Rotten (9780545495899)

by Northrop, Michael

  “Is that Johnny down there?” calls Mr. F.

  Mrs. F. peers down at us, probably scanning the pond’s edge for firearms, meth pipes, or prostitutes.

  “Yep,” I say.

  It’s no longer Windbreaker weather, and I’m sort of relieved that their shirts don’t match, too.

  Rudy takes one hand off the pole and gives them half a wave.

  “Catch anything?” says Mr. F.

  “Caught a sunfish, but that guy ate it,” I say, nodding toward JR.

  “Which guy?” says Mr. F.

  “Oh, Hank,” says his wife, her weapons inspection complete.

  JR fires off a warning bark at Mr. F., but they just think he’s saying hi. Then he goes back to lying down, like he can’t be bothered with this.

  “Well, we’ll leave you to it,” says Mrs. F.

  “Hope you catch something,” says Mr. F.

  “Hope you catch syphilis,” says Rudy, under his breath.

  “What’s that?” says Mrs. F.

  “Nothing,” Rudy says. “Thanks!”

  They wave good-bye to us and then to JR, who raises his head and looks up the slope at them. Happy with that, they wander off down the path, and we go back to not catching anything. JR goes back to lying in the sun. A few minutes later, his eyes are closed and his side is moving up and down as he breathes.

  School is off the list of approved subjects, talking about Mars would just make me angry, and there’s nothing doing out here. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything left to say. Turns out, I’m wrong.

  “So,” Rudy says in that wading-into-something way.

  “Yeah?”

  “Saw Janie downtown.”

  “When, today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t you just see her the other day?”

  “I don’t think that was me, dude.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. It was Aaron.

  “Anyway,” says Rudy. “It’s not like I’m stalking her.”

  No, I am. JR’s legs kick a few times and he makes a weird little noise, but his eyes stay closed the whole time. He’s dreaming. It’s either about chasing something, or being chased.

  “What was she doing?” I ask, looking back at Rudy.

  “Jumping jacks,” he says. “What d’you think? She was working.”

  “She works downtown?”

  “Wait, you didn’t know that?”

  “No, where?”

  “Yeah,” says Rudy. “She works at that garden place. Has all summer. Anyway, it’s right across from the market. She was working out front, and I saw her on my way in.”

  “How’d she look?” I say.

  “Dirty,” he says.

  “Shut up, man.”

  “No, literally. She was taking plants out of little plastic things and putting them in pots. She was dirty, like dirt dirty.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s cool.”

  “It’s not.”

  “And she’s been there all summer?” I say. I sort of wonder how much money she’s been making and what she’s been doing with it. Dracula probably has her putting half of it away for college.

  “Yeah, I think,” says Rudy. “Again, not stalking.”

  We go back to fishing for a while, even though all it really amounts to is watching the little plastic bobber float on the surface. I sort of forgot about this part. When I think of fishing when I was a kid, I think of catching a few things and opening day at the lake and that little snack bar they have. Fishing is, like, 98 percent waiting, but I only remember the other 2 percent.

  “You should stop by,” says Rudy.

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, just buy a plant or something.”

  “What do I need a plant for?”

  “You don’t, moron, but just buy one and say hi.”

  “Oh yeah. How much is a plant? Like a small one?”

  “The hell would I know?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You work right across the parking lot.”

  “Yeah, like a day or two a week. Anyway, it’s a garden store, so they have other things besides plants.”

  “Like what?” I say.

  “Like rakes,” he says, and then he breaks into a smile. “And hoes.”

  “Watch it, dude,” I say, but that was pretty good.

  “Anyway, you should go soon,” he says. “This is probably her last weekend.”

  We’re so perilously close to talking about school starting up again that I figure I might as well.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ll see her in school.”

  Rudy starts to say something, stops, then says it anyway: “You sure about that?”

  I’m not. It’s not a big school, but it’s big enough for one person to ignore another.

  We go back to fishing. A few false alarms later, we lose our hook in the weeds.

  “Stupid weeds!” I shout. “You’ll pay for that.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be three cents, please,” says Rudy.

  JR opens his eyes to see what the noise is about, and then he stands up. It’s like he knows it’s time to go, too. It’s probably past time. My face feels hot and tight from all the sun.

  “Dude, is my face —?”

  “Like a lobster,” says Rudy.

  He already had some color, so his looks pretty much the same. I untie JR’s leash from the tree. He shakes his head to clear the dog dreams out and we all head up the slope. Halfway home, Rudy peels off and heads for his place.

  “Later,” I say.

  “Yep,” he says. He takes the pole with him.

  Then it’s just JR and me.

  “You have a good rest, boy?” It doesn’t seem weird to talk to him when I’m alone. I don’t know if he’s really listening, but I’m pretty sure he’s not judging me for it. “I don’t know what you’re resting from. Other resting, I guess.”

  He stops and marks a bush with processed pond water.

  “Liked that fish, didn’t ya?”

  I don’t say anything else the rest of the way, and neither does he. When we reach the backyard, I look at the fence, at the spot where Mars must’ve hopped it. Then I flip the latch on the gate and we head inside. I know JR probably wants to hit the water dish and then head to his spot in the living room, so I reach down to undo his leash.

  He turns back to look at exactly the same time, and suddenly my face is right next to his. By the time I realize what I’ve done, it’s already too late.

  His mouth comes up fast, way too fast for me to get out of the way. There’s nothing I can do. His mouth snaps open, and he licks me.

  He gets the side of my chin, the corner of my mouth, and some of my nose.

  “Aw!” I sputter. “Man!”

  Dog slobber — with a whiff of sunfish! I wipe the back of my hand across the bottom of my face. It’s the first time he’s done that, the first time he’s licked my face, just like a normal dog. It’s kind of disgusting, but I don’t mind at all.

  I walk downtown on Saturday morning. Maybe I’m going to see Janie, maybe I’m not. I don’t even know if she’s working today. Either way, it’s the second-to-last day of summer vacation, and I feel like doing something. I didn’t have a job this summer, obviously, but I didn’t spend much, either. Add it all up, and I’ve got a twenty-dollar bill in my wallet and I sort of feel like spending it.

  Halfway there, I get a text from Rudy. He called Aaron, looking for secondhand info on Mars, but he didn’t get any: Nothing from A. Boxed out. Aaron has always been good at keeping his mouth shut. I reply: Thnx man. Heading downtown.

  In da car, he writes. Since it’s Saturday morning, he’s probably going food shopping with his folks at the big Price Chopper out by the interstate.

  OK, later, I text.

  It’s extremely cool of Rudy to do all this slick spy work for me. I know he hung out with those two a lot this summer, but it sort of feels like the battle lines have been drawn now, and I really appreciate him coming back to my side. Not like I
thought he’d choose them, but he definitely could’ve stayed neutral.

  I reach the edge of downtown, cross over on to the sidewalk, and pass the first few stores. It’s another nice day, and the sun is hitting the big, clean front windows of the shops. People are walking along the sidewalks and walkways, staying inside the lines. Cars are rolling slowly through town, stopping at the crosswalk, moving on. No one seems to be in a hurry, and everything seems so small-town perfect you could just puke, you know? I make the difficult decision not to vomit and just go with it.

  I’ve got two more days of vacation and a twenty to spend, and I’m hoping this whole thing with JR will be over soon. Mom didn’t have much to say when she got back from work last night, only that she took JR to the vet to get retested and that she was sure everything was fine, “like it was the last time I took him.”

  He’d already gotten his shots and vaccinations and all that stuff, so no rabies or anything crazy like that. And the bite itself wasn’t much, so what’s left, right? I still haven’t heard from Mars, and Mom never heard back from his parents after the trip to the vet, because what could they really say? We’ll just wait till the hospital sends out the bill on Monday or whenever and pay for some fresh bandages and whatever junk they bought in the gift shop.

  Give it a week and things will be back to normal. The battle lines will disappear, and I probably won’t have to worry about Mars dropping by and eating all my snacks for a while. It’s a win-win. Unless it’s not, but right now that’s the way I’m trying to look at it.

  I head into the little coffee place to get a small one to go and maybe a snack. Mom and Rudy both say coffee’s an “acquired taste,” and I’m trying to acquire it. It seems like a cooler way to get my caffeine than Mountain Dew. I’m sixteen now; I can’t drink bright green soda forever.

  It’s midmorning and the tables are all full, but the line isn’t too bad. I get the coffee to go and load it up with milk and sugar. I get a large chocolate chip cookie, in case the coffee is still too bitter, but it isn’t. I sit outside on the coffee shop’s one bench, eat the cookie, and drink half the coffee. It’s not so bad with all the sugar in it. Then I get up and start walking toward the garden store.

  I have an idea of how I want this to go: I’ll be walking by, casually sipping my coffee like some dude from France, and will just happen to look in the window. What do you know? There’s Janie. We’ll make eye contact and I’ll head in. Just to say hi, no big deal. I’ll push open the door and maybe there’s an old lady with her arms full of flowers, so I’ll hold it open for her and everyone will see me do it. Once she’s gone, I’ll make some funny comment and everyone will laugh, especially Janie.

  That’s the general plan anyway, but I’m walking so slow that I run out of coffee before I get there. I consider going back for another one, but I figure I can still hold the cup, and this way, there’s zero chance of spilling when I open the door.

  I cross the parking lot and spot the door — worn green paint and a dull metal handle. I begin my approach, moving even slower now. It’s just that I haven’t seen Janie in a really long time and, I think I mentioned this, it did not go well the last time I did. Plus, I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do in there. I mean, apart from dazzling everyone with a funny line that I haven’t thought of yet.

  I guess I’ll buy a plant, like Rudy said, but what if she’s not there? Would I still have to buy one? I guess I could be like: Give me your smallest, most hard-core, lowest-maintenance plant, please. Or maybe I could buy some gardening gloves or plant food or whatever’s cheapest. And just like that, I’m past the door now.

  The walkway in front is gravel, so I sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies as I walk past the window. I look in and there she is. She’s standing behind the counter and looking out, bored. Just like that, she sees me. I see her see me: Her head turns and stops. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped moving until I register the lack of snap, crackle, and pop from the gravel. We make eye contact through the glass. Wasn’t that part of my plan?

  It was, but not like this. I’m heading the wrong way. If I turn around now, it will be the opposite of casual, the opposite of cool. And where’s my coffee cup? I close my fingers to make sure it’s still there and feel the paper sides crumple in my hand.

  I don’t know what to do, but I have to do something. I go forward just because that’s the direction I’m headed, but once I start, I feel like that’s that. I can’t boomerang back. Which doesn’t explain why I was in front of the store in the first place. I reach the end of the walkway and there’s nothing left to do but head back across the parking lot.

  Maybe she watches me go and maybe she doesn’t. Her image is still in my mind: her head turning and then stopping as she sees me, her eyes a mystery at that distance. I have no idea what she was thinking. Was she happy to see me? Angry? Annoyed? I don’t know. She looked good, though. She had a nice tan and her hair was a little lighter. That’s probably from the sun, too.

  I’m thinking about all this as I’m passing by CVS. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone shoulder through the door and stop dead. I turn to look: It’s Mars. His arm is in a brand-new sling, the material so white, it seems to glow in the sunlight. That snake.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” says Mars.

  I haven’t even said anything to him yet. It’s a preemptive strike, but he’s not getting off that easy.

  “Yeah, if you open your mouth too wide, some of the bull —” I start, but I stop and start over. I remember the situation and, even though it’s a total kick in the crotch, I force myself to dial it back. “What’s that thing for?”

  He looks down at the sling. From his expression, you’d think he’d never seen it before, but I know that’s not why he looks so confused. He’s trying to figure out how to explain it to me, the one person who knows how ridiculous it is. It’s, like, a special hand sling. The slings I’ve seen before, like on football players at school, let the hand hang out the front. They’re just made to keep the arm or the elbow still, I guess. But the end of this one is closed off, so that the hand is stuffed in there. I can see his knuckles pushing out against the white fabric near the end.

  “You know what it’s for,” he says.

  “No, I really don’t,” I say. “It was just a little bite. Dude, I saw it.”

  Someone comes through the door, and we have to move aside, a little off the walkway.

  “You didn’t get a good look,” he says. He hasn’t looked me in the eyes yet.

  “I cleaned it up and put a bandage on it!”

  “Two,” Mars says.

  “Yeah, two little bandages,” I say. “I’m sorry I was all out of Winnie-the-Pooh ones. Where’d you get that thing?”

  “The hospital,” he says.

  “From the doctor?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “You got it in the frickin’ gift shop, didn’t you?” I say. The gift shop in the hospital sells stuff for recovering patients. I had a reaction to a yellow-jacket sting when I was a kid, and Mom bought me a “pirate” eye patch there. I was too young to realize it was just a regular eye patch. I don’t even need to wait for Mars to answer to know I’m right. “Can’t wait to see that on the bill.”

  “Shut up, man,” he says, and now he does look me in the eyes.

  I crossed a line there, reminding him that his mom was going to be sending a bill to mine. He’s touchy about his family, even though he’s just like them.

  “Take that thing off,” I say.

  “Why?” he says.

  “Because you don’t need it,” I say.

  “Maybe I do.”

  “You don’t, and you know it.”

  “You don’t know what I know,” he says. “You just don’t want everyone to find out what a psycho that stupid dog of yours is. He’s a hazard, man. He’s dangerous.”

  “Only if you make him,” I say.

  “What?” he says. “Shut up.”

  “You hopped
the fence,” I say. “I know you did. You cornered him. He’s a rescue, man. You can’t do that. That’s all on you.”

  “What? No way,” he says, but then he can’t help himself. “Wait, did you see?”

  I start to respond, but he must realize what he just said, and he cuts me off.

  “Because there wasn’t anything to see!” he says. “I was outside it, and he jumped up!”

  “Yeah, is that the official story?” I say. I’m about to cross the same line again, but I can’t help it. I’m so mad at him right now. I have seventeen bucks and change left, and I’d give all of it to punch him right in the head. I wonder how he’d put a sling on that. “Is that what your mom is telling you to say?”

  I can see that one land. It’s solid contact, a direct hit, but he shakes it off.

  “Yeah, you’d know all about that kind of thing, huh?” he says. “Official stories?”

  “Shut up, man,” I say. “Seriously.”

  “Seriously,” he says, imitating my voice, but making it higher.

  I see his eyes dart to the side, so mine do the same. People are stopping and watching. One guy has shopping bags in both arms and a couple has matching strollers in front of them. A few others are just standing there. They think there might be a fight. I don’t know if they’re getting ready to step in or if they just want a free show. And I’d love to give them one, but I can’t. For one thing, he’s wearing a sling, and even if it’s total bull, they don’t know that. They probably think I’m the reason he’s wearing it in the first place. And two, I’ve got to dial it back again, because he’s got something over me right now. He can cause real problems. I exhale.

  “Sorry, man,” I say.

  It catches him off guard. It sort of catches me off guard, too. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to do it.