He doesn't seem to notice anything. He breaks into a blinding smile and gets up to go. Before he leaves, though, he lifts aside one of my headphones and whispers into my ear, "I'll meet you at the pink tree."
I can still feel his breath on my cheek, even after he has left the room.
GUSTY'S LIFE AS A DOG
I am standing under the pink tree, waiting for Gusty and noticing the way the sunlight makes the petals on the flowers turn a warm peach color. I also notice for the first time the glowing, fresh scent of this tree. It's an amazing fragrance that makes me think of a delicious fruit that would be too beautiful to eat. My feet are surrounded by a thick layer of pink petals. I kick into them until my toes are completely covered and imagine that the ground is made of nothing but pink petals all the way to the earth's core.
Gusty walks out of the school building and comes toward me. He's carrying his skateboard under his arm, and he has a huge satchel slung over his shoulder. He smiles. My stomach tumbles and I have to take deep breaths.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
We stand looking uncomfortable for a second before he tosses his head in the direction of Pluribus. I follow him.
We walk quietly next to each other. My mind is buzzing, so I can't get a read on his thoughts, but that's just the way I like it. I don't want to know what he's thinking. I should protect myself better, but I can't help feeling happy.
We are walking along a tree-lined sidewalk when we see a dog zigzagging down the road. He is brown with white speckles, and he has the kind of retarded smile on his face only dogs can muster. If he's not careful he'll get picked up by the dogcatcher.
Gusty grins. "Someone's on a joy ride."
The dog pauses for a second to look at us, his head slightly cocked. He seems to be wondering if we're going to turn him in. Without a word, Gusty sets his skateboard and book bag onto the sidewalk. He trots toward the dog. "What are you doing?" I ask him, but he doesn't answer. The dog seems to understand him perfectly, and he jumps into the air with a surge of doggy joy. Gusty laughs and starts rubbing the dog's ears. The dog loves this so much, he rams his head into Gusty's knees, which makes Gusty lose his balance and fall down on someone's lawn. The second he's down, the dog starts licking Gusty's face ferociously.
This is some kind of primordial ritual I do not understand. "Do you guys need to be alone?" I ask.
Gusty laughs. "No! I'm just happy."
"Is that your dog?" I ask him.
Gusty looks at me quizzically. "Huh? No." They're both out of breath and panting. He lays his head on the dog's back, and the dog curls his head around and sniffs Gusty's neck before giving him a disturbingly sensual kiss.
"Tell me you know this dog. Please."
"We've never met." He gives the dog a good rub on the flank before getting up and brushing fur off himself. The dog licks the palm of Gusty's hand.
"Are you sure that's safe?" I ask him. "What if he has some kind of disease?"
He seems amused by this. "He's a perfectly healthy animal."
"Okay."
"Come pet him."
Looking at the dog's big white teeth, I say, "I only like animals that can't kill me."
"He wouldn't hurt a fly." He kneels down and holds the dog's face toward me. The dog's huge pink tongue flops over Gusty's hand, and I wonder how Gusty can stand the slobber. Slobber is one of many reasons why I am a cat person. "Pet him."
"Em..." I look at him, nervous.
"Come on!" He reaches a hand toward me.
I put my backpack on Gusty's skateboard and kneel on the grass next to them. The dog kicks one paw out and it lands on my new skirt. Praying he doesn't have poop between his toes, I slowly, slowly reach my hand toward his head. I give him two little pats and pull away.
"That's not enough. Really rub him, like this." Gusty takes hold of the dog's ear and massages it. One side of the dog's body seems to melt. "Now you," Gusty says, and takes hold of my wrist.
Because I love the way Gusty's thumb moves over my skin as if he can't resist feeling the friction between us, I take hold of the dog's ear and rub it the way Gusty did. The dog stiffens at first because I'm not doing it right, but then I realize he isn't that different from Minnie, who has this special spot right where her ear meets her skull. So I find that spot on the dog and I start to really rub. He melts for me just the way he melted for Gusty, and he lifts his eyes to look into mine. It's funny, because I love the way Minnie looks at me, her yellow eyes so warm and loving, but this dog's eyes remind me of a person's eyes. They're round, with round pupils, not the narrow pupils that Minnie has. Something about the dog feels a little human, and that makes me realize why I was never a dog person. I hate humans. Most humans.
I look up, and Gusty is watching me as if I am completely fascinating. Just looking. Looking at me. I listen to his thoughts, but I don't hear words. I get only a feeling of warmth from them, like sunlight.
My face gets hot, and I turn toward the dog so Gusty can't see me blushing. I start rubbing the dog's other ear so he gets a double whammy, and I go in for a really deep rub, but my thumb grazes something sharp in his fur. Suddenly the dog yelps, leaps away, and snaps at my hand in one motion.
"Oh my God!" I yell.
Gusty grabs the dog and holds its head to his chest to keep him still. "What happened?"
"He tried to bite me!" I feel betrayed. I look at the dog, who is whining softly as if he's trying to whisper to Gusty.
"Did he get you?"
"No, but he tried."
"Kristi, dogs don't try to bite. If he meant to bite you, you'd have gotten bit. He's telling you to keep away from that spot because it hurts him. That's all."
I still feel totally rejected. By a dog.
"Did you rub him too hard?" Gusty asks as he examines the dog's face.
"I felt something sharp in his ear." I point to the dog's left ear, and Gusty lifts it up, speaking in a very gentle voice.
"It's okay, boy—let's just check this out." He runs his fingers through the hair under the dog's ears, and the dog jerks his head as though he wants to bite Gusty and whines. "That's it!" Gusty pinches something just inside the dog's ear and pulls it out. It comes with a whole lot of fur. "He had a nasty bur in his ear, and you must have pushed on it and really hurt him."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault." Gusty smiles at me as he flicks the bur away. "Here." He pulls on my wrist again. I don't want to, but then the dog licks my hand, looking at me sideways with his big brown eyes. "See? He still wants to be friends," Gusty says, and chuckles. "He's a cute dog."
I smile. The dog forgives me for hurting him. I'm not sure whether I should respect him for that or feel sorry for him. With an attitude like that, he's a sitting duck.
Gusty stands and picks up everything we left on the curb. He slings his satchel over one shoulder and my pack over the other. "Let's get going," he says, and we start off again toward Pluribus. The dog follows for a few minutes, but then gives Gusty's hand a last lick before turning to go down a different street. I watch him go, but Gusty doesn't even give him a second glance.
"So, what's that all about?" I ask Gusty.
"What?"
"Your freakish affinity with canines."
"Oh." He shrugs. "I don't know. I've just always understood them."
"What is there to understand?"
"A lot. Body language, vocalization, facial expression, behavior. Even as a kid I could tell by looking if a dog was friendly or mean, scared or happy. They're just easy to me, easier than people. Cats, too, though they're different."
"Yeah, they are."
"I think dogs like me because they can tell I like them. And sometimes they just seem relieved to meet a person who understands them."
"I can understand that," I say. I never knew Gusty had a deep side. I always thought he was dumb in proportion to his looks. Maybe I wanted to believe he was dumb because I thought he didn't like me. The truth is, he never really seem
ed dumb. Not really. And even if he does think I'm sick, that doesn't mean we can't be friends, right? I'm kind of friends with Jacob, even though I find his spitting problem rather disgusting. So Gusty thinking I'm sick isn't necessarily so terrible, right? Maybe he thinks I'm sick like a cool mad scientist kind of person. Or maybe he thinks I'm crazy in a fascinating way like Carmen, in the opera by Bizet.
"Understanding is rare," Gusty says, and I figure he's still thinking about dogs while I'm working my brain trying to figure him out.
"Truer words were never spoken," I say. And we're silent the rest of the way to Pluribus.
PLURIBUS
Pluribus is the coolest place in our town. All the windows are stained glass, and the ceiling is super high with lots of rough-hewed beams and rafters. Tons of plants hang everywhere, getting their light from the skylights in the ceiling. I hardly ever come here even though I really like it because this is where all the kids from Journeys hang out and I'm usually avoiding them.
Gusty and I are halfway through the nachos before he finally pages through his notebook for our character education assignment. "Okay. We have to list our greatest liabilities now."
I take a long swallow of my root beer while I absorb this information. The last thing I want to tell Gusty about is my dark side. "How do you always know what we're supposed to do for character education?" I ask as a way to keep the subject impersonal.
"The bulletin board. Where we found out who our partners were? Don't you check it?"
"No."
"I'll go first, okay? This shouldn't be too hard." He pulls a pen out of the spine of one of his notebooks. "Me. Hmm. Well, I'm not very good at schoolwork. I get too bored. I let my teachers think I'm slow because then they don't expect much from me and they leave me alone."
"Good strategy," I tell him. I honestly admire him for this. He's an underachiever, but he's very good at it. My opinion of his smarts just shot up like ten points.
"I should try harder, but I'd rather read about things I find interesting, like animal behavior and ecology. I like marine biology, too. Shark behavior. Stuff like that."
"Got it." I take the pen from him and start writing. "What else?"
"I'm shy, so I'm not very good at confrontation. My sense of humor is really zany, so most people don't get it and they just act embarrassed for me. Also, I don't have the greatest table manners, my mom says. My room is really messy because I never fold my laundry until it sits on my bed for about five days and gets all wrinkly. Also, I skateboard with a total disregard for human life. My own, mostly. How many is that?"
"Six."
"Okay. I'm mean to my sister sometimes. And I hate my mom. I shouldn't, but I think she's really selfish. She won't let me have a dog, and she ignores everything my dad says because she makes more money than him, and she's bitter about being the breadwinner. So I just ignore her, which is probably why I'm bad at confrontation. Let's see. Oh, I'm lazy. Lazy in my mind. Not my body. Is that ten?"
"Yes."
He nods, suddenly quiet. "There's one more. One more I should tell you, Kristi." He's holding a tortilla chip, but he puts it back on the plate and folds his fingers together. "You know it. You know what my greatest fault is."
"What? You had a zit five years ago and you haven't gotten over the shock?"
He half smiles, but it's an effort. His eyes flutter at me, and I know whatever he has to say is hard for him. "I'm a coward."
"No you're not."
"Yes. I am." He looks infinitely sad, as if he's remembering a terrible regret.
"Well, you already have ten, so we don't have to write it down. Okay?"
He seems disappointed, or frustrated, or confused. I don't know what he is. I'm tempted to listen to his thoughts to find out, but the last time I did that I found out how he saw me, and I couldn't take that again. It's too painful.
"Now you," he says as he piles a tortilla chip with a tower of beans, cheese, guacamole, and sour cream. The process seems to engulf all his concentration, and I think he must be using this activity to conquer a feeling he has inside himself. Once he has piled on more toppings than any tortilla chip should ever be asked to bear, he somehow opens his mouth wide enough to eat the whole thing in a single bite. Through the mess he says, "Your faults."
I look at him warily. I really don't want to do this, but he did it, so I can't hold back. It wouldn't be fair. Maybe if I start with the worst thing, the rest will be easier. "Well, you know those practical jokes I told you about?"
He nods.
"They're kind of mean." With a pang I remember that poor woman's bloody knee. "I'm cruel sometimes. For no reason. Other than to make myself laugh."
He writes this down without seeming to judge it and waits, his pen poised over the paper.
"I hate my mom. My dad left because of her."
He writes this down, too.
"I guess you could say I'm a misanthrope. I just don't really like people, you know? I distrust their motives."
"That's why I like dogs. They don't have motives."
"That's only three," I say with dread. It feels like slowly extracting a tooth, talking to Gusty this way. The only way I can get through this is to babble. "I purposely frustrate my teachers. I don't take school seriously. I keep a cat in the house that makes my mother sick. I have a terrible diet. I just eat pizza and chips and I drink soda and stuff ice cream down my throat at night while I watch stupid TV. I'm conceited about my intelligence, and I think everyone around me is stupid because usually they are. I don't exercise. I drink too much coffee." I remember the way the dog had been trotting down the street, a huge smile on his face. He was so happy to be free, and for the first time I wonder if Minnie Mouse is truly happy. "I keep my cat locked in my bedroom all day because I have to hide her from my mother, and it isn't fair. I never write to my dad, which is maybe why he's stayed away so long. And he's coming back on Thursday and I don't know if he means to stay or not, and I'm not sure I want him to, even though if you had asked me a week ago what I most wanted in the whole world, I'd have said it was for my dad to come back. But I don't want him anymore. I don't want him to see me. I'm fat and he'll be disappointed, and I hate him. I just hate him!"
At some point Gusty has stopped writing things down and is just looking at me, and then pretty soon the people at the next table are looking, and then the guy at the front counter is looking at me. When I realize what an ass I'm making of myself I shut up completely and hold my hand over my face, which makes me look even crazier. What am I doing? Why did I say all that?
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and Gusty blinks at me. His face is so sad that he almost looks ugly. He takes a napkin out of the holder on our table and hands it to me because he can see I'm nearly crying. I dab at my nose. It's totally full of snot but I don't want to expel mucus in front of him. "You're not fat," he says once I've calmed down a little.
"I'm not skinny."
"Skinny girls remind me of my sister," he says, wrinkling his nose. "Yech."
I laugh, but this makes a tear squeeze out of my eye. "I'm sorry!" I cry.
"For what?" It's not a rhetorical question. He really doesn't understand why I'm sorry, and he wants to know.
Somehow this scares me. I don't know how to answer him, and I don't know what to do. The way he looks at me is so—what? I don't like it. I don't like the way he's looking at me, as though he can see past my face into the toxic dump inside my head. I can feel his thoughts working their way through the tiny gaps in my mind. Like a trickle of water they seep through the wall I've held up between us, and I can hear them begin to drip onto my feelings, and they burn. She's got real problems, he thinks.
"It's getting late. I should get going," I say. "I'm sorry that I..." What? Had a conniption fit?
"You don't have to go, do you?"
"I'm sorry. I just—I just realized I forgot to feed my cat this morning."
"Oh, okay," he says. He seems confused. "I'll see you later?"
"Yeah." I pick up
my backpack so quickly that I knock his satchel onto the floor, and everyone in the place turns to look at me again. I hold my head down and walk out of Pluribus.
I'm never going back there. I can't be with Gusty Peterson. He hurts too much.
PICKING UP DAD AT THE AIRPORT
Airports were invented by psychotic savants with an uncanny ability to pinpoint the precise level of grossness hungry travelers will tolerate in overpriced food.
We arrive forty-five minutes early only to find that Dad's flight is delayed by two hours. For the first hour we walk around and Aunt Ann buys me a pile of crap I don't need. I get a silk scarf with brown butterflies on it, a best-selling novel by some ex-marine hack, a mint green travel mug, some botanical body oil that smells like sandalwood, a Denver Broncos team jersey, a glass paperweight with a scorpion inside it, some Zuni Indian turquoise earrings, a vibrating massage thingy, and finally, because it is all getting pretty heavy, a red rolling suitcase to carry it all. Once we cover every store we get some chai green-tea decaf skim-milk lattes and two huge brownies with walnuts in them and watch CNN while we eat. Then we realize we are hungry and get personal pan pizzas and eat those, finishing it all off with fat-free frozen yogurt sundaes. I think she must have spent about two hundred dollars, and I didn't ask for a thing.
"Are you excited to see your dad?" she asks as she shovels her narrow face full of vanilla frozen yogurt dotted with tiny M&M's.
"Yes," I say, because this is the tenth time she's asked me and I've finally figured out that the only thing that will shut her up is if I tell her what she wants to hear.
"I'm excited, too! He says he's lost twenty-five pounds!" She giggles, which makes her look like a baby bird. "So have you heard from Gusty?" she asks me leadingly. She suspects there's more to the story than I've told her, and she won't let up until I break.
"No, I haven't, and I don't really want to."
"Yeah, right." She giggles. "How does he act at school?"
Vibes Page 8