Gabe Johnson Takes Over

by Geoff Herbach

  “I’m tired and it’s past eleven. And I’m supposed to call if I’m going to be late and I didn’t.”

  “All you poor people with your on-site parents,” Gore said.

  “My mom ran away to Japan,” I said.

  “That’s cool,” Gore said.

  Then she drove me home.

  Sure. I’ll admit it flat out, sir. Despite everything—her murdering and her scary makeup—I found myself super attracted to Gore.

  She didn’t really murder, right?

  No, Gore isn’t anything like that big-boobed coach. I mean. I’m really attracted to Gore, not just, like, addicted to the…her…boobs? Jesus.

  Okay. Let’s talk about Kailey because that’s easier.

  I think part of the crack we’re sold by the man is the whole notion of Kailey Kaus, you know? Her hair smells like lilacs because she puts expensive shit in her hair that smells like lilacs. It isn’t like her hair grows from her head smelling like a spring morning. And she kicks around her legs like a sexy pony, and pretty soon, we’re all convinced we love her because we love lush-haired, spring-smelling ponies because that’s what the good life looks like on my computer, right? That’s what the girls on advertising look like.

  Gore isn’t crack. She isn’t just a powdered donut.

  When she dropped me off, she grabbed my hand and said, “Thank you for letting me host your band. It was very fun.”

  I stared into her ghost eyes, which didn’t blink, got lost for a second. “Uh-huh,” I said. “Okay.” I kept staring for a few seconds.

  Then she tipped her head, looked past me, and said, “There are men watching us.”

  “What?”

  “From your house,” Gore said.

  I turned to the house and saw Dad and Grandpa’s heads in the picture window. “Bye,” I said fast and got out.

  It was kind of bad when I got inside.

  Grandpa and Dad didn’t know where I was and it was past my curfew. And they were jacked up. Dad’s face was all red and his hands were trembling. I’m sure that’s what got to Grandpa because he isn’t so whacked out usually.

  They glared at me, shook their heads, blocked my path to the hall and stairs.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “We’re having a heart attack because we think you’re dead, and meanwhile, you’re out there in some car, sucking face with a zombie?” Grandpa shouted.

  “We weren’t sucking face,” I said. “She just dropped me off.”

  “What the hell were you doing?” Dad shouted. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Hanging out,” I said. “I’m like twenty minutes late. What’s the big deal?”

  “What happened to that loud hippie girl?” Grandpa shouted. Then he smiled. “You find yourself a hotter number?”

  “What? No,” I said.

  “Use your damn phone if you’re going to be late,” Dad said. “Or you’re not going out at night. Do you understand?”

  “Twenty minutes late,” I said.

  “You giving us lip?” Grandpa asked.

  “No.”

  “You want me to ground you right now?” Dad asked.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Don’t push me,” Dad said.

  “Jesus Christ!” I shouted. “Fine. Sorry. I’m going to bed.”

  “That’s lip!” Grandpa shouted.

  I pushed past them and went downstairs fast.

  Dad stood at the top and shouted after me, “You watch it, buddy. You watch it!”

  Watch what? Man! Weird as hell. Dad stayed home from work to spy on me and then freaked out about twenty minutes? Clearly, something wasn’t right with him. Isn’t right.

  He wasn’t exactly pissed this morning, no. More like a zombie. He half-hugged me and told me he wanted to take me home. I was glad he couldn’t take me home, to tell you the truth. I’d rather be here with you.

  Anyway, I was pissed and I decided to write nasty things about the cheerleaders on Facebook. Stuff about them being strippers. DANCE SQUAD ACTUALLY HIGHLY TRAINED TEENAGED HUMPING MACHINE. Something like that. But when I opened Facebook, I saw the message from Mr. Shaver.

  Barry Shaver, June 12 at 10:22 p.m.

  Hey, all. I appreciate the notes of support. I made an awful mistake on top of my original, more terrible mistake. I didn’t fight for you guys. I didn’t fight for our band. Then I doubled up on my cowardice. This meeting with administration Friday might not go well. But you guys have to hang together. You’ll still be the Minnekota Lake Area High School Band, our band, whether I’m with you or not. Keep working for one another. You’re all great. I’m so sorry I let you all down.

  How’d it make me feel?

  Like I was sinking in mud. So sad. I love Shaver.

  There were a ton of messages of support. I read through all of them. I left a message myself. It’s in there someplace. I just said we’d always love him no matter what.

  Yeah. Sure. Shaver made it easy for the school board to claim he incited the trouble. “Keep working for one another.” He didn’t do it though. We planned the protest before he wrote that message.

  No, I didn’t write anything about the stripper team. I went to sleep.

  Do you have any ibuprofen on you? My scrapes are throbbing.

  CHAPTER 18

  Gore wasn’t at the shop in the morning. Neither was RC III. Thursdays are the quietest days because the resort cabins turn over. Lots of people head home after their week on the lake. We were staffed low and expected a slow day. (Thankfully, it rained pretty bad too, which reinforces slower business.)

  It was just me and Dante and he had the news station on the radio. I couldn’t stop singing Love, love will tear us apart…again, which is a very, very good song that Gore played on her computer while we were all out there on her dock and I’ll tell you this, sir: Dante just stood back and put his hands on his hips and said, “What in the hell happened to you, Chunky boy?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “What are you singing about? You don’t sing.”

  “I have songs stuck in my head all the time.”

  “But you don’t sing. I’m telling you, kid. I’ve heard you shout a lot and make a bunch of fart noises, but I’ve never heard you sing. What in the hell happened?”

  “Make the donuts, dude,” I said. But I smiled. And I kept singing. I was thinking about Gore for sure. I sang and sang.

  Well, it was a stupid day otherwise, so why not dwell on my singing for a little, right, Mr. Rodriguez? Better laugh than cry. In this case anyway.

  Apparently, I’m the only one who thought it was a bad day. I still think we failed.

  Enough customers to make time move. A song in my heart. The morning cruised past. Then it was time for my very first protest.

  Camille picked me up from work. She would barely talk to me in the car really. She has problems, you know? I mean, she’s not the only person in the world. Selfish.

  We got up to the school and there were a bunch of cars in the lot already.

  It was a good turnout, sir. You know that. Cops have a pretty good list of names.

  Fifteen band members showed up, plus Gore. (We gained a couple people in the crew overnight because of Shaver’s message, I’m sure.) We all gathered in front of the doors and I said, “Remember, totally silent. Don’t say a word to anyone. We’re just going to go in there and we’re going to freak them out with our silence. I’ll write a note letting them know that it’s only going to get worse and worse unless they leave Shaver alone and bring back band camp.” (I held up a notebook, which I should’ve written in before going into the school.)

  Maybe Austin Bates is smarter than he seems because while everybody else nodded like the plan was genius, he said, “Worse how, yo? Like, as in more fat asses and dipshits gonna stand there in a crew staring into space f
or no apparent reason. How is that scary?”

  Schae Petersen said, “This is called nonviolent protest, Austin. Like Martin Luther King Jr. and Gandhi.”

  “Gandhi?” Austin asked. “That like chronic, girl?”

  “I fear for our future,” Camille said.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  The school door was open. We entered the building. The gym doors were closed. I could hear Ms. Clark, the big-boobed blond lady, barking her dance team orders. “Get crispy on it, ladies. Turn. Squat. Explode!”

  Tess and Austin giggled. (I assume about squat and explode.) I glared at them. And then—

  Right, sir, I’m not proud. I don’t care what anyone says. This was embarrassing.

  We stood there for five minutes and did nothing but breathe and shrug and clear our throats until RC III walked out of the locker room with Joe Wruck. RC III stopped in his tracks and stared at us, and we all stared back at him. And then he laughed and said, “Gabe, man, what in the world are you doing?”

  I shook my head because we made the silence pact.

  He smiled. “You all look foolish, you know?”

  “Hell yeah, we do. This is shit!” Austin shouted. “Why we following this fat-ass speedo underpants butternuts with this bullshit, Tess? Come on, girl.” Austin walked up to the gym doors and pounded on them. “Woo! Y’all are whores! All of yuh!”

  RC III took a step forward. His smile was gone. “Dude. Leave…now.”

  Austin froze. “Me?”

  “You,” RC III replied.

  “Fine.” He turned and left fast. Tess sort of stepped toward the door, turned back to look at us, and then ran after him.

  Then, of course, because Austin had made a ruckus, Big Boobs bounded out the gym door and screamed, “Who shouted that? Who are you? You’d better fess up right now or I’ll get all of you.”

  Then Deevers came bounding down the hall from his office. “What are you kids doing in here? What are you—Who—Chunk? What are you doing?”

  Again, sir, I didn’t say anything because we’d made the damn silence pact. I should’ve been writing in the notebook, giving him our demands, but I was frozen on a stick, scared shitless, ice balls in my veins.

  “You’re not allowed in the building without supervision, guys. Okay? Okay? Get out right now. Right this minute,” Deevers said. His face turned dark red. He looked like he was going to get sick.

  We followed his orders. We did. We all shuffled to the exit, our silence pact intact. I was trembling with fear. I didn’t write a damn thing in that notebook.

  If I’m being honest, sir, I didn’t know at the time exactly what our goal was other than doing something, to not just accept the crap.

  Like I said, nobody else thought it was stupid. (They might have thought it was stupid if Austin hadn’t pounded on the door to give us a little attention.) Everybody gathered in the parking lot and high-fived and talked about how Deevers turned red and how Big Boobs screamed. I think just getting yelled at was enough of an adrenaline charge to make most of us think we’d done something big. This was not a crew of people who had gotten yelled at much in their lives. (As class clown, I was more used to the yelling, I guess.)

  I was a little depressed. Maybe embarrassed. I thought about RC III, who was still inside. Then I remembered Austin calling me butternuts and I got pissed, felt victimized.

  “Wait,” I shouted. “What are you guys so happy about? Do you realize we just got pushed out of our own school for no reason? We weren’t doing anything but standing there. How is that a crime? How does that merit removal? Those football players just get to hang out in the building. The school treats us like we don’t belong.”

  Everyone fell silent and stared at me. The sun beat down on my head, reflected off the shiny cars all around me. It burned my eyes.

  Then Camille said, “Who in the heck does that blond woman think she is? Why should she have any power over us?”

  Austin Bates said, “Deevers is a bitch, y’all. I’m sick of it.”

  Schae Petersen said, “Did you hear him say ‘Okay? Okay?’ like that? He’s a douche!”

  Then Gore pretty much reiterated what I said. “Why do we get treated like criminals? We didn’t do anything. I don’t do anything wrong. We were just standing there. The cheerleaders can dance and shout and that’s great. But we can’t even stand quietly in our own school?”

  I sat back on the front of Gore’s station wagon. I nodded at these people. I said, “If we’re going to get treated like criminals for no reason, I think maybe we should act more like criminals. Think about it. Let’s meet later. I have to go home.”

  Seriously, sir. I had to go home. I was so, so, so hungry. I wanted to stuff my face in private or I wanted to work out to stop myself from stuffing my face. The stress of the day took a toll on me. Stress makes a hole in me that needs filling.

  CHAPTER 19

  The hole.

  Hunger like that is an attempt to fill up a hole, okay? It’s pretty literal, sir. I feel like I have this hole, this empty space, that can’t ever get filled up, and when I don’t feel right, that hole is the only thing I can think about. It’s begging to get filled, like it has a voice and a mind, and the voice keeps screaming for my attention until I fill that hole with a thousand pounds of food.

  Gore drove me home and it seemed like maybe she wanted to hang out longer to talk or something. But I had this emptiness to deal with. “Gotta go,” I said.

  “Oh, okay,” Gore said. “Um…bye.”

  My real self, my Gabe self (as opposed to my Chunk self), wanted to spend the rest of the day with Gore. My Chunk self needed attention real bad. “We’ll talk later? Let’s talk later, okay?”

  “Yeah. That’d be nice,” she said.

  Then I went inside the house and opened the refrigerator. I thought, Eat everything in the world. Grandpa came into the kitchen and said, “Look who’s back home staring at the cheese.”

  I looked back in the fridge at a block of cheeses that seemed ready to get stuck in my mouth. Then I blinked, slammed the fridge door, and then said, “Thanks for never leaving the house, Grandpa.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just glad you’re here. Let’s work out.”

  We jumped rope downstairs for a damn hour. It was killer. By the end, I wanted to puke. But also, I didn’t want to plow food in my face after that. Killing yourself with a jump rope takes away hunger, fills that damn hole, man. It really does. That’s good to remember.

  At dinner, Grandpa and I ate a big salad (gross) with plenty of dressing and some grilled chicken strips (not too shabby). Dad complained about the salad. “I’m not a rabbit. I’m a man.” He took the chicken and made a bunch of chicken and cheese burritos. He prepared his burritos, ate his burritos, and left the table while Grandpa and I were still eating. Lettuce makes you eat slower, I swear to God. When Dad huffed and lumbered away from the table, Grandpa asked, “You sure you don’t want to let him in on the program, Chunk? He’s in terrible—I worry about the guy.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “I don’t want him to have a piece of this because I like this and he’ll kill it.”

  Grandpa nodded. “Could be.”

  Grandpa knows Dad pretty well, right?

  After dinner, I totally passed out on the couch. That was a big day. I led a totally ridiculous protest that did nothing but get us thrown out of school. But still, I led it and it did announce to Deevers and Big Boobs that we band members cared about what was happening to us. That’s something.

  Anyway, I passed out in front of the TV and I might’ve slept through until morning, except around quarter to nine, the doorbell rang.

  Wait. Wait a second.

  RC III isn’t going to get in trouble because I’m telling you this, is he? He didn’t do anything himself, just gave me some ideas.

  G
ood. Okay. It was RC III. Grandpa shook me awake. He said, “The quarterback is at the door. He doesn’t want to come inside. Just wants to talk to you.”

  “Huh?” I asked. “What quarterback?”

  “The black kid.”

  I rolled off the couch. Dad asked “Who?” from his recliner. I didn’t answer, just headed for the door, slid on my flip-flops, and walked out.

  “Hey?” I said to RC III. He stood in the front yard, his hoodie pulled up. I was a little embarrassed. Our house is pretty run down—a 1970s ranch-style shit pile with peeling paint. I bounced down off the stoop to make sure he didn’t try to come in.

  “Yeah. Hey,” he said.

  “What’s up?” Felt very weird to have RC III in my yard.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m bored, man. Want to take a walk?”

  “Uh…okay?” I said.

  He turned and walked out to the street. There are no sidewalks in my part of town. Almost looks like a campground at night. Not too many streetlights, just lights from houses (with a bunch of lake flies buzzing in them everywhere you look). It was dark out there.

  “What’s going on?” I asked after we got a house or so away from mine.

  “My pops thinks I should stay out of this. He thinks it’s not my business. Why should I care about a gang of white kids who can’t play band or whatever?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Why should you care?”

  “I don’t know, except I like you a lot better than I like the football dudes who all think they’re God’s gift to this town.”

  “They do suck for the most part,” I said.

  “But I really don’t know why I care,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “But I do.”

  “Cool?”

  “Okay. So you know about the Green Lake thing?” he asked.

  “Sort of,” I said. “I know there were those two murders last year.”

  “Yeah, man. Pops is representing this Native American dude against a whole town that’s coming after him because he’s an easy target, even though they don’t have any hard evidence. He’s the dude who always got drunk down at the bar. He’s the dude who got in fights all the time, shouting names at people on the street. What jury of white people wouldn’t figure he’s worthless and guilty and deserves to get punished even if he didn’t actually do the crime he’s got pinned on him?”