Maybe he didn’t want to be late, Zachariah thought. He was worried about getting to class.
But he knew this wasn’t true. Rick had been too embarrassed to help him. Zachariah wondered how he would have reacted if it had been Rick who puked and got kicked in the nuts. He thought he would have helped Rick to the nurse.
Freshly showered, he put his clothes into the washing machine. He briefly considered going back to school. The pain in his nuts, while dulled, was still bad enough that he couldn’t concentrate.
He got into bed and pulled the covers over his head. His dad usually came home around five thirty and expected dinner. He looked at the clock: twelve forty. Plenty of time.
But he was yanked from bed half an hour later.
“Why am I getting calls that you’re skipping school?”
There was no alcohol on his father’s breath, thank goodness, but hot rage was still inches from his face.
“Dad, I—”
“What? What was it?” Spittle hit Zachariah’s cheeks.
“We were playing soccer, Dad. And I—got hit in the nuts. Really hard!”
“I don’t give a damn. Everyone gets hit in the jewels. You know what you do? You MAN UP. Deal with it! You don’t make me leave money at my station. You know how much your little nap costs?”
“But, Dad, when I got hit it was really bad. I—”
“Not as bad as it’s gonna be.”
How had he not seen the sock?
The next day, the familiar pain was there, stronger than usual. He walked deliberately, like he’d aged fifty years since the previous afternoon.
Nothing was different until he got to his locker.
Kids he didn’t know walked by. Piss, some said.
Ralph, others said.
Girls tittered.
Look how slow he walks, someone said. Laughter.
Musta gotten kicked real hard.
More laughter.
On his desk in study hall, first period, the word “piss” was written on his desk in block letters.
A paper football, flipped onto his desk from somewhere behind: PISS TIETZ.
How had everyone found out?
In every class now, and in the hallway to and from them, someone calling him either Ralph or Piss. And not just guys he recognized, either. Kids from the sixth and seventh grades. Guys, girls.
At lunch, Zachariah moved through the line with a cheeseburger and tater tots and a carton of lemonade on his tray.
Some kid in front of him, a little smaller, said you like lemonade? I hear you’re pretty good at making it.
Zachariah bit his lip. He was bigger. But if he punched the kid he’d get sent to the principal. And then he’d get home and be in real trouble. The physical ramifications of skipping two classes had been with him all day when he turned his head too quickly or tried to walk faster than he should have. What would his dad do to him if he got in a fight?
The kid held up his own carton of lemonade.
Jim and Rick and Kenny weren’t sitting at their regular table.
He found them at the far end of the cafeteria, as if they were hiding.
“Hey, guys,” he said. “You moved.”
Silence.
“You moved.”
“Aren’t you the kid who puked all over himself yesterday?”
“Very funny.”
“And you pissed yourself. Right?”
“Rick, you were there.”
“I saw some guy I don’t know piss himself and puke.”
“That was me.”
Jim’s tater tots held a particular fascination; Kenny watched the clock on the wall intensely.
“You know me.”
“We don’t know anyone who pisses himself,” Rick said.
“Come on. We—”
“No one in school wants to hang out with a pisser.”
“But—”
“Good luck finding someplace to sit,” Rick said.
For a few days afterward, Zachariah tried eating in the cafeteria. No one was happy to see him arrive at their table. Kids from class or soccer got up and left, or didn’t speak to him, or, once, told him to fuck off.
He began eating his lunch in the bathroom. At least the year is almost over, he thought. I’ll be going to a new school in September, where everyone will forget this. I’ll have new friends.
Then, over the summer, he gained weight—so much that his dad called the doctor.
His father was angry to take time off work, but did not beat him: the doctor would see bruises if he did. Zachariah expected—and received—payback once the appointments passed.
“This is a lot of weight for a small period of time,” the doctor said. “But it is not unprecedented. It happens sometimes, usually to girls.”
After answering questions about diet, sleep, and exercise, the doctor said Zachariah’s added weight was a phase he would grow out of. Try to exercise more than you do, he said. It’s summer, so this shouldn’t be a problem. Watch your diet. Don’t overdo it at barbecues.
Zachariah rode his newly uncomfortable bike what felt like fifty miles a day, all over town, hoping he’d win the Weight Loss Fitness Challenge. He tried not to eat too much. Drank a lot of water. But somehow he gained more weight. And when the school year started, no one had forgotten his accident. His weight gain made him a target for people who hadn’t heard about the soccer field.
As he sat there in the library, he realized there was research to be done.
It was strange that his new bulk came in such close proximity to his powers emerging. What if both had been caused by the same thing? Maybe they had started that day, like there was some gland down there that activated when he got kicked in the nuts. The Internet had to have something on psychic powers, right?
10.
DIDN’T WANT TO GET THERE TOO early. Sit around and talk to people he didn’t know. But not too late either. Get a good seat. Nod to people around him. Not talk. Maybe after a big play. But that was it.
He left at six fifteen for seven. Half hour walk. If he remembered right. Didn’t go down there much. Didn’t like to think about it. Wasn’t good at it. Tried to concentrate. Couldn’t. And this was before. Wished he had done voc, like Artie. Good stuff. Jobs. But Auntie Blake said college prep. Which he hated. But she took him in so she was the boss. He said okay. Tried hard. For a long time. Two years. But never any good. Stopped trying so hard. Did about the same. Cs and Ds turned into Ds and Fs. She sighed loudly and said well, some people just aren’t cut out for a better life. He remembered that. A better life. His would have been better if he did cars. Kids in classes gave him looks. Didn’t even apply for school after that. Or scholarships. Said he’d work. Keep his mill job. But layoffs. So he joined up.
Walked down in the dark. Streetlights along the way. Not like the way to Schaferville. No sidewalks. Barely a shoulder. The school walk was easy. Leg doing okay. Saw other people headed there. Big paper signs under their arms.
Full parking lot. Band playing in the background.
Felt a headache coming behind his eyes.
Maybe it would be okay.
Still there, but a little less.
It would be okay.
Less.
Okay.
He looked up. Away from the people. Bugs swarming lights. Getting too cold for them. That morning he woke up to ice puddles. First all year. Winter coming. Tired of global warming. Wasn’t true. Especially in his apartment. Felt cold air through the walls. Birds flying south. In packs. Flocks. Leaves mostly already gone. Saw his breath. Wasn’t the first time for that, but still. First ice. Long winter. Last year in the desert. Hot all the time. Except night. Couldn’t believe how cold it got. But his apartment. January would suck. February. Go to the library all day. Probably still walk.
Garages cold in the winter. Artie, his hands must freeze. Probably had a space heater. Warm them up. Go in the office. Keep customers warm. Hoped he didn’t have to talk to them. Just wanted to fix stuff. Get paid.
But he might like telling them. Like look at the score marks on the clutch plate. I’m glad we replaced it when we did the timing belt. He could do that. As long as it wasn’t that’ll be eight hundred even all the time. Money made him nervous. Math was okay. Until the really hard stuff. But being that guy, that was Artie. He was good at it. Always. Easy to hang around him. Planning. Organizing.
Bleachers were full mostly except the visitors’ and the back. He didn’t want to sit on the Hanley side, get looks. Hey, what are you doing over there? I thought you were one of us. If anyone even recognized him.
Packed at the bottom. Kids being stupid, probably drunk. Reminded him of himself. Before he went over. Walked up, feeling eyes roll off. Way up there was space.
Middle of an empty row, second from the back. Looked around. Kids, families. One guy with no shirt. Painted white. Kid next to him. Painted blue. Shivering.
What the fuck. Come on, Dad. Kid’s cold. Even through the fat. Shoulders on him slumped. Sitting there freezing. No energy. Didn’t want to be there.
The band came on. Played a song. Recognized it a little. Something new. Liked it. But he missed the old stuff. Easier to guess the next one. The ba-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-HEY song. They still played that, right?
Stands kept filling. He couldn’t see spaces. Where people were going. Just not up the stairs. Which was okay. If some hot chick sat next to him, great. But there weren’t any. Only wives and girlfriends. If he were a hot chick, he’d sit next to him. Be like hey.
The kid shivering. Standing now, clapping. Like his dad. The people around, their heads kept turning to them, nodding. Like yeah. How could they not see it? The kid was cold! Didn’t want to be there.
National anthem. Stood. A tape. No singer. Everyone had hands over hearts. Some men saluted. He saluted. Never used to care. Before he went.
He hadn’t been sure. Thought it would be okay. No loud noises. Plenty of space. Okay. So far, anyway. Headache gone. Anthem helped. Didn’t think it would.
Teams came on. Band playing music he knew. Intro music. They ran. Pointed at the sky. Jumped up and down. Hit each other in the helmet.
Hanley ran on. Looked like the fat kid. No spring.
He didn’t get it. Football was hard. Those kids hated it. He could tell. And he was sitting far away. If he could see, so could Armbrister High. Hanley was going to get their asses kicked.
Armbrister deferred. They kicked to the five. Good one. On the first play Hanley got stripped. A back yanked the ball from the running back. Clear even from where he sat. The crowd yelled UVVVVV. Back picked it up and ran it in. But not really ran. Twenty feet. But still. Touchdown.
Hanley slumped like they wanted it even less. The crowd cheered.
So did the fat kid. Flabby painted arms in the air. But it was show.
Armbrister kicked again. Pinned them back again. Crowd doing UVVVVVV. Except what was the kid’s name? From the newspaper. The good one.
Did the fat kid have friends? Maybe. There was a fat kid in his class. What was his name? Funny guy. Fat kids had to be. Defend yourself. Make everyone laugh. Flip it. Like ha, I’m fat. Except the ha was fake.
Roy couldn’t flip his thing. Tried. Everyone knew. From the beginning. But him. When did it start—second grade? Third? Somewhere in there. The first few times he tried. Forget it. But it was true. That was the thing. If it was yeah you’re fat he could be like ha, yeah. But they knew even though he didn’t all the way. Didn’t understand. Not yet. Not until then. Asked Auntie Blake. She didn’t answer. Said just ignore them. So he knew.
And it got worse. First it was your mom shops at Salvation Army. She did. So did Auntie Blake. But the kids with nice clothes said that. New sneakers. Sweaters. So that made it bad. It didn’t bother him until he understood it was supposed to.
Then it was your mom’s on food stamps. Which she was. A small kid said it to him. He punched the small kid. Went to the office. The principal saying why did you do that, Roy? Because he said my mother was on food stamps. Just ignore them, he said. And it will go away. Couldn’t say I’ve been trying to ever since they said my mother shops at Salvation Army and it didn’t go away it got worse so I got mad and hit one so now it will go away. Because the principal would never say hit people. Even if it was fair.
So it stopped for a few days. Detention. Auntie Blake shaking her head. Roy, she said, you must rise above this foolishness. Your roots.
But then it started again. And the kid was bigger. Like normal-sized. And he punched back.
It hurt. But it wasn’t bad. He could get hit. And hit back. That was his first real fight. A tie. Neither of them stopped. Kept going until they were both pulled away. An art teacher. Scarves. Smelled like stuff you put in a bathroom to cover shit. You boys! What are you doing to each other? Like it had never happened before. Like she had never seen it before. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe that’s why she was so scared.
Every few days was like that. A fight, detention. Stantz’s office. But if he didn’t fight it would be every day. He won at first. Smaller kids. And some big kids. And he lost some. The small ones stopped talking to his face. Just behind his back. At lunch, in class. He thought it would never end. It made Artie mad.
And it got worse. First it was about crack. Before he knew what it was. He fought about that.
Then after. He never thought it would be so bad. Not because he was sad. He wasn’t. Which made him feel guilty. Auntie Blake saying it was okay for him to get in touch with his feelings. To let it all out. But he was. And it pissed him off. That he became a bigger target. So he fought better. Not like just enough to end it like usual. Like I am going to hurt you. Fucking break you in half. Only a few kids. New ones. After his mother died and he sent that kid to the hospital they left him alone. Pretty much. Still something said sometimes. Behind his back. Always felt it even if there was nothing to hear. Felt looks.
After the first one he won, his first fight win, the little kid got up eventually. Walked away slumped. Like the fat kid. His shoulders said fuck with me. Hit me again. Harder. Roy used to stand like that. Figured it out as the kid walked away. So he stood in front of the mirror at home. Wanted to try it right then at school but someone would have seen him doing it in the bathroom. Laugh. Another fight. Didn’t want that. So he practiced. At home.
He wished he could go back and tell the kid in the mirror about Peck.
Hanley kicked. Armbrister returned it all the way to the twenty.
The guy jumped up and down. The kid pretended. Still slumped. Maybe he wanted his dad to think he liked it.
He wanted to say hey, fat kid, look. At least he’s here. That was another thing. Fights, chants. Who’s Your Daddy? A bunch of them. First it was pick out the smallest. But the big ones would come at him all at once. So it was the biggest from then on. Everyone stopped to watch. Surprised. Got his ass kicked sometimes. Stantz and detention. But not all the time. It slowed down.
He talked to her while she was in the hospital. Went in. Needed to know. Couldn’t remember much from growing up with her. Mostly a lot of TV. People in and out. Which made sense. He didn’t know then. He just watched TV. Reruns. Brady Bunch. Brothers and sisters. Mom and Dad.
He could hear the bus down the road over the TV set. Sometimes he went. His mom would wake up and say go to school. But she didn’t mean it. Not like when she said do those dishes. Or stay in your room. Or clean this shit. She was saying it because she had to. Wouldn’t hit him. Too tired. So he waited for her to go back to sleep and watched more TV. The bus at the trailer park entrance waiting less and less.
Then Auntie Blake. Her sisters. Dusty old house. Smelly. Different smells. Didn’t know the trailer smell names until later.
Auntie Blake always meant it when she said go. He said okay and went back to sleep. Or tried to. Royal, she’d say, it’s time for you to get up. And she’d yank the covers off. I am not saying this to hear myself talk.
Thanksgiving one year. The first one, must’ve been. The only one. Som
e huge dude. Smoked in the house. Please extinguish your cigarette, Auntie Blake said. Tattoos. Mustache. Smelled like a garage and something else. Get me an ashtray. I will not be spoken to in that way in my own house, she said. Picked up the turkey platter and went to the kitchen. His mom went in after her. The guy smoked to the filter. Ground it out on his plate.
Kitchen yelling. Some old lady took him outside. One of the aunts. Tried to get him to play. Didn’t want to. Could hear them yelling inside. Couldn’t hear words.
His mom and the guy came out. Not running. But mad. Looked like she was dragging him. Big strong guy pulled by a lady. Went right past. Didn’t say anything. Wanted her to. Goodbye. Happy Thanksgiving. See you soon. But she didn’t. They got into a huge loud car. Drove away.
Hanley returned it to the ten. Then a sack. UVVVVVVV except it was DOVVVVVVE. That was it. From the newspaper. Ross Dove.
Guy jumping up and down. Fat kid trying to give a shit. Did they paint for every game? He wouldn’t try so hard if this was his first one. He’d be like look at me, I’m doing this. I’m painted. He slumped like he wanted to disappear.
Went to see her. His great aunt said I understand why you’re going, Royal, but no good will come of it.
I just need to—
I understand. But prepare yourself. Nothing good will come of it. Believe me.
Why would she say that? He had to go.
He understood later.
Tubes in her nose. Taped to her arm. Beeps. Noises. Skeleton in a bed. She tried to breathe every time. Couldn’t just breathe. Eyes closed.
Sat there. Held her hand. Waited for her to wake up. Open her eyes. Something. But she didn’t. Trying to pull breaths. No one else in the room. A TV playing down the hall. Wanted to say something. Yell. Don’t you know what’s happening? But they did. So TVs.
He sat and waited and she never opened her eyes.
Went back a few times. Didn’t tell Auntie Blake.
She was awake once. Looked at him. Didn’t see him, though. Couldn’t tell. He said it’s me and she made a noise. That was it. He tried to think if she told him something and he couldn’t remember and should have been paying attention to what she said instead of watching TV. But he watched because he didn’t want to know. Even then. The Brady Bunch and all the families on TV who went places and did things and sat together and ate the same food at the same time weren’t the reason even though he liked to think of all that stuff. Wasn’t how it was with Auntie Blake. Always sighing. Not because she was tired. She didn’t like him. Felt like she had to take care of him. Charity case. And he couldn’t do honors. Didn’t care enough. Wanted to. Maybe she’d like him more. But he couldn’t. School, work at night, sleep. So.
Swing State Page 6