Michael nodded. I left him standing by his locker.
Looking back, I can’t understand why I didn’t insist on a dress rehearsal. I don’t know what I was thinking, letting Michael get away without one. I do remember hoping Gut would be mad enough to throw us all out of the house. Then again, I kept hoping he’d wear one of those sleeveless t-shirts, too.
I never get what I want.
Watch a lot of gangster movies? If you do, then you’ve seen this shot about a hundred times: a group of made guys on their way to whack someone, walking toward the camera in slow motion. Drop a hard-ass song in the background and you’ve completed your gangster-film cliché.
Walking out to Wanda’s car after the last bell felt just like that—for two of us, anyway.
Unfortunately, Michael looked like he was going to a funeral. He crawled into the backseat and tried sinking into the upholstery.
Oh, no you don’t, I thought as I slid into the passenger seat.
“How you feeling, Wanda?” I asked.
She gave me a smile.
“Super Smart Girl?” I guessed.
She shook her head. “Don’t know yet. We’ll see. They usually decide for me.”
“What?”
“The girls usually decide,” she said. “I probably won’t know until we’re inside the house.”
I nodded and tried to look like it made sense.
“Michael was in a fifth-grade orgy,” I said as we pulled out of the parking lot.
“No I wasn’t!” he shouted from the back.
“Wow. What school did you go to?” Wanda asked.
“One of those montagory schools,” I said.
“Montessori?” she said, smiling.
“Whatever.”
“What else is he into?” she asked.
“Heroin.”
“Really?”
“He’s lying,” Michael said.
“What are you into, honey?” Wanda asked, glancing at Michael in the rear-view mirror.
I sighed when I didn’t hear anything from Michael, guessing I’d have to keep prodding.
“Books, I guess,” he muttered.
“Oh yeah? What kind?” Wanda asked.
“All kinds.”
“Jesus,” I said, shaking my head.
But for some reason, it didn’t bother Wanda. “Got a favorite?” she asked.
“Book?” Michael asked.
“No, Michael—drugs. She’s wondering if your favorite is heroin or opium.”
“That’s not what I—do you mean favorite book or favorite author?” he said.
“Either one,” Wanda said. “How about both?”
And that’s all it took. Michael was off and running.
“Well, I guess if I had to pick a favorite book . . . favorite fiction book . . . If I had to pick a favorite novel, I guess it would either be Hitchhiker’s Guide or I Heard the Owl Call My Name.”
“Oh yeah?” Wanda said. “How about favorite author?”
“Probably Hope Mirrlees.”
I had to admit, I was somewhat impressed. Michael was talking to a real-live girl.
And not just any girl. Michael was talking to Wanda. But then again, we were in a car, and she couldn’t yawn and wander off. I checked to see if Wanda was getting drowsy. Instead, I saw a strange little smile I’d never seen before.
“Hmm . . . didn’t really like Lud-in-the-Mist,” she said. “The writing’s a little too flowery. But that’s just me.”
What is she talking about? Is she actually listening?
No response from the backseat. I glanced at Michael. He looked as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. His eyes were wide and his face was beet-red. His head looked dangerously close to some kind of explosion.
“You’ve read it?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“How could you not like the language? It’s incredible.”
“Too much for me. I like my books a little tighter.”
“Like what?” Michael said.
“Well—”
“And please don’t say Ernest Hemingway,” he said.
“Hell, no—give me a little credit, honey.”
Michael and Wanda had a nice little book club chat after that, one that didn’t involve or interest me. Thankfully, it was a quick ride.
“It’s that one on the right,” Michael said, leaning forward into the space between our seats.
Wanda rolled to a stop just before the start of his driveway. We sat in the car for a minute, staring at the tired little house.
I looked at Wanda, wondering what she was thinking. As usual, her face was impenetrable.
“You going to be able to do this, Michael?” I asked, turning.
Michael nodded. He looked okay now. Only his cheeks were flushed.
“You ready, Wanda?” I asked.
She didn’t say anything. She was looking through me, toward the house.
“Wanda?” I tried again.
“Getting into character,” she said quietly.
“Sorry.”
Michael and I waited for our cue. Michael rummaged through his backpack, looking for something. He pulled out a thick paperback that had definitely seen better days—in fact, it looked like someone had played a few games of street hockey with it.
He glanced at Wanda, looking like something had suddenly occurred to him, but then sank back on his seat and started to read.
Without thinking, I opened the glove compartment and began to explore. Then I realized what I was doing and quickly shut the little door. Wanda didn’t seem to notice, though.
I sat still for about ten seconds before I started to fidget. After a while, I bent forward to retrieve a scrap of paper peeking out from underneath my seat. When I came back up, Wanda was stepping out of the car.
I turned back toward Michael, but he was halfway out.
“Thanks, guys,” I said to myself, hastily rolling out of the car after them.
Somehow, Wanda knew to use Michael’s side door. Michael trailed behind her like a little kid trying to keep up with an angry parent.
Wanda came to a halt a step or two shy of the door. Michael hurried around her and began fumbling with the storm door, desperate to open it for her. He froze when she reached over and pushed her fingers through his hair.
“You ready, baby?” she said, her voice low.
He nodded, apparently hypnotized, and tried the door again. This time he managed to wrestle it free. He let Wanda through, then almost knocked me over making sure he was only a few inches behind.
“Nice,” I said, but I didn’t have an opportunity to complain in full. I wanted to make sure I saw Gut’s face when he caught sight of Wanda.
As usual, the TV was on and Gut was in front of it. Wanda didn’t waste any time. She strode right into the living room and stood in front of the TV as if she were going to start whaling on him. Bad idea, I thought—like getting between a mother bear and her cub.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Can we sit down?”
Wanda towered over Gut. The back of his head was tilted up toward the ceiling. It was as if an athlete had suddenly hopped out of the TV.
“What’s that . . .?”
Gut looked around, probably hoping to unravel the mystery of the unfamiliar girl. He relaxed a bit when he saw Michael sliding in at the other end of the couch.
“Have a seat,” Gut muttered, shifting his fat ass in the opposite direction.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good view of the initial reaction, but I did get the opportunity to watch Gut clumsily rearranging the cushions and trying to sweep a collection of crumbs and magazines onto the floor.
There was an elderly armchair to one side of the couch, down at Gut’s end. I sat down gingerly, expecting it to give way.
Wanda sat between Michael and stepfather. She stared straight ahead, as if interested in the show, but sent a spidery arm across Michael’s bony shoulders. The hand at the end of the arm toyed with his hair.
Gut wasn’t quite so interested in his program anymore.
“Wobble, wobble,” I said, smiling.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“What’s coming up?” I said, pointing to the TV.
But he was distracted again, this time by Michael’s hand on Wanda’s thigh. That one caught me by surprise, too.
“I don’t know,” Gut finally managed.
“You want something to drink, baby?” Wanda asked Michael.
Michael shook his head no, eyes never leaving the TV.
“How ’bout a sandwich? You want me to make you a sandwich?”
He shook his head again.
“Come on, baby. You got to be hungry after what we . . .” Wanda broke off and gave Gut a demure smile. He tried to return it, but his brain was finishing her sentence. He ended up looking like someone asked to smile for a snapshot after unwrapping a gift of leather mandals.
Eventually, he remembered that he should probably say something. He tried to clear his throat, but a weird gurgling noise came out. He got what he wanted, though. Everyone looked over at him.
“Don’t think I’ve met you before,” he mumbled.
“Wanda, handsome. Who are you?”
“Wendal,” said Gut.
Wendal?!
“Michael’s stepfather,” he said.
Michael leaned over and whispered something in Wanda’s ear.
“You behave,” she said, giggling.
Gut was too stunned to respond and, honestly, so was I.
“So . . . you two going out?” Gut asked.
“Uh-huh,” Wanda said. She cupped Michael’s cheek and pulled his face toward her. “We are, aren’t we, baby?” she said.
Michael pulled away, scowling.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Wanda looked surprised. She was good. I couldn’t tell if it was real or part of the act.
“Why do you have to say that all the time?” Michael asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you always have to announce it like we’re engaged or something?”
Wanda paused.
“Well, what do you want me to say?” she asked, smiling at Gut.
Instead of answering, Michael got up and headed for the kitchen. Wanda watched him go, considering.
In a moment, she began to smoothe her clothes. She made a show of plucking several hairs from her shirt and releasing them to the floor. Finally, she stood, stared at the TV a second, and headed into the kitchen.
As soon as she was around the corner, Gut and I looked at each other. We were both pretty relieved, although I should have been faking it.
“You’ll have to get used to that,” I said, jerking my head toward the kitchen.
“Why?”
“They’re like that all the time.”
Gut was having trouble processing this information. From the kitchen, I could hear Wanda’s voice, low and rapid. Every so often, I’d hear Michael’s, short and tense.
I noticed a car commercial and had a thought.
“Hey, that reminds me,” I said, nodding at the screen. “I finally heard that story I was telling you about. Remember? The weird racing one?”
“Yeah?” Gut said, frowning.
“Yeah. It was about some guy named Ricky Earl. You know who he is?”
Gut nodded, glancing toward the kitchen again. Wanda’s voice was a little louder.
“Turns out he’s gay. Can you believe it?”
“It’s just a rumor,” Gut said, trying to fish a cigarette out of a half-empty pack.
“You sure? They pretty much said he was. Something about a nightclub at, like, two in the morning.”
“Just ’cause he was in a gay club don’t mean he’s gay,” Gut said around his cigarette.
Wow! He really has thought about it!
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t exactly make you straight, either,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe he’s confused.”
Something shattered in the kitchen.
“Why don’t you listen?!” Michael yelled.
We jumped up and hurried in.
Michael stood on one side of the tiny room. On the other, Wanda leaned against the sink. She looked worried. Something was dripping down the window above the sink, and there were pieces of glass all over the counter.
“Why do you get so mad?” she asked quietly.
“Because you never listen!”
“I just want to know where you’re going tonight.”
“No, you don’t! You want to know who I’m going to see!”
“So? I got a right, don’t I?” Wanda asked, looking at Gut.
Gut made some motion with his hands and lifted his shoulders. He threw in a headshake for good measure, as if hoping one of the three would be good enough.
“I already got a mother,” Michael said.
“You’d best not be comparing me with your mother,” Wanda said, sounding dangerous.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Who you calling ‘stupid,’ little man?” Wanda said, pushing off from the counter and bumping up against him. Michael lifted his chin and met her eyes.
“You need to back off,” he said.
“All right now,” Gut said, taking a step forward and pitching his cigarette into the sink. Cautiously, he extended a hand between the two without actually touching anyone. I wondered who that hand was going to stop if things suddenly got ugly. “I think you two need a little break from each other.”
Neither one moved. Their eyes were locked and glaring.
“Someone best get going before I decide the police should figure this out,” Gut said.
Slowly, reluctantly, Michael tore himself away. “Don’t call me!” he called over his shoulder, knocking the storm door open in front of him.
Wanda snatched a glass from the counter and hurled it at Michael’s back. It shattered against the storm door as he left, showering the floor with more broken glass.
She stood for a moment, breathing hard, and jumped for the door.
“Don’t you go chasing him now . . .” Gut tried, but the door was already shaking itself back into place. He looked over at me.
“Well, that wasn’t too bad,” I said.
“Wasn’t too good, either,” Gut said.
I shook my head. “Nah, I’ve seen much worse. I wish they’d figure out they’re bad for each other.”
Gut was staring at the door. The plastic window now had a nice crack running through it.
“I mean, I’m friends with both of them, but Michael needs to cut her loose,” I said. “He just likes to know he can always get her back if he feels like it.”
Gut kept staring, like he was waiting for one of them to come back in.
“Anyway, he’s seeing somebody else.”
“Why the hell does Michael have two girlfriends?” Gut said angrily.
“Because he can.”
Gut shook his head and produced a broom and dustpan from one side of the refrigerator.
“That’s what you get, though,” I said, watching him sweep.
“Yep.”
“Going out with someone like Wanda, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
He wasn’t taking the bait.
“Black girls are like that, you know?” I said. “You don’t want to mess with them.”
“That don’t matter,” he said, without looking up. “People’s people. She’s just bad news.”
I felt ridiculous.
I bent down and held the dustp
an for Gut while he swept Wanda’s glass off the floor.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“You going to tell him not to see her?” I asked.
“Won’t matter. He don’t listen to me,” said Gut.
“Why not?”
“Lotsa reasons. I’m not his dad. He’s a teenager. Can’t do much with teenagers. You just got to ride it out.”
“So why do you hate him?” I asked.
“I don’t hate him,” he said. “We’re just different. I can’t say nothin’ around him or he gets all huffy and stomps off to his room. Got two boys from my first marriage. We joke around all the time. I give it to them, and they give it right back. I always figured it would help ’im—learnin’ how to take a joke and learnin’ how to give it back.”
“Michael’s different, though,” I said. “He’s not . . . he’s not that way.”
“Yeah, well, where the hell has that kid been lately?” Gut asked, standing. “Girls I never seen before. Girls he don’t belong with. Throwing shit at each other. That ain’t Michael. That ain’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Somethin’s happened up there,” he said, tapping his head with a finger. “I ain’t surprised, the way he’s wound so tight, but I ain’t never seen him like that.”
Gut stared at the cracked window. I stood up and dumped the glass into the trashcan.
“Me neither,” I said.
“His mom worries like nobody you’ve ever seen,” said Gut. “’Bout everything. Just about drives me crazy.”
I didn’t quite know what to do with this information. Should I agree? Disagree? Laugh?
“Thinks Michael’s going to turn out like his father,” he said, still staring out the door.
“Really?”
“Yep. Been tellin’ her for years how ridiculous that is. Just look at him, for Christ’s sake! Quiet as hell, readin’ all the time, too shy for girls. On that computer every second he don’t have a book in his face. You don’t have to worry ’bout him hangin’ out with his buddies and gettin’ drunk.”
Once again, I didn’t know what to say, so I took my time putting the dustpan back into place.
“Maybe she was right,” Gut told the door.
“How so?” I asked. A bad little feeling started squirming around in my stomach.
Changing Michael Page 11