getcha both ways, I tell ya!"
"They getcha comin' and goin'," I agree.
"If it ain't up, it's down!" he says.
"If it ain't one thing, it's another," I mimic.
"You got it figured, Stomps! Never forget it!"
We stop and check out the tents and the camping
stuff. I could live in a tent very easily! I love looking at
tents here because they're all set up and I can play in them
while Grampy looks at the tires. At Walmart they just have
these dopey little model tents to look at that maybe Barbie
or G.I. Joe could sleep in. But that's all. Personally, I want
to see my tent and try it out before I get it.
"Knock knock! Anybody home?" It's Grammy
outside my tent. Her buggy's full of groceries, and I'm
really happy because I see two boxes of Captain Crunch,
and two more of Count Chocula cereal. Maybe they might
go for a bowl of the Crunch, but those Choculas are for me!
"Nobody here but Johnnie. Is that my Grammy?" I
ask, playfully. "What's the secret code?"
"The code is: It's a long walk home if you don't get
your butt out here, pronto!" she laughs.
"I'm coming. Keep your hat on," I joke. She doesn't
really wear a hat, but she told me that when she was
young, everybody did. Boys and girls both. I heard her say
that thing about the hat to Grampy when he's in the car
hooting the horn at her.
"Where's the old guy?" she asks. "As if I didn't
know."
"Tires!" I report. "He's checking if they're on sale."
"He never tires of tires," she chuckles. I've heard
her say that a bajillion times, but I laugh every time she
says it. You have to laugh when old people say funny
things, even if they're not that funny. "Well, let's roll over
there before he buys up Good Year," she says.
GRAMPY AND GRAMMY have a station wagon. Grampy
calls it The Original SUV. I like it because it's so big and
the whole back seat is all for me, and only me. I love to
stay with them.
We've been listening to Hanson the whole way. It
was fun to watch Grampy cuss at the CD because he
couldn't get the plastic wrap to cooperate. Grammy finally
ordered him to give it to her, and she just sliced a hole
with her pen knife and gave it back to him.
"Here you go, Mister Puffenstuff!" she says, all like
she's the boss that knows better.
"You cheat, woman!" he laughs. "You can't use
tools!" She laughs, too, and elbows him a little. That's their
lovey-dovey thing they do. Then Grampy passes the CD
case back to me and I just stare. I stare at the three boys on
the cover, and I wish they were my brothers. I wish they
were my friends, and I wish I could be one of them. Then I
hear the song I love the best: MMMBop! It's so awesome! I
love to hear them sing so much, and the one boy, Zac,
plays the drums.
I'm looking at the picture of Zac Hanson and I feel
funny. I look at his butt and where his thing is. My thing
does that thing where it gets really stiff, and pops out, and
when the tip of it rubs against my undies it tickles. I like
that feeling.
It's the middle of summer vacation. I don't miss
school. Three weeks ago we had fireworks, and I got to
hold sparklers for the first time. My mom was a big baby
about it, and Daddy was on a bus trip to Washington D.C.
He got to see the Beach Boys play their music in front of
lots and lots of people. Grampy told Mom to give the kid a
damned sparkler. Worse that could happen is I'd catch on
fire and we'd have the best fireworks show in the
neighborhood, he said. So I got to hold the sparklers!
That day is America's birthday, so I thought it
would be only right that I sing the birthday song while I
held my flaming sticks.
"Happy birthday to you!"
"Johnnie!!!"
"Happy birthday to you!"
"Be careful!!!"
"Happy birthday, dear America-a-a-a-a-a-a..."
"Oh, hell, Ruthie! Leave the kid alone, I swear!"
"Happy birthday to you!!! — And many more, on
channel four!" There! I got it all out! And I haven't
exploded into eleventy-million burning, flaming bits,
either! Like Cartman says: You can suck mah balls! Cartman
is the best.
We're almost back at Grampy and Grammy's
house. They said that after supper we can drive over to
The Plunge. It's a real big swimming pool and I can go as
far as the big number '4' painted on the side of the pool.
But not more than that.
Look! There it is! We drive by and there's a big sign
that Grammy reads.
SATURDAY, JULY 26th
"Dunk Your Kid Day!"
Boys and Girls 12 and Under Swim Free!
Grammy's happy as can be because she can save
money. And besides, since she will just sit on one of those
long chairs that you stick your legs out with (and wear
sunglasses on), the only one that has to pay is Grampy.
And he's old, so he gets half price anyway! What a deal!
Maybe afterwards we can get a frozen yogurt out of the
deal if I make sure to say all the right stuff to Grammy.
Because, according to Grampy, she's the keeper of the
gold. I like this day.
______________________________
J O H N N I E I S E L E V E N
______________________________
I'M ELEVEN NOW, AND I HATE SCHOOL so
goddamned fucking much that there are no fucking words
for it. Fuck! There just aren't words.
Every damned day it's the same big hassle. That's
all it is! And I play by the rules. I do! I get the best grades
of anybody that I know of, and still it's not fucking
enough! It's never enough!
I don't fit in at all, ever. Not with the teachers (well,
most of them), not with the other kids, and definitely not
with my mom and stepdad. You know why? Because
when I'm not at Hell School, I'm in Real Hell... Church! My
mom is a psycho church lady, and my shitty step-fuck is
just as bad.
Why can't I ever fit in? Just, why?! I know the
reasons, never mind.
Why don't I fit in with the other kids? Because I
don't like what they like. I like smart stuff, not dumb stuff.
And I like other boys. I mean, I like other boys. I don't like
girls; in that way, anyways.
I try my best to keep it to myself, but whenever I'm
dumb enough to trust somebody with such personal
information, you can guess what happens next. It's all over
the school. It's all over the cafeteria at lunchtime. I'm
surprised they don't print it on the school menu: Johnnie's a
fag! He's into dudes, man!
Number two: I hate church and all religions. I think
it's dumb as can be, and I get in trouble all the time at
Sunday School because I dare to question their dumb-ass
stories (lies, really...), and boy, does that make 'em sore!
You'd think I killed a baby, the way they react when I ask
if the "teacher" really believes a
snake conned a dumb girl
into eating an apple. And so what if she did? She just
wanted to use the brain "God" gave her to determine if he
was full of shit or not. So for that she gets a stinky, bloody
period once a month, and drags her husband down with
her! And they even get evicted from their home. Sounds
fair to me— not! Such a loving god (small 'g').
So it all went to shit after that, and I didn't get
given the snack of Fig Newtons and grape Kool-Aid. There
I go, missing out again! Oh, and I've heard whispers that
I'm "one of those..." which can only mean one thing: that
they're gossiping that I'm into boys. Maybe I should've
tried the Catholics. But according to my mom, Catholics
aren't Christians—they're just Catholics, and they follow a
false Papist doctrine that doesn't believe in salvation.
According to the geniuses at the all-knowing First
Baptist Church of Auburn, the Catholics believe they can
only get to Heaven by their works. But—and this was the
deal killer for me—if Hitler had asked for Jesus to come
into his heart just before he poisoned Eva Braun with
cyanide, and blew his brains out all over the bunker wall,
he would be welcomed into everlasting glory.
Oh, and those six million Jews that he stuffed into
the ovens are all in Hell, by the way, because none of them
would have been saved. After all, they don't believe in the
whole Jesus thing, and besides, those Jews are Christ
killers anyways. So says the brain trust at their church. For
this I get socially crucified myself; not only at the cult— I
mean church—but in my own house as well.
And finally, my parents...
So I don't like them very much. They're way too
hard on me. That's one thing. But I have a cute little sister
and brother—Benny and Maisey—and they're just three
years old, but our mom and their dad just yell at them all
the time. It makes me sick. They're little kids! They're not
little Christian robots who have to be perfect all the time. I
think the fact that they're not perfect is what makes them
perfect. But they don't see it that way.
If Benny grabs some extra cookies or spills
something on the kitchen floor, they yell at him like he just
personally insulted Ronald Reagan. (I don't exactly know
what that means, but Grampy says it all the time about
them, so according to my keepers, it must be bad to insult
Ronald Reagan.)
"What the Sam Hill is your momma so upset
about?! Benny's toys bein' on the floor?! You'd think he
insulted Ronald Reagan, or something!" he says. "Don't she
know that kids play with toys?! Makes me wish that when
she was a tot, I'd have washed her damn mouth out with
soap just for breathing air!" And that makes me laugh!
Grampy makes things good again. Oh, and they know I
like boys, too. That's another reason I don't like my mom
and her husband.
I should probably tell you how they know that I
like boys and not girls. Especially since it almost got
Grampy sent to the hangman's noose at the prison in Walla
Walla.
I was sitting at the kitchen table drawing
submarines and Star Trek spaceships one afternoon. My
mom was cooking supper and I was just sitting there
minding my own business. Mom's man was at work.
"Johnnie, did you guys finish your square dance
thing in Ms. Billings's class yet?" she asked me. I told her
that we had, and she wondered if we were gonna show the
parents at the Christmas pageant before school let out for
winter break. I told her that we would.
Then she asked who I danced with. I told her it's
square dancing. You dance with everybody when you
square dance. But she wouldn't drop it. She wanted to
know who my partner was at the start and the end of the
dance. So I told her. Grace Clark.
"Do you like her?" Mom asked. I told her, yeah,
Grace is nice. After all, I've known her since kindergarten.
"I can't place her... Is she the curly haired blond girl with
the handicapped brother?"
"Yeah. His name is Marty. And yeah, that's her," I
reported.
"They're Mormons, I think," she mused. With Mom,
everything can be reduced down to what religion you are,
and whether or not you've said the sinner's prayer. "Is she
your girlfriend?"
"No. She's not my girlfriend," I mutter. This is so
uncomfortable.
"Have you ever been in love yet, sweetie?"
How do I answer this? Yes, I have been—in fact I
am—in love. I don't wanna lie. It's bad enough just keeping
private things to myself when all I ever hear is how bad I
am, and that I'm gonna be burning in Hell for-e-ver! For-
fucking-e-ver! I just couldn't take it anymore.
"Yes, Momma. I've been in love," I told her.
"Wow! That's wonderful! Will you tell me who?
This is so exciting!" she giggled, as she turned the pots and
pans off and practically skipped over to the table and sat
down. It'd been a long time since I'd seen her giggly-
happy, and I love it when she's like that.
"Nah! No way!" I said.
"John-John! Come on!" she laughed. "You know you can
tell your ol' ma anything! I promise I'll keep
it between us! I mean it!"
"Not even Bill?" I said.
"I promise. On the Bible! You have my word. I just
wanna know so I can be happy for you!" she enthused
with such sincerity.
"Well..."
"Come on! I'm dying to know!" she grinned. She
was so much fun in that moment.
"Okay. Well, you know my friend, Cameron
Daniels?" I began.
"Is it his sister, Jessica? Oh my God, she is just
darling! When did you guys become boyfriend-girlfriend?"
she asked.
"Well, it's not Jessica. It's... It's, uh, Cameron."
There, I'd said it. It was out. My mom knew, and at
least now I wouldn't have to feel like I'm hiding and lying
all the time.
"Oh! Wow! I guess I guessed wrong, then..." she
said, so much calmer than I thought she'd be. She was
actually being cool about it! "So, how do you guys know
that... How are you sure that you love each other? I mean,
you both agree that you do, uh, love each other, am I
right?"
"Yeah, Momma. Since last year. Well, about a year
ago, anyways," I said.
"I see. So how do you guys... I mean, like, what...
Do you hold hands, or kiss, or write each other poems or
stuff like that? Help me out here," she smiled, so sweetly
and kind. I loved her so much at that moment. I guess it's
true that moms are the best, and I felt such a relief.
"Well, yeah, we do that sometimes. I mean, not
where anybody can see or anything. We keep it to
ourselves," I told her.
"Does Cameron's mom know?"
"No. We don't say or do anything that would make
her think—"
"Yeah. That's probably better. So wh
at else do you
two get up to?" she asked me. "Have you seen each
other...naked, or..."
"Yeah. I mean... We're both, uh..."
"What do you do, then? I can ask! I'm your mom,"
she smiled. "Go ahead and tell me." I just shrugged my
shoulders and kind of stared at my lap. I know she's my
mom, but it's still kind of embarrassing, you know?
"Tell you what... How about I ask, and you just nod
or shake your head. That way you don't have to say
anything." So I nodded. And she asked.
Do we touch each other's 'peters'?—I'd never heard
it called a peter before! I nodded.
Do I know what masturbation is? I nodded. Do we
masturbate together? I nodded.
Do you masturbate each other? I nodded.
Do we play with each other's bottoms? I shook my
head 'no'.
Do I know what oral sex is? I nodded.
Have you done that to Cameron? I nodded. Does
he do it to you? I nodded.
Do I know what cumming is? I nodded.
And she asked do we both cum when we "play
around" with each other? I nodded.
She finally concluded the interrogation. "Is that
everything?" I nodded and looked up at her, hoping to
meet tender, understanding eyes.
In the next second I heard the deepest sounding
thunks... One! Two! Three! It was the oddest thing. Then
everything was like in a movie when you're dreaming and
everything's moving fast, but you're in your own, slow
world.
Then I started hearing slap! Slap! Slap! And
every time I did, my face would move and I could see the
blinds on the kitchen wall. But I don't remember turning
my head to do it. And the weirdest part: You know what
it's like getting thrown upside down into a pool? Well,
that's what I imagined was happening, and I couldn't
figure out why.
Then I saw Benny and Maisey crying their eyes out!
They were in the hallway next to the stairs, and the floor
and the stairs were moving, and my arm really hurt at my
left shoulder. Kind of just under my armpit. And the next
thing I know, I'm face down on the floor of my room. I'm
in my room. I'm crying really, really loud, but I somehow
can't hear myself. Then I guess I fell asleep.
LATER. (I GUESS IT'S LATER, because it's dark out.) I
hear fast, strong steps coming up the stairs. My face is red.
And very sore. Bill barges into my room, and his face is as
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