Squint

by Chad Morris

  Grandpa Rule: He has a story for everything, and most of them are about football.

  “Yep,” I said. “You’ve told me this one before.” And that was the only way I would know it. Why else would I care about some old Super Bowl? I spooned more oatmeal into my mouth. Grandma always had it ready in the morning. Or eggs. Or fried potatoes. We had to leave soon.

  But my comment didn’t stop Grandpa. He was like one of the teachers at school that asks if they’ve told a story before, but even if they have, they’re not going to stop telling it. “Lots of other players were going out gambling, or chasing girls, but not Deion.” He moved his spoon around while he spoke.

  “I know,” I interrupted. “He called all of his coaches to thank them.” I figured we should cut to the point.

  “That’s right,” Grandpa said, then turned to Grandma. “See, he does listen.”

  “But does he?” Grandma asked, raising one eyebrow. She was barely five feet tall, slender, and always wearing makeup. If it wasn’t for those times when we went swimming I would swear her face always looked like that.

  My grandparents had raised me my whole life. My mom, their daughter, wasn’t really good at taking care of herself, let alone another person. And I’ve never met my dad. So, sixty-year-old “parents” it was.

  “The day before the Super Bowl, Deion called his peewee league coaches,” Grandpa continued, pointing at me with his spoon, “his high school coaches, his college coaches. He told them ‘thank you’ for making him work hard, for believing in him, for helping him improve.” He set his spoon down and leaned back in his chair. “And then he went out on the field the next day and caught eleven passes.” Grandpa mimicked catching a pass. “That was a tie for a Super Bowl record. The Patriots won and he was MVP of the game.”

  Grandpa Rule: All of his football stories are longer than they should be.

  “Okay,” I said, taking another bite. “I get it. He’s a great guy.”

  Grandma looked at Grandpa. “He’s not getting it,” she said, shaking her head.

  Grandpa cleared his throat, pointed at me, then the food, then Grandma.

  Oh. I suddenly realized what he meant. “Thanks for breakfast,” I said to Grandma.

  Grandma laughed and shook her head. “Your sincerity is truly inspiring.”

  I glanced back over at Grandpa. “Wouldn’t it have been a lot shorter if you’d just asked me to say ‘thank you’?”

  “It would have been a lot shorter if you learned to say ‘thank you’ in the first place,” Grandpa said, his long beard wagging as he spoke. “That’s why you’ve heard that story so often.”

  I took another bite of breakfast.

  “When was the last time you wore your contacts?” Grandma asked.

  “I tried to put them in this morning,” I said. “But it hurt so bad I took them back out. They’re like putting sandpaper on my eyes.” I hated my hard contacts so much I only wore them for a few hours every couple of months so that I could tell the doctor that I’d tried and I could pretend that we hadn’t wasted my grandparents’ money on them.

  “Well, thanks for trying,” she said. “Try again in a day or two. They’re supposed to help.” Because my corneas were thin, Grandma was always worried and following up with me. Plus, she was afraid someone would bump into my eyes and bust them. That’s why I didn’t play sports any more. Well, that and I couldn’t see the ball that great even with glasses. Keratoconus really isn’t the kind of problem that can be fixed with glasses. But they’re better than nothing.

  I shoved another spoonful of oatmeal in my mouth, but a weird tingle started in my right eye as I chewed. It wasn’t too painful, but it didn’t feel good either. I pinched my eye shut. I’m sure it was because I’d tried to wear my scratchy contacts. But nothing really new. My eyes just hurt sometimes.

  “How’s school?” Grandpa asked.

  “Boring,” I said. I never really told them about Gavin or the others. No use bothering them. Plus, Grandpa might go tackle Gavin right in the middle of school and Grandma would call all of their mothers and give them a talking-to. That would be both kind of amazing and kind of terrible at the same time. More terrible than amazing. Except the tackle. That would be more amazing than terrible.

  “And the comic?” Grandma asked.

  “Really good,” I said. “I think I should get it done on time.” I made sure not to rub my eye. I didn’t want Grandma seeing it irritated. She might freak out. Maybe she’d make me wear goggles to school for protection. Or worse, one of those helmets welders use.

  “Did you walk the Hulk yesterday like I asked?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Yep,” I said, even though I knew I hadn’t. I’d named our bulldog “The Hulk.” Both he and the comic-book character are strong and grumpy and gamma-ray monsters.

  I’m not sure about the last one, but probably.

  Grandma rolled her eyes. “Are you trying to sell me a screen door for my submarine?” That was Grandma’s way of saying that she doesn’t believe me. Being raised in the South made her hard to understand sometimes.

  “Okay,” I said, giving in. “I haven’t.”

  “Flint.” She let out a full sigh. “You’ve got to do your share around here or you’re going to drive us all into a tizzy.”

  I didn’t say anything. Maybe if I didn’t answer, my chore would just kind of fade away. I still had to work on my comic.

  “Did you know Coach Tom Osborne had a degree in educational philosophy?” Grandpa asked. “And he used to say—”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it right after school.”

  If we were being attacked by a ruthless band of zombie ninjas with death guns, I swear my grandparents would still be concerned about whether I had done my chores or not. Then again, if zombie ninjas were attacking, being with the Hulk wouldn’t be a bad idea. Especially if he really was a gamma-ray monster.

  The bird clock on the wall chirped Eastern Bluebird. Twelve birds for twelve hours and Eastern Bluebird meant it was 7:00 a.m.

  “We’d better go or we’ll be late,” Grandma said.

  Another tingle went through my right eye, this one a little stronger. It hurt, like a pinch. I must have winced because Grandma asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, hoping I wasn’t lying.

  I had hoped school would be a little different today, but it wasn’t. McKell was in science, but she never looked over at me. Not a big surprise. I wasn’t in her league for looks, talent, or popularity. Gavin must have put her up to talking to me at lunch.

  Math was okay until my phone buzzed in my pocket. That didn’t usually happen. No one from school ever texted me. My grandparents did sometimes, but not during school—I was supposed to be learning. That really only left one person.

  I pulled my phone out.

  Hey Flinty! A kid at the McD’s here looks just like u.

  My mom. She texted at the oddest times, about the oddest stuff. My phone vibrated again.

  I mean when u were 5. lol!

  I looked at the text for a minute, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do. My mom promised to take me to the movies four times over the last few months and hadn’t. She didn’t even come for my birthday­—and now she sent me this random text? Did she expect me to be happy about it? What did she want me to say? “Wow! Glad you thought of me. You’re such a good mom!”

  Nope.

  I slipped the phone back into my pocket without answering. I didn’t want to think about it.

  When I got to my table at lunch, I almost jumped. Like one of those I-was-really-startled-and-have-no-body-control jumps. McKell was already there, seated in that same hard-to-see corner and chewing on something from the cafeteria. As far as I could tell, it was a pot pie.

  Definitely a surprise.

  And she was a brave girl. For eating t
he pot pie.

  Wait. How had she gotten there so fast, especially with lunch? She must have gotten out of class early and been the first in line to be here with her food. That was a lot of work.

  “You surprised me,” I said.

  She grinned. “I could tell.” Maybe I had jumped a little.

  I sat down and put my portfolio beside me. I didn’t know whether to pull my comic out with her there or not. Squint and Gunn were in a showdown, but I didn’t know how well I could trust McKell.

  “Don’t you ever eat?” she asked. Before I could answer, she snuck a peek around the alcove like she was looking for someone, or to see if anyone had seen her.

  “I had a peanut butter sandwich,” I said. “I ate it on the way so I can spend lunchtime drawing.” Was this going to be an every day thing?

  “How’s your comic going?” she asked.

  I wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know or if it was polite small talk. “Okay,” I said, “but I’m behind, so I should get to it.” Good one. I turned it into a hint. I didn’t completely mind if she wanted to sit with me, unless this was some setup for Gavin and the others. Then I would definitely mind. Either way I needed to get to work, or I’d never win the contest and nothing in middle school would change. I glanced at my portfolio, but still didn’t pull anything out.

  “Behind for what?” she asked taking another bite of her pot pie. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid or something.

  How much should I tell her? This girl had me so confused. “Well, there’s a competition,” I said and gave her the basics of the Grunger contest. But I didn’t mention how I was going to win and it was going to change everything for me at school, that Chloe would have a crush on me, and no one would bother me anymore. I’d let her figure that part out for herself.

  “That’s really cool,” she said. “When you win, will you give me an autographed copy or something?” With my double vision, I’m not the best at reading people’s faces. But she seemed like she meant what she was saying.

  I couldn’t hold back a grin. “Maybe,” I said. My right eye itched a little and I really wanted to scratch it. I didn’t, of course.

  McKell shuffled in her seat. “Do you think we could make a deal?”

  “A deal? About what?” Why would a popular girl want to make a deal with me?

  “Well,” she said. “I’ve got another challenge I need to do and I wondered if you could help.”

  Another one? Part of me wanted her to leave so I could draw. Another part of me wanted to say yes right away. I mean, she was talking to me. She was eating lunch with me. But this was also weird. And maybe even mean. “Who’s giving you these challenges?” I asked.

  She looked down for a second. “I’ll tell you later.”

  That wasn’t a good sign.

  McKell took a deep breath. “Will you help?”

  I could feel her eyes on me, waiting for an answer. “That’s not really a deal,” I said. “It’s more like a favor. I’m just helping you.”

  “No,” she said. “I haven’t finished. What if I help you with your comic, and you help me with my challenge?”

  This was getting stranger by the second. And there was a problem. “How would you—” I started.

  “Can I look at it?” she interrupted. I saw her glance around the lunchroom again. “I can read it and give you feedback and ideas and stuff.”

  “No way,” I said, holding my portfolio case a little closer and tighter.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Maybe you just want to take it and make fun of it and stuff,” I said.

  She shook her head. “That wasn’t cool when Gavin and the others did that,” she said. “I won’t. I’ll just give you ideas.”

  “You’re going to give me ideas?” I asked. “Do you know anything about comics?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ve read every Marvel comic ever made.” She cracked a smile.

  I hadn’t ever seen her with a comic. “You’re lying,” I said. “There’s more than 30,000 Marvel comics.”

  She waved me off. “Yeah, I’m lying,” she admitted. “But I do like good stories. And you don’t want the contest people being the first ones who read it. Give me a try.” She motioned for me to let her see my pages.

  I hesitated.

  “I promise to treat it well,” she said, raising her hand like she was being sworn in at court or something.

  She seemed sincere, but my heart started pounding. What if she was a crazy good faker and she was going to run off with my comic book, laughing and telling everyone how stupid it was? But she didn’t seem like a faker the last time she’d talked with me at lunch.

  She motioned again. “C’mon, I showed you my rhyming, my verse, for better or worse.” Another rhyme slipped out. “Don’t hold back, and retract, behave brave and attract the pack that will love, the story you’re dreaming of.”

  So cool. Not as cool as comics, but still cool.

  I wondered if McKell rhymed for Gavin and Travis and the others. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. They might tease her like they teased me.

  But she was right. She had been brave and it was my turn.

  I took a deep breath, reached into my case and pulled out one sheet. Only one sheet. I wasn’t that trusting. I gave her the panels with Squint facing off against Gunn—light-daggers and a rock dog against a fireball bazooka.

  She took it carefully and looked it over.

  She put her hands on the side of her head and looked some more.

  Did she like it? I couldn’t really see any clues on her face as to what she was thinking. Was she going to make fun of it like the others? Shred it? Throw it on the ground?

  My pulse was pounding like the marching of an alien army.

  After looking at my comic for much longer than I’d expected, McKell finally said something. “This is good. Really good.” And she said it with a smile and a nod. “I think it’s cool you named him Squint. Like you.” She pointed at me.

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping I wasn’t blushing. But did she mean it? She did have the opposite reaction of Gavin and the others.

  She handed the page back. “Can I read some more?”

  She hadn’t hurt it. She’d read it, said she liked it, and gave it back. She even seemed to be really careful with it. I took in another deep breath and exchanged it with another page.

  McKell read it over quietly. It took just as uncomfortably long as before, then she spoke up again. “Squint is awesome. And Rock rocks!”

  KAPOW! She liked it.

  Or at least she said the right things.

  Maybe my comic was already going to change things.

  “But I have an idea,” McKell said. She raised a finger with a blue-painted nail.

  My heart sank a little. “Really?” She wasn’t supposed to have an idea. She was supposed to think that everything was amazing and sit back in awe, relishing my talent.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It needs a girl.” She nodded several times to emphasize her point.

  “A girl?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Like me.” She pointed at herself with both her thumbs.

  “Like you?” I asked, suddenly nervous. She probably could tell that I wanted to be like the Squint in my comic. Could she tell that Gunn was like Gavin? And if she could tell, would other people be able to? “Well, there’s the Empress.” I said. “She’s a girl.”

  “Is she a main character? And does she fight?” McKell asked.

  I shook my head. The Empress would only show up on a couple of panels and she wouldn’t fight. “But there are a couple of villain girls who will probably fight toward the end of the comic,” I said.

  “Just villains? Not good enough,” McKell said. “You need a super girl. Someone funny and pretty and her power could be that she can become completel
y protected, like covered in steel. She’s invincible.”

  “The steel part sounds like Colossus,” I said. “That’s what he can do.”

  She looked confused. She definitely hadn’t read the 30,000-plus Marvel comics.

  “Is Colossus a funny and smart and pretty girl?”

  “Definitely not,” I said. “He’s one of the X-Men, Russian, and has a buzz cut.”

  “Then it’s not the same. But you could change it. Maybe she covers herself in something even more indestructible, like diamond.”

  A diamond girl. Interesting idea. She’d be really cool looking and near invincible. Wait. It seemed like there had been a comic character kind of like that. But I could make my character a little different. And my comic could probably use another girl character.

  New Comic-Book Rule: It’s wise to put a girl in your comic to widen your audience.

  “It was a good idea, right?” she said, watching my face. She rested back in her chair and put her arms on the back of her head. She seemed relieved that her suggestion wasn’t stupid.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “Good,” she said, leaning forward. “Now you have to go on a hike with me.”

  “What? That’s random,” I said. “And I never go on hikes.” I could hike, but I didn’t really like it. It’s the uneven ground. I’m not great at telling where all the dips and rises are. Hikes always feel like I’m trying to walk without being able to see my feet.

  “It’s not random,” she said. “It’s my challenge.” A smile flashed at almost the same time I thought she was blinking away a tear. That’s a weird reaction for a hike.

  “Why not get Emma or Chloe or someone?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I’d feel stupid. Just come.” There was pleading in her voice. I wasn’t expecting that. No one really ever pleaded for me to do anything. Teachers told me to do homework. Grandma and Grandpa told me to do my chores. Gavin and Travis and the others teased me. But no one pleaded.