Brutal

by Michael Harmon

  He smiled sheepishly. “Anna Conrad is really pretty.”

  “Pig.” It came out automatic, and I regretted it the second I said it, remembering that one of the guys called him a desert pig. I also knew he didn't have a girl back home unless she had four legs and a cotton tail.

  His eyes darkened, then the look disappeared just as quickly. “I always say it's worth a shot. Man's gotta keep his options open.”

  Just then, my dad came out the door. He looked at Velveeta. “Hello, Andrew. How was the first day of school?”

  The goofy grin came back, like a dumb blonde who just might not be dumb. “Just fine, Mr. Holly. Back to the books is what they say, right?”

  Dad smiled. “That they do.” He looked at me. “Dinner's on, Poe.” He nodded good night to Velveeta and went inside.

  I stood, looking at Velveeta. Something about this guy made me want to be around him. Maybe it was because he said things other people didn't say. I studied him for a minute more. No, it wasn't what he said. It was what he didn't say, only giving tendrils and sound bites to who he really was. More'n one way to fight, I suppose, he'd said. Velveeta wasn't a dumb redneck, I realized, he was smart, and he was a mystery. “Are we walking tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “See you then.”

  He waved like a dork, grinning from ear to ear. “Bye.”

  • • •

  We'd eaten in the formal dining room every night since I'd arrived, and as I walked to the kitchen to help dish, I looked toward the den. “Do we have to eat in the dining room every night?”

  Dad stopped. “No. Why?”

  “It's just so big. Like there should be more people or something. I'm used to eating in front of the TV.”

  He nodded. “Then the den it is.”

  “Where did you eat before I came?”

  “Usually in my study.”

  I heaped my plate with rice and steamed vegetables, then dished some onto Dad's plate. He took two chicken breasts from the oven and forked them next to our sides. I sniffed. “Smells good. We didn't eat real cooked food that much.”

  “Thanks. The white sauce is my specialty.” He opened a cupboard. “You get napkins and I'll get glasses. Water?”

  “Sure. Unless you've got beer.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I do, but not for you.”

  “Worth a try.”

  • • •

  I clicked on the TV and turned it to FOX News, and Dad came in a minute later. “You like the news?”

  I nodded, taking my glass and giving him a napkin. “Yeah. I got into the habit of watching it for a class I had last year. We had to report on what was going on in the world. I like FOX. Bill O'Reilly is funny.”

  He smiled, picking up his fork. “I'm afraid I don't watch the news.”

  “You don't know who Bill is?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “You must be a hermit. He's like the black sheep of the news. They all hate him.”

  “And that's why you like him, I take it.”

  “Yep. No fear, and he says what he believes, not what he believes other people think he should believe.”

  He took a drink, blinking. “I think I understand that. Are you a liberal or a conservative?”

  “Neither. They're all crooked, but I like knowing what they're crooked about.”

  He laughed, cutting his chicken. “I see the apple didn't fall far from the tree.”

  I looked crossways at him, baffled. “Mom?” My mother didn't have a political bone in her body.

  He shook his head. “Me. That's why I don't watch the news. I can't stand politicians.”

  That was the difference between him and me, I thought. When he didn't like something, he hid from it. I couldn't. Some intangible rage in me wouldn't allow it. “I met the mayor's son today. Theo.”

  He nodded. “That kid is a political statement if I've ever seen one.”

  I stared at him. “I thought you were supposed to be nice and all that. You know, the counselor thing. No real opinion.”

  He smiled. “Well, first of all, it wasn't a bad thing, and second of all, I do have an opinion on people. He's a smart kid. Smarter than most adults.”

  “What's your opinion on Velveeta?”

  He paused, staring at the television for a moment. “Velveeta has gone through a tough time.”

  “He told me his parents died in a car crash.”

  He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.

  “They didn't, did they?”

  He hesitated. “What did you hear?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  He stopped, studying me for a moment. “They did die, Poe, but not in a crash.”

  “How?”

  “They were manufacturing methamphetamine in their kitchen and it exploded. They burned to death. Velveeta barely made it out of the house.”

  “Oh.”

  He turned to me, the leather of his seat squeaking. “Poe, Velveeta has some issues to deal with, and I'm asking you to be careful around him. That's just between you and me, okay? This is the dad talking.”

  “What happened?”

  He sat back. “Velveeta has all but taken care of himself since he was a young boy, Poe, and with that comes emotional confusion. When a child is abused and neglected to the degree that he was, wires get crossed. Especially concerning relationships.”

  I frowned. “So he's wasted youth and I should stay away from him? Is that what you're saying?”

  “No, I'm not saying that. I'm saying I'm concerned about you. Velveeta is very passive-aggressive and can be manipulative.”

  I laughed. “You mean he's learned how to survive in a world that shit on him? Who isn't manipulative? Who doesn't protect themselves in any way they can figure out?”

  He smiled, then conceded with a nod. “Yes, basically. He has a good heart, Poe, but he's never been given the opportunity to learn how to use it.”

  “So what you're saying is that he should be given the opportunity to learn how to have a friend, but I shouldn't be the one to give him a chance.” I shrugged. “That's a load of crap.”

  “No, it's not a load of crap. It's a concerned parent with priorities, you being on the top of the list.”

  I looked at him, and my anger faded. “Fair enough. But I'm not going to crap on him like everybody else in this town does.”

  “What?”

  I told him what happened that afternoon. “Those guys are asses.”

  “I know that Velveeta is teased, but…” He paused. “Who were they?”

  “I don't know, but you can't do anything about it. I told you as my dad, not the counselor.”

  “Poe…”

  “No way. If he wants to bring it up during one of your powwows with him, fine, but you can't do that to me.”

  He nodded. “I understand. What I hear in this house is between you and me, and vice versa. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  I ate my dinner, and we watched the news for a few minutes. Dad finished, wiped his mouth, and patted his stomach. “Full.”

  I took another bite of chicken. “Almost there.”

  “You eat a lot.”

  “I'm not fat.”

  “No, I'm just saying that for somebody so small, you can pack it down.”

  I laughed. “I'm growing.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Baird today?”

  I'd hoped he wouldn't bring it up. “Yes.”

  “How did things go?”

  I shrugged.

  “Not well?”

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  “What happened?”

  “Let's just say I'm not in the choir.”

  He furrowed his brow. “I may not be a good judge on singing, but I can't believe you wouldn't fit right in.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I don't fit in, all right.”

  “Did you sing for her?”

  I nodded.

  “What did she say?”

  “She said I had the most awesome voice she'd ever h
eard.”

  He frowned. “Then what am I not understanding? You chose not to?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  I shook my head. “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “I thought we …”

  “We did, and I did it. I went and checked it out. End of story.”

  He cleared his throat, thinking, then nodded to himself. “Well, thank you for checking it out, then.”

  This was so new to me. My mom would have bugged the crap out of me until I coughed it up, then would have spent a lifetime telling me why I wasn't doing things right. “She made me mad.”

  “How so?”

  “The usual. After I walked in the room and she decided I didn't look like I'd fit in her little group, she went into this whole bullshit thing about professional training and why all of the soloists were so good and everything. Then I sang, and she was like, ‘I need you, Poe. You could walk right on. I could give you a future.’”

  He crossed his leg over his knee, taking the counselor position. “And you don't like that.”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn't need counseling, I needed a steamroller. “I don't need some lady shining me on with a load of bull before she even hears me sing. She can take her trained monkeys and pound sand.”

  He laughed. “Whoa. A bit of hostility, Poe?”

  “No. It's just standard procedure for teachers.”

  “How?”

  “They think they can treat you like an idiot because you won't get it. Like it's some sophisticated game that we're too dumb to understand. She decided I didn't fit into her clique, then had to backtrack when she realized I could do something for her.”

  “I don't know that to be true.”

  I thought about Mr. Halvorson. “Come on, Dad. Get real. Everybody thinks that cliques and all that stuff are because of the students, but that's not it. It's the school. I knew exactly what she was doing when I walked in that room, and it's the same thing with cliques. She put me in my place before I opened my mouth. So did Mr. Halvorson today after class.”

  “Mr. Halvorson?”

  I shook my head. “It doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say is that schools are the most hypocritical things there are.”

  “I don't necessarily agree. Our society…”

  “Baloney, and I'll prove it. Halvorson tells me that Benders High is anti-clique, but the only reason he's talking to me is because he already put me in one that he doesn't like. Then I walk into Mrs. Baird's class, she looks me up and down, decides I couldn't possibly fit in her little elite clique, then uses soft words to tell me I don't belong before I even sing. That's not judging? That's not condoning a clique mentality? At least kids are honest about it.”

  “Honest?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Baird has to twist her words to let me know she doesn't want me in her little clique. If she'd been honest about how she thinks, she would have said that I couldn't possibly belong to such a great group of singers because I don't look the part, and of course I couldn't have professional training because I'm a scumbag.”

  “But she didn't say that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That's exactly what she said. She just tried to say it in a way that a stupid teenager wouldn't understand.”

  “What reason would she have to do that?”

  I got up, taking my plate. “Because she decided where I belonged before I opened my mouth, that's why. And that”—I smiled primly—”makes me right.”

  “Would you like me to talk to her?”

  “What are you going to change? Human nature?” I was on a roll, and as I stood there, I decided to pursue it. “So, you don't agree that teachers are the ones who create cliques?”

  “Society as a whole creates divisions.”

  “Yeah, and that's what makes us different from each other, which is what I like. I just don't like people who do it to hurt people.”

  He frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “Teachers are supposed to lead us and show us we can be anything we're willing to work for before society puts us in our places based on our habits or looks. But they don't. They start it.”

  “How so?”

  “Look at sports.”

  “What about them?”

  “How did the skateboard team do last year at Benders High?”

  He furrowed his brow. “There is no skateboard team.”

  I shrugged. “I saw at least fifteen guys carrying boards around just in one day of school.”

  “Poe…”

  “The only thing I saw was a bunch of signs posted around campus saying NO SKATEBOARDING. Why?”

  “Because it's a liability. If somebody gets hurt…”

  “Exactly. Just like if a bunch of guys played baseball in the parking lot every day they'd be a liability too. NO BASEBALL signs would be posted,” I said, then smiled. “But I guess the school pays out the butt to make baseball players feel special. They've got a team, a diamond, uniforms, all that.”

  “It's our national pastime, Poe. Come on.”

  I waggled my finger at him, smiling. “I'm not saying get rid of baseball, Dad. I'm saying don't use tradition as an excuse to ignore a sport with more participants. There's more skateboarders in high schools than baseball players, and so what does Benders High do? Heck, they don't just ignore them, they make it against the rules to do it, because there's no reason other than favoritism that a sport more popular than baseball should get zero support or money.” I shrugged. “The very people who say that we're all equal are showing everybody that we're not. If that isn't creating negative stereotypes, I don't know what is.” I paused. “It was the same with choir today, too.”

  “How so?”

  I gestured to myself. “Look at me, okay? Any honest person would judge that I'm counterculture. Maybe rebellious. An independent thinker and a general pain in the rear, right? Well, guess what? I am, and honestly, part of the reason I look this way is to be judged exactly that way, and I accept it. But how does that equate to having no talent or goals or aspirations? That lady looked at me and figured right, Dad, but she tacked on the same stuff that your school tacks onto skateboarders, and it screams hypocrisy. And the school's solution to the problem is saying we shouldn't judge at all and that we're all the same, which is stupid. I want to be different, but somehow looking the way I do translates to not being able to sing. Who created that, counselor? Me or my teacher?”

  He shook his head. “But you can't blame everything on other people, Poe. Your own attitude probably had something to do with her judgment of you, and that's fair.”

  I rolled my eyes. “When you tell somebody over and over again that they aren't worth anything, they generally don't like you for it. Maybe I'd treat her differently if she treated me differently.”

  “But people won't always do that, Poe. You can't expect…”

  “I'm not talking about Joe Schmoe on the street! I can handle them. I'm talking about the people that supposedly exist in children's lives to show children what they're capable of! TEACHERS!” I smirked.

  “It's a natural human trait to find categories for people, Poe. If you aren't traditional, you will be judged more harshly. Mrs. Baird did do the right thing after you performed. She told you that it didn't matter what you looked like and that you were welcome. She based her decision entirely on your talent.”

  “What if I didn't know I was good? What if I was insecure? I would have walked right out of that room without singing, Dad, just like I'm sure other students have. And you're telling me she did the right thing!”

  Here I was fully enjoying the debate, and he was as calm as still water. He went on. “I see your point, but it's that way in the working world, too. An employer will judge immediately, and if you don't fall within the boundaries of what they find acceptable, you will lose. That's why we have standards. Some good and some bad.”

  I laughed. I'd heard the school is just like a job argument from my mom for years. “Last time I heard, it was an employer's job to judge who
is best for their business, because it's their business. What you're saying is that it's a teacher's job to judge who is best for their school?”

  He stopped, thinking, then sighed. “You got me on that one, but not all teachers judge like that. You've never had a good teacher?”

  I grunted. “Of course I have. And I'm not saying that a good teacher even has to like me. Just don't put my head in a vise and grab a sledgehammer.”

  Finally, a bit of a spark in his eyes. “Good. I was afraid you were generalizing.”

  I laughed. “Mr. Trillmane, seventh-grade English. He totally fought for getting not crappy books for us to read on the school list. Totally cool. He let me write three reports in poetry format because he knew I loved writing songs.” I smiled, remembering him. “He always said the only purpose the English language had was to communicate.”

  Dad nodded, smiling. “Think about giving Mrs. Baird a second chance? She did end up coming through, and she's a fantastic teacher.” His eyes twinkled. “In my opinion, that is.”

  “Why would I?”

  He smiled again. “Because first of all, it might not be worth hurting yourself to hurt her, and second of all, I'd like to sit in the audience and say, ‘That's my daughter up there.’ Then I'd like to stand up and clap like a big goofball. Like in the movies.”

  My breath caught, and I exhaled, all the fire gone from our debate. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Here I was all pissed off and enjoying our argument, and now it's gone. It's not fair. We're supposed to not talk to each other for three days now.”

  He shrugged. “Sorry.”

  I stood there for a moment, holding my plate, and he turned his eyes away uncomfortably. “I'll think about it.”

  He shifted, staring at the TV. “Night.”

  Chapter Eight

  Two days later, I found out the names of the guys who made Velveeta eat the paper. Ron Jameson and Colby Morris. Colby Morris was the guy in third-period current affairs that Velveeta avoided the first day. Colby Morris, asshole of the year. He gave me a hard stare when I walked into class, finally realizing I'd been the girl in the lot. I flipped him off.

  Theo walked with me after the hour was up, and I asked him about Colby. He smiled. “Our resident god. You might have to wear sunglasses around him. The halo gets bright. Especially after a win.”