The Saturday Boy

have rubbed off on me because I started to feel all tingly.

“What is it?”

“Hang on a sec.”

My eyes were glued to the screen. I didn’t want to blink because I was afraid I’d miss it. I held my breath.

“Okay, here it is!”

I let my breath out. I blinked my eyes. I hadn’t been sure what to expect but it certainly wasn’t what I was looking at now. I felt a little bit cheated.

“So what?” I said. “It’s just somebody’s stupid school play.”

“It’s not just any stupid school play—it’s our stupid school play.”

I looked more closely at the screen. Budgie was right. It was our play! I suddenly got a strange feeling in my stomach—like it was dropping into my shoes and climbing out of my throat at the same time. Onstage, Mr. Cratchit and the rest of his family were looking off toward the wings as if they’d heard something.

“Here it comes,” said Budgie.

I didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling. I could hear it in his voice. I knew what was about to happen and it didn’t seem like something to smile about. And when it did happen it was hard for me to watch.

I tried to pretend that the boy tumbling out onstage with Budgie wasn’t me. I tried to pretend that it wasn’t me punching Budgie over and over again as he tried to get up and that they weren’t my tears shining in the spotlight. I just didn’t try hard enough.

“Wanna see it again?” Budgie asked.

“No thanks.”

“It’s funny though, right?”

“Where did you get it?”

“My mom found it on online.”

“How?”

“Barely’s mom called and told her it was there. It’s already gotten a whole bunch of hits. Dude, we’re gonna be famous!”

“Wait, your mom didn’t go see the play?”

“No,” he said. His smile went away and he put the phone down. “But it’s not like I was in it or anything. Plus, it was mostly middle schoolers.”

“So what?”

“Sew a button on your butt, that’s what.”

Normally that would have been hilarious. Budgie smiled a little. But quickly. Then it was gone.

“What about your dad?”

“He was at work.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why wouldn’t your mom come see the play?”

Budgie’s hands were in his lap. He played with his fingers like he didn’t know what else to do with them. Then he mumbled something.

“What?”

“I disappointed her too much.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember that time I said that your parents love you less and less each time you disappoint them?”

“Kinda.”

Budgie looked at me. Then he looked back into his lap.

“I think I disappointed her too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

He stood up and walked around the room. He looked at the posters on my walls. He touched the stuff on my desk. He pretty much kept his back to me the whole time. A few minutes went by and neither of us said anything.

“My parents don’t love me anymore,” he said suddenly.

“That’s not true! Parents have to love their kids. It’s in the constitution or something.”

“Oh yeah? Then why’d they hire Phoebe to look after me? It’s not like they suddenly had more stuff to do! They just don’t want to deal with me anymore. Mom even said.”

“What? No way!”

“Yes way! She’s always saying stuff like that,” he said. Then in his mom voice he added, “‘Marion, I can’t deal with you right now! Marion, I’m all done with you!’”

“What does your dad say?”

“He’s never around.”

“Where is he?”

“I mean, he’s around. He’s just—he gets up and goes to work and he comes home and he goes to his office. I’m stuck with Phoebe.”

“What’s so bad about her?”

“She writes poems and won’t stop reading them to me.”

“So?”

“They’re poems.”

He flopped into my chair and put his face in his hands. I had a feeling it wasn’t really about Phoebe—not about her poems anyway. I wanted to make him feel better but didn’t know how. People had given us food when they knew we were sad. I wondered if I should make him a sandwich or something.

“I wish my dad was more like your dad,” said Budgie.

“Dead?”

It was the first time I’d said it out loud. I hated the way it sounded and how it felt in my mouth.

“No, not—not like that. I mean, around. Like your dad was.”

“But he wasn’t.”

“Not all the time, I know, but when he was here he was here.”

“Your dad’s here.”

“It’s not the same,” Budgie said. I could tell he was getting frustrated. His fists were clenching up and he was having trouble getting his words out. “My dad’s here, yeah, but it’s like he’s not. With your dad, even when he was away it was almost like he was still here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you still have that lunch box with all your dad’s letters?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it?”

I got the lunch box out from under the bed and opened it. A few envelopes slid out onto the quilt. It was packed pretty tight after all. Budgie frowned.

“How many?”

“Ninety-one,” I said. Then I told him that my dad tried to write every week but he couldn’t sometimes because sometimes he was just too busy. I don’t know why I’d added that part though. It seemed a little bit like rubbing it in.

Budgie sat down on the bed and pulled the lunch box into his lap. He took a deep breath and for a second I was worried he might lose his temper and take the letters and rip them up. I’d seen him do stuff like that when he got upset.

“And you wrote to him, too?”

“Yeah. All the time.”

“Do you think he had a lunch box?”

“I’m not sure. I know he had a footlocker. Maybe he kept them in there.”