I can totally understand what Miss Decker is tryin’ to teach us in American History even though I pretend I’m not listening to her. She’s sayin’ all the power lies in the hands of the folk who make the news. I know that. I have all the power in this school… except, well… I would have all the power if anybody ever read what I wrote. All’s I know is I have a budget to print three hundred copies, front and back page, which is what I do every Friday morning — it’s what I’m doing right now, if only this futuristic coffin would wake the hell up — and then I’ll leave a few copies in each of the hallways around the school, as well as a large bundle at the front desk beside where the principal’s assistant sits. Thing is, the large bundle at the front desk seems to stay large all through Friday, until the principal’s assistant ends up trashing them before she goes home for the weekend. Some students read the copies I leave round the hallways, though, I’m sure. At least I know they’re not left in the place I drop them in for long. Though, they are mostly used as throwing balls during class breaks between periods. There are always balled up copies of my newspaper found in almost every hallway of this school all through Friday. I just hope that whichever student squeezed the newspaper up into a ball before they threw it at another student’s head at least read the headlines before they threw it.
The futuristic coffin double beeps and so I slam my hand down on to the desk.
“Damn it!” I say.
Out of ink. Again.
I press save on the computer, then head out of the tiny office and down the quiet hallway before turning left under the staircase. Principal Klay gave me a key to the storeroom. So, I let myself in and then begin to, as is a new habit of mine, whistle the theme tunes of the TV News Networks as I search the shelves for packs of colored ink cartridges. It’s dark in here. It’s dark all over this floor in the basement. After I grab a pack of cartridges, I turn on my heels, lock the storage room door and, when I look around me to notice there ain’t nobody around, I continue whistling. My favorite is the MSNBC theme tune. But my favorite can change depending on what mood I’m in. Right now, I’m whistling the FOX News tune. I have been most of the morning. I don’t really know why.
“Hey,” she says.
“Shiiit,” I say, holding my chest. “Nobody’s ever… ever… ev―”’ I stutter. And then I stop to allow my stomach to flip over. She looks so pretty perched on the edge of my desk.
“Sorry,” she says. “I eh… was told I would find you down here before school started on a Friday morning. It sure is quiet round here at this time of the day, huh?”
I stand in the doorway, frozen, staring at the different strands of orange and gold in her hair. And when I realize that’s all I’m doing, I nod.
“Ah….” I say. “So yeah... this is where I do it, where I write and print the school newspaper.”
She looks around the tiny office, at all four of the blank white walls, then down at the futuristic coffin.
“I was hoping to talk to you about yesterday,” she says, “about what happened after American History class.”
“Oh,” I say. And then my stomach flips itself over again. But heavier this time. As if it’s daring me to vomit.
“Yeah, I mean… firstly, I’m sorry,” she says, tilting her head to the side and looking as pretty as girls can look sometimes on the front pages of magazines.
“No, don’t be…” I shake my hair.
“No. I am. I didn’t mean to put you in the situation I ended up putting you in. And I just wanted to get away from Stevie. What a creep.”
“Oh, yeah. Totally. He’s such an ass,” I say. And then my mind screams, “Fuuuck!” because suddenly it hits me that she only put her arm around me to piss Stevie off. It wasn’t about me. It was never about me. It was only about her trying to look cool. In front of him.
“It’s just... I mean... I don’t really know how to say…”
She pauses. For way too long; long enough for her to look around all four white walls of this tiny office again.
“Just say it,” I say to her as I scratch at the top of my hair, brushing my hair over my eyes so I can hide behind it.
“It’s just… well, I’ve never done this before, but eh… I’m not quite sure what it is, or who it is, but something or somebody is telling me that you and me… that we should eh…”
My stomach flips again. I wanna burp. But I don’t. Not in front of her. That would be disgusting.
“Huh?”
“That we should kinda, like, spend more time with each other.”
“Spend more time with each other?”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling so beautifully that I would love to do nothing more right now than to take three steps forward and kiss that smile. Even though I don’t know how to kiss. I don’t think I do anyway. Never tried it.
“Well, uh...” I scratch at my hair again then sweep it away from my eyes with my fingers, so her eyes can see mine.
“Or we could just be friends and... you know? After all, we do sit next to each other in American History and―”
“No... no... the first one, the ‘see each other more’ option,” I say.
She smiles one of those beautiful smiles again. Then walks past me, nudging my shoulder with hers. By the time I turn around, she’s out the door, her sneakers screeching against the freshly-cleaned hallway floors.
See each other more?
“Wait!” I say, spinning and grabbing onto the door frame. “When you put your arm around me yesterday you said we were dating. Are we… are we dating?”
She shrugs her shoulders, then holds her hands up.
“Well, in order for us to start dating, Meric, you’d probably need to ask me out on a date.”
BRODY EDWARDS
It always amazes me that we laugh for the exact amount of time. Like, someone will be telling a story and when he finishes we’ll all laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh… and then stop! Right at the exact same time.
“Guess what?” Jared says. It’s his turn to talk now. “I found three full-on porno mags under the mattress of my old man’s bed.”
“You fuckin’ kiddin’, dude?” Stevie says.
“No man. Real ones, too. Not just chicks with their tits out. But, like, actual fucking, dude.”
“Wow,” Stevie says. “Can you get me one?”
“Th’fuck man. Why the hell would I steal a porn mag from my old man and give it to you?”
We all laugh, laugh, laugh… and then stop!
“What are the chicks like in it?” I ask, after pulling my T-shirt over my head. “They hot?”
“Yeah. Like professional models, dude. Gorgeous. Big tits, shaved puss. European, I think they are,” Jared says.
“Hey, speaking of European chicks, what you guys think of that new Irish one with the funny name?” Lloyd asks.
“Ah, she ain’t all that. Freckly. Isn’t she? Not into freckles,” Hawkins says.
“Nah, me neither,” Stevie says.
“Stevie’s already had his―”
“Shut up dude,” Stevie says, shoving at my chest.
“Okay guys listen up,” Coach Quill shouts, swinging the locker room door open. “Good session today. We know our plays. We’ve been through them all. If anyone doesn’t know what their individual job is next Friday night, now is the time to let me know.”
All of us stare back at him. No hands go up. And none of us open our mouths.
“Okay, well… now I know I can trust you to do your jobs.”
He’s such a great coach. But it’s a pity we don’t have the players to compete at State level. Me and Stevie carry this team. We’ll get us as far as we can. But however far Median High gets, it’ll all be down to us two. Us two and Coach Quill.
“You two,” Quill says, turning to us as we’re both grabbing our hoodies from the hook. He slaps us both on the shoulder, then squeezes us closer to him. “I’m relying on you guys, okay? You do what we practiced out there today and we’ll get off to a winning start next Frid
ay, I’m sure of it.”
“You got it, Coach,” Stevie says. Then they do their handshake thing. Then Coach Quill turns to me and we do our new handshake thing that we just made up earlier. And then me and Stevie do our handshake thing that we haven’t changed in over two years. And after that, without saying another word, we yank our hoodies over our heads, hold our fists out to our teammates for bumps while we mumble a few “Catch you Monday, guys” before leaving the locker room.
“Hey, man,” Stevie whispers to me as we’re walking down the hallway, “just leave the Irish chick getting finger fucked by me between me and you, huh? Same with you and Decker, dude? It’s our little dares that we’ve got goin’ on that are just between me ’n’ you, okay?”
“Sure thing, dude,” I say. Then we do our handshake again.
“I don’t want anyone thinking I was with some ugly chick, y’know how it is.”
“I gotcha, dude. Won’t say a word.”
I pinch my fingers and swipe them across my lips, just as we are stepping outside.
“Hey, your Dad’s there, dude,” Stevie says, “I’mma run. You know me after a good practice—I like to jerk off soon as I get home.”
“’Course, dude. I’ll catch you later.”
Then we do our handshake thing again before I walk across the parking lot to my old man. It’s so great to have him back home. Well… not exactly home. But at Mrs. Ferguson’s B&B.
“Quill put you guys through some tough drills out there today, huh?” Dad says, before play-punching me in the gut. “From what I see, you and Stevie sure could do with some help out there. You guys are wasted talents in that team. It’s not the worst position to be in. Stand out players on a bad team can still get noticed.”
“Yeah, that’s what Stevie says,” I say.
I love talking to my old man about football. In fact, it’s probably the only thing we’ve ever spoken about. I genuinely don’t remember ever talking to him about anything else. I’d love to ask him lotsa things. And when he was away for so long I told myself, when Dad’s home I’m gonna talk to him more. But now I can’t really remember what any of those conversations are supposed to be about. I guess I should ask him about Iraq. In fact, I don’t even know why American soldiers are even in Iraq in the first place.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as we begin walking. “Why don’t we go out for a burger, huh? You hungry?”
“Ahhh,” he rubs at the stubble on his chin. “I can’t Brody, sorry. Not this evening. I’ve got a uh... got a dinner thing a later.”
He looks at his watch.
“A dinner thing? Whatchu mean a dinner thing?”
“Ah, it’s nothing,” he says, tussling my hair.
And there he is. Back home. Back to being my Dad... not answering any of my questions unless they’re about football.
“So, tell me,” he says. “How you think the Jayhawks will do this season?”
JOHNNY EDWARDS
I rub my palms up and down my jeans again.
Gee. Don’t think I’ve ever sweated this much. Not even in Iraq. Not even approaching an air base in Iraq.
After I’ve dried my palms, I pick up the menu and turn it around in my hands. I already know what I’m going to order.
“Can I get you another drink, sir?” the waiter says to me.
“Uh. Not right now.”
I check my watch. Seven minutes past eight. Then I stare at the door and begin to rub my sweaty palms against my jeans again when it slowly pushes open and my rubbing stops.
“Lucy,” I say, standing up.
She smiles, then walks over to me, stretching her hand out. I rub my right hand against my jeans again, then place it inside hers, hoping it’s not too wet.
“You must be John.”
“Yeah,” I say, taking a seat. “Or Johnny. E’rybody calls me Johnny. ’Cept my kids.”
“Huh?” she says, removing the strap of her purse from her shoulder and placing it under the table. “What do they call you?”
I burst out laughing.
“Dad.”
“Oh,” she says, covering her face with her hand as she sits.
I take the time she’s hiding behind her hand to rub my palms against my jeans again, then when I’m done, I slide the menu across the table.
“I haven’t been here for a couple years, but they used to make the best hamburgers in all of Kansas… so I already know what I’m having.”
She removes her hand from her face, smiles up at me while shaking her head, then she cracks open the menu.
I wouldn’t say she’s great looking. And I wouldn’t say good looking, either. She’s okay looking. Or average, is probably the best way of describing her. Average mousy brown hair, average face, average fashion taste. But I really don’t care. When I promised myself in Iraq that I would start dating again when I finally got home, I kept having to remind myself that looks don’t matter. I’m forty-three now. I have to be more grown up than just judging women on their appearance. I want somebody to talk to. Not somebody to look at. I learned that mistake from my first marriage.
“Didn’t I, ah…” she says, looking up from the menu. “Sorry, I’ve just noticed the stars ‘n’ stripes on your collar… didn’t I see you a couple days ago? Where you in Ladow’s Coffee Shop? You walked in in your uniform.”
“Yes! Right. I think I saw you, too. Was that you sitting in the corner, gossiping with a friend?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what I was doing. Gossiping.”
We both laugh. And then she looks back down at the menu as it goes all quiet again.
“A drink for the lady?” the waiter says, taking us out of our silence.
“Can I have a red wine, please? Any will do. One that's not too expensive.”
I push out a laugh.
“And for you, sir?”
I tap on my pint glass.
“Another Bud, bud.”
“So, you’re a soldier?” she says as soon as the waiter goes to fetch us our drinks.
“Yeah. I’ve ah…” I lean forward toward the table, “spent the last eighteen months in Iraq.”
“Ah, yes. The no-fly-zone operation.”
“Oh,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “You in the army too?”
“No,” she says, snorting out a laugh. “I’m a teacher. I’m just interested is all…”
“Yeah, we’re doing great work out there. It’s a fantastic mission. We’ve got things totally under control.”
“Oh, thank you,” she says, and just as I’m about to say, “You’re welcome,” I notice the waiter has placed her glass of wine in front of her. She wasn’t thanking me. She was thanking him. Then he passes me a large glass of beer from his tray, turns, and leaves us to it. “So ah… you think we’ll pull out of Iraq soon?” she asks.
“Yeah,“ I reply. “Not much more to be done.”
“That’s good to hear,” she says. And then I immediately know she’s one of them; one of those opposed to us being overseas. A liberal. A Democrat. Though she doesn’t really look like one of them. She sure doesn’t look like she lives up her own ass.
“Well, looks like we’ve already found something in common,” she says, closing the menu and smiling up at me. “I fancy the burger, too.”
LUCY DECKER
It goes a little silent after I say that. Then he pauses, picks up his beer and takes a nervous sip. This isn’t going so good. And we haven’t even ordered yet.
“Well, looks like we’ve already found something in common,” I say, to ease the awkwardness. “I fancy the burger, too.”
It’s a pity he’s a soldier because he’s kinda handsome. Not handsome to everyone, I wouldn’t say. But he’s got wide shoulders and looks as if he would be a great big spoon in bed every morning. That’d be nice; that’d be really nice. He’s got one of those buzz haircuts that would just have to change if we were to ever get serious though, and his eyes are quite narrow. Very narrow, now that I look at them over the rim of his glass as he takes a
sip from his beer. That could bug me. In fact it probably already is bugging me. But not much more than the fact that he’s a soldier. I bet he’s a Republican… there’s probably zero chance we’re gonna get along.
“Two burgers,” I say, holding up a peace sign when I see the waiter approach us while folding over his notebook.
He nods, takes the menu from me, then turns on his heels to deliver our order to the kitchen.
I take a little sip from my wine and, as I do, it feels as if the whole restaurant has gone quiet, that it’s not just our table.
“So teach―”
“So about the war―”
We both pause, having both talked over each other to fill the silence at the exact same time.
“No, no, you first.”
“No you….”
“Well, listen, I guess we have two starting points. It’s either war or teaching,” he says, laughing. He’s got a good laugh. Husky. It suits his bulky shoulders. “Rock, paper, scissors?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “If you win, I’ll talk about the war. If I win, you tell me about teaching.”
I giggle. A sincere giggle. Not a fake one, even though it probably sounds fake. Rock, paper, scissors… I like it. He’s funny. Or fun, anyway. And I sure could do with some fun in my life.
“Let’s do it,” I say, holding a balled fist across the table.
When he does the same, and our knuckles touch, I finally feel at ease; as if I realize there aren’t going to be any more awkward silences.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot...” he says.
In The Middle of Middle America Page 12