Rotten (9780545495899)

by Northrop, Michael

  I open my lips and suck in air through my teeth, an involuntary hiss. Then I slowly duck my head into the place where the screen used to be. As I do, I see the outline of a head doing the exact same thing across the room, peering around the door frame and looking out at me looking in.

  “Run!” I say, already turning around.

  “What the hell!” I hear someone call out from inside. It’s a loud male voice. His head was mostly just an outline to me — and I’m hoping mine was to him — but I figure it’s either Mars’s dad or one of his frickin’ cousins.

  “But there was no car!” Rudy huffs as we round the corner of the house.

  We are blazing across the front lawn, almost to the road, when the front door slams open behind us. We hear that unmistakable sound: Shhhuck-shick!

  “Holy crap!” I say, then BOOM!

  The shotgun goes off behind us. Rudy has never sworn louder or with better reason, but at least it lets me know that he wasn’t hit. It’s hard to tell, what with my stomach in my chest, my heart in my throat, and my brain trying to get out of my ears, but I think it might’ve been a warning shot: up rather than at. Either way, we really turn on the jets after that.

  We make it off the lawn and to the road without another shot fired. We don’t know if the guy is chasing us or what, and I practically tear the door off the Fiesta before I jump inside. Rudy does the same. He jams his hand into his pocket and his keys emerge in a spray of spare change. He finds the right key, jams it in, and turns it.

  The car won’t start.

  Our eyes flick up toward the road in front of us, the corner we just came around at Mach 3. I fully expect to see some dude with a corncob pipe in his mouth and a shotgun in his hands come Confederate-soldiering it around the bend.

  “Come on, man,” I say. “Come. On.”

  Rudy is stomping on the gas instead of feathering it, flooding the Fiesta’s tiny engine. He realizes it at the same moment I do and lets up on the pedal. The Fiesta coughs and huffs and jerks to life like a guy who was just pulled from a lake. Rudy executes a wild, low-speed U-turn without checking either way.

  We don’t die, and for a long time, we just drive. Past my house, out of Stanton, past the Dunkin’ Donuts. Finally, I say: “Think we lost him.”

  Rudy pulls into a half-empty parking lot and the Fiesta stalls before he can turn it off. It’s not even 11:00 A.M.

  All afternoon and into the night, I expect to get a call from Mr. DiMartino. If that’s who that was, he’s known both of us for a long time. Even if he didn’t get a good look at my face through the window, there’s a decent chance he’d recognize our backs.

  Over more or less the same time frame, our failure sinks in. The court date is less than a week away now. I watch a movie called White Fang with JR while I’m waiting for Mom to get home. It’s about a half wolf, half dog in Alaska or somewhere like that.

  “At least you’re not half wolf,” I say to JR.

  He looks back at me with his enormous black-and-brown head.

  “Half bear, maybe,” I say, but White Fang is back on the screen and JR is mesmerized. His reactions to seeing dogs on TV are hilarious. It’s like he suspects they aren’t real, but he still can’t help turning his head every which way to look at them, raising his ears, and sometimes even barking.

  It’s not as funny today, since I feel like I might’ve just gotten him killed, or at least failed to prevent it. I’m 100 percent out of ideas now, and nothing comes to me during the movie. Well, moving to Alaska maybe, but that doesn’t seem likely.

  Mom gets home a little late, but if anyone called her at work about me, she doesn’t say so. She’s steering clear because she knows I’m in a horrible mood. She is too, and JR is upset because we are, which just makes it worse. We have grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for dinner, as if one of us is sick.

  Rudy calls after that. This is still a crazy adventure to him, and he wants to relive it blow by blow, stall by stall. I understand: It’s a lot of excitement for a Wednesday. He does most of the recap. Every once in a while, he’ll say, “You know?” or “Remember?” and I’ll say, “Yeah, yeah” or “Man” or “Totally.”

  “Well, all right then,” he says, wrapping it up. “Guess I’ll pick you up tomorrow?”

  “I guess so.”

  We’d definitely cut school again, if we had any idea what to do with the time. Detention, we’ll risk. Getting shot in the back, that’s where we draw the line.

  “Thanks again, man,” I say.

  “No problemo,” he says and hangs up.

  I head to my computer for another round of useless Googling. My chat box launches from my home page, and I see the bubble next to Rudy’s name turn green at the same moment mine does. Don’t chat too much, dude, I think, but honestly, I don’t even care much at this point.

  I search dog bite cases for a while, looking for some trick or technicality. But if anything, these cases are even worse than the ones with the broken skylight and hot tea. There’s one where an old man was attacked on his own porch, his dog bit the attacker, and the dog wound up getting put to sleep. There’s another where a dog was taken away from a family and killed just for being a pit bull in the wrong city — not for doing anything but for being something. I see that phrase again, bully breed, but it’s pretty clear the dog isn’t the bully in this one.

  Pretty soon, I’ve had enough and start playing Kastle Keep. It’s a build-your-empire game where you complete random empire-related tasks, like “construct battlement,” by clicking on buttons. It calms me down. Plus, I’m almost at level five hundred.

  An hour later, it’s pitch-dark out and I am at level five hundred. That’s pretty impressive, considering I didn’t play it at all this summer. We were barely ever allowed online in there, and who’s going to spend all that time earning a half hour at the computer just to waste it building a fake empire? That would be sad even by juvie standards. This game is the opposite: for people spending too much time online.

  I’ve got nothing better to do, since I don’t know what my homework is. In fact, when Janie pops up on chat, I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s about. I figure she’s going to give me the English homework or warn me about a quiz or something like that. Then I figure she’ll give me trouble about ditching school while most of the class is probably still talking about me. It’s kind of true too: If you want to let a fire build, you give it space and fuel.

  As with pretty much everything I’ve been sure about lately, I’m completely wrong.

  Hey, she writes.

  Is 4 horses, I write.

  Technically that’s one of “our things” and maybe I shouldn’t be doing it right now. Then again, it might be bad if I don’t.

  Where were you? And Rudy?

  Trying something

  Did it work?

  No. Almost got killed.

  Melodramatic much?

  No srsly

  There’s a long pause and then Janie is typing: What were you trying?

  I’ve heard of chat transcripts being used in court. I don’t think Janie would ever do that to me, but I can definitely see my hard drive ending up in court someday. And my Internet provider probably has my records ready to go on a day-to-day basis.

  It was about Mars.

  He was in school.

  Talking all day?

  Seems like it

  Great

  Long pause. JD is typing: We tried to get something on him.

  That could mean anything, right? Probably shouldn’t have used we. Sorry, dude.

  Like what?

  Doesn’t matter. Didn’t happen.

  Bummer. Can you just talk to him?

  That’s such a girl thing to say.

  Didn’t work. He’s immune.

  Goo pt, she types. Good point. I love her typos, and she has never liked Mars. It was actually kind of a problem early on for us. She definitely won that argument.

  So what did you do?

  Can’t say


  OK

  We tried to get something on him, like some leverage. I shouldn’t have typed that, but I sort of want her to say that it was a good idea, that I wasn’t being a total idiot.

  Like something /incriminating/ :o

  Maybe. We tried to get to him but we can’t b/c he doesn’t care. And his family is heavily armed.

  I know how 2 get 2 Mars…. she types.

  How????

  Long pause. Janie is typing: Go to Venus, turn left.

  Not funny!

  Srry

  We are going to lose house and dog! Not funny! There’s a 90 percent chance that’s 50 percent true, but I really need her to know how not funny that was.

  Long pause. Now I feel bad. JD is typing: Sorry. Frustrated.

  It’s OK.

  You know how Mars is. He won’t listen to anyone. Excpet

  Aaron maybe.

  I spot the typo after I send it. I don’t like to have typos of my own with her, and this one looks sort of like ex pet. And as I’m having that world-shaking thought, she does some real thinking.

  Can you get 2 Aaron?

  I just look at it for a few seconds. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s like math: If A can get to B and B can get to C, then A can get to C. Because the thing about Aaron, apart from him being bigger and probably smarter than me, is that you can talk to him. You can reason with him. His brain works. And this isn’t a word I use often, but if that’s the case, maybe his heart does, too.

  Thanks! I type. You’re an angel.

  I know, she writes. Then a little smiley face with wings and a halo pops up on the next line.

  Ha! I didn’t know you had that.

  You never called me that before.

  I’m an ass. She waits just long enough for me to realize it and then her chat bubble disappears: Janie is no longer available…. But Rudy is. This time we plan without all the caffeine.

  “How was the honeymoon?” says Del Posmer from the opposite corner of the lunch table. Rudy and I are sitting here because it’s the only place left. A honeymoon is any time two dudes who know each other are conspicuously absent on the same day.

  “Beautiful,” I say. “Maui, you know?”

  “Yeah,” says Del. He doesn’t speak much.

  The first time you see Del, you want to ask: “What are you?” Not to be mean or rude or anything, but just because it’s not really clear. He looks a little bit more like a girl than like a guy, maybe 60–40, but then you notice how hairy his arms are. He’s pudgy and baby faced, so his age is hard to figure, too.

  Of course, he could grow up to be beautiful, manly, and youthful at the same time, and make a fortune playing a sparkly vampire or a tempted angel or whatever. But right now he’s hairy, effeminate, and overweight, and I only know he’s a guy because he uses the urinal. Now you might be thinking: But that’s all superficial. It’s not his fault, it’s not who he is. And that’s true, and there are probably high schools where people would look past it and find the Unique Individual Within. This is not one of those places. At Dahlimer, sitting at this table is like being exiled to a tiny island with a monster on it.

  Part of it is self-exile. I actually think Perfumegate is beginning to burn itself out, and we haven’t heard anything about what happened at Mars’s place. I guess random shotgun blasts are just business as usual out there. Mars himself is down to a few layers of gauze on his hand and no sling in sight. I told him he looked like he was doing “a lot better” when I saw him in the hall this morning. “Still tingles pretty bad,” he said.

  Rudy and I are talking at a fairly normal volume, which amounts to a whisper in the roaring chatter of the cafeteria. We hear a tray slap down across from us and look up, expecting anything other than what we see: a well-dressed, attractive, and reasonably popular girl.

  “So, what laws are you two considering breaking?” says Janie. “And how can I help?”

  Rudy stares at her. Then he looks around to see if any other hot chicks will be joining us.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Don’t get bigheaded,” she says. “I’m here for the dog.”

  “OK,” I say.

  “I can tell you two are up to something over here,” she says. “I can always tell when you two are up to something. So what is it?”

  Our current plan doesn’t call for any actual lawbreaking, but plans change. And you don’t want to telegraph your punches, either. My eyes flick over toward Del. “I’ll tell you … later,” I say.

  “Do I look like I care?” says Del, his eyes fixed firmly on his food.

  “No, but it definitely seems like you’re listening,” says Rudy.

  “Touché,” says Del.

  He takes one more bite, gathers his stuff, and leaves.

  “He didn’t have to do that,” says Janie.

  “Yes, he did,” says Rudy.

  It’s true. Still, it was cool of him, and I kind of make a mental note of it. Then I lean forward and begin telling Janie our plan.

  School’s out and we’re going to talk to Aaron. To talk to him and, in JR’s case, maybe drool on him. When we were coming up with this so-called plan, Rudy was like: “Dude, I think we have to take the dog. Aaron already knows us — and he prefers Mars. That’s pretty damning right there.”

  And he’s right, JR is a lot more lovable than we are. He’s a big, doofy, fairly badass dog, and Aaron has been wanting to meet him since day one. The problem is his teeth, and the fact that Aaron looks a lot like his least favorite thing in the world: an adult male. But it’s not like we can use the muzzle. It’s the Hannibal Lecter thing, the PR. We might as well have him snarling in a cage. And anyway, if he bites him, he bites him. It’s not like they can kill him twice.

  Our other secret weapon is Janie. I don’t know if Aaron really likes my once and hopefully future girlfriend. But I’ve definitely caught him looking a few times, and I do know she has better people skills than Rudy or me, and her hair smells a lot nicer. Plus, JR is completely in her power.

  “Upsy-daisy!” she says, and pats him on the butt. Just like that, he climbs into the tiny backseat of the two-door Fiesta.

  “How the hell?” says Rudy.

  “Not cool, dude,” I say to my dog as his stumpy nontail disappears into the car.

  We’d been trying to coax him in there for like five minutes. Now Janie climbs in after him. “It’s no problem,” she says, gracefully twisting her body through the narrow gap behind the pushed-forward front seat. “I’m Romanian. I come from a long line of gymnasts.”

  Rudy and I climb into our usual spots and close the doors: Whump! Whump! Key in the ignition and, for once, the Fiesta starts right up. It seems like a good omen.

  “This is what’s called a charm offensive,” says Janie from behind us.

  “Not if JR bites him,” I say. “Then it’s just a regular offensive.”

  “But you won’t, will you, boy?” she says to JR in something bordering on baby talk.

  He lolls his head over and looks her in the eyes, and she pets him. Right then he looks completely harmless, but she’s a girl. “We have an understanding about that,” she assures us. And then, to JR, in that voice again: “No biting. No bitey-witing.”

  Rudy starts backing out of the driveway, and suddenly JR is standing up, sitting down, standing back up, and attempting to turn around in the too-little space. He’s going a little crazy at the motion of the car, and even Janie can’t calm him down.

  “What should I …?” says Rudy.

  “Just keep going,” I say.

  It works. As soon as he shifts into drive, JR’s snout shoots over my shoulder, and he sticks his nose out the gap at the top of the window. With a few brief exceptions, he stays like that the whole ride. When we pick up speed, like on the downhills, I can practically hear his gums flapping in the wind. His eyelids are pushed back in a funny way, and every once in a while, flecks of drool hit my face or neck.

  “Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I say, wiping my cheek.


  He ignores me.

  And then Janie starts in on the music. “This song sucks,” she says. “Why do you two listen to this old junk?”

  “What?” I say. “This is Mission of Burma. Total classic.”

  “Burma’s not even a place anymore,” she says. “It should be Mission of Myanmar.”

  “That sounds completely lame,” I say.

  “Exactly!” she says.

  Rudy has his iPod hooked up to the speakers. It’s the newest thing in the car by twenty years. The next song reaches the chorus and Janie shouts over it: “Is this the Cookie Monster singing?”

  It’s Black Flag, which she should know by now, and it’s just so unfair. I mean, that’s something you could say about the singer from Cannibal Corpse or one of those bands, but not Henry frickin’ Rollins.

  “I’m sorry,” says Rudy. “I don’t have any” — he pauses and we all know he’s trying to come up with something lame — “Taylor Swift.”

  We both take a quick look in the mirror to see if that shot landed. What we see instead is that Janie’s actually bouncing her head to the chorus: “Rise above! We’re gonna rise above!” Rudy and I exchange smirks.

  “Oh, please” we hear behind us.

  It’s a short trip to Aaron’s house, even in the Fiesta, and we only get through a few songs before it comes into view. I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping my nerves in check with the music and wisecracks and all of that, but now my nerves launch a bold and decisive counterattack.

  “Well, there’s his car,” I say.

  “And we’re sure Mars isn’t here?” says Janie.

  “Yeah. Detention.”

  “That didn’t take long,” she says.

  “Never does,” I say. I don’t mention that I’m supposed to be there, too. I took us both down with a shouting match in the hallway, and now I’ll probably get doubled or even tripled up for skipping it. I just hope it’s worth it.