One Kid's Trash

by Jamie Sumner

  Vij grins and adds, “Star Trash: The Next Generation.”

  “Oscar the Grouch 2.0.”

  “King of Compost. No, Master of the Dump!”

  Vij salutes me and then shakes his head. “Chance, man. What a waste of so much space.”

  “No kidding,” I say, and make myself smile.

  * * *

  Needless to say, Vij did not have his editorial done by the end of school. So Em’s making him stay until he finishes. She actually called his mom, which did not go over well with Vij.

  Em studies my face like a surgeon. The inside corners of my eyes are already turning purple.

  “It happened in gym?” she asks. And then, before I can answer, she says, “It was Chance, wasn’t it? Was it on purpose? Did you tell a teacher?”

  “I’m fine, Em. It was an accident in dodgeball.”

  She narrows her eyes but lets me go. I walk out to the bus stop and let the freezing air numb my face.

  All I want to do when I get home is lie on my bed and watch reruns of The Simpsons, but Mom meets me on the porch and clamps her hands on my shoulders like a security guard. “Tell me what happened.”

  I bet she already knows. The school totally called her, and this is one of her therapy tricks to see if my story matches up with theirs.

  “Nothing, Mom. I’m fine. It was an accident in gym. Do we have any Thin Mints left?” I try to sidestep her, but she moves right as I move left and blocks me. Her hands are still on my shoulders, like a super awkward mother-son slow dance.

  “Thin Mints, yes. Go down to your room and rest, and I’ll bring some to you.”

  Between Vij and Em and now Mom, pretty much the whole world has decided I can’t look after myself. But wait, something’s off. After the week-old tuna sandwich incident, Mom made a new rule: no food outside the kitchen. She never breaks her own rules. So why is she letting me eat the world’s most crumbly cookie in bed? She glances over her shoulder into the house.

  “Why are you being weird?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  She sighs and shuts the door behind her.

  “The thing is, Hugo, one of my earlier sessions had to reschedule for this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon, like… now?” I stand on my tiptoes to look inside the living room window, but everything’s in shadow.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll just be another half hour. Are you okay to hang in your room?”

  That’s the only place I wanted to go until she said I had to. Now it feels like punishment. I nod anyway.

  “Thanks, love.” She speed walks me down the hall and to the basement. Then she kisses me on my bruised nose before gently slamming the door in my face.

  Chapter Eight Read All About It!

  Is it bad form to shove yourself into your own locker? Because on this totally regrettable morning after dodgeball, I would if I could. Behind me, I hear sounds of life—the buzz of the intercom as Ms. Lancy warms up for morning announcements and people laughing at videos on their phones until the very last second they have to put them away. All I have to do is turn around, keep my head down, and march myself to English class, but I can’t do it. I can’t show my face after the double whammy of humiliation that was gym class yesterday.

  I take a deep breath, which hurts my nose, and then another one for good measure and slam my locker shut. I pretend I am playing a game of Pokémon GO, except I am the Pokémon and my one objective is to not get caught. I am on the very threshold of English class when Peter, fellow dodgeballer and classmate, stops me.

  “Hey, Hugo, you left this.”

  He holds out my English notebook with the cover half peeling off and notes Vij and I have passed back and forth slipping out. I must have dropped it in my panicky flight from my locker.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, keeping my swollen nose pointed at the floor.

  His red Chuck Taylors don’t move.

  “Nice moves at the game, by the way,” he says.

  I look up to check if he’s joking. “What?” I got nailed in the face and bled all over the court. He has to be messing with me.

  “You played a good game. I know I was on Chance’s team, but we were all rooting for you,” he adds, and hitches his bag higher on his shoulders. Peter is one of those kids you forget to remember. He’s always somewhere in the crowd blending in, never quite in the front and never all the way in the back, either. Suddenly his opinion means everything.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, we were all talking about it.”

  “But I didn’t win.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve never seen Chance sweat so hard.” He grins. “It was sweet.”

  “Gentlemen,” Mrs. Jacobsen calls from her desk. “Inside, please.”

  I pretend not to hear.

  “Well, I thought he could use a little exercise,” I say, and we both laugh.

  “Boys, now,” Mrs. Jacobsen orders, and we start walking. But before I can get to my seat, Peter whispers, “Hey, I’ve got this guy on my hockey team who won’t stop harassing me for my slap shots. You think I could bring you his game-day trash and you could help me out?”

  I don’t even slow my walk, just bump his fist with mine, slide into my seat while Vij watches, and say, at full volume, “I got you, man.”

  The Garbologist is back.

  * * *

  By Friday my nose is back to normal size but not color. The purple has faded to a nice boggy green. I look haunted. But nothing compares to Em’s face right before first period. She’s exactly the shade of the October sky, which is so pale and white it’s almost gray. The word “ashen” in our vocab books finally makes sense.

  “Micah double-checked that the picture of the parking lot is horizontal, not vertical, right?” she asks before I can even get through my locker combination.

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “But yesterday after school it kept defaulting to vertical and cutting into the column.” She’s tugging at her jacket sleeves, pulling them down over her hands. The minute she lets go they slide up and then she does it again.

  “Em, I’m sure Mrs. Jacobsen checked that it was right.”

  “But that’s not her job, Hugo! She’s the supervisor, not part of the staff. It’s my job as editor-in-chief to make sure every single piece is perfect by print day and I CAN’T REMEMBER IF THE PARKING LOT SHOT WAS HORIZONTAL OR VERTICAL!”

  “Stop yelling. It was horizontal.” I yank my locker open and grab the first three things that fall out, hoping one of them is my English book.

  “You’re positive?”

  “Positive.” I shove her toward her class. I actually have no idea whether the picture was right or not, but the newsletter’s already printed. There’s nothing God or Em can do about it now. I slap Peter and Andrew on their backs on my way to English, and we walk in together. Vij comes in half a minute later as the bell is ringing. I forgot I told him I’d wait for him by the lockers. He takes his seat as Mrs. Jacobsen begins passing out the reading quiz. I whisper, “Sorry, man” and don’t get a response. When I start to turn around, Mrs. Jacobsen orders, “Eyes on your own paper,” so I’m stuck. I’m sure he’s fine. It’s not like we always walk to class together.

  I fall asleep in Spanish. It’s because Dad woke me up last night when he dropped his ski boots in the upstairs hallway. He and Mom stayed up most of the night doing that angry-whisper thing they do, which is actually louder than if they talked normally.

  He still can’t manage to get home for dinner. The ski day feels like years ago—a different life, a different Dad. How many promises do you break until no one believes you anymore? Whatever number that is, he’s one past it. I thought Mom would be happier now that she’s working, but it’s just given her ammunition to point out all the ways Dad isn’t stepping up. The way they look at each other lately makes my stomach ache. I keep myself distracted with garbology assignments. People have started messaging me with their requests. I’ve never had so many contacts in
my phone before. My room, however, is starting to look like the dumpster behind McDonald’s.

  I’m so busy trying to stay awake through my classes, I forget all about the Paw Print until lunch. Em and Micah are standing by the lunch line passing out the newsletter we printed on bright yellow paper. Gray and Jack man the double doors that open out into the main hallway. They’re kind of tossing them at people. Vij and I were supposed to be here early to help, but I got held up by the girl whose brother still won’t give her a ride to school. I told her there’s only so much a garbologist can do. She’ll have to do the rest herself. I rush over to Em, who glares and thrusts a pile at me. Without a word, she points at Vij, who’s standing at our appointed spot near the trash cans. She is equal parts furious at me for being late and nervous because she’s been working toward this moment since the first day of school. I shoot her a thumbs-up, which she ignores, and walk dutifully over to Vij, who gives me a nod without really looking at me. He can’t be mad that I’m late, can he? He’s always late.

  We’re not getting a lot of traffic. Everyone’s busy eating their tomato soup and grilled cheese. I wish I could have at least grabbed a sandwich. For once the cafeteria smells delicious. When her line empties, Em comes over with Micah and hovers behind us.

  “Em,” Vij says without turning around, “you’re being creepy.”

  “Hush, here come some people,” she whispers.

  A seventh grader in a striped sweater dumps her trash in the bin and smiles at me. I recognize her from one of the bags of trash in my bedroom. She’s trying to convince her mom to get her a dog. It’s not looking good from all the tissues and the empty Claritin bottle in the bottom of the bag. I smile back at her until Em clears her throat and nudges me. I try to hand the girl a flyer, but she says, “No, thanks” and leaves. The same thing happens over and over again as people clear the room. Vij only gets one taker, and it’s one of the cafeteria workers who says, “Thank you, dear” before returning to the soup station. Micah picks up a few from the ground and begins to straighten them. So far the reception has been… less than enthusiastic. I didn’t really contribute anything to the newsletter, other than following Vij around and helping Gray shrink his JPEGs. I’ve been elbows-deep in trash and haven’t had time to help as much as I promised. Now it’s tanking, and I wish I could get a do-over, anything to help Em. Behind me she is silent. I’m psyching myself up to turn around and look at her when Chance wanders over.

  “What happened to your face, O’Connell? Did you walk into a wall or something?” Clever.

  He leans over to Vij.

  “What you got there?” He pronounces it “watchoo.”

  Vij doesn’t respond, so Chance grabs the entire stack out of his hands.

  “Hey!” Em yelps. He doesn’t acknowledge her. As he studies the newsletter, my stomach curls into a ball and retreats somewhere behind my spleen.

  He starts reading aloud: “According to state statutes determined by the Americans with Disabilities Act,” he says, “public buildings are required to provide one handicapped parking space per twenty-five regular spaces.” Surely, he’s done. No, he keeps going. “When a vehicle illegally takes up one of the few available spaces—” Now he stops and looks up at us, genuinely confused.

  “Are you kidding me? You wrote an entire newsletter about parking spaces?”

  Em steps forward. “Actually, we also wrote about the new water bottle stations, and there’s a calendar of upcoming events, and if you look on the back”—she reaches out and flips one of the sheets over—“you’ll see a feature article on Mr. Carpenter, who’s retiring at the end of this year.”

  Chance’s big head swivels toward Em. “It says that, does it? About Mr. Carpenter?”

  Em nods. My pulse lurches. She hasn’t had years of experience with this like I have. She hasn’t learned to anticipate it. She won’t know to brace herself for whatever comes next. It’ll be the worst kind of free fall. I open my mouth to warn her, but nothing comes out.

  Chance tips the entire stack into the trash. “Oops.”

  Em sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel it like a punch, because yeah, Chance did a terrible thing, but I’m the one being a coward about it. Now. Now is when I should tell Chance that was totally uncool. Except the longer he stands here staring down at us, the smaller I feel.

  “Chance! Vijay! Hugo! Emilia! Micah! All of you get to class!” Mr. Wahl bellows from the other end of the cafeteria.

  Chance begins to whistle and strolls away. Em takes two tiny steps forward and peers down into the trash can. Splashes of soup and blobs of cheese spackle her newsletters. It looks like a crime scene. She stares down at them for a long time.

  “Em—”

  She holds up her hand like a teacher calling for silence. Eventually she lifts her head and turns toward the empty cafeteria. Vij and I follow her gaze. Yellow sheets lay crumpled on the floor and on the tables. A few poke out of the recycle bin. Somehow there seem to be more on the ground than came from the printer. I clear my throat, hoping the right words will follow, but nothing comes.

  The bell rings.

  “Ms. Costa. Mr. Rosen. The Misters O’Connell,” Mr. Wahl says, close to my ear. I jump. “You are now late for class.” He pulls out his green pad. “You will all report to detention this afternoon.”

  This has to be the first time in her life that Em’s gotten in trouble, but she takes her slip without looking at it. That makes me more worried about her than anything else.

  “Come on, Em, let’s go,” Vij says, tugging at her sleeve until she starts moving.

  * * *

  Mrs. Jacobsen is on detention duty. She lets Vij and Micah and me listen to music on my phone once we show her we’re done with our homework. Em, though, sits for twenty minutes without moving. I check to see if she’s blinking, but my own eyes start to water before I can make sure. Mrs. Jacobsen calls her to her desk. She takes off her glasses and folds them in her hands. Then she starts talking very quickly and quietly. I can’t hear what she’s saying, and Em doesn’t respond. She sits, tearing a blank piece of paper into shreds and then rolling those shreds into teeny tiny balls. Twice, Mrs. Jacobsen pauses and waits for a response, but Em says nothing. Her face stays blank. It’s like she’s hiding behind a forcefield of her own Em-ness. Mrs. Jacobsen isn’t getting through. But I’m going to try. I didn’t do my job as her friend and stand up to Chance with her, back there in the cafeteria. I’ve had all detention to think of an idea—something that can’t totally make it up to her, but at least might help.

  I text Dad under the table to ask for a favor. I don’t want to ask him for anything after his marathon fight with Mom last night, but the way I figure it, he owes me one, or a million. I’m shocked when he responds almost immediately—two thumbs-up and a smiley face. His guilt is working in my favor. I text Mom next and tell her I’ll be home by six, but I don’t say why because she would 100 percent say no. You gotta know which parent to work.

  Vij leans over my shoulder and reads my text to Mom. “Where’re you off to?”

  “We, my friends,” I say to Vij and Micah, “are going on a little trip.”

  Micah yells, “Awesome!” and gets shushed by Mrs. Jacobsen, but Vij raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t believe me. What? I flake out on him a couple of times and now I’ve lost all credibility?

  “Seriously. Get your stuff after this and meet me by the front doors.”

  Once we’re dismissed, I walk over to where Em’s zipping up her bag.

  “Hey.” I tap her on the shoulder. She doesn’t look at me.

  “Um, when do you have to be home?”

  “Well,” she says slowly, standing up and hitching her bag higher on her back. “This morning I told my mom I was staying late to start planning next month’s newsletter, but she’s probably already forgotten, and there doesn’t seem to be any point, so…” she trails off. It’s worse than I thought. She’s lost the will to work.

  “So no plans, then? Good. You’
re coming with me.” I grab hold of her backpack strap and yank. She has no choice but to follow. We walk like this, with me holding the strap, all the way to the front steps, where Vij and Micah are waiting. As we cut across the parking lot toward the main street, Em finally catches on that we’re about to leave school property. She jerks to a stop.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Don’t you trust me?” I ask.

  “Not even a little.”

  “I swear you will be home by six.” I hold up three fingers and then two because I can’t remember what the Boy Scouts’ hand signal is—this is why I never made it past Cubs.

  “Fine,” she sighs, but her eyes go wide when the public bus pulls up and we begin to file on.

  She pauses at the bottom step.

  “Just… trust me, okay?”

  She looks back toward the school and then at me and then back to the school. Then she pulls her ponytail as tight as it will go and steps up onto the bus.

  * * *

  If I thought it was a different world at Creekside when Dad and I came up before, it’s like the North Pole meets Hogwarts meets the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade now. Opening weekend at a ski resort is a thing to behold. The bronze black bear has a wreath around its neck. Giant bows hang from every lamppost, and lights twinkle in the flower boxes on the balconies. Musicians play on a platform in front of the ice-skating rink. They have big long horns and fiddles, and it feels like we’re on the set of The Sound of Music.

  The place is packed. Women in high-heeled boots and fur coats tiptoe over patches of ice. Men sit around the firepits smoking cigars and barking with laughter. The workers—the baristas and rink assistants and shopkeepers, the ones who keep this place running—blend into the background. There’s never been such a clear line between those who have and those who most definitely have not. Tourist season has begun.

  Em lets me lead her through the crowd and up two escalators to the ski rental shop. Dad is waiting inside. His cheeks are red, and his hair is a total disaster. He must have just come off the mountain.