by Edward Bloor
“Sure.”
“How about you, Lilly?”
Lilly shook her head. “No. I have to work.”
Wendy moved on. “How about you Arthur? I know your stepfather will be going.”
“Yeah? How do you know that?”
Wendy answered simply, “My stepmom told me.”
Arthur challenged her. “But isn’t she forbidden, by a strict code of confidentiality, from talking about what a client says?”
Wendy was ready for him. “Yes, she is forbidden. Unless the client releases her from that, which your stepfather has done.”
Arthur looked doubtful. “He’s released her? He didn’t mention releasing anybody to me.”
“Well, ask him about it. He also gave her permission to discuss his fears in group.”
Arthur might have responded, but he got distracted.
We all did.
Rick Dorfman opened the door and looked inside. He spotted Catherine Lyle and walked up to her. He said in a low, miserable voice, “I guess I’m supposed to come here.”
Catherine Lyle whispered, “Are you the one Officer O’Dell told me about?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, is this a court-ordered case?”
Dorfman twitched uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”
She asked him patiently, “Did a judge, as a condition of probation, require you to join this substance-abuse group?”
Dorfman looked around at anyone within earshot, including me. He answered angrily, “Yes.”
Arthur whispered, “Not surprising. Dork-man’s a big ’roids user. Everybody knows that.”
“What?”
“ ’Roids! To bulk up for football, you know.”
Lilly asked, “What are ’roids?”
“Steroids—HGH, progesterone. They bulk you up. Without them, Dork-man’s really, like, five foot two and ninety pounds.”
I laughed, which I probably should not have done. Dorfman turned and glared at me.
Catherine Lyle told him, “Welcome to the group.”
He growled, “Just tell me what I gotta do.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
Dorfman’s mouth curled up into a menacing smile. I had seen that smile before, and I started to worry. He said, “Look, lady, why don’t you stop busting my balls and tell me what to do?”
Arthur reacted immediately. He pushed his chair back, like he might have to move fast. Rick Dorfman saw that.
Catherine Lyle remained calm. “As I told you, you are welcome here. You may join any group you like. You are welcome to take part or not, as you see fit.”
But Dorfman was already moving back toward the exit. He held out the middle finger on each hand to the group. And after suggesting that Catherine Lyle do something that was anatomically impossible, he stomped out of the room.
Arthur rose up out of his chair. He seemed on the verge of going after him, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “Are you okay, Mrs. Lyle?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “Why, yes, Arthur. Thank you.”
Then she turned the incident into some counseling. “Let’s take a moment to analyze what just happened here. Obscene language and physical intimidation are two elements of abuse. How do we deal with that? By turning to drugs? Or alcohol? Does that really deal with it?”
She stopped so we could shake our heads or mutter no.
“No. Because that’s not dealing with it. Is it?”
Lilly had been tapping her pencil nervously on the table. She stopped and asked, “So what about a nasty jerk like that? I get them at work sometimes. What should I do?”
“In a situation like that, you should always ask yourself, Who owns this problem? In this case, that young man clearly owns the problem, not me. He is going to have to figure out how to solve it. The problem was not mine when he walked in, and it is not mine now that he has walked out, no matter what crude thing he has said or done to try to make it mine. He still owns it.”
Lilly said, “That’s good advice. I’m gonna use that.”
Mrs. Lyle gave her a big smile, and the meeting broke up on that positive note.
When I arrived at the Food Giant, Bobby was at register one, bagging groceries for Marsha.
As always, he was bagging them quickly and efficiently. He wasn’t saying a word, either to her or to the customers. He never did, except when there was a new bag boy to train. Then he delivered a pitch that came word for word from the Food Giant training tapes. Stuff like “Tell a customer there is no tipping, and that loading bags is a courtesy. Do not mix a package of frozen food with a box of cereal. The customer will get home with a wet box, and they won’t be happy with us. Push no more than five carts at a time. Otherwise, you might damage the carts, or a customer’s vehicle, or yourself.”
This could get annoying, especially on the third or fourth recitation. I think we lost a few bag boys because of it.
As I grabbed my green slicker, it occurred to me that there had been no new bag boys for quite a while. Or new cashiers. Or new assistants behind the customer-service desk, or the meat or bakery counters. None.
Why wasn’t Dad hiring anybody? Why was he working double shifts, and adding hours for Lilly and me, without pay? (I should say that, technically, we do get paid. Dad and Mom put money into our college funds, but still …)
I had just stepped outside when I heard shouting by the back spaces. Bobby was pointing at the bottom of a man’s cart, so I ran out to see what was going on.
The man was short, stocky, and balding. And he was quite indignant, claiming, “I didn’t know anything was under there! I didn’t see anything.”
Bobby countered with, “What do you mean you didn’t see anything? It’s right there. You had to see it.”
“Somebody else left these,” the guy insisted. “I was just getting a cart to go in the store!”
He was clearly lying, and Bobby knew it. “No, you weren’t. You weren’t going in the store; you were coming out of the store.”
The guy had heard enough. “I don’t need to stand here arguing with an idiot.”
Bobby fired back, “You’re the idiot. Stealing stuff. Only an idiot steals!”
I stood close behind Bobby. The guy’s car had lettering on the back window that said LEHIGH UNIVERSITY. He had a bumper sticker that said MY CHILD MADE THE DEAN’S LIST AT POTTSTOWN ELEMENTARY. I figured that he was from eastern Pennsylvania, a long drive from here.
I examined the supplies under his cart—jugs of ammonia and rubbing alcohol, boxes of Sudafed and Actifed.
The guy threw up his hands, releasing the cart. It started to roll downhill, so I ran and grabbed it. He jumped into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and peeled out, driving way too fast.
Bobby watched him go, shaking his round head disapprovingly.
I wheeled the cart up to him. “That guy was upset, Bobby. You need to be more careful with people like that.”
“He needs to not steal!”
“True. But I don’t want you getting hurt out here. And I know my dad doesn’t, either.”
“I ain’t hurt.”
“I know. But you could have been. That guy could have pulled out a rifle.” Bobby’s eyes widened. I added, “Or a bow and arrow.”
“Yeah? Yeah. Don’t tell your dad. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Because he’ll call my mom. And she’ll come and take my blood pressure. And maybe make me go home.”
“Okay.”
I gathered two more carts, slammed them together, and pushed them toward the entrance. Suddenly I gripped the handles and pulled the train of carts to a screeching halt.
I couldn’t believe my eyes! There, just inside the glass, looking way too stylish for the Food Giant, were Catherine and Wendy Lyle.
I was thrilled. But then, just seconds later, I was horrified. I thought of my dad at the front in his white shirt and tie, and my sister at the register in her Food Giant smock, and myself running
around in a green slicker. Could I look any dorkier?
I left the carts for Bobby.
I peeled off my slicker, lowered my head, and ducked inside. I scooted along the left edge of the store, not stopping until I was back in the storeroom, peeking out through its small square window. Peeking out like a stalker. Like a total loser.
But soon my desire to talk to Wendy won out over my shame. When I saw the Lyles turn down the cereal aisle, I hurried out and set myself up near the end cap, rearranging boxes on the shelf.
I heard Wendy announce in that perky TV voice, “Hey, it’s Tom!”
I turned and tried to look surprised. Catherine Lyle wheeled her cart the other way, but Wendy stayed behind. She sounded surprised. “You work here?”
“Yeah.”
“But … don’t they have, like, child labor laws here? Don’t you have to be a certain age to work?”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t work here officially. My dad’s the manager, so I work, you know, under the table. He puts money into my college fund.”
She didn’t seem to like that. She muttered noncommittally, “Oh.”
That was followed by a long, agonizing silence, during which my mind froze up. Wendy finally spoke. “Seems like we’re in a different context here, Tom.”
“What?”
“You and me. When we’re sitting in Mr. Proctor’s class, or in group, we can talk about books and drugs and all. But here”—her blue eyes darted up to the cereal boxes—“we’re just standing in front of the All-Bran with nothing to say.”
I picked up on that as best I could. I pointed to the shelf and asked her, “Did you know that Mueslix, All-Bran, and Fruit ’n Fibre are all made by the same company?”
She seemed mildly interested. “No. I didn’t.”
“So are bran flakes, Special K, and Product 19.”
“Really?”
“Yep. It’s all Kellogg’s. And”—I pointed to the next aisle—“did you know that Mountain Dew, Sierra Mist, and Slice are all made by Pepsi?” Then I pointed even farther afield. “And that Reese’s peanut butter cups, Cadbury eggs, and Heath bars are all made by Hershey’s?”
Her pretty face oscillated back and forth slightly, indicating no.
“It’s true. It’s like … we think we’re making choices in the supermarket, but in reality, there’s not much choice at all.”
Wendy’s blue eyes bore into mine. She told me, “That’s kinda deep.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
Her mouth twisted into a frown. “But do you really believe that?”
I stopped smiling. “Believe what?”
“That there’s not much choice?”
I didn’t understand. “For what?”
She looked toward those distant aisles. “Not much choice for your life. You know—for where you live, for what you do.”
“I sure hope there’s a choice. I don’t want to stay here.”
She looked interested again. “No? You want to move somewhere else?”
“Yeah! I’ve been sending away for college brochures, to places I think I can get into. You know, if I work hard. And they’re all in Florida.”
“Florida?”
“That’s about as far from here as you can get.”
“Yeah.” She hesitated for just a moment. “We’ve lived there.”
“Really? Where?”
“Melbourne.”
“Was that a nice place?”
“Yeah. It was nice. But I liked California even better. San Diego. That’s where my mom lives now.”
“Oh?”
Then she came right out and told me: “My dad left my mom for Catherine, back when Catherine was a grad student. My mom’s remarried now, to a naval officer, and she travels all over the world.” She assured me, “So it’s all cool.”
Catherine Lyle reappeared at the front of the aisle. She turned her cart toward us. Again she avoided eye contact with me, but not with Wendy. She waved for Wendy to join her at the register.
Wendy said, “I guess we’re through shopping. I’ll see you in second period tomorrow.”
“Yeah. In our old context.”
“Right. Good word. Use it three times and you’ll own it.”
“I know.” I thought, She must read the same PSAT workbook I do!
I watched her walk away. She had that model walk, too.
A minute later, Dad stopped at the end cap and stared at me curiously. He said, “You’re due for a break, aren’t you, Tom?”
I checked my watch. “Yeah, I am. Can I get the keys to the van?”
Dad fished in his pockets. “Sure.”
I took the keys and walked out, way out, to Dad’s parking space. I was hoping to study some vocabulary and I thought the van would be the safest place, but I was wrong. I had just opened the book when Reg appeared at the window, lit cigarette in hand. He asked me, “Uncle Tom, did you rat me out with your dad?”
“What are you talking about?”
“About that Chiquita banana thing?”
“No.”
“No? Then it must’ve been Uno. He’s the type. He’s lacking in the testicular department. You know?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
Reg flicked an ash away. “What are you doing out here?”
I showed him the book cover. “Learning new words.”
“For school?”
“For a test.”
“For one of my dad’s tests? I got the answers to those if you ever need ’em. They’re the same tests every year.”
“No. For the PSAT. I’ll take it next spring.”
He took a deep drag. “Uh-huh. What’s that?”
“It’s a test that colleges use to give out scholarships.”
“So this is about money?”
“I guess so. Yeah.”
“I hear that. It’s all about money. Or the lack thereof.” He pointed his free hand at the book. “What are the words? Let’s see if I know any.”
I resigned myself to a vocabulary lesson with Reg. “Okay. Obviate.”
“What’s that mean?”
“ ‘To anticipate and prevent.’ ”
“Give me an example.”
I looked at the store in the distance. “Like if you think someone is going to shoplift, and you have an employee follow them around, you obviate the need for a cop.”
“Because you anticipated what might happen. You thought it through.”
“Right.”
“I hear that. Give me another one.”
“Obdurate. It means ‘hardened in feelings.’ ”
“Like you’re a hard-ass.”
“I guess so.”
“Got it. Give me one more.”
“Obsequious.”
“Never heard that one.”
“Me, either.” I read the definition. “It means ‘fawningly attentive.’ ”
“What-ingly attentive?”
“I guess, like you’re falling all over somebody, praising them.”
“Like you’re kissing their ass.”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
Reg flicked his cigarette away. “Okay. Good. I’m gonna use those words.”
“Use them three times and you’ll own them.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s what they say.”
We both watched Lilly and Uno walk out of the store arm in arm, heading toward us. They stopped at Uno’s Jeep, six spaces away.
Reg called out, “Hey, Uno! Use that three times and you’ll own it, bro!”
Uno scrunched his face and called back, “What?”
Reg just laughed evilly.
Lilly snarled at him.
I wondered what Lilly was doing walking that way with Uno. Last year, I might have blackmailed her about this, threatening to tell Mom. But not anymore. What Lilly does now is her business. Especially after work. Especially with Uno.
Mr. Proctor said it: Everything is changing.
Wednesday, October 24, 2001
As I appr
oached my homeroom today, I spotted the hulking figure of Rick Dorfman standing by the door. I slowed down, assuming he was going in or out, but he just stood there, so I continued on.
That was a mistake.
He was waiting for me. As soon as he spotted me, he started clenching his fists. When I got within arm’s length, he reached out, grabbed the back of my neck, and force-walked me inside.
Coach Malloy wasn’t in there. The few kids who were quickly backed away.
Dorfman twisted me around until my face was directly in front of his. His eyes were ablaze with anger. With hatred. I was instantly terrified.
He spat out some words, spraying saliva in my face. “I been thinking about you, Coleman. You little nerd, you joke, you nobody! You think you can laugh at me?”
I remember feeling surprised that he knew my name. Otherwise, though, I lapsed into craven-coward mode. I shook, and I stammered, “N-n-no. I wouldn’t. You don’t understand.”
He switched his grip to the front of my neck, grabbing me with both hands and squeezing, like he really might kill me.
Suddenly someone screamed at him. A girl’s voice. That caused him to loosen his grip.
It was Jenny Weaver.
She looked every bit as angry as Dorfman. “Get your hands off him! And get out of here. You don’t belong in here!”
Dorfman released his grip, but he didn’t leave. He just took a step back.
Unafraid, Jenny screamed at him again. “Get back to the high school side, or I’ll call Officer O’Dell!”
Dorfman’s face muscles twitched, like he had a spasm.
Suddenly the mad-dog glare went out of his eyes, like a light switching off. He lowered his head and bulled his way out the door, knocking Ben Gibbons three feet back into the hallway.
Jenny took my elbow and walked me to my seat like she was helping an old man at a nursing home. She asked, “Are you okay, Tom?”
I reached up to my throat and tried to swallow. I couldn’t answer.
She asked, “Do you want a glass of water?”
I shook my head no. I couldn’t even look at her. I sat there in total humiliation, as red as a tomato, and on the verge of crying. I felt like everyone was staring at me.
I looked up at the TV. I imagined Wendy Lyle was staring at me through the screen as she delivered the morning announcements: “Tom Coleman today proved that he is a sniveling coward and a total wuss. Please join me in laughing at Tom about his ultimate humiliation. Now let’s all rise to say the Pledge of Allegiance.”