Senior year of high school I get a crush on Andy Behr. He’s punk. The real deal. The only true punk in Reston, our suburban Virginia town. There are plenty of posers here—weekend wannabes who dress up in black, drive into D.C., and buy studded belts and wristbands at Commander Salamander. Sometimes their green hairspray is still visible on Mondays, but this badge of coolness washes out by Tuesday. Not Andy. He’s punk 24-7. His mohawk changes a little from time to time, one day forming three wide spikes, another parted into five or six smaller points, triceratops-style. It’s always blond—white blond— which brings out his pale blue eyes.

Nonconformists are especially noticeable in our town, where community is a thing not merely prized, but enforced. America’s first “planned community,” Reston was devised and developed by Robert E. Simon, who christened the place with his initials on his birthday in 1964. His was a 1960s sort of plan—a dream of combining the best elements of city and suburbs, and bringing people of all races and income levels together in tidy, green spaces. By the 1980s, however, the races and income levels have, for the most part, fallen back into cliques, much like those that prevent my friends from hanging out with Andy’s.

In late October, as my best friend Heather is driving us to school, we discover bumper stickers slapped across several street signs. Bold white letters on an evergreen background proclaim, “We’re not dead, we’re just Reston.” We look at each other and say, “Andy Behr.” It seems to us the mark of a true punk—a genuine anarchist. We also know he’s right. Reston is boring—and not just boring in the standard suburban way. It’s a special brand of boring thanks to Robert E. Simon, who instated many rules in order to ensure his utopia’s success.

In Robert E. Simon’s master plan, every road, sidewalk and lamppost was accounted for in advance. Zoning regulations prohibited strip malls or any unauthorized growth, and homes were constructed in “courts,” “clusters” and “cul-de-sacs.” Four artificial lakes were carved into the earth in the name of fostering “constructive leisure.” Deliberately, there was no downtown. All shopping was to take place in multi-use “village centers,” which were, like the pools and schools, placed equidistantly among seven “social centers.”

T-shirts espousing Reston’s motto, “Live, Work, Play” (rooted in the idea—the insistence—that there is never a reason to leave), are worn proudly by many adults in Winterport Cluster, where Andy and I live. Our townhomes are both end units, right across the parking lot from each other, meaning my bedroom windowseat faces directly into his. This winter, I take to doing calculus homework in my windowseat, hoping for a glimpse of Andy. He never sits in his—it’s piled with records—but one night I see him in his room, thrash-dancing. He looks untamed and beautiful, and I almost believe he’s doing it for me.

But it doesn’t matter, because I already have a boyfriend, Theo. His family lives in a detached home in a cul de-sac I can bike or walk to via one of countless recreational pathways webbing across the neighborhoods. Theo and I have been a couple since sophomore year. We sit on student council together. He blows off a lot of meetings and asks me to tell him what happened. He is on the baseball team and drums for the band. He goes to church with his family every Sunday. (His parents are still married.) He flips his Izod collars up and gets drunk at parties on Saturday nights. I hold his head when he pukes gin and tonic. His vomit smells of lime. He can’t handle gin and tonics but says, “I can’t help it, man, I love the taste.” I don’t drink, in large part because I feel the need to keep an eye on Theo. He is more rebellious than me, but nothing close to Andy. He pierces his ear (making sure it’s the “right” one), but takes out the earring before his dad gets home for dinner.

There are three-and-a-half hours between the bell ending final period and the time my mother comes home and drops her briefcase on the kitchen counter. Theo and I take advantage of every minute: fast and over and over again. He leaves my bedroom with moments to spare. I crawl into my window-seat and watch him jump into his sputtering blue Civic. The Cure blasts from the stereo as he screeches away, and I look to see if anyone is watching. Two years ago, in 1984, we studied Orwell in English class. We know in a planned community there is always someone watching.

Robert E. Simon’s vision mandated vigilance. All electric and phone lines were run underground so as not to disturb the aesthetic appeal of the environment. For the same reason, laundry lines, chain link fences and personal auto maintenance were disallowed. Similarly, any home improvements, such as decks, patios or landscaping, had to be presented to the Reston Home Owners Association (RHOA), the governing body that determined whether or not your plan matched Robert E. Simon’s. Painting your house required a trip to the village center, where a clerk asked your address and located it on a map. A key told the clerk which palette you were to choose from, according to those pre-approved by RHOA.

The townhouses in which Andy and I live are both painted chestnut, one of four colors in the Winterport Cluster palette (the others being rust, pinoak and sand). Chile-pepper red is not in the approved palette, but that is the color a couple new to our cluster painted their house upon moving in this year. They were brought before RHOA and moved away soon after, but the house still stands empty, a gaping, scarlet letter. “Heathens!” my mother exclaims whenever we walk by. She is joking, but it does feel as if an alien ship crash-landed on our street.

In early spring, a memo turns up in the Winterport cluster mailboxes. Typed on official RHOA stationery, the letter begins by reminding us of Robert E. Simon’s “guiding principles,” but quickly takes a turn. Item 3 says, “All cars must adhere to the cluster palette. If your car is not rust, chestnut, pinoak or sand, you are asked to kindly remove the vehicle and purchase something more appropriate.” Item 4: “Pets should also adhere to the cluster palette. If yours does not, please make amends.” Item 5: “We find pets, even those adhering to the cluster palette, are best enjoyed when stuffed and used for display only.”

The hoax is clearly the work of an anarchist. My mother sits in the kitchen wearing her terrycloth robe, reading the letter aloud to my stepfather. She laughs openly, repeating the funniest parts twice, the same way she does with Dave Barry’s column. “That Andy Behr,” she says. “He’s very clever.” She has never said this about Theo.

Theo is in AP bio with me, but that’s the only class we share. I’m taking all AP classes to get a jump on college. Though my mother says, “Just do your best,” and Heather says, “Loosen up, it’s senior year,” I want my GPA above a 4.0. Andy does not take AP classes. He doesn’t seem to care about college or his class rank. He spends a lot of time in the art hall. His sculptures win school awards—placards he leaves for the custodian to trash.

Every day, all of high school, Andy has worn a variation on the same outfit: baggy black or camouflage pants with hanging chains. One of the chains is attached to his wallet. The pants are tucked loosely into the tops of his black combat boots. Sometimes he throws a plaid piece of fabric over the pants. I’m not sure what this is—a flannel button-down? A kilt? As I watch him trudge through the locker commons I think no one else here could make this look so cool. He selects from an array of black T-shirts; one says “Never Mind the Bollocks,” another says “London Calling.” I know these refer to the Sex Pistols but I don’t know what they sound like. (Theo says I wouldn’t like them.) Andy tops off his ensemble with a black leather jacket. It’s ripped and studded in places, and he has painted the circle-A of anarchy across the back in something that looks like Wite-Out.

Robert E. Simon would not likely have cared for Andy’s get-up, but he did not have teenagers in mind when he crafted his plan. Without a downtown, there is nowhere for kids to congregate, nothing for us to do. Thus, the location of our weekend activities depends entirely on whose parents are out of town. The last time Theo’s parents went away, it was his turn to host the out-of-control party. Guys were breaking his father’s duck decoys and girls were getting fingered in his parents’ bed. He snuck away and called the cops on himself, pretending he was an angry neighbor.

Toward the end of the year, my mother wants to help me throw a party. “You’re almost done with school,” she says. “Come on, I’ll buy some beer, and people can stay over if they drink too much.” My friends think it’s cool that she’s so liberal. I try to picture it—me making sure everybody behaves, while keeping a close eye on Theo, while trying to be breezy and fun. Just thinking about it gives me a stomachache, so in the end I say, “No, thanks, Mom.” She sighs.

I go upstairs and watch from my window as Andy’s older brother, Jeremy, pulls up with a car full of older friends. I call Heather and tell her Andy’s going out again. “Camouflage or black?” she asks. “Camo,” I say, adding, “Three-spike formation.” We don’t know where he goes on the weekends (he never shows up at house parties), but we suspect it’s a dark bar in D.C. where the beer flows and the band screams and nobody checks ID. The brothers jostle each other in the parking lot. Jeremy pokes at Andy’s mohawk, and Andy laughs and says, “Quit.” I imagine walking downstairs and outside, asking if I can join them. I look at my pink Benetton sweater and pointy flats and stay put.

The next morning is Cluster Clean-up, a community-building activity we are subjected to once every three months. At 8:30 on the designated Saturday morning, the cluster president walks along the sidewalks, banging a pot against a pan and singing out, “Cluuuuuster Clean-up!” As always, I bargain with my mother for any other chore—laundry, the dishes, emptying the litter box—anything to avoid Cluster Clean-up. I can’t bear the idea of raking leaves and making conversation with adult strangers. But as I’m vacuuming my room I look out and see Andy in the central greenbelt, helpfully shoveling detritus into an industrial garbage bag. He chats with the grown-ups and looks them right in the eye. His mohawk trembles slightly in the breeze.

Theo and I are accepted to different colleges, and I am secretly relieved. We decide the mature thing is to “see other people.” Meanwhile, we will have as much sex as possible. Late one night, he drives over in his parents’ pastel green Bonneville, turning off the headlights as he glides into the cluster. He throws dimes at my window to wake me up, as there are no loose pebbles in a planned community.

“Let’s go to the Bunnyman’s house,” Theo suggests, but I say, “Gross.” A tumbledown shack full of beer cans and used condoms, the Bunnyman’s house sits on the only remaining undeveloped tract in Reston. Rumor has it that one Halloween the old man who lived there freaked out, dressed up in a bunny costume and murdered all the kids who came trick-or-treating. We know it’s an urban legend, one that Heather says must’ve been concocted by Robert E. Simon himself to emphasize the danger of leaving things up to chance. Even so, it gives me the creeps.

“What about Terraset?” I ask. The warm panels of the solar-powered, underground elementary school create semi-private nooks. But Theo doesn’t answer because he’s drumming on the steering wheel, focused on the complex rhythm of Rush’s 2112. “Neil Pert is a genius,” he says, and we end up down the road where the electrical substation is hidden behind a tasteful strand of trees. All those buried telephone wires and transformers have to come up for air somewhere, and this buzzing deadend lane is where the ugly truth lies.

I get home around 4 a.m. Theo drives away, New Order trailing out his open window, and I stay outside for a minute, taking in the quiet. I notice it’s so warm a T-shirt is enough, even at this hour. I shove my balled up underwear farther down in the front pocket of my Guess jeans.

While I’m standing there, Jeremy drives up and Andy hops out. His spiked hair seems to glow in the moonlight. He sees me and says, “Hey,” with a shy, crumpled wave. “Hey,” I reply. I think about how summer will be over soon, and how I’ll go away to a good school, as intended. I think about how Theo keeps saying, “College is going to be so out of hand,” and how I always catch Andy helping his mom with the groceries, coming out before she even turns off the car. I see myself walking over to him, saying, “Wanna go look at the red house?” I can smell the fresh mulch. “Yeah, okay,” Andy says. We walk away, without a plan.