leaning in the ex-phone booth, Max and Kristi near the store entrance and you somewhere in between-when Jake the Jock pulls up in his car.
It’s an electric blue Honda Prelude, new, with tricked-out rims and sidelights and on the backseat window a decal of that cartoon kid taking a piss. He’s playing something loud and thumping and he gives the engine a rev before shutting it off and stepping out.
“Later,” Max says, snatching his Slurpee from Kristi and bumping into both of you as he ducks around the corner of the building. Ryan leans deeper into his metal cave, telling Kristi to get her ass over there. You? You stand there. What else you gonna do? Run away? Hardly.
Jake pushes the car door shut and starts for the entrance. And that’s when he sees you. He slows up a bit and you watch as his lips pull back, his teeth clenched. He angles toward you, not much but enough to put you within range. He’s five feet away when his phone goes off, some college fight song for a ringtone.
“What up?” he says into the phone, staring you down as he walks past, letting you know he’s blowing you off, as if you aren’t worthy of anything more than a glance. And that’s fine by you. He goes into the store, still talking on the phone, and you think now’s a good time to leave. You stood your ground, no need to push it. You turn around and see Ryan and Kristi halfway down the block, Ryan’s arm draped over her shoulder, his cigarette glowing like a nightlight.
You crack open the warm beer and take a seat on top of the picnic table. “You left me hanging back there.”
Ryan shrugs and sits on the big rock that marks the far edge of the park. Max and Kristi are on the swings, their feet on the ground, rocking back and forth. Kristi isn’t into beer and once you and Max leave, she’ll break out a joint for her and Ryan. She isn’t into sharing, either.
You say it again, hitting each word so Ryan knows you expect an answer.
“It’s none of my business. What’s between you and that asshole is between you and that asshole.”
“So you would have let him beat me up?”
He shrugs again. “You could’ve taken him.”
Wrong answer. You take a swig of your beer, part of the six-pack Max stole from home.
“Besides, if he would have swung, I would have been on him.”
“From halfway down the street?”
He smirks and shakes his head. But it’s a lame smirk, no confidence behind it, all bluff. “I was there. Max, where was I?”
Max looks up from the drag marks in the dirt. “I don’t know. I had to pee, so I went back by the Dumpster.”
You smile. “Really? Then they must have moved the Dumpster to the other store.”
“Kyle, just get over it, okay?” Kristi says. “It’s no big deal. It’s not like he hit you or anything. He didn’t even
You stand up and toss an almost-full beer in the direction of the slide. “I’m not the one who walked away.”
And then, for the first time, that’s exactly what you do.
You walk in the door at eight o’clock. You haven’t been home this early on a Friday night since the end of eighth grade. Your father looks at you, grunts something about homework, then goes back to watching a finger-jabbing commentator bully his guests, shouting over them and telling them to shut up. Your dad loves this guy. Big surprise there.
Your mom just put your sister to bed. You wonder if she still reads her stories the way she used to, the way she said she did with you. She walks into the kitchen as you’re getting the milk out of the fridge and she stops, her eyes popping open, looking at you as if you just swam in from Australia. “Kyle, you’re home early.”
Your mother is a master of the obvious. Most of what she says to you is stuff you already know or stuff you’d have to be an idiot not to see.
Kyle, your room’s a mess.
Kyle, you’re failing science.
Kyle, you’re old enough to have a job.
Kyle, you never bring any books home.
Kyle, at this rate you’re not going to get into college.
Either she enjoys pointing out what you already know or she thinks you’re an idiot.
“Kyle, that’s a full gallon of milk. Hold on so you don’t drop it.”
She thinks you’re an idiot.
“There’s some doughnuts in the box on the counter,” she says, pointing to the box on the counter that says DOUGHNUTS. “Your dad’s in watching TV.”
You grab a chocolate-glazed doughnut, your favorite. “I’m gonna go up to my room.”
She pulls out a chair at the kitchen table in front of a cup of tea. “Sit with me for a minute.”
So you sit.
“How’s everything going at school?”
You shrug as you pull the doughnut apart, dunking bits in the cold milk.
“Are we going to be getting any surprises when your report card arrives?”
“I don’t think so,” you say, and you’re being honest since, if they’ve been reading all the notes your teachers have been sending home about you missing assignments and failing tests, your expected low grades shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone.
“That’s good.” She reaches over and takes a small piece of your doughnut and pops it in her mouth. She chews slowly and takes a sip of her tea. There’s something about the way she moves, the way she keeps her eyes on the doughnut, that tells you she’s as uncomfortable with this as you are.
When did
“How’s everything else?”
Good question. “Okay, I guess.”
She’s trying-you’ve got to give her credit for that. You know she’s fighting the urge to get on you about your grades or finding a job or any one of the other things she’s genetically programmed to harass you about. And you’d like to help, but you don’t know what to say, either. Tell her how you have no real friends? How you can’t work up the balls to ask Ashley out? How you’re afraid that you really are going to be as big a failure as everyone seems to think you’re going to be? How everything’s changing so fast, but nothing’s changing at all, that it could be like this for the rest of your life? How sometimes you just want to haul off and punch something?
“Thanksgiving’s this Thursday. Don’t forget, we’re going to Uncle Kevin and Aunt Mary’s house.”
“Okay.”
“They’re deep-frying the turkey again this year. You like it like that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember last year how he almost burned down the garage with that thing?” She laughs and you nod.
“Yeah.”
More silence, a second doughnut, then she cracks.
“Kyle, you never picked up a job application from the grocery store. They’re not going to come to the door and ask you if you want a job. Now today your father saw a sign at Marello’s gas station. You could even walk there. I mean, how hard could it be? But nobody’s going to even consider you until you get that resume finished.”
Ten minutes later she wraps up the “clothes that fit” portion of her chat and lets you head up to your room.
You make a mental note not to come home early again.
You flick through all the channels one more time before deciding that Saturday-morning television sucks.
