“Okay, fine. Sorry. Just move before we get creamed by a logging truck or something.”
Still staring straight ahead, he turned back into our lane and sped off down the mountain. He seemed to grow calmer as we reached the bottom, though with all that shit on his face, it was hard to tell.
“I just think you’d have more fun,” I offered.
“I’m not doing it to have fun.”
“Then why the hell are you doing it, Stewart?”
“Don’t call me Stewart,” he replied. He paused, then smiled before breaking into the musical’s first song:
I am I, Don Quixote, The Lord of La Mancha, My destiny calls and I go, And the wild winds of fortune Will carry me onward, Oh whithersoever they blow. Onward to glory I go!
He paused and looked at me. This was where I was supposed to come in—I’m Sancho! Yes, I’m Sancho! I’ll follow my master till the end!—but I turned and looked out the window. I didn’t feel much like singing.
Stewart got stopped on the way into the building—they made him leave his sword in the main office—and I didn’t see him for the rest of the school day. I hid out in the library during lunch, scarfing down the bag of emergency chips I kept in my locker when the librarian wasn’t looking. It wasn’t so much the morning outburst that kept me away, though that had been pretty annoying. It was the costume. Already people were referring to us as “Sancho and Don”—something Stewart probably started—and with him in full regalia, it was only going to get worse.
But I still heard plenty about Stewart’s costume. Kids all over school were discussing it, even the teachers. A few kids asked me about it, asked why I wasn’t dressing up with him, but for the most part people forgot about me, which was fine. The talk was pretty divided. Some thought it was cool, others thought it was weird. A lot of people didn’t know what to think.
Not the theater crowd. They gave him a standing ovation when he showed up late to rehearsal after persuading Ruggles to give him back his sword. Striding onto the stage, he gave a bow and a flourish and a tip of the old helmet as everyone laughed and cheered. Everyone was pretty punchy. It had been a long week. Hell, it had been a long four weeks between the music rehearsals and the blocking, and we were all pretty tired and stressed out and looking for some kind of release.
“Very nice, Stewart, very nice,” Ms. Vale said, with a hand on her forehead. “Guess we know who’ll be doing makeup.”
“Makeup?” Stewart asked. “Whatever are you talking about? And who’s this Stewart character you speak of?” He turned and looked behind him. The kids started laughing even harder.
“Okay, okay,” she said, turning to the rest of the group. “Let’s try to get this wrapped up today if we can. And don’t forget—when we come back on Monday, we’re off-book.”
A ripple of murmurs washed over the ensemble. It was the news we’d all expected, but dreaded just the same.
Things started out well enough. Somehow, Stewart’s transformation had cast a spell over everyone, and we moved through the scenes pretty efficiently. But it was too tough to hold on to. Before long, fatigue set in, coupled with nerves over the thought of going off-book. Some kids were already trying to do their lines without any help. I don’t know what they were trying to prove, but it made for some moments of real confusion. Ms. Vale was very patient, telling them not to worry about it, giving prompts when needed, but I could see Stewart growing increasingly furious. So could everyone else, which only made them stumble more.
Then it got to my big moment.
There’s a part in one of the final scenes—after Don Quixote’s delusion has been punctured by the Duke and he’s totally collapsed and turned into this weak, sick old man—where I go to his bedside and try to bring him back to his senses. It’s a whole long bit with a bunch of singing mixed in. Anyway, I was already nervous about it—I knew we’d be covering it today—and with kids screwing up left and right, I kept praying Ms. Vale would call an early end to rehearsal to put me out of my misery, or at least delay it. No such luck. She was the kind who believed in soldiering on, no matter what.
It was a mess from the start. I kept screwing up the lines, my timing was off on the music—poor Franco had to keep playing the intro over and over again—and every time I messed up, I’d be so nervous that I’d start laughing or say something stupid. And there was Stewart, lying there in front of me, having to put up with my incompetence at close range, without being able to move or speak, without even being able to have his eyes open.
There was one line in particular—“Whether the stone hits the pitcher or the pitcher hits the stone, it’s going to be bad for the pitcher”—I just couldn’t get right. I kept saying “picture” instead of “pitcher,” or mixing up the order of the phrase. It was like some goddam tongue twister in my mouth.
I think I was on my fifth try when Stewart’s eyes flew open. Before I could finish, he reached up and grabbed me by the shirt. The next thing I knew, we were wrestling on the ground.
“Stewart, what the hell?” I shouted as he rolled on top and pinned a knee against my chest.
Behind the mask of Quixote, I could see the eyes, wide and wild. For a split second, I couldn’t tell whose eyes they were. They didn’t look like Stewart’s. Then his hand snapped up and gripped my face and started squeezing. Stewart was a skinny guy but surprisingly strong. It took everything I had to pull his hand away and twist him off me.
I finally managed to kick him away. Quentin and another guy tried to grab him. He shook them off, but he didn’t come after me again.
“Goddam it, Frenchy!” he screamed instead. “What’s your fucking problem? I mean, how long have you had to learn this shit? Come on, even I can do it!”
He launched into my monologue, the words flying from his mouth at top speed, not bothering with pauses or inflection, singing the verses with equal tempo in a nasty sort of mocking voice. It made me shiver. But worst of all, even worse than him attacking me, was the look in his eyes—a haunted, desperate look. Like some wounded animal.
A circle had gathered around Stewart and me. No one looked at one another. They just stood, frozen, staring at Stewart with open mouths. I didn’t say anything either. I just sat there on the stage, gasping for breath. Who was this strange old man yelling at me?
“Stewart!” Ms. Vale yelled. She’d been saying his name over and over, louder and louder, trying to get his attention before finally shouting it, her voice impossibly loud.
It worked. Stewart shut up. The auditorium went silent.
“I think,” Ms. Vale said, digging her fingers into her hair, “we should call it a day.”
Stewart glanced down at me. There was a loud ringing sound as he pulled his new sword from its scabbard, followed by a gasp from everyone else. With a cry of anguish, he stabbed his sword straight down into the wooden floor of the stage, then stormed off, muttering under his breath. Everyone watched him leave the auditorium. Except me. I just stared at the sword still swaying back and forth in the center of the stage.
The kids left without saying much, drifting off in twos and threes to quiet whispers, still in awe of the spectacle. Ms. Vale just stood there shaking her head. It was the first time I’d ever seen her look rattled.
She came over and helped me to my feet.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded.
She sighed. “Maybe I’ve been pushing too hard.”
“It’s not a big deal. Stewart and I fool around like this all the time. He just got a little carried away. He’s very dedicated.”
“He certainly is,” she said, shaking her head again. She looked back at me and mustered a smile. “Well, try to relax this weekend, Frenchy. And don’t worry about that monologue. We’ll pick it up first thing on Monday. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
She gave my shoulder a little squeeze, then went over to speak to a couple kids who hadn’t left yet.
I went over to the sword. It was stuck in there pretty good—I had to twist it back an
d forth a bit to get it out. It left quite a mark in the stage. I rubbed a few splinters away with my shoe, then left the auditorium, sword in tow.
“Frenchy!” a voice called out. It was Kaela. She’d followed me into the lobby.
“Oh, hey.” I paused to let her catch up. Pretty much everyone had left, and it was just the two of us. For a few seconds, we just stood there, quiet. It was kind of awkward, to tell you the truth.
“Can I give you a ride home?” she said at last.
“Sure.” I was pretty glad for the offer, actually. It saved me from having to walk through town with a big-ass sword over my shoulder.
“Cool.” She gave me a sideways smile and took my free arm in hers, and we headed out to the parking lot. A wave of giddiness overtook me, with her close like that. The sword slipped from my hand and clattered to the pavement. We both jumped.
I stared at it for a moment, listening to its fading ring. It was Kaela who finally reached down and picked it up.
“Jesus, this thing’s heavy,” she said, handing it back to me.
“Yeah. I don’t know how Stewart can deal with carrying it around all the time.”
“Maybe you just get used to it,” she said as we reached her car.
We were quiet for the first part of the drive.
“So that was a crazy scene,” she finally said as we crossed over the bridge and started up Suffolk Heights.
“Yup.”
“Stewart’s a pretty intense guy, isn’t he?”
“Yup,” I said again.
“I never realized he was that way,” she said. “He always seemed so laid-back. You both did.”
“It’s mostly the play. All that pressure. But Stewart’s always been intense in his own way,” I said. “I suppose I am too. I worry about all kinds of shit. I don’t know. Maybe that’s why we’re friends.”
“But he’s kind of different, though, isn’t he?”
“I suppose. Guess I’m used to it.”
“You’re a good friend, Frenchy,” she said. “I heard what you said to Ms. Vale before you left.”
“Everyone’s just tired. That’s all.”
“Yeah, well, it was good what you said.”
“Thanks.”
We pulled into my driveway and sat there for a minute with the car running.
“You want to come inside?” I said at last, trying not to cringe as I said it. It sounded so lame, at least coming from me.
She glanced at the house, and before she even spoke, I knew what she was going to say. There it was—that little look of fear. She’d heard the story about my father, of course. All the kids had. But I’d forgotten.
She scrunched up her face in apology. “I have to get home. My parents and I are going out for dinner.”
“That’s cool. And thanks again for the ride. You saved me a hell of a walk.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice still all apologetic. I grabbed the sword and jumped out to spare her any more embarrassment.
“Hey!” she called out, rolling down the window as I headed for the steps.
“Yeah?”
“There’s a party tomorrow night, up at the old airport. All the techs are going. Want to come with us?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“What’s your cell phone number? I’ll text you.”
I hesitated. “I don’t actually have one.”
“Oh,” she said. She looked surprised. Goddam cell phones.
“I mean, I had one. But I lost it. I’m sort of in between phones right now. You know how it is.”
“Sure.” She wrote something down on a slip of paper and held it out the window. I came over and took it from her. It was a phone number. “Here’s mine. Call me if you need a ride.”
She gave me a quick smile, then backed out of the driveway and headed down the hill. I tucked the number in my pocket, gave the sword a swing, and watched her drive away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When I got inside, there was a note on the counter:
Hi, Sweetie—
Got a double shift tonight. (Covering for Jeanie.) But I have all day off tomorrow. Am planning a special dinner for you and Stewart before trick-or-treating—something to send you off in style. Don’t worry—I called Stewart’s mother. It’s all arranged. Love you, Mom
I winced at the message. Stewart and I went trick-or-treating every Halloween. We’d gone our freshman year as a sort of joke—being in high school and all, it was kind of ridiculous—but we had so much fun, it just sort of stuck. But after today, I couldn’t imagine Stewart coming over for dinner, let alone us going out trick-or-treating. I wasn’t even sure I wanted him to.
I laid the sword down on the table and went to the fridge. I was starved from skipping lunch, so I made a sandwich and gobbled it down. After that, I ran out of ideas. I thought about watching TV but ended up just pacing around. The house was lonely and quiet, and all I could do was think about Stewart, then Kaela, then my mom, then my dad, then back to Stewart again, getting more and more agitated by the minute.
“Fuck it,” I finally said, and left.
I headed down the hill, crossed over to Ralph’s, and banged on the door. No one answered, but his crappy old Camaro was parked in the driveway, so I knew he was around. I banged some more. Finally, he appeared.
I hadn’t seen Ralph much since the Great Taco Spat almost a month ago. My mother had been out with him only a few times since, and he’d pretty much steered clear of our place. You’d think I’d have been dancing in the street over this turn of events, but oddly enough, I felt kind of bad. I didn’t know if I’d put her off Ralph, or if it was because of him—he was Ralph, after all—but either way, she seemed more miserable than ever.
“Oh,” he mumbled, seeing me. “Hey, Frenchy.”
“Hey, Ralph.”
He looked fucking awful, which for Ralph is really saying something. His eyes were squinty-baked and bloodshot; his face was covered with a shitty-looking beard, all black and patchy; his mullet was uncombed, with hair sticking out at weird angles; and his clothes looked and smelled like they hadn’t been washed for a few weeks. Between Ralph, the car, and the house, the place was like white-trash central.
“Jesus, Ralph, you look like shit.”
“Thanks, Frenchy,” he said, his voice flat. I wondered if he’d even heard me. “Want to come in?”
“Sure.”
I stepped through the door and into the kitchen. The whole house reeked of pot and cigarette smoke, but there was another smell mixed in. A delicious smell.
“Are you cooking or something?”
He went over and opened the oven door, then pulled out a big fucking turkey in a roasting pan and started slowly basting it.
“Yeah, bro. Cooking makes me feel better. And it’s almost November. Time for turkey.”
He finished basting and closed the oven. I followed him into the living room. It had gone back to being a mess, which made me kind of sad, even though it looked more like it was supposed to. Maybe that’s what made me sad.
“So what’s up?” He flopped down into his chair. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt underneath a ratty old bathrobe. I realized why—it was cold as hell in the house.
“Not much, I guess.” I hesitated. “I was wondering if I could get a little weed. You know, just a joint or something.”
Ralph raised his eyebrows once and nodded.
“Sure thing, bro,” he said, standing up. “I’ll roll you a few. Help yourself in the meantime.”
He gestured to the bong on the coffee table, then headed down the hall to his room. While he took care of business, I fired up the bong and took a hit. It didn’t go far. I hadn’t smoked pot for a whole month, and as soon as it hit my lungs, I started hacking and choking. My whole chest felt like it was on fire. I wiped my eyes and tried to get a hold of myself.
“You okay?” Ralph said, drifting back into the room.
“Fine,” I croaked, still coughing. I took the two joints he offered and t
ucked them in my shirt pocket. “Thanks, Ralph. How much?”
“Don’t worry about it.” He dropped back down in the chair and lit a cigarette. We were quiet for a few minutes. Then he looked up at me.
“I’m sorry about the whole play thing,” he said. “You know, calling you queer and all that.”
“Thanks, Ralph. I said some shit too.”
He nodded. “So how’s the play going, anyways?”
“It’s getting there. We’ve got a few more weeks to go. Opening night is the Friday before Thanksgiving.”
“Cool, bro. Can’t wait to see it.”
“Me too.”
He nodded and went quiet again, staring down at the floor, lost in his own little whatever. I could feel the bong hit now, rocketing in faster than I would’ve liked, and I found myself wishing I were somewhere else. Even the double-wide had better vibes than this place. But I couldn’t just get up and leave, not after his generosity.
“So,” I said, “haven’t seen you around much lately.”
I didn’t realize how rotten it was going to sound until I actually said it. I tried not to grimace.
Ralph sighed. “Yeah. Your mother hasn’t really been returning my calls. I don’t know what the deal is. Maybe it’s over.” He sighed again, then looked up at me. Christ, his eyes were all wet. I had this sudden panic that he might start to cry.
“Am I really a loser, Frenchy?” He reached up to wipe his eyes.
“Forget it, Ralph. I was just talking shit,” I said. “Besides, we’re all losers in one way or another. You can’t win.”
“I don’t know where I went wrong with her,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought everything was going real good, and then it all just sort of went away. You know her, bro. What’s the deal?”
Fucking Ralph.
“I don’t know, man,” I said, then hesitated. Here it was—my opportunity to be rid of the douche bag forever, floating right there in front of me. All I had to do was reach out and pluck it.
But there he was—miserable, wasted, pathetic. And what had he done to deserve it? What had he ever done to me?
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