I believe strongly in the market potential for Doheny Drive: Three Boys and The Girl. I haven’t yet found an agent to represent the book; it’s a daunting process with slim odds of success. But I feel so strongly about Doheny Drive that I’m not stressed about where I am in the process of securing representation. I have many more agents to query, and it takes them weeks to get through their query inboxes – or even longer. So I put one foot in front of the other and march on. Come hell or high water, this book will be in people’s hands in the not-too-distant future. Bon chance, Ken! (Feels good to cheer myself on…) The first three chapters are posted below – happy reading.
The story: In 1971, three eleven-year-old boys on the Southern California coast are charmed when Laurie Penrose, the golden-haired girl from Ohio, moves into their cul-de-sac on Doheny Drive. Among the mischievous trio, Andy Crenshaw unknowingly touches Laurie’s heart, sowing the seeds of a future romance. At twenty, Andy proposes to Laurie after being named the St. Louis Cardinals’ new center fielder. Meanwhile, Laurie’s oil paintings earn praise at the Art Institute of Chicago, where she attends college. Tragedy shatters Andy’s big-league dream, and his grief turns into misery. Hidden insecurities paralyze him, leaving him hopeless and inexplicably unkind, especially toward Laurie. The deep shame of hurting her eventually drives Andy to reclaim his true self, only to realize it’s too late; he’s lost the only woman who matters. Meanwhile, Laurie faces a life-changing illness that threatens her ability to paint, her greatest passion. Her first marriage is crumbling. Adding to her burdens, she still carries the weight of a destructive family secret she believes contributed to her brother’s death. Andy and Laurie’s friends from Doheny Drive doubt that the once-inseparable couple will ever build a future together. What happens next is an unexpected, deeply emotional journey.
Congratulations to Spain on winning the World Cup! Most of my American friends disagree, but I think the World Cup is, bar none, the greatest sporting spectacle in the world. I always pick Germany before the World Cup starts, and I’m not sure how that allegiance came to be. Doesn’t matter – go Deutschland! Of course, they were knocked out early this time. The Americans have a long way to go before they can truly compete at the level needed to win such a tournament. I hope it happens before I die! Note to self: You don’t expect to die for many World Cups!
I am crazy busy writing and editing – nothing new there. I love everything about imagining stories, penning them, and editing ad nauseum.
Cheers from the Sonoran Desert,
Ken
Doheny Drive: Three Boys and The Girl
by Ken Cruickshank
1972: Betcha By Golly, Wow, by The Stylistics
Chapter 1
Only eleven homes lined Doheny Drive, yet the dead-end street was a flurry of activity day and night. Lively packs of cheerful grade-schoolers and roving gangs of mischievous teenagers gave their patch of suburbia a dynamic, upbeat feel. The street was developed in the 1960s in Rancho del Mar, California, where surfboards, convertibles, and year-round tans reflected a relaxed lifestyle. The city was bordered to the north by Dana Point and to the south by San Clemente. Residents with west-facing backyards enjoyed views of Doheny Beach, Dana Point Harbor, and an ocean dotted with sailboats, runabouts, and surfers.
Colors burst from gardens filled with native and exotic flora, their sweet scents drifting through the neighborhood. Towering king palms, Monterey pines, and coast live oaks stood like noble sentries watching over the scenic paradise. Melodic birdcalls echoed through every yard. Soaring hawks caught drafts that rose with the sun, and in the distance, near San Clemente Pier, squadrons of pelicans traveled north and south above the crashing surf.
The parents on Doheny Drive sometimes discussed the Vietnam War, Watergate, and geopolitical issues that contrasted with their seemingly idyllic lives in 1972. Most of their children were detached from such realities and focused on matters they deemed far more important. One group of buddies appreciated that their parents were usually clueless about where they were and what they were doing.
Best friends Andy Crenshaw, Peter Berkey, and Tommy Kawasaki examined the redwood fence panels they had just relieved themselves on. Andy stepped back, admiring the freshly splattered artwork while zipping up. “Whoa, the stains on the fence look like the cover of the Who’s Next album.”
Tommy buttoned up his 501s but looked confused. “What group made the Who’s Next album?”
“Seriously? Who do you think?” Andy said. “It’s pretty obvious, so you only get one guess.”
Tommy shrugged. “How the heck should I know? I’ve never even heard of the album. Have you, Peter?”
“Yeah. The g-group is The Who,” Peter replied. “There’s a b-bitchin’ song called Baba O’Riley on it. Come over later, and I’ll p-play it for you.” Peter’s older brother was a huge rock ‘n’ roll fan who blasted vinyl through his bedroom walls, so the younger sibling learned about the music scene by osmosis.
Andy raised an eyebrow at Peter, then draped his arm over Tommy’s shoulders and spoke in a weak imitation of a British accent. “Cheers, Tommy Kawasaki. My name is Pete Townsend, and I love to whizz on things, just like you.” Andy and Peter howled, knowing Tommy would be clueless about who Pete Townsend was, since he had never heard of The Who.
Tommy scowled as he watched them laugh at his expense, then set his mind in motion. Moments later, he said, “Okay, so Pete Townsend is definitely in The Who. I’ll bet everyone in the group is from England. Maybe they got famous for peeing on something weird or important. I’m probably wrong, but that’s my guess.”
“Dude, you’re right,” Andy said admiringly. “Tommy, I can’t believe how smart you are. It takes you seconds to figure out stuff that would take me forever. No wonder your parents tape your report cards to the refrigerator.”
“Yeah, I wish they’d stop doing that. It’s embarrassing,” Tommy said. “Hey, let’s go look for horny toads in our favorite field.” They agreed it was a great idea and stomped across the Crenshaws’ parched lawn in their worn sneakers, causing the white seed puffs of dandelions to splinter and drift away. Then in the distance, they heard the high-pitched squeal of school bus brakes approaching Doheny Drive, earlier than usual. They sprinted to the side yard and pressed themselves into the branches of a thick oleander bush.
“I wonder if she’ll be w-wearing that red headband,” Peter said. “She looks s-so cool with it stretched around her head. I’ve told her that a bunch of t-times.” He felt the accessory highlighted her beauty and radiance in ways his vocabulary could never adequately express.
Tommy said, “You’re not the only one who tells her things like that, Peter.” He squinted, knowing exactly which red headband he was talking about. “I bet she’ll say something totally cool today. She says bitchin’ stuff to me all the time.” He could never admit that her words sometimes filled his heart with feelings that made it hard to focus on anything else, even firecrackers and lizards.
“Unbelievable. You guys sound like her girlfriends,” Andy said, privately hoping he and Laurie might remain friends forever. He could never acknowledge his deep infatuation.
The groaning bus arrived, its flashing red lights halting traffic in both directions. They pressed themselves deeper into the branches of the sprawling bush, seeking total camouflage. Peering through hand-smudged windows, they caught their first glimpse of their neighbor, seated alone in the front seat.
Watching her shrug her backpack straps onto her shoulders, the boys leaned forward, eager to catch every move. She glided off the last step of the bus, which spewed a choking gray cloud of putrid exhaust. They considered themselves the luckiest boys in town for living on Doheny Drive, the only street in the world graced by Laurie Penrose, the most incredible girl alive. Her laughter lifted everyone’s mood, and her smile turned a bad day into a great one.
Lush golden hair swept across her shoulders as she turned to stare at the trio still hiding behind the bush. So much for gawking unnoticed, they thought. As she walked toward them, it was as if she had used black magic to leave them speechless. “Hello, Tommy, Andy, and Peter. Were you hiding from me?” With a voice full of mystery, she added, “Maybe even spying on me?”
Busted, the guys exchanged glances but said nothing.
“I’m just kidding. You three always make me smile. Guess what?” They were still too spellbound to respond. “I counted eleven large butterflies on the way home—a record. Six monarchs and five western tiger swallowtails.” She turned and strolled toward the Penrose residence, her black clarinet case swaying in her right hand. They dutifully followed, as if she were the Pied Piper. “Do you boys like butterflies?”
Auburn-haired Andy whispered to his friends, “Sure we do, Laurie. I like to feed the small ones to praying mantises. They eat their heads first.” He chuckled softly until Tommy punched him in the gut. Crafted by God to play sports, Andy towered over his two friends, but neither felt intimidated. Peter flashed him an intense Clint Eastwood stare, and Andy glared back.
Laurie paused. “Sorry, Andy, I couldn’t hear you.” A few strands of her thick hair drifted in a gentle breeze, triggering the boys’ next stage of hypnotic stupor. Even her shadow, stretched across the weathered asphalt, seemed enchanted, Tommy thought. Fully captivated yet silent, someone needed to respond to their obsession.
Peter stepped forward bravely, licking his lower lip and scratching his cheek as he gathered his thoughts. “B-b-butterflies are the most amazing c-creatures on earth, for sure.” He had stuttered as long as anyone on Doheny Drive could remember, but there was an unspoken pact on the street: Woe to anyone who dared tease their beloved neighbor about his condition.
“I agree with you, Peter,” she said, emboldening him.
“Maybe God put them here to remind us of the b-beauty around us every day and to be thankful. There is nothing more g-g-gorgeous than a butterfly.” He turned to his friends, beaming with teeth ringed by silver braces, impressed by his impromptu answer to a tricky question from the most fantastic girl.
In a low, monotone voice, Andy muttered, “Gorgeous? Get real. Who the heck says gorgeous, besides your mom? You guys always say the dumbest things to her.” He quietly wished he could talk to her the way his two buddies usually did.
After hesitating, black-haired Tommy stepped forward with confidence and faced her with conviction. “Laurie, you are more beautiful and prettier and gorgeouser than butterflies. For real. I mean it.”
She giggled. “Wow, Tommy. Thank you so much.”
Overwhelmed by unrestrained veneration, Tommy searched for the perfect closing line to stand out. “And you’re even nicer than butterflies.” As the words left his mouth, he froze, wondering if he had gone too far, blurting out something so unbelievably lame that it could lead to a lifetime of well-deserved ridicule and social isolation. He hesitated, then mumbled, “I mean, um . . .”
“Oh my, Tommy and Peter, I’ll never forget your lovely words. I’m so happy you both love butterflies, which are so pretty and magical.” Listening to her was solace for their anxious hearts. She glanced at Andy, hoping he might share her fascination with monarchs and western tiger swallowtails, but he said nothing. “I need to get home because my dad doesn’t like it when I’m even a little late. Have fun hanging out, guys.”
She turned and wandered toward her rambling West Coast single-story house down the street. They felt a wave of despair as she left, knowing their time with her was over. Every graceful stride mesmerized them until she stepped over the curb and onto her front walkway.
Andy exhaled loudly and extended his muscular arm, pointing with his index finger. “Peter, come on. You told Laurie butterflies are the most incredible creatures on earth. Really? There’s no way you meant that. What about king cobras and Komodo dragons? And Tommy, you told her she was nicer than a butterfly? If I can’t forget that, I might be dumber for the rest of my life.” He pulled out his yo-yo and started “walking the dog.”
“Andy, first off, y-you can’t get any dumber than you already are, so don’t worry about that. And no one c-cares if you can or can’t forget what we said,” Peter replied. “Laurie said our words were ‘lovely.’ You just wish she s-said that to you.” He turned. “Right on, Tommy. You sounded like a movie star the w-way your words came out. I wish I could do that, but I s-s-stutter even more when she’s around.”
Tommy stood frozen in ecstasy, as if a beam of light from above had pierced his body, replaying Laurie’s gLaurieous reaction to his words. After snapping out of his daze, he looked at Peter, wanting to comfort a friend embarrassed by his speech impediment. “Hey, dude, remember, no one on Doheny Drive cares that you stutter, especially Miss Congality.”
Peter and Andy locked eyes, their faces scrunched up. “Miss Congality? That’s w-what you call her?” Peter asked. “What does c-c-congality mean, and who told you it’s a word? I doubt it is.”
“Of course, it’s a word!”Tommy insisted. “The announcer used it on TV during the Miss America contest. I’m pretty sure it means far out, smart, and nice—just like you know who.”
Andy said, “My mom won’t let me watch Miss America.” He made a mental note to tell her that Tommy’s mom does let himwatch the beauty pageant. “Anyway, we aren’t in school, so can we stop talking about words like con—whatever you said?” he complained. “And Peter, Tommy’s right about your stuttering. Laurie couldn’t care less about it. But she probably thinks you’re dirty and weird for wearing the same stinky green T-shirt every day.”
“I don’t wear it every day, and my m-mom washes it all the time.” They watched him bury his nose in his armpit, inhale deeply, then grin. “It smells like c-cotton candy. You guys want a whiff?” Peter looked like a surfer, with his dark tan and blonde hair growing longer than his mom liked. He raised an eyebrow. “Well, d-do you?”
They were forced to laugh. “No way, loser,” Tommy said, then turned to Andy with a fierce grimace. “Hey, I just thought of something. You’d better not tell anyone what Peter and I said to Laurie.”
“Why not? Because it made no sense?” Andy replied, watching Tommy’s expression shift to concern. “Relax. I won’t say anything, so don’t let your head explode. I really want to because people need to know about the weird things you say to her. I’m doing you a huge favor by keeping my mouth shut.” He playfully squeezed Tommy’s neck with his arm. “Especially since you said Laurie is more beautiful, prettier, and gorgeouser than butterflies. Those words mean the same thing—except for gorgeouser, which doesn’t exist. I’ll admit it sounded kinda cool when you said it.”
“I don’t believe you,” Tommy said. “A couple of minutes ago, you said I sounded so stupid I might have damaged your brain.”
“Yeah, forget that. I was just jealous of how you talked to her,” Andy said, his eyes widening as he immediately regretted what he’d said. “I’m kidding. I mean, I wasn’t jealous.” He shook his head vigorously. “I wasn’t.”
Tommy understood that if Andy was truly jealous, it was only because the golden-haired girl had captured everyone’s imagination. Laurie and the three boys were sixth-graders on the verge of graduating, so they could soon boast to their annoying siblings and parents that they were middle schoolers walking the halls of Del Mar Creek Junior High.
Peter started to speak, wanting to say something important, but his gum shot onto the hot asphalt. “Bummer.” He picked it up and kept chewing as if nothing had happened. “Andy, you were g-going to tell Laurie that you like to feed small butterflies to p-praying mantises that eat their heads first. You are so, so lucky she didn’t hear you. She might have c-cried.”
“Oh, come on. I’m not the only one who feeds butterflies to praying mantises. You guys have done that, right?” They stared back at him, confused.
Tommy spoke first. “I didn’t even know praying mantises ate butterflies. I doubt they taste good.”
“Are you kidding me?” Andy was incredulous. “Coyotes eat all the small animals in the neighborhood—do you think a dead skunk or roadkill possum tastes good? Nature isn’t about chowing down on Big Macs, Ho Hos, and A&W root beer. So what if I hold flapping butterflies close to starving praying mantises that scarf down their heads for dinner? I bet you’ve done it, too.”
Peter asked, “Eaten b-butterflies?”
Andy rolled his eyes, his mouth agape. “No! I bet you’ve fed butterflies to praying mantises, too. Stop pretending I’m the only one doing it.”
“Uh, whatever. Let’s talk about something else,” said Tommy. “What place are the Angels in?”
They wandered down the street in jeans, smelly shirts, and sneakers, chatting about Nolan Ryan’s fastball, tarantula hawk wasps, and what their moms might cook for dinner. Later, their private thoughts drifted back to the most remarkable girl ever created.
After returning home and giving her mother a warm hug, Laurie entered her bedroom and tossed her clarinet and backpack onto her tidy bed. She reached for her diary and flipped to page thirty-one, where a colorful, three-inch-square piece of paper was tucked into the journal’s spine. Four psychedelic images of Santana’s hit album cover, Abraxas, were printed on thin blotter paper, each resembling a postage stamp.
Staring out the window, missing her deceased brother, she recalled his kind gestures and encouraging words from their time in Ohio. She turned to look in a mirror decorated with Flower Power stickers around its edges and thought she looked happy. Adults often told her, “Laurie, you’re a breath of fresh air. Always in a great mood. Constantly smiling.”
Isn’t it a good thing to look and act happy? She believed it was, even though she knew not everyone was always carefree and joyful. Some people hid painful truths that others could never guess, not even their own parents. She understood this because, despite what everyone on Doheny Drive believed about Laurie Penrose, she harbored a secret that sometimes caused profound heartache and felt impossible to share.
She gently closed her diary to hide the stamp-like images of the Abraxas album. Then she rubbed her bony left elbow, lost in thought, as she sometimes did when grappling with anxiety or sadness. She noted the forlorn reflection in her dresser mirror, so she curved her lips into the natural smile people had come to expect, ignoring the contradiction.
1972: I Think I Love You, by the Partridge Family
Chapter 2
The 1972 Doheny Drive Fourth of July block party arrived. Giddy grade schoolers and too-cool-for-you adolescents eagerly devoured grilled hot dogs, giant burgers, root beer floats, and nut-covered drumsticks as if their parents hadn’t fed them in weeks. Every few minutes, the crackle of firecrackers or the shriek of bottle rockets echoed throughout Rancho Del Mar.
Lawn darts, water rockets, baseballs, hula hoops, or Frisbees filled every yard on Doheny. The familiar smell of smoke bombs drifted through the neighborhood, making it resemble a war zone. Inevitably, one of the unruly kids shot a friend in the butt with a lever-action Daisy Red Ryder BB gun, sparking a lively argument over whether it was an accident, as the shooter claimed. The reigning sharpshooter on the street was a girl named Frances, nicknamed Frannie Oakley for her dead-eyed BB gun aim—she could shoot and burst water balloons tossed twenty feet into the air before they hit the ground.
On the Berkeys’ lawn, shirtless high school guys with longer hair launched lawn darts at a red hula hoop lying in the grass as a target. They debated whether the heavy metal tips of the massive darts could cause brain damage if they landed on someone’s head. Their female classmates, dressed in colorful outfits and wearing Birkenstocks or flip-flops, grew annoyed by talk of injuries or possible death. Instead, they spoke reverently about Carole King, Neil Young, and Stairway to Heaven.
Mrs. Kawasaki’s brother was a special effects filmmaker who worked for Walt Disney Productions. Every year, he hosted a private screening at the Fourth of July block party on Doheny Drive, featuring a recently released or even pre-release Disney film. Andy, the freak jock, hoped The World’s Greatest Athlete would be this year’s surprise movie, but Tommy said their expectations were too high and they might end up with something like the dreaded Mary Poppins.
Two brothers set their father’s expensive speakers by the windows in their living room, blasting Bang a Gong, Smoke on the Water, and Superstition at deafening volumes that flooded the neighborhood. Other kids joined in, pushing speakers against window screens and cranking dials for maximum noise. The competing sounds of rock ‘n’ roll, Motown, and pop echoed, creating an indecipherable cacophony that parents hated. An eleven-year-old girl joined the fray, pointing her speaker at the street and playing Puppy Love by Donny Osmond; her favorite song was completely drowned out.
Days before the block party, Peter and Tommy brainstormed ways to monopolize Laurie’s time during the festivities, while Andy still insisted he wasn’t enamored with the green-eyed goddess. Peter decided the foolproof way to keep her attention was to engage her in conversations about topics she cared deeply about, such as butterflies and flowers. Everyone knew her greatest passion was art, but visiting museums and studying artists seemed too daunting.
Peter flipped through magazines and books, researching the monarch butterfly and the California poppy. His goal was to feign genuine interest in both while subtly steering her toward the Kawasakis for the movie, where he could discreetly ensure they sat together. The idea of nudging his shoulder or elbow against hers for ninety minutes was a thrilling prospect that short-circuited his brain.
Glancing down Doheny Drive, Peter watched Laurie turn onto the street. He headed straight for her, like a shark sensing blood in the water, knowing that Tommy and Andy were circling the bay, seeking the same prey. She looked stunning in white bell-bottoms, a red halter top, and a blue headband—the perfect Independence Day outfit. Hurrying to meet her, he caught up with her beside a red VW Bug parked on the street, an orange Union 76 Styrofoam ball stuck to the end of its antenna. They talked for thirty minutes about starting seventh grade, their families’ summer vacation plans, and other things Peter found boring. That was okay, since it kept her away from his competition.
“Hey, should we head to the Kawasakis’ for this year’s movie?”
Laurie glanced at her Timex watch, a Christmas gift. “Oh yes, definitely. It’s later than I thought.”
That means she’s really enjoying talking to me! As they approached the Kawasakis, they stepped around an unattended red Schwinn with a banana seat in the driveway. He initiated Stage One. “Wow, what a g-great party.”
“I agree, Peter. The best.”
He strained to organize his rehearsed lines and cleared his throat. “Laurie, did you know that many of the m-m-monarch butterflies in California travel here from the Rocky Mountains and that most of them fly south to Mexico for the winter? Isn’t that super interesting?” He just needed her to think he was as fascinated as she was by her favorite flying insects.
“Yes, I do know that. Most people our age don’t.” She savored the cold rush of her Coca-Cola as it streamed down her dry throat, then exhaled contentedly. “I’m impressed, Peter Berkey.”
I knew this would work! What a great start. I’ll skip the California golden poppies and focus on butterflies. Remembering that Laurie also liked to count western tiger swallowtails gliding through yards, he grew bolder, confident that their migration mirrored the monarchs’. After all, the two species were about the same size and often hung out together on the flowering bushes in his backyard. “I also read that the western tiger s-swallowtails follow the monarchs to Mexico and that they return to C-California as one big group.” Come on, Laurie, tell me how smart I am about your crazy special butterflies.
Biting her lower lip, she looked away as if trying to solve a complicated math problem. When she turned back, confusion clouded her face. “Really? I had no idea. I’m a bit surprised because western tiger swallowtails don’t live very long, and I’ve never seen photos of them spending the winter with monarchs in Mexico. Where did you read that?”
He wondered if he had completely blown his chance to impress her and forced himself to think cleverly, like Greg Brady or Laurie Partridge. “Um, well, I saw p-p-pictures in a National Geographic magazine. My parents have a subscription, and a new c-copy arrives every month. I love reading the articles about totally cool stuff.” Why did I say that? If she figures out the “really cool stuff” is pictures of partially dressed indigenous tribeswomen, she’ll think I’m a creeper.
“Wow, this is really interesting. After the movie, we can flip through that magazine together,” she said, flashing her commercial-ready smile.
Peter wondered if he should bolt and disappear forever. How could he get out of this mess? In an unexpectedly higher-pitched voice, he said, “Hey, Mrs. Kawasaki just announced that this year’s movie is The World’s Greatest Athlete. I’m so g-g-glad they stopped showing Mary Poppins at these parties. I watched it once when I was a little k-kid and thought it was the dumbest thing in the world.” He smiled, relieved to have found a way to shift the conversation. He was also glad she was unaware of the truth—that he had watched Mary Poppins seven times in his life, a dark secret he had shared with Andy months earlier.
As they entered the family room-turned-theater, Tommy’s dad, Kenji Kawasaki, asked Peter to help move some chairs. He saw this as a welcome distraction, giving him more time to figure out how to resolve his National Geographic dilemma. While moving the furniture, he also hoped that his eagerness to help Tommy’s dad might impress the greatest girl alive.
After finishing his good deed, he looked at Laurie, who was sitting with Tommy just as the film began to flicker and snake its way through the projector. She smiled and patted the open seat beside her, but when he rushed toward it, Andy appeared out of nowhere, plopped down with a victorious grin, and flashed a thumbs-up. Then came the words that would surely tarnish his reputation forever: “Peter, I’ll bet you’re totally bummed they aren’t showing Mary Poppins again, a movie you’ve watched seven times with your mom.” Half the audience turned, eyes bulging, like a flock of sheep wondering who invited the goat.
Laurie looked up at Peter in surprise, but her bright eyes and cheerful face quickly conveyed kinship, easing his embarrassment. Relegated to a seat in the back row, he reflected on his stupid National Geographic blunder. He hoped it wasn’t inevitable that, from that day on, whenever someone mentioned the migration of monarch butterflies, his first thought would be of a famous magazine and images of attractive, half-dressed native women.
1972: Rocket Man, by Elton John
Chapter 3
Sitting next to Laurie as they watched The World’s Greatest Athlete, Tommy subtly nudged his seat even closer. He swore she smelled like a mix of orange juice and vanilla ice cream, his favorite Orange Julius drink. But he wasn’t just thinking about his good luck in claiming a seat beside the coolest girl in town; he was also rehearsing the steps to rig and ignite the most incredible exploding projectile ever created: The Flying Line of Tommy Bombs.
One of the first things locals mentioned about Tommy Kawasaki was that he loved lighting fuses and blowing things up. Neighbors were surprised because he wasn’t the type of person you’d pick out of a police lineup for tampering with illegal explosives. Still, by sixth grade, Tommy had already developed impressive skills in turning “safe and sane” fireworks into elaborate rockets that blew apart.
He tested his customized Tommy Bombs by launching them from concrete or asphalt launch pads, usually an empty street or an outdoor basketball court. They were linked by precisely measured lengths of fishing line, ensuring the two outer Tommy Bombs lifted off milliseconds before the middle fuselage ignited and emitted its multicolored thrust. It was a mind-bogglingly complex series of rockets to build, filling him with immense pride. He believed no other seventh grader, or even a high schooler, had the skills and moxie to design such a contraption.
But Tommy’s creation held one final surprise for those lucky enough to witness history at its public unveiling. After the three connected Tommy Bombs rose above the entranced crowd, a trailing, bright-red, giant cherry bomb dangled enticingly, primed to deliver an epic, loud, and fiery climax. Yes, yes, yes! hethought.
Laurie turned her head away from The World’s Greatest Athlete. “Yes, what, Tommy?”
He looked distressed, as if he had just been caught blowing up a neighbor’s mailbox, a rite of passage for many boys on Doheny Drive. “Yes, this movie is far out, isn’t it?”
“I’m enjoying it, but you were looking outside, mumbling, ‘Yes, yes, yes.’”
“Yeah, it was totally freaky, Tommy. Don’t do it again,” said Andy, his light auburn hair nearly obscuring his eyes.
After the movie, Laurie led her best friends outside to gather beneath the twenty-foot canopy of a sprawling pepper tree. They stood on a lawn strewn with twigs, leaves, and fallen dried fruit. Peter looked up, amused, as a squirrel leaped from limb to limb.
Laurie noticed a group member was missing. “Where did Tommy go? Is he hungry again? Half the time I see him, he’s munching on oatmeal cookies or brownies.”
Peter said, “Or Hostess apple pies. How can a p-person be so skinny when he eats so much? Anyway, he’s probably working on his latest f-fireworks invention, the Tommy Buzzer, or something like that. The d-dude is addicted to gnarly things that fly and go boom.” Peter’s older brother, Dan, regularly surfed at The Point in San Clemente, where “gnarly” was a common term for big rides and challenging breakers. The word became part of the Doheny Drive lexicon, ranking just below history’s greatest word, bitchin’.
“That makes me nervous,” Laurie said. “He needs to make sure my dad isn’t around if he’s going to do something dangerous. When he was a policeman, he heard about terrible accidents every Fourth of July. Can you warn Tommy?”
Andy and Peter exchanged nods. “Yeah, sure. We’ll tell him.”
In a quiet corner of the Kawasakis’ backyard, Tommy carefully rechecked each page of his top-secret Rocket Builder notepad, where he had jotted down instructions for his inventions. The older teens on Doheny preferred to celebrate Independence Day by launching large rockets smuggled in from Tijuana that rivaled Disneyland fireworks, but they would never let middle schoolers join their festivities. That didn’t bother him because, while Tommy’s contraptions might not fly as high or explode as loudly, they were more detailed and required the steady hands of a genius to build and launch.
After tugging on the fishing line attached to The Flying Line of Tommy Bombs, he measured the distance between each projectile three times. Check. Finally, he inspected the fuses connecting the spinning rockets to the dangling cherry bomb. Check. The mad scientist’s grand finale would undoubtedly leave the crowd in awe. He returned to the sounds of block party celebrations and the mingled aromas of barbecues and celebratory smoke from arsenals of Red Devil and Black Panther fireworks.
Before reaching the cul-de-sac, Tommy devoured two more hot dogs and three Ding Dongs, washing them down with grape Kool-Aid as he waited for nightfall. He was tempted to light a match for the pack of firecrackers tucked in a back pocket as a prelude to launching his gLaurieous creation, but his gut told him to hold off.
Gazing across the street, he saw Laurie holding a neighbor’s toddler. He wondered if his pyrotechnic wizardry might impress her enough to spark fantasies of them marrying and raising children together. He shook his head and glanced left and right guiltily, wanting to make sure Andy or Peter hadn’t telepathically intercepted his dimwit vision. Nevertheless, his lips curved into a hopeful smile.
The sun dipped below the horizon, signaling it was time to yank sparklers from their skinny cardboard boxes. Every year, some poor barefoot kid would step on a spent but still-hot metal sparkler, prompting moms to complain that all this fireworks nonsense was needlessly dangerous. To protect the innocent, anyone under four feet tall was herded onto the Yorks’ front lawn. Because Mrs. Ethel York was a killjoy who would never let her offspring hold sparklers, let alone any device with a fuse, the family’s front lawn was the safest place to corral kids doomed to misery because their parents lacked any sense of adventure.
The Red Devil showering cones officially kicked off the main event, followed by a Giant Bull’s Eye and a Yankee Doodle Salute. Roman candles zipped across front yards, and spinning wheels of all sizes were nailed to trees and posts. Once the legal fireworks were spent, families returned home to watch episodes of All in the Family, The Streets of San Francisco, or The Bob Newhart Show. The high school upperclassmen and college students had already bolted for beach bonfires or Party Hill to marvel at powerful Mexican rockets.
After Andy, Peter, and Tommy’s parents went home, it was time for the main event: unveiling the gnarly, interconnected projectiles that spun, flew, and exploded, all personally constructed by the genius neighbor who dared to launch such a gLaurieous contraption. Enter Tommy Kawasaki.
“Feeling good about this, Tommy?” Andy asked, with Peter beside him.
Tommy nodded and pointed to his creation lying in the dimly lit side driveway, where no one gathered and nothing would be discovered. “I’ve tested it seven times over the past three weeks. The last two test flights worked perfectly, so you’re in for a huge surprise.”
“Right on,” Andy replied. Moments later, his expression turned serious, and his eyes locked onto Tommy’s. “Hey, does your sister know you still make these crazy things that fly and blow up? Last year, she almost tore your head off and swore she’d tell your parents if you didn’t stop.”
Tommy rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “Valerie says that, but she doesn’t mean it. She digs that I’m brave enough to make these things. But it doesn’t matter; she split an hour ago.”
“If you say s-so,” Peter said. “But Valerie didn’t look like she was d-d-digging it last year. She yelled at Andy and me, even though you’re the only one making these stupid things.” He chuckled at the rocket maker’s annoyed expression. “Anyway, if she watches your Triple Tommy Job do something d-dangerous—”
“It’s called The Flying Line of Tommy Bombs!” the mad scientist barked incredulously. “Can’t you guys remember anything?”
“Dude, are you serious? Didn’t I beat you in the spelling b-b-bee two years ago? Isn’t that about memorization? Tommy, you change the names of your fireworks every few days,” Peter said. “No one can keep track. In an hour, it m-might be called the mangled mess of Doheny Drive.”
“Very funny. Let’s see you brain turds build something like this.”
“No thanks,” Andy replied. “We’d probably blow our hands off. Where do you make and test these things?”
“Listen closely to what I’m saying. I don’t make; I build. Moms and grandmothers make chocolate cakes and brownies, but Wernher von Braun built rockets. I do it in a corner of our backyard,” Tommy said. “Then I test them on the basketball courts at school, near the tunnel, where I can escape if some unhappy mom calls the cops.”
Andy gazed into the firebug’s eyes. “Hey, it’s cool that you,” he flashed air quotes, “build these crazy things. I just hope you know what you’re doing and don’t hurt yourself.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you guys were such wusses. Everything’s going to go perfectly. I can’t wait to see your faces when my amazing rockets take off and blow up.” He grinned, raising his eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure Laurie will be impressed, too.”
“Oh, wait, I forgot,” Peter said. “Laurie told us to m-make sure her dad isn’t around if your invention is unsafe, and I know all the p-parents on the street would say it’s unsafe. She seemed almost scared you might set off some crazy, d-d-dangerous fireworks that could burn down a house or k-kill everyone in Rancho Del Mar.”
“Oh, come on! Nobody’s going to get hurt or die,” Tommy said. “You guys need to stop freaking out. It’s made of three Tommy Bombs with wings and a cherry bomb—it’s not a nuclear weapon. Doheny Drive will be here in the morning.”
“Okay, cool,” Peter said. “Now that everything’s q-quiet out here, and the old folks have taken off, is it time for your m-main event?”
With a thumbs-up and an animated grin, Tommy dashed off to grab the finale. He returned to the asphalt launch zone, carrying a large brown paper bag that concealed history. His expression tightened into acute focus.
Laurie arrived with the Fox twins, eighth-grade students who lived in a corner house across from the Crenshaws. During the year she had called California home, Laurie had gained the confidence and friendship of many young people and adults. “We’re here to watch you launch the creation you’re so proud of, Tommy. I know it’s going to be totally boss.” Laurie smiled, and Tommy wanted to ask for her hand in marriage to get a leg up on his less worthy buddies. “And my dad is nowhere around.” She flashed an A-okay sign.
The boy of the hour pulled his customized rockets from his bag, set them in the middle of the cul-de-sac, and meticulously arranged them, along with the dangling cherry bomb. Confident everything was in place, he lit the main fuse, which would ignite the three Tommy Bombs and, ultimately, the grand finale cherry bomb. He looked like Victor Frankenstein, crazed and eager to watch his creation perform feats never before witnessed.
“Hey, move back further,” Andy yelled, concerned.
Tommy ignored the warning, his eyes locked on the trio of missiles about to detonate. “Relax, dude! Enjoy the show!”
The invention took to the air, and the crowd grew excited. Then, fifteen feet into its noisy ascent, the airborne fuselages transformed the Flying Line of Tommy Bombs into an alien invader. The connected cylinders of explosive propellant veered sideways and descended rapidly as sparks and flames shot from various parts of the whirling apparatus. Onlookers and a frozen Tommy waited for it to regain its symmetry, return to the skies, and perform as it had during recent test flights. Instead, it flew straight at him like a massive spider with spindly legs, attacking its prey.
Hank Penrose had just stepped out of his house to call Laurie inside. He bolted across his courtyard as everyone’s concern turned to panic. The Flying Line of Tommy Bombs twisted around Tommy’s body, leaving him rigid with confusion as his midsection and arms burned. Then the cherry bomb and its fuse, still attached to a stretch of fishing line, spun in circles like a yo-yo before winding tightly around Tommy’s forearm.
Hank lifted Tommy, shrieked “No!” and ran to the nearest lawn, carrying the confused kid in his arms. He threw himself to the ground, rolling frantically to extinguish the burning elements. The fiery Tommy Bombs had wound around the boy’s legs and the back of his thick denim Levi’s. When they exploded, Tommy felt pain, but the damage to his body was limited.
Then the much more powerful cherry bomb that had wrapped around the meat of his forearm exploded. Blood splattered onto him and Mr. Penrose before gushing like a river down his arm and spilling onto their bodies. It was a horrific, paralyzing sight. Peter and Andy stared at the gruesome injury, confounded by Tommy’s seeming disregard for the seriousness of what was unfolding. The boys were too young to understand that shock had instantly overcome their buddy.
Mr. Penrose pressed his hand against Tommy’s bleeding forearm. “Laurie!” he yelled. “Run inside and tell your mother I need clean towels, scissors, and rope for a tourniquet. Have her grab the keys to my car! Go now!” The ex-cop turned to the grief-stricken young people and shouted for them to find Tommy’s parents. “Tell them it’s an emergency!”
Dorothy Penrose burst out of the house and hurried over, stunned by the amount of blood on Hank’s and Tommy’s shirts. “Dear God, Hank, this is horrific. Tell me what you need.”
“I can’t let go of his wound! Cut away all the tangled fishing line and smoldering shit from his body. Tie the rope as a tourniquet right here.” He pointed with his nose at Tommy’s forearm, just below the elbow. “Fire up the Chevelle! Drive like a bat out of hell!”
It frightened Laurie to hear her father speak so abruptly, his tone altered by what seemed like genuine fear. The scene was chaotic, somehow triggering tormenting thoughts of her brother Matthew’s death. She wondered if her father might be shaken by any similarities between the two tragedies—only Hank could know.
Dorothy Penrose rushed to her husband’s blue 1970 Chevelle COPA 427 and turned the key. The engine roared to life, shaking like an angry beast. Hank glanced once more at the Kawasakis’ house and realized Tommy’s parents were still unaware of the drama unfolding beyond their front steps.
Tommy’s limp body lay draped over Hank’s arms as Hank squeezed the boy’s mutilated forearm to stanch the bleeding. He clutched the tourniquet knot with his teeth and his spare hand, pulling in opposite directions to tighten the binding. Dorothy revved the Chevelle as he approached. He pushed the door open with his foot, crouched inside, and barked, “Let’s go!” while squeezing a drooping body.
Laurie watched the gut-wrenching drama unfold, rubbing her left elbow as fear consumed her. Tears spilled. She sprinted forward, begging her mother to let her jump into the car, but Dorothy shouted, “No!” She told her to find Tommy’s parents, explain what happened, and have them rush to the emergency room at Rancho Del Mar Hospital. Laurie cried out to her fading friend, “I love you, Tommy! I love you!” before dashing across the street.
Hank Penrose hugged Tommy as if he were his own child, comforting an unresponsive boy he knew was confused and possibly dying. “Hang in there, Tommy. Fight like hell, son.”
Dorothy yelled at the kids in the cul-de-sac to get off the street. She grabbed the stick shift, slammed it into reverse, burned rubber out of the driveway, and roared down the street. Witnesses later said the screeching sounds, smoke, and lingering smells reminded them of The Snake and The Mongoose drag racing at the Orange County International Raceway.
It was a frightening, unforgettable dash for survival that made Dorothy and Hank Penrose legends of Doheny Drive.
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Doheny Drive: Three Boys and The Girl
by Ken Cruickshank