by Don Calame
I nod numbly, but my mind is whirring. This isn’t just an assault on my life, it’s a full-out nuclear explosion. I need to stop this thing before it’s too late. “So,” I say, a heavy pulse in my right temple. “When are the nuptials, anyway?” Translation: Just how much time do I have to disarm this bomb?
Mom looks over at Hank. “We were thinking . . . mid-May, right?”
Hank nods. “No reason to put it off too long.”
“Wait. May?” Jesus Christ, three months? “Hold on a second.” I turn to Mom. “Are you pregnant?” I ask, fairly sure that she isn’t. Mom has made it pretty clear she isn’t interested in having any more kids.
“What? No.” Mom’s cheeks flush. “I mean . . . why would you think that?”
I give her a look. “Why else would you be hurrying to the altar?”
“Not because your mother’s pregnant, certainly,” Hank blurts a little too fast. He coughs into his first. “Not that . . . it would be a . . . bad thing . . .” He furrows his brow at Mom, obviously trying to gauge her feelings about this.
“No . . . I mean . . . yeah,” Mom says, laughing nervously. “But I’m not, so . . .”
“Yeah,” I say, waving my hand. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, anyway. I’m sure no one else will suspect that you’re having a baby. And really, who cares what other people think. So what if everyone’s watching everything you eat and drink from now until the big day. Or if, you know, people are whispering behind your back. It’s none of their business, am I right?” I raise my glass of water high in the air. “To a joyful marriage in May.”
“Wait a second,” Charlie says. “Back up a moment here. So, is this guy your dentist?”
“God, no. That’d be even weirder,” I say, glancing over at Erin Reilly’s table across the cafeteria, sketchbook propped on my thigh, pencil in hand, trying not to be too obvious as I detail the blunt cut of Erin’s bangs, the slight curl of them curving into her forehead. “My mom’s his physical therapist. They met three months ago when Hank twisted his ankle playing squash or something. She gave him a rubber resistance band, and he asked her out to dinner.”
“Surely that’s some kind of code-of-ethics violation,” Charlie says. He pulls a square Tupperware container from his backpack like a rabbit out of a hat. He won’t touch cafeteria food with a ten-foot fork, what with all the “festering bacteria” and “lunch-lady germs.” “What if you reported them to APTA?”
“What the hell is APTA?”
Charlie squirts some hand sanitizer into his palm with a little wet mini-fart. Rubs it in. “The American Physical Therapy Association.”
I stare at Charlie. “Why do you know that?”
“There is very little I do not know, Daniel,” he says, prying the lid off his sandwich container to reveal a neatly cut and Saran-wrapped peanut butter and jelly, no crusts. “And I believe that if you lodge a formal complaint, you might just be able to halt this marriage. Of course, your mom might lose her license in the process, but at least you wouldn’t have to move. Well, unless your mom could no longer pay the bills, then instead of living in a nice big new home, you wouldn’t have any home at all.”
“Yeah, I’m not doing that,” I say. “Being homeless isn’t exactly the endgame here.”
I shift my gaze back to Erin. She and her friends are cooing over the Baby-Real-A-Lot doll that Erin’s been tasked with caring for this week in our Life Skills class. She’s named him Baby Robbie. I wonder if that’s what she’ll want to name our baby when we get married and have kids someday.
God, she’s so gorgeous. Her long eyelashes. Her beautifully silky, cinnamon hair. Her rosy cheeks. Her little swooped-up nose. It’s hard to take, really. Like someone reaches into my chest and crushes my heart every time I see her.
It’s been like this ever since third grade. It was during silent reading when my eyes were first opened to her true beauty. We were seated side by side, the last seats in our respective rows. Erin was surreptitiously sucking on a butterscotch lollipop, flipping the pages of Charlotte’s Web. Out of nowhere, she leaned over, held out her lollipop, and whisper-asked if I’d like a lick.
And even though Charlie had already been on me for years about the dangers of germs, I did want a lick — more than I’d ever wanted anything. But I couldn’t bring myself to take one. Instead, I gave my head a quick jerk, flushing heat all the way to the roots of my hair. I turned back to my ragged copy of Goosebumps, my breath hitching as I read the same sentence over and over again for the next fifteen minutes, until Mr. Falaxus announced that it was time to get out our math textbooks.
Erin and I have exchanged twenty-seven passing smiles and thirty-two Heys since that fateful day. Around town. In different classes. In various hallways. And she’s also appeared, in one form or another, in every single comic I’ve drawn over the last seven years.
But that’s all. Nothing more.
Even though an hour doesn’t go by without me thinking of her.
I nearly mustered the courage to ask her out last year, after having practiced in the mirror for two months, but I botched it by choking on the wintergreen Altoid I popped in my mouth right before I approached her. The mint finally came up after I punched myself in the stomach, but it flew out of my mouth and stuck to the front of her shirt. I stared with growing horror at the ring of spit blossoming around the partially dissolved Altoid, then turned on my heel and fled.
I haven’t been able to face her since.
One day I’ll have the balls to talk to her again.
For right now, though, I have to be content with using Erin as the inspiration for Princess Erilin. Sorceress. Warrior. And all-around master of bad-assery.
“Please tell me that’s the cartoon for this week’s Willowvale Oracle,” Charlie says, lifting the hermetically sealed sandwich from the Tupperware and carefully peeling back the plastic. “We go to press in two days. We can’t miss another deadline, not with Mrs. Horvath looking for an excuse to shut down the paper. If that happens, my college portfolio will end up severely anemic.”
I look up from my drawing and force a smile. “Sorry. I’ll get it to you. I promise.”
Charlie cranes his neck to peek at my sketch pad. “Ah yes, the continuing adventures of the Night Goblin and the Desert Princess. Much more important than the Oracle.”
“I just have to get some final details down so that I can finish this chapter,” I tell Charlie. “Then I can give my full attention to this week’s cartoon.”
“I don’t see how you can even concentrate on the Night Goblin, anyway,” Charlie says. “Shouldn’t you be formulating some sort of stratagem to stop this wedding before you have to memorize a new zip code?”
“Believe me, it’s all I’ve been thinking about.” I flip the cover of my sketchbook closed, set my pencil down, and sigh. “I just can’t figure out how to do it.”
Charlie rolls his eyes. “Oh, Daniel, must I do everything for you? It’s quite simple, really: the first step is to find some dirt on him — you know, check his wallet, his phone, his laptop, his vehicle for pornography, lurid text messages from mistresses, receipts from hotels. Anything that will freak your mother out, make her question his morals.”
“That’s the problem,” I say. “If there is any dirt on this guy, I imagine it’s going to be nearly impossible to find. I’ve never heard my mom go on quite so much about someone before. What a great guy he is, with his great job, his great friends, his great sister who loves him, and his adorable nieces and nephews who are crazy about him.”
“Why do you want him gone, then?” Charlie asks. “He sounds perfect.”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing at him. “And if we’ve learned nothing else from my mom’s tragic love life, it’s that there is no such thing as a perfect guy. The other shoe is going to drop eventually. I’d rather it be before we sell our house and are trapped in Hank’s hunting lodge a million miles away from here.”
“OK, so, if character assassination is out”— Charlie takes a bite of h
is sandwich —“I suppose you’ll just have to scare him off.”
I laugh. “Scare him off? The dude who hunts bear with a bow and arrow?”
“Look, he’s only just met you. You’re the wild card here. You can use that to your advantage.”
“How?”
“Let’s think about that for a moment.” Charlie takes another bite of PB&J and chews thoughtfully. “All right. What about this? What if you pretend to really like him? Play the kid desperately looking for a father figure. You can start out by asking him to help with simple things. Father-and-son stuff: Homework. How to fix a flat on your bike. How to tie a tie or throw a curveball. That sort of thing.”
“How’s that going to scare him off?”
“It won’t, at first. He’ll think it’s great, like you’re accepting him. But then you begin to push the boundaries. You become needier and needier. You pull him aside and ask him things that’ll make him wildly uncomfortable. Like about coitus — but not your conventional teen boy proclivities. More like weird fetishes and things. And about drugs — the really hard ones: opioids, dissociatives, hallucinogens.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“I don’t know if you can afford not to.”
“He’ll tell my mom.”
Charlie shakes his head, an evil-genius glint in his eye. “That’s the beauty of this plan. You make him promise, as your soon-to-be stepdad, not to. Explain to him that these are things that you could never discuss with your mother. Things that you never got a chance to ask your father. Make him buy you glow-in-the-dark condoms and some really weird-flavored lube, then confess that you don’t have a girlfriend — or a boyfriend. Ask him if it’s normal to get an erection when you see pictures of baby kangaroos.”
“I don’t do that!” I insist.
“You do now. The more awkward your questions, the better. You need to convince Hank that he’s in way over his head with this stepdad thing. Be creative. Have fun with it.”
“It doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun,” I say.
“Are you kidding?” Charlie says. “I’d give my left nut to have a stepdad I wanted to frighten off. And I’m not just saying that because I’m an orphan.”
I squint at him. “You really think it could work?”
“Would you want to deal with that kind of crap if you didn’t have to — some needy, clingy teenager with a seemingly endless stream of awkward problems? This guy has a short window of opportunity to bail on this situation. Once the papers are signed, he’s committed. All you have to do is give him a reason to grab the parachute and leap from the plane.”
“Huh,” I say, tapping the cover of my sketchbook. “Could be worth a shot, I guess.”
“Of course it is. What do you have to lose? Except maybe another miscreant muscling in on your life.”
“True, true.” I take a deep breath. Let it out. “OK. But you’re going to have to help me come up with some stuff. You’re way more Machiavellian than me.”
Charlie grins big. “I’d be absolutely delighted to.”
I pick up my pencil and flip the cover of my sketchbook open. I feel a tiny glimmer of hope. Charlie’s plan could actually work. Sure, it’ll be uncomfortable to have to say this stuff to Hank, but it’ll totally be worth it in the —
Hukkkk-THWAH.
A giant green gob of quivering phlegm splats on my drawing, landing smack-dab in the center of Princess Erilin’s face.
“Nice picture, asshat,” Rick Chuff says. “Just needed a little color.”
He laughs hysterically, then reaches over and grabs the other half of Charlie’s perfectly cut sandwich. He squeezes it into a big dough ball and drops it into the open Tupperware container.
“Enjoy your lunch, boys,” Rick says, wiping his hand on Charlie’s shoulder.
I can see the wheels turning behind Charlie’s glasses. He slides his Tupperware aside and is about to stand, to shout some obscure but withering insult at Rick and get us beat up right here and now.
I shake my head sharply. “Don’t, Charlie. Please.” I reach for a napkin and wipe Rick’s thick mucus from my sketch pad, smearing Princess Erilin’s features beyond recognition.
“You want to let him get away with this?” Charlie says. “With no response?”
“I just . . .” I swallow, glancing over at Erin’s table. “I’ve managed not to get beat up in front of Erin for this long, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“You realize that acquiescence is a form of consent,” Charlie says. “By not rebelling, we are thus agreeing to be tormented.”
“I know, but . . .” I say. “Another time. Please.”
Charlie takes a long, deep breath and nods. “OK, Daniel. I will keep quiet. I will go hungry for you today. But we will need to exact retribution in the near future.” He smiles. “And I have a most excellent idea on just how to do that.”
“Woo-hoo!” Hank leaps to his feet along with Mom and the other eighteen thousand screaming fans in the hockey arena. “Right through the five hole!”
A tugboat horn sounds to announce the goal and then “Rock and Roll Part 2” starts pounding over the PA system. All around us fists are pumped, bellies are squashed together, hands are high-fived, and popcorn kernels fly from their containers.
I fumble with the precariously balanced grease-stained box of stale nachos on my knees, nearly dropping the small plastic sputum cup of cyber-orange cheese. The seating is airplane-tight here, and it takes a contortionist’s dexterity to try to bend over and place my items on the floor so I can stand up and “hurrah” with the beer-swilling masses. I finally get all of my foodstuffs settled safely onto the sticky concrete, unfold my body, and wrestle myself out of my chair into a standing position —
Just as everyone else is settling back down again.
Great. Nice timing, Dan.
People stare. I make a big show of stretching my arms above my head — elongating my body, rolling my shoulders — like this was the plan all along.
This is how I’m spending my sixteenth birthday. A hockey game with Mom and her fiancé. In case you care, the San Jose Sharks are now tied with the Anaheim Ducks two to two. We’re four minutes and forty-five seconds from the end of the second period — I’ve been promised there are only three — and I’ve got a splitting headache and a full-blown cheese-sauce-and-soda stomach churn going on.
Could life get any more tragic?
Mom is now a huge sports fan. Hockey, mostly. Because Hank loves hockey. Three months ago she purchased NHL GameCenter LIVE and subscribed to the Hockey News. Since then she’s been studying up on the lingo and learning all the star players’ names and stats.
Whatever else it’s accomplished, Mom’s intense desire to be liked has made her the most well-rounded and oddly knowledgeable person I know. She can talk fantasy football, sea-glass collecting, antique books, DNA testing, tai chi, vintage cars, ghost hunting, the stock market, cooking, gardening, dog training, cosplaying, decoupage, magic, sailing, model railroading, ventriloquism, rock stacking, poker, disc golf, pigeon racing, shortwave radio, falconry, paintball, robotics, beekeeping, and, yes, even gongoozling.
I don’t think Mom’s boyfriends have any idea how hard she works at trying to incorporate their interests into her life. If they did, they would either be incredibly touched or seriously creeped out.
Before I sit again, I glance down the aisle, contemplating a wander in the quiet of the pre-intermission concourse. But two seats away a pregnant man with a peanut-shell-flecked beard shoots me a don’t-you-dare scowl. He and the other spectators in our row are getting pretty pissed at me for leaving so many times during the game already. Probably because I can’t seem to scooch my way out of the aisle without crushing toes or accidentally kicking over beers.
I can’t help it. I’m antsy. I could chalk it up to all the caffeine coursing through my veins. The deep-dimpled girl at the concession stand hard sold me on upsizing my Coke, and in my boredom I’ve managed to suck the mo
p bucket of soda completely dry.
But really, I’m on edge because I’ve decided to implement Charlie’s scare-Hank-away-with-inappropriate-questions plan. While I’ve been able to pull off Part One of the operation just fine — ingratiating myself with him by asking for tips on everything from how to shave to how to fold a handkerchief — I haven’t worked up the courage yet to push things to the next level.
But I’m going to have to up the stakes soon before Hank goes and buys himself a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug.
The universe seems to agree, as just then Mom’s cell phone plays “The Hockey Song,” her latest ringtone. She reaches in her purse, checks who’s calling, and frowns. “It’s Bonnie, from work. I’ve got to take this, sorry.” She swipes the screen, plugs one ear, and stands. “Hey, Bonnie. What’s up?”
“That’s the artistry of the sport right there,” Hank says to me as Mom disappears down the aisle. “The way that guy handles the puck. That was a dirty little dangle. You can’t teach that kind of thing.”
“Totally,” I say, trying to simulate interest. “The dangling . . . dirtily . . . Pretty amazing.”
Hank unholsters his huge phablet and snaps a picture of the player who just scored.
“Hey, did I show you my new gadget?” He turns the screen toward me. “It’s a real beaut. It’s got a quad HD-plus display. A sixteen-megapixel camera. A fingerprint scanner. A heart-rate monitor. And I don’t know what the heck else. It’s crazy. I love it.”
I can tell he loves it because he’s gazing at it the way he gazes at my mom. I may vom.
“Wow, that’s . . . pretty sweet,” I say.
“You can’t even get these right now,” he says. “They’re sold out everywhere. I had to stand in line for thirty-nine hours for this bad boy, but it was worth it.”
“Wow,” I say again.
“I’m ashamed to admit it, but I do adore my tech.” He gives his phone a kiss, then wipes away his lip prints and reholsters the phone. “The key to upgrading is to save all the materials and keep your equipment super clean. That way you can maximize the resale value of your old phone and subsidize your new investment.”