Plus, Zoë and I used to play Nintendo, Monopoly, basketball and such, and since Spud and I have gotten closer, I don’t hang with Zoë as much. I feel bad that I don’t give her as much attention, but I gotta branch out. She’s got friends; she can do girly things with them, right? She’ll just deal, as far as I’m concerned. Truly, the more she bashes Spud, the more I want to avoid her anyway. Sometimes, she’ll do a 180 and be all nice and giggly. Fickle. Girls.
“Cool,” I reply to Spud’s comment. “Ma will likely grill out, and we can maybe hit up the video store for a flick or a Nintendo game.” Yep, I’ve still got the old, original system. You know, with the first Super Mario Brothers. The original Zelda. Gotta love it. Hours of old-school fun.
“When we get back to yer place, I’ll call my ma and tell her I’m staying with ya. I think Uncle Ned’s having a party tomorrow night, so maybe I can stay until yer pops takes us there, then I’ll crash at Ned’s for a night or so.” His grin is gone, and he’s looking for more hot pictures. Candi keeps glaring at us, surely ready for us to leave.
This is where I should explain Spud’s name. Uncle Ned is my dad’s brother, and his wife is the sister of Spud’s step-mom. Ned’s the one responsible for nicknames for all the nieces and nephews in the clan. I really don’t know why he insisted on embarrassing us from birth. Anyway, Spud is the name Dan got at birth because he looked like a potato, I guess, and the name stuck. Zoë’s nickname is Halfpint, because she’s a tiny thing and reminded my uncle of the little daughter from Little House on the Prairie, and mine is Buck. I don’t know why. There’re more cousins with more nicknames, too.
I hate hate hate my nickname, and only Ned uses mine. The rest of the aunts and uncles call all of us by our nicknames, except me. Everyone else calls me Jack or Jackson, but we kids don’t call each other by nicknames; it sounds kinda gay. For some reason, though, Spud’s name stuck, and he’s the only one who is always called by his nickname. Even by teachers!
The only time, besides with Ned, that I’m ever called Buck is when Zoë and I are joking around, and she calls me that. I laugh then, because we both think it’s retarded. Buck… it’s like a dog, really, especially if, like me, you are a fan of Married…With Children. The dog’s name is Buck. He is this family pet whose voice you can hear as he mocks his pretty idiotic owners. That’s why it’s so dumb to be called that, but it’s okay for Ned. He’s cool, so I let it slide.
“All right, let’s get outa here. Look who just walked in.” Spud’s whispering as he closes his magazine and looks down. I turn around to see a smirking Mike Hanson and his angelic girlfriend, Deena, heading toward the pop coolers at the side of the store, fanning themselves from the heat and breathing in relief at the feel of the AC.
I’ve had the biggest crush on the blonde, blue-eyed Deena forever! Star cheerleader, smart, sweet, with one of those dimples in her chin. This is the summer I want to win her over. I’ve known her since kindergarten, but I never ever had the nerve to get on that level with her. We played on the same Pee Wee League ball teams, attended the same Halloween parties and Valentine’s dances, but not together. She’s been in a number of my classes for years, but I could never get the guts to talk anything more than casual. You know, borrow a pencil, joke about a substitute teacher, comment on her wacky Halloween costume the year she dressed as Marge Simpson. That hair! Okay, well!
Spud and Mike hate each other, and if we stay, there’s gonna be trouble. If Spud gets in a fight, he won’t get to stay at my place. These two are from completely different worlds.
“Yeah, okay,” I agree, not thrilled, as we get up, peeling our sweaty-sticking legs from the leather booth. Mike has seen us and makes his way over, sauntering like some bad-ass in a western film. Damn.
“So, it’s the Cooper cousins.” He stares at me, then Spud. “What kind of happy hour are you twerps up to? Where’s yer little guitar, Spud potato? Thought Hell’d freeze over before you’d ever wander about without your cowboy boots and guitar together. Don’t ya wanna croon us all a song?” Laughing at his own dumb comment, he takes a seat and starts flipping through the magazine. Mike’s an ass. Spud is a guitar player, a skill he got from his dad, especially with country songs, and I think Mike’s just jealous.
“Flap off, freak,” Spud mumbles and he steps on Mike’s sandal-wearing foot as he heads toward the door. Ouch, with those boots? Had to hurt! Spud’s not a chicken and can kick some ass, but he can’t get in trouble and knows where to draw the line, well, sometimes. But, oh, with just flip flops on Mike’s feet?
“Ouch, watch it, ya dumb hillbilly!” He pulls his foot up to the seat to rub it, a grimace on his unfriendly face. “And how bout you, Jackson? Why you hanging in this little dump when you can be playing audience to yer little cousin’s serenade?” Now he laughs at himself again. Seriously, jerk.
“Dude, get over it,” I say. “It’s hot, we wanted some AC, and now we’re leaving.” I start toward the door, dropping my Twix wrapper in the garbage. “Damn, what the hell does Deena see in you? Arrogant prick,” I mumble.
“Excuse me?” He’s up now and following us, his thin, tanned body used to the summer ways by now. He’s shorter than us, though, which helps. “You didn’t just insult me in my pop’s own town now? Deena, grab me a Coke while you’re over there. I’ll meet ya outside in a minute.” Deena looks at us briefly, gives me a heart-melting, apologetic smile, and makes her way from the coolers to the counter to pay the cashier, who couldn’t care less if we had a royal rumble right here and now. She is too engrossed in her gossip magazine and bag of Doritos.
The thing about Deena, it’s like she’s afraid of Mike and won’t butt in. Well, it’s not her fault he’s a jerk.
“Um, whatever. We’re out. Go piss off somebody else.” I say, opening the door in my triumph, but feeling the heat rush at us like a bull seeing red. Spud’s already out there, waiting, steaming in more ways than one.
Mike’s dad is one of like four cops in town, which makes Mike think he’s also in charge or something, like he owns any place he hangs. And his dad’s a prick. You don’t want to run into him, all burly and a look of malice on his bearded face, if you’re thinking of getting in trouble. Of course, let’s hope that jerk father-cop will pull some strings when it comes time for Mike to become a working man, when school is all over, because with his grades, he’s gonna be stuck in Seneca forever. He’ll sink in college, and his running and football ability, which are decent now, may make him a name and popular here, but it’s a small town and no scouts ever look at players around here. His body is more built for track, not the ball field, but he’s popular, so he gets to play. Like, if he wanted, at his five-foot-four frame, they’d let him be star center on the basketball team, just because of who he is. Colleges would laugh at that, the shorty. Let him enjoy it while it lasts. I just wish he hadn’t won over Deena. God only knows what she sees in him. She’s just probably too sweet to dump his ass.
“I ain’t done yet. You all can’t be so disrespectful, yo. You want yer little buddy to keep out of trouble this summer, you’d better show some appreciation. Don’t think I don’t know about Spud taking cigs from the Citgo station last week. Was right there when he did it, was by the chips. But did I tattle? No, because I’m a nice guy. But, if I let my pops know, Spud’s gonna get a rough time ahead. Got it?”
Spud has a habit of getting in trouble… beer, cigs, curfew violations. Mike knows all about it with his dad being Mr. Cop. Mike always threatens to cause more trouble.
“Look, you don’t know anything, and what’s it to you? Stay out of our way, and we’ll stay out of yours.” By now, we’re standing in the doorway, between the heat and the cold, and it’s obvious Miss Candi is irritated that we’re letting out the cool air. Okay, everyone is irritated.
“Well, it ain’t quite so easy, Cooper, because I’ve got a right to wander where I please. How about you all stay outa my way? And don’t think I’m dumb about you wanting my girl. You stay away from Deena, as she don’t need to be hanging with welfare scums like you.” He’s got this smirk on his face. Hit a sore spot and knows it.
The ass! My parents don’t make much, and we’ve always lived in the government housing apartments, but that doesn’t make us scum. Man, I could outscore Mike any day on a test in any subject. I know that if I want a future that includes a college degree, I have to be smart, get good grades, and score some scholarships. If my parents taught me anything, it’s hard work.
Now I really hate Mike. He’s always looked down on me. One of these days I’m gonna…
I stare him hard, deciding he’s not worth the trouble, walk out the door, and meet Spud, my eyes blinded briefly with the brightness. Spud knew better than to test the waters and has been on the sidewalk outside. With those jeans and boots, he must be near death.
How can Deena stand that dumbass Mike? She totally must be the most patient, sympathetic…
“Finally!” Spud says, taking a deep breath and wiping sweat from his forehead. He starts toward the sidewalk and is drenched in sweat it’s as if he just weathered a real storm.
“I’m about to die here, Jackson. And I don’t wanna know what that weasel had to say. Let’s just forget we saw him and get to your place where things are nice, where people are nice.”
I keep quiet, and as we walk toward my place, a couple blocks to go, Spud is now engrossed in some wrestling magazine he must have swiped. How the hell does he do that? While he flips through it, I just busy myself staring at the houses I’ve seen hundreds of times, decorated yards with their colorful summer flowers (illegal watering, I’m quite sure, as those flowers should be dead in this hot draught) and dull, thirsty brown grass, with the occasional tykes out in their family pools. How I’ve always wanted to have our own pool! Wouldn’t it rock to swim in my own backyard, away from toddlers and tinkling? How sweet it would be to float on my raft and catch some rays, without being splashed or crashing into some dippy pool toy. Ahhh.
In the meantime, my refreshing daydreams cannot last. You know the old saying, that you could fry an egg on the walk? Well, it is so true. Literally, today, it could be done. Imagine that, and how your clothes just stick to you. Daydreaming helps a bit, but you can only pretend so long, until a sweaty wedgie brings you back to reality. A moment, please.
“Hey, Jackson,” Spud suddenly says, about five minutes into the solemn journey home, but with a welcome grin on his mischievous face. He’s obviously tired of trying to read a magazine and walk at the same time. “Your shoe’s untied.”
Here we go.
Chapter 2
Stupid to fall for it, I glance down, on instinct, even though I’m wearing flip flop shoes, and Spud takes off running, despite the heat, despite his sweaty, stuck jeans.
“Last one home’s a rotten egg,” he childishly shouts as he has taken off his boots (how did I not see him do that?) and is running barefoot down the sidewalk. Damn! He’s good.
Not that I, in any way, think I’ll actually turn into a rotten egg, but it’s a pride thing. I take off my flip flops hurriedly and start to run after him. “You punk,” I teasingly yell ahead of me. Oww! This is much like running on hot coals; the sidewalk is on fire!
Racing after him, sweating all the more, I realize this is one of the things, though, that I like about Spud. He’s spontaneous, fun, can change any situation, even a boring or tense one, and make it completely out-of-the-blue enjoyable again.
“Hey,” I call, knowing I won’t catch him and desperate to test the rules, “first one home loves Nina Patton!”
That stops him. He halts his run and catches his breath for a minute, bent over, hands on his knees. A mop of sweat.
Nina is the weirdest, rudest, fattest, meanest girl in our class. She eats her boogers, for real. As a rule, she wears short shirts that show her three rolls of globby fat, farts in class, and has hair that looks like Bozo the Clown’s. Only it’s not orange. It’s purple. The chick is just odd, and not only that, she’s mean. She’ll steal your homework, your lunch, and your money, if she knows it’s in your bag or something.
This Nina has no morals, and nobody likes her. Well, most are afraid of her. She’s been the butt of our jokes the last two years. It doesn’t sound nice, but if you met her, you’d get it. One time last year, she scratched her smelly armpit, hand up through her shirt, then proceeded to borrow my pencil in math, with the same hand and without asking, and used it, not to write anything, but to scratch the middle of her back, too big for her to reach, and though her shirt. I was so grossed out. I let her keep the pencil. She didn’t even thank me.
So, back in the moment here, it’s rotten egg. The object of this game now, is you can come up with the rules as you play, if you’re quick enough, so you can win. So Spud has caught his breath and now turns around and runs back to me, so he can be behind and not have to love Nina Patton.
“Damn you, Cooper. Good one!”
Now, we’re walking side by side, but awkwardly, as the ground is fricking hot, and we’re panting from our run, neither of us wanting to be the first home. Who wants to love Nina?
“Last one home loves Nina Patton, and it’s ‘dead game’,” he says suddenly, as he depants-es me first, so I’m mooning the whole damn town like some weirdo and can’t run until I pull them up! Well, there’s nobody around that I see, but still.
Aw, man! He takes off again, and a rule with “dead game” means you can’t use that one anymore. So I need a new line. No more Nina.
Oh well, at least I rested for a minute, but I don’t want to be teased about loving Nina all night either, marrying her and having a house of little ugly Ninas. Yuck. Yikes. And if Zoë hears him say that, I’ll never hear the end of it. She thrives on this game.
I race forward, pants pulled up, thinking hard about the next rule I might invent, but it’s no use, as we’re quickly coming up on the door of my place. As Spud cuts through the brown grass in the yard, reaches the porch and turns to face me, only a short distance behind him, I’m rather glad I can stop running, really.
“K, Jackson. You…,” but I cut him off before he can gloat that I lost.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re invited to the wedding, Spud.” I say, out of breath. “You can be my best man. Me and Nina. And when we have all our little obnoxious Ninas, I’ll let you be their favorite Uncle Spud, and you can baby sit and change all their nasty icky-poo diapers.” I tease, giving him a pat on the back.
We’re both laughing and panting at the same time.
“Haha. If that happens, I’ll move away and pretend I don’t know you. I could never let you marry that bitch.” He grins and s
hakes his head. “Watch her have one of those after-high school transformations and become some sexy goddess who lands on the cover of Playboy and makes millions, or goes on Jerry Springer, all sexy and hot and rubs it in our faces.”
“Nah… that’d be too freaky. Anyway,” I say, back into the game, “you’re talking about the woman I love, remember? Me and Nina forever. Maybe I’ll change my name to Jack Patton when we’re married to show my devotion!” Teasing Spud like this is a riot. He laughs as we open the door and step into the welcoming air conditioning, the carpet cool on our burning feet. I stop to bend down and scoop up the newspaper off the floor that the paperboy dropped in earlier.
“Barf,” he says. “You’d never survive a marriage to Nina. She’d kill you on the honeymoon. Squash you when you’re getting all lovey-dovey.” We’re still laughing, until we take a closer look at the paper.
The headline reads: 56 Deaths Here: Toll May Double and goes on to talk about overheated bodies, heatstroke, old people suffering, poor people with no relief, and the amazing amount that have perished. Wow. The ambulances and hospitals are in full swing, working nonstop, for sure, and that’s just Chicago. Well, that changes the mood like day and night.
“See?” Spud says, now serious. “Like I was telling you at Casey’s. Like my pops said. All these people dying.” He gestures at the paper, “Ain’t it sick?”
“Man. Yeah,” I agree, shaking my head in disbelief, glancing at the article.
It certainly brings us out of our joking mood, and we decide to slow it down and relax a bit. I live in a two story apartment building with three bedrooms, a decent sized living room, and air conditioning! At least, the power is on in our town, for now, and the window air conditioning in the living room is working.
Spud Page 2