Giraffe People

by Jill Malone

  “Where is everybody?” Stacy asks.

  “Since you mean Bangs,” Kelly tells her, “he and Joe are in line for burgers and fries.”

  Stacy blushes.

  “Bangs?” I say.

  “Is that uncool?” Stacy asks me. “I thought you were back with Jeremy.”

  “It’s totally cool,” I say. “I had no idea.”

  Kelly groans. “You see nothing.”

  “He secretly worships Satan or something, right?” Stacy asks. “I’ve never liked anybody who wasn’t completely fucked, you know, underneath.”

  “He’s one of the best guys I know,” I tell her.

  “Will he be at your show on Saturday?”

  “Yeah. You should come.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” she says, standing. “But now you have to come with me. Ms. Ruhl wants to see you.”

  “What for?”

  “Beats the shit out of me. I’m just incarcerated here.”

  We walk down the hall together, and Stacy offers me a piece of strawberry gum before asking, “Did you have sex with him?”

  “Bangs? No.”

  “Did he want to?”

  “He never asked.”

  “No shit?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” I ask.

  “Why didn’t he want to have sex with you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t into me.”

  “See, that sounds weird. I think he must be weird.”

  “We’re all weird, aren’t we? Bangs isn’t creepy, or a bastard, or anything. I promise you.”

  Stacy whispers, “Mom let me go on birth control after—after the last time—and Dad doesn’t know. And I promised I’d tell her if I, you know, if I need it, or whatever, which seems totally insane since I’m already taking it, so what’s the diff if she knows or not, but I promised, and I don’t want to tell her and then it turns out I’ve got another asshole on my hands, you know? I’m at my, like, quota with assholes already.”

  “Do you want me to tell him?”

  She stops and backs me into a bank of lockers. “I will scalp you if you tell him. I will sneak into your room and cut your tits off.”

  “Hey!”

  “Don’t you fucking say a word to him. Promise me.” She jabs me in the chest. “Promise me.”

  “I promise, Jesus.” For a small chick, she’s terrifying.

  Ms. Ruhl is in her office, eating a salad. Her black sweater drapes over her shoulders, and something about the pale skin set against the black wool reminds me of vampires.

  “Here she is,” Stacy says. She stands in the doorway with her arms crossed, posing as an enforcer, while I take the seat across from Ms. Ruhl.

  “Cole, I have a proposition for you.” She registers my black eye, but doesn’t ask. I’m starting to love the people who don’t ask. “I’ve been given twenty minutes in the spring assembly, and I’d like to have the chorus sing with your band.”

  “What?” Her salad looks disgusting: twigs and bark and ranch dressing. No wonder she weighs twelve and a half pounds.

  “Your band, Doggy Life. I’d like you to play, say, three of your songs, for the assembly, and the chorus will harmonize. What do you think?”

  “We’re a punk band,” I say, stating the first of my many reservations.

  “You’re brilliant,” Ms. Ruhl says. “I heard you at Stoked. We could collaborate, and create something utterly unexpected. The assembly is scheduled for the last Thursday in May—we’d have plenty of time to prepare.”

  I frown at Stacy, hoping to appeal to her for some sane perspective here. Doggy Life playing with the chorus during a school assembly—how could anyone support such a notion?

  “I think it’s freaking genius,” Stacy says. She and Ruhl look maniacal, their eyes practically glowing.

  “Well,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “I’ll have to talk it over with the band. Trevor has a full-time job and his boss is pretty strict.” I edge from my chair and press past Stacy. “But I’ll talk it over with the guys and see what they think about a collaboration.”

  “And you’ll let us know,” Ms. Ruhl says, “right away?”

  “Right away,” I call back to them.

  We have an exam in Spanish. Senor Fernandez always turns the lights off during an exam, which makes it difficult to stay awake, let alone conjugate irregular verbs.

  When the bell rings, I still have three questions to answer, and am the last to turn my test in.

  “Que le paso a su ojo?” Senor Fernandez asks me, nodding at my eye.

  I mime boxing since I don’t know the word for it. He pulls his glasses down his nose and arches a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Futbol,” I say.

  “Ah,” he says, “si, futbol.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Tenga cuidado, por favor.”

  “Como desee.” Life sounds cooler in Spanish. If I’d known the word for mascot, I’d have said I got my black eye auditioning to be the team mascot. Rally around me everybody. Let my stupidity be your inspiration, but just for the first half. It’s like I’ve made a mockery of my own life. I’m one of those effigies. And not only in soccer—now the band’ll be ridiculous too, playing for a school assembly with a bunch of chorus girls dressed as waitresses.

  In the hallway, Monica Prader shouts my name, and throws some kind of heavy metal salute.

  “Where are you going?” Kelly asks me.

  I stare around me, and realize I have no idea. “Biology?” I say.

  “We drop Biology today,” she says.

  “Oh right.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asks. I shrug. She hooks her arm through mine, and pulls. “We have to get to practice.”

  Practice. Jesus, as much practicing as I do, shouldn’t I be better at everything? “How did you know,” I ask Kelly, “about Stacy liking Bangs?”

  “Well it was obvious, wasn’t it?”

  “Was it?”

  “Sure,” she says. We’re nearly at my hall locker.

  “You used to think I dug him.”

  “You did.”

  I don’t remember anymore. For months I’ve thought of Bangs as my sidekick, the guy who draws a comic universe where we get to be heroic.

  “Anyway,” she says, as I swap my books around, “it was always you and Jeremy. Joe knew that from the beginning, and so did Bangs. It was only me—I misunderstood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were both so sad. All winter. This one day over break, we were throwing snowballs outside, do you remember? Nigel kept putting rocks in his. Anyway, I saw Jeremy at the window, and his face—” She touches her own face, remembering. “I was wrong about him. I had it all backward.”

  Lugubrious. This word is gross. Just reading it makes me think of snot. It probably means something like pompous, right? Adjective.

  The chaplain preaching this morning is new: young, with light black skin, and a vague mustache. Alicia has been so still, I’ve had to check to make sure she’s breathing. I think maybe she’s lovesick. Meanwhile I’ve been guessing at my vocabulary list. It’s not going at all well. Have you ever heard of the word accretion?

  I flip through the bulletin and read his name again, Chaplain Harris, and his sermon title: Lot’s lot. What do you make of a guy who opens with a biblical story of drunken incest? Unabashed. At the very least, he’s unabashed.

  We stand for the final hymn, and he raises his arms to us. “May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make His face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.”

  I like this guy. He’s dramatic.

  “Cookies?” I ask Alicia.

  “Hmm?”

  “The service is over. If we don’t hurry, there’ll only be wafers left.”

  “His voice is like a cello.”

  I almost say how romantic but catch it just in time. “Very musical,” I agree.

  “W
e should go shake hands.”

  “What?” I try to pull away, but she’s bigger than I am. In line with all the comely grown-ups, I don’t have the nerve to struggle.

  Then Alicia’s shaking hands with him. “I enjoyed your sermon very much,” she says.

  He smiles at us. “I appreciate your seriousness,” he tells Alicia. He looks at me.

  “Very nice,” I say.

  “Nice?” He grins, and looks like a child, suddenly, in someone else’s robes.

  “The first time I read that passage I thought I’d be sick, but I get what you’re saying. We’re not all good stories, are we?”

  “No.” His grin is, if anything, wider. “Every lineage has its shameful secrets.”

  I consider punching Alicia as we snake through the hallway, and into the fellowship hall. She’s bigger, yes, but I’m probably quicker, even in my Sunday clothes. When we finally make it to the refreshment table, we find a single, broken chocolate chip cookie.

  “Very nice,” I say, and chug the nearest cup of punch in as recriminatory a way as possible.

  “You need new modifiers,” she tells me.

  “And new friends apparently. I guess I’ll head home. I have fifteen words left to define.”

  “Why are you still doing those stupid lists?”

  Because Meghan keeps giving them to me, because I’m afraid to alter any of my habits, because at some point we’ll run out of words, and then what? “I have no idea.”

  Nigel and Nate and I cut across the parade ground. A group of virile, muscular men plays lacrosse. If it weren’t for my list, I’d watch for a while. Despite the muddy field, the day is sunny and tolerably warm. We squirm out of our jackets before we reach the road.

  “We won’t need to wear coats in Hawaii,” Nigel says. His new thing involves listing the endless bright sides of living in Hawaii.

  “Or make snowballs, or go skiing,” I say.

  “The Big Island has a ski resort,” he says.

  “It’s artificial snow,” I say. I’ve flipped through all of his library books too.

  “It’s going to happen,” Nigel says, “no matter how you feel about it.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly the problem.”

  He stops in the field, and says, “Cole, this is how it is. We move. And this time, we’re moving to Hawaii. Just accept it already.”

  “It might be easier if all I had to leave behind was the Chess Club.”

  “Cole.” Nate says my name as an order: cease and desist.

  But Nigel laughs. “Go on, then,” he says. “Go on. Say whatever will make you feel better. I’ve been all the same places you’ve been. I’ve left all the same places you’ve left. You can’t make me different. So go on, say whatever you want.”

  “I want to be like everybody else.”

  “What would that look like?”

  “I’d have shiny hair and no pimples,” I say.

  Nate and Nigel laugh, and we’re on the same side again.

  After we’ve resumed our walk, Nate kicking halfheartedly at our shoes, Nigel says, “The Pacific is bluer than the Atlantic.”

  “Bluer, huh?”

  “And the water’s warm most of the year. And they have sea turtles, like right there in the coves. It’s supposed to be beautiful.”

  We come through the trees across from the house and see Nate’s car with the hatch open, and Mom and Dad—already in their play clothes—loading bags into the back.

  “Hey,” Nate says. “What’re you doing?”

  “Oh, Nate,” Dad says. “We’d like to borrow your car.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll make sure it’s returned with a full tank of gas.”

  All the resistance drops out of Nate, and he grins. “Cool.”

  “Where are you going?” Nigel asks.

  “Cape May,” Mom says. “Just for a few days. Don’t worry, Cole, we’ll be back in time for your game Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Who’s worried?” I say. Three days with no parents is a miracle right up there with the loaves and fishes.

  “Now wait, you two,” Dad says, and tucks Nate and me into casual headlocks. “I know I can trust you two not to have overnight guests, or throw a party, or anything of the kind. Can’t I?”

  “Yes,” we concur.

  “I know I don’t need to have Meghan stay with you, or appeal to your characters.”

  We model innocence: two trustworthy, virginal teenagers, looking respectfully up at their father.

  “Nevertheless,” Dad continues, “Meghan is going to stay with you, and I am appealing to your characters.” His hazel eyes bore into us. “No overnight guests. Agreed?”

  “I’m eighteen,” Nate says, “and you got us a babysitter?”

  “Yes,” Mom says. “Your father asked you a question.”

  “This is crap,” Nate says.

  “Don’t say crap,” Mom says.

  “But Dad—” Nate protests.

  “Meghan’s inside,” Dad says, “with subs. And I don’t expect her to have to argue with you about anything. I expect exemplary behavior. Nathan, I want your word.”

  “This is such cr—” He glares at my mother, “Crud! What are you gonna do next year, send me to college with a chaperone?”

  “I agree,” I say. “No overnight guests. No orgies or animal mutilation. We won’t even swap needles.”

  Mom folds her arms, and pinches her face up in that Keep Joking and Die expression.

  “I’m kidding,” I say. “You can trust us.” I smile at them.

  “Nathan?” Dad says.

  “Fine. I agree.” Nate stamps up the walk to the house, and calls back, “Enjoy my car.”

  “This,” Dad says, slamming the hatchback closed, “is why we need a vacation.”

  Meghan lets us watch Bonnie and Clyde and Dr. Strangelove. We eat our subs, make brownies, and popcorn, and then order takeout for dinner. At ten, the boys promise not to play more than an hour of Sega, and Meghan and I take Pepper for a walk.

  “It’s sprinkling,” she says.

  Spitting, more like, but we raise our collars anyway.

  “What will Nate do?” she asks.

  “Sneak out probably.”

  “And what? Walk to her house?”

  “I forgot he doesn’t have his car. He might take the van, I guess, even though he’s ashamed to drive it. Or maybe Kelly’s mom would pick him up.”

  “And drop him back off before dawn?”

  “It does sound kind of unlikely.” Pepper stiffens, and raises her hackles, but it’s just a couple of black garbage bags.

  Meghan’s hair seems to catch the soft glow of the porch lights. As the rain falls more heavily, the sound in the leaves is sleepy and warm.

  “What about you?” Meghan asks. “Will you have an overnight guest?”

  “I’ve given my word.”

  “Ah,” she says.

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you don’t believe me.” The rope slaps against the flag-pole. From the promenade, we can see the guard shack, and the entry gates, and the naked dogwoods. “God, Pepper, what did you eat!”

  It doesn’t occur to me until we’re home again, on the back steps. “Where will you sleep?” I ask her.

  She’s looking up at the house; the light in the McIntyres’ kitchen window blinks out. I got my ears pierced in that kitchen—three holes—when I was twelve. Mrs. McIntyre used a needle from her medical bag, and an ice cube.

  “On one of the couches,” Meghan says. It’s almost a question, the inflection on that final word.

  “They’re best for napping really, not too comfortable for sleeping.”

  “I should check on the boys.”

  I wipe Pepper’s feet, and give her a treat, and wait for a while in the dark kitchen. In the end, I climb the stairs to the attic alone, worried that I’ve upset her.

  Before I turn off the lights, I finish my vocabulary list. Lugubrious
means mournful or gloomy, as in: Wuthering Heights is a way lugubrious novel. I know it doesn’t sound right, but it’s true.

  Mr. Pang has on his pink fake-Izod shirt today. “I’ve got some exciting news,” he says, once the bell’s rung. “Cole and Christian both took prizes in the statewide art competition.” He starts clapping, and everyone else joins in. “Cole won honorable mention for her photograph, Wood Work, and Christian won third place for his Photo in a Field.”

  Wood Work. I didn’t think Mr. Pang was serious when he said he’d enter the photo of my mom in the competition.

  “Cash prizes?” Kelly asks.

  “Yes,” Mr. Pang says. He hands both Bangs and me a sealed envelope.

  “For real?” Bangs asks. “There’s money in here?”

  “For real,” Mr. Pang says. “Every prize winner is on display at a special exhibit at the Newark Museum through the end of April.”

  “How much?” Kelly whispers to me.

  “$25.” So, first my parents leave on a surprise vacation for three days, and then, this morning, Meghan has a bag of warm bagels waiting for us in the kitchen—poppy seed and plain with spreads of lox and cream cheese. And now the state is awarding me money for a photograph of my mother. “How much did you get?” I ask Bangs. He holds up his check for $30. “Nice. I don’t remember Photo in a Field.”

  “It’s of you,” he says. “From that day at the baseball diamond.”

  “So, really, you should split the prize money with me.”

  “Probably.”

  “Why don’t we take both your winnings,” Kelly says, “and spend the rest of the day at the shore.”

  “Yeah?” I say. “Who’d drive us?”

  “Joe?”

  Bangs grins, shaking his head. “We have a test today in Bio, remember?”

  “We have a test today?” I ask. “You’re joking.”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Fuck,” I say, “so much for my charmed life. Dude, a Bio test today makes me feel totally lugubrious.”

  “Makes you feel what?” Kelly asks.

  “Lugubrious,” I say.

  “What language is that?” she asks.

  “This one,” I say.