“I need to see the nurse,” I say.
“For what?” she says. She seems alarmed. Like maybe a birthmark is possibly contagious.
“For a brain tumor,” I say.
Actually, I don’t say that.
“My stomach hurts,” I say. “I think I ate something at lunch.” Which is true. It was something.
The secretary sighs as if she’s besieged on a daily basis by disfigured people who have gotten sick from eating something at lunch and it’s exhausted her.
“Have a seat,” the secretary says. “I’ll see if she’s in.”
She gets up and she leaves, probably down the hall to join Mr. Thurmond and the school nurse in the faculty lounge for a quick smoke.
Willard Twomey is still sitting on the long wooden bench, acting as if I’m not even there. I go over and sit down next to him, leaving room between us. Now both of us are acting as if the other isn’t there. I realize I can hear Mr. Esposito, the principal, talking on the phone in the inner office. He has a surprisingly strong, authoritative voice.
“Yes, I understand … No, but I do want to know who’s responsible for him…”
Obviously he’s talking about Willard Twomey.
“Very impressive,” I say, not looking at Willard Twomey.
Willard Twomey doesn’t say anything.
“What you did in the cafeteria today.”
Willard Twomey doesn’t so much as blink.
“Montebello’s an idiot.”
“What are you?” says Willard Twomey. He stares straight ahead. I notice that on the back of his right hand Willard Twomey has another tattoo.
Chaos.
And on the back of his left hand yet another.
Change.
“… yes, well, I think we should have been informed that the young man has a juvenile record and a history of physical assault,” says Principal Esposito in his surprisingly strong voice.
“Who’s he talking to?” I say.
I don’t think Willard Twomey is going to answer. But then he does.
“My grandmother. Like she’s going to do anything but make herself another drink.” Willard Twomey sounds disgusted.
“I understand. Yes, I’m sure it is difficult for you,” says Principal Esposito’s voice, full of authority.
I don’t remember the last time I’ve done this. Maybe I never have. But I do now. I stick out my right hand.
Fact.
A handshake is a ritual in which two people grasp one another’s hands. It is thought by some to have originated as a way of saying, There is no weapon in my hand. I’m not going to cut your head off. This, of course, is unless it’s the left hand, which in many parts of the world is a way of saying, I’m going to use your head to wipe my ass.
“Billy Kinsey,” I say.
Willard Twomey looks at my outstretched right hand. And now he looks at me. At me. Willard Twomey doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t waver. He studies my face. It is rude and disconcerting to the point of panic inducing and I have to force myself not to look away. His eyes trace the periphery of my right cheek and all of a sudden that side of my face begins to burn.
Point of reference.
Dorie used to say that my birthmark lightened or darkened, ebbed and flowed in shade and intensity, according to my emotions, and that a person could tell what I was feeling just by looking at it. Which is just another reason why I always try to feel nothing at all.
Sidebar.
Dorie thought my port-wine hemangioma was beautiful.
Willard Twomey reaches out and lightly taps my open hand with a closed fist. “Twom,” he whispers. He repeats himself, says it louder. “Twom Twomey.”
“Not Willard?” I say. I make sure I sort of smile as I say it.
“Not unless you want a tray in your head.” He’s sort of smiling too. The tap with the fist, I decide, is an original way of saying, I’m not going to kill you yet.
“I look forward to meeting you as well,” we hear Esposito’s voice say. It sounds like he’s wrapping things up which means it’s time to get out of there. I stand.
“See you around,” I say.
“I thought you were sick,” says Twom Twomey.
“Miraculously cured,” I say.
I beat it out of the office into the hall. When I look back I can see Esposito standing over Twom Twomey, lecturing. Twom Twomey, looking bored to stone, is staring at Mr. Esposito’s navel. Esposito might as well be talking to the wall.
Twom. Twom as in “tomb.” A mausoleum. A place for the dead. Dad thinks I should have a new friend. I wonder what he’ll think about one who’s now baptized my open palm with the right hand of chaos.
12
Don’t walk in front of me, I may not follow. Don’t walk behind me, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.
So said Albert Camus, the French author and proponent of absurdism, who in 1960 died in a car accident along with his close friend Michel Gallimard, who was behind the wheel. At the last moment Camus had decided not to take the train. And when you figure that if Camus had been on the train and not beside his friend Michel Gallimard, he would have lived, this is about as absurd as it gets.
Absurd is how I’ve always pretty much felt about friendship.
I see guys who are supposed to be friends with each other and it’s pretty much all jackass insults and look at the tits on her and let’s get wasted. If you’re Ephraim, it’s computer-generated realities and chat rooms and online gaming portals. And let’s not even talk about girls who go around in packs but will turn on one another at a moment’s notice over not just a guy but a misplaced hairbrush. And let’s say you do make a friend, all the research tells you that eventually they’re probably going to move away or go to college or get a job someplace else or die even and you’ll never see them again. So you’ll move on and become friends with someone else and then someone else and as time goes by the bonds of friendship will get weaker and weaker until you’re some drunk guy at a cocktail party trying to remember the names of people you’re supposed to know. Like Gordon.
Still.
If absurdism is the desire for meaning in a world that doesn’t have any, then perhaps friendship is as well.
I’ve decided it’s worth a try.
I’m sitting, waiting on a bench, when Twom Twomey comes out and down the steps of High School High. Kids stare, then look away as they pass him. Everyone has heard what the new kid did. He ignores them and keeps going. He carries no books, no backpack. Like Mom and Dad, he shares similar physical characteristics with the locals but, as yet unassimilated, is a different animal altogether. And then he sees me looking at him. Twom stops and stares a moment and then walks over.
“What are you doing?” he says. As if me sitting there with nothing but a skateboard and a backpack for company is a pretty moron thing to do.
“I wanted to find out if you were suspended,” I say Which is a moron thing to say because if he was suspended he wouldn’t be standing there.
Twom sort of snorts. “They decided to give me a second chance. Like I’m so grateful.” I don’t have to tell you he’s being sarcastic.
We’re both just standing there trying to think of something else to say when a car horn goes off and we both look out toward the street. A silver Porsche Boxster convertible, its top down, has pulled to the curb. John Montebello is behind the wheel. He leans on the horn again. The sound is more annoying than anything else. Chris Hardy, an offensive tackle, huge and stupid and a twenty-seven on the moron scale, is with him. Montebello rises in the seat. Arm outstretched, he points at Twom.
“You! Motherfucker! I’m going to find out where you fucking live! Because you are fucking dead! Look at me, fucker! It’s the last fucking thing you will ever fucking see! Because you are so fucking, fucking dead!”
As if bored, Twom puts his thumb in his mouth. He moves it in and out. Meaning blow me. Montebello looks furious—then confused. Uncertain as to how to respond, he glares at me.
“You better watch your ass too, pie face!”
“Cool!” I call back. “Why don’t I use your face as a mirror?”
Actually, I don’t say that. But I do think it up later and wish I had.
Montebello revs the car’s engine. He points at Twom again as if to say “you’re it” and then jams the car in gear and starts to peel away. Only he stalls it completely. Thud—thump. And now when Montebello tries to start the car, the engine turns over but doesn’t quite engage. It tries to, it wants to, but it doesn’t. Montebello, his expression semideranged, doesn’t give it a break. He keeps the key turned in the ignition and he pumps the gas pedal up and down.
“Think you flooded it,” says the ever brilliant Chris Hardy.
“Mother—fucker!” Montebello screams and he lashes out with his right arm, whacking Hardy in the head. Hardy cries out in pained surprise. Montebello swipes at him again, missing. Chris Hardy swipes back, also missing. They’re like two pissed-off toddlers throwing elbows.
You couldn’t rehearse it.
“Need a jump?” says Twom, making it sound as if he’s concerned and would really like to be helpful to two idiots.
When Montebello goes to start the car this time, the engine grabs, falters, coughs, farts twice, and then finally engages. With a bleat of dark exhaust and sounding like a box of rocks, the car lurches away down the hill. Suddenly a skateboard doesn’t seem half so stupid.
Twom turns back to me. He looks amused, as if he’s been watching a good cartoon. He looks me up and down as if trying to decide whether or not I’m worthy.
I am. I know I am. I want to be.
“So what do you do for fun around this fucked-up place?” says Twom Twomey.
13
We go to Starbucks.
Fact.
Caffeine is a psychoactive stimulant and in certain plants is a natural pesticide that kills bugs. Taken in moderation, caffeine increases mental efficiency.
Sidebar.
On any given weekday afternoon, customers—mostly High School High students and mostly girls—are at Starbucks indulging in overpriced mochas, macchiatos, Frappuccinos, dolce lattes, white hot chocolates, and processed fruit smoothies, all of which have more sugar than coffee, have no nutritional value, cause weight gain, an imbalance in sex hormones, and possibly cancer. Little do they know that both caffeine and sugar can be ingested rectally. A good thing because I think Starbucks would frown on this.
“So where you from?” I say to Twom. We’re sitting at a corner table. Twom is having black coffee and I’m having tap water.
“Why do you want to know?” Twom says.
“I don’t. I’m just making conversation.”
Twom laughs. “Cool.” He dumps two sugars in his coffee. He stirs and sips. “Seattle. Like Starbucks.”
“I hear it’s nice.”
“Someone is lying to you.”
“Really?” I’m surprised. Seattle is the Emerald City. In what was Dorie’s favorite book, L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the Emerald City is where the wonderful wizard lives. One just assumes he has any number of pleasant options.
“It rains. When it doesn’t rain, it molds.”
Oz, of course, is green not because it rains but because everyone wears green-tinted glasses. The movie doesn’t tell you that. Movies don’t tell you a lot of things.
We’re interrupted by the sudden sound of laughter. Across the room, a teen girl squad is sitting around a table, straws in their Fraps, throwing glances in Twom’s direction. When they see us looking they all immediately start pretending we’re not there. All except Deliza Baraza. She’s still sporting her sport geisha look, only now her blouse is unbuttoned halfway down to reveal a glimpse of lacy bra. Yeah, it’s us, her eyes and her breasts say. What are you going to do about it?
“So you’re staying with your grandmother?”
“Huh?” says Twom, his eyes never leaving Deliza.
“Your grandmother?”
“What about her?”
“You’re, like, roommates or something?”
“Sort of, yeah. Got some major talent here, dude.”
Meaning Deliza, who hasn’t so much as blinked yet. It’s a heavy-lidded stare-down, otherwise known as a human mating ritual.
“How come?”
“How come what?”
“How come your grandmother?”
Twom looks away from Deliza and at me. He sighs. “Okay, dude, it’s like this. My folks are messed up, okay? They’re fucking derelicts. The only reason they stay together is because nobody else would have them. Living with relatives is pretty much all I do. Okay?”
“Sounds tough.” Which seems kind of an understatement.
“It’s better than foster care. Anything else you want to know?”
“No,” I say. “Anything you want to know?”
Twom gives me an amused look. “Surprise me.” Meaning it’s doubtful I could. And now, wouldn’t you know it.
“Hey, Billy.”
I look up and the day is complete. It’s Ephraim again. He’s approached the table and now he stands there, fidgeting, glancing at Twom, quickly glancing away.
“Ephraim,” I say. Noncommittal. Meaning “go away.”
Ephraim stares at the tabletop. At his feet. At his chewed-to-the-quick fingernails. For some reason I suddenly decide to be magnanimous. I hate feeling sorry for people. Even Ephraim.
“Twom, this is Ephraim. Ephraim—Twom.”
Twom looks Ephraim up and down as if Ephraim might be some weird species of skinny, featherless, sightless bird.
“How you doing, Ephraim?” he finally says.
“Hi, yeah, hi—good,” says Ephraim, his eyes blinking rapidly. “I—I just wanted to say—what you did today—to Montebello—wow—that was—that was so sick.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Twom says.
“Oh, yeah, I do … yeah…” says Ephraim.
Twom looks back across the room to see that Deliza and her posse are all getting up and heading for the door. Deliza stops to stretch slightly, making her breasts pop. She throws a last lingering look back over her shoulder that’s the visual equivalent of her tongue touching the inside of my ear. Twom’s look back to her is pretty much the same thing only it’s not Deliza’s ear he’s licking. You just know you’re watching two certified professionals at work. And then she’s gone.
“Hey, anybody need anything?” It’s Ephraim, who’s so oblivious to the whole boy-girl thing he might as well be from Pluto, which is no longer a planet. “On me,” he says. “I’m loaded.” In trying to show his cash, he drops it. When he bends to the floor to pick it up, he hits his head on the table. It’s really a terrific whack.
“Sorry,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m all right.”
It’s pretty pathetic and it’s definitely not all right but now Twom looks as if he feels sorry for him too.
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll have a donut, buddy.”
Buddy. If Ephraim had a tail, he’d wag it. “Great! Yeah! Okay!” Ephraim turns to me. “Billy? On me?”
For the second time in five minutes, I’m feeling oddly benevolent. It seems like such an easy thing to do.
“Two.”
“Cool!” says Ephraim. “I’ll be right back … yeah!”
He turns and hurries toward the counter, thrilled to be of use. Two minutes later he’s back with ten glazed, old-fashioned donuts. They’re probably about fifty-seven thousand calories apiece and the crazy thing is, we eat all of them.
14
This is the day that as I move down the hall between classes, the tall, slim girl with the light red hair and the green eyes calls out to me again.
“Billy! Billy, hi!”
She stops as if she wants to talk to me but I ignore her and keep going.
“Billy?”
The side of my face feels like twisted, molten lead.
“Billy, it’s me!”
I keep going as fast as I can.
&
nbsp; “Billy!”
Maybe she’ll think I’m someone else.
15
I find that Twom is full of surprises.
It’s an afternoon about a week later and I’m on my skateboard heading home after school. I hear the odd purr of an engine coming up behind me. It’s a BMW motorcycle, a big touring model, and it pulls to the curb in front of me. When the rider takes off his visored helmet and looks back, I see that it’s Twom.
“Nice bike,” I say. Not because I’m crazy about motorcycles but because it is.
“Yeah, not bad,” Twom says. He reaches for the second helmet that’s on the backrest. “Get on, I’ll give you a ride home.”
“How long you had it?” I say as I get on the bike.
“About four minutes,” Twom says.
I quickly get off the bike.
“You stole it?”
“No. I borrowed it.”
“From who?”
“I dunno.”
“You stole it then.”
“Dude. Stealing is when you keep things. Borrowing is when you bring them back.”
I find this questionable logic at best and tell him so. Twom proceeds to inform me he is an experienced expert at “borrowing” motorized vehicles of just about any make and means and that he knows of what he speaks.
“What if you get caught?”
“You get arrested.”
“Yes—and?”
“You spend the night in jail. Dude, it’s no big deal.” It’s all part and parcel, Twom explains, of occasionally going a little outlaw. Going a little outlaw means—
“You don’t let assholes dictate the rules.”
Going a little outlaw means—
“You are your own authority. It’s called living, dude. Something people oughta learn to do around here.”
I accept Twom’s offer of a ride. However, I make a mental note to jump off the bike, literally or figuratively, at a moment’s notice.
I also soon discover that despite his revolutionary’s attitude toward rules and authority, Twom has his own highly evolved sense of right or wrong. He dislikes what he calls the “dickhead club” and he has complete empathy for the underdog.
The Tragic Age Page 4