Jumper. Steven Gould

      Robert eased out of the parking lot gingerly, the springs rocking excessively as we went over the gutter. “Shocks are shot,” he said. “But it’s ugly.”

      “Great. How many people are going to be at this party?”

      He waved his free hand “Oh, fifty, a hundred, who knows. They got band for it, I think. She can afford it.”

      “What will her parents be doing?”

      “They’re out of state.”

      Good.

      We had to park half a block down the street because of the accumulated cars. There was a crowd of Stanville High football players standing around the front door, beer cans and cigarettes in hand and mouth. We threaded our way between them.

      One of them called out, “Who’s your date, Robert?”

      Robert just kept on walking like he hadn’t heard, but I saw his neck turn red. I paused at the door and looked around. They were all grinning. The one who spoke was Kevin Giamotti, who used to extort lunch money from me in junior high. I looked at him, my stomach knotting for a second, my heart beating faster.

       Christ, he’s just a kid!

      I shook my head and started to laugh. Compared to those guys in the alley near Times Square, Kevin was a baby. And I’d been scared of him? It seemed ridiculous.

      Kevin stopped grinning. “What?” He started to frown.

      “Nothing,” I said, waving my hand. “Absolutely nothing.” I turned, laughing even harder, almost uncontrollably, and went into the house.

      Sue Kimmel stood at the end of the hall talking with a couple who seemed far more interested in touching each other than listening to her.

      “You two in heat or what?” she said. “The bar’s in the living room. If you’re going to drink, give your keys to Tommy. He’s behind the bar.”

      The couple moved on, joined permanently at hip and lip.

      “Hello, Robert. Who’s this?”

      Robert opened his mouth and I said quickly, “I’m David.” I brought the bottle from behind me and presented it with a slight bow. “So nice of you to let me come.”

      She raised her eyebrows and took the bottle. “The pleasure, Miss Doolittle, is all mine, I’m sure. Bollinger? They don’t sell this around here. Folks around here think Andre’s is hot shit.” She touched the bow and ran her finger down the condensation on the bottle. “Where did you get it?”

      I swallowed and said, “My refrigerator.”

      She laughed. “Subtle. Well, I shan’t stare down the horse’s mouth any longer.” She looked at Robert. “Trish was looking for you. She’s out on the patio.”

      “Thanks, Sue.” He turned to me. “You want to meet Trish?”

      I started to say something but Sue Kimmel said, “I’ll bring him along in a minute. After we open this.”

      I found myself being gently steered down the hall and into a large room crowded with men and women my age or older. The temperature was several degrees higher than in the hallway. I loosened my tie and followed as Sue pushed her way through the crowd, using the cold, wet champagne bottle as a shepherd’s crook, steering people right and left by touching exposed skin or thin cloth.

      We finally ended up at a long bar running the length of the far wall. A big man, perhaps six feet four, stood behind the bar, using a built-in tap to fill a beer mug for one of the guys pressed up against the bar. He wore a strap over his shoulder festooned with car keys.

      “Yo, Tommy!”

      “Yo, Sue.”

      She put the magnum of Bollinger on the counter. “Glasses.”

      “Yo.”

      He pulled two wineglasses off a rack behind the bar.

      “Not those … the flutes. Christ, Tommy. Champagne flutes.”

      She looked over at me and rolled her eyes. Tommy blushed.

      “I use mason jars myself,” I said. I smiled at Tommy and he nodded after a minute, then moved down the bar to fill another beer mug.

      “Well?”

      I turned to Sue and raised my eyebrows.

      She gestured at the bottle.

      “Oh, well, okay.”

      I’d read up on opening champagne, just in case this happened. The lead foil came off pretty much like it should and I started on the wire, untwisting and lifting it gently away from the cork. The way Sue had swung it around, I was afraid it might go off like a bomb.

      The book I read said to ease the cork out gently, keeping a firm grip on the cork, to prevent it from flying off and hitting someone. Shooting the cork off, the book said, “was for buffoons and fops.”

      I tried to ease it out, but the thing seemed immovable. I resorted to tugging and twisting, but it still wouldn’t move. I lifted it off the bar and put it between my legs, so I could get a better grip. This put my head down at the level of Sue’s breasts.

      “My, David? What’s that between your legs?” She put a hand behind my head and pulled me slightly closer. My forehead bumped against the hollow of her throat and I stared straight down her dress. She smelled of perfume and skin.

      I tried to straighten up, my ears and face burning. The cork loosened slightly in the neck of the bottle. I managed to pull away from Sue.

      Sue was laughing, watching me blush. Then her smile died and I felt a hand grab my shoulder and pull me around. A voice, loud and deep, shouted in my ear. “What the fuck you doing with my girl?”

      He wasn’t as big as Tommy, but he still towered over me, large, blond, bearded. I stared at him, blank, still holding the unopened bottle. He shoved me and I took a step back, bumping into the bar and Sue, and inadvertently shook the champagne. That’s when it went off.

      The cork caught him on the chin, snapping his mouth shut on his tongue. Champagne geysered forth, soaking both him and me. I stared in horror, trying in vain to stop the flood with my thumb. This just caused the foam to spray rather than gush.

      Beside me I heard Sue say, almost under her breath, “Premature ejaculation … again.”

      “You little shit!”

      He lunged for me, his hands going for my throat. I dropped, collapsing into a ball, his weight coming down on top of me, covering me, hiding me.

      I jumped.

      The champagne-soaked tie and shirt made a wet thwack as it hit the wall in my bathroom. “Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.”

       Why does this shit always happen to me?

      There was an ache in my throat and I wanted to punch something, break things. I stared at myself in the mirror.

      Wet hair plastered my forehead and my jaw was clenched tightly shut. The muscles stood out on the side of my face and neck. I relaxed my jaw and found that my teeth had been aching. I took deep breaths, leaning forward on the counter.

      After a minute I ran cold water and washed my face and rinsed the hair in front, to get rid of the wine smell. I combed my hair back in a slick, smooth shell.

      The difference in my appearance was striking. My hair looked much darker and the shape of my head was changed. I frowned, then went into the bedroom and picked out a black shirt with a stiff, upright collar. I put it on and checked out the result in the mirror.

      I looked very little like the boy who walked into Sue Kimmel’s with the champagne.

      I jumped.

      The football players had abandoned the front porch,