It Looks Like This

by Rafi Mittlefehldt

  Jared says, He’s a dick.

  Kind of loud.

  I say, Did you guys know him in middle school?

  Jared says, Yeah. He used to be mostly quiet and not that cool or anything, but then in seventh grade he made friends with some eighth-graders.

  I say, How did he get older kids to be his friends?

  Jared says, They were his brother’s friends or something. But after that the other kids started thinking he was cool. It totally pushed up his stock.

  I think Jared’s being ironic again, but I don’t say anything.

  Ronald says, I knew him in elementary school.

  Ronald has lived in Somerdale all his life. Sometimes, especially when he gets mad or excited, a little bit of an accent comes out, same as me, only southern and not midwestern. He always hates it when that happens and tries to cover it.

  He says, In third grade. He was in my class for part of the year before he moved to another neighborhood and went to another school.

  Ronald takes a bite of his pizza and chews for a bit, glancing at Victor’s table. He has a bit of sauce on his chin, which he wipes on his sleeve.

  He says, Some of the other kids used to make fun of him. Only a couple times, though.

  I say, That’s weird, to think of other kids making fun of him.

  Ronald looks back at me, then takes another bite.

  Jared says, Why are you asking about Victor?

  I shrug and say, He stopped me in the hall a few weeks ago and told me to stop staring at him in Biology.

  Ronald says, Why were you staring at him in Biology?

  I say, I wasn’t. I was looking at the teacher and he sits in front of me. It was weird.

  I kind of wish I hadn’t said anything.

  But Ronald shrugs and looks back over at the table.

  Jared says, Who’s that other guy they’re sitting with?

  I say, Sean,

  kind of blurting it out.

  Then I say, He’s in my French class. He’s okay.

  Jared says, He looks older.

  I look at my pizza and nod.

  Miss Rayner told me once I had to use more descriptive words in a story, especially when talking about characters. She said I needed to learn to Paint a Picture.

  Miss Rayner is my English teacher. I like her all right.

  Here’s me Painting a Picture:

  Victor is about my height, almost exactly my age. I know because I heard him talking about what he got for his birthday last year and he said his birthday was December 16. Mine is December 31.

  He has slick black hair, parted on one side. Some of his bangs cover his left eye. His eyes are dark, dark brown, just short of black. He has darker skin, like a permanent tan. He wears oversize shirts because he thinks he’s too skinny, but you can tell he’s athletic.

  He walks with sort of a swagger, the kind that people have when they think other people are watching them. Every day he wears the same dark red Nikes.

  Tristan is taller and definitely athletic. He has red lips and pale skin, light brown hair, gray eyes. His cheekbones are really high, and his mouth is always a bit parted. Kelly Ramirez says he looks like a model. Maybe he is.

  Tristan always looks annoyed to me, or maybe bored. Except when he’s laughing at me. He wears a lot of polo shirts and fitted jeans, not those baggy clothes. Probably to show off his muscles or whatever.

  He’s always getting in trouble at school for having his phone. He’s pretty dumb about it. The school won’t let you take your cell out during the day except for emergencies, and if a teacher sees it, they confiscate it and you have to pay like twenty bucks to get it back at the end of the day. He uses it in the hallways all the time, probably texting girls or something, right in front of teachers. He’s even done it in class. He has to pay to get it back like once a week and he doesn’t seem to care.

  His parents probably have a lot of money.

  Fuller has a shaved head. He has kind of a pointy nose and sloped forehead. Girls still go after him. He always has a girl around, though not as many as Tristan.

  I don’t remember what kind of stuff he wears. Fuller is the least memorable person at our school. For me. I don’t know why.

  Miss Rayner is in her mid-forties, so not young like Mrs. Ferguson but not as old as Mr. Gardings, who teaches Algebra and is like ninety. He has a hearing aid and shuffles around in class all day in checkered suspenders and a bow tie, like he doesn’t know it isn’t 1940 anymore.

  Miss Rayner is pretty tall, almost as tall as Jared, and keeps her hair in a ponytail and wears jeans with a T-shirt tucked in every day. She speaks in a loud voice with a thick southern accent and smiles a lot.

  She had a husband who taught at another school, but he left her for one of his former students. That’s what all the kids say, anyway.

  That’s why she is Miss and not Mrs.

  The weather report says clear skies all day when I check Saturday morning, so I take Charlie on a walk.

  Sometimes I like to go for a walk, either by myself or with Toby or with Charlie or all three of us, just walking around.

  I don’t feel like being around another person on Saturday so I take Charlie. We walk up to the park, him sniffing the ground most of the way and pulling right and left on the leash when he thinks he smells something, tail always up and wagging slowly, back and forth, back and forth.

  I like watching him when we walk, because he’s always so excited to be anywhere and it makes me laugh sometimes thinking about how easily he gets to be happy.

  We pass along the creek for a few blocks and then get to the park, making a big circle around the neighborhood swimming pool and the tennis courts and the jungle gym for the little kids, and then around to the basketball court.

  There is a kid playing basketball by himself. I watch him as we approach. He dribbles the ball to a certain spot, plants his feet, then looks up at the basket. He stays that way for a couple seconds, aiming, and then shoots.

  And then he gets the ball and goes to another spot.

  He makes every shot.

  I watch him do this a few times as Charlie and I get nearer and nearer. And then when we are about to pass by, he turns our way and it’s Sean.

  I stop for just a second, almost tripping. It’s only a second and then I recover. But Sean sees it and he looks up.

  He says, Hey!

  And he walks toward me.

  Charlie looks up from where he’s sniffing, one paw in the air. He sees Sean and then starts howling, like he always does with strangers. But he’s wagging his tail.

  Sean smiles at him. When he gets near, he swoops down with the ball under one arm and pets Charlie.

  Charlie’s tail wags even harder, and he licks Sean and whines and tries to climb all over him.

  Sean stands back up.

  He says, Mike, right?

  I say, Yeah.

  He holds the ball in both hands in front of him, kind of spinning it between his palms. He looks around at the park and the houses.

  He says, You live around here?

  I say, Yeah. On Whittaker.

  He says, Oh cool. I live just a few blocks away.

  I don’t say anything. I know where he lives.

  Sean spins the ball some more and then says, You wanna play?

  I say, What?

  He says, Basketball. You wanna play a bit?

  I say, Um.

  He looks at me.

  I say, I’m not very good.

  He says, Don’t worry about it. Come on.

  And then he turns and starts walking back toward the court.

  I stand there for a second and then follow him. Nearby is a sign pole, where I tie Charlie’s leash. He whines when I walk away, wanting to join me.

  I stand on the court, feeling really dumb and not sure what to do. I’m bad at sports and I haven’t played basketball since fourth grade, and even then I was pretty bad.

  Sean says, We’ll play Around the World. You know that?

&nbs
p; I nod.

  He says, Okay, first shot is from the side.

  He walks over to the edge of the court where he can shoot from the side of the basket.

  I hate side shots because you can’t bounce the ball off the backboard, so it’s a lot harder to get it in.

  Sean bounces the ball twice, looking down and planting his feet. Then he looks up, aims for a few seconds, and throws the ball.

  It rises and pauses and then falls again, all in a wide arc that looks like it’s guided by wind.

  There is the quietest whoosh as the ball passes perfectly through the net.

  I get the ball and walk over to where Sean took his shot, and I turn around and look at the basket.

  Charlie whines.

  I hold the ball in front of my face, looking just over the top of it. In my head I imagine the arc that my ball should make, the parabola that Mr. Gardings would make us draw in Algebra to describe it. I imagine the ball as a tip of lead on paper, going up in one smooth stroke, passing all the points allowed by its equation, ending with the net. I imagine a perfect shot.

  I bend my knees and throw the ball, and it goes up and comes down a couple feet short of the net.

  It bounces hard against the concrete, a loud smacking sound that echoes against the houses across the street from the park.

  The bounce takes it almost as high as the basket, and then it comes down with a muffled thud in the grass.

  It rolls a bit and stops.

  I don’t make eye contact with Sean.

  I say, I’m not very good.

  He smiles wide, coming just short of a laugh.

  I tense for a second before I realize it’s a friendly smile and he isn’t laughing at me.

  He says, Well, you just gotta put more into it and you’ll do fine. Trust me, I’ve seen a lot worse.

  I don’t know what he means by putting more into it. More what? But Sean gets the ball and throws it back to me. I catch it and realize he wants me to try again to see how I do.

  So I plant my feet and hold the ball in front of my face and think about how Sean looked when he threw the ball.

  I will myself to put as much into it as I can, and then I aim and take my shot.

  The ball hits the side edge of the backboard and ricochets off at an angle.

  I hear a yell:

  At least you hit something this time, faggot!

  My ears get hot right away. I know whose voice it is before I turn around.

  Victor is across the street, behind me, smoking a cigarette.

  He’s watching us with a big grin on his face, a grin that looks nothing like Sean’s.

  Then he notices Sean, and that smile falters. Just a bit, but I can see it from where I am.

  He says, Hey, Sean!

  I turn back. Sean is staring across the street at Victor. He doesn’t respond, just looks at Victor in this strange way.

  I watch Sean and Sean watches Victor.

  Then I say, I gotta go home.

  And I walk past Sean on the court and untie Charlie and walk away.

  When I get home, Dad and Mom and Toby are watching a movie. I recognize it right away: Marley and Me. It just started, I can tell. I’ve seen this movie a thousand times.

  Dad looks over as I walk in.

  He says, Just in time, buddy. Pull up a couch.

  He pats the space next to him.

  I let Charlie off the leash, and he bounds over to the living room and jumps up right where Dad patted. Dad tells him to get down and Charlie jumps off without stopping, his tail still going crazy.

  I go over and sit down next to Dad.

  We all really like this movie even though it’s kind of stupid. But part of why is because we make fun of it as it goes on.

  It’s not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

  The next Monday Sean isn’t sitting with Victor.

  I leave the lunch line with my tray and make my way to Ronald and Jared at our table, and glance over and see Sean sitting with the other basketball kids on the other side of the cafeteria.

  I look at Victor’s table. He and Tristan and Fuller aren’t really talking. Victor’s eyes keep darting over in Sean’s direction. He’s scowling.

  I sit down with Ronald and Jared, smiling just a little.

  This is my dad:

  Stern, sensible, serious.

  He has rough hands that look especially big and wrinkled next to Mom’s tiny smooth soft hands. He has hair growing out of his knuckles, and his nails are irregular from sloppy clippings and calcium deposits. They are a man’s hands.

  They are attached to a man’s arms, to a man’s shoulders, to a man’s body.

  His dark brown hair thins out on top. He combs it down neatly, but sometimes it sticks up when there’s wind.

  He doesn’t smile or laugh much, and his dark eyes usually make him look businesslike.

  He shaves every day, even weekends, but there’s always a bit of stubble by afternoon.

  He wears a tie on a button-down every day, even weekends, but loosens it at home.

  Toby asked him once why he wears good clothes all the time.

  This was back in Wisconsin. We were all sitting at the dinner table.

  She said, Dad, why do you keep your tie on when you get home? And why do you always wear it on the weekends?

  I think she was asking because she’d been hanging out with Marla a lot and noticed how different her family was from ours. How they just wore casual clothes and how Marla and her younger brothers didn’t have to call them ma’am and sir and how they even let Marla have her own iPhone.

  Dad stopped with his fork and a piece of chicken an inch from his open mouth. He put the fork down and looked at Toby like he was about to say something serious, which is how he always looks.

  Then he said, It’s important always to look your best, every chance you get, Toby.

  Like that.

  Toby just shrugged. Everyone kept eating.

  Mom seems to agree.

  She wears khakis and cardigans all the time. Like Martha Stewart, sort of. Not anything fancy, but still.

  I don’t think that kind of stuff is as popular as it used to be, since a lot of other kids’ moms wear regular pants or shorts or whatever they want around the house.

  Jared’s mom always has sweatpants on when I go over, but that’s because she likes to jog and work out a lot.

  Ronald’s mom wears jeans and a sweatshirt with a hood, like she did the other day when we were playing Halo. She looks pretty good for a mom.

  But my mom wears khakis and cardigans.

  Once I saw old pictures of her from college, before she met Dad. She wasn’t wearing khakis in them, but this weird outfit with denim and neon all over it.

  I asked her why she was wearing that, and she said back then she didn’t dress as nice. Plus neon was really in fashion at the time for some reason.

  Mom goes to a nail place every Saturday to keep her hands looking soft and smooth and nice. Her fingernails are always polished. She wears light makeup, even on weekends, and wears her hair down every day.

  When she walks around the house, she does it without making a sound, with a grace that makes it look like she’s floating more than walking.

  Sometimes it seems like she could float away with the wind if she wanted to.

  I know we’re kind of an old-fashioned family. I think I realized it for the first time in fifth grade, when I met my friend Kris. His family is a lot more like Ronald’s than like mine.

  Sometimes though I see other people that are like my parents. Well-dressed, conservative, kind of formal. Kids who also aren’t allowed to have their own cell phones.

  Usually I know them from church.

  Sunday we go to Grace Fellowship.

  Mom and Dad go every Sunday. They used to make Toby and me go to church every week too when we were younger, but they gave up a couple years ago when Toby started complaining about it a lot.

  But they still make us every now and then. Usually it�
�s Dad’s idea. Mom doesn’t care so much, but Dad is always pushing to get us to go.

  So Sunday we go.

  The parking lot is already full, because we left later than normal. Toby dragged her feet getting ready until Dad shouted at her to put on a dress or he’d leave her behind. That was kind of stupid because Toby wanted to be left behind. Dad realized his mistake right afterward and told her to hurry up or she’d have to go to church every week for two months.

  Toby was especially slow getting ready today because the church choir wasn’t going to sing this week. I heard her mumbling under her breath after one of the times Dad yelled at her.

  She said, What’s the point of going if I’m not going to sing anyway?

  I asked her once why she joined the choir, since she hates church.

  She said, Yeah, but I like choir.

  She was lacing up her church shoes when we talked about it. It was a few weeks before, but I remember that because she seemed really aggressive when she pulled at the laces.

  She said, Plus it makes the service go by faster.

  She tied another knot, even harder than before.

  She said, Plus it keeps Dad happy.

  We’re still five minutes before the service starts, but Dad likes to get there really early. Extra time for self-reflection, he says.

  We circle the lot, looking for a space. Dad is annoyed. I can tell because he’s tapping both thumbs on the steering wheel and muttering under his breath.

  He finally finds a spot and parks, and we hurry inside.

  It’s a big church, like the one in Sheboygan Falls. Dad likes big churches.

  We walk down the center aisle, passing hundreds of people, looking for the closest possible seat in just the right pew. People are talking and laughing, greeting each other before the service starts.

  I’m looking up as I walk, staring at the high, painted ceiling. I pull at my collar, stiff and tight from lack of use, bright white from the bleached wash Mom gives it regularly. Dark red tie hanging down, anchored by a navy sweater vest. This over creased black slacks and shiny black shoes.

  I don’t like this look but Mom does, has always loved it, so I pretend to as well.

  I love the ceiling. It bows out from me in a wide dome, every inch of it covered in images of people from the Bible frozen in place, acting out pieces of famous Scripture.