by Tom Leveen
That gets B to grin. “Yeah. I guess. Later.”
After he leaves Chizona’s, I watch B walk down the sidewalk, not even pretending to start running. Suddenly depressed, I climb into the new-old car and drive home. I’ve lost twenty or thirty minutes with Mom by going out for the pizza, but that’s what Mom would have told me to do. Now I’ll only have fifteen, maybe twenty minutes with her.
I park on the street in front of the house, because there’s only room in the driveway for my mom’s even older car—one that’s kept running by a guy down the block in exchange for meals from Pei Wei. I find Mom at the same place she always is between shifts: on the couch watching Judge Judy.
“Hey, you,” Mom says.
“Hey, Mom.”
I crash down beside her and throw my big old feet up on the coffee table. I do this every day. And every day, Mom slaps my knee and I move them down. We both smile.
“How was practice?”
“Good. We got this.”
“How’s Brady doing?”
“Hungry.”
“Mmm,” Mom says, her smile gone. “I’ll bring some extra home tonight. You make sure and take it tomorrow. How’s he playing?”
“Good. But I think he lost some weight this summer.” I shake my head. “Why doesn’t she take care of him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She thinks she’s got a good thing going with these guys and their presents, I guess.”
“I don’t like how he looks.”
“How’s he look?”
Actually, I’ve spoken before really completing my own thought. I have to struggle to find the right words. “Like he’s being chased.”
“Mmm,” Mom says again. “I know that feeling, Donte. And he can’t be a quarterback on an empty stomach.”
She’s right about that. And if I’m going to have more than one school to pick from, I need our quarterback’s head in the game. Me and B both need those opportunities.
“How about you, you hungry?” Mom says. “Can I make you something before work?”
I’m full to bursting from the pizza, and even if I wasn’t, I know by now how to make just about anything from nothing. Since she’s usually working two jobs, sometimes even a third, Mom isn’t around much to cook. My little brother Ramon won’t be home till late; it’s his day with his dad. This is the only time me and Mom get. These quick times together, specifically scheduled by her, mean everything. To both of us, I know.
Though the thought of more food makes me queasy, and I hate to make Mom get up, knowing she’ll be on her feet for another six hours tonight, I also know this is what she wants more than anything. “Sure, yeah,” I say. “I could use a bite.”
The way her brown eyes dance, I know I chose the right thing.
BRADY
Pizza was great. But I feel sick.
Donte knows. ’Course he knows. That’s what’s making me sick.
Least he’s cool about it. And at least I ate. Don’t know when that might happen again.
I walk home from the pizza place. No way am I running. That was just a scam for Donte. Prolly didn’t need to bother. Still. Makes me feel better to have an excuse.
Some bum in an alley down the block offers to blow me. Not even if I had the money, I want to say. But I don’t. Doesn’t matter.
Door is locked when I get to our unit. Son of a bitch. I climb the back wall into the porch. Back door’s locked, too.
My eyes shut. I grind my teeth. Make a pair of fists. Should just break a window. Hell with her.
But I won’t. I know I won’t.
Pull out my phone and rub my eyes because men don’t cry. Pussy.
“Hello,” Coach says.
“Hey,” I say. “I, um … she’s not …”
“No worries,” Coach says. “You head on over any time.”
I try to say Thanks. I know he can’t hear it.
“You know where she is?” Coach asks.
“With that new asshole, or maybe jail again. I don’t know. Man, I got to turn in my permission slip still …”
“Don’t worry about that right now, you just head over whenever. Monica will fix you up something.”
“Thanks.” Say it louder this time.
“You’re gonna get through this, chief.”
I don’t answer because men don’t cry. They don’t. After a minute I manage a grunt back.
“See ya,” Coach says, like he knows.
“’Kay.” Hit the end key. Stare at the locked back door and the window. Could still just break it.
But what’s in there? Fridge is empty except for diabetes meds and old Ritz crackers. Maybe some mustard. Rotten eggs or something.
I’ll come back in the morning to shower and change. If she’s home. Or maybe I’ll just stay at the park again.
Climb back over the wall. Walk a few blocks to catch a free trolley. They’re not like the ones in San Francisco. Just buses painted to look like it. Take a roundabout path to Coach’s house. On the way, I check my phone. Laugh when I see the Fat Kid’s pic has made the rounds.
That makes me feel better. In a sick sort of way. Prolly shouldn’t have done it.
But hey. Life’s not fair. Gotta laugh when you can.
COACH
Jennings is back in his spot at the top of the bleachers on Friday. Where he’s been every day the entire week.
“Gonna join us today?” Coach says, chewing on the rubber tip of his whistle like a cigar, giving his words a mobster lisp.
“No thanks, Coach,” Jennings calls. He’s reading a book, does not look up. Coach can’t see the title.
“You want to go sit in the principal’s office again?”
“I’d love nothing more, Coach.”
“Well then go ahead march your smart ass right down there.”
“I’ll need a pass, Coach.”
“Deal with it. Get out of my gym.”
“Whatever you say, Coach.”
Jennings shoves the paperback into his bag and marches down the bleacher steps. The rest of the class pays no attention. They’ve adjusted to him.
Jennings walks past, saying, “By the way, you know I can take health, right? How about you just give me the old transfer over there? Whaddya say, chum? It’d make life a lot easier for both of us.”
“That class is full. How about you dress out and take a lap? I’ll even give you a full week’s credit if you put in even that much effort.”
“You’re seriously going to fail me at PE?”
“You’re going to fail yourself. You don’t have to be some athlete. You just have to show some effort. Look at those other boys. They strike you as athletes? They’re trying to do what I asked. That’s it.” Coach rubs his forehead as if it pains him. “My god, son, it’s an easy A if you’d—”
“You don’t call me that!” Jennings’s face twists as he screams. Both the volume and the pitch are enough to make the runners stop, crashing into each other. Even Coach is momentarily stunned.
“You don’t ever, ever, call me that,” Jennings seethes. Quiet now, but scary quiet; the quiet of the moment before a firing pin pricks the primer of a bullet.
But Coach doesn’t sway easily. He recovers in an instant. “March your ass to the principal’s office. Now. Or I’ll happily march it there for you.”
Jennings’s rage is gone as quickly as it manifested. A calm look spreads over his face as he heads for the stairs. “Whatever you say, Coach.”
Coach blows his whistle and reams out the freshmen and sophomores who’ve stopped running to watch the scene. They scurry back to the laps. He walks the interior of the sidelines, twirling his whistle lanyard and trying to get his heart rate back to normal.
God damn that kid, he thinks.
CADENCE
The cafeteria is like a soundstage in Hollywood where a million dramas happen every day. This cafeteria’s food is way better than my junior high’s, though, and there’s lots of big windows to let in the sun. And the ceiling is high, which lets all
the nose-clogging, steamy-food smell rise. Will it form clouds up there and condense, raining mashed potato moisture upon us all? And if so—yum? I’m not sure.
I buy a Dr Pepper to go with my pizza, happy that Friday is always Pizza Day, and stand off to one side, trying to decide where to try to sit this time. The week hasn’t gone real well in terms of meeting people. High school’s not turning out to be as rock and roll as expected. The other day, this guy told me to screw my sunny disposition. Jeez, relax, right? So I’ve been eating on the go since then, wandering around with my food and watching people, looking for anyone fascinating. I haven’t seen Zach again. Sad face! Maybe he has a car and can drive off campus for lunch.
It’s hard to get to know someone when they’re never around. I listened to music and texted with Gloria the last couple days during lunch, but she’s at a doctor’s appointment today.
Before I leave the cafeteria with my pizza, I spot the spikes-and-buckles kid from the first day. He’s sitting on the floor, his back against the west wall, legs out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He’s got earbuds in.
So he survived his first week! That’s good. I wonder what kind of music he likes.
I walk over and sit down next to him, crisscross applesauce. He looks up with an expression of surprise that immediately turns to crankiness.
“What’s up?” I say, setting my soda beside me and resting my plate in my lap.
He darts his eyes to one side and the other, then back to me. “Have we met?”
“Nope. I’m Cadence.”
“Like the chant that army guys do when they march?”
“Actually, yes, but my dad was in the navy, not the army. I don’t know if the navy does cadences or not. Probably they do. I’ll ask!”
He pulls one earbud out. “The navy, huh?”
“Yep!”
“He have, like, a bunch of guns and stuff? My dad’s a gun guy.”
“I don’t think so. He worked on a submarine.”
“Whoa.”
He must honestly be interested, because he takes the other earbud out, too.
“What’re you listening to?”
He passes one of the buds over. “MacDougall Clan.”
“Is that like German death metal?”
“No, but why do you ask?”
“Because you dress like it.”
“You’re very forward.”
“And you’re very dry. I mean, like, chill. You don’t make very many expressions, did you know that?”
“It’s a skill.”
“Your face might freeze like that if you’re not careful!”
“Trust me. It already has.”
That’s funny. Maybe he didn’t mean it to be, but it is. “What’ll you give me if I make you smile?”
Well, that gets his attention. I can tell he’s struggling not to show it though. Except—oh, crap. He probably took it in like a sexual way.
So I say, “I didn’t mean that in a sexual way.”
“Of course not,” he says, and twists one of the earbuds back in.
I figure I am dismissed, but he holds up the other bud toward me, but without looking, like he doesn’t care if I take it or not.
I take it. MacDougall Clan sings something I can’t quite make out. It’s got a decent beat, anyway.
“Do you like Rancid?” I ask, tapping out the beat on one leg.
He nods.
“Sweet!” I say. “How about the Ramones?”
He shrugs. His eyes are only half-open. Or is it half-closed?
“You have to like them. I’ll teach you. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Danny.”
“Cool. Hi, Danny.”
“Hello, Cadence. Why are you talking to me?”
“I’m trying to save your life. My friend Colin wore clothes like yours last year, and everyone made fun of him, even when he stopped.”
“So now you don’t like how I dress, either,” he says, like he’s pretending to say it to himself, but I can obviously hear him. “What a fine, fine place this is.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, I just said—”
“Everyone made fun of your little buddy. I get it.”
“Are you mad at me now? Because the thing is, it’s been a week and I’ve met some people in class and stuff but honestly, there haven’t been a lot of people to talk to. It’s really hard to make friends here for some reason.”
Danny glances at me. “Yeah. I’ve maybe noticed that. I’m not mad.”
“Cool. What other bands do you like?”
Danny shows me. Or is it hears me … ?
Lets me listen to his music. That’s better. Lunch goes by pretty fast after that.
VIVI
Mrs. Garcia hands our writing assignments back—our first grade in her class. In red pen, she has circled an A on my paper. She smiles at me when she puts it on my desk, and touches my shoulder for a moment.
I wonder if she’s allowed to do that. To make physical contact, I mean.
“Nice work, Vivian,” Mrs. Garcia says before moving on to the next student.
The girl next to me leans over and demands, “What did you get?”
Don’t look.
Don’t move.
I turn my paper over, so only a blank white page shows.
“Hey!” the girl snaps.
I’ve already learned her name is Brianna. I’ve learned she is ridiculously smart, or at least knows to only raise her hand when she has the right answer. She does this several times a day. I know this because we have far too many classes together. Honors and AP classes. I’ve heard people in the hallway snickering and calling her “THE Brianna Montaro.” And it always makes me smile inside.
Only inside. Never outside. Never smile on the outside here. And never when THE Brianna Montaro can see it.
Of course we are in all the same classes. Of course.
“What did you get?” Brianna Montaro says again. She wears black tights and a brilliant blue shirt, artfully tattered, punctured, and knotted. It says DANCE on the front. And at this school, there are no ugly dancers, flagettes, or cheerleaders.
I am not a dancer, flagette, or cheerleader.
I say nothing. Stare at the blank side of my assignment.
Don’t look.
Don’t move.
THE Brianna Montaro rolls her eyes and says, “Ugh!” then rips the essay off my desk and flips it over.
I gasp, but do not reach out to stop her. THE Brianna Montaro stares at the A.
“Bitch,” she says, and flips the paper back at me.
Mrs. Garcia doesn’t notice any of this because an extraordinarily tall boy sitting up front is asking her questions about the grading rubric.
I stay motionless, but can’t resist a peek at Brianna Montaro’s paper. She got an A-minus.
Maybe I’m not the bitch. Maybe Mrs. Garcia is. Maybe THE Brianna Montaro is, and she’s just mad at herself.
Better to assume it’s me, though.
“Knock it off, Brianna,” a boy says to her.
He’s sitting in the desk opposite THE Brianna Montaro. She is between us. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and is attractive even though he’s not really dressed right for school in khakis and a button-down. A nice button-down, though. It is red and sits well on him. He looks … somehow above all this. Like he’s just waiting for high school to end so he can become president.
THE Brianna Montaro turns to the guy. I brace myself, waiting for her to insult him.
She doesn’t. She only stares.
“What?” the boy says.
THE Brianna Montaro just keeps looking at him. Freezing him with ice-cold princess powers.
“What?” the boy says again, agitated.
THE Brianna Montaro says nothing.
The boy shakes his head and mutters, “Whatever.”
At last, THE Brianna Montaro speaks: “Well that was clever, Sam. Honestly, I expected more from a master debater.”
She says it fast
so it sounds like one word instead. Only then does she face front again.
The boy shakes his head.
We make eye contact.
He shrugs and smiles. On the outside.
I look at my desk.
And smile. On the inside.
CADENCE
These three girls have another girl pinned against the bathroom wall when I walk in. One of the three is Brianna Montaro. I recognize her instantly, because everyone recognizes Brianna Montaro instantly. I think her given name, as it appears on school records, is THE Brianna Montaro, all caps. I think she’s already been picked to be valedictorian, whatever that is, and it sounds important. She doesn’t look like the boss in here, but then, all three of them might as well be clones. They’re all pretty and they’re all athletic and they’re all old. Like, put-together, I mean. They are not, for example, wearing their older brother’s old Kona board shorts, Doc sandals, and a Rancid Ruby Soho T-shirt like someone else is right now.
The girl pinned to the tile wall looks familiar, maybe, but I’m not sure. I don’t have any classes with her. A black magic marker flashes like a blade in Clone #1’s hand as they whirl toward me.
“Take a walk, freshman,” #1 says.
“What’re you doing?” I ask instead of taking a walk.
#1 uncaps the marker. I imagine I can smell its addictive fumes hovering over the smell of stale cigarettes, mascara, and pee.
“It’s not your problem,” #2 says.
THE Brianna Montaro doesn’t say anything. She’s got her arms crossed and stands a bit to the side, eyes darting between us. But she’s with them, definitely. Maybe she’s supervising, or doing research.
I make eye contact with the girl against the wall. She’s scared, but not struggling. Clones #1 and #2 hold her easily in place with their hands, not straining either. The girl has clearly accepted her fate.
I watch as #1 methodically spells out A+ SLUT on the girl’s exposed forehead. The letters are bold, sharp, perfectly shaped. I wait for laughter from Brianna, or the clones, but no one laughs. The girl against the wall shuts her eyes during the procedure, but she doesn’t shake her head or shove them away or scream. Somehow that’s the worst part, the way she just takes it without making any fuss.
I want to do something, but what? Sweet ninja moves? I don’t have any of those. I could run shouting out of the bathroom, get a teacher or call SWAT, but I don’t think they’ll actually do anything about it. These girls seem like the kind of people who get away with stuff regardless of what a wee freshman might say about them.