What did I say?
“I got sent to the principal’s office.”
“For what? A dress code violation?” she asked.
“Nah. I usually just come to school naked.”
Why the hell did I say that? Once somebody mentions the word “naked,” it’s kind of impossible to hit the ignore button in your head. Now I was imagining my former BFF in the buff. The mental picture was beyond my control.
“That’s probably not going to win you any fans,” she told me.
“Don’t be a hater.” I leaned in close and whispered, “My fans are legion.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Popular. I didn’t know you had fans.”
“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know. About me, I mean.” I hooked my thumb around Pippa’s.
One, two, three, four. I declare a thumb war.
“Are you kidding?” she said. “I know all your dirty secrets.”
“Yeah, well. Now I’ve got new ones. Even secreter secrets. And dirtier, too.”
God, that didn’t come out right.
I pointed at the avalanche of papers on the stage next to her. “Is this for class?” On each page was a box with stick people floating inside it. Next to the boxes, she’d written things like Close-up of zombie teeth.
“They’re storyboards,” she said. “I make lots of drawings so I can tell what my movie is going to look like. This is my zombie screenplay. It’s going to be epic … if I can actually finish it. I have no idea what we should do for our final project.”
“Me neither. But I can’t fail this class.”
“This is so weird. I mean, the last time we had class together was Mrs. Campbell’s social studies, in sixth grade.”
“I know, right? My brain is exploding right now.” I grabbed one of her Sharpies and drew a pentagram on the toe of my sneaker.
Pippa was trying to sling an enormous camera bag over her shoulder. “I hate carrying all this stuff around. But it’s my baby, you know?”
“I’ll carry it for you,” I said, stepping on her foot. Luckily, she was wearing these heavy-duty combat boots. “Hey, do you think I could get a good grade in this class? Or is it like … for experts?”
“I’m no expert. Believe me,” she said, holding the door.
I winced in the burst of sunlight. “You think I could pass?”
“Have you actually shot a film before?” she asked.
“Um. No,” I said.
“I used to make little stop-motion films with my grandpa’s old-school Bolex. That camera is practically indestructible. People strapped them on planes during World War II and recorded the bombs as they dropped.”
I kept thinking how it felt so easy, talking to Pippa. It was like we’d never stopping talking. Everybody was running to their next class, making so much noise I could barely hear myself think. I wanted to hit the mute button on the world.
“Aren’t you supposed to be studying music?” she asked. “I mean, you got into that special school and everything.”
I flinched. “It’s not that special.”
When she said “special,” it sounded like a school for people with mental problems. Then again, I had problems she didn’t know about.
I took out the Sharpie and wrote a string of digits on her hand. “I’m at my dad’s place now. This is the number, in case you want to talk about film stuff. Is your phone the same?”
“You probably don’t even remember it.”
“Hell yes I do.”
“Prove it.”
I recited the numbers. Perfectly.
“Wow, Trent. That was kind of impressive. I better give you my cell. Don’t call the house, okay? My mom’s been kind of weird lately.”
“Yeah? She used to be so cool.”
“My mom?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with Mama Dukes?” I asked.
Pippa looked away. “She’s just … ”
“It’s cool. Didn’t mean to get up in your business.” I stuck out my arm for her number.
The Sharpie kept dying, so she pressed extra hard. “Sorry,” she said, as if it were her fault. “This pen is untrustworthy.”
I scanned the hallway. “What are you going to do now?”
“Go to my next class, I guess. God, that sounds lame.”
“Sure you don’t want to go exploring?” I asked, walking backward toward the auditorium doors.
“Maybe next time. There’s a quiz on Technology of the Future that I’m destined to fail.”
“In the future, you mean?”
She laughed. “Something like that.”
“Okay. Catch you later.” I lunged down the sidewalk, probably scaring everyone trying to get stoned in the parking lot.
I didn’t feel like going to class. Not after my amazing conversation with Pippa. School was almost tolerable once everybody headed back to their pre-assigned rooms like good little robots. I spent the rest of the afternoon power-napping in the Yeti. I kept the windows rolled down so I didn’t suffocate to death. That is, until I was rudely awakened.
“What’s the problem here?”
A face—sunburned and buzzcut—hovered above me. The campus security dude was talking about the dangers of sleeping in a car. Obviously, this was the most exciting moment of his entire week.
“Dentist appointment,” I muttered. I almost ran the guy over, backing out of the lot. Not that it would’ve been a total tragedy.
The security dude was mega pissed now, scribbling on his memo pad (my license plate, no doubt). He circled the lot in his creaky little golf cart. What a freaking joke. How was he supposed to protect us from terrorists? He didn’t even carry a gun.
Nothing to do now except drive back to the Rez. It took forever to get there from school. My dad was probably hanging around the house, like usual. Just thinking about him made my stomach burn. Then I realized I’d had nothing to eat all day, not counting the Gummi Bears that I’d “borrowed” from some random girl this morning. She only gave me the yellow ones.
As I contemplated my fast food options (McRib is back!), my cell phone buzzed inside the glove box. I slowed for a red light, then reached over and dug it out.
Yo. I usually don’t do mass mailings like this but … I’ve been working on some sick new beats.
If you haven’t downloaded my tracks online,
you’ve been sleeping hard …
Nothing like a mass mailing (in this case, for Michelle’s lame-ass DJ set at Churchill’s on Sunday) to make you feel special. Why did she bother inviting me—along with three hundred of her closest friends? We weren’t friends. So what did that make us?
I needed to find out.
The Rez was home. Too bad it didn’t feel like it.
When I’d left Mom’s house, I didn’t expect to miss things like clean laundry and a regular feeding schedule. I just wanted to get away from her. Now I was starting to regret it. Sometimes I wanted to jump in an airboat and take off (as far as possible).
A couple days after I moved out here, I was watching the boats out on the water. Dad said it was for a funeral. He didn’t go into much explanation.
“What happens next?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Your body goes back to the earth.”
“And then what? Do you believe in heaven and all that?”
“You move on to the spirit world.”
“Even if you do bad stuff?”
“We move on. The animals move on. That’s the way it goes.”
So I guess Dad didn’t believe in hell.
One time back in Kendall, I stayed awake all night, playing the Xbox. I was so freaking exhausted I basically passed out. I would’ve stayed in that semi-comatose state, but Dad woke me up. He said it was dangerous, falling asleep at dusk. Your spirit might leave your body and never return.
�
��Bullshit.” I’d tugged the blanket over my head, but couldn’t fall back to sleep.
Today, Dad was the one in danger of losing his spirit. He was conked out, facedown on the floor as if he’d tried to do a push-up and just stayed that way. I shook him hard, and he finally snapped to life. The whole situation made me feel awkward. I started blabbing about school, the film I was going to make. Dad was all into it.
“Let’s do some movies,” he said.
I brought out the video camera I’d borrowed from class. Dad was posing like the Hulk, which was pretty hilarious. I took a few practice shots, but honestly, I had no idea what
I was doing.
“Mr. Hollywood,” he said. “I was in a movie once.”
He showed me an envelope stuffed with black-and-white publicity stills. It was for a documentary about life in the Everglades. He gave me the whole speech about his rock band, how they’d played a special show just for the film crew. The footage was never used. The director only wanted traditional shots of the Miccosukees—elder ladies stringing beads, kids paddling a kayak, bare-chested men hacking through the swamp with machetes. That kind of shit.
“What happened to the concert footage?” I asked.
Dad shoved the pictures in the envelope. “Gone.”
“Ever think about getting the band together? That would be awesome.”
He was looking at a crack in the wall, toward the west, the land of the dead. “Son, there’s nobody left.”
I didn’t get it. “Then maybe I could play bass with you?”
“Maybe,” he said.
I made the drive on Sunday and hung around outside Churchill’s, but Michelle was late as usual. No point waiting for her sorry ass any longer. I fumbled for the blunt rolled in my sock, sparked up behind the double-decker bus (it’s always parked in the same place, facing Second Avenue). Checked the time for the umpteenth time: 11:11 p.m. Make a wish.
One of the DJs had already dragged their gear into the street—portable amps and snakelike cables, milk crates stuffed with old-school records: Thrilling Chilling Sounds in Stereo, The Song of the Humpback Whale.
“Hey, Trenton.”
Nobody called me that anymore. Unless it was she-who-shall-remain-nameless.
My ex was all skanked out in her DJ getup: silver gladiator sandals laced to the knee, a stretchy tube top that reminded me of tinfoil. In other words, hot in a desperate sort of way. But I refused to think of Michelle in that category anymore. Or any category.
“I like your style,” Michelle said. “Seriously. I’m feeling the wilderness effect. What’s that thing on your head?”
“A trapper hat,” I mumbled.
“And what are you trapping in downtown Miami?”
Her backup crew laughed like this was the funniest joke ever. Of course, things are always funny when you’re wasted.
Here’s what I wanted to say:
1.You suck.
2.Thanks for destroying my life. Why did I waste my entire Christmas break trying to make sense of this fucked-up relationship?
3.I just pretended to like all those fake-ass bands on your stupid mixtape. I mean, come on. Who’s dumb enough to attempt a techno mashup of the Braveheart soundtrack? That shit is classic.
Of course, I didn’t say any of this.
“Hey.” Michelle plucked the blunt from my fingers. “How’s it going?”
How’s it going? How did she think it’s going?
“Do you want your mix back?” I asked.
“My what?” She sucked in a mouthful of smoke.
“You know. The mixtape you made for me.”
“Mixtape?”
Silence.
“You can keep it.” Michelle coughed.
There was nothing else to say.
I filled the emptiness with something idiotic. “It’s just that … you worked so hard on it. I mean, it’s really tight.”
“I just sort of threw it together,” Michelle was saying.
This was the girl who told me about exploding stars, how everything on Earth is made from their death—even the iron in our blood. Meanwhile, her groupies were passing around my blunt.
“I enjoyed the idea of playing bass guitar … more than actually playing it,” this dude was saying. He watched me watching them.
“Just trying to figure out where you’re going with this silent treatment,” Michelle said. “I’m not, like, a mean person, you know? We could have an actual conversation. Doesn’t have to be super long or anything … ”
“Guess what? I’m ignoring you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
Michelle heaved a long sigh. “What sucks is that you used to be cool, right? And then you go acting all weird and stuff.”
“Just leave me alone, okay?” I started fast-walking toward the entrance. Michelle lurched in front of me. Her friends hooted as we shuffled around, left, right. Left.
“There’s this vegan place,” she said. “It’s literally next door. They’ve got empanadas.”
“Vegan empanadas?”
Michelle pinned me against the wall, so close I smelled the “premium malt beverage” leaking out of her pores. “Man, you’re so judgmental,” she said.
She’s the one who was judging.
“So, we’re doing this or what?” Michelle clapped three times, like it was a magic trick.
If only she would disappear.
Okay. Confession time. I was this close to saying yes, I’ll go with you to this empanada place, follow you just like your brainless dog.
I didn’t want to be her dog anymore.
Michelle stood there, waiting for me to humiliate myself. The first band was warming up. I could feel the bass rumble all the way from the parking lot—a stuttery solo. It sounded like a conversation that couldn’t get started.
“I’m kind of seeing someone,” I lied.
Michelle’s face crumpled. “God, Trenton. How long has this been going on?”
“Long enough.”
“So basically you cheated on me.” She was shouting now. A guy with a cast on his arm waddled past and stared at us.
“How is it ‘cheating’ if we’re not together anymore?”
“Did we ever really break up?” she asked. “Like, officially?”
“I’m making it official now.”
“You sure about that?”
“We’re done.”
She actually looked hurt. “I can take a hint.”
“I’m not hinting. I’m telling you. Let’s just be friends, okay? We never should’ve crossed that line. It was a total mistake.”
“Was it?”
Now I felt guilty all over again.
Why couldn’t I just make up my mind? I kept jumping back and forth, trying to decide. Was it really over? And to be totally honest, is that what I wanted?
“Unbelievable,” I said. “Look at you, acting all innocent.”
“What’s her name? Do I know this girl?” Michelle sounded desperate now. I almost felt sorry for her. The key word is “almost.”
“Her name’s Pippa.”
Oh shit. Where did that come from?
“So, if this is your girlfriend or whatever,” she said, “why are you flying solo?”
I snatched what was left of the blunt and flicked it away. “Actually, I should call her.”
“Yeah.” Michelle nodded. “You should.”
My hands trembled as I reached for the cell in my back pocket. Punched in the numbers. Held my breath.
“Nobody home?” Michelle was laughing at me, like always. Giving me that look. Waiting for me to fail.
The phone rang and rang. Finally, it clicked to voicemail. Pippa’s voice floated into my ear:
Leave your message at the beep.
/> My message.
“Um … ” I tried to think of something. “I’m at Churchill’s.”
Michelle was giggling like crazy. I’m sure she hoped Pippa would hear it, too. Everybody in whole damn parking lot could hear it, judging by their stares. My brilliant solution? Keep talking.
“Hey. What’s up, girl?” I mumbled into the phone, making sure to emphasize the final syllable, girl. “I’m about to dip. You still going out tonight?”
“That’s called stalking.” Michelle smirked.
“I’ll be in the back. You know. Near the patio area where they play old movies and stuff. Call me when you get here.” I shoved the phone in my pocket.
Michelle finally stopped giggling. “Do you really know this person? Sounded pretty casual. Not girl-friendy at all. More like a friend.”
“Can’t you be friends with your girlfriend?” That’s what I wanted to find out.
“You didn’t even say goodbye,” she added.
“I’m saying it now.”
“You’re what?”
“Goodbye, Michelle.” I couldn’t look at her. This was so much harder than I’d thought. My throat was stinging. I kept my gaze locked on Second Avenue, where a cop car had rolled up. Great. Just what I needed, a visit from the fake I.D. squad. I wasn’t going inside now.
As I walked away from the spinning lights, I felt a breeze of movement. Michelle lunged for my hat. She yanked it off my head and tossed it into the street, where it flopped like roadkill. I scooped it up and combed the ratty fur with my fingers, scraping off the dirt. Then I tugged it over my eyes.
five
Monday morning, I skipped class to hang out in the Hole—this empty lot next to campus. It wasn’t much of a hole. More like a slope where everybody spread out beach towels and pretended to study. It was a prime spot for other activities, too, judging by the Philly Blunt papers smashed in the dirt.
I really messed up last night. Big time. What the hell was I thinking? I kept flashing back to the crazy message I’d left on Pippa’s cell. I was so freaked out, I didn’t have the balls to show up for film class. Not the smartest move, because I was already falling behind.
School was background noise. I’d do anything to escape it. But whenever I was stuck at home with Dad, there was no escape. You could never tell what kind of mood he’d be in. And if he was drinking, like usual, I stayed away. Otherwise I’d get blasted with his dark energy.
More Than Good Enough Page 4