Middlesex

And so we come to the preceding Saturday night, July 20, 1974. A night full of departures and secret plans. In the early hours of Sunday morning (which was still Saturday night back in Michigan), Turkish jets took off from bases on the mainland. They headed southeast over the Mediterranean Sea toward the island of Cyprus. In the ancient myths, gods favoring mortals often hid them away. Aphrodite blotted out Paris once, saving him from certain death at the hands of Menelaus. She wrapped Aeneas in a coat to sneak him off the battlefield. Likewise, as the Turkish jets roared over the sea, they were also hidden. That night, Cypriot military personnel reported a mysterious malfunctioning of their radar screens. The screens filled with thousands of white blips: an electromagnetic cloud. Invisible inside this, the Turkish jets reached the island and began dropping their bombs.

Meanwhile, back in Grosse Pointe, Fred and Phyllis Mooney were also leaving home base, heading to Chicago. On the front porch, waving goodbye, stood their children, Woody and Jane, who had secret plans of their own. Flying toward the Mooneys’ house at that moment were the silver bombers of beer kegs and the tight formations of six-packs. Cars full of teenagers were on their way. And so were the Object and I. Powdered and glossed, our hair hot-combed into wings, we had set off for the party ourselves. In thin corduroy skirts and clogs we came up the front lawn. But the Object stopped me on the porch before we went in. She was biting her lip.

“You’re my best friend, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Sometimes I think I have bad breath.” She stopped. “The thing is, you can never tell if you have bad breath or not. So the thing is”—she paused—“I want you to check it for me.”

I didn’t know what to say and so said nothing.

“Is that too disgusting?”

“No,” I said, finally.

“Okay, here goes.” She leaned toward me and huffed a single breath into my face.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“Good. Now you.”

I leaned down and exhaled in her face.

“It’s fine,” she said, decisively. “Okay. Now we can go to the party.”

I’d never been to a party before. I felt for the parents. As we squeezed by the throngs in the throbbing house, I cringed at the destruction under way. Cigarette ashes were dropping on Pierre Deux upholstery. Beer cans were spilling onto heirloom carpets. In the den I saw two laughing boys urinating into a tennis trophy. It was mostly older kids. A few couples climbed the stairs, disappearing into bedrooms.

The Object was trying to act older herself. She was copying the superior, bored expressions of the high school girls. She crossed to the back porch ahead of me and got in the line for the keg.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m getting a beer. What do you think?”

It was fairly dark outside. As in most social situations, I let my hair fall into my face. I was standing behind the Object, looking like Cousin It, when someone put his hands over my eyes.

“Guess who?”

“Jerome.”

I pulled his hands off my face and turned around.

“How did you know it was me?”

“The curious smell.”

“Ouch,” said a voice behind Jerome. I looked over and received a shock. Standing with Jerome was Rex Reese, the guy who had driven Carol Henkel to her watery death. Rex Reese, our local Teddy Kennedy. He didn’t look particularly sober now, either. His dark hair covered his ears and he wore a piece of blue coral on a leather thong around his throat. I searched his face for signs of remorse or repentance. Rex wasn’t searching my face, however. He was eyeing the Object, his hair falling into his eyes above the curl of a smile.

Deftly, the two boys moved in between us, turning their backs to each other. I had a final glimpse of the Obscure Object. She had her hands in the back pockets of her corduroy skirt. This looked casual but had the effect of pushing out her chest. She was looking up at Rex and smiling.

“I start filming tomorrow,” Jerome said.

I looked blank.

“My movie. My vampire movie. You sure you don’t want to be in it?”

“We’re going on vacation this week.”

“That sucks,” said Jerome. “It’s going to be genius.”

We stood silent. After a moment I said, “Real geniuses never think they’re geniuses.”

“Who says?”

“Me.”

“Because why?”

“Because genius is nine-tenths perspiration. Haven’t you ever heard that? As soon as you think you’re a genius, you slack off. You think everything you do is so great and everything.”

“I just want to make scary movies,” Jerome replied. “With occasional nudity.”

“Just don’t try to be a genius and maybe you’ll end up being one by accident,” I said.

He was looking at me in a funny way, intense, but also grinning.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Looking at you like what?”

In the dark, Jerome’s resemblance to the Obscure Object was even more pronounced. The tawny eyebrows, the butterscotch complexion—here they were again, in permissible form.

“You’re a lot smarter than most of my sister’s friends.”

“You’re a lot smarter than most of my friends’ brothers.”