Page 16 of The Ghostwriter

April 26, 1975

It seems as if everyone from our high school is in Ventura to see Pink Floyd. I stand on a grassy slope, anxious for Lydia to get back from the bathroom. The opening act will be wrapping up soon and I don’t want her to miss anything.

So far, the evening hasn’t gone as I’d hoped. It started with the ride from Mr. Stewart. When I saw his flashy Mustang barreling down the highway, I stepped back from the edge of the road, not wanting to get caught hitchhiking. But Lydia seemed to know something I didn’t.

“He’s a teacher,” I’d said, pulling her back.

Lydia had shaken me off. “He’s cool.”

“How do you know?”

She smiled and stepped forward, thumb out.

The ride had been even more awkward, with Mr. Stewart’s girlfriend, Amelia, making comments about how great it was that Mr. Stewart had bought the house next door. That we were now neighbors. I’d shrugged. As if I was going to agree with her.

Then Mr. Stewart had started in on Lydia’s running. How talented she was. How she could get a scholarship to college if she trained hard enough. I’d felt a tightening in my chest, a small knot of tension at the idea of Lydia leaving, exiting the small world we were building together and entering something bigger than I could ever offer.

People around me begin to clap, chanting for Pink Floyd to take the stage. I shove my hands into my pockets and decide to make the trek over to where they’ve set up a line of outhouses. If Lydia is going to miss the opening, then we’ll miss it together.

I’m descending into the area near the parking lot, the scent of pot, incense, and patchouli oil giving way to the ammonia stench of outhouses, when I see her burst through the door of one of the toilets, as if something inside is chasing her. She runs around behind it, disappearing from view.

I hesitate, wondering if I should follow or if she’d be annoyed with me. I don’t have an instinct for girls the way Danny does. In fact, up until a few months ago, I’d been certain the only reason Lydia was friends with me at all was so that she could be closer to Danny.

But it had been me she’d chosen. And now, on Saturday nights, she comes over and we sit together on the couch, sometimes with her head in my lap so I can play with her hair, and we watch Mary Tyler Moore. Bob Newhart. Carol Burnett.

I’m just about to cross the crowded area and press through the snaking lines when Lydia emerges from where she’d disappeared, Mr. Stewart alongside her, his hand on her lower back. I freeze, sinking back into the crowd so they won’t see me spying.

Mr. Stewart turns Lydia so she’s facing him, and I wish I could read lips. To know what they’re talking about. People move around them, a stream heading back to the concert, where recorded music plays while Pink Floyd sets up. The concert will be starting any moment, and Lydia is too engrossed in a conversation with Mr. Stewart to even notice.

She’s mine , I want to shout down to him, and I wonder if I will ever be settled. If I will ever be the kind of person who will feel secure with what I have, instead of always feeling like I’m about thirty seconds away from losing everything.

Rage beats through me, the blood rushing through my limbs, pounding beneath my skin. If I say something, I’ll fuck it all up. So I turn and head back to where I’d been, where she’d left me when she promised she’d be back in a second, just a quick trip to the bathroom so she didn’t have to miss any of the concert. I step around clumps of people laughing and smoking, over trash and discarded beer cans, trying to estimate where I’d been. Not wanting her to know that I’d followed her again.

My mind touches on the bonfire last month. That nagging feeling of anxiety that had plagued me all night, imagining her there, laughing and partying without me. So much of Lydia doesn’t make sense. She’s nothing like Poppy, who will tell you exactly what she’s thinking, even when you’d rather not know. Lydia is a puzzle I can’t quite solve. One I’m not sure I’m meant to be solving. It’s hard not to wonder why she’s with me. Hard not to notice the questioning glances at school, the snickers and whispers behind hands. The silence that follows me wherever I go.

A few minutes later, Lydia appears, her eyes a little watery and her hand shaking a bit as she takes mine. It’s clammy and sweaty at the same time, and I wonder if I should ask if she’s okay, or if I should just pretend I know nothing.

She smiles, tentative. “Hey,” she says.

And in that one word I get a whiff of vomit. That’s the second time today she’s thrown up, and I wonder if she’s sick. Worried that maybe we shouldn’t have gone so far from home.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“The smell in that outhouse…it got to me. I got sick behind.”

She looks away, unable to meet my eyes.

I squeeze her hand, relieved. Suddenly understanding Mr. Stewart’s concern. Glad that for once, I hadn’t rushed in with assumptions and anger. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s see if we can get closer.”