Posted

by John David Anderson

  They had been split city for a while—I’d already visited Dad once in Tallahassee—but there were questions concerning my father’s income and custody arrangements and who got the leftovers in the fridge or whatever. My mother refused to talk about the details and I didn’t ask. If it happened to come up she simply said, “I’m working on it,” and let it go at that, and I let her let it go. But finally the papers came through and Mom had to visit the lawyer to sign on the dotted line, so I went to Wolf’s to hang out. Deedee was out of town and Bench had baseball practice for the entire afternoon, leaving just the two of us. There was nothing wrong with two sometimes. It wasn’t four, of course, but spending the afternoon with Wolf was infinitely better than sitting at home eating Cap’n Crunch straight out of the box and watching SpongeBob reruns in my underwear.

  It was too hot to be outside, so we holed ourselves up in his room, underneath the plastic jets and painted starships, listening to music and flipping through his impressive comics collection. It was big enough he had to keep them in giant plastic tubs under his bed. None of them were in sleeves—that was more like something Deedee would do. Wolf didn’t see value in the books beyond what he got from reading them. He was also strictly a Marvel guy, but I didn’t hold it against him.

  We sat and read and ate and occasionally said something to each other. After an hour, we’d practically burned through an entire bag of Cheetos. Wolf held the last one up for inspection.

  “Turds,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Cheetos. They look like turds. Little cheese turds. Especially the stubby ones. I never noticed that before.” He was sitting cross-legged on his bed with a copy of X-Men #25 spread out in front of him. The one where Wolverine has his adamantium sucked out of his pores by Magneto. Brutal stuff. Good stuff. I looked at the Cheeto like it was some divine artifact worthy of a museum. He wasn’t wrong. They did sort of look like that. I’d always imagined them more as tree roots.

  “When I was little I thought they were supposed to look like toes. Cheese-toes,” Wolf said.

  “I’m pretty sure nobody’s toes look like that,” I said.

  “I think my grandmother’s toes probably look like this.” He popped the crunchy cheese turd in his mouth and started chewing.

  “And I’m pretty sure you have now ruined Cheetos for me for life.”

  Wolf gave me a giant grin with bright orange mush smeared across his teeth.

  “Really? You’re disgusting.” I buried my face back in The Incredible Hulk. The ticked-off green behemoth had just ripped a helicopter out of the sky and was tying its propellors like shoelaces. There were days I wished I could do that. I’d tie a couple of kids’ arms behind them and hang them from the flagpole so everyone could point and laugh as they walked by.

  “So it’s like, official,” Wolf said, his teeth no longer orange. “Your parents.” He made some kind of chopping motion with his hands.

  “They aren’t being beheaded. They’re just getting divorced,” I said. Wolf was just staring at me though. “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just kind of a big deal, don’t you think?”

  He was serious. This wasn’t the first time one of us had brought up parents or divorce or how nobody in their right mind should get married. You find people who share your interests. Wolf and I were both interested in complaining about the poor choices our parents had made, primarily in each other. “You think I should be pissed off or something?”

  Wolf shrugged. “You’re not? I would be.”

  I shrugged back. “Honestly, it’s been so long coming, I just don’t care anymore.”

  That wasn’t completely true. I did care, but not as much as I thought I would. Or maybe thought I should. This wasn’t like the day Dad left, or any of the days leading up to it, or even some of the days that came after. Those days were harder. This was just papers. I didn’t need a lawyer to tell me that my parents couldn’t stand each other anymore. I just needed one to tell me how many weeks I’d spend in Florida each year. It was different for Wolf. He was still knee-deep in the middle of it. “But you’re still going to stay with your mom most of the time, right?” Wolf asked.

  “I’m not leaving, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Maybe it was something he was worried about, beause he seemed to relax a little.

  Wolf sighed. “If my parents ever split, I don’t know who I would want to live with. I think it would be hard, only seeing one of them on weekends or whatever. I’m not sure I could handle it.”

  “It gets easier after a while,” I said. “You get used to it.” Mostly you get used to it.

  “Maybe. Still sucks though.” He was giving me that look, like he was waiting for me to tell him where I hid the buried treasure or something. “I know that it’s, like, against the rules. But if you ever feel like you’ve just got to get something off of your chest . . .”

  His voice trailed off. It was one of those awkward moments where you’re right on the verge of saying something all emotional and cheesy and stuff, something that might cause you to crack and get the waterworks going or at least feel itchy and uncomfortable.

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said. “Seriously, though, it’s fine. I’m going to go home and everything’s going to be the exact same as it was yesterday.”

  “Not the exact same. Your mother will be legally back on the market.”

  “Okay. Now you’re just being creepy.”

  “What? She’s kind of pretty . . . for a mom.”

  “You can totally just stop talking, like immediately.”

  Wolf made a production of zipping his lips. The moment had passed. I stood up and shuffled through the spread of comics on the bed until I found one with Spidey stuck to the side of the Daily Bugle, Mary Jane cradled in a nest of webbing below. He’d saved her yet again. Must be nice, having someone come to your rescue all the time.

  “What do you think? Mary Jane or Gwen Stacey?” I asked. Real girls were hard to talk about, almost as hard as divorces. But comic book characters were fair game—and it was certainly better than talking about my mother. Wolf gave me a strange look. “I mean, I know how it ends up. But, like, if you had to choose. If you were Spider-Man and had to just pick one, who would it be?”

  He put down his comic and leaned his head against the wall. “As Spider-Man or Peter Parker?” Wolf asked.

  “Um . . . you do know how superheroes work, right?”

  “Yeah, doofus. I’m just thinking maybe it could be both, you know? Like Peter could date Mary Jane and Spidey could go for Gwen. Why limit yourself?” It was an interesting question.

  “Never work,” I said. “Spider-Man spends half his time saving Mary Jane anyway. Gwen would get jealous.” It reminded me of kids at school, fighting about who liked who more. “You have to decide. Dr. Octopus is standing there with both of them covered in dynamite or something—”

  “Dynamite? Seriously?” Wolf asked. “What is this, like the 1940s?”

  “Fine. They’re strapped to missiles or whatever. And he’s all, ‘Take your pick, Spidey. MJ or Gwen.’”

  Wolf shrugged. “I’d save them both.”

  “You can’t save them both.”

  “Suck a Cheeto. I’m Spider-Man. I’ll find a way.”

  “Just choose,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Redhead or blonde?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Neighborhood love or classmate crush?”

  “God, you’re annoying. Has anyone ever told you just how annoying you are?”

  “Just pick one.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to pick one.”

  “You have to pick one,” I insisted.

  “I don’t have to,” he insisted right back. “Maybe they’re not my type.”

  “Just do it already.”

  “Fine. Then I choose Betty Brant,” Wolf said, clearly exasperated with me.

  I blinked at him.

  “Who the heck is Betty Brant?” She sounded like someth
ing out of an old Bugs Bunny cartoon.

  “She was a secretary at the Daily Bugle. She was Peter’s first love. Just nobody knows about it because it’s not in the movies. So there.” Wolf made a nyah face at me.

  “Holy crap. I think you have officialy outnerded Deedee.”

  Wolf’s face went serious. He pointed a finger at me. “You take that back.”

  I weighed Wolf’s roomful of plastic models against Deedee’s replica of Bilbo’s sword. “Fine. I take it back,” I said. “But you can’t pick Betty freaking Brant. It’s against the rules.”

  “You don’t make the rules,” Wolf said. “And I’ll choose who I want.” Then he threw his copy of X-Men at me. Magneto hit me in the face. Who in their right mind doesn’t pick MJ?

  Wolf looked forlornly at the empty bag of cheese turds. “You still hungry?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” My stomach gurgled. Power of suggestion.

  “I could ask my mom to make us something,” Wolf said. “Or if you want, we can just heat up a can of SpaghettiOs.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I assumed he knew what he was doing.

  That’s how it was between us. I just assumed everything was all right. That he had it under control. Until I saw the microwave catch on fire. Then I knew I’d have to keep an eye on him.

  Because he’d do the same for me.

  Ms. Sheers wasn’t the only one with her hawk eyes peeled. That Monday afternoon the entire teaching staff of Branton Middle School had gone on high alert, stripping notes off doors, off windows, fishing them out of recycling bins. Gathering evidence. The Big Ham probably had a file full of the nastiest ones gathering in his office, ready to be dusted for fingerprints in order to discover who the culprits were. And to think that Deedee had started it by welcoming me to the Dark Ages. It kind of felt like the Dark Ages, assassins sneaking down the halls in between periods to plant little poisonous notes on lockers.

  It wasn’t a surprise, then, when the ax came down. On Tuesday morning in homeroom, right after the Pledge of Allegiance. The new commandment was delivered over the morning announcements in Mr. Wittingham’s signature grunt.

  “It has been brought to my attention by members of the faculty and several students that many of you have been using sticky notes to leave inappropriate and even insulting messages around the school. While I understand that, for most of you, this was intended to be fun, several faculty members have expressed concerns about messages they consider offensive. This kind of behavior undermines our mission here at Branton Middle School, which is to educate in a safe, nurturing, and inclusive environment. Therefore, until further notice, students are banned from posting such notes anywhere on school property. If any member of the faculty or staff sees a student doing so, the notes will be confiscated and a message will be sent home for that student’s parents.” He paused to let the weight of his pronouncement settle in. “Now here’s Mrs. Kelly’s sixth-grade English class with a message about our upcoming canned food drive.”

  I stopped listening and watched as more than one student tucked the sticky note they had been writing under their textbook or back into their backpack. This was probably the first time in Branton Middle School history that a principal had officially banned a school supply.

  In English, Mr. Sword took some responsibility.

  “Friends, Romans, countrymen. Lend me your ears,” he began, one hand leaning on his desk. “You heard Principal Wittingham this morning. I’ve seen some of the messages you all have been writing to each other. Most of them are innocuous”—Mr. Sword liked to toss around words that most of us didn’t even know how to spell, probably to help us expand our vocabulary, but also maybe to show that he was still the smartest one in the room—“but I’ve seen some that were very . . . disappointing.”

  Mr. Sword looked at me. At least he seemed to be looking at me. He was actually scanning the room, taking in everybody, but whenever a teacher gets to you, you sense a pause, whether there is one or not. I’m not sure why he’d fixate on me. The last note I’d even bothered to write was the one he told me to.

  He was obviously thinking the same thing. “When I gave you guys that assignment last Friday I was trying to teach you something,” Mr. Sword continued. “I thought if I forced you to share your words with the rest of the school you’d discover a greater appreciation for them. I guess I was wrong.”

  A snicker from behind me.

  “Something funny, Mr. Kyle?” Mr. Sword focused his attention on Noah, sitting behind me, making it almost feel like he was staring at me again.

  “No, Mr. Sword. It’s just—I think some people are overreacting. We’re just playing around. I don’t think anybody meant anything by what they wrote.”

  Several students murmured their agreement. Then Wolf spoke up again without raising his hand, though his voice barely notched above a whisper.

  “What was that, Morgan?” Mr. Sword prodded.

  “I said, it means something whether they mean it or not.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Mr. Sword said. “You can’t know for certain what someone else is going to think or feel about what you’ve written. Some people are sensitive to things you might not be.”

  “You said it. Not me,” Jason Baker responded under his breath.

  “Maybe some people are just completely insensitive jerks,” Wolf murmured again.

  This time Jason leaned in and kicked the back of Wolf’s chair. “What did you say?”

  Wolf turned around this time, face red, mouth working into a snarl. “I said maybe you should just shut your big fat mouth for once.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” Mr. Sword said, one hand raised in a call for peace. Jason ignored it.

  “You got a problem, Morgan? Because you know how I feel when you look at me like that.” Both Noah and Cameron snorted. Wolf’s face only got redder.

  I put a hand on his arm. “Let it go,” I whispered, but he jerked his arm away. He turned back to the front and stared straight ahead, slinking down in his seat. The class took a breath. Mr. Sword watched for two seconds, three. He looked like he was about to say something, but then he just turned to write on the board.

  Behind us Jason mouthed something to Noah Kyle, who whispered, “Totally.” I had a pretty good guess at what Jason had said.

  Maybe Wolf did too. He reached into his backpack for a thin stack of notes—the same ones Principal Wittingham had just banned—and hurriedly scrawled something on the top one. Then he stood up, pushing the desk away from him with a nerve-grating screech. Mr. Sword turned, but he couldn’t get to Wolf before Wolf slammed the note down on Jason’s desk. We all arched up out of our seats.

  It was a more colorful version of the word “butthole.” And there was an arrow pointing directly to Jason.

  Wolf stood beside Jason’s desk, shaking. I knew I should do something, say something. I’d never seen Wolf like this. Those fingers that danced over his piano keys, that painstakingly held tiny plastic pieces of miniature ships in place, were balled into white-knuckled fists. Jason started to stand, to get in a nudge, maybe, or just to get in Wolf’s face, but Mr. Sword was there finally, one hand on each boy’s shoulder, holding Jason down in his seat and pushing Wolf back a step. He snatched the note from Jason’s desk and balled it up, then turned to Wolf.

  “Wait for me in the hallway.”

  Wolf didn’t move. He stood his ground, jaw clenched tight, refusing to speak. Mr. Sword spoke in an even voice, bending down to put his face right in front of Wolf’s, eclipsing Jason’s smug grin.

  “Hallway, Morgan. Please.”

  Wolf shook his head. Then he turned and grabbed his pack and bolted for the door. I tried to get his attention, but he wouldn’t look at me. He didn’t look at anybody, not even Rose.

  Mr. Sword stood over Jason. “You and I will talk after class,” he said sternly. “The rest of you, start reading act three, scene two of Julius Caesar silently to yourselves. I don’t want to hear a sound when I come
back in this room. Understood?”

  Mr. Sword had never talked to us that way before, so we all just nodded. He raised a warning finger and then followed Wolf out into the hall.

  We all followed directions. At least half of them, anyways. There was no sound to be heard, even after he closed the door.

  We were all too busy trying to eavesdrop through the cinder-block walls.

  I didn’t see Wolf for the rest of the day. After the blowup in English, he went home, maybe because he had to, maybe because he wanted to, maybe both. Deedee told me that he saw Wolf’s mom in the Big Ham’s office before third period, hands flying, clearly upset. Principal Wittingham probably didn’t know what he was getting into; Mrs. Thompson knew how to fight. In the end, she took Wolf home, and I made a mental note to call him as soon as I could and make sure everything was all right. I had never seen him go off like that.

  As the day dragged on, I didn’t see near as many notes either. But I still saw enough to know that the war wasn’t over. At lunch, it was just the three of us. We talked over what had happened and agreed that Jason Baker was, indeed, exactly what Wolf had called him. Then Rose told us stories about some of the jerks at her old school who made Jason look like Mahatma Gandhi. She made Branton Middle School sound like an oasis of brotherly love.

  “Wolf will be all right,” she said as the lunch bell rang. But for the first time since I’d met her, Rose Holland didn’t sound too sure.

  That afternoon, I rode the bus by myself again, passing the empty seat next to Sean Forsett. During the ride home I watched two seventh graders make tiny spit wads the size of BBs and then drop them from behind in Sean’s thick, curly hair, seeing how many they could get to stick before he noticed. I almost said something. They were up to eleven when the bus hit my stop.

  My mother met me at the door wearing an apron and a smile. “They gave me the afternoon off because I had too much overtime,” she explained, her voice unnaturally bouncy. The house smelled like cinnamon and burning. “I’ve been baking.”

  “That’s great,” I said. Then I grabbed the phone and went in my room to call Wolf. I sat for a minute, trying to figure out what I’d say, but before I could dial, the doorbell rang.