by Dan Richards
The nurse took one look and gave her diagnosis: “Your nose is broken.”
Sure, my nose now took a right-hand turn where there used to be a straightaway, but didn’t that happen to everyone square dancing? According to her, no.
“Your parents will need to take you to the doctor,” she explained, mopping up after me.
I had experienced that sort of fixing before. It was going to be a long, ugly afternoon. “Is Becca okay?”
“She’s in with the vice principal until her mom arrives,” the nurse explained. “She’s got a bit of a goose egg on the back of her head, but other than that, nothing a little shampoo and detergent can’t get out.”
My mom arrived and gave me a hug. “School has been a dangerous place for you this spring. Anything going on I should know about?”
Not really. Other than a new girl being responsible for our second trip to the doctor. Maybe there would be a right time to share that news, like on my deathbed. “No. Just unlucky, I guess.”
The visit to the doctor’s office went well, if you consider getting your nose reset without anesthesia a good time. Fortunately, I saw the same doctor as on my previous visit.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Didn’t you get into an altercation with a stapler a few weeks ago?”
He seemed to think that was a funny remark. I might have agreed, if my nose wasn’t rubbing against my right ear.
“Here we go,” he said, gripping the flap of skin formerly known as my nose. He proceeded to pull my nose down to my belly button and then snapped it back into place like a clown tying a balloon animal.
By the time I got home, my screams had subsided to gentle sobs, and if you ignored all the swelling, you might have thought I’d been in nothing more than a barroom brawl. That was a real improvement.
“I’d hate to see what the other guy looks like,” my father said when he got home that evening.
“The other guy was a girl, and it was an accident,” my mother explained.
“An accident? What were they doing? Cage fighting?”
“Dancing.”
My father gave me a puzzled look. “Dancing has changed a lot since I was your age.”
I spent the rest of the evening in my room trying to forge a passport to get out of the country while practicing my new name. Armando. My name is Armando. I sure the heck wasn’t going back to school. My mother must have sensed my anxiety. She stopped by before bed to check on me.
“I’m sure everyone will have forgotten by Monday,” she said.
“No, they won’t.”
“Honey, just be patient. It was just an accident. It’s going to be okay.”
She stroked the top of my head. I refused to acknowledge that it made me feel better, even though it did.
“It must’ve been very traumatic for that poor girl.”
The last image of Becca flashed to mind. She had looked as if she had been pelted with tomatoes, only it wasn’t tomato juice running down the back of her head and splattered all over her sweater. It reminded me of the night Ben and I stayed up and watched the end of the movie Carrie.
“How about instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you do something nice for her?”
That sounded like about the dumbest idea ever. “Uh, like what?”
“Maybe you could take her some flowers.” She kissed me on the head and headed for the door. “Think about it.”
That night, I tried to imagine the cabin in the woods and Becca in need of rescuing but, try as I might, I couldn’t imagine any scenario in which I would ever again be Becca’s hero. Instead of defeating zombies, I had become one of them. Every time I came to her aid, my nose would turn sideways or one of my arms would fall off and Becca would run screaming.
I woke exhausted. And my nostrils still looked the size of my butt cheeks. I stared into the bathroom mirror and saw a beastly creature staring back at me with two black eyes and enough puffiness to fill a pastry. I consoled myself that I probably didn’t look as bad to others as I did to myself.
“AHH!!!” my little brother screamed in the hallway.
Then again, maybe I did.
After breakfast, I contemplated my options. Hide in my room until I grew old and died. Or take Becca flowers on the off chance the sight of me didn’t make her physically ill. Hiding until I died of old age seemed the better choice. Instead, I went out back and set to picking flowers from my mother’s garden. My mother, whom I’m pretty sure had been lying in wait, joined me.
“Those are excellent choices,” she said, replacing the handful I’d picked with a dazzling variety she seemed to pull out of thin air. “Is she a nice girl?”
That was a loaded question if I’d ever heard one. “She’s okay,” I offered noncommittally.
“I see. I don’t suppose you’re going to invite me along when you take these to her?”
I’d rather straighten my own broken nose than risk showing up on Becca’s doorstep with my mother in tow. “I think I can do this on my own.”
She stared up at me as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re growing up,” she said quietly. “I’m going to have to get used to that.”
She motioned toward the gate. “Well, you better be off. Those flowers will need to be put in water soon.”
I set out at a leisurely pace that I hoped would take roughly forty-five years to complete. With luck, Becca would have moved away and forgotten all about me by the time I arrived. Unfortunately, even with dragging my feet, I found myself at the bottom of her steps far too soon. The idea passed through my mind that I could bypass her house, and saunter on down to Ben’s instead. Normally, the idea of spending a couple hours playing Death Intruders 4 would have been pretty irresistible. But today I had no interest in seeing blood, even the digital kind that looked more like day-old ketchup.
Facing Ben would have presented its own set of problems. For one thing, I would never again be able to tease him about the size of his head without being reminded of my current resemblance to a blowfish. And God only knew what sort of trivia it would bring to mind. He probably had read about a guy who had broken his nose 432 times or who had once drained all the blood from his own body, then poured it back in using a funnel and a garden hose. This was not the sort of cheering up I needed at the moment. Going to Becca’s wasn’t exactly cheery either, yet I was drawn there like a moth to the proverbial flame, despite knowing how that usually ends.
An elderly man passed by as I tried to find the courage to climb the steps. He studied the flowers in my hand and the expression of fear pasted on my face.
“Good luck,” he said with a wink.
I wanted to clarify that I was not engaged in some sort of old-fashioned courting ritual. But I suddenly wasn’t so sure. What exactly was I doing? I was about to knock on a girl’s front door with a bouquet of flowers. Yes, I was coming to apologize. Yes, I was checking to make sure she was okay. But I sure as heck wouldn’t be bringing flowers if it were anyone else. How had I let my mother talk me into this? Panic set in. The zombie warlord started pounding inside my chest again.
I willed myself up the steps and knocked on the front door. From the other side, footsteps approached, heavy footsteps. The door opened, and I found myself face-to-face with Becca’s father.
“Can I help you?” he said in a voice so low it sounded like the rumble of Harley’s motorcycle.
The zombie warlord in my chest stopped in midhammer. My tongue went so dry it felt like a bucket of sand. “Uh—uh,” I stammered. “I came by to see Becca.”
He looked down at the flowers I was holding in my spaghetti-string arms, then up at my misshapen nose surrounded by two black eyes. From his viewpoint, I looked like a praying mantis crossed with a raccoon. At last, he let out a slow breath and turned.
“Becca,” he called up the stairs, “there’s someone here to see you.” He turned back and gave me a final once-over as if hoping someone more acceptable might have replaced me while his back was turned. We both knew better.
>
Becca came bouncing down the stairs looking like an angel descending from heaven, her golden hair bouncing in perfect waves over her shoulders. There appeared to be no sign of blood anywhere on her. I breathed a small sigh of relief.
“Stu,” she said, a smile lighting up her face.
“You know this boy?” her father asked.
Becca giggled. “Yeah, of course. He’s the one that accidentally ran into me yesterday while we were dancing.”
I held up the flowers. “I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean to gush blood all over you.”
Becca took the flowers. “Stu, that’s so nice of you, but you didn’t need to bring me flowers.”
“My mother made me,” I said too quickly.
Becca’s father smirked as he moved out of the way. Becca stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her. “Are you okay?” she asked, staring at the swollen mass formerly known as my face.
“Yeah,” I replied, trying to sound tough. “My nose got broken, but it’s doing okay now.”
Becca winced. “That must have really hurt.”
“Not as much as all the scrubbing you must’ve endured to get your hair clean,” I said.
“You have no idea,” she said with a laugh. “It was pretty gross.” She looked at my face more closely. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”
The sincerity in her voice moved through me like hot cocoa. “It was my fault. I jumped into the circle at the wrong time. I’m a terrible dancer.”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “Well, maybe a little.”
We both giggled.
“If I was only a little terrible, my head wouldn’t be swollen larger than Ben’s right now.”
“That’s not fair,” she said. “Your head’s not that swollen.”
That girl knew how to be funny.
“Thank you. That makes me feel better.”
Becca showed me the notepad she was holding. “I was just talking to Kirsten. We’ve set the date of the sit-in for the Friday after the Irrigation Festival Parade. Kirsten says we should wait until the festival is over. She thinks maybe the paper will run a story on us since that’s usually a slow news week.”
“Sure. Sounds good.” The mere fact she was talking to me sounded good. Right at that moment, I would have agreed to anything just to see an excited smile on her face.
“That’s awesome. I can’t wait!”
I could wait, but there was no need dwelling on that now. “Yeah, me too.”
A rumbling sound came from down the street, growing louder as a motorcycle came into view. The motorcycle stopped in front of Becca’s house. Harley waved.
“Hey, Stu,” he called. “Your dad is trying to track you down.”
“That’s my dad’s friend, Harley,” I explained to Becca. “They go way back.” I waved at Harley. “What does he want?”
Harley switched off the engine on his bike. “He wants to show you something. I was on my way to Ben’s house looking for you.” He looked at the flowers in Becca’s hands. A grin spread from ear to ear. “I see you didn’t make it that far.”
The little part of my face that wasn’t swollen turned a deep shade of red. Why does everyone jump to the conclusion if you’re standing next to a girl holding flowers that something is going on?
“Hey, if you’re busy, I can come back for you later.”
The whole situation suddenly felt out of hand. It wasn’t what it looked like. Or was it? “No, that’s okay,” I called back. I turned to Becca. “Looks like I gotta go.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” she said. “The flowers are beautiful.”
“I’m sorry again for bleeding all over you yesterday.”
She smiled. “See you later.”
“See you.” I hurried down the steps, forcing myself not to look back. My mother was a genius. Never again would I ignore her advice.
Harley gave me a nod of approval. “Nice,” he said. “That girl’s cute.”
My cheeks burned. I tried to make a witty reply but all that came out was a gurgling sound.
Harley gave me a bump with his elbow. “Been there, man.” He started his bike, then handed me a helmet and motioned for me to climb on behind him.
“My mother won’t let me ride on your bike.”
“Don’t worry,” Harley replied. “Your father said you’d say that. He’s giving you one-time permission to ride with me.” He leaned close. “Just don’t tell your mother, okay?”
I grinned as I pulled on the helmet. “No problem.”
My first ride on a motorcycle would have been a lot more exciting if I hadn’t been sitting behind someone the size of the Jolly Green Giant. My view was limited to Harley’s leather jacket and whatever whizzed past my peripheral vision. Since we were traveling at roughly the speed of light, I wasn’t able to identify much. It didn’t help matters that the windchill kept dropping below zero despite it being a balmy spring day. A coat would have been a real help. I concentrated on sending blood flow to my fingers in the hope they wouldn’t snap off before we got there.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably not more than twenty minutes, we pulled into Harley’s farm. When I say farm, I mean a collection of buildings that at one time, probably shortly before the Civil War, had been used as a farm. Since then, they had been let go and appeared to be slowly returning to their natural state. The front porch had long ago separated from the main house and looked to be hitchhiking its way across the front lawn. The only building still holding up on its own was the barn. It sported a new roof and corrugated metal siding that looked downright modern. I couldn’t blame Harley for spending his money where it mattered most, the building that housed his motorcycle.
We rode up to the barn, and Harley shut off the engine. I climbed off and set to work massaging circulation back into the pile of goose bumps my body had become. My father hurried out of the barn with a grin the size of Harley’s mustache.
“You’re here!” he exclaimed.
His excitement, combined with the mysterious motorcycle ride, gave me the sneaking suspicion that whatever they were working on in the barn, I didn’t want to know about.
“Wait till you see what we’ve been up to,” he said, ushering me toward the barn door.
I could wait, really. Unless it was a warm blanket. My body still felt numb with cold from the ride.
As we drew near, my father stopped. He placed his hands on my shoulders.
“What you’re about to see is top secret. Understand? You can’t tell a soul, especially your mother.”
My instincts told me to run before it was too late. “Okay.”
With a flourish, my father pulled open the barn door. The interior was too dark for me to see anything. Cautiously, I stepped inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I recognized the trailer. But what exactly they had done with it I couldn’t tell.
“Behold,” my father said with the voice of a true showman. He flipped on the overhead lights.
I let out a gasp, not of awe, mind you. Before me stood a creation that looked like a child’s art project gone awry. I walked in a circle around the trailer trying to make sense out of what I was seeing. Scraps of old lumber, outdoor carpet, butcher paper, and a host of metal implements had been thrown together into what looked like a mobile torture chamber.
“Uh, what is it?” I asked.
“What is it, you say?” my father motioned like a game show host. “What is it? It’s a monument to what has made our family great.”
To be honest, the creation before me was doing little for my family pride.
He climbed onto the trailer and lifted his arms like a traveling evangelist. “What you see here is a parade float that brings together the past and the present. For three generations, the Truly name has stood for one thing—MEAT!” He stared out into the darkness, his arms still raised, like Zeus about to call lightning down from the heavens.
“It’s a meat float?” I asked.
My f
ather stared down at me, looking a bit deflated. “Yes, that’s what I just said.” He raised his arms again, though without the same vigor. It was as if I had pricked a tiny pinhole in his balloon and the air was slowly leaking out. “Don’t you see? We’ve re-created the original Truly butcher shop.” He pointed to the implements hanging about. “See? These are meat hooks. Over here is a replica of my grandfather’s chopping block. And this here is the actual bucket he used for draining blood.”
My stomach began to churn, not just from the horror, but from the thought that my father believed he had created something spectacular. “Dad, you’re not actually going to enter this in the parade, are you?”
If my father had appeared to be leaking air before, he was spewing it out now like an untied balloon. “Of course we’re going to enter it in the parade! The town is filled with old-timers. They’re going to love it.” He hopped down off the float and pulled a box from underneath. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet.” He lifted out what looked like a giant rib cage wearing women’s stockings. “This is your costume,” he said proudly.
I backed away. Whatever it was, it didn’t look dead yet. “What is that?”
My father forced the costume into my hands. “Weren’t you listening? It’s your costume. We’re all dressing up like a favorite cut of meat. You’re a half rack of ribs.”
My father had lost his mind. How could grown men have built something so crazy without anyone stating the obvious?
“I’m not wearing this,” I said, mimicking my mother’s eye roll.
“What do you mean?” my father shouted. “I thought you liked meat!”
“I do,” I shouted back. “I just don’t want to BE a piece of meat.”
Harley came up beside me. “No need to get yourself too worked up, little dude.”
I turned to find him in a costume that made him look like a three-hundred-pound ham hock. I had to admit seeing him that way was pretty darn funny.
“You’re seriously going to wear that in the parade?”
“People are going to love it.” He had a grin on his face that was irresistible. “And it’s going to give Truly Meats all the publicity your dad needs right now.”