by Eric Bell
I look at Zack to my left, but Zack’s already been unwillingly claimed by Julie Linder, who looks about as thrilled as if she’d been told to drink raw sewage. That leaves the kid to my right.
“You and me, Alan,” Connor says, taking his gum out. “Just like old times, huh?”
“Y-Yeah,” I stammer. I open Discovering America and focus on one page so I don’t have to look at my study partner.
“Dude,” Connor says. “We’re doing right after the Revolutionary War, and that’s a picture of Martin Luther King. I think you went a little too far.”
I nod. “Sorry.”
He smiles. “Man, I’m glad you’re my study partner. You really helped me out a lot at Pine Garden. Not gonna lie, sometimes this stuff makes me feel like an idiot, y’know?”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“Heh,” Connor laughs. “You’re, like, the nicest guy in the world, you know that?”
I swear my entire body is about to combust. I try to swallow but there’s a bowling ball wedged in my esophagus.
“I hope we’re all working on our assignments and not gossiping about squirrels,” Miss Richter says to the class, looking right at Zack.
“But they’re so cool,” Zack says. “They have cute little cheeks, and—”
“Save it for later, Zack,” Miss Richter says. “Focus on your worksheets.”
Zack whispers, “We’ll catch up on squirrels some other time,” and Julie Linder rolls her eyes.
We spend most of the class completing the worksheet. I come up with all the answers, not because Connor is slacking off, but because I know the material better than he does. When it comes time for the last question, Connor says, “Hey, let me do this one. You’ve been doing all the work.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t mind.”
“I’ve got to earn my keep,” Connor says with a smile. “‘What was the central principle behind the Monroe Doctrine?’ I remember going over this in class.”
I open my mouth, but Connor says, “Take a load off, man. Let me do some heavy lifting. Uh, the Monroe Doctrine is that thing that says the US could do whatever they wanted in North America, right?”
“Something like that,” I say. “It said we were free to colonize North America without Europe getting involved, and in exchange we’d stay out of European colonies.”
“Oh yeah,” Connor says.
I start writing down the answer. “It’s fine. You were close.”
“It’s so weird though. Why wouldn’t Europe come over and be like, forget this doctrine or whatever, we’re taking Texas. What’s stopping them?”
I put my pencil to my lips for a second. Maybe America knew a secret of Europe’s, and Europe knew a secret of America’s, and they agreed to never tell the rest of the world if they both played along. “Beats me.”
Connor smiles. “I feel better about not knowing stuff if there’s something the great Alan Cole doesn’t know.”
“Pftyleeargh,” I say, spitting all over Discovering America.
“Huh?” Connor writes down the answer on his own sheet. “You say something?”
“N-Nothing,” I say, wiping my mouth off as fast as I can. “Don’t worry about it.”
When the bell rings, I hand in my worksheet to Miss Richter. “Are you okay from earlier?” she whispers as other kids bring up their papers. “You looked like you were ready to melt during that argument.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, blushing a little.
She watches me carefully, but anything else she might say gets cut off as Madison stomps over to me, grumbling, “Why didn’t you back me up?”
“Uh,” I say, but I can’t think of anything else, because honestly, what else would you even say? Sorry for not rushing to your defense in the World’s Stupidest Argument Contest, and by the way, congrats on winning?
Madison sighs. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. I thought that maybe, for once, somebody would—”
“Alan,” Zack calls from outside the room. “Come here.”
Like somebody knocked the wind out of him, Madison stops talking. He clears his throat, nods stiffly, and leaves the classroom. I look back at Miss Richter, whose eyes dart away from me the second I stare at her, and I follow Madison.
Zack stands by the empty, broken vending machine outside Miss Richter’s room. That thing’s been out of order since the school year started, with no chips or candy to be found inside, its hollow holders barren and lifeless. There’s nothing sadder than an empty vending machine. Zack’s looking at it like there’s something inside—
Hang on. There is something inside.
We make our way closer. There are a few kids hovering around the machine; some of them are whispering. Zack gives me a wide-eyed, baby-fawn look, and I take a closer peek.
It’s a piece of paper. Dirty, with plenty of stains all over it. But clearly visible through the stains, written in black Sharpie, are the words:
FOR AL
;)
My stomach tries to leap out of my throat. How in the—
“They should really get that thing removed,” Madison scoffs. “Come on, we’ll be late for class.”
Zack still watches me. Then he grips the glass window of the vending machine and tries to pull it off.
“What are you doing?” Madison gasps. “That’s destruction of school property! I said I wanted it removed, but you don’t have to—”
“No good,” Zack says. “We need to get that paper. Right, Alan?”
Madison starts, “Why would—” He stops. “You didn’t tell me you liked being called Al.”
“That’s because I don’t.” My voice comes out flat, as empty as the vending machine.
“I get it.” Zack peers through the vending machine. “This is part of the game. This is something else you have to do to beat your brother. Right, Alan?”
“You need to tell us everything about this game,” Madison says, crossing his arms.
“And we need to figure out how to get that paper out,” Zack says. “Right?”
The rules said I had to be able to get to the paper. There’s no way I can get to it without taking apart or breaking into the machine. It’s too high up for me to reach if I stick my arm through the slot at the bottom. He’s cheating. It’s impossible.
Right?
But if he’s cheating, then I can tell everyone about his stink bomb escapades. Unless that’s part of his trap too, like he wants me to tell everyone, because it’ll somehow make me look worse, and—and—
I always keep my promises.
“Alan,” Madison says slowly. “What happens if you lose this game?”
I look at the vending machine. At that dirty piece of paper. He probably made it gross, with stains and holes, just to make me not want to take it, just to taunt me—and it’s that thought that sparks something, or maybe it’s looking at myself in the glass, with hair in my eyes, or maybe it’s Connor’s voice echoing the great Alan Cole in my head.
Whatever it is, it makes me think, I am NOT a coward.
Whatever it is, it makes me say to Madison, “It doesn’t matter, because I’m going to win.”
When I say it, I almost—almost—believe it.
And almost is better than not at all.
Zack pumps his fist into the air and yells “Ohhhhh!” all up and down the hall until a teacher tells him to knock it off.
“You still owe me an explanation,” Madison says on the way to science. “A full explanation.”
“Are you sure you want to help me?” I ask.
Madison holds himself up to his full height (which puts him at about my throat). “This is going to be my crowning achievement. You’ll not only become well-known, you’ll do so many things, and I’ll be right there behind you every step of the way.”
“Taking all the credit,” I say.
He clears his throat. “You make it sound so terrible.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “It was a jok
e.”
“Hmm,” Madison says, “I didn’t know you joked.”
“Neither did I.”
“It’s a good style for you. I say keep it.”
I nod. “Maybe I will.”
SIX
The wooden clock in the kitchen seeps over the dinner table, its rhythmic clanking echoing in my skull along with the scraping utensils and the distant hum of the fridge. Mom’s chicken stew is tasty, and bits of hot pepper flakes she sprinkled on top practically leave scorch marks as they dribble down my throat, but I barely notice it.
I’m thinking about the principles of design Mrs. Colton went over today in art class, and how the scene in front of me would look if I painted it. Where would the emphasis be? On the clock? At the head of the table? On the carefully prepared food? Where would the movement flow? What patterns would be repeated?
“How’s school going?” Mom asks halfway through dinner.
I look at Nathan. Nathan looks at me. “Fine,” he says.
She smiles and leans toward me. “Meet any pretty girls today?”
I cough on the pepper. “Not yet,” I choke.
“Better hurry, or you’ll end up like your brother,” Dad says with a gruff chuckle.
Nathan’s cheeks flare up. He looks down at his plate.
When Dad finishes eating, he says, “Saturday’s the company dinner. Richard Franklin’s kid plays the cello.” He pauses. Emphasis.
Nathan boasts, “Well, I was first chair last year in the Evergreen Middle School orchestra, and the orchestra is going to perform a piece I’ve written this year.”
(Stretching the truth a bit there—Nathan did write some piece of music, but the orchestra teacher only said he’d “consider putting it on.” But he did get first chair.)
Dad doesn’t react to Nathan’s bragging. Instead, he asks Mom, “Got your good dress back from the cleaners?”
Mom nods. “I got a few other things cleaned too. Some sets of church clothes, and—”
“Sure it still fits?” Dad asks.
The heat and silence fill every space of the kitchen. Finally, as Dad stares unblinkingly at his wife, Mom looks down at what’s left of her bowl of stew. Downward movement. “It will fit,” she says.
Dad looks at me. “What sports do you play?”
Again: I don’t play any sports. That’s not why he’s asking. “I run long distance, I play shortstop, and I’d show you my bilateral kick if I remembered to bring my soccer ball.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Uh, bicycle kick, bicycle,” I stammer, but he raises his head, and I freeze.
Upward movement.
He downs his water in one gulp and places the glass, very gently, on the table. He stares at me, unblinking. I don’t move. Nobody moves. Only the clock moves. “This is what all that art stuff gets you?” he asks me. “No common sense. Nobody’s impressed by artists.”
Nathan’s elbow slides off the table, sending his spoon plummeting to the floor. “Something you want to say, little pig?” Dad asks his eldest son. Pattern.
“No,” Nathan grumbles. “No, Father.”
Pigs like to roll around in their own slop and make huge messes everywhere they go. But I’d still rather be a pig than a goldfish. At least people care enough about pigs to eat them.
“Our little pig,” Dad says. “You get everything handed to you because you’ve got brains. But sometimes you can’t get by with just brains. You’ve got to work hard. You don’t know that yet.”
“I know some things,” Nathan whispers.
Dad raises his head again. Outward movement. “Like what?”
I hunch into my chair, folding into myself. Nathan looks down at the table. “I know none of our family ever visits us,” he whispers.
I grip the edges of my chair. Nathan’s gone too far, and judging by how he actually inches his chair away from the table, he knows it too. Dad goes deathly still. Mom says to me, “Why don’t you show us what you’re painting—”
“We have no family.” Dad’s words cut across the ice like a chainsaw. “It’s just us. That’s how it’s always been and that’s how it’s always going to be. Family, family, family. Aren’t I enough family for you, little pig?” He grabs his empty glass of water and gazes into it like it holds the answers to some abstract puzzle. Abruptly he stands up and fumes out of the kitchen, his shadow lurking behind.
Dad always shuts down whenever someone, usually Nathan, brings up family or the past. Millions of Coles in the world, even one or two at Evergreen, and none of them are related to us? I don’t know if we have any grandparents, or aunts or uncles or cousins. All I know is Dad refuses to talk about them, and Mom’s not offering any answers.
Mom goes to the fridge and returns with a glass of orange juice. She places it in front of Nathan, wringing her hands. He stares at it for a few seconds, then downs it in one gulp and walks upstairs. He sort of looks like . . . how I look during CvC season.
Pattern.
Mrs. Colton says, “Life imitates art.” I wonder if she had her own 16 Werther Street growing up, and if she ever made her own cretpoj out of it.
I stare at the last page of my old sketchbook, brush in hand, trying to put all those highfalutin principles of design to use and come up with at least a rough draft of a face.
Who should it be? What face could I paint that will change the world? I spend so much time thinking about who to paint that I don’t paint anyone.
Maybe the problem is I don’t want to paint a face. Maybe I’m forcing it. Maybe I should go back downstairs and paint the dishes in the sink, or open my window and paint Big Green again.
I don’t want to give up. Not yet. I don’t want to run away from every problem.
Right when I’m about to start on the oval-shaped outline for a head, any head, my sketchbook gets snatched out of my hands and held above my head.
Crap.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Nathan dangles all my work from the past year over my head carelessly, like he could toss it out the window any second. “I wanted to say hi.”
“Hi,” I whine. If I play up how irritated I am with the interruption, Nathan will go easier on me. Hopefully.
My brother tosses the sketchbook in the corner of my room, then he starts pacing back and forth. “Y’know,” he says, “I was thinking. I wonder if you’ll still be able to paint your little paintings after CvC. How can you get your mystical inspiration if everyone hates you? Where’s the beauty of the world or whatever?”
I don’t say anything.
“Of course,” he continues, hopping onto my bed and bouncing up and down, “that’s assuming you, my little Colette, don’t do more tasks than me. Which, let’s be real here, you won’t.” He starts attempting tricks as he jumps, almost falling off the bed with each rotation of his body.
Now, I’m a lot of things. According to Dad I’m a goldfish, according to my almost-computer password I’m a coward, and according to Connor I’m the nicest guy in the world. But one thing I’ve never been is reckless. I’m a survivor. I always look out for myself.
Except now. Now, because I am a complete moron, I say, “I’ve done one task already. How many have you done?”
He stops bouncing.
I take a deep breath. “I’m sure you’re still going to win.”
Nathan walks over to my closet, right where my church clothes are kept. He fishes around inside the pants pocket. “Huh,” he says. “You gave them up.”
“How did—”
“I always knew,” he says. “At least I did after you still had underwear after the Great Cottage Cheese Incident. Haven’t you figured it out yet, Al? I know everything about you. You can’t surprise me. So you gave up your most prized possession. So what? That was the easiest one. Did you dump them in the trash? The garbage can’s probably all Day-Glo now.”
“I gave them to someone. That’s what the rules say we have to do.”
A snicker cuts across Nathan’s throat, then it rips into a full-on cackle. “Are you ser
ious? You actually gave someone your underwear? A real, living human being took your underwear? The rules say give up, not give away. You could’ve thrown them in the fireplace for all I care.”
Speaking of fire, that’s what’s spreading across my face right now.
“We’re on the honor system,” Nathan continues. “Remember? Mutual secrets? You’re so stupid, Al. I can’t believe you got someone to take your underwear!” Hyena’s laughter surrounds me, cuts into my blood.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, rearing up for a fight. But I’ve got nothing. Burned again by exact wording.
Nathan rests his hands on his knees, almost dizzy from laughing so hard. “Anyway, that was the easiest one. You won’t be able to do anything else. I’ll breeze through mine like nobody’s business, like usual.”
Time to change the subject. “What’s your most prized possession?”
“None of your business. But you’ll know when I give it up. Did you find my paper yet?”
My back goes stiff, and Nathan laughs. “Excellent,” he says. “Remember, you’ve got to actually take the paper, not just find it. Yes, young Padawan, you’re more than capable of getting that paper out of the vending machine without taking it apart or smashing the glass. I promise.”
When Nathan leaves my room, I don’t go for my sketchbook right away. I sit at my desk, thinking. Is this what a little confidence does? Makes you turn stupid? Into a stupid goldfish?
By my keyboard is Zack’s “fortune.” If fortune cookies want to ask questions, they should ask good ones, not ones about where babies come from. They should ask, what’s your most prized possession? What would it take for you to give it up? They should ask, how do you break into a vending machine? (Or they could tell you how. That’d be fine too.)
I need some water after this whole mess of an evening, so I head downstairs. There’s low talking from the living room. I peer around the corner and Mom’s on the couch, her cell phone in her hand, a muted TV in the background. She’s speaking to the person on the other end, probably Denise, one of her friends from church. (Denise has kids around my and Nathan’s age, but Nathan scared them off years ago.) I can’t hear most of what she says, but one phrase really sticks out: