by David Lubar
“Welcome to Hollywood,” Mr. Franka said.
That weekend, we gave the last two performances of the play. When the crew was striking the set—in other words, when I was clearing the stage and the other guys were horsing around—I spotted Bobby standing in the back of the auditorium. I hopped off the stage and walked over to him.
“Not bad,” he said.
“You liked the play?”
“Nah. But the stage crew rocked.”
“Thanks.”
“This whole school thing—you’re doing good. Way better than I ever did. I think you can do whatever you want. Anything at all.”
“Except find the right wrench.”
Bobby shrugged. “There are plenty of guys who can do that. I’m serious—except for that wrench thing, I’d bet you could do whatever you set your mind to.”
“So can you,” I said.
“No way. I’m just good at one thing. And right now, nobody’s buying. There are a zillion guitar players out there. Hey—you want a ride home?”
“No thanks. Believe it or not, I have a social event to attend.”
I finished up with the props, and then went to the cast party. It was sort of like the dance. I stood around drinking soda, eating potato chips, and watching everyone else mingle. At least Julia and Vernon weren’t there. You can do whatever you want. If only that were true.
Kelly was there. What I wanted to do was walk over to her and ask if she’d ever heard Julia mention me. But I didn’t have the guts. I did overhear her say, “They’ve been fighting a whole bunch.” I couldn’t tell who she meant, but I had my hopes.
Mr. Perchal came over and clamped his hand on my shoulder. “Well done. I hope we can count on your help next year, Scott.”
I mumbled something about needing to make sure it would fit in with my other activities. I had a feeling my career behind the curtains had gone as far as it was ever going to go. Between rehearsal and performances, I must have carried a grand total of about 87,000 tons of lumber. On the other hand, next year I could sit back, play poker, and let some poor freshman do all the work. The thought of that made me grin.
Toward the end of the party, Ben came over, punched me on the shoulder, and said, “Good job, frosh.” That was sort of nice, but after each of the other guys on the crew repeated the praise-and-punch routine, I was hurting. But it was a good sort of hurt.
And then there are bad hurts.
They taught us on the newspaper that every story had to answer the questions who, what, when, where, why, and how? On Monday, coming out of the locker room after gym (which is the when and where), I had an unanticipated what with a totally unexpected who.
Say what?
Say this: I got in a fight with Kyle.
I’d decided it was time to test Bobby’s belief that I could do anything I wanted. This seemed like a good place to start. And I was willing to take the risk that Kyle would kid me about it. We’d just reached the door when I said to him, “Hey, maybe you can get Kelly to mention me to Julia, and see what she says about me.”
“Forget it,” Kyle said. “She’s out of your league.”
Ouch. Kyle was my friend. At least he had been until he became a jock. Friends weren’t supposed to be brutal about stuff like that. “You’re not exactly in Kelly’s league,” I said. “Or anyone else’s. She probably wouldn’t even look at you if you weren’t a wrestler.”
He pushed my shoulder. “Yeah, well who’s standing around all by himself at the dances?”
“Like you weren’t?” I pushed him back.
“Not anymore.” He pushed me with both hands.
I held off from pushing him back. I didn’t want this to get out of control. “I could get a date if I wanted,” I lied.
“With who? Some freaky bitch with a face full of pins?”
The air in the hallway suddenly felt ten degrees warmer. Those words were way too familiar. “What did you say?”
Kyle’s eyes shifted away for an instant, then locked back on mine. “Freaky bitch.”
“You’re the one who wrote on her locker.”
I expected him to deny it. Instead, he shrugged. “Hey, it looks like you’re not the only creative writer around here.”
And there went the why.
I tackled him. No pushing. No working up to it. I just dove at him like a madman. Which should have been a big mistake. Everyone knows it’s a bad idea to tackle a wrestler. That’s the first rule of fighting. If a guy knows how to fight on the ground, you have to stay away and use your fists. If he knows how to box, then you try to wrestle him.
The second I grabbed Kyle, I realized I was in trouble. He’d just finished a whole season of wrestling. He’d have no trouble destroying me. A couple seconds later, when I pinned him down, I was as surprised as anyone. So the how has to go unexplained.
Kyle started swearing and saying he’d kill me. I let go, stood up, and stepped back, still not really believing I’d handled him so easily.
That’s when Mr. Cravutto broke things up. It figures. Gym teachers never stop a fight until they see it’s pretty much over.
Kyle glared at me when he walked off. I guess I’d known for a while that we weren’t friends anymore, even though I didn’t want to believe it. Until that moment, I’d still sort of hoped things would go back to the way they’d been. But here’s the reality of things. Kyle was once my second-best friend. Bobby was once my flawless hero. Julia was once my kindergarten pal. And I was once my parents’ youngest son.
Unlike cars, lives don’t have a way to go in reverse.
May 9
I got in a fight with Kyle. The weird thing is, he should have kicked my butt. I’ve been thinking about it for the last two days. The old me never would have beaten Kyle. But between gym class, stage crew, and calisthenics in Spanish, I guess I put on a bit of muscle.
It’s funny. In my mind, I’m this skinny kid who usually doesn’t lift anything heavier than a book. But my shirts are getting kind of tight across the chest. And my pants are short. Normally, Mom would have been on my case to get new clothes, but she’s pretty distracted right now with this swelling sibling of mine (yeah, you) who’s prevented her from seeing her feet for the last couple months. I haven’t gotten any clothes since Christmas.
Now that I think of it, last week when we were doing fitness tests in gym, Mr. Cravutto actually said, “Nice hustle, Hudson. Way to go.” Once you get to know him, he’s not such a bad guy.
All the stuff I said before about getting out of gym—don’t pay attention to that. Okay? It’s good to work out. You and I can lift weights together when you get older.
Maybe you’ll actually have the sort of big brother who can protect you. I think we’d both like that.
{thirty}
the hallway walls were filled with posters on Friday. Gallons of tempera paint had been sacrificed to spread the word that there was a dance next week. It was the final dance of the year, so some kids made a big deal out of it.
As I stood near one of the posters, reminding myself that I hated dances, Julia and Kelly walked by. Right after they went past me, Kelly glanced back over her shoulder, smiled, and winked. I had no idea what that meant. Maybe it was her way of saying hi to someone who’d been part of the play. Or maybe an insect had just flown into her eye. Either way, I soon had something more important to deal with. Instead of a bug in the eye, it was more like a foot in the mouth.
Lee had taken one of the smaller posters and stuck it on my locker. Underneath, she wrote Let’s go. For an instant, I thought she was serious. Then I realized it was typical Lee humor. Another weird locker message with layers of meaning.
When I saw her on the way out of homeroom, I said, “Good one.”
“Good what?”
“Your joke about the dance.”
There was just the slightest flicker across her face, like she’d almost burned her fingertips. The expression vanished so quickly, it could have been my imagination. But in my gut, I knew it was
real. If I’d said something immediately, I think it would have been okay. But I could hear Kyle’s words: some freaky bitch with a face full of pins. My brain slowed to a crawl, lost in a search for the right words.
“Yeah, it was a good one, wasn’t it.” Lee headed off, leaving me there with a dozen replies jammed in my throat.
I was such a jerk. I guess she thought it would be fun to go to the dance together. And I’d acted like the idea was a joke. Which meant I’d acted like she was a joke. I couldn’t even imagine how much that could hurt.
I’d lied to Tobie in the hospital. I’d never stood up for Mouth. I couldn’t take a third strike. I had to make things right. But I didn’t know how. I’m sorry wasn’t good enough. Not even close. Those were just words. Half the time people said them, they were lying.
Mr. Franka had some words for us. “I know we have another month of school, but I need to tell you this now. You are one of the finest classes I’ve had the privilege to meet. There’s a lot of talent in this room.”
It was nice to get praise from a teacher I really liked. But I wondered about his timing. I raised my hand.
“Yes, Scott?”
“You aren’t quitting or getting sick or something, are you?” Or dying? I left that unspoken.
He laughed and shook his head. “Not at all. Just feeling grateful. I was talking with a friend last night who’s having a lot less fun with his students. In truth, his classes are a total nightmare. So I really felt the need to tell you what a pleasure it’s been.” He looked around the room, then said, “Okay, don’t get misty on me, or I’ll make you all read something truly gloomy where the wonderful teacher dies, along with parents, friends, and assorted pets. Now let’s get back to the lesson.”
I glanced over at Kelly. She winked again, but when I whispered, “What?” she just whispered back, “You’ll see.” After that, I couldn’t catch her eye again.
I figured I could talk to her in the hall, but at the end of the class, as I was walking out, Mr. Franka put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I mean it.”
I turned back toward him. “Thanks. You’re a good teacher. You’ve showed me stuff I didn’t know about.”
“That’s my job.” He pointed to his desk, where two coffee mugs sat, each filled with pencils. One was for the Marines, the other for Lafayette College. “I took a winding path, but I’m glad I ended up where I am. The main thing is, use your gifts. And enjoy the trip.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Now you’re starting to sound like someone in one of those books.”
“Right. The kindly, wise teacher sharing his wisdom with his favorite student. Sorry.” He gave a fake snarl and said, “Get out of here, you little monster.”
• • •
The good feeling stayed with me through the rest of my classes. At the end of the day, I felt another hand on my shoulder as I was leaving my locker. Hoping it was Lee, and that all was forgiven, I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Kelly.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She gave me a weird smile. “Your secret’s out. Someone wants to see you about the dance,” she said.
My breath caught in my throat for a moment. I finally managed to say, “Who?”
“You’ll see. Come on.” She turned and walked down the hall.
I tried to calm myself. I didn’t want to start babbling. Kelly led me to the multipurpose room at the far end of the corridor. “In there,” she said, giving me another wink.
This time, my voice wouldn’t break when I said hi. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and went inside. I scanned the seats. She wasn’t there.
I noticed some motion out of the corner of my eye. As I started to turn, something hit the back of my head. I was caught completely off-balance. As pain exploded through my head, I tumbled to the floor, landing in the aisle between the seats.
A jumble of explanations ran through my brain. I’d walked into something. A piece of the ceiling had fallen. I started to push myself back to my feet when I was hit by a stream of swearwords and knocked back down by a kick to my side.
I knew the voice. Vernon.
Another kick rocked me as I curled up.
Other words rained down among the swearwords. “You like her? Huh?” Another kick. “Well, you stay away from her.”
I was hurting all over. Dizzy. He grabbed me. Lifted me to my feet. “She’s mine. Don’t you dare even look at her again.”
Another punch. Knocking me across a row of seats. I didn’t try to get up. I braced for more, but I guess he was satisfied. I heard the door open. I waited for the sound of his footsteps as he left. Instead, I heard another voice.
“You hurt him!” It was Kelly.
Then a third voice joined in. “I thought you were just going to shake him up a bit,” Kyle said.
“I shook him up, all right. It felt really good.”
“He needs help,” Kelly said.
“He’ll be fine,” Vernon said. “I hardly touched him.”
“Yeah. He’s got a hard head. It’s all stuffed with words. Let’s go,” Kyle said.
I was afraid to find out how much damage Vernon had done. I just lay for a while, sprawled across the seats. Finally, I took a deep breath. My ribs hurt, but I didn’t think anything was broken. I felt the back of my head. There was a small lump there. My left eye was starting to swell shut and my cheek hurt.
I pushed myself to my feet and staggered out of the room. The halls were empty. Wesley was waiting by his car in the parking lot.
“You all right?” A slight frown crossed his face.
“Yeah.”
“We have business to take care of?”
I thought about Wesley kicking the crap out of Vernon. As satisfying as that would be, I could imagine things growing from there until someone really got hurt. “No. It’s over.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Frozen peas.”
“What?”
“Frozen peas. Put them on your eye when you get home.”
Mom let out an assortment of gasps when I came in. I guess my face looked a bit roughed up. “What happened?”
“Softball. A grounder hit a rock.”
“Sit down.” She pushed me into a chair, then grabbed a pack of frozen peas from the freezer. Apparently, Mom and Wesley had some common knowledge. “Here. Hold this on it. I don’t know why they play those dangerous sports in school.”
After the initial shock of the cold, it felt good. Mom hovered over me. “I’m fine. Really.”
When I gave Dad the softball story that evening, he said, “Did the ball have a name?”
“Yeah. But it’s not important.”
“Fair fight?”
“Not really.”
He reached out, put his hand on my chin, turned my head slightly, and stared at my cheek. “That’s not too bad. Probably be sore for a couple days. Any other damage?”
“Nothing permanent.”
“Is it over?”
“Yeah.”
“Need me to do anything?”
“Nah. I’m okay.”
“All right. But if you find yourself heading for any more trouble, tell somebody. Okay?”
“Look, you don’t have to worry. It’s really over.”
He nodded and let it drop.
Bobby didn’t come home until after dinner. When he saw me, he slapped me on the back and said, “All right. The squirt’s not just a lover, he’s a fighter.”
May 10
Watch your back. It’s a rough world out here. But if you do get hurt, there’s one good thing. That’s when you find out who really cares about you.
Hey—maybe that’s not the only good thing. I feel a list coming on.
Scott Hudson’s List of Good Things
About Getting Beaten Up
You don’t have to wait until nighttime to enjoy the stars.
It’s a great wa
y to make sure your blood clots properly.
Bruises break up the monotony of an ordinary complexion.
It’s sort of fun to think about how much his fist must hurt.
It’s nice to know there really is a use for frozen peas.
Speaking of fights, I just finished reading The Man in the Iron Mask. It could just as well have been the ironic mask. The book is another story about the Three Musketeers. You know—one for all and all for one. But in this story, they break up. I’d always figured they stayed together forever.
I had no trouble sleeping late. My eye didn’t look too bad when I got up Saturday afternoon. I guess the frozen peas had helped. But my ribs ached. The bump on the back of my head was a lot smaller, but still sore. As much as it sucked to have gotten jumped, and as much as I felt like a total idiot for believing that Julia was waiting for me in the multipurpose room, there was something else that felt even worse.
I asked Bobby, “You ever hurt a girl’s feelings?”
He shrugged. “Couple times. Never meant to, but it happens.”
“So, what did you do about it?”
“Nothing I could do. They get over it. Or they don’t.”
I thought about stealing the guillotine for Lee. But, as much as I was picking up a lot from Wesley, I couldn’t bring myself to do something I knew was wrong. Besides, if I gave the guillotine to her, I didn’t think the first head she severed would belong to a stuffed animal.
That evening, I went out to the garage and asked Dad, “Did Mom ever get really angry with you?”
“Once or twice.”
“What’d you do to make up?”
He pointed to the radiator cap. “What’s the first rule?”
“Don’t take the cap off while the water’s hot.”
Dad nodded.
“So you waited for her to cool down?”
“Yup.”
“But what if she didn’t?”
“If your mom was the sort of person who stayed mad forever, we’d never have stayed together in the first place.” He tilted his head toward the workbench. “Fetch me the three-eighths box wrench.”