by JF Freedman
Then Danny Detweiler, the world’s biggest shithead, walked over to Darlene and her friends. He said something I couldn’t hear, but it must have been funny, because all the girls laughed, especially Darlene.
Danny and me have been mortal enemies since first grade. We were both big kids when we were little, good athletes even as grade-schoolers, we’d always be the first ones picked when somebody was choosing up sides. Danny’s pretty smart—not as smart as he thinks, but he gets good grades and I never have, so the teachers always liked him and never liked me. Danny’s family lives good, too. His father’s a roofing contractor and they have a nice big house in Cheverly. Danny’s father gets a new Oldsmobile Super 88 every other year—he’d just got a brand-new one last month, a cherry two-tone green job, the chrome dripping off it, I’d seen it when Danny’s mother came by after school one day to pick Danny up to take him to his piano lesson. Danny’s always had the neatest clothes, too, not raggedy old shit like I have to wear.
Darlene was smiling up at Danny. Motherfucker. I felt like walking over and punching Danny in his fucking mouth, knock half his teeth out.
Burt nudged me out of my fantasy, pointing across the yard.
“Hey, Ginger,” Burt called out.
Ginger Huntwell, who is this short slutty girl with pointy little titties, separated from some other girls and sashayed over to us.
“She does,” Burt told us.
“Says who?”
“Take it from the pro.”
We’d heard the rumors—that Ginger did it on a mattress down in the basement of an apartment building in Kent Village with grown men. The joke was if you lent your jacket to Ginger Huntwell it would be returned with come stains in the lining.
“Hi, Burt.”
“Hi, Ginger.”
“Hi, Ginger,” I kicked in. Doesn’t hurt to be friendly with a girl who puts out.
“Hi, Roy.”
She smiled at me. I’ve been told that she likes me. I didn’t know—I liked her okay but I was saving myself for Darlene.
“Hey Ginger, is that a new coat?” Burt asked.
“’Course not, silly.” She giggled, her voice real high-pitched.
How come girls with slutty reputations always have high squeaky voices? Nothing personal but she really is dumb. It all must have gone into her cunt, nothing left for brains.
“It fits so tight I thought you might’ve got it new for Christmas,” Burt said.
He was bullshitting her like a champ and fingering the material at the same time, his hand sliding underneath to her titties, feeling her up right in front of everybody. She smiled this kind of goofy smile and squirmed a little when he hit a particularly sensitive spot, which must’ve been her nipple. Feeling up a girl’s nipple right out in the open, Burt’s pretty cool.
“Didn’t your mother never teach you no manners?” she said, like she was all out of breath, finally removing his hand, but not before letting him cop her up good. She sounded to me like she was trying to act like Marilyn Monroe. She held Burt’s hand for a moment longer, then turned and walked back to her girlfriends, her low-slung ass pivoting in her tight wool skirt like two bowling balls trying to make a seven-ten split.
“I mean to have a piece of that before I die,” Burt gasped.
“He died with his boots on,” I drawled. “Ride ’em cowboy.” I could feel my own hard-on, even though Ginger didn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never jacked off to her, not one time. She’s too slutty for me. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.
School was over for the day. Finally. Sometimes a day in this school feels like a week. A week, if it’s the wrong week, can seem like a year, an eternity. Everything’s a hassle, a challenge. It can wear you down.
I shuffled down the empty corridors, the taps on the heels of my Flagg Brothers clip-toe blue suede bombers echoing loudly on the scuffed-up tile floors.
This is the only time I actually like school, when it’s empty and quiet like this. You don’t have all the teachers and dumb kids pestering you and getting in your face all the time. If it was this quiet I could probably be a good student. I don’t know how anyone can work in all that racket the way it is during the regular day.
I entered the library, walked down the row of stacks, and took down one of the books from the set called History of the United States Naval Operations in World War II. The books are old and dog-eared, with pictures and descriptions of all the ships in the U.S. Navy used in the war, destroyers and aircraft carriers and battleships and everything. I know them like the back of my hand, I’ve read them all so many times.
I sat down at an empty table and started reading. Mr. Pitaro, who was the teacher in charge of detention hall this week, walked over to me.
“I don’t have your name down here, Roy,” he said, checking his list of detainees. The way it works is, if you screw up you get assigned to detention hall, which means you have to stay after school in the library. Nobody ever stays in the library after school unless they’ve pulled detention, not even the brains. I’m probably the only one who actually ever comes in here after school because he feels like it.
“I don’t have detention, Mr. Pitaro,” I explained to him. “I just wanted to read where it’s quiet. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
He was kind of taken aback, I could tell. It’s his first time running detention hall, that’s how come he didn’t know I come here just because I feel like it.
“Sure, yeah, I guess so,” he said. Like it was against the law to use the library or something. That’s the way this school is, even when you want to actually learn something they think you’re weird.
I got lost in the book. It really is a neat book, it’s kind of a bible for learning about Navy ships, which is real important to me. I must’ve been there longer than I realized because when I looked up for a minute to clear my head the room was empty except for me and the librarian, Miss Hughes, this ancient spinster who’s got three hairy moles on her chin. She’s pretty nice, actually, she lets me take out books and never charges me if I bring them back late. We’re often the only two people in the whole library, I think that’s one of the reasons she likes me, because I keep her company. It must get pretty boring, sitting in a library all by yourself.
The light was fading fast in the windows. Miss Hughes pointed to the clock on the wall. It was four-thirty, closing time. I put my book back on the shelf real carefully. I’d hate it if anything ever happened to those books.
Kresge’s five-and-dime is down the hill from the junior high. It’s a typical Ravensburg low-rent place, same as every other store in this hick town, selling cheap crap that’s either used up fast and thrown away, lipstick and stuff women use, or crap people don’t really want but wind up buying anyway because it costs practically nothing, like a new Speidel watchband.
I wandered around the aisles, aimlessly drifting. I like to do that sometimes, check out the cheap shit they’re selling. The customers were mostly housewives. Some had their hair up in curlers even though it was past four-thirty in the afternoon, sundown practically. A woman walking around in curlers out in public is about as tacky as it gets. They were doing women things, like testing the atomizers of toilet water or buying stockings or maybe having a soda at the counter. Hardly any boys ever come in here, it’s not a man’s kind of store, except for cigarettes and pipe tobacco and stuff like that.
I flipped through the small collection of 45’s they had in the record bin. It was my parents’ kind of stuff—no rock ’n’ roll at all, not even Elvis, Chuck Berry, or the Crickets. Tells you what kind of piss-poor store it was; about ten years behind the times.
“Can I help you?” This horse-faced saleslady stuck her face in front of mine. I could smell her breath she was so close. She had crappy breath, I almost felt like puking in her stupid face.
“Just looking,” I told her, playing real innocent-like.
“No loitering, boy.” She pointed to the sign.
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t be long.”
I moved away from her. She probably thought I was going to swipe something. As soon as any salesperson sees a teenage boy in a store that’s the first thing that comes into their feeble minds. Like every boy’s a common thief. I know plenty of girls that steal like bandits, they’ll come out of this store or Doc Goldberg’s drugstore and their pockets and purses’ll be bulging with nylons, makeup, lipsticks, anything they can stuff in. They’ll take stuff they don’t want, like pipe tobacco. Some even put stuff up their girdles, because they know no salesman would dare check under their skirts.
I knew I had to go home but it was cold out and I wanted to postpone the inevitable, so I drifted over to the notions counter where odds and ends are sold, stuff that doesn’t fit in any particular department. At one end of the counter were these stretch-band identification bracelets with a snap-open compartment that holds a photograph. They’re real popular in my school, they sell for a buck and everybody always wants one, you can insert your girlfriend’s or boyfriend’s picture and think you’re hot shit.
The nearest saleswoman was all the way at the far end of the counter, ringing up a sale. I nonchalantly strolled by the counter, took one more quick look to double-check that I wasn’t being watched, and without even breaking stride stuffed a handful of bracelets into the pocket of my new Ravensburg High jacket. That’s one of the good things about these jackets, they have real deep pockets. I was out of there in no time flat, and nobody even took a second look at me, that’s how shifty I was at doing it.
Once in a while I’ll hook a few of these. It’s like taking candy from a baby and anyway they’re not going to miss a few crappy bracelets. I’ll give them to my friends or sell them half-price. It’s not like I’m taking something valuable, they’d just sit there until they rusted out if I didn’t take them.
As I passed the school on my way home two girls came out of the gym and crossed the street, heading in my direction. They were wearing cheerleader uniforms under their jackets because there had been a pep rally after lunch for the basketball team. Then after school, they stay and practice.
One of the girls was Darlene. She’s co-captain of the cheer-leading squad, which has all the neatest girls in the school. It’s like if a girl thinks she’s neat, but she isn’t a cheerleader, then she really isn’t.
I slowed down so we’d have to cross paths, hoping her and the other girl, Joan Jackson, who’s real stuck-up even though she’s flat as a board, would split up and I could talk to the woman of my dreams.
They passed me by, giggling and pretending like they didn’t barely see me. I knew they did, though. I’ve got this feeling Darlene secretly likes me, but she’d never show it because I’m such a fuckup in school. Darlene’s a nice girl, she comes from a nice home, nice parents, probably has a nice dog that doesn’t jump on your leg and try to hump you.
I turned and watched them until they faded into the gloom. Then I put my head down against the wind and walked real slow up the street towards my house. You’ve got to go home sooner or later, even if you don’t much feel like it.
February
THREE
I SAT AT MY DESK, my new model spread out in front of me. It was a Revolutionary War-era frigate, thousands of little pieces, some so tiny I have to fit them together with tweezers and a magnifying glass—the kind of model only a serious builder will tackle, and I ain’t patting myself on the back saying that, it’s the truth. It’s about three-quarters done—I’ve been working on it every night for almost a month.
My room is like a miniature nautical museum, filled with ships and boats of various sizes and displacements, all of which I’ve made myself. I’ve been making models seriously for two years now and I’m damn good at it if I do say so myself, although normally I’m not the type who goes around bragging on himself. Other people say it, too, people who know what they’re talking about, like the guys who run the hobby shop where I buy my models. They tell me I’m as good as any of their adult customers, and they’re not blowing smoke up my ass, either. They appreciate a good builder no matter how old he is.
Besides all the ships I’ve got Navy posters and pictures plastered all over the walls as well. If I ever brought a four-star admiral in here he’d go apeshit.
The rest of the room is pretty bare. I like it that way—easier to clean, which I do myself, all of it, plus my own ironing (I guarantee you I’m the only boy in Ravensburg Junior High who irons his own shirts), I even vacuum twice a week, to make sure the models are free of dust. No one ever comes in. My old man could give a shit less, and my mom’s happy that she’s got one less set of chores to do. The only time anyone even sticks their head in is when my old man gets drunk and wants to give me a ration of shit, or when mom or Ruthie absolutely have to talk to me. They never come all the way in, they know I want my privacy. I’ve even got a padlock for it when I’m not here.
The phone rang downstairs. Ruthie answered it, of course. She thinks she owns the damn thing, anyone else gets a call she acts like they’re invading her privacy. If she really wanted privacy she wouldn’t hang her stockings and undies all over the house where anyone could see them.
“Roy!” She called out after a minute. “For you.”
I shut the door firmly and boogied down the stairs.
“Don’t take forever,” she glared as she handed it over to me.
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar,” I told her. “You don’t pay the bills, Daddy does.” I turned away from her, cradling the phone on my shoulder. “Hello.” It was Burt. I listened for a moment. “Just a sec.”
I ran up to my room, grabbed the first book I could lay my hands on, and ran back down to the phone, leafing through it like I was looking for something specific.
“Here it is,” I told him over the phone, “page forty-three, numbers one through ten.” I listened a minute. “Yeah.” I turned around carefully, checking to see if my nosy sister was eavesdropping. She’s low enough that she would if I gave her half a chance. But she’d gone back into the kitchen to gossip with my mom, so she was safely out of earshot.
“Okay,” I whispered, “’bye.” I hung up.
“Who was that?” my mom asked as she passed through on her way to her bedroom.
“Burt. He forgot the history assignment.”
“Someone’s calling you to ask about homework?” Ruthie butted in. “That’s a first.”
I ignored her. With her, that’s usually the best tactic.
“I’m pretty tired,” I announced. “I’m going to bed.”
“Okay, sweetie,” my mom told me. She still treats me like a little kid sometimes, like she wishes I was, not back-talking and being a general pain in the ass. She gave me a peck on the cheek. “See you in the morning.”
“See you.” I stuck my head into the living room. “’Night, dad.”
My old man grunted a response. He was watching TV, “Strike It Rich,” one of his favorite shows. He’s always on the outlook for a get-rich-quick scheme. If some asshole can win all that money for doing nothing except come out with some sob story on television, he’ll say, why can’t I?
“Jesus, look at it,” he bitched. “That is pathetic. How can people be so stupid?”
He wasn’t talking to me, he was just bitching, probably his favorite thing in the world after drinking and screwing. He never talks to me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m not even there. We don’t have any real conversations, about the best we ever do is exchange information, like pass the salt. About the only time we’re ever actually talking to each other is when we’re fighting with each other, which is a hell of a lot more than I wish it was. I can’t remember me and my old man ever having a normal father-son relationship. We probably never did, even when I was little. He’s never come to one Boys Club baseball or football game I’ve ever played, even though I’m one of the stars. He’s never heard me sing in the choir at school, never looked over my schoolwork. Not once. He pays the bills, that’s about it for him as far as being a family man goes.
I put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth, leaving the bathroom door open so everyone could see and hear me. I called out “good night” one more time for good measure, closed and locked my door behind me, and turned off the light.
After waiting a couple minutes to make sure they all thought I was asleep, I slithered out of my pajamas, pulled my clothes back on, and slid open my bedroom window. The incoming air was cold and clean. I took a deep drag. It was frosty but it felt good, jolting me awake after the hot, still air inside my room had half knocked me out.
I put on my new jacket, slipped a long-necked screwdriver into a pocket, and climbed out the window, quietly sliding it shut behind me. I oil it regularly to keep it from squeaking. My parents don’t know I do this—my old man would blister my ass into ribbons if he ever found out. There are a lot of things my parents don’t know about me, a whole other life.
I worked my way to the edge of the roof, dropped like a cat to the ground, tiptoed around to the side of the house, and snuck a look in one of the windows. No one had heard anything, they were all zombied out in front of the TV. Silent as an Indian warrior, I moved through our yard and took off down the street, sliding down the fresh ice, grinning like a nut. Sometimes something simple like sliding down fresh-frozen ice can be the most fun in the world.
Burt and Joe met me at the bottom of the hill. I met Joe the first day of first grade, back in Ravensburg Elementary School. Burt made it a trio when he moved here two years ago, when the D.C. schools integrated and the niggers took over. His older brother and sister had graduated Eastern High and Burt had always dreamed of it—his older brother’s a really cool guy. But after Washington integrated, Eastern, like every other white school (except in northwest D.C, where the rich people live) went from one-hundred-percent white to about ninety-percent colored overnight. That’s when everybody moved out.
Ravensburg is totally segregated, like every other school in this county. It’s redneck to the core, always has been and always will be and proud of it. No niggers are ever going to come to our school, not unless they feature getting their brains beaten out.