As for the movie itself, it wasn’t the movie I expected Kjersten to choose. I thought Kjersten might pick a love story, or a foreign film or something . . . instead she chose this lowbrow teen comedy that I might have gone to see with Howie and Ira, but never thought I’d see with her. It wasn’t even one of the better lowbrow movies either. I mean, I’ve enjoyed my share of amazingly stupid movies, but this one was so bad, and so unfunny, it was embarrassing. This was a film that would actually insult Wendell Tiggor’s “intelligence,” and with every dumb, raunchy thing that happened on-screen, I kept expecting her to slap me for the mere fact that I was a guy.
Eighty-six agonizing minutes later, the movie was over and we were walking down the street holding hands —the first time we actually held hands while publicly walking. She didn’t quite tower over me, but the difference was enough for me to be self-conscious about it. Every time someone nearby laughed, I involuntarily snapped my head around like maybe it was directed at us. Kjersten had no such worries.
“Did you like the movie?” she asked.
“It was all right, I guess.”
“I thought it was funny,” she said.
“Yeah.” I searched for something worth saying. “When the fat guy got stuck in the Jell-O-filled swimming pool naked, that was funny.”
“You didn’t like it,” she said, reading right through me.
“Well, it’s just that... I don’t know . . . you’re on the debate team and everything. I thought you’d want to see a movie that would, uh ... broaden my horizons.”
“I’m happy with your horizons just where they are.”
I should have felt good about that. After all, it was unconditional acceptance from my girlfriend . . . but like Gunnar’s “acceptance,” it was all wrong. Not that I wanted her to go through denial, fear, and anger while dating me—although a little bargaining might be fun. The thing is, I knew she chose the movie because she thought I would like it. What did that say about her opinion of me?
Yeah, yeah, I know, guys aren’t supposed to think about stuff like that. I should be happy that I’m successfully playing out of my league, batting a thousand, and have earned bragging rights. I guess that was enough at first, but not anymore. I blame Lexie. She was the one who first broadened my horizons.
Kjersten’s car was in the driveway when we got home, which meant her father was there. I would have gone in, but Kjersten didn’t want to make any waves. She kissed me quickly at the door, ducked inside for a moment, and came out with a long, skinny box, wrapped perfectly, with a golden Christmas bow. “You can open it when you get home,” she said. “I hope you’ll like it.”
And from inside I heard Gunnar shout, “It’s a skateboard.”
She growled in frustration, and handed me the box, accidentally knocking the wreath off the door. Quickly she scrambled to put it back up, but not quickly enough. I got a clear glimpse of the notice pasted to the front door that had been hidden by the wreath. She knew I saw it—but what could she do? She made sure the wreath was hung firmly on the nail, and pretended it hadn’t happened. “See you tomorrow?” she said.
“Yeah ... Yeah, sure, see you tomorrow.”
Before she closed the door, I caught a glimpse of Gunnar watching me from inside, his eyes filled with fatalistic doom, as unnerving as a dozen dying yards.
It was a nice skateboard. High-quality Spitfire wheels, cool design. I sat on my bed that evening, running my fingers over the grip tape surface, and the smooth polished back. I spun the wheels, and listened to the satisfying clatter of the bearings. It was everything you’d want in a skateboard, except for one thing. I didn’t want a skateboard.
See, there’s a time for everything in life—and everyone’s clock is different. There are guys who use skateboards right up until they get their license—after all, it’s a useful mode of transportation. Then there are guys like Skaterdud, to whom skateboarding is like a religion, and they’ll do it all their lives. I’m sure the Dud won’t just fall off that aircraft carrier, he’ll roll off it. But my skateboard phase ended the summer before ninth grade. I kind of outgrew it—and everyone knows the second you outgrow something, it’s like poison for a couple of years, until it becomes historically significant in your life and you can look back on it fondly.
It was all starting to make sense now. Especially after seeing that awful notice plastered on their front door.
HOUSE IN FORECLOSURE RESIDENTS ARE HEREBY GIVEN THIRTY DAYS TO VACATE PREMISES
It was far worse than any field of doom Gunnar and I had created. Thirty days. How do you cope with the world coming down around you, when your parents just seem to be running away? Is it easier to believe that it’s the end of everything rather than face it, and start carving tombstones like Gunnar? Or maybe you just go into full retreat, like Kjersten—who wasn’t interested in bringing me up to her level, but rather wanted to come down to mine—or at least what she
Lexie had been right. Kjersten was dating “the idea” of me.
Could I be what Kjersten needed? Did I want to be? As I sat there running my hands along the edge of the skateboard, I realized that the Umlaut can of worms was a big old industrial drum, and I was already inside, eating worms left and right.
What the Umlauts really needed was time—and not the kind I could print out of my computer, but
So I got on that skateboard and rode it around and around and around, trying my best, for the rest of Christmas vacation, to recapture the earliest days of fourteen.
15. Mona-Mona-Bo-Bona, Bonano-Fano-Fo-Fona
“Hey, Kjersten—I can play ?The Star-Spangled Banner’ in armpit farts; wanna see?”
“Antsy, you’re so funny!”
There’s something to be said for immaturity—acting your shoe size instead of your age, although in my case they’re starting to get close. Once I gave in to it, it was fun. Dumb jokes, bathroom humor, pretending to care about stuff I gave up in middle school... who could have known dating an older woman could be like this?
“This is just, like, the coolest video game, Kjersten. You’re driving a killer Winnebago, and everyone you run over becomes a soul trapped in your motor home. Isn’t it totally great?”
“You play, Antsy. I’ll just watch.”
I was Kjersten’s escape. It made her feel good, and that made me feel good. I even learned to make myself get red in the face and look all embarrassed, when I actually wasn’t.
“See these scabs, like, on my elbows and stuff? They’re from skateboarding. I’ve been, y’know, like, practicing my varial kick-flip and stuff. Like.”
“So the skateboard I got you is a good one?”
“It’s the best!”
The problem with stunting you own growth like that, though, is that it doesn’t leave you with anything lasting. It’s like eating cotton candy all day, although not quite as bad on your teeth. It’s also exhausting. After a day with Kjersten, I’d just want to go home and read a newspaper or something—or even bus tables at the restaurant, just to gain back some basic level of age appropriateness. Unfortunately, I was still banned from the restaurant, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be allowed back.
“What’s with you?” Mom asked. I had just spent an energy-intensive day with Kjersten at the arcade and was
