by Aaron Grunn
a howling laugh, and his mother hit him again.
"You shouldn't scare her like that," John said, his voice hitting a new record for bass.
Tom flinched and raised his hands. "You're right little man. Sorry Katherine."
His mother just smiled. And John saw a look of pride swell up in her face, and she flashed a smirk at Tom. John wasn't certain why.
"So who are you?" John asked.
"Is this how you treat guests?" Tom said. "I need a drink," he said with a smile.
John's mother went into the kitchen and came out with some water.
"Vodka, eh?" Tom said with a smile. He took a sip and pantomimed gagging. "Water? You really are angry with me," he said.
John smiled too, then remembered that he was supposed to be angry at both of them. They were keeping something from him.
"Stop it, you," John's mother said and hit Tom on the arm.
For John, it was weird to see his mother act like this, as if she was a young woman, as if she was no longer his mother. He didn't like it.
"Sit down," she said and pointed at the couch.
"You didn't answer my question," John said, louder this time, and he stepped so that he was blocking Tom's path to the couch.
Tom glanced at John's mother. "You really haven't told him anything, have you?"
John's mother let out a huff of air. "What do you expect?"
"He has to know," Tom said.
"You know I'm in the room," John said, feeling blood rush to his head. "You can answer my questions without treating me like a child."
Tom raised his eyebrows and looked at his mother.
"He's your uncle."
John stared at him, then walked to the table and picked up the photo. His initial instincts had been right. "So why didn't you say that to begin with?"
"Honey..."
"Don't honey me," John snapped. "Why was I kept in the dark about my own father?"
John's mother didn't answer, and Tom gave her the raised eyebrow look and walked to the couch.
"He's so much like him it's scary, eh?" Tom said. "Can't keep him away from what he is, Katherine."
John could feel his mother gazing at him like he was another person again. Was that it? All the times she gave him that stare, had she been thinking about his father? And what was so wrong about being like his father, his flesh, the man who gave him life? Was it a crime?
"Huh?" John said.
"I'm sorry honey."
"Is he still alive?" John asked, this time looking at Tom, who was looking over the couch.
"I think so," said Tom.
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Why should I believe that?"
"I. Don't. Know," Tom said.
"No one knows, honey," his mother said.
John was unsure as to what to say, or how to react. The thoughts in his head were swirling in a vortex, and he couldn't understand anything. He rushed out of the living room and to the bedroom and buried his head in the bed.
He could hear them talking and was mad that they were talking as if nothing had happened. Of course, he knew that he would be mad if they'd talked like they were concerned, and angrier still if they came in here to console him. He wanted to be away from them, and also be around to see them suffer his being away. Nothing he was feeling made sense.
He fell into a fitful sleep and woke up to hear more voices. He walked into the living room and saw his mother sitting on the couch with Tom. A half-finished bottle of wine stood between them, and John noticed that his mother's eyes drooped half shut.
"John!" she said and opened up her arms.
John had never seen his mother drink and stepped carefully towards her. He glanced at Tom and gave him a mean stare.
"Easy kid," Tom said and laughed. "He's gonna rough me up Katherine, and you're the only one who can stop it."
"You're an amazing son, you know that?"
John sat next to his mom and felt her arms around him. Her breath smelled like alcohol. She kissed him on the cheek.
"Isn't he great?" she asked Tom.
"He's becoming a man," Tom said, raising his glass of wine. "You want a sip?"
"No, Tom," John's mother said.
Now John wanted to sip, so he took the glass from Tom's hand and drank. It was a foul concoction. John scrunched up his face and swallowed it.
Tom laughed, and John's mother took the glass away from him. "That's enough."
In his throat, John could feel the liquid working its way into his blood, sinking to his stomach, and suddenly he was light-headed.
John smiled.
"Like it?" Tom asked.
John swayed his head. "A little."
"Well, you be careful. Drinking isn't good for you," his mother said.
John felt there was some hypocrisy somewhere in there, but he didn't say anything. He wanted to ask questions, but instead he closed his eyes, and when he opened them, it was morning.
He kept his head down for most of school. During biology class he expended a lot of energy trying not to look Jessica's way. Mr. Cox was talking, and though John usually never tried to participate, and hated it when he was called on, he felt the urge to say something in class. But not just anything. He thought about his mother's hypocrisy, and somehow that tainted not only every word and order she'd dictated to him, but the words that every adult ever spoke to him. And suddenly he wanted to strike down everything that they, Mr. Cox included, said. And in addition to that, having seen Tom's easy manner, and knowing that he was John's blood, similar to his father, gave him a lot of verve. He wanted to be bold like that.
"And these plants that grow on the sea bed..." Mr. Cox spoke.
"They aren't plants," John said, his voice hitting another new low. He could even hear and feel it rumble off the other students' desks. He knew that Mr. Cox hated it whenever someone talked without raising a hand, or interrupted him.
"Excuse me?"
"I said. They're not plants. They're classified as animals," John said and stared Mr. Cox right in the eye. John could feel the looks of everyone on him. But he didn't care about them.
Mr. Cox was speechless for a second. "Is... Is that a fact?"
"It is," John said, then made a point of looking down to his notepad and pretending to be unconcerned with the rest of the class.
"All right," Mr. Cox said and rifled through his book then returned to his lecture.
When the bell rang, John got up only to find his path impeded by Jessica.
"You're quick," she said.
"What?" John asked.
"I said: you're quick. You're hard to catch. I always see you going."
John stared at her. "Well it's me, I guess."
"Do you not like me?" she asked.
John, so confident after the altercation with Mr. Cox, didn't know what to say right now.
"I don't know," he said, as if to himself.
"Are you walking home today?"
"Yeah."
"Do you mind waiting for me? Out near the parking lot?"
John nodded then watched as she walked out of the room, her hair bouncing. He took his steps slowly as he exited through the same door.
"Be careful."
John glanced up to see Mr. Cox looking at him and smiling.
"What?"
"I said, 'be careful'."
John said "sure" and moved on to his next class.
When school was over, he sat out side near the parking lot. Was this real? Everything that had been happening lately seemed like something from a dream. He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes since school ended. Was it a joke? Was she going to drive by and laugh at him?
John felt himself getting red. What would he do then? He should listen to his mother and just keep his head down.
"Hi there."
John looked up and saw Jessica.
"Hi," he said.
"I'm sorry. Mr. Parker kept me after class."
"Oh. He's a prick."
Jessica laughed. "Fo
r a quiet guy, you can be confrontational sometimes."
"I guess," John said. His mind refused to work in front of her. He couldn't think of what to say next.
"You had Mr. Parker already?"
"Yeah. Calculus."
She screwed up her face like she was confused.
"Aren't you a freshman?"
"Uh huh."
She smiled. She seemed nervous.
John took in the students walking by him. He could feel them looking at him. Probably wondering what she was doing with someone like him. There was no way he could relax with the eyes of the school on him.
"Let's walk," he said and started to walk back to his home. He wasn't certain if she was going to follow. To his surprise she skipped, caught up to him, and walked beside him.
They left the school grounds and were soon heading through the neighborhood that he always moved through.
John saw the skid marks in the grass left by Smitty's car. He flinched as he remembered what was said about Jessica. "Are you Smitty's girlfriend?"
Jessica reacted to the question like it was made of rock. "Smitty? The football player?"
"That's the one."
"No. Who told you that?"
"No one," John said, almost wanting to smile.
"Who was that guy yesterday?"
John remembered the altercation, and again started to feel blood rushing to his face.
"He looked like a friend of yours," she said.
John grinned. "You could call him that."
Jessica laughed. "That's no kind of answer. Who was he?"
John paused. He loved the way she threw her head back to laugh. "He's my uncle."
"He's your uncle?" she asked.
"I..." John paused. Could he trust her? "He is," he said, turning away from her. A cold wind blew, and he could smell her. Her aroma squeezed his insides; though he wasn't sure how. It was a flower-like perfume and something more organic. Whatever it was, it was titillating.
"He's mean."
"Did he scare you?"
"No, I wasn't scared, but Jerry was scared out of his wits. That car he had, was it a 1970 Impala?"
John wasn't certain.