An Experiment Ch. 02

Part the Second:

1.

It was a college marching band thing. A secret mission, except it wasn't really very secret since everybody knew about what they were up to, at least everybody in the band. But it wasn't the whole band. Only like twelve or thirteen of them that Sunday night. Most of the drum line was participating; most of the boys.

All it was, they were just gonna TP a house. Nothing major. Nothing too evil. A bit of payback.

The house was the head cheerleader's. Well, her parents'. Maggie Jay was her name. She was absolutely everything you'd expect, all the stereotypes and cliches—she was the living embodiment. Like, totally, for sure, ya know?

On Friday just before the big game—the biggest game of the season, in fact—she'd dumped the quarterback. And the guy she was dumping him for happened to be the star player for the opposing team. Their man didn't handle this very well, oh no. People don't realize, but oftentimes these scary hardass meatheads are really the biggest cornball softies in your school, under the surface. Poor goon threw three interceptions that night before the coach finally swapped him out. By then it was way too late. They didn't just lose; what they got was buttfucked on the field. No other word for it. Couldn't have been more humiliating.

So they went out to TP the fucking cheerleader's house. Not that any of them really cared about the loss all that much, bad as it had been. They cared a tiny bit, a smidgeon—but mostly it was just an excuse ... None of them needed any more reasons to hate Maggie Jay, anyhow. And yeah, to be fair, this whole idea was pretty juvenile, pretty stupid. Still good for a lark. And her parents were supposed to be pretty uptight, real houseproud. They'd give her a hard time over it. Hopefully make her clean up the mess all by herself. She'd sure love that.

'Cause it was a big fucking house, on a big piece of property, right on the beach. It had been featured in magazines and on TV. Her parents weren't just seriously uptight, they were seriously loaded. Built the place to look like a castle, with fucking towers and a drawbridge, even. Tons of trees around it. If they did a halfway decent job with the TP, it would take ages to clear the mess from it all.

The place also had a wall around its perimeter, and spiky black gates like something out of a horror movie. Since it was right on the ocean, they were thinking they'd be able to get to the house along the beach, from the neighboring lot, which was empty ... Well, it was a construction site. Not exactly empty, but uninhabited at present. Eventually there would be another huge honking mansion in the middle, all glass and circular, real futuristic, but now it was only about half done, draped in plastic sheeting that flapped and crackled in the strong night-breeze off the ocean. That lot wasn't fenced yet. They could run right through there around the incomplete building, to the bare shore. Wouldn't take two minutes.

They rode over in three separate cars, and parked right on the curb in front of the unfinished house ... Was close to two in the morning, so the neighborhood was like a graveyard. Not very dark, though—they had a full moon that night. It wasn't hardly dark at all. You could almost read under a moon like that ...

They'd have to be careful about making too much noise. The fuckheads living here were so rich, the army would probably send in helicopters and marines, if they got woke up and started pressing their panic buttons. But in as ritzy a strip as this one was, all the houses/mansions were super wide-spaced. Each a little kingdom, all its own. So they should be okay if they kept their heads and didn't act like complete assholes. Of course the whole 'hood had a gate of its own, but they had a keycard to get through it, 'cause Troy (the only guy with them that wasn't a drummer; he was first trombone) used to date a girl that lived in here, the year before, until she graduated and moved across the planet ...

Only then when they all finally reached the beach, each of them clutching tight a fat sixpack of TP rolls, there's an unexpected hitch which almost kills the entire mission.

The castle's perimeter wall ... turns out it blocks the beach, too. Cuts straight across the sand and runs clear out into the ocean. Doesn't go out a huge distance—but too far for anybody to wade.

"Could we swim it?" asks Kelli, second clarinet.

"Like Hell," says Brandon. He's the cymbalist, but not what you're picturing. Huge gorilla of a guy. You'd guess he was a bass drummer or a tuba. But nope. Fucking cymbals.

The distance isn't the issue. And though the waves are coming in pretty strong, you wouldn't exactly call them scary. The problem is, none of them are dressed for swimming. They're all geared up for this bullshit commando raid, in black jeans and hoodies. And then they've all got their TP packages, of course. Not exactly the easiest thing to carry with you, while you're swimming. They're not exactly airtight and waterproof.

Somebody suggests they toss the bundles over the wall, to retrieve off the ground on the other side. Not an awful idea, but when they throw a couple as a test, both get snagged on top of huge bushes, high in the air. The wall seems to have a hedge along its inner side—which also discourages attempting to climb straight over it.

"Well, crap," says Troy.

Brandon makes a third try, a stronger toss than the others, and seems to clear the hedge ... but even if they go ahead and throw the rest of them, that still leaves their phones, flashlights, and wallets ... They gonna fling over all that stuff as well? Plus their shoes, unless they wanna try leaving them on when they swim. "Trust me, it sucks," says Gordon (fourth snare), "They weigh you down like bricks, believe me. Don't try it, people."

"I'm not throwing over my phone," says Kelli, "No chance. Even if it don't shatter, I'll never find the damn thing again over there."

"We could leave our shoes and things right here," suggests Jill (third bassoon), "for when we're done and come back."

"Well, the weather's on our side," says Gordon. "It's not too chilly or nothing. We could all charge over there in our underwear if we wanted."

"We'd all be soaked!" says Kelli.

"Yeah," Gordon agrees, "Guess so," and he makes no effort to disguise his enthusiasm for the notion.

"In your dreams, Gordo. I'm not gonna do this shit in soaking underwear. You might enjoy that, but not me."

"You sure about that?" Gordon asks.

"Pretty sure, Gordo."

"Too shy? Would you be embarrassed? I don't think you'd need to be embarrassed."

"Oh yeah?" She sneers at him, but it's still pretty clear she's pleased by the remark. There's a gleam in her eyes. "Well, it's good of you to try to reassure me. But it wasn't how I might look that was bothering me. I was more troubled by the thought of how you would look, like that."

"You might find yourself pleasantly surprised."

"More likely I would laugh myself sick. And then I'm sure you'd start crying. We can't afford to make too much of a racket, if we're not gonna get busted out here."

"Slam!" says Jill, the way she always does. Far too loud.

"Okay, all right," Troy says, "Button it, boys and girls. You two should take your act on the road, someday. Seriously."

"Someday," says Kelli, "at least in Gordo's dreams."

"You know how much I love it when you call me Gordo?"

"Yes," she says, "I sure do."

And that was when Carrie cut in. (Second chair trumpet.) First time she piped up, that night. Highly unusual for her to contribute to a discussion at all. Carrie was odd, in that she was always involved in things like this, without ever really participating much. These crazy goofy little group outings ... she was always there, but just on the fringes, in the background. Mostly you never heard a peep out of her. She'd never even giggle—just smirk. She would show up and sort of glide along with the pack, whatever they were doing. Most people wouldn't be able to get away with that. They'd get badgered about their silence, and probably driven off. But nobody ever messed with Carrie for some reason. Everybody seemed to genuinely like having her around, though if you asked, none of them could have told you why. 'Cause she never added anything tangible to the group, not once. Nothing at least that anyone could have put their finger on. She had never done anything that stood out in the memory.

No one would ever have predicted it, but tonight that would change. Irrevocably.

What she said was: "What if just one of us goes?"

They all turned to her, all at once, with their mouths hanging open. Like, huh? Wha'? Who you?

You might expect she'd clam right up, under the scrutiny. But she didn't seem to notice how much she'd shocked everybody.

"One of us could swim around the wall out there and then run back over and open the front gate, to let in everyone else. Shouldn't take too long. I think I could do it but ..." Some hesitation there. She had to take a breath and swallow hard before she went on. "But one of you would have to carry my things. My clothes and things."

"Okay," says Troy, "Now that's sensible thinking, right there."

Carrie wouldn't look at any of them now. She was fixated on the end of the wall, out in the ocean. Gauging the distance, preparing herself. Psyching herself up, no doubt. "All of you go back by the cars now. Hunker down and wait 'til you see the gate start to open—then come running, soon as it starts moving."

"Won't that wake everybody up in the house?" somebody asks, one of the other drummer guys. Roy or Rick.

"I'll do it manually, so it won't be as noisy. There's always a manual lever for when the power goes out or the motor busts, so you can slide it by hand. My grampa's house used to have the same kind of gate. Now all of you go—get going—except Jill—so I can get undressed for this. I can't do it with all of you staring at my butt like dumbasses."

"All right, you heard the girl," says Troy, "Let's move! That includes you, too, Gordon."

"Can't I stay for her things instead of Jill?"

"Slam!" says Jill, even though it really wasn't one. That was how she was. Not the brightest bulb.

Troy grabbed his arm to haul him away. "Just come on, jerkwad."

That might have been a much better moment for Jill to again say "Slam!" But she didn't think to.

To Be Continued ...