Mission accomplished.

  “Come on, Angie,” I say, flashing Nick a sorry-dude-but-you-lose look. I pick up her black canvas camera bag and hike it over my shoulder. “Remember? We’ve got a movie to shoot.”

  Five

  “SO, ARE YOU IN LOVE WITH HER?” Angie says as we swipe our subway cards and push through the turnstiles at the Ninety-fifth Street station.

  “Who, Chloe?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Dylan, who else would I mean?”

  I look up for a moment, like I’m mulling this over, then shake my head. “Nah.”

  “Well, you could have fooled me.”

  The train is rumbling underground, and as we race down the stairs I’m feeling pretty good about this little turn of events. Now that Chloe’s in the picture and Jonathan is out, the shoe is on the other foot. The R wheezes into the station, and I hold the door for Angie. “She’s pretty, though,” I say. “And talented. Very talented.”

  “Who? Chloe?” Angie asks, brushing past me.

  “Ha, ha, very funny.”

  We transfer to the D at Thirty-sixth Street, and as the train takes off I glance around at the clientele. At first all the passengers seem fairly normal, but soon, at Pacific Street, a guy bearing a strange resemblance to the Tasmanian Devil enters, makes a beeline for the door opposite us, and begins shadowboxing with an imaginary opponent. “Don’t look!” I whisper, but of course Angie is already elbowing me while trying to stifle a laugh. “Cut it out!” I say. “You know what happens when nutcases are on the train with me!”

  It’s a running joke between me and Angie that if a deranged person climbs aboard a New York City subway car that yours truly happens to be riding, like a magnet he will find his way to me. “I can’t help it,” Angie says. “Look what he’s doing now.”

  I take a quick glance and see that the guy is in the middle of a multipunch combination—left jab into a right uppercut, followed by a left hook. He’s no Sly Stallone, but he does know a few things about boxing. Which, considering my track record with lunatics, is not a comforting thought.

  Just as Taz and I are about to lock eyes, I quickly purse my lips into a whistle and stare at the string of weight-loss advertisements along the wall. Hopefully, he won’t notice my scrawny chest and how little in need I am of a diet. For the next few minutes I manage to maintain a low profile, but as the train slows nearing Grand Street, I glance at Angie and see that she’s whipped out her camera and is now digitally recordi
ng Taz versus the phantom boxer.

  “Angie! Are you out of your mind? Put that thing away!” I whisper.

  “No! I’m getting excellent footage.”

  “Can’t you even wait till we get to the park?”

  She flashes me a wicked smile. “You know what they say, Dylan. Carpe diem.”

  I look around for a police officer, but of course there’s none available, since they’re probably all busting fifteen-year-old guys for things like underwear theft. Taz goes on like this for a while, but as the train comes to a halt he suffers a fatal blow to the jaw, stumbles backward, and falls to the floor. While the carload of passengers looks on, the doors open and an elderly Asian lady carrying two grocery bags stuffed with cabbages, leeks, and bamboo shoots steps over him, shakes her head, and mumbles, “Lousy bum.”

  “This is awesome!” Angie says, still shooting. “And just think, it’s only our first shoot!”

  The lady takes a seat across from us, sets down her vegetables, and gives Angie an icy glare. In my opinion, she looks more dangerous than Taz. “Turn. Off. The. Camera,” I say to Angie. “Now.”

  Reluctantly, Angie obeys, setting the camera on her lap, and for the next few minutes Taz continues to lie there motionless. “Dylan,” Angie says, nudging me. “I’m getting a little worried. The guy’s not moving. He might need CPR. You’re still certified, right?”

  My father may be a doctor, but that doesn’t mean I’ve inherited his affinity for emergencies, especially those involving blood and body fluids. Just the thought of this guy’s saliva in my mouth makes me break out into a cold sweat. “Angie, come on, the guy’s not hurt, he’s crazy!”

  Thankfully, as we near West Fourth, Taz wakes from his stupor. Angie wastes no time; she flips on the camera and begins to record. I glance at the lady with the vegetables, who is eyeing the guy warily. “Must you, really?” I say to Angie.

  She nods. “I must.”

  Right away Taz notices the empty space next to me, hobbles over, and takes a seat. “Man, that was rough,” he says. “I swear, that punch came out of nowhere.”

  Having had plenty of experience with mental cases on the subway, I know that it’s best to not completely ignore the guy, but to humor him mildly. I nod. “Mmm, yeah, dude, pretty rough.”

  “How long was I out?”

  I shrug. “Oh, maybe five minutes.”

  Angie is still shooting, and Taz doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he combs his fingers through his hair and smiles into the camera. “Hey, is this gonna be on TV?”

  “Um, well, no,” Angie says, “but if you like, it can be included in the short film I’m making.” I can’t believe she’s encouraging this freak.

  “Short film, huh? Cool. So what is this now, like an interview?”

  The lady with the grocery bags is shaking her head at us. I smile at her apologetically.

  Angie nods. “Yes, an interview.”

  “Okay.” Taz fixes his collar. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, let’s see,” Angie says. “Um, how did you get started in your career?”

  Career? She’s got to be kidding. The guy is practically sitting in my lap now, and his breath smells like Tripod’s litter box. “Oh, that’s easy,” he says, taking a few quick jabs. “I grew up on the streets. Been using my fists since I was five years old. When I dropped out of school, Don Turner took me into his gym—Gleason’s, up in the Bronx. Been training with him ever since.”

  I’m not a boxing aficionado, but my buddy Jake and I have watched several fights on HBO, and I happen to know that Don Turner is coach to Evander Holyfield—aka the Real Deal—former Olympian and four-time heavyweight world champ. And yes, he trains at Gleason’s Gym. Taz is more deluded than I thought.

  “And who was that guy?” Angie goes on. “The one you were just fighting?”

  “Oh, him?” Taz jabs his thumb toward the car door like the phantom boxer exited at Grand Street. “Mike Tyson.” He shakes his head and laughs a little. “Man, he really put the hurt on me today.”

  To my relief the train slows down and West Fourth comes into view. I grab Angie’s hand and pull her to her feet. “Yeah, well, we’ve got to go now. See you around, dude.”

  With Angie in tow, I race along the platform, praying to God that Taz does not follow us. When we reach the stairwell I glance back and see him hanging out the car door. “Hey, the name’s Holyfield! Evander Holyfield!”

  Angie and I zigzag through the streets of Greenwich Village, which is annoyingly the only section of Manhattan that doesn’t follow a grid pattern, and by some miracle wind up at the white stone arch on Fifth Avenue—the triumphal entrance to Washington Square Park. Inside, we pass the hangman’s elm (a tree they once used for public executions) and the dog run, where a German shepherd and a golden retriever are playing fetch with a Frisbee, and for a few minutes we watch a very intense chess match at the built-in stone tables at the southwest corner—the place where they filmed that movie Searching for Bobby Fischer.

  Next we head to the central fountain—a working stage for street performers—and see that a group of mimes dressed like the New York Yankees are about to begin a game of mock baseball against a team of clowns. The whole thing looks pretty cool, so we take seats on the surrounding steps. Angie shoots and I watch.

  One by one, the Yankees come up to bat while the clowns make goofy slapstick plays in the outfield. When the bases are finally loaded, number thirteen, “Alex Rodriguez,” who surprisingly looks a lot like the real A-Rod, gets up and hits a home run. This appears to be the grand finale, because as the audience cheers, the mimes whip off their baseball caps for tips. Which goes to show you that nothing is actually free in the Big Apple.

  Pretty soon A-Rod is making his way toward me. He holds out his baseball cap, and while I dig in my pocket for change, Angie zooms in for a close-up. “So,” she says, “what’s it like being a street performer in New York City?”

  He shrugs and makes a so-so gesture with his free hand.

  “He can’t talk, Angie,” I say. “He’s a mime.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  I pull out a few singles and toss one into A-Rod’s cap, but apparently this isn’t good enough. He stares me down until I fork over the rest. I figure this has to be illegal—extorting tips from minors—but just like the transit cops who are supposed to be hunting down guys like Taz, the officers who should be patrolling the park are probably sipping lattes at the Starbucks across the street.

  As A-Rod walks off with every cent I had to my name, Angie slips the camera into her bag and says, “Hey, Dylan, are you hungry?”

  Just the mention of food and my stomach begins to growl. I glance at my watch. It’s six o’clock, dinnertime. “Yeah, but…” I pat my pockets. “I’ve got nothing left. A-Rod cleaned me out.”

  “No problem,” she says. “My treat. Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Angie plops the camera bag onto my lap, and before I have a chance to tell her about my recent aversion to things like trans fat, additives, and preservatives, she’s running toward a traveling food cart labeled ATHENS EXPRESS parked just outside the arch. The guy manning the cart looks greasier than Moser, and when he opens the grill a cloud of black smoke billows above his head.

  Angie returns and hands me a crescent-shaped lump wrapped in aluminum foil. Slowly I peel it open and see that it’s a gyro sandwich. Charred flecks decorate the strips of lamb, and suspicious-looking grease is dripping from the bottom. I peer through the haze of smoke in the distance, wondering if Athens Express has ever passed a New York City Board of Health inspection. Not likely. “Um, Angie?” I say. “Do you think this meat is, like, sanitary?”

  Angie has already taken a monster-sized bite of her sandwich and is chewing gleefully. Grease runs down her chin. “I have no idea, Dylan. Just eat the gyro. It tastes good.”

  I peel off a little more foil, wishing there was a label to read. I mean, really, what’s in this thing? “So what’s your moviemaking strategy now?” I say,
pointing to a homeless dude with flea-infested dreadlocks and a coat of colorful rags who is standing atop a trash can and welcoming folks into the park. “Interview the Rasta man? Ask him how he got started in his human relations career?”

  She licks her fingers and shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”

  I sniff the meat and take a rabbit-sized nibble. “Or, better yet”—I motion toward a group of multipierced, multi-tattooed bikers challenging the regular chess players to a high-stakes match—“how about we film their game until one decides to go postal?”

  I expect Angie to laugh, but she doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Dylan, what are you so afraid of?”

  The question throws me off guard. I take a bigger bite of the gyro and chew. “Nothing. I’m not afraid, Angie. I was making a joke, all right?”

  She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head like I’m some kind of lost cause. “All right, fine, whatever.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She sighs. “Look, Dylan, all I’m saying is that you need to loosen up, take some chances, live a little. I mean, when was the last time you did anything remotely spontaneous?”

  I take a caveman bite of the gyro and chew hard. “Um, just this afternoon, in case you forgot.”

  “This afternoon?”

  Apparently Angie has a selective memory. “Yes. When I kissed Chloe.”

  “Ooooh, that. Well, I’ll admit the kiss was…different, definitely out of character for you, but think about it, Dylan, what did you do afterward? Handed her over to Randy like she was his property or something.”

  I shrug. “So? Randy likes her. And actually, so does Nick, which is why I’m trying to keep Chloe and Nick apart.”

  Angie looks at me like I’m crazy. “You see, Dylan, that’s what I mean. You kissed Chloe because you’re afraid she’s going to hook up with Nick.”

  I swallow, wishing I had some water to wash down this filthy sandwich. “That’s ridiculous, Angie. There’s absolutely no logic to what you just said.”