by Ryan Gebhart
She continues, “If the Centaurians ever come to our planet, it’s for one reason: they’ve depleted their resources and now they want ours.”
“Maybe they just want to have a beer with us and watch the Browns.”
“Four and a half light-years for a football game?” she says with an annoyed tilt of her head.
“And other things. Like hanging out and . . . imagine playing beer pong with an alien. How sweet would that be? The universe isn’t a joke,” I say, and I don’t know what I mean by that. “I mean, if the universe is a joke, then that means I’m a joke. And you’re a joke.”
“I am,” she says, her voice distant, although she’s right next to me.
“What? Come on.”
She slides her arm around my waist and puts her cheekbone up against my shoulder.
I say, “Do you want to finish dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We could just watch the rest of the movie.”
“Yeah.” She wipes the tears from her eyes. “Let me freshen up.”
We go back upstairs. Katherine is putting the leftovers in Tupperware, and Joel is loading up the dishwasher. They don’t ask Jenny any questions.
We finish the rest of the movie.
I spend the night. Jenny makes these funny whimpering, growling sounds in her sleep, like she’s a dog chasing a squirrel in her dreams.
I lean over the edge of the mattress for her phone and swipe the screen, but it’s asking for a fingerprint.
It’s all good. She’s not going to do anything stupid with that picture.
I turn everything off, then lie down on the opposite end of her bed. I close my eyes. All these colors are exploding and flashing like fireworks, then fading into black. I see this little light show behind my eyelids every night, but maybe it’s not from my eyes adjusting to the darkness like I’d always thought. What if it’s something more, like somehow I’m getting glimpses of distant galaxies, or . . .
. . . go to sleep.
On Tuesday Jenny and I rake the last of the leaves in her backyard and jump into the pile from her tree house, and now my ankle is killing me. The cold front came through last night, but it wasn’t as bad as they predicted; it only dropped temperatures slightly below seasonable. The sky’s this really pretty blue color, and most of the trees are dead, leafless things that remind me of the veins beneath my wrists. I tell Jenny my real name is Donald and that I was named after my grandfather. She tells me she was named after her grandmother.
On Wednesday we 69 on her floor, and at one point while we’re tangled together, she tells me I have stinky baby feet. Then we walk uptown to the Village Idiot, and we split a spinach, artichoke, and pepperoni pizza. We don’t have much to say, but we don’t make any awkward small talk to fill in the silence.
This is the first time we’ve gone on an actual date.
Kaitlyn Sherwin, who before Saturday would probably never think of talking to someone like Jenny, sees us and invites herself to our table. She tells Jenny that she heard about her brother and she’s so sorry, and if there’s ever anything she needs, to not hesitate to ask.
“Thank you,” Jenny says. “That means a lot.”
“Gabe and I skipped school on Monday to go to the protest. With all that’s happened, it’s ludicrous that we’re still invading Raya. It doesn’t make sense. Why aren’t we becoming allies with them? And Russia? And China? We’re going to need all the soldiers we can get when the Centaurians invade.” She wipes her hands on her jeans.
Jenny says, “It’s because they’re not taking the threat seriously. Are you surprised?” Even though she’s looking at Kaitlyn, I get the feeling that she’s talking to me.
Kaitlyn shakes her head. She looks over at the nearest server, then sneaks out a mini bottle of vodka from her purse and pours it into her Coke. She leans closer to us, speaking conspiratorially. “Did you hear about this online group that wrote up a pledge to form a global army? Gabe signed it yesterday. Yeah, there are like ten thousand people on it already, and one of their rules is we have to stop attacking each other because the real threat is up there.”
Jenny says in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, “Honey, we wouldn’t stand a chance even if we had all eight billion people on our side. Let’s stop worrying so much and live the life that we have. Whatever time is left — whether it’s a day or a hundred years — we should just enjoy it.”
Kaitlyn stirs her drink with a straw, then takes a sip. She nervously and bashfully smiles at Jenny, then at me. “Gabe and I are going to Bowling Green for the weekend. But . . . you two wanna hang out next weekend?”
I’m sure I’m overthinking this, but the look in her eyes reminds me of the way she was staring at Gabe next to the Slip’N Slide. I get this suspicion that hanging out doesn’t equate to teatime and Scattergories. It’s like she’s got some end-of-the-world orgy on her mind.
Jenny and Kaitlyn exchange numbers. I reluctantly give her mine.
On Thursday Jenny says she loves the way I laugh. It’s so late I should probably call it Friday morning instead, but we’re both wide awake and they’ve got an infomercial on TV for the ThunderShirt, which is basically this Velcro harness you strap tightly around your dog when it’s wigging out from a thunderstorm.
“ThunderShirt!” Jenny shouts with her arms spread wide, and then grasps me so tight I can hardly breathe. She’s totally ThunderShirting me and I love it. I sleep really well that night, her arm draped over my chest.
On Friday Jenny and I get in a few games of Yahtzee with her parents, and she gets three yahtzees and I have to write in a 9 for my “chance.” On the radio, they’re playing some of Karo’s songs that we heard a week ago, including my favorite. It’s an instrumental piece — actually, all of his songs are instrumental — with an industrial vibe: there’s a sample of mechanized noises, like a squealing animal and a gun rattle on repeat that goes like “clip-nah rrrip takakakaka.” Beneath it is a much prettier sound: string instruments dancing around and being playful in the major chords. We’re rolling our dice and filling out our sheets and counting up our points while a creature’s music from another planet plays on the radio. It’s the new normal, I guess. Or maybe everyone’s just too tired to care anymore, about anything. The war protesters at the library have dwindled to just a few dozen, even though two hundred thousand U.S. troops are waiting for the go-ahead to enter Raya. When I went to Meijer after school to pick up some beef jerky and condoms, the cops had left and all the shelves were restocked with bottled water and Hamburger Helper. Just a few people were waiting in line to check out, looking typically bored and tired.
On Saturday I stop by Jenny’s place unannounced for the first time. I enter through her front door, which they never lock. She’s watching CNN in her room with all the lights off.
They’re showing a video of a mushroom cloud taken with a really shaky camera. There’s a rising stem of smoke and a glowing ball of fire on the top, and it looks so apocalyptic and mad and . . . like an actual living thing.
The red “Developing News” header says: “Raya Successfully Tests First Nuclear Weapon.”
“What’s this?” I say.
Jenny’s wrapped up in her blanket, and she reminds me of an old lady wearing a shawl. The light from the mushroom cloud is shining on her face.
She says, “They’re saying it was a twenty-kiloton explosion, about as big as the bomb that leveled Nagasaki. The Rayans were lying this entire time. They have more bombs, and if we invade, they’re going to launch one at Israel.”
“Why Israel?”
“Jesus, don’t you ever watch the news? They obviously can’t attack America, so an ally of ours is the next best thing. I bet all you do is sit around and play PlayStation next to your crusty cum sock and an empty pizza box, and you don’t give a shit about what’s happening in the world.”
“Don’t stereotype,” I say. “I play Nintendo GameCube.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Let’s
. . . can we watch something else? Let’s have fun like you said we should.”
“But look at that cloud.”
I take the remote from her hand and change the channel to Cartoon Network, then get up and turn on the overhead light. She squints and looks away.
I say, “Hey. Countries have been testing nuclear bombs since forever. No one’s dropped a nuke on anyone since the nineteen forties.” I sit next to her on the couch. American Dad is on TV.
In a curious tone during the commercial break, she says, “Why didn’t you message me before you came over?”
“I don’t know. I just thought I’d stop by.”
“Can you go home, please? I don’t want company today.”
I look at her wrapped up, and one little laugh escapes my mouth.
“ThunderShirt!” I try to find a way to get my arms around her torso and to bury my head in her breasts, but she’s in an awkward position with her knees tucked close to her chest and she’s wriggling away from me.
“Derek, ugh, come on.” She pushes me back with her foot. “You can’t show up like this uninvited.”
That word hits me hard. Uninvited. I’m uninvited?
“Um, okay.” It’s all I can say because we’ve literally hung out every day this past week. It didn’t even occur to me that I hadn’t reached “pop in” status. It felt like the natural thing to do.
So I leave without saying anything. I didn’t do anything wrong.
On Sunday I go over to Shugar’s house because the Browns are playing the Steelers and that’s his team. I don’t call Jenny because she’s not into football, and it’s probably good to give her a break after that bullshit yesterday.
We watch the game in his bedroom, and outside there’s the first snow of the season — some light flurries getting blown around with the dead leaves. I’m wearing my long-sleeve T-shirt with the Brownie logo, and Shugar’s got on his Steelers jersey. Sitting in his reclining chair, he keeps feeling his pecs. Shugar’s been on the bulkier end of the spectrum even when we were on the swim league. His parents convinced him to play football when he entered high school, so he became a defensive end for Maumee’s JV and varsity football teams. Before the first game this season, the coach kicked him off when one of his teammates ratted him out for having weed in his locker.
“You checking for lumps?” I say, lying on his perfectly made bed with my hands resting on my stomach. As disgusting as he can be, it’s weird that he keeps his room so clean.
“You really got to try Insanity, Scrobes. I took my ‘before’ picture two months ago, and I look a lot different.”
“Of your dick?”
He furrows his brow, like that’s the stupidest question anyone could ask. “I take pictures of my dick all the time. Why? You want me to forward you my faves?”
I roll my eyes. “You make me so hot now.”
“I always knew you were a little bi-curious.” He leans forward and stretches out his arms with big backstrokes. “God, I’m always sore, too. It’s great.”
One thing about Shugar is, even though he looks and acts the part of the meathead, he’s got a lisp to his speech, like a little kid who’s just lost his front baby teeth. He went to speech therapy back in middle school, but it still comes out every now and then, especially when he gets drunk.
He stuffs a microwavable taquito into his mouth, then washes it down with Yoo-hoo.
I say, “Are you sure this is what you’re supposed to be eating during Insanity?”
“Taquitos have a lot of protein. And chocolate milk is one of the best things you can drink after a workout.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Somewhere on the Internet.” His face goes blank, then he belches and returns to the plate. He just finished an entire fifteen-pack.
The Browns throw their third interception of the game for a pick-six, and they’re down seventeen to three after the extra point.
Shugar puts his hand down his pants. “You want me to get you anything for your birthday? I can get you some clean socks.”
He’s referring to sixth grade outside Timbers Bowling. To make a long story short, I pooped in a sock. Not one of my prouder moments.
I say, “Beer would be awesome.”
“You got to stop drinking so much. A lot of empty calories in beer.”
“Hey, who told you I hooked up with Jennifer Novak?” I wasn’t planning on asking him that — it just sort of came out. I guess it was on my mind, maybe somewhere near the back.
He pulls his hand from his pants, then quickly passes his fingers below his nose and inhales. “Um, she did.”
“You talk to her?”
He sits up and his eyes get big. “Dude, did you hear about her brother? A goddamn Navy SEAL. Jesus. I gotta admit, I’m impressed by how well she’s handling the situation. If anyone close to me died, like you or one of my brothers, I’d be a total wreck.”
“I know. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through.”
“Yeah, she was telling me how her parents have been declining all these interviews from news stations. They even got a call from NBC.”
“Oh.” Jenny never told me that. “Do you two hang out?”
He thinks about it. “She’s my physics partner.”
“So you guys don’t hang out outside of school?”
“We just talk during class, I guess.”
Stop being so weird. Jenny and I have been hanging out all week, and she’s never given me a reason not to trust her. Besides, Shugar’s my best friend. He’d tell me if he was hanging out and/or hooking up with Jenny. It’s all good.
He says, “How was it, anyway?”
“How was what?”
“Come on, Scrobes. You know what. You lost your virginity.”
“It was great. It really was. Oh, my God, she’s such an amazing creature. I thought it was going to be a one-time thing, but then we went to Side Cut on Sunday and we’ve literally hung out every day this week.” I’m getting all flustered. I never thought I could feel this way about someone else. It’s like there’s this different me who’s been sitting in the dugout all game, and he finally got called up to the plate.
“Really?” he says curiously.
“Yeah, I mean, I know it’s too early to say that she’s my girlfriend — she hasn’t said anything about us — but this is weird. I don’t know what we are. And you know, that’s okay, I think.”
He shrugs, then gets up and turns the doorknob. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta drop the kids off at the pool.” He closes the door behind him, then opens it to add, “And by kids, I mean my feces.” Then he closes it, and opens it again, holding down a smirk. “And by pool, I mean the front lawn.”
I throw the empty bottle of Yoo-hoo at him, and he laughs as it hits him in the shoulder.
You know, it is okay that me and Jenny aren’t official, because on Monday it’s like she’s completely forgotten about our fight on Saturday. She makes out with me before Señor Hafemann’s class, and afterward she tells me I really need to start flossing.
On Tuesday she teaches me how to print onto a T-shirt while she plays the Sad Bears, an indie folk band I’d never heard of. She draws a flawless alien emoji face with a Sharpie, and beneath it she writes: “Go Browns.” She scans it into her computer and prints it out on a transparency.
She hands me an unused silk screen and takes me over to her setup at the uncarpeted half of her basement. I put on a smock.
“This is a scoop cutter,” Jenny says, handing me a foot-long trough. She unscrews a container and pours yellow goo into it. She props the screen against the wall. “Put it on the bottom of the screen and draw it up to get the emulsion on.”
“Why don’t you do it? I don’t want to mess it up.”
“I have more screens.”
So I draw the scoop cutter up the screen until the emulsion is spread on both sides.
Jenny picks it up and inspects it. “Looks even enough. Now we let it dry.” She slides it int
o a wooden box, closes the front, and flips a switch.
I say, “Hey, I wanted to apologize.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Coming over uninvited the other day.”
“Oh.” She cocks her head, confused. “What day was that?”
Has she completely forgotten about that encounter? I’ve been thinking about it to some degree ever since it happened.
I probably think about her more than she thinks about me.
“Never mind,” I say.
While the screen dries, we talk about other things, like how someone who only tweets about colostomy bags started following her yesterday. I ask her if she’s seen the video of the baby conductor, and she says she hasn’t so I show it to her on my phone. She’s laughing so hard, she’s keeled over on the couch grasping her stomach.
I’ve never met anyone who shared my sense of humor as much as she does. I wish I could tell her that. I don’t know why I can’t.
She puts the transparency on a glass box with fluorescent tubes inside and puts the screen on top of it, covering it with a stack of old yearbooks. She flicks a switch and the lights go on.
“Did you make all this?” I say.
“I sure did,” she says with an air of cockiness, and I like the way it sounds. “But I bought the actual press at this place in Waterville.”
She turns the lights off and takes the screen into the bathroom. She removes the showerhead and sprays it down until a clear image of her alien drawing appears in the yellow emulsion.
“Whoa,” I say. “That’s really cool.”
“Now we can print the shirts.”
She takes a white T-shirt from her stack and puts it on the press, then the screen on top of it. She tells me what to do next: squeeze a glob of orange ink onto the screen and firmly draw a squeegee across the image a few times. She lifts it up, and there’s her drawing, now wearable.
I say, “And we can make as many of these as we want now, right?”
“Yup.”
“You should sell them. I bet you’d make a lot of money.”
“I was thinking about getting a double major in fashion and business at OU.”