“You ain’t going to introduce me?” Scott asks with a smile that hints he might know something about me I don’t really want known.
“Nah.”
“Suit yourself, big man.” He backs us out of the driveway, turns the car around, and at the end of the street, at the stop sign, asks, “See any cops?” Without waiting for an answer, he punches the gas. The big V-8 roars and Scott pops the clutch. Tires screeching, back end shuddering sideways, a cloud of oily blue smoke pours up from the pavement behind us.
“YeeeeeeeeHAAAAWWWWW!!!!!”
The bucket seat sucks me deep into its soft leather as we blast out toward the world.
“You like that?” Scott asks.
“Yeah,” I answer truthfully. And then, for no reason, lean my head out the open window like a dog. The wind howls through my hair.
“That’s the spirit,” he shouts. I bring my head back in and see Scott reaching into the backseat to pull out a six-pack already missing a can. “Have one,” he says, dropping the beer in my lap. “Maybe you’ll finally lighten up.”
I hate drinking, especially beer. Especially beer out of cans. Crud Bucket guzzled it like Gatorade before moving onto the heavier stuff. I pull a can off the plastic ring.
“Pass me one,” Scott says. “Chug it quick. My pops wants to meet our secret weapon before we head over to the party. And don’t tell him Mike’s parents went away for the weekend.”
I pull a second can off the plastic ring and hand it to Scott, then stuff the remaining three cans under my seat. Scott opens his can and downs it like soda. I take a small sip of mine and it tastes awful, same as it always does every time I try it, like dandelion weeds mulched in a blender and boiled into tea.
“Finish that bad boy. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
I take a big swig, trying not to taste it. I take another swig and another until it’s almost empty. Good enough.
Scott turns onto a street with big white houses and nice lawns, some with little lawn jockey statues holding lanterns by the front door. “Look,” he says as he fiddles with the radio dial, “we’ll keep this short as possible. Just nod and smile and pretend everything he says is scripture. Then we’ll get outta there.”
“Guh-got it,” I say, taking Scott’s instructions seriously. With adults, I leave nothing to chance.
“There’s that stern frown again,” he says. “My dad’s gonna freakin’ love you. Hold on to that look until we leave. Then you can lighten up.”
“Okay.” As much as I hate the taste, the beer relaxes my tongue in a good way.
Scott unloads a belch that sounds like a blown speaker. He kills the ignition and the vibrations rumbling through my seat die. I’ve only just climbed out of the car when the front door of the house opens and there’s Mr. Miller: buzz-cut hair, heavy shoulders, broad chest, and paunch belly. A can of beer and an unlit cigar sprout from his right hand.
“Let me get a look at our newest acquisition,” he says by way of introduction. He wears a big, overly friendly grin to go with his XXXL Knights jersey, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. His eyes are watery. I think his nose is sunburned, but the closer he comes, the more I see that the pink is from little broken blood vessels, like Crud Bucket’s.
“Brought him over, Dad,” Scott says, “just like I promised.”
Mr. Miller ignores his son and keeps honing in on me, stepping closer, getting right up in my face, and taking me in from shoe to hair. The way his gaze avoids the bad side of my face tells me he’s working hard to ignore it.
“Lookit the size of you!” Mr. Miller says, then sticks the cigar in his mouth, shifts his beer can, and offers his hand to shake. I take it, feel his grip clamp down on my fingers, trying to grind my knuckles together. He won’t let go, just keeps squeezing. His smile turns wicked while he waits for a reaction. I won’t give him one. I won’t squeeze back, either. Something tells me he’ll take that challenge.
“Someone’s been feeding you good,” he says. “Got to get Scottie here on that diet, beef him up a bit.” I think about the six PB and Js I chowed down, pretty sure Scott wouldn’t be too happy with that diet. “Come on and grab a beer. Just one, though, since you’re driving and doing God knows what tonight. Am I right? Huh? Right?”
“Dad, we should get—”
“Goddammit, boy!” Mr. Miller lashes out at his son, ears and cheeks growing crimson to match his nose. “Don’t interrupt me again.” Mr. Miller shakes his head and turns back to me, blowing out a stream of air, and the redness fades. “My boy has trouble minding himself. Thinks he’s the man in charge. Well, he may be the man out there with those little faggots and pussies, but around this house, there’s only one big dog.”
“Yes, sir!” I say, happy that the beer smoothes my reply and makes Mr. Miller seem more like a joke than a threat. I glance at Scott, catch his eyes narrowing behind his old man’s back.
“You hear that, Scottie? You hear how he addresses me? Someone taught you good, boy! Someone brought you up right.”
“Th-thank you, sir.”
“I sure would like to meet the parents of such a fine, upstanding young man. Makes me proud to be a part of this mostly derelict human race.”
“Dad, maybe we can—” Scott begins, but is cut off again.
“Boy, I am not going to tell you again about interrupting your old man! Now get on in there and grab all three of us a beer. Now!”
Scott goes into the house without another word and returns with the beers while Mr. Miller and I stand in front of Scott’s car.
“Kurt, I sure did like watching you run and block last night. You teach Scottie some of those moves, make a man out of him. He thinks he knows it all. The boy don’t know shit. What you lookin’ at, Scott?” Mr. Miller asks. “You know they’ve been pampering you. You may be the star quarterback here, but once you walk on campus with the big boys, they will knock you on your ass. Am I right?”
“Yesssssir,” I say, glancing over at Scott, see him glaring at me. Mr. Miller leans down to rest his beer on the fender of the Camaro, but the can slips off and falls to the ground.
“Ahh, for Christ’s sake! Scottie, what the hell are you doing to me here, with this damn car? Can’t drive a truck. Got to have some flashy fairy car with a fancy grille you can’t set nothing on. Jee-zus, what’s the point?”
“You liked it plenty when Rick bought it,” Scott hisses.
“What?! Whaddid you just say?” Mr. Miller squares his shoulders toward Scott like he’s preparing to box his son into the ground. “Blaspheme his name again, boy,” Mr. Miller growls, pulling the cigar out of his mouth, readying for attack. “Go ahead. Test me.”
“Have my buh-buh-beer, sssssir,” I offer, knowing from experience angry drinkers can be distracted with more alcohol. Mr. Miller stands there staring Scott down while deciding something. Then he plugs his cigar back in his mouth, keeping his eyes set on Scott while talking to me.
“Boy, got some good manners on you,” Mr. Miller says, his hand opening expectantly for the almost full can of beer I place in the circle of his fingers like a servant. He likes that. I can tell. “Scottie, you stick with this one. Learn some respect from him.”
“Yes, sir,” Scott says, voice brittle. His face turns raw red as his old man’s while his jaw clenches and unclenches. I swallow nervously. Mr. Miller takes a long pull from my beer, tipping the can up almost vertical, then wipes his forearm across his mouth.
“Okay, you two get out of here. And don’t go knocking up a cheerleader. Don’t think I don’t remember being your age. But the wrong move with one of them girls will put you on the path to food stamps. You remember that and keep it in your pants.”
Scott’s already in the car, turning over the ignition, when I say good-bye to his dad.
“Nice meeting you, suh-suh-sir.”
“You too, son. Can’t wait to see you run against Millfield High. You’ll make fools outta those boys.”
A quarter mile from his house, driving up the on-
ramp to Old Highway 8, Scott punches the gas. The Camaro bucks, engine snorting, and presses me into my seat once again.
“Who’s ruh-ruh-Rick?”
“My brother. My forever-perfect brother. Never did a single goddamn thing wrong, according to my dad.”
The speedometer needle climbs way past the legal limit. I wait for Scott to ease off the pedal. The flatbed of a pickup truck grows larger and larger in front of us. Just as we’re about to ram it, Scott switches lanes. We rocket past it, chased weakly by the truck’s horn.
“Suh-suh-suh-Scott. Ease up.”
“Whatsa matter?” Scott asks, wearing his old man’s wicked grin. “The big, upstanding, young gentleman scared?”
“It ain’t fuh-fuh-fuh-funny.”
There are two cars up ahead, running side by side, blocking both lanes. We blast toward both sets of tail-lights on a collision course. Scott glances over at me, then throws his head back in laughter. He re-grips the steering wheel.
“Grow some balls,” he says. “If my dad saw you right now, squirming like a sissy, he wouldn’t be so hot to kiss your ugly ass.”
“Suh-suh-suh-suh-suh—”
“Scott. My name is Scott. Say it. Scott!” He shouts at me.
“Duh-duh-don’t . . .” I brace an arm against the dashboard, expecting the crash. The two cars ahead plug both lanes. Nowhere to go. No room between them; only grass ditch and ravine on either side.
“Suck it up, man!”
“Suh-suh-suh . . . Come on!”
Scott flashes his headlights and lays on the horn. “Out of the way asshole!” he shouts, refusing to slow. I reach for his arm but he jerks it from my grip.
“Suh-suh-suh-Scott!”
A second from ramming the back of the left car, he cranks the steering wheel. We shoot down into the grassy ravine, Scott’s side sinking and my side lifting, threatening to flip. Tall grass whips over the hood, smearing the windshield. Scott wrestles the wheel, whooping loud. The Camaro munches hunks of earth while the floorboard bangs under my feet. Any second we’ll hit an unseen dip and crater into the field or cartwheel end over end. Either way it’ll finish in a fireball.
“How you like it, tough guy?” Scott shouts. “Still my dad’s best friend?”
Both my hands clutch the dashboard. “Puh-puh-puh-please . . . suh-suh-stop!”
Scott yanks the wheel back toward the road. We ramp up the embankment, catching air, then land back on the highway at an angle, hitting hard.
Crunk!
Metal scrapes pavement and rubber squeals. Scott hits the brakes and we fishtail while he struggles for control. The Camaro straightens out, barely avoiding flipping into the opposite-side ravine.
My mouth stops working all together. Scott laughs but it sounds more like crying to my ears. “You should see the look on your face,” he says, slapping the steering wheel. We slow to the legal limit. I wait for my heart to climb back down out of my throat.
Other than Scott asking me to grab him another beer, we don’t speak the rest of the ride to Studblatz’s house. I grab a can for myself and drink it fast, not minding the taste anymore, hoping only to feel a little less jittery. By the time we reach Mike Studblatz’s house, most of my adrenaline’s burned off, but my legs still feel wobbly.
At the driveway, Scott hits the horn, waits a second, then honks again, a long, annoying blast. “Okay, you passed the test,” he says to me, turning off the ignition. Except for a few engine ticks, the car goes to sleep. “Not exactly in flying colors, ’fraidy cat, but we’ll keep that to ourselves,” he says. “In my book, you passed. Now you’re a Knight.”
“That was a tuh-tuh-test? You driving like a kuh-kuh-kuh-crazy man was a tuh-tuh-test?”
“Of course. Whaddid you think? I’m going to freak out and scratch up my paint job just because Pops gets a couple drinks in him and wants to trade sons? You think that’s all it takes to work me up? Shit, that was nothing. You just saw my old man on his best behavior. You should see him when his team loses. Or hear him gush every time Jankowski and Studblatz come over. Or starts telling stories about Rick. I keep waiting for him to offer Tom and Mike’s parents a swap for me.”
I look down and see that I’ve crushed the empty beer can in my grip.
“Me, Tommy, and Mike decided you had to have some sort of initiation. You can’t just party with kings and get the keys to all the cheerleaders’ panties without a little suffering first. You got to pay some membership dues. But you’re in now. You’re golden.”
Through the dirty windshield I watch the front door of the house open and Jankowski step through it. A train of bald boys follows him. I slowly realize it’s the entire JV squad and some of the benchwarming varsity players. Music comes thumping out of the house: heavy guitar chords, boom-boom beats, and some guy wailing like a banshee. The bald boys all wear dog collars with bone biscuits attached to them. Tom comes over and taps fists with Scott through the open car window, then casts a brief glance at me.
“So you got a plan for Sasquatch here?” he asks Scott, tipping his chin in my direction.
“Already implemented it,” Scott says. “My boy here is solid. He passed the test.”
Disappointment hoods Tom’s eyes. “Aw, come on, man. We were all supposed to help.”
“Too late, Tommy,” Scott says. “Tell you what, though. Get the peons here to wash my car and scrub it down real good. We did a little off-roading on the way over. Some idiot drunk, going like a bat out of hell, ran us off the road on Old Highway Eight.”
“No shit?” Tom asks.
“No shit,” Scott says. “I need a drink. Come on, Kurt.”
“Shit stains, your work is not done here,” Tom hollers. “You want to be a true Knight? Then scrub this golden chariot spotless. Wash it with your tongues if you have to, just wash it. Now!”
Bald boys jump at Tom’s command. They hustle to find rags, buckets, a garden hose, and soap. Whoever shaved them didn’t worry about gouging divots of flesh from their scalps to get at the hair. Bloody scabs speckle every single one of their skulls. One JV kid has a swollen eye and cheek, and a bloody lip. Tom has a grip around the kid’s neck, pushing him to his hands and knees. His skull is worse than the others. Fresh beads of red gleam all over his smooth dome.
“Goldberg, did you not hear what I just said?” Tom leans over, screaming right into the kid’s ear. “How do you expect to even be considered for varsity if you can’t listen to simple directions? Lick that wheel clean, Jew-boy. Lick it!”
“Sir, yes sir,” the kid answers. He sticks out his tongue and Tom, still squeezing his neck, rams Goldberg’s face into the Camaro’s tire.
“Lick it!” Tom yells, and the other bald boys start laughing. “That Jew-tongue better be black as coal when you’re done.”
“Thir . . . yeth . . . thir,” Goldberg answers while his mouth mops the tread. Tom straddles the much smaller JVer while he’s on his hands and knees, really smushing his face into the rubber.
“Just make sure it’s spotless, pukes,” Scott adds. “Brodsky, follow me,” he says. “You could’ve done a lot worse for initiation than the ride I gave you.”
I glance back one last time before following Scott into the house. Jankowski’s bent over Goldberg in a way I know from Meadow’s House, a way I won’t ever forget. A sickening tickle works its way up my gut, my breath gets short, and I fight the urge to run away fast as possible. A camera flashes and I notice Terrence aiming his digital at the same scene that’s making me sick.
“Smile, Tom,” Terrence says.
“Fuck you, Terrence,” Tom fires back, not bothering to get off Goldberg. I turn away and follow Scott inside the house.
“Have a real man’s drink,” Scott says, handing me a plastic cup that looks like Coke with ice. Anything’s better than more beer. I glug back a big swallow of the drink before choking up the burning liquid and coughing out the rest.
“Attaboy.” Scott laughs. “Jack and Coke’ll put hair on your chest.” He slaps
my back until I finish coughing. “Drink up. The girls’ll be here soon and I’m about to make you Mr. Popular.”
I nod dumbly, feeling miserable, wishing I could escape to the weight room or get under my covers and read about places far away, in jungles where no people exist, only jaguars hiding in trees and river rafts and chests of gold.
In the basement, there’s a full bar that Studblatz’s tending. When he sees me and Scott, he smiles at Scott and dips his chin at me. Scott and Mike give each other fist pounds across the dark wood of the bar top and I’m surprised to find his fist waiting to bump mine. A razor, a can of shaving cream, and a blood-splotched towel sit on one of the stools.
“You’re real lucky our quarterback likes you so much,” Studblatz tells me. “Tommy and I been busting to shave that mop off your head, but Scott says you might be like Samson or something. He doesn’t want to mess with your power accidentally, go shave you bald like the other numbnuts and find out you can’t run the ball no more. Coach wouldn’t be happy about that.”
“He wouldn’t be happy about that?” Scott asks sarcastically. “Coach’d be a little more than unhappy.” Scott lets out a long whistle and raises his eyebrows at Studblatz. “If we messed with Mr. All-America’s running game, Coach’d have our balls. And only after my dad finished skinning us first.”
“They’re here!” comes a cry from up the basement steps.
“Finally,” Scott says. “The females have arrived.”
“Let the games begin.” Studlblatz smirks.
Girls! Soft, beautiful, girls float down the steps wearing lots of short, tight, and skimpy. They parade around the wood-paneled basement with flowing hair, bare tummies, dark eye shadow, and glossy-wet lips. The party’s been spared from guy poisoning. Curvy beauties—bright eyes, soft necks, round butts, and luscious cleavage—mellow out the scabby scalps and fill the room with a scent that makes me want to lick the air. Everyone in the basement loosens up with their arrival. Except me. See, the shaved plebes look stupid but their hair will grow back. My scars and my stutter cling to me, embarrass me, like permanent BO.
The bald boys wear the dried blood on their hatcheted scalps like war ribbons, grinning proudly even as the girls touch them and go ewwww. Goldberg—bruised eye and puffy lip—must be done licking Scott’s Camaro clean. He’s in a beer chugging race with two other baldies.
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