Words We Don't Say

by K. J. Reilly

  The funny thing was, ’cause my pop owned a gas station, I’d been driving since I was nine or ten. Could drive circles around old Mr. Stanley. Take the engine of this crap compact car apart, too, and put it back together long before old Stanley could figure out how to pop the hood and check the oil. It’s just that Driver’s Ed wouldn’t have been much fun for any of us if Mr. Stanley knew that. So I kept putting the car in reverse and hitting the gas with a bit too much force and making him work hard to earn his salary. He was getting real frustrated with me as weeks were going by and I wasn’t getting the least bit better at driving. I was planning on surprising him on the last day when he gave us the road test, though. Planned on driving textbook perfect then. Needed the certificate for my insurance. Pop said they’d take 247 bucks off my bill if I got it and I’d have to change a lot of flats down at his station to earn that. But the real payoff would be seeing Stanley’s left eye going into overdrive with its dits and dahs when he figured out that poor worst-in-his-class Joel could actually drive—and probably run the track in a NASCAR race, work the pit with his eyes closed, and cross the finish line first, too.

  Besides, I wasn’t the only one messing with Mr. Stanley; it was practically a school tradition and a prerequisite to graduate. A couple of times a week the seniors on the football team would either pick the Ford Fiesta up and carry it or jimmy the lock and pop it into neutral and roll it to a new location. Like they’d put it up on a sidewalk or in the back in between the Dumpsters or in the principal’s parking space when Redman wasn’t there. So poor Stanley would have to wander around the whole campus just to find the car and Principal Redman kept calling him into his office and asking why he was always parking in his spot.

  “Why are you doing that?” Benj asked me at the end of the first week when we were standing on the curb waiting for the Driver’s Ed car to pull up. “We all know you can drive.”

  Eli snuck up behind us and said, “He’s doing it ’cause he’s bored and wants to make a point.”

  “Which is what?” Benj asked.

  “That Joel Higgins doesn’t have to follow the rules,” Eli answered. “That’s all. He’s mad at the whole world.” And then she ran over to talk to Caitlin Emerson, who just got out of the back seat of Ethan Faukner’s black SUV holding a puppy that had a bright red collar and big floppy ears.

  Then Alex B. Renner said, “Joel drives like he’s a dumb fuck who’s a few cans short of a six-pack because he doesn’t want Eli to think that she’s the worst one.”

  Benj just looked at him and he was puttin’ two and two together and getting way more than four and then I looked right at Alex B. Renner and said, “You’re the worst driver. Not Eli. So maybe I’m doing it to make you feel better,” and he looked like he wanted to hit me. Then I looked down at the sidewalk thinking about the fact that motor-cycles were definitely a way more affordable option for the juniors than Camaros or Jeep Wranglers, figuring Harleys—definitely the Night Rod Specials or Low Riders—would be cool and the best option in my end-the-bus campaign.

  Then some other kids wandered over and Benj got down on all fours and started barking like an Afghan hound ’cause Eli and Caitlin were walking over with the puppy on a leash and even though I started thinking about how good Eli would look wearing a leather jacket and straddling a Harley, I hadn’t forgotten about what Alex B. Renner said.

  Then someone said, “Kutchner just peed all over the sidewalk,” and the girls started to scream and then the puppy got scared and peed all over Benj, and I started thinking that even though I didn’t know why I was doing what I was doing, Alex B. Renner should have Mrs. Wilson’s job because his comment that I was driving like a dumb fuck to make Eli feel better was probably a pretty good assessment.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 8:15 p.m.

  We’re going to get our driver’s licenses soon and everything will be different.

  Remember how we would always say that?

  Remember?

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 2:31 a.m.

  I learned how to load a gun today.

  On YouTube.

  in junior English called “Auto F.”

  Back on the first day of school he had handed out a packet that was stapled together with a list of all the things that could result in an immediate, non-negotiable, automatic failure on a paper or assignment and everyone was scared to death of him ’cause failing eleventh-grade English meant going to summer school, which was worse than going directly to hell. It was even way worse than working at the gas station, which wasn’t really that bad ’cause I got to work on cars and talk shit with the guys and drink soda from the fridge in my pop’s office whenever I wanted.

  Here are some of the things on Mr. Morgan’s list that could get you an Auto F:

  Speaking without being called on.

  Misspelling any word in Microsoft Word spell check.

  Handing in a late assignment.

  Egregious misuse of commas.

  Potty mouth in class, or in papers.

  Dropping pencils.

  Unnecessary backpack rummaging.

  Smart-aleck comments.

  Insulting anyone in class.

  Misappropriation of school property.

  Not returning a book on time.

  Not being prepared for class.

  Visible underwear.

  Ringing phones.

  Text messaging.

  Misusing “it’s” and “its.”

  Visible cleavage.

  Plumber’s crack.

  Misusing “they’re” and “their” and “there.”

  Or “who’s” and “whose.”

  Touching other students who don’t want to be touched.

  Touching other students who do want to be touched.

  Dangling modifiers.

  Public displays of affection.

  Locker sex.

  Not indenting paragraphs properly.

  Weak or missing thesis statements.

  Overuse of ellipses.

  Not having good ideas.

  Having good ideas and not sharing them.

  Eating in class.

  Making other people feel bad.

  Not having a good attitude.

  Not learning anything.

  Chewing gum.

  Writing on walls with Magic Markers.

  Stealing chalk.

  Vaping in the bathroom.

  Annoying Mr. Morgan.

  That’s only part of the list because it went on for four more pages but most kids didn’t even read it all because it was pretty clear that no one would be passing English this year.

  After we left class that day, Benj came up to me and said, “Let’s go to Burning Man.”

  That’s how me and Benj officially met.

  I said, “First of all, no. And second of all, what is Burning Man?”

  He said, “A crazy-assed drug-and-sex fest in the Nevada desert.”

  “Still no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t even know you.”

  Which was true. As I said, Benj was new to CC on account of the fact that he had to live with his aunt because he might have killed his parents. He just looked at me that day like what difference did it make that he didn’t know me, what with the fact that he didn’t know anyone, what with him being brand-new and this being the first day of school.

  “Why do you want to go to a drug-and-sex fest in the desert with me?”

  “Because I don’t know anyone else and it’s in the summer and it’s crazy fun and I’m going to be feeling bad.”

  “Why are you going to be feeling bad?”

  “Because I’m going to fail eleventh-grade English.”

  He had a point.

  Then Eli and Alex B. Renner walked over and I was about to say, “This is Benj, he’s new,” when Kutchner said, “They have an orgy tent and a speed boner contest.”

  We all just looked at him ’cause that was not the best way to introduce yourself at a new school. After tha
t comment I decided that a formal introduction was no longer necessary.

  Then Benj said, “I’d definitely win the speed boner contest.”

  And Alex B. Renner looked at him with a sneer on his face and said, “Everyone has to be good at something,” and walked away. And then Eli smiled nicely at Benj because she was always so polite, and then she invited Benj to her church group.

  Neither me nor Kutchner had a response to that.

  I mean, after what he just said?

  Come on, we had absolutely nothing.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 1:27 a.m.

  My mom got new controllers. She said she wouldn’t until she figured out who smashed them but Jacey cried and held his breath, so they went to Target.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 1:43 a.m.

  And one more thing. Here are some words Mr. Morgan gave us to study for the SAT. I bet you don’t know what any of them mean and I bet you’ve had a perfectly good life even though you don’t.

  Abjur—to renounce solemnly

  Acerbic—biting, sarcastic

  Inchoate—not fully formed

  Inimical—being hostile to

  They are all grandiloquent—that means pompous, bombastic, overly colorful words. Here’s another one they should ditch: loquacious. And this one too: pedantic. More words no one will ever use.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 2:32 a.m.

  Maybe retire Andy’s gym locker too. It’s 127B in the boys’ locker room. The one with the World of Warcraft sticker on the front.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 3:10 a.m.

  If you were here and you liked the new kid who maybe killed his parents we could let him sit with us at lunch. Or maybe not. Whatever you would want is cool.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 3:17 a.m.

  I have a few new diseases to go along with the insomnia, parasite, phlebitis, pulmonary embolism, and everything else I have. I won’t get into the details, but just so you know.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 3:32 a.m.

  That gun I told you about? I still have it.

  And the guy who gave it to me?

  There’s something wrong with him and someone should try to help him.

  I mean, someone besides me.

  and in the movie he used to have a good job but some stuff happened and he lost everything and he ended up homeless and he was a single father who had to sleep in the subway with his son who was five years old like Jace.

  The actor who played his kid was Will Smith’s real son, Jaden, which had to be cool, I mean, to be a little kid like that and be so rich and famous and get to make a movie with your dad. I mean, come on.

  But anyway, in the movie, Will Smith was down on his luck but he was freakin’ Will Smith, so you knew that he would rebound and get a good job, and by the end of the movie he did, but it broke your heart to see how hard he was trying to protect his kid and make him happy and get him food and make sure that he had a place to sleep. The movie version of homeless Will Smith was trying so hard to pretend that everything was okay even when it wasn’t okay and you would never believe it ever would be okay but in the end it was okay because movies like this tend to end well if they star Will Smith even though in real life it didn’t usually work out that way. But when I was watching the film, all I could think about was that the real Will Smith and his real son lived in a mansion with a tennis court and they had shopping bags full of cash and a chauffer and a chef and maybe a masseuse and a butler and even though he was homeless in this movie, come on, it’s fucking Will Smith with his real kid and Will Smith is too smart and too well dressed and too well spoken to be homeless ever, even in a made-up movie. Especially because movie homeless Will Smith slept in the subway bathroom wearing a business suit and still looked good, so I thought it was all just Hollywood bullshit.

  And then I met the Hendricks Street soup kitchen Will Smith.

  He came in through the door and he could have been the president of IBM or your dentist or your dad or Will Smith except for the fact that he was white. When I saw him I was expecting that he was going to ask for Mrs. T ’cause he wanted to make a sizable donation or build people houses or maybe he was going to say that he owned the building and was going to shut down this place because Old Navy could pay more rent, but then he got in line and took a plate.

  Me and Eli served him meat loaf with green beans and gravy and Eli said, “Sorry, sir, but there is no cake tonight,” and Hendricks Street Will Smith smiled at her real nice and said, “That’s okay, sweetheart.” He then picked up his tray and started to walk away but turned back and said, “What’s your name?” And she smiled and said, “Eli.” And Hendricks Street Will Smith said, “Let me guess. Your dad named you after Eli Manning? The quarterback for the Giants?”

  Eli said, “No, sir, my parents named me after Eli in the Bible, the high priest of Shiloh,” and Hendricks Street Will Smith just nodded his head probably thinking, That sucks. It would be way more fun to be named after Eli Manning than some dude from the Bible.

  When he sat down to eat I said, “You’re not even old enough to be named after Eli Manning and we should call him Will Smith.”

  But Eli said, “We shouldn’t because he has a real name and he talks to us and he’ll probably tell us his name the next time he comes here.”

  But I said, “He didn’t say his name this time and I want to call him Will Smith.”

  And Eli said, “Don’t get in a huff, Joel.” And then she added, “Wait, isn’t Will Smith black?”

  I said, “Of course Will Smith is black. Haven’t you ever seen The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air or Men in Black—Protecting the Earth from the Scum of the Universe?”

  And she said, “No. Is that even a real movie title?”

  And I said, “Eli, you have to stop going to church and making lists so much and start watching a lot more TV and going to the movies.”

  And she said, “Oh, Joel, you are too cute.”

  I told her Too Cute was a TV show about puppies and kittens that Jacey watched all the time with Jesus, Mary and then Eli kissed my cheek and I almost burst into flames.

  I mean, really almost burst into flames.

  If Eli’s God was watching He—or She—would have scooped me up right then and there and ended my life with a bolt of lightning, saying, “It’s over, Joel. You’ve had too much happiness for one person already.”

  Eli had that effect on me. She was like cake with sprinkles.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 3:11 a.m.

  That gun I told you about?

  Sometimes I take it out and put a bullet in and think about how one little thing can change everything.

  maybe think again.

  “Forty-one point two million people in America are food insecure.” That’s what Mrs. T told us. Not to scare us, mind you, just ’cause part of what she was supposed to do in exchange for our volunteering was teach us some stuff. When she said it, Eli was looking at her phone and she leaned over to me and said, “Forty-one point two million’s larger than the population of Canada, Peru, or Poland.” Then she added, “Or Venezuela, Morocco, Sudan, or North Korea,” before I even figured out what she was talking about because all I could think about when she said that was how good she smelled.

  Like vanilla and sweet cherries.

  With a hint of coconut.

  “How do you know that?” I asked on the north side of an inhale. “I mean, all those population numbers?” And Eli said, “I have a thing for numbers.”

  I said, “No, you don’t, Eli. You have a thing for cake.”

  “And pi,” she said.

  “As in, apple or blueberry?” I asked.

  “As in 3.14159,” she replied.

  “So you googled pi?”

  “No, I googled countries with less than forty-one point two million in population.”

  Then Mrs. T started up again. “What does it mean to be food insecure? Anyone?”

  She looked at the sea of blank faces and then she answered her
self since there was no one in this group who would have had a clue. Benj Kutchner was lucky if he could spell his own name correctly two consecutive times in a row and he was preoccupied at that moment, scraping something nasty off the sole of his right sneaker with a fork. Amanda, one grade up from us at CC, was texting and making calls on her cell phone, and from what I could tell she was way more interested in getting her nails done than feeding anyone. Then there were Marjorie and Macy, older women who stayed to themselves and did most of the cooking, who were furiously knitting what looked like matching dog sweaters, and neither of them piped in with an answer either. And Eli would normally be sitting there paying close attention but she was too busy to answer because she was googling global stats on world hunger on her phone and typing out one of her lists.

  “It means that you don’t always know where your next meal is coming from,” Mrs. T finally said as Eli continued identifying entire countries with populations less than the number of hungry people in America. Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Algeria…Mrs. T kept talking, and I kept looking at her like I was real interested even though no one else even bothered to fake it. Then she just waved her hand and said, “Get out of here. We have food to serve to the hungry,” but I couldn’t help but feel that despite our good intentions, we were just shuffling the cards in the losing deck of life for a group already dealt a bad hand, some of whom had started out a few cards short to boot.

  I mean, I was trying real hard but kept coming up empty.

  That is, in the how-to-put-a-good-spin-on-what-we-were-doing department.

  TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 10:09 p.m.

  We really should plant food for the hungry.

  I was thinking we could plow up the teachers’ parking lot and plant vegetables.