Page 36 of Goodbye Days

She sits there for a second. “Hey. While we’re talking music. Have you ever heard of Dearly?” She sounds slightly tentative.

“Yeah. I haven’t listened to him much. Georgia’s a big fan.”

“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Anyway. I have two tickets to his show at the Ryman in October.” She hesitates for a moment. “I was going to go with Eli. Do you want to go?”

Inwardly, I’m screaming, Yes, yes, of course. Meanwhile, my mind is saying, Ahem. Now you’re actually taking something that belonged to Eli. It’s only a concert ticket and he’s not around anymore to use it and he’d want a friend to have it, but nevertheless, you are taking something that belonged to Eli and using it to have a good time with his girlfriend while his ashes sit in an urn.

“Yes,” I say, as a lightning pang of remorse seizes my stomach. I swallow it down. “I’d love to.”

We’re standing in the parking lot outside NAA’s front doors, gathering our will to enter the modern, boxy, glass-and-steel building with reclaimed-wood accents. We have probably ten minutes before the first day of junior year starts.

“Come on,” Blake says. “We gotta make an entrance. People will expect it.”

“Of you,” I say.

“I’m not going to walk in first day of school and fart or something,” Mars says.

“Yeah, I’m not looking like an asshole potentially in front of Olivia,” Eli says.

“Because that ship hasn’t sailed,” I say.

Eli grabs me in a headlock and starts noogie-ing me. “Dude, stop, you’re messing up my hair. Dick.” I break the hold and pull away.

Blake stands between us, arms outstretched. “Okay, when you guys are done playing grabass”—he pronounces it grahboss—“I want to go over the plan.”

I smooth my hair. “Listening.”

“So we’re gonna walk in—we’ll all be walking in slow motion—”

“Dude, that’s lame,” Mars says.

Blake raises his hand in a pleading gesture. “No, listen. Then I’ll do my plan. But y’all can’t laugh or anything. You have to keep walking. Cool?”

We groan and roll our eyes. “Okay, cool,” we all say, as if it’s a great imposition, even though we’re dying to see what Blake cooked up. I know I am.

We wait for a space between people walking in, and then we go. Blake’s in front; we’re dispersed behind him. It’s hard to walk in slow motion, but we do it. Through the glass doors. People milling around in the entryway, chatting, stop to stare. At NAA, you stare when you see Blake Lloyd has something up his sleeve.

Slightly ahead of me, I see Blake’s pants start to sag precariously. Then they’re off his butt. Then they’re down around his knees. He’s having trouble walking. We’re trying to play it straight and keep up our slow-motion stride. Mars covers his face with his hand in slow motion. Then Blake’s pants are around his ankles. He’s wearing tighty-whities.

He breaks slow motion and jumps forward a couple of steps, then stumbles, arms flailing, and skids onto his front. While falling, he hurls his backpack along the floor ahead of him. It’s unzipped. About twenty issues of Cat Fancy magazine slide across the floor, fanning out.

We’ve completely broken character, and along with everyone else, we’re watching Blake scuttle around on the floor like a crab on ice, grunting and wheezing, trying to stand. We’re howling with laughter. He almost makes it up but puts his hand on a Cat Fancy, slips, and hits the deck again. He goes around on his hands and knees, red-faced, gathering his magazines, tighty-whities gleaming.

Finally he makes it to his feet, pants still around his ankles. He addresses the cackling throng, which includes Adair and her friends. “Hey, everybody. First day, huh?” There’s a weighted pause as people suppress giggles to hear what Blake will say/do next. And of course: phththththththththtphphphphph. He rips one, sharp and stuttering, with a certain full-bodied richness at the finish. The crowd goes bonkers. Full-on applause.

It was as sublime a piece of choreography as I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t tell how much of it was planned and how much was improvised. Blake has a unique talent for making planned things seem spontaneous and spontaneous things seem planned.

The still-tittering crowd disperses at the bell and hurries to class. We’re high-fiving Blake.

“I gotta admit, bro, that was good,” Mars says, wiping tears. “You pulled through.”

“Two thumbs up,” Eli says. “I saw Adair filming.”

“Make sure you talk to her. I want video,” Blake says.

As we head to first period, I notice Blake walking oddly. “Hey, did you hurt yourself?”

“No, no.” A pause. He’s clearly making a concerted effort to sound nonchalant. “I don’t guess any of you guys have an extra pair of clean underwear you’re not using right now, do you?”