Necessary Roughness

by Marie G. Lee

  “I dare you,” Young said, holding out a greenish-yellow orb Green Apple Killer Sour Death Ball.

  Another thrilling Saturday at Froggie’s.

  “Simultaneous death balls,” I suggested. “First to pucker loses.”

  “You’re on.” She handed me one, unwrapped another. “Ready, set, go!”

  Killer Sour Death Balls are the latest thing in mouth torture since Zots and Pop Rocks, those things that were like eating Alka-Seltzer. Chili KSDBs are red and cinnamon hot. The green ones are sourer than a thousand lemons.

  The saliva flowed. The walls of my cheeks closed in as my mouth practically turned itself inside out. So did Young’s.

  “We need more practice,” she said.

  “Hey, man,” said a youngish guy in a John Deere cap, as he walked up to us at the counter. “You got any of those Satan cigarettes?”

  “Excuse me?” I said. Young looked horrified.

  “You know, Satan. That’s a brand of cigarettes.”

  “There are not, to my knowledge, any cigarettes that go by the brand name Satan,” I said.

  The guy’s pants were covered in a bright-red dust. He had an IRON RIVER ORE PLANT hard hat in one hand. The name written on it in marker pen was Borgstrom. Mrs. Knutson said the mining companies had set up the trust that had built and now maintained the high school. It seemed weird that kids went to a school that looked like a mansion and then ended up working in the dust of the mines, after.

  “You used to carry them when that other guy ran the store,” he said, doing an earnest search of the rack. “There they are!”

  “Where?” I said with disbelief. I couldn’t believe Abogee would let something like that in the store. He practically had a fit when he saw the Underwood Deviled Ham label, thinking there was a canned devil inside it or something.

  “There … over there …” he said, urgently pointing. “Right under the Salems.”

  I looked. There was a brand of ladies’ cigarettes in a pastel box. You got a free pair of earrings or panty hose or something once you amassed a black-lung’s worth of UPCs. The cigarettes were called Satin cigarettes.

  “Um,” I said gently, as if I was breaking the news that he was being held back in second grade for the third time. “Those are Satin cigarettes—you know, like satin sheets. For the ladies.”

  “Uh … huh.” He nodded slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe me. But the package was purple and pink, for goodness’ sakes.

  “Gimme the Marlboros then.”

  I got a pack down.

  “You guys don’t have any of that huh-huh stuff, do ya?” he said suddenly.

  Huh-huh stuff? Was he talking some weird Iron River language? Young and I looked at each other and shrugged.

  The guy looked disgusted, unsatisfied. He spun on his heel and left, leaving the coins he used to pay still spinning on the counter.

  No one else came in for a while, so Young and I restocked the shelves, careful to follow all the franchise instructions, which I thought were stupid. What would it matter if the Spam was placed above the Spaghetti-Os? Mrs. Knutson would certainly approve of such a product placement, but who else would care?

  “Do you think Abogee still has his gun?” Young said out of the blue. Back in L.A. we’d known a number of people who’d been robbed, even killed, so Abogee had bought a gun.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “Did I ever tell you how the store got held up?”

  Young looked shocked. “What? No, never.”

  “It happened when I was twelve. O-Ma had to go somewhere, so Abogee had me at the store in case he needed some help.

  “He had to go into the basement for something and told me to man the register.”

  I remembered that day so clearly, the way the store smelled, vaguely fruity like chewed gum. How I’d almost hoped we’d get a customer so I could test my skills on the cash register.

  “These three guys came in,” I said. “They didn’t say anything, they just stood at the counter. I was about to ask them what they wanted, but then I saw the gun.”

  “Jesus, Chan.” Young hardly ever, ever swears. She put a hand to her mouth.

  The gun had been a dull color, fitting snugly in the man’s squat fingers. Guns definitely looked cooler in the movies.

  “I figured I knew what they wanted, didn’t need to wait for them to tell me. I gave them everything, even the food stamps.”

  “Oh my God. Where was Abogee in all this?”

  “Downstairs, luckily. Could you imagine what would have happened if he’d busted the whole thing up with his gun? The store is not the best place for a shootout.”

  The robbers had been calm—cold—almost polite. They stashed the cash and the gun and walked out, as if they’d merely been in to get a bag of Bar-B-Q potato chips.

  “And then Abogee came up a few minutes later, and I told him what happened.”

  “So how come you never told us?”

  “Well, Abogee didn’t tell the police because he said they wouldn’t do anything and you can’t trust them. We didn’t tell you because we didn’t want to scare you. It wasn’t like Abogee said ‘Don’t tell Young and O-Ma.’ It just turned out that way.”

  And even now, I wasn’t telling Young everything.

  After the robbers left I sort of went into shock.

  Abogee came up and found me sitting in front of the till, its drawers open and empty. I was sure he was going to lose it, now that the drama was past.

  What’d you do? How much money did we lose? Why didn’t you call me?

  But no.

  He didn’t even ask what happened.

  He just looked at me, gently patted at my clothes as if he was checking for bullet holes or missing limbs. His mouth was turned down, like he was on the verge of crying. He almost looked like a little kid who’d lost his favorite stuffed animal. When he found nothing missing or perforated, he grabbed me and held me close, like he hadn’t done since I was really, really small.

  He smelled like garlic, oily hair, and sweat. I wished he’d never stop hugging me.

  “Anybody ho-o-o-me? This place has lousy service!”

  Young and I went to check the voice out. Mikko was standing at the register. I saw him look at Young and smile.

  “May I help you, sir?” I asked.

  “Yes, could you ring these up?” he said. He picked up two bottles of Gatorade and a quart of milk.

  “Anything else?” I asked, quite the professional as I rang up his stuff. He shook his head. For fun, I threw a Green Apple KSDB into the bag. Maybe in the future he could participate in the KSDB Olympics with us.

  “See ya later.” He winked at Young. She blushed. “Chanster, I’ll catch you at the park, right?” We were going over there to practice some—just us.

  “Yah.”

  I meant to put thirty cents for the KSDB into the register, but Young and I became absorbed in straightening the Astro-Pop display on the counter. Astro-Pops were shaped like rockets, in three patriotic colors: red, white, and blue. We arranged them so they stuck out in different directions, looking like they were going to blast off all over the store. Very eyecatching.

  A lobster claw grabbed my arm.

  “Don’t you be passing off free things to your friends,” Abogee hissed.

  It took me a second to realize what he was talking about.

  “It was a thirty-cent piece of candy, Abogee,” I said. My fist clenched underneath the counter. “And I was planning to pay for it.”

  “Don’t you use your smart mouth with me. I am your father.”

  “I’m not being smart, I’m telling you the truth.” You just never listen, I was thinking.

  “You, you—” He raised his hand. In that split second I decided if he was going to hit me—just as he’d probably been wanting to for years—I would absolutely let him.

  “Oh, hi.” Mikko materialized in front of us, like on Star Trek. Abogee’s hand dropped. “Gosh, I’m sorry, I just totally spaced out and forg
ot to pay for this.” He laid three shiny dimes on the counter and smiled winningly at Abogee.

  “Sorry again. See ya.”

  Abogee skulked back downstairs. I dropped the three dimes—ping!ping!ping!-—into the till.

  “How’d he know?” Young said with awe. “Does he understand Korean or something?”

  “No, he just understands the universal language of the way uptight jerkface father.”

  “Chan!”

  “It’s true,” I said heatedly. “He never gives me—or anyone—a chance. Then he goes around acting so righteous like he’s Mr. Perfect or something. Need I remind you that we are here on account of some screwup of his brother’s? But no—Bong’s fine, and I never do anything right.”

  “Chan, don’t talk like that.” I could tell I’d upset her.

  “Okay, I won’t,” I said slowly. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

  When my shift was over, Abogee came by. It looked like he was going to say something—I have no idea what—but then he stopped I took off my hat, laid it on the counter, and didn’t say a word either. Then I walked out the door of the store and kept on going, alone.

  twenty-three

  In school, banners started appearing in the halls, RIVERFEST HOMECOMING! I guess the big thing was who was going to be voted king and queen.

  Leland Farrell, our quarterback, was one of the candidates. I imagined Mikko would be there next year too. The thing of interest to me was the game.

  Every so often at the home games, I kind of wished Abogee and O-Ma were there to see me play. I mean, everyone else’s parents were. Mikko’s dad cheered so much at the last one that his voice was all hoarse over the intercom the following Monday. I would like to think that Abogee’s attitude toward football would change if he’d sit down and actually watch a game.

  But I didn’t know that for sure. At least I had Young sitting in the band rooting for me, and Mrs. Knutson hollering from the front row.

  * * *

  The day of the game, I could barely sit through class. After freezing through two-a-days and watching game tapes all week, I just wanted to get out on the field.

  At dinner Mrs. Knutson talked about how exciting the game was going to be, perhaps not realizing that that was a subject best not discussed when Abogee was around, as he was tonight.

  Young left the house with me. The band people had to get there early to antifreeze their instruments. It was going to be a cold night.

  “Be careful walking in the dark,” O-Ma said to us. Abogee stood behind her, like a shadow, and watched us go.

  Everyone has his own pregame ritual. Leland sits in the shower in the dark and makes funny humming noises like Ommmmmm, Ommmmmm. Mikko listens to Mad About Mozart on his Walkman and won’t talk to anyone. Jimmi won’t shut up. Rom paces the floor like a zoo animal that’s going to start biting at the bars of its cage any minute.

  Me, I do what I did before soccer games: breathe really slow, meditate a little, and think about what I might be able to do in the game.

  Coach walked into the room, bringing us back into the here and now.

  “Listen up,” he said. “You know the drill. Little Moon has a loose offense but an excellent defense. So linemen, you push open the holes. We really have to drive through. Defense, you have to hold that line. The guy to watch is their running back, Jukich, number seventeen. He is fast. And remember—the whole town’s watching and counting on you. Don’t let them down.”

  Vaguely, outside, we could hear the first strains of our school song.

  “Let’s go.” Coach put his hand out. We all crowded around him, touched hands, and yelled “Miners!” before we exploded out the door, into the lights.

  The ref handed the football and tee to me.

  I love the kickoff. It’s my little moment of glory. Tonight even the breeze seemed to be waiting as I dug in my cleats.

  The line charged with me as I ran. I booted and kept going. Full steam. Coach said he liked the way I attacked everything I did. Kicked off but still ran for—and sometimes made—the tackle.

  The evening sky turned from a dark pale blue (a color hard to explain if you haven’t seen it) to bruise purple. It didn’t take us long to get the ball back.

  The coaches called for the streak-and-curl play. The running back ran straight up the flat into the end zone, curled back, and snagged Leland’s pass, dipping back into the end zone for the touchdown. The band cranked out a fight song. Coach motioned me to go out.

  I blasted the ball, practically before the Little Moon Pirates even moved. The ball went end over end, right through the uprights.

  Whee! There was a shrill noise, like the cry of a strange bird. Strange, yet familiar. It was Young’s flute. She was blasting a C note in celebration.

  When we were on defense, the coaches kept calling the blitz because Rom could run right through and nail the quarterback. On third down Rom sacked him. The poor slob was taken off the field on a stretcher.

  Kearny patted Rom’s butt and handed him a skull decal for his helmet, where he already had two. Rom slapped it on right away and beat his chest.

  “Get back in there,” said Coach. “Nickel zone.”

  Coach sent me in as strong safety. I was so pumped, I could feel a pulse beating in my neck as I ran onto the field.

  “Down, set…” The Pirates handed off and bodies collided.

  The running back was heading right into my zone.

  He had the ball.

  He came up on me like a freight train, arms pumping like pistons. I leaped after him. His knees knocked me in the jaw, but I held on with everything I had. His curses were like music.

  We held them.

  “Nice job, Kim.” Coach patted my back. “Beautiful tackle.”

  “You’re a tough little bastard,” added Kearny. I glowed, my face steaming in the frosty air.

  At the end of the third quarter we were ahead, 14-6. On fourth down at the Pirates’ twenty, the coaches decided to go for a field goal.

  Mikko caught the snap.

  I was just following through the kick when I saw the green of a Pirate’s uniform rushing at me. How’d he get through?

  I heard a crunching noise, and then I hit the ground.

  I was going to tell that Pirate knob to get off me, but then I realized I had no voice. And that I couldn’t breathe.

  I’m not sure how Coach knew I was in distress, but he ran onto the field.

  “Can you get your helmet off, Jann?” He touched my arm gently, like you might a baby. He took out my mouth guard.

  I wanted to breathe. But something hurt really badly, really sharply, like someone was zapping me in the side with an electric cattle prod.

  “Medical!” He yelled for Larson. “Can you breathe?”

  The magic question. I shook my head. Sledgehammers were starting to pound my temples.

  “Okay, Chan.” Larson’s voice. “Try to sit up a little if you can.”

  I straightened. There was a burning, sticking feeling in my side. I doubled back over.

  “It might be a rib,” Doc Larson said to Coach. “Chan, try to sit up as much as you can. Breathe in slowly.”

  My breath started coming back in short little spasms. It was like being in the ocean when waves keep knocking at you. I needed more air. I gulped. Jerked. Wheezed. I sounded like a cow with emphysema.

  Whatever was wrong with my ribs, I was glad to be able to breathe again. I’d just gotten the wind knocked out of me, that’s all it was. When Coach asked me to stand up, I did. Cheers flowed down from the stands, and I saw from the scoreboard I’d still made the field goal. I wondered if the guy who hit me was going to get a skull.

  Doc Larson took me to the hospital, where an X ray revealed I had bruised my ribs but not cracked any of them. He said I was still good to go. Lucky. He wound some gauzy junk around my torso and told me not to let my girlfriend hug me too hard. I was psyched I’d still be able to go to the dance.

  I had the doc drop me off at th
e high school so I could take half a shower. The guys all cheered when I showed up in the locker room. They were all lying around in a sea of pads and stinks and smiles, so I knew we’d won.

  “Glad you’re okay, Jann,” said Coach. “As I was saying, while we’re that much closer to State, it gets harder from here, not easier. Everyone’s going to challenge us for the title, so we’ve got to do what we’ve been doing, and double it.”

  “We’re going to have a conditioning workout tomorrow at eight,” said Kearny. “So go home early and get some sleep.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Leland. He gave us a look, like yeah, right.

  “The coaches totally kicked Beargrease’s butt,” Mikko informed me later. “The Pirate guy got a roughing penalty, but the coaches aren’t letting Jimmi play blocker anymore because he can’t contain.”

  “Whatever,” I said. At this point I was believing more that Jimmi didn’t cut the mustard than that he was letting people in to gish me.

  “Gotta pull your weight around here,” ALL-PRO declared as he opened a new three-pack of Fruit of the Looms.

  “New undies, huh?” sniped Leland. “Some cocky weegie thinks he’s gonna see some action tonight.”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” said Mikko with a sly grin. “Maybe I just ran out of clean ones.”

  “Who’re you going with?”

  “Cindy Gray.”

  “Oh, that girl, she’ll do it with anyone,” said Rom from the other side of the room. “I mean, even more than the rest of the cheerleaders. Believe me, I know.”

  “Kreeger, you are so full of it,” Mikko said. “No girl would want to touch your hairy butt.”

  Mikko patted some Brut onto his face. I wished I had enough whiskers to shave.

  “You and your ribs ready to go, buddy?” He put his hand up for a high-five.

  Slap!

  I was ready.

  The school dance reminded me of one of those After School Specials on television. There were streamers all around the gym, punch in a bowl, and chaperones. Corny to the max. Maybe dances at my old school were like this, but no one I knew had ever gone to one.

  Corny or not, it was worth it to see Rainey in a slinky black dress with blue trim that exactly matched her eyes. Man, it was worth it.