by Chris Lynch
“We’ll take it up at the next meeting,” Steven said, sounding an awful lot like the leader of this outfit. “As I was saying, out in the woods, in the heat of battle, our lea-der here offered me the job, no strings, no votes, on the spot. He tried to abdicate.”
Ling was shocked. “Jerome? Jerome, is this true? In the field, man, you tried to give up your command? That’s where great leaders are made, is in the field. Say it isn’t so.”
I tried to say it. “No, see, Steven’s got it all mixed up. All I was saying there was … if I died … if I didn’t make it back … then I was appointing Steven to rule in my place, to carry forth in my—”
“Buuuuzzzzz.”
Things were starting to look mighty bleak for the good guy.
“And third, that one night when we slept together in that tent, I watched him while he was sleeping and—”
“Fine, I quit! I resign!” I said. “The inquest is now over. Unless you want to pursue me in criminal court.”
“No,” Steven said. “I think we can grant you a pardon.”
“You’re a sport,” I said.
Steven looked very pleased with himself. So did Wolfgang, but he always looks that way. Ling looked disappointed in me.
You couldn’t shut Steven up the rest of the way home.
“Big things, Jerome,” he rambled on. “Nothing can stop us now. We proved ourselves up there, out in the wilds. We proved some things to ourselves, and to the world. Even you did it, in your own small way.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Steven,” Wolf joined. “I think if somebody doesn’t crack a window in here soon, you might not get any oxygen to your brain in time to recover.”
Steven laughed heartily, as if it were a joke he was sharing, buddy-buddy, with Wolf, even though in truth Wolfgang never does so much share a joke with a person as dump it on him. Steven simply loved being in charge.
“We’ll pick up new recruits. We’ll dominate. We’ll build ourselves a new clubhouse, better than that crappy two-story brick place the Boy Scouts have over on the parkway …”
I think some of this was wafting up toward the front seat, because suddenly the windows opened. Steven had outgassed the big boys.
When we finally pulled back into the city, Steven had an idea.
“Dad, don’t take us home,” he said to his father in a very commanding voice.
Gunnar and Lars both turned slowly, completely, around to stare at Steven while the Bronco continued driving dangerously forward.
“I mean, please,” he corrected himself. “We feel like celebrating, right, guys?”
Ling said nothing.
“I suppose,” I mumbled.
“Give me one good reason,” Wolf challenged.
“I’m buying,” Steven said.
“Take us to the Four Seasons,” Wolf called to the driver.
“Take us to Friendly’s,” Steven corrected.
Gunnar jerked the car to a stop, double-parked in front of the ice cream shop. He sat silently as we piled out, got the chair, got Wolf into the chair, and pulled out all our gear.
“Sure you got all your equipment, Underwear Boy?” asked Lars. “Sure you didn’t leave a couple of pairs on the floor back there?”
I did not dignify that with a response.
They then pulled out quickly from the curb, tore off as if they were heading back up to the hills, then pulled up to the curb in front of the bar half a block away.
When we were all seated, Steven even started ordering for us.
“Gimme that,” Wolf said, snatching the menu away from Steven. Then he addressed the waitress. “I’ll have the double Bananafana Sundae, a root-beer float, and a large basket of french fries.” As the waitress wrote, Wolf swung a look up to Steven, who was breaking out in a sweat as he counted out all the money he had in his pocket.
“I’ll just have a banana,” Ling said.
“We don’t sell bananas,” the waitress answered.
“Oh, okay,” Ling said, and withdrew.
Wolf swooped in. He lived for this kind of stuff. “Wait a minute—you don’t sell bananas? What do you make bananafanas with, fanas?”
She grunted. “We make them with bananas, yes. But we’re not in the business of selling the ingredients individually. Would you like to buy a pound of sugar too? Or some Crisco?”
Wolf went into his Mr. Cool whisper. “Listen, you bring us a banana, right, and my friend over here will pay you two dollars for it, okay?”
She wrote it down. “Rich brats,” she muttered.
“And don’t peel it,” Ling said nervously. “Bring it encased. I’ll peel it myself.”
She raised one eyebrow at Ling. “Are you allowed to peel them yourself?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, as if she were actually seeking the information.
“How ’bout you there, Underwear Boy?” Steven asked me. “I think I have about one dollar left. Want a cone?”
“Pass,” I said. “Actually, guys, I’m pretty wiped out. I think I’m going to go home.”
“Oh, stay,” Steven said, but he was still in gloat mode, so it wasn’t a real invitation.
“No, I’m gone. I’ll see you all at the club tomorrow.”
“Grrreat!” Steven said, like Tony the Frosted Flakes Tiger.
Which was a good note to leave on.
I was a half block toward home when I saw them coming up a side street, and I panicked. My first thought was to run, but they’re all faster than me anyway, and with my gear I didn’t stand a chance. Now I really did wish I had my gang with me. They saw me, recognized me, and hurried my way. I was dead meat.
“Hold up,” she called.
It was her. Monica. Malicious Monica and her roving band of savage Girl Scouts. Monica who loves He-Man Steven to the point of making him throw up and making the world an unsafe place for anyone who gets in her way.
“Where you been, Jer-rooome?” She had a way of saying my name that made “Underwear Boy” sound like a compliment.
“I’ve been … away, Mon-i-ca.” Then I remembered where I’d been and decided to make use of it. “In the woods. Hunting and camping and killing stuff.”
“Oooohhhh,” all four of them said at the same time.
“So, where’s your big buddy Steven? And the rest of your She-Boy Women-Scaredies Club? We’ve been by your office three times since Friday looking for you to come out and play.”
Oh no, I said to myself, not this boy. I’m not giving away the location of my men to the enemy. I’m not going to be the rat who sells his troops to—
But wait. My troops? Oh no, I was mistaken. They were not my troops anymore. I had been overthrown.
Underwear Boy had been busted.
We had new leadership—fearless, ready to face anything. Anything.
“Are you deaf, Jer-oooome, or do you just need me to speak slower?”
I snapped out of it. “Right this way,” I said sweetly.
As we approached the booth, Wolf was the first to see the parade, since he was in his chair out in the aisle. Then Ling caught on. Steven, with his back to the front entrance, was last to know.
“Jerome,” Wolf said, “you big stud monkey. Look at you, you girl magnet. You’re just beating them off with a stick.”
“Get me a stick,” I muttered out of the side of my mouth, “and I will.”
“Monica, dar-ling, how have you been?” Wolfgang sang.
I peered around to catch Steven’s face.
It was everything I’d hoped it would be.
“Steven, man, what’d you swallow a fork?”
Ling sat staring at his napkin, scratching the last of the nutrients out of the banana peel with his fingernail. Wolf sucked up the last of the float loudly with his striped straw, sat up straight, and checked his reflection in the big ice cream spoon.
“Not even a hello?” Monica said to Steven.
“Not even a hello,” I mimicked.
“Not even,” Wolf joined in.
Do you get the feeling it doesn’t matter to Wolfgang who it is that’s in trouble, as long as there’s a target?
“H’lo,” Steven croaked.
“I still owe you an ice cream,” she said, referring to a public offer she had made before Steven barfed on TV and humiliated himself in front of half the world.
“Oh, I do remember something about that, Steven,” I said. “Do you remember that, Wolfgang?”
“Is it like a gift-certificate thing?” Wolf asked, “where he can give it to anyone to use? Or is it like one of those nontransferable lottery-type things? Because I sure could go for an ice cream right now, but I don’t think Steve-o’s all that hungry. You hungry, there, Steve-o?”
Steven’s face looked an almost artificial pink, the paleness and the blushing all swirling around in there together.
“I have a hatchet,” Ling blurted.
“Way to break the ice there, Ling,” I said.
“See, so I think I’m your man, Monica,” Wolfgang went on.
Behind Monica her team started muttering, laughing, perhaps strategizing.
“Don’t fret back there, all of you. There’s plenty of me to go around,” Wolf said. “But of course you all have to buy me ice creams first.”
“You’re funny,” Monica said to Wolf. “But sorry, the offer is nontransferable. It’s for Steven alone.”
“Wooooo,” Wolf and I—and Monica’s goons—said all at the same time. I must admit, it was not my finest hour.
“Jeez, Steven, say something,” Wolf finally said, poking Steven in the ribs.
“Um … I just had a cone.”
And we all waited patiently for the rest, but that was it. Eventually even Monica gave up.
“Okay then,” she said brightly. That’s her big weapon, that brightness. “I’ll be around. Maybe we’ll drop by your clubhouse this week, just to say hi.”
“Good idea,” Wolf called as the girls headed out the door. “I think it’s about time my club and your club got together for a jamboree or something.”
When she was gone, Steven returned to us.
“Your club?” he asked Wolf.
Wolf ignored the question.
“You were saying, Steven, before we were interrupted? Something about nothing can stop us now? Something about being invincible and fearless?”
“Never mind that,” Steven pressed. “What do you mean, your club should get together with her club?”
“That was some mighty fine leadership on display there,” I teased, sensing my opportunity. “Hey, when you build us that new clubhouse, maybe it should have a moat and a drawbridge so Monica can’t get at you.”
“I’m not afraid of—”
“It occurred to me,” Ling added (even Ling got it now), “that while Jerome did resign, we never actually voted on a new president.”
“Ohhh … no,” Steven pleaded. “No, no you can’t! I took you out for ice cream and everything!”
Wolf laughed. “Maybe you should take us out for dinner.”
Man, this was getting to be a very tough club.
A Biography of Chris Lynch
Chris Lynch (b. 1962) was born in Boston, Massachusetts, the fifth of seven children. His father, Edward J. Lynch, was a Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority bus and trolley driver, and his mother, Dorothy, was a stay-at-home mom. Lynch’s father passed away in 1967, when Lynch was just five years old. Along with her children, Dorothy was left with an old, black Rambler American car and no driver’s license. She eventually got her license, and raised her children as a single mother.
Lynch grew up in the Jamaica Plain neighborhood, and recalls his childhood ambitions to become a hockey player (magically, without learning to ice skate properly), president of the United States, and/or a “rock and roll god.” He attended Catholic Memorial School in West Roxbury, before heading off to Boston University, neglecting to first earn his high school diploma. He later transferred to Suffolk University, where he majored in journalism, and eventually received an MA from the writing program at Emerson College. Before becoming a writer, Lynch worked as a furniture mover, truck driver, house painter, and proofreader. He began writing fiction around 1989, and his first book, Shadow Boxer, was published in 1993. “I could not have a more perfect job for me than writer,” he says. “Other than not managing to voluntarily read a work of fiction until I was at university, this gig and I were made for each other. One might say I was a reluctant reader, which surely informs my work still.”
In 1989, Lynch married, and later had two children, Sophia and Walker. The family moved to Roslindale, Massachusetts, where they lived for seven years. In 1996, Lynch moved his family to Ireland, his father’s birthplace, where Lynch has dual citizenship. After a few years in Ireland, he separated from his wife and met his current partner, Jules. In 1998, Jules and her son, Dylan, joined in the adventure when Lynch, Sophia, and Walker sailed to southwest Scotland, which remains the family’s base to this day. In 2010, Sophia had a son, Jackson, Lynch’s first grandchild.
When his children were very young, Lynch would work at home, catching odd bits of available time to write. Now that his children are grown, he leaves the house to work, often writing in local libraries and “acting more like I have a regular nine-to-five(ish) job.”
Lynch has written more than twenty-five books for young readers, including Inexcusable (2005), a National Book Award finalist; Freewill (2001), which won a Michael L. Printz Honor; and several novels cited as ALA Best Books for Young Adults, including Gold Dust (2000) and Slot Machine (1995).
Lynch’s books are known for capturing the reality of teen life and experiences, and often center on adolescent male protagonists. “In voice and outlook,” Lynch says, “Elvin Bishop [in the novels Slot Machine; Extreme Elvin; and Me, Dead Dad, and Alcatraz] is the closest I have come to representing myself in a character.” Many of Lynch’s stories deal with intense, coming-of-age subject matters. The Blue-Eyed Son trilogy was particularly hard for him to write, because it explores an urban world riddled with race, fear, hate, violence, and small-mindedness. He describes the series as “critical of humanity in a lot of ways that I’m still not terribly comfortable thinking about. But that’s what novelists are supposed to do: get uncomfortable and still be able to find hope. I think the books do that. I hope they do.”
Lynch’s He-Man Women Haters Club series takes a more lighthearted tone. These books were inspired by the club of the same name in the Little Rascals film and TV show. Just as in the Little Rascals’ club, says Lynch, “membership is really about classic male lunkheadedness, inadequacy in dealing with girls, and with many subjects almost always hiding behind the more macho word hate when we cannot admit that it’s fear.”
Today, Lynch splits his time between Scotland and the US, where he teaches in the MFA creative writing program at Lesley University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His life motto continues to be “shut up and write.”
Lynch, age twenty, wearing a soccer shirt from a team he played with while living in Jamaica Plain, Boston.
Lynch with his daughter, Sophia, and son, Walker, in Scotland’s Cairngorm Mountains in 2002.
Lynch at the National Book Awards in 2005. From left to right: Lynch’s brother Brian; his mother, Dot; Lynch; and his brother E.J.
Lynch with his family at Edinburgh’s Salisbury Crags at Hollyrood Park in 2005. From left to right: Lynch’s daughter, Sophia; niece Kim; Lynch; his son, Walker; his partner, Jules, and her son, Dylan; and Lynch’s brother E.J.
In 2009, Lynch spoke at a Massachusetts grade school and told the story of Sister Elizabeth of Blessed Sacrament School in Jamaica Plain, the only teacher he had who would “encourage a proper, liberating, creative approach to writing.” A serious boy came up to Lynch after his talk, handed him this paper origami nun, and said, “I thought you should have a nun. Her name is Sister Elizabeth.” Sister Elizabeth hangs in Lynch’s car to this day.
Lynch and his “champion mystery multibreed knucklehea
ded hound,” Dexter, at home in Scotland in 2011. Says Lynch, “Dexter and I often put our heads together to try and fathom an unfathomable world.” Though Dexter lives with him, Lynch is allergic to dogs, and survives by petting Dexter with his feet and washing his hands multiple times a day!
Lynch never makes a move without first consulting with his trusted advisor and grandson, Jackson. This photo was taken in 2012, when Jackson was two years old, in Lynch’s home in Coylton, South Ayrshire, Scotland. Lynch later discovered his house was locally known as “the Hangman’s Cottage” because of the occupation of one of its earliest residents. One of his novels, The Gravedigger’s Cottage, is loosely based on this house.
Lynch dressed up as Wolverine for Halloween in 2012.
Turn the page to continue reading from the He-Man Women Hater’s Club series
1
A Box of Chocolates
HATE IS SUCH A STRONG WORD.
I love it.
Because at least it says something. I figure, if you’re going to open your mouth, you might as well say something. Who cares if we don’t actually hate women—maybe we do, maybe we don’t. It’s how it sounds that counts. And the He-Man Women Haters Club sounds a lot tougher than the He-Man Couldn’t-Get-a-Date-if-We-Wanted-to Club.
That’s not me, of course, but it does cover most of the guys in my club.
That’s right, my club. They’ve been wanting me to take control since the day I showed up, but I kept telling them, listen, you guys just aren’t ready for the big leagues yet. But they just kept begging and begging, and then their first leader, Steven, belly flopped, and then the second, Jerome, burrowed into his own belly button when the going got tough, and so the president of the United States called me himself and pleaded that I take over the situation….
So I’ll do it temporarily, until this ship is afloat again. Then they’re on their own, ’cause I’ve got bigger things on my plate than wasting my time being president of everything.