Spinning Out

by David Stahler Jr.

  “I scared you?” I shouted back. “This is my house, Ralph! What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Your mom invited me to dinner.”

  “Jesus, you were here, like, all weekend. It’s only Monday.”

  He shrugged again. “Your mom said to come over, so I did.”

  I suppose if I had to live in that run-down shitbox he’d inherited, I’d want to spend as much time as possible somewhere else too. But why did that have to mean my house?

  “Yeah, well, dinner’s not until six o’clock.” I could still feel my heart pounding. “Don’t tell me you’ve been here all day.”

  He looked away, uncomfortable, but I didn’t give a shit. Let him squirm, I thought.

  “I didn’t have nothing to do.”

  “Yeah, that’s because you’re a fucking loser, Ralph. A first-rate fucking loser.”

  His face dropped. He looked like a dog that’d just been kicked. I was about to apologize when he caught sight of the sword. His eyes opened wide.

  “Whoa!” he whispered. “Where’d you get that, bro?”

  “It doubles as a cane.” I sheathed the blade. I didn’t feel like telling him where it had come from.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s pretty sweet.” He came around the back of the couch for a closer look.

  “It is, isn’t it?” I said, letting him check it out.

  He drew the sword out partway and gave a low whistle.

  “You could really fuck somebody up with this thing.” He closed it back up.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” I said. “Just don’t tell Mom.”

  He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Chicks just don’t understand, do they? Don’t worry, Frenchy. I ain’t going to say a thing. Bros before hos.”

  “Good lord,” I said, shaking my head. “And while we’re at it, don’t go in my room when I’m not here. Ever.”

  “No sweat,” he said, raising his hands and breaking into a stupid grin. “A man’s room is his castle. That’s my motto. No one goes in my room either, unless it’s to…” He hesitated. “Well, you know.”

  I snatched the cane from his hands and gave him the nastiest look I could. Fucking Ralph.

  “Hey, Frenchy,” he said. He knew he’d upset me. “Want to smoke a joint before your mom gets home?”

  “No thanks.” For all the pot I’d smoked over the last couple years, I’d never smoked at home, not even outside. I’d go off into the woods or up the road; hell, I’d go anywhere, but not on Paquette soil. It wasn’t so much because my mom worked for the state police. It had to do with the old man, mostly. Even with him on the other side of the world, slogging it out in some arid hellhole, I hadn’t been able to shake the idea that he was watching somehow, keeping an eye on the place. And now, well…

  “I got to make dinner,” I said, and headed off to my room to stash the cane.

  “Dinner?” he called after me. “I’ll make dinner!”

  I stopped and turned.

  “You? You’ll make dinner?”

  “No sweat, bro.”

  “Since when do you know how to cook?”

  “I was a prep cook at the Rory Inn for two years. I went to culinary school.”

  “You went to culinary school?” I stifled a laugh. I tried to picture the douche bag in a chef’s hat and apron.

  He glanced down at his feet. “For a semester,” he muttered before looking back up. “So, what are you making?”

  “Tacos. Think you can handle it?”

  He gave me a look of mild disdain, then headed for the kitchen.

  “You’ll have to thaw some hamburger out,” I hollered after him. When he didn’t reply, I followed him into the kitchen. He’d already found the taco kit in the cupboard and was getting the hamburger out of the freezer to defrost in the microwave. I watched him as he proceeded to grab lettuce and a green pepper from the refrigerator—along with an onion and a tomato from the hanging basket near the sink—and begin chopping everything up. It was weird watching him go at it with a knife. I had to admit—he had skills.

  “So how come you didn’t make yourself useful this weekend?” I said as he chopped and diced away.

  “I have to cook for myself all the time,” he said. “I figured if she’d wanted help, she would’ve asked. Isn’t that how it works?”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” I murmured, looking down at my thumb. It was starting to throb again. Against the whiteness of the gauze, I could make out the slightest trace of blood.

  I got Ralph a few things he needed, then he kicked me out. (“Go watch some TV or something, bro.”) I was kind of glad not to have to make dinner, what with my cut and all, but a part of me was annoyed. I didn’t like anyone telling me what to do in my own house, let alone that moron. Besides, it was my job to make dinner, my responsibility, not his.

  Anyway, my mother came home to the sight of Chef Ralph going at it in the kitchen and, sure enough, thought it was the sweetest thing. That’s what she said as he handed her a beer—“the sweetest thing.”

  I had to admit, the tacos were damn good. I don’t know what he added to the package of seasoning mix, but they were the best fucking tacos I ever had. I’d wolfed down six of the things and was on my way to making a seventh when my mother turned to me with a grin.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Something interesting happened at work today.”

  “Yeah? What?” I glanced over at her, suspicious. Usually when she said that, the something wasn’t so much interesting as it was horribly bizarre. Like last year when some drugged-up nut job stumbled into the barracks with his dick stuck in the end of a plastic bottle of vegetable oil. (I’ll leave it up to you to figure out what it was doing there.) The poor bastard panicked and decided that, instead of waiting for things to settle down, the best solution would be to cut the bottle off with a butcher’s knife, a tricky proposition even for a sober person playing with a full deck of cards. Apparently the results weren’t pretty, though the troopers cracked jokes about the “Crisco Kid” for months afterward.

  But this time she didn’t have that macabre gleam in her eye. At first I thought it was because she was still all giddy over Ralph making dinner, but it turned out to be something else.

  “Jeanie told me you’re in the fall musical. She said Liz told her you got a lead role!”

  Shit. Liz was playing Antonia, Don Quixote’s niece. I’d completely forgotten our mothers worked together.

  I could see from Mom’s expression that she was pretty psyched. I glanced over at Ralph. He just seemed sort of confused. A pretty typical look for him, actually.

  “Yeah,” I finally mustered, “Stewart talked me into it.”

  “That’s right. He has the lead role, Jeanie said. Both of you together.”

  “It’s not a big deal or anything.”

  “Of course it is.” She leaned over to touch my arm. I tried not to pull it away. “My baby’s going to be onstage.” She was still beaming.

  “Musical?” Ralph said, still puzzled. “Does that mean you have to wear a leotard or something?”

  “No,” I snapped, though in the back of my mind I suddenly wasn’t so sure. “It’s just a play with songs in it. That’s all.”

  “Ralph!” my mother said. I could see her face darken.

  “What?” he mumbled through a mouthful of taco. Poor dumb bastard, he didn’t have a clue. “All I’m saying is that it sounds kind of gay.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re gay!” I yelled.

  “No, you’re gay.”

  “Hey, at least I’m actually doing something with my life. At least I’m not sitting around on the couch all day with my hands in my crotch, watching TV like a loser.”

  “No, you’re just prancing around on the stage with that weird buddy of yours.”

  “Oh, fuck you, you fucking douche bag.”

  “Boys!” my mother hollered, slamming her hands down on the table so hard a little milk sloshed out of my glass. “Quiet! Both of you!”

&
nbsp; Ralph and I exchanged glares while my mother dropped her face in her hands and shook her head.

  “It’s been a long day,” she said at last. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  She didn’t look at either of us, but I could see her eyes had the same dull look to them that I’d seen last summer.

  “Frenchy, could you clean up the kitchen for me, please?”

  “Sure,” I whispered.

  “Thanks, sweetie.” She came over and kissed me on the head before turning to Ralph. “Thanks for making supper, Ralph. I’ll call you later.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he murmured, his shoulders slouched, staring down with that same hangdog look he’d given me earlier. He got up from the table, grabbed his jacket, and shuffled out, closing the door softly behind him.

  My mother and I looked at each other for a moment. She tried to give me a smile.

  “Don’t listen to him.”

  “I won’t.”

  “It’s a good thing, what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “I’m sure your father would…you know.”

  I nodded, then started gathering the plates. She nodded too. When I looked back up, she was gone.

  CAHPTER TWELVE

  “Got any eights?” I asked.

  “Dammit,” Kaela said, tossing me a card. “What do you have, ESP or something?”

  “Just lucky, that’s all,” I said with a grin, laying down the pair.

  We were in the corner of the drama room. Most of the cast were spread around the room, chatting in small groups while the rest clustered around Franco at the piano. The first full week of rehearsals was drawing to a close. They weren’t really rehearsals, actually. It was music week, and we were hard at work getting the songs down. Most of us, anyway.

  “Glad this week is almost over.”

  “Come on, it’s not that bad. You don’t even have that many songs, not compared to Stewart. Poor guy’s in just about every number.”

  “You kidding me?” I said, watching him standing beside Franco, singing away. “He’s at the center of attention. Right where he likes it. I’m just glad I’ve got you to keep me company. I don’t think the others appreciate Stewart and me crashing the party.”

  She blushed a little. “Give me a seven. I know you have one.”

  I handed the card over.

  “Don’t worry, Frenchy. No one here cares. Except maybe Quentin. Oh, and Stacey, the bitch,” she muttered. “In fact, most people think it’s pretty cool. It’s nice to have some new blood. Not only that, lots of kids in school are talking about it. You’re a bit of a hit.”

  “Well, they should wait until opening night.” The very thought tied my stomach in a knot. “Still, I guess it’s better than just being that dorky scrub who lives up on the Heights and pulls stupid pranks. Or even worse, the kid whose father blew his head off in his trailer. No one wants to touch that one.”

  She froze as soon as the words came out of my mouth. Idiot, I thought. What the hell was I thinking?

  “Looking for a jack here,” I finally murmured. “Help me out?”

  “Go fish.” I could see her eyes start to glisten. I had a real way with women.

  “What’s up with that guy?” I said, nodding toward Franco, where he sat in the far corner, perched in front of his electric piano, pounding away with his sausage fingers. “I stuck around at the end of practice a few times to see if he’d leave, but he never got up. He just kept on playing.”

  “Maybe he lives here,” she said, breaking back into a smile.

  “I bet he does. I can see him walking around the halls at night, eating old candy bars and stale crackers from the vending machines, sleeping under his bench, waking up early to sneak a shower in the boys’ locker room.”

  Kaela burst out laughing. Everyone turned to stare. Even Franco stopped playing.

  “Sorry,” she said to the group, glancing over at me with a look of chagrin.

  “Get ready, Frenchy,” Ms. Vale called out, with the slightest glare. “You’re up in five.”

  “Sure thing,” I answered as everyone went back to business. Kaela and I looked at each other. I could see her trying to stifle another round of laughter.

  “She’s quite the taskmaster,” Kaela murmured.

  “Yeah, well, the hot little Nazi routine works,” I said. “I know those songs backward and forward at this point. I can sing them in my sleep. In fact, last night I think I actually did,” I added, seeing Kaela start to laugh again. “Even worse, I started singing them in class the other day. That went over well.”

  “Threes?” She giggled.

  “Go fish.”

  She drew a card.

  “By the way, what are you doing here?” I asked. “You don’t need to subject yourself to this.”

  She shrugged. “A good stage manager’s involved with every part of the production.” Her eyes narrowed. “Besides, somebody’s got to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Don’t worry. Next week we’ll be moving to the theater, and we’ll all be working straight out. I’ll be starting set construction, and you’ll be busy blocking.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Blocking’s when you actually start playing out scenes on the stage. There’s a lot to it—you have to figure out where you’re going to stand when you say a line, what you’re going to do when you say it, where you come in and out. That sort of stuff.”

  “Sounds hard.”

  “Just do what Ms. Vale tells you to do and you’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m used to following orders.”

  “Hey, Renny,” I shouted, “get me some nails!” We were nearly a week into blocking, and already the beginnings of the set were coming together backstage.

  “Sure thing, Sancho,” Renny said. The tech, a sophomore who wore the same pair of skinny black jeans every day, scrambled to fetch the clinking coffee can.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Do you need anything else?” Fitch—another one of the techs—said, popping out from behind a nearby curtain.

  “No, I’m good for now.”

  “Hey, Frenchy,” Fitch said, “tell Renny that joke you told me before practice about the two monkeys. That was the fucking funniest thing I’ve heard all year.”

  “Boys!” Kaela barked. Renny and Fitch whirled to see her glaring at them, her hammer raised. “I believe you two have a riser to paint. Get to it and leave Frenchy alone. He’s helping me right now.”

  The two jumped, practically knocking each other over in an effort to escape.

  “Man, you’re almost as scary as Ms. Vale,” I said, pounding another nail into the piece of plywood. She chuckled.

  “Who do you think I learned from? Don’t worry, your little fans will recover. It’s kind of cute, actually, seeing them fawn over you.”

  “What can I say? I’m a celebrity now.”

  “It’s only been a few days, Frenchy. Don’t let it go to your head. Besides, you may have been pretty good in that last scene, but it’s not your acting skills that’s spurring the hero worship.”

  “Yeah, then what is it?”

  “It’s that you’re actually deigning to work on set construction. Most cast members act like a bunch of prima donnas and don’t even talk to techs, let alone lift a hand to help out.”

  “I actually feel more comfortable pounding nails than singing.”

  “Stop it,” she said as we lifted another sheet of plywood. “I’ve been watching you out there on the stage. I can see it in your eyes. Hear it in your voice. Admit it—you’re becoming a total theater geek.”

  “Why not?” I said, grinning. “I’ve been every other kind of geek.” We started nailing the new sheet to the frame. “So where’d you learn to be so handy, anyway?”

  “Dad’s a carpenter.” She wiped the sweat from her brow. “I’ve been handling tools since I learned to walk. Always been a bit of a tomboy. It’s served me well, for t
he most part. A little hard on the love life, though.”

  “Hey, there’s nothing sexier than a woman with a power tool in her hand.”

  She shook her head and laughed.

  “Sancho!” a voice called out. “Sancho, where are you?” It was Stewart.

  “Back here!”

  Stewart pushed the curtain aside. He snatched the hammer out of my hand and handed it to Kaela.

  “Come on, man, we need you out there. Let’s go!”

  I turned to Kaela and shrugged. “Duty calls.”

  “Go for it,” she said.

  “Listen,” Stewart said as we headed toward the stage. “I think the problem last time was that you were a touch late on the third line. And maybe rethink how soon you turn after Aldonza comes in. It’s got to look more natural. And another thing—”

  “But Ms. Vale said it was fine,” I cut in.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, as if he hadn’t even heard me. “Anyway, I’m thinking about changing my entire approach to the lead-in on the song. What do you think about me holding the very first note for an extra five seconds? And maybe sing it in a falsetto. Yeah, I think that would work.”

  I stopped and watched as he kept going, babbling away, not even realizing I was no longer beside him. It wasn’t the first time that week he’d done that.

  And that was just the start of my troubles with Stewart.

  It wasn’t that Stewart wasn’t good. From day one, while we all had our eyes glued to the script, he knew his lines. Hell, he knew everyone else’s lines. And when he was in the middle of a scene—especially in the Don Quixote scenes—everyone paid attention, even the kids who didn’t need to. Whether it was as Cervantes or as Don Quixote, he seemed to disappear. Stewart Bolger would disappear, and a stranger would take his place.

  “That’s acting!” Ms. Vale cried out one day after Stewart finished a scene. “That’s acting!”

  When he was really on fire, we could practically feel the energy crackling around us onstage. And we could use it. He made everyone around him better, so much so that by the third day of blocking, anyone who’d had any doubts about Stewart playing the lead had come around. Even Quentin seemed to have resigned himself to the situation.