The Investment Club

by Cooper, Doug

  The only thing that did change for Max was that each year the physical differences between him and his classmates became more noticeable. The confidence Max felt from the first few years of school eroded. He never thought of himself as disabled or different, but the other students did and treated him accordingly, so he never saw a reason to advertise it. He let them figure it out on their own. By fifth grade, with pretty much all of the boys over a foot taller than him, and his arms disproportionately short for the size of his torso, he knew pretty much everyone was wise to his condition. The ones who weren’t got there pretty quickly due to his nicknames: Maxie Smurf, Maxkin, Mini-Max, Minimum, and of course all the other standards like Oompa-Loompa, Fun-Size, Niblet—whatever cruel names kids could come up with to keep the focus off of them.

  Not everyone was mean to him though. Some of the kids tried to be his friend. The problem was that Max didn’t want to be friends with them. They were all the socially awkward kids, in his view, the dorks. Max didn’t see himself that way. He didn’t make fun of these other kids, but he definitely didn’t consider himself one of them. Aligning with the dorks would only bring more teasing. He was much happier on his own.

  Heading down the bus aisle, three punches in the arm and one ear-flick later, Max poured himself into the vacant seat. It was actually a pretty easy day compared to usual. He hadn’t been knocked over and didn’t lose anything on the way. He slid to the window. The hot, stuffy air inside the bus had fogged the glass due to the chilly November air outside. He wiped the condensation with his sleeve so he could see out. The bus accelerated. He counted the mailboxes lining the side of the road. It was part of the game he created to help pass the time. He knew there were thirty-two on this side and thirty-seven on the other between his stop and school. Each mailbox counted one point if the flag was down, two if it was up. The previous record on this side was fifty-three. He thought with the holidays ahead, that record could be in jeopardy due to all the outgoing letters and packages. Focusing on the outside world was much more interesting, and safer.

  Max leaned his head against the window. The cold, wet surface soothed his throbbing temples. His stomach groaned. He looked around. Fortunately no one else heard it. He didn’t need to give them any more ammunition. Another growl erupted. His body was staging an obvious protest about his oversleeping and missing breakfast. Unzipping his backpack, he took out his sack lunch, which was already smashed into a ball. He hated stuffing it in with his books, but if he didn’t, someone would just pluck it from him on his way down the aisle. A wadded-up sandwich and crushed potato chips were better than nothing at all.

  Peeling open the brown paper sack, he removed the sandwich and flattened it on his leg. The strawberry jelly oozed out against the side of the plastic wrap. Too hungry to wait, he unwrapped the plastic. What he would eat for lunch would be a problem for later. Much hungrier than he realized, he took large bites, each bigger than the previous one. When he bit into the center, a glob of jelly dropped into his lap, directly on his crotch. Of course he hadn’t put a napkin down. The jelly absorbed instantly into his khaki pants. Max fished out the napkin from his lunch sack, attempting to soak up the stain. He blotted; he pressed; he rubbed. But between the bumps and the shifting speed of the bus, all he managed to do was smear the stain across and deeper into his pants.

  The student across the aisle noticed Max rubbing his crotch. “Having fun, Maxie? Hey look everybody, Max is playing with himself.”

  “No I’m not.” Max lifted the napkin. “I just dropped some food.”

  The two students in the seat in front of him turned around. “Ooh,” the boy against the window said. “Maxkin had an accident.”

  “Maxident, Maxident!” the one on the aisle chimed in.

  “It’s just jelly,” Max said, shoving the jelly-stained plastic wrap toward their faces.

  Students two and three rows away joined in. Row by row, heads popped up and rotated toward Max. One of the sixth-grade girls in the seat behind him said, “Gross! Max had his period.”

  Max wadded up the plastic and threw it at her. The bus driver’s eyes appeared in the overhead mirror, searching for the source of the commotion. All the students were kneeling on their seats and turned toward Max. “Butts down everyone, or I’m pulling this bus over, and everyone is getting assigned seats.”

  The students dropped down, but the jeering didn’t stop.

  “Max is on the rag.”

  “Congratulations, Max. You’re finally a woman.”

  “Somebody give him a Maxipad!”

  A roar of laughter rolled across the bus. Seat by seat, the chant grew. Even the ones who didn’t know what was going on joined the chant. “Max-i-pad. Max-i-pad. Max-i-pad. Max-i-pad. Max-i-pad.”

  Max didn’t bother refuting them. He had learned that lesson long ago. Fighting back only added fuel to the ridicule. Ignoring it was the best way to let the fire burn itself out. Hearing the strength and cadence of this chant, he knew it was going to stick longer than just the bus ride to school. He took his Walkman out of the backpack, put the headphones on, and turned up the Genesis tape as loud as it would go. He could still hear the derisive melody around him, but they didn’t know that. He focused back on the outside world, counting the remaining mailboxes amidst Phil Collins cooing in his ears about some kind of misunderstanding, some kind of mistake. The bus pulled up in front of the school. With the backpack in his lap, he waited until all the other students filed off.

  On Max’s way down the aisle, the bus driver stopped him. “What happened this time, Max?”

  Max swung the backpack over his right shoulder and lifted up his puffy jacket that extended to mid-thigh. The three-inch round stain was in the worst possible position, dead center on his crotch. “Today’s going to be a long day,” he said.

  “Don’t let them get to you,” she said. “What if you sit up by me from now on? I can save a seat right behind me just for you.”

  As much as Max wanted that, he knew it would only make things worse. They would just use it to make fun of him even more. He said, “Thanks, Shirley, but I’ll be OK. Short on size, long on character.” He looped his left arm through the other strap and shrugged on the backpack, adjusting the front of his coat down to cover the stain.

  Max went straight to his classroom. He bypassed the coatroom and sat at his desk. At least with the coat on, the stain was hidden. Better to be hot and uncomfortable than show off a bull’s-eye on your crotch. He dug out his unfinished homework and started working. Only a few of his classmates rode his bus. He just needed to stay under the radar long enough for everyone to find something else to mock.

  The bell rang. The other students scurried to their seats. Max kept his head down, working on his homework. When Mrs. Peters entered, she said, “Good morning, class. Will everyone take out their math assignment from last night while we wait for the morning announcements?” She walked down the aisle, stopping at a desk and waiting until the student had followed her instructions. Principal Andrews’s voice radiated from the speaker box with the typical daily nonevents.

  Max could hear and smell Mrs. Peters coming up behind him. She always wore too much perfume. She stopped behind him, a blast of the flowery, powdery scent continuing down the aisle. He scribbled down the final answer. She bent over, speaking in a whisper, her breath smelling of coffee and nicotine. He preferred the perfume. She said, “Max, you know we don’t allow jackets in the classroom. Please take yours to the coatroom.”

  Pushing his finished homework toward her as a bargaining chip, Max tilted his head, pleading softly. “Can’t I keep mine? Just for today. I promise.”

  Mrs. Peters had red, bushy hair and deep-set green eyes—or maybe her eyes weren’t that deep. Her cheeks were just that round. She waddled back a few steps to give him space to get out of his desk. “If I let you, then others will want theirs.” She put her hands on her hips, which stuck out like two
shelves. “It would be an absolute mess.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, mister. Hustle up.” She lifted her left arm from her hip, extending it toward the coatroom. “We have a lot to do today.”

  Max trudged to the coatroom, regretting his decision to keep the coat in the first place. If he had dumped it right away, he might have gotten to the first restroom break before anyone noticed his pants. Now he was going to be on full display on the way back to his seat.

  Mrs. Peters was on her way down the next aisle with her back to Max when he emerged from the coatroom. He hurried to his seat. One of the students looked up and snickered. Others followed. A student from the bus roused the refrain from the ride to school. “Look at Maxi-pad!”

  The class erupted.

  Mrs. Peters spun around. “That’s enough.” Her eyes flashed to Max and down to his crotch. “Settle down, everyone. Just a little accident.”

  The student from the bus chimed in. “A Maxident!”

  “Evander! Hallway, now,” Mrs. Peters pointed to the door and followed him amongst a chorus of “Ooohs.” She turned back toward the class. “If I so much as hear a peep from anyone, you’ll be in for recess for a week.”

  Under the stern watch of Mrs. Peters, the rest of the morning was uneventful, but everything started again at lunch. Since Max’s lunch had caused the whole problem, he didn’t have much to eat to distract him from all the staring and sneering in the cafeteria. Like most days, he sat at a table with third graders. Under normal circumstances, the lunchroom monitors probably wouldn’t have allowed someone in fifth grade sitting with third graders, but physically Max blended in, and there were never any problems. The third graders never said anything to him, and he never spoke to them. Listening to his Walkman, he quickly devoured his remaining chips and the bruised, mostly brown banana and got a head start on his homework until the bell signaled it was time to line up to go back to class.

  The second half of the day wasn’t as bad as the first. Mrs. Peters allowed Max to stay in for recess and helped him clean his pants. Well, actually she did it for him. She had gotten a pair of shorts from the gym teacher and had Max change once all the kids were out at recess. Max waited in the nurse’s office while she cleaned his pants in the teachers’ lounge. All that was left was a faint outline around the edge of the stain. Unless somebody knew what they were looking for, they’d never see it. Good ol’ Mrs. Peters. She really saved the day. He’d never make fun of her perfume or shape again.

  On the bus ride home, even though earlier Max had discouraged a special seat, Shirley had saved one for him. She said, “Just for today. All this will blow over by tomorrow.”

  Exhausted from all the stress and drama, Max gladly accepted the charity. He ducked into the seat behind Shirley and stared out the window to count the mailboxes home, knowing exactly what he was going to do first thing he got there. What had happened that day was never going to happen again.

  Shuffling off the bus amidst fading cheers of “Maxipad,” Max headed straight to the garage, which was open, with his foster mom’s car on the left and a vacant spot on the right, since his foster dad was still at work. Max dropped his backpack on the floor in the middle of the vacant space and started rummaging through all the leftover supplies from when they remodeled the basement. He examined pieces of carpet, paneling, and curtains, but none of them were quite right.

  Max’s foster mom came out from the house, his baby foster sister tucked under her arm. “I thought I heard you out here. Good day at school? Whatcha looking for?”

  Max didn’t bother telling her about school. She would just worry, or worse, go to the school and complain. He said, “Remember that roll of the fake leather stuff we used to cover those cushions for the bench in the basement? It’s called neatherhyde or something like that.”

  “You mean Naugahyde?” She walked over, bouncing the baby on her hip. “I think it’s in the cabinet over there.” She motioned with her head to the standing cabinet to Max’s left. “What on earth do you need that for?”

  “It’s for a project at school. Do you care if I use it?”

  “Use it all,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get Jim to throw it away for a year. You know how he is though. Hates wasting stuff. Always thinks he’ll use it later.”

  “Thanks, Gwen.” Max opened up the cabinet. The roll was leaning in the corner behind a few rakes and shovels. “There it is. This should work perfectly.” He moved the tools and pulled out the roll, dropping it with a thump onto the garage floor.

  “Be careful,” Gwen said. “The princess and I are going to head back in and finish dinner. Pot roast tonight.” She turned but hesitated. “Do me a favor though? Don’t tell Jim you needed it. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “No problem. It’ll be our secret.” Max unrolled a large section of the Naugahyde. Gwen went back in the house. He dug out a pair of lawn shears from the cabinet and cut the material in different sizes and shapes, positioning them in front of him on the concrete. Sitting cross-legged, he picked up each one and stretched it across his lap. Deciding on the square piece eighteen inches by eighteen, he collected the others and threw them in the garbage, piling other trash on so Jim wouldn’t see them. A used wooden paint stirrer rested on top. “Handles,” he said. “This thing is going to need handles.”

  Dow Jones Close: 2,519.06

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Date: Wednesday, March 11, 2009

  Dow Jones Open: 6,923.13

  Crystal’s mobile phone vibrated, belting out the Destiny Child’s ringtone assigned to her agent: Say my name, say my name. When no one is around you, say baby I love you. If you ain’t runnin’ game, say my name, say my name.

  She yanked the phone out of the back pocket of her stretchy capri jeans. Calls from her agent never got screened. Whether she was expecting a callback or just hoping for another audition, she was always happy to hear that ringtone. The real problem was when the phone didn’t ring. No news was ever good news when it came to Maura.

  Maura had known Crystal since she put on her first pair of ballet shoes and angled into her first turnout. Maura had been Valeria’s agent, and over the years had booked her for gigs from television commercials to studio work to live performances all throughout Los Angeles. Maura probably could’ve landed a lot more for Valeria, but Valeria was never willing to travel because she didn’t want to be away from Crystal.

  Valeria didn’t just turn away work for herself. Maura always seemed to find ample opportunities for Crystal as well: Leggy seven-year-old with dance background, Fresh-faced nine-year-old with strong pipes, Tall, graceful ten-year-old with piercing eyes. Crystal qualified for them all, but Valeria was firm. She didn’t want Crystal starting until she was fourteen and had a strong vocal and dance foundation. That way Valeria would be sure Crystal was in it for the right reasons. She knew from her own experience that the only thing that got a person through all the rejection was the passion.

  Not only did Crystal stick with it until she was fourteen, she excelled at every recital and performance opportunity she had. Regardless of the show, everyone always wanted to know afterward, Who was that exotic gazelle with the golden voice?

  Even though she knew the answer when she called Valeria with opportunities for Crystal, Maura made Valeria decline every one, hoping she might relent. But Valeria never did. She didn’t want to be one of those showbiz moms who forced her own failed dreams on her daughter. And Crystal was never to know about any of it. That was the agreement, and Valeria was adamant that if Maura ever broke the agreement, she would never book anything for Crystal even after her fourteenth birthday. So it became a game they played: Maura would pitch an opportunity, Valeria would decline, and Crystal was oblivious, always thinking Maura was calling to talk to Valeria about her career. When Crystal knew her mom was talking to Maura, she would get excited, jumping up and down, screaming, “Did you ge
t it? Did you get it?” Valeria would just tell her it wasn’t the right part and say nothing more.

  Once Crystal turned fourteen and her beauty and talents blossomed, taking on a momentum all their own, the opportunities also increased. But there were still rules. Crystal could not work on school nights, and either Valeria or Maura had to accompany her. If Crystal ever broke either rule, Valeria vowed to void the contract with Maura and not let Crystal work until she was eighteen. Like all teenagers, Crystal pushed the limits and crossed the line a few times, and somehow every time Maura would find out, but Maura never told Valeria, so it was like the pre-fourteen auditioning game, only this time Valeria was the oblivious one.

  Even with the working restrictions, Crystal worked steadily through high school and made enough money that she never had to take a normal job like other high schoolers and was able to contribute to their living expenses so they could move out of their studio apartment into a two bedroom. Valeria wanted Crystal to save the money for college, but she also knew Crystal was too old to be sleeping in the same bed as her mother (even though one of them always seemed to find her way into the other’s bed after they moved at least three or four times per week). So despite her reservations, Valeria accepted the money but still found a way to stuff half of what Crystal gave her into a savings account, and, if Valeria ever was short during the month, she scraped together what she needed by sacrificing her own needs. Everything Valeria ever bought for herself was second- or maybe even third- or fourthhand. Who knows how many times the thrift store items exchanged hands before they landed in hers? She didn’t care though. Her baby girl was worth it.

  Crystal pressed the phone to her ear, launching into the conversation. “Whatcha got for me, Maura?”