The New Kid In Town - An Excerpt from A Masque of Infamy

The New Kid in Town

by Kelly Dessaint

On my first day of school at Saks High, I spent all morning getting ready. I was sporting my coolest threads: a dark blue button-up over my Iron Maiden shirt. The ankles of my black jeans were pinned and tucked into my Nike hi-tops. I had all my earrings dangling. I’d put mousse in my hair to give it some lift. But the pièce de résistance was a pewter bolo tie in the shape of a cow skull that I’d scored at a Native American gift shop in New Mexico. 

I was rocking it hard. 

Before we left the house, the old man tried to convince me to change my clothes. 

“You shouldn’t draw so much attention to yourself,” he said. “In the South you need to be subtle.” 

But I didn’t want to be subtle. I wanted to make myself known and wave my freak flag as high as possible… let these hicks know I meant business.

After the old man dropped me off in the parking lot, I went to the vice-principal’s office to get my class schedule. On his desk, Mr. Griffin had spread out the transcripts from my two previous high schools. He did not look impressed. During my freshman year, my highest grade was a D, and I got expelled for cutting a kid in shop class. I thought I’d have to repeat ninth grade at the continuation school they sent me to after that, but miraculously, on the first day, they had me down as a tenth grader. 

Mr. Griffin pointed out that schools in Alabama were not as liberal with promoting students, but he’d abide by the school board of LA County and let me remain a sophomore. Then he informed me that semesters in Alabama started earlier than in California and, since I hadn’t completed the first semester yet, I’d have to make up the credits in summer school. 

Before I had a chance to absorb these ramifications, Mr. Griffin appointed a hall monitor to give me a tour of the campus. 

A guy in a letterman jacket looked at my schedule and grudgingly showed me where my classrooms were. As we walked through the deserted hallways, he asked where I was from. 

“Rose– I mean, LA.” 

“Where?” 

“LA. You know, Los Angeles. The city. It’s in California."

“You must be military,” he said with palpable disdain.

After the half-hearted orientation, I went to my first period. The teacher made me stand up and introduce myself to the rest of the class. I examined the whitewashed faces that stared me down. I didn’t see a lot of promise. But I kept an open mind. 

In the crowded hallways between classes, all eyes were on me. I felt like a celebrity. But I played it cool. 

Jeff Spicoli cool. 

During algebra, a girl tapped my shoulder and handed me a note. “You the new guy from LA, right?” she’d written. “I’m Denise.” 

I turned and smiled. She was a rocker-looking chick in faded jeans and a t-shirt with long brown hair parted down the middle. 

“Yeah. My name’s Louis,” I wrote back. “What’s up?” Just as I had expected, word of my arrival had spread like wildfire.

“Awesome. You fry?” 

I was surprised by her response. I’d been smoking pot for a couple years and had tried cocaine, but I’d never done acid before. Still, I was up for anything, so I replied, “Sure.” 

“Cool. Meet me in the parking lot after school.”

The rest of the day, I was nervous about my first acid trip. I’d heard stories about kids tripping out and jumping off buildings, thinking they could fly, having religious experiences and joining cults. I’d just seen Helter Skelter a few months back. Acid was some freaky shit. But I reassured myself that I could handle anything. If acid is what they did in Alabama, then I was willing to go along. The old man said I should try to fit in…

After school I walked to the parking lot and found Denise next to a dark blue Skylark. She introduced me to the chubby guy behind the wheel. “This my brother, Dale.” 

“What’s up, dude?” I climbed into the back.

Denise popped a Foreigner tape into the stereo and pulled out a joint. She got it going with the cigarette lighter from the dash and passed it to me. 

“Say. You ever been in an earthquake?” she asked, her arm on the back of the seat.

“Once, but I slept through it.” I took a small hit and passed the joint to Dale. I didn’t want to get too stoned, figuring they were going to bust out the acid soon. “My sister woke me up after it was over and I was all like, Earthquake? What earthquake?” 

Denise laughed. “I bet you seen lots of movie stars in LA?”

I had not. I’d cruised Hollywood Boulevard, but in the madness of that scene, it didn’t seem likely that Molly Ringwald or Eddie Murphy would be among the freaks and tourists who mobbed the sidewalks. But I figured the truth would only disappoint them. “Oh sure. All the time.” 

“Wow,” Denise said. “And you musta gone to the beach a whole bunch too, right?”

“The beach is cool.” That much was true. Except the ocean was thirty miles from my house and required a car, or a very long bus ride. 

“I just love the beach,” said Denise. “I’ve been to Florida twice. Do you know how to surf?” 

“Yeah, I surf. But I prefer boogie boards.” Only the latter was partially true. 

She held the joint and licked her finger to stop a run. “Say, you want a blowback?”

“What’s that?” Is this when they bust out the acid? I wondered, even more worried as the weed took effect.

“Shoot, you from California and I gotta learn you a blowback? It’s easy. When I blow, you inhale.” She put the joint in her mouth backwards and a stream of smoke came out the other end. 

“Oh, in LA, we call that a shotgun.” Just as I leaned in to take the hit, we approached a stop sign. Dale pressed the brakes and I bumped my lips against Denise’s mouth. Embarrassed, I choked on the smoke. 

Denise didn’t seem to notice. “LA must be so cool,” she said effusively. 

When they dropped me off that afternoon, I walked through the house quietly to avoid a stoned interaction with Rick. As I passed his room, I heard the blip and warbled chimes of Mario Brothers behind the closed door. I thought about how much fun it would be to play video games while high on pot. But the only way I could use his Nintendo or watch videos on his VCR was to participate in an endurance game. And I wasn’t in the mood for that. 

I found a snack in the kitchen and went to my room. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the bed, buzzed and ecstatic, watching the ceiling spin. Black Sabbath pulsated through my head from my headphones. I’d forgotten all about the acid, too preoccupied with the accidental lip bump, wondering if it counted as a kiss, which meant I could add another girl to my list of girls kissed for a grand total of four. I knew it was an accident—it’s not like she kissed me back. But our lips had touched and we weren’t related, so I figured, why not? The more the merrier. 

After that day, each afternoon, I hitched a ride home with Denise and Dale. They helped me grasp the cultural differences of Saks High and taught me how to speak Southern. As it turned out, in Alabama, “getting fried” meant “getting stoned.” They also explained that they weren’t “giving me rides” home, they were “carrying me” home. When they pointed to something in the distance it wasn’t “over there,” is was “over yonder.” And when we were about to take off, we were actually “fixing” to leave. The one that tripped me out the most, though, was that soda, regardless of the flavor or brand, was called Coke. 

I caught on quickly, though I never intended to add these terms to my vocabulary. I was determined to maintain my LA attitude. Besides, if I had, I would’ve been putting on airs. And in a small town, they told me, there was nothing more deplorable than pretending to be something you’re not. 

from A Masque of Infamy