One Kid's Trash

by Jamie Sumner

  “What’s his problem?” I say to Jack because I’m not ready to talk to Andrew again.

  “Uh-uh,” Vij says, stepping forward. “You have to look at what he brought first and then we’ll tell you. We don’t want to skew the results.”

  I look from Vij to Jack to Gray, who is holding his ginormous camera, and finally to Andrew. They are all staring expectantly, waiting for me, Hugo the Garbologist, to do my thing. Something like pride swells in my chest and overrides the fear. Forget Chance. Tonight, I can do the one thing I know better than anyone else in the room.

  “Fine,” I say, pretending to be reluctant, but when Andrew passes me his bag again and grins, I can’t help but grin back. “But no pictures,” I add.

  “Come on!” Gray protests.

  “No pictures or no garbage.”

  “Okay! Okay!” he says, and stuffs the camera into his backpack.

  I unzip Andrew’s pack slowly, not knowing what will spill out, but it’s all contained in a plastic trash bag. I pull it out gently.

  “Okay, everybody sit,” I say, and they do. It feels good to be in charge. Nobody ever listens to me, especially not guys like Andrew. Definitely not Vij. We circle the bag like it’s a Ouija board but lean waaaaaay back when I untie it and the smell of feet and onions comes wafting into the room.

  Like he’s assisting with a surgery, Vij hands me a hanger from the floor, and I use it to poke around in the bag for a minute. All eyes are on me, so I make sure to do it slowly and with much ceremony. The contents of Andrew’s trash are as follows:

  • Three empty 20 oz. Diet Mountain Dews and one half full of brown liquid

  • White tape twisted up in a ball

  • A bunch of tissues that I don’t even want to touch with the hanger

  • One ten-dollar lotto card with all the spaces scratched off

  • A handful of chewed sunflower seeds, barbecue flavor

  • Three Band-Aids, which I also don’t touch with the hanger

  • One empty Vanilla SlimFast

  I sit back on my heels and think. Everybody watches me. Maybe Sherlock Holmes wore a hat to avoid eye contact.

  I shake the Mountain Dew bottle, but I don’t have to open it to guess the brown liquid.

  The white tape is the athletic kind you’d use on a knee or elbow.

  The barbecue sunflower seeds are my favorite flavor, but since this is not my trash, I don’t think that helps.

  I rub my head. I have no idea whose trash this is. None. What if I can’t do it? What if I guess wrong, and then not only will Andrew not be on my side, but he’ll also tell people I am a teeny, tiny faker?

  My foot brushes up against the trash bag. It looks familiar.

  “Well?” Andrew says, bouncing his knees up and down in anticipation.

  I have one guess. It’s a shot in the dark and based more on Andrew than the trash itself, but I’m not going to tell him that. If I’m wrong, then I will quit Beech Creek and homeschool myself in the basement while Mom tells couples how to make marriage work (hah!) upstairs.

  “This is Coach Anderson’s.” I don’t ask it. I say it. Always sound sure.

  “Yes!” Andrew cheers. “That is so awesome.”

  I let out a breath. I feel like I just passed a very important quiz.

  “Told you,” Vij says to Andrew as Jack high-fives Gray. All my earlier anger at Vij evaporates. He’s the reason four guys are sitting in my room on a Friday night.

  “So how’d you guess?” Andrew asks as we all look back down at the trash like it’s treasure.

  “It was the bag,” I say, then pause for suspense. “They only use these really thin ones at schools and, like, the mall. But this one’s too small for the mall trash cans.” Nobody seems to wonder how I know what mall trash bags look like. Last month I accidentally threw away my phone with my Taco Bell wrappers at the Avon shopping center and had to dig it out. An unfortunate incident now turned lucky.

  “But how’d you know it was Coach Anderson’s?” Gray asks.

  “Well, consider the tape and the sunflower seeds.” I cross my arms, sitting back a bit like Mrs. Jacobsen when she explains something to the class. “I’ve seen him tape his knee after gym. And also, he always smells like barbecue.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” Jack says, totally amazed.

  I poke the Mountain Dew bottle with the hanger.

  “I didn’t know he dipped, though.”

  Andrew nudges the bottle with his foot and the murky liquid sloshes around. “Gross. You sure that’s what that is?”

  I nod. I had a babysitter back in Denver who played high school baseball. He’d take me to the park and sit on a swing and spit the exact same color and consistency into an empty Dr Pepper can. Wintergreen was his preferred flavor of chewing tobacco. Mom fired him when she caught me storing my matchbox cars in his empty Skoal container.

  I pick up the bottle and hold it out to Andrew. “Why don’t you take a sip and see?”

  Everybody scurries back.

  “Nah, man. I trust you.”

  Just like Mom does with her clients, I’m establishing credibility. They have to think I’m the expert if they’re going to listen to me.

  “So why’d you want me to look at his trash, anyway?”

  Andrew leans forward and clasps his huge hands together like he’s about to pray. “I really want to make the team this year.”

  I shoot Vij a look. He shrugs in response. We’re both thinking the same thing. How is Coach’s trash going to get Andrew on the team?

  He’s still talking. “… and I didn’t make it last year because even though I was the tallest on the elementary team, I wasn’t as coordinated or whatever. I need to know everything I can about him, to, you know, get on his good side. And I thought you could tell me?”

  “Umm,” I mutter. Andrew looks so desperate, like he might actually cry if he doesn’t get on the team, but this could be beyond my skill level. What if I get it wrong, and then I’m the reason he doesn’t make it?

  “Let’s see what I can do for you,” I say as confidently as possible while swallowing a whole mouthful of fear.

  “Cool, man, thanks!”

  We all gaze down at the pile. I think about the “why” not the “what,” like Mom taught me. Why all the sunflower seeds? Why the SlimFast? Why so much tape? There’s always a chance part of this could be someone else’s. It’s not guaranteed that just because it’s beneath his desk, it belongs to him.

  I stare until the whole mess blurs. Then, like a puzzle, the pieces start to slip into place, almost without me trying. I wait while they rearrange themselves in my brain. After a long time, I look up. Everyone’s watching me again, but I’m not nervous now. Maybe it’s because I know Andrew’s not going to make fun of me. Or maybe it’s because I’m pretty sure I’m right.

  I point to the tape. “His knee’s been bothering him more. That explains why he’s going through so much tape. It also explains the sunflower seeds and the SlimFast.”

  “How?” Vij asks.

  I pause for a beat to build suspense.

  “He’s trying to lose weight to take some of the pressure off his knee,” I explain. “The sunflower seeds are the only healthy thing in the snack machine. After that it’s Snickers and Funyuns. And the SlimFast, well, have you ever seen the cafeteria put out a ‘lite’ menu?”

  Vij should have made the knee-weight connection. Uncle Dave just told us tonight at dinner about a guy in his office who had to go on a diet because his doctor warned it was either that or he’d be replacing both knees sooner rather than later. Old sports injuries in old, overweight guys is nothing new.

  “If you want him to notice you,” I say to Andrew, “maybe tell him he looks like he lost weight. Or ask him about his knee or something. Start a conversation.”

  He nods and then nods again as he processes it. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do that. That’s great, thanks!” And then, I’m not even kidding, he reaches out to shake my hand. So this is what r
espect feels like.

  “Jackson? Grayson? Your parents are here!” Mom calls from the stairs. We scramble to shove everything back into the bag before she sees. Let her think we’re burning brain cells playing video games. It’s better than sifting through somebody else’s trash. The twins’ parents are giving Andrew a ride, so he gets up too.

  While everyone’s pulling on their shoes, Mom whispers, “Did you have a good time?” I give her a quick undercover thumbs-up and then nudge her toward the living room before she can invite them all back for a sleepover.

  I hold up my hands for a round of high-fives as everyone, including Vij, shuffles out the door. And then, when they’re gone, I lean against it, weak with relief and the sweet taste of victory.

  Chapter Six Winter Wonderland

  I smell it even in my underground room—colder, sharper air that can mean only one thing: big snow.

  When I pad upstairs in my socks, Mom and Dad are standing by the front window looking out over the street. They’re both still in their bathrobes, Mom leaning into the crook of Dad’s arm.

  Snow sits piled up on the windowsill, and ice spiderwebs across the panes of glass. It looks too perfect to be real, like spray snow from Target, like Mom and Dad all happy after weeks of barely talking and angry whispers when they think I can’t hear. But I’m still riding my own wave of happiness from my epic garbology session with the guys last weekend, so I’ll take it. I lean against the window beside Mom.

  Dad grins and runs a hand through his crazy hair. “We never got this kind of snow back home until, what, November?”

  “That’s what happens when you move four thousand feet higher,” I say. “You get four thousand more feet of snow.”

  “I bet it’s eighty degrees in Texas,” Mom laughs. She’s probably right. I remember running around in shorts and flip-flops during Christmases at my grandparents’ house. We watch a car crawl by on the all-white street. It fishtails a little at the four-way stop. They haven’t switched to their snow tires yet. No one expected this much snow this fast.

  “Come on, kid,” Mom says, pulling her robe tighter. “We’ll need to dig out your down jacket if you’re going to take the bus.” Nothing cancels school out here. Not even big snow.

  Dad walks me to the bus stop on his way to work. He whistles off-key. I want to stay mad at him for being gone so much, but it’s like fighting a smile—not worth the trouble, and kind of impossible anyway. Instead, I squint in the glare of the sun off the snow and slow my walk to match his. For once, we’re not in a hurry. When the bus arrives and the doors open with a whoosh of heat, he tugs on the back of my hood.

  “I’ll pick you up after school today”—he pauses—“if that’s all right?”

  Dad’s never asked my permission for anything before. It’s as unexpected as the weather.

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Good.” He claps his hands together and blows into them. “Because I’ve got a surprise.”

  * * *

  When I get to school, there is a snowman in the hallway outside the band room. An actual snowman. With a pink fleece hat and carrot nose and two pine branches for arms. A crowd of seventh graders are taking pictures of it with their phones. I hope they click fast. Janitor Phil approaches with his mop and bucket at full speed, and Principal Myer is on the intercom threatening everyone with detention if they don’t hurry to class. Poor Myer. She should know better. School might not be canceled, but there will be absolutely no learning today.

  In English, Mrs. Jacobsen smiles at me when she hands back my essay, and I can’t tell if it’s a good-grade smile or a bless-his-heart, pity smile. It’s a B+. I shoot her a happy-with-my-grade grin, and Vij leans over my shoulder.

  “Not bad.”

  “What’d you get?”

  He holds it up. A, of course. I fist bump him. With the snow and an actual promise from Dad that I’ll see him after school, I’m feeling generous. I’m in such a good mood that when I walk into algebra, I don’t notice that everyone is standing around Mr. Wahl’s desk and laughing until I get to my seat. “What are they all looking at?” I ask Vij, who is already at his desk. He won’t meet my eye and he’s never early. Ever.

  Right then, Mr. Wahl marches in with a stack of calculators, and everyone scatters. I see what’s on the desk at exactly the same time as the Crow: a twelve-pack of nicotine gum topped with a big red bow. I can feel Vij holding back a snicker from behind me, and my good cheer vanishes in a puff of fear and foreboding.

  Mr. Wahl freezes. The clock ticks. Somewhere in the room, someone coughs to cover a laugh. He drops the calculators onto his desk with a clatter. It’s the loudest sound in the universe.

  He turns to the room. “Who?”

  Nobody moves. Nobody even blinks. I might throw up. Hot acid crawls up my throat. This is all my fault. I sink in my seat, and Mr. Wahl catches the movement. His head tilts toward me.

  From behind me, Vij whispers, “Don’t. Move.”

  Sweat drips down my collar. The heaters are working overtime. I feel sick and sticky. This is all garbology’s fault, or mine really, because didn’t I know what Vij would do if he found out about it?

  “Mr. O’Connell. No, not you,” he says when I open my mouth. “Mr. Vijay O’Connell. Do you have something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

  Behind me, Vij leans back in his chair. “Well, I was just wondering, sir…” He points to the Crow’s desk with his pencil. “How did you get so lucky to get a secret Santa in October?”

  Chance snorts from the other side of the room, which makes a couple of other guys laugh, which makes a few of the girls giggle, and Mr. Wahl’s face gets redder and redder. But he doesn’t speak. Pretty soon the laughs are smothered by his terrifying quiet. He turns and folds his hands behind his back. “Open your books to the problem sets,” he says in a monotone. “You have until the end of class to complete chapters twelve through fifteen.”

  Micah, who sits in the front and is wearing a cranberry red turtleneck, raises his hand. Danger! Danger! I want to shout, but of course I don’t, because I’m too much of a chicken.

  “Yes, Mr. Rosen?”

  “Sorry, sir, but—” Micah pauses, swallowing hard. “We haven’t started chapter fifteen yet!”

  The Crow pivots slowly toward him. “Is that a problem, Mr. Rosen?”

  “Uh, no, sir. I’m sure I can piece it together!” Micah’s ears disappear into his turtleneck.

  “Good. Now begin.”

  Everyone gets busy opening their books and pulling out notebook paper. I’m the only one who sees the Crow swipe the whole packet of gum, red bow and all, off his desk and into the trash.

  * * *

  After class, I steer Vij toward the lockers next to the cafeteria. Thanks to him, the Crow is going to push the whole class harder and harder until there’s no one left passing, except Vij, the genius. Vij will always pass. This will never touch him.

  Before I can get us to the lockers, an eighth-grade girl from the soccer team puts a hand on my shoulder. Her name is Jasmine, and she is taller than me by at least a foot. She is also the first girl to touch me since I moved here. All thoughts of retaliation evaporate. I let go of Vij.

  She looks down at me and smiles.

  “You’re Hugo, right?” she asks.

  “Umm, yeah?” My voice goes high. The beads on the ends of her braids are the school colors: blue and yellow. I stand up as straight as I can.

  “So, uh…” Her voice trails off. She holds out a plastic Walmart bag. We both stare at it like we’re not sure how it got there. “You’re the guy who reads people’s trash?” She glances over her shoulder like she’s afraid we’re being watched.

  Vaguely, like a distant memory, I recall something bad happening in math class last period regarding garbology. But all warning bells of danger are overridden when Jasmine leans in to whisper, “I mean, if you looked in this bag you could, like, tell me about the person who threw this stuff away, right?” She smells like
strawberry ChapStick, and I find myself nodding and nodding and nodding until I have to will my head to stop.

  “That’s right,” I say, my voice cracking on “right.” Behind me, Vij starts to laugh, and I step back so that I land not so gently on his toe. “Ask me anything,” I say.

  Jasmine grins at me—not Vij, me. I smile back.

  “Okay, so, this is Thomas Findley’s trash. You know him, right? He’s, like, the captain of the soccer team, and he’s got light brown hair, more like caramel-colored really, and these deep green eyes and—”

  “Yeah, we know who he is,” I interrupt. It’s getting harder to smile.

  “Okay, well, umm, I guess I just kind of want to know more about him, you know? More than, like, how tall he is, which is so tall. Can you tell me, you know, what he’s into?”

  Jasmine holds out the bag.

  I don’t want it now. I don’t care what Thomas Findley, star soccer player, is into. Is this how fortune-tellers feel? People don’t come for the truth. They come to get their wishes granted. They want you to tell them what they want to hear. But… Jasmine didn’t know my name until today. She didn’t even know I existed. You take what you can get, I guess. I open the bag.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask as we all peer into it. Jasmine twists one of her braids around her finger.

  “Umm, well, we had a group study session for history at his house, and I thought…” She trails off again. “I mean, it’s just trash, right? He’s not going to miss it.”

  “Uh, right.” I do my best to ignore the creepy image of Jasmine digging through some guy’s trash while his back is turned and focus instead on the contents:

  • Two broken pens with the caps chewed

  • A crumpled piece of graph paper with a sketch of a mountain that looks like something you’d build in Minecraft

  • A broken hair tie

  • Two sheets from a vocab quiz separated and folded in half

  • Three pizza crusts and two empty packets of red pepper flakes from Papa John’s