by Don Calame
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Acknowledgments
Charlie and I are getting our asses punched.
That’s right, punched.
It’s the wrestling team this time. The fists come fast and furious — to the back of my head, my kidneys, my shoulders.
And, yes, my ass.
I don’t know who the hell’s punching my ass, exactly, because I’m rolled up on the gymnasium floor like a pill bug. When you’re sickly skinny, in a school rife with steroid abusers and future ax murderers, and you happen to be best friends with a wiseass like Charlie Bungert, you learn fairly quickly to protect your face and vital organs when you’re taking a beating.
Particularly if you don’t want to be grilled for details when you get home.
“What did you call us, you little snot socket?” someone asks, punctuating his sentence with another stinging slam to my ribs.
I didn’t call them anything. It was Charlie who referred to them as a bunch of “uriniferous homunculi.” I was merely a bystander.
A bystander who made the fatal mistake of snorting at Charlie’s creative slight.
Which they deserved, by the way. Charlie was only trying to take a team photo for the school paper, and the guys wouldn’t cooperate. They kept flipping birds, picking their noses, and flashing their hairy butt cracks just as Charlie was about to snap the picture.
Coach Pullman started muttering stuff about how “artistic types” don’t know how to take command of a situation and that he had “much more important things to deal with.” Then he grabbed his Sports Illustrated and headed to his office.
And that’s when things really got out of control.
Charlie lowered his camera and stared at the team. “I wonder,” he said, “if it might be possible to feign — for the fleetest of seconds — a mere soupçon of decorum.”
Of course, no one on the wrestling team had any idea what Charlie had just said. But instead of admitting this, one of them called him a “snobby crotch waffle,” which got a big laugh from the team.
And then someone started chucking tape balls.
And dirty jockstraps.
And ratty wrestling shoes — one of which knocked the lens off Charlie’s camera.
“Stick that up your decorum!” somebody shouted, sending another wave of laughter through the squad.
Charlie’s face darkened. There’s nothing in the world he cares more about than that camera. His parents gave it to him for his tenth birthday — the last birthday they ever got to celebrate with him.
“It’s funny,” he said far too loudly, examining the body of his Nikon. “I didn’t know uriniferous homunculi could actually speak.”
And that’s when I snorted. Big mistake.
“Excuse me?” Rick “’Roid Rage” Chuff spat, his caveman forehead jutting. “What was that?”
“I said . . .” Charlie replied. “You’re surprisingly articulate for a bunch of uriniferous homunculi.”
Rick glanced at his nine buds, each of whom shrugged.
“Would you like me to translate?” Charlie offered.
“Aw, fuck, Charlie, don’t,” I begged under my breath, taking a step backward.
“Yeah,” Rick said. “Why don’t you do that for us?”
“Urine. Bearing. Trolls,” Charlie said, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. “Trolls who carry around sacks of their own piss. Certainly explains the unwashed vagrant smell wafting off of you.”
Then they rushed us. Like lions pouncing on a couple of wounded gazelles.
And now here I lie on the gritty gym floor. Taking yet another beating with Charlie.
“Who smells like piss now, Bungert?” Rick Chuff says, hauling Charlie up by his camera, the black-and-yellow Nikon strap wrapped around his neck like a noose.
And damn if Charlie doesn’t sniff the air through his bloody nose as he dangles there.
“Hard to tell,” he rasps. “Your fecal-scented breath is overpowering every other odor at the moment.”
Rick quickly yanks the camera higher into the air, lifting Charlie off the ground, the tips of his toes barely brushing the floor. “Not so easy to make jokes when your windpipe’s being crushed, now is it?”
Charlie wheezes, his eyes bulging, his face turning blue as he desperately claws at his neck.
I don’t have time to think. I quickly roll away from my attackers, reaching out and grabbing whatever’s close at hand — a jockstrap, as it turns out. I stumble to my feet and hurl the dirty, limp thing at Rick.
It whiffles in the air and lands right on Rick’s hand, the one holding Charlie’s camera, where it dangles for a moment like an ornament, the nut-brown ass stain on the thong in full view.
Everyone freezes.
“What the Christ?” Rick drops the camera like it’s on fire and shakes the athletic supporter off his hand.
Charlie crumples to the floor.
Rick turns to me, his eyes full of all the world’s hate.
“You’ve just signed your death warrant, bitch,” Rick says. “Grab him!”
The entire wrestling team lunges at once, gripping my arms, my legs, my shirt, my hair, stretching me out like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.
Someone wraps the jockstrap around my face, the molded plastic cup covering my nose and mouth like a respirator. Several curly pubes cling to the cloth, tickling my cheeks.
“Breathe deep, shithead,” Owen Rocco says.
I try breathing through my mouth, but it’s impossible not to smell the horrible, farty stink of sweaty sphincter.
I gag and choke back some vomit.
’Roid Rage Rick towers in front of me, his fist clenched and cocked.
I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for a horrible pounding.
“Hey! Screwheads!” Mr. Pullman calls out from somewhere. “Cut the crap already. Save it for the meet.”
&
nbsp; Not exactly the response I would have hoped for — a few years in San Quentin would have seemed more appropriate — but at least it’s enough to stop the onslaught.
I peek through one squinted eye. Rick’s fat finger is in my face.
“This is not over, dicktard,” Rick says. “Not even close.” He flicks my nose hard. “I can see the future, and yours is filled with blood and pain.”
And with that, the Willowvale High School wrestling team releases me. I drop to my knees and pull the filthy jockstrap from my face as Rick and his buddies lumber off toward the gym doors.
“You OK?” I ask Charlie, struggling to my feet. I flip my left wrist and check the black face on Dad’s old Timex, make sure the crystal isn’t cracked. It’s the first thing I always do after taking a beating. Even though the thing hasn’t worked since he took off six years ago.
Charlie clears his throat. “I’ve had worse.” He runs his tongue over his blood-rimmed teeth. “No money from the tooth fairy this time, but it was still worth it.”
I laugh, which sends a screaming pain shooting through one of my ribs. “Shit.” I wince and clutch my lower back. “You’ve got to stop doing this, Charlie. I don’t know how much more my body can take.”
“You can run, you know,” Charlie says, picking up his camera lens and his glasses. “It’s not a precondition of my friendship that you take these beatings with me.”
“It’s not like I had time to consider my options.”
Charlie replaces the lens on the Nikon and checks for damages. “Oh, please. A Magic Eight Ball could have predicted that was coming. And yet you stood by my side. And you took a soiled jock to the face for me. I am forever in your debt. If you require something — help with a paper, an adjustment of your report card grades, porn site passwords, anything — you just let me know.”
I shake my throbbing head. “You don’t owe me anything, Charlie. We’re friends. That’s what friends do.” I rub my sore ass. “Is it really worth it, though? Just to get a dig in?”
Charlie laughs, then coughs, droplets of crimson spraying from his mouth. “I like being the thorn in their collective paw. Besides, it’s an adrenaline rush. Makes me feel alive.” He pounds his fist against his chest like a warrior, then grimaces in pain.
“Couldn’t we just go to Six Flags and ride the Barracuda?”
“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Always looking for the easy way out.” He pulls out the bottle of Purell that’s permanently tucked into the front pocket of his pants, squirts a quarter-size blob into his palm, then waves the hand sanitizer at me. “Decontaminate?”
I shake my head. “I’m good. Don’t you think it’d be more sanitary not to get beat up in the first place?”
Charlie laughs. “You can’t avoid germs, my good man. You can only destroy them.” He slathers the alcoholic goo all over his hands and then proceeds to dab some on his split lip. “You should really take some of this. I need you alive and healthy if you’re going to be fighting by my side during the coming zombie apocalypse.”
“Right. We can’t even fight off regular people. You think we stand a chance against zombies?”
“It’s all in the planning, my apprehensive friend. With enough ammunition, food stores, and an impenetrable bunker, I’m pretty sure we can handle the undead.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I say. “Besides, my aunt Agnes says we need to be exposed to lots of bacteria so our immune systems can grow stronger.”
Charlie rolls his eyes. “Sure. Believe that. Then Google ‘necrotizing fasciitis’ and let me know if you still want to take your chances.”
I trudge up my driveway, past Mom’s white Nissan, and check my reflection in the side mirror. I tug a strand of hair over my right temple to cover the red welt that’s blossomed there. The only conspicuous evidence from this afternoon’s thrashing.
The nice thing about being a klutz is that Mom buys my excuses every time. But at this point I’m running out of things I could have “bumped into” at school. With any luck Mom’ll be too busy — doing dishes, practicing her fly-fishing cast, or studying hockey box scores — to notice my head wound.
“That you, honey?” Mom calls out the second I step through the front door.
So much for being preoccupied. I sigh and dump my backpack on the floor of the entryway.
“Yeah,” I call back. “It’s me.”
“Could you come into the kitchen for a sec?”
There’s a warm ginger scent in the air. Mom’s been baking. Which means either she’s happy about something or wants to bribe me. Possibly both.
I tug off my coat and hang it up. Kick off my sneakers and proceed to trip over the stupid things as I step into the family room. Typical. I hobble past the couch and TV, this afternoon’s beating settling into a dull, full-body throb.
“Dan?” Mom calls out.
“On my way. I’m a little sore today.” I turn the corner and step into the fluorescent glow of the kitchen. “Stupid me, I fell down the stairs at school again and —”
I jerk to a stop. There, standing next to Mom, is Wolverine. Or a very reasonable facsimile.
“This is Hank,” Mom announces, beaming, her hands outstretched like she’s presenting me with a fabulous prize. “I told you he was coming over today, remember?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Of course I didn’t remember. Otherwise I would have come up with a more manly excuse for my injuries.
“Hey,” I say, stepping forward, swiping my sweaty palm on my pant leg before I extend it. “Dan.”
“Right,” Wolverine says, his voice a radio baritone. “Hank. Langston.” He takes my hand — his palm desert-dry — and shakes it a little too firmly as he meets my eyes with his piercingly clear baby browns. “Great to meet you.”
“You too,” I lie, flexing my fingers to make sure nothing’s fractured.
Jesus. Mom’s flashed me a picture or two on her phone, but I sure didn’t expect this . . . this Men’s Wearhouse model.
“Your mom’s told me tons about you,” Hank says.
“Same.” I force a smile, trying to recall this one’s particulars. Hank Langston. The world’s most attractive dentist. College football star. Mountain climber. And fearless bear hunter. Terrific. I wonder how many scrawny graphic novelists he beat up when he was in high school.
“Well, hopefully she speaks as highly of me as she does of you.” Hank gazes lovingly at Mom. “She’s super proud. Brags all the time about what an amazing artist you are. I’d love to see some of your work. I’m impressed by anyone who can draw. I can barely doodle a stick figure.”
Hank chuckles at his little quip, but I’m not buying the chummy act for a second. I’ve seen it way too many times before.
It’s unfortunate, really. They actually look halfway decent together, Hank and Mom. They have a sort of Outback Ken and Barbie thing going on. But it won’t last. Hank will turn out to be a deadbeat. Or an alcoholic. Or an adult baby.
Or just a plain old dick.
They always do.
Poor Mom. It started in high school with Dad — a deadbeat and an alcoholic — and hasn’t gotten any better in the fifteen years since she birthed me. I feel bad for her. Beyond being not so bad-looking — for a mom, anyway — she’s also good-hearted. She deserves to find someone who appreciates her.
Of course, she doesn’t help her cause any with her chameleon act — studying up on things she never cared about before, all in an attempt to get a guy to stick. She’s clawed her way through Ulysses, tried learning to speak Mandarin, downloaded and listened to hip-hop music, subscribed to Stained Glass Quarterly, taken square-dancing lessons. She even got a tattoo of a baby meerkat on her ankle when she was dating some schmo from the Kalahari Meerkat Project.
You’d think she would have learned by now.
But it doesn’t seem like it. Not if the new teeth-whitening kit, copies of the Hockey News, and Man vs. Wild Blu-ray box set are any indication.
“So,” I say, just to say something.
&
nbsp; “So,” Mom echoes.
The awkwardness in the kitchen swells like a septic boil.
I force another smile. Tuck my hands into my front pockets and rock back on my heels.
“I made cookies.” Mom gestures at a platter of marshmallow gingersnaps in the middle of the table. Three small plates and three glasses of milk have been strategically set out on flowered place mats. “Your faves.”
“Cool,” I say, though my stomach tightens. Why do I feel like I’m about to be told our dog just died? Even though we don’t have a dog.
“Shall we partake?” Hank suggests, stepping toward the table.
Mom nods. “Let’s.”
They slide out chairs and take their seats in perfect sync, almost like they’ve rehearsed it.
I don’t want to be rude, but honestly, the last thing I want to do right now is sit down with Mom and the macho dentist and make small talk over milk and cookies.
But I don’t see as I have much of a choice.
“Sounds good,” I say, pulling out my chair and plopping down. I grab a cookie and immediately take a huge bite so I don’t have to talk.
Mmm. I always forget how they melt in your mouth, Mom’s gingersnaps, all sweet-spicy goodness. Definitely bribe-worthy.
Depending on the request, of course.
Hank reaches over and takes four cookies. He places two on Mom’s plate and the other two on his own.
How gallant. I bet he’s got a wife and brood stashed away somewhere. Or has a prison record. Or likes to sit on your head and rip toxic buck snorts.
“As someone whose whole world is oral hygiene,” Hank says, “I should probably be a better example here. But I have a sweet tooth the size of a blue whale. Let’s just say we’ll all brush afterward.” He laughs, and then he does something so unspeakably disgusting that it’s all I can do not to bolt from the table and barricade myself in my room: he crumbles his cookies into little bits and submerges them in his milk.
What. The. Hell?
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Hank explains. “I’m an extreme dunker. I know it’s not the classiest thing in the world, but I’ve done it ever since I was a kid. You let ’em get real mushy and then you drink them down with the milk. Sort of like a cookie shake.”
I retch. “Or baby food,” I say, glancing at Mom for a reaction.
But she doesn’t get the reference. Nor does she seem revolted by the desecration of her special cookies.