“…”
“Okay den. Have fun my sweetheart. Lenny, I get you tomorrow with Andrius.”
“Bye, Mama.”
Andrius and Lenny rushed inside, but I couldn’t move. I watched as she glided through the thin layer of snow, reached her car, and looked back to see if her “sweetheart” had made it inside the house. When she saw me still staring at her, she waved and smiled—I felt a jolt knock me backward and I almost fell into the white dust.
“Come on, Victor! The pizza!”
The breaking and shouting sounds of juvenescent mischief could be heard from beyond the basement door, which grew louder as we descended the steps. Jurassic Park was playing on a big box television (like ours, but without the crack in the bottom), but no one seemed to be watching. The Barriston brothers were playing foosball against Matt Dershowitz and Jeremy Finklestein as Maine Ogden and Kader attacked each other with plastic swords (I knew he liked weapons!). Paxton launched a rugby ball past Silas that crashed into Lenny’s stomach. I felt like I was entering a new planet, void of the laws of physics and nature and Mrs. Lydell.
“Is that Ferraro?!” And Pierce Stone was a rogue meteor intent on decimating us all. “Who invited you, huh? I don’t want to have a sleepover with liars.”
“I didn’t lie. Hey, did you know that Tyrannosaurus Rex didn’t even live during the Jurassic period?”
“What are you talking about?”
I pointed to the TV as the giant beast chased Jeff Goldblum into the back of a Jeep. “Tyrannosaurus Rex lived during the Cretaceous period, not the Jurassic. They need Allosaurus or Megalosaurus instead of…”
“Jeez, Ferraro, alright! But what does that have to do with you lying about my dad?”
“Does he still live in his fort?”
“Yeah, so what?”
I caught Paxton eavesdropping on us, and he darted behind a stack of boxes that had rommel written on the side.
“I think Paxton knows about that.”
“Paxton? I already asked him. He said he knew nothing about it.”
“Did he white lie?”
“What? No. I don’t know!” He stepped up to me and put a finger in my chest. “He said you were saying my parents are getting a divorce!” I bumped into the foosball table. “That’s like saying I… I have an ass for a face?” I heard a few giggles disperse around the basement. “Which is not true. Do I have an ass for a face, Ferraro? Huh?” I imagined Pierce Stone’s face swirling and transforming into a giant ass.
And like a crack of thunder—the voice of God—Mr. Badenhorst’s sonorous Namibian voice, the one he used to hold the attention of his own flock, boomed from the top of the basement steps to round us up for pizza. Before Pierce Stone could emit his threat, I turned to sprint up the stairs, shifting through Kader and Matt Dershowitz like Deion Sanders returning a punt.
We hopped into open chairs as if they were our only vessel to the pies. The pizza on top of the stack in the middle of the table was still steaming—we watched it rise like we were looking for a signal in the heat. I saw the pineapple chunks wedged in the cheese and remembered that the Frank’s Pizzeria business card was still in my pocket.
“Oh, here, Mr. Badenhorst.” I reached across the table and handed him the card. “My father says we shouldn’t eat ameriganz, but it’s okay with me, I like Dominos.” The imposing pastor looked at his wife and they both shrugged.
“Hey Mr. Badenhorst, if you guys are from Africa, how come you aren’t black?” asked Pierce Stone as he caught the string of cheese falling from his chin.
“Pierce!” Paxton called from across the table. “Ms. O’Donnell said we’re supposed to say African-American.”
“Well, there are actually white…” Mr. Badenhorst started.
“Sorry, Mr. B. How come if you’re African-American, you aren’t black?”
“But they aren’t African-American,” said Kader.
“Namibia is in Africa and they are in America. That makes them African-American. Have you ever seen a map?”
“My nanny Roseline is black, but she isn’t from Africa. She lives in Irvington,” Jeremy Finklestein said as he picked the ham off his slice and put it aside.
“She is African-American,” Kader asserted.
“But she speaks French.”
“Black people can speak French, too,” Kader said.
“I thought you said she was African-American?” asked Lenny.
“Kader, you are sorta black, are you African-American?” asked Pierce Stone.
“I’m from Pakistan…”
“Where is Pakistan?”
“It’s in Iraq,” said Paxton as he leaned in to grab another slice.
Kader put his elbows on the table and rubbed his temples like my dad does when my Mom and Mum Mum and Bill Clinton are yelling about the Democrats.
“Hey Silas…” I started as I bit into my pizza, but I burned the roof of my mouth on the cheese and dropped the slice on the paper plate.
“Aww, look, Ferraro can’t read or eat pizza!”
“I can read! I’m even writing a story.”
“I need more ketchup for my pizza,” said Paxton.
“What’s the story about?” asked Matt Dershowitz.
“Dragons. Hey Andrius, are there dragons in Lithuania?”
“I don’t think there are.”
“What about ice dragons? Like a wyrm or wyvern?”
“…”
“Maybe I should ask your mom.”
Behind Andrius, a cross sparkled with green and gold gems, and on the refrigerator, a cross magnet held a picture of Silas on a bicycle in what looked like the desert—maybe Tatooine or Iraq. In fact, the entire kitchen and living room were covered in doves and crosses and pictures of Jesus.
“Hey Mr. B, where do you get your holy water?”
“Um… I don’t understand the question, Victor.”
“If I drink holy water, will I get powers?” asked Jeremy Finklestein.
“If you drink holy water, you’ll go to Hell!” shouted Pierce Stone.
“Hey! Why is that?” asked Matt Dershowitz.
“Because you’re Jews!”
“… do Jews know where Hell is?” I leaned over to ask Kader.
“Okay, boys, enough of this talk.”
“Wait, Mr. B. I wanted to ask if you use the same holy water as Tom Jones Cleaver.”
“You… you
