“What happened? Did his hair not come out right today?” Michelle asked cattily. “Or is his corset too tight?”
Terry made deep rumbling sounds that reminded me uncomfortably of Fat Albert laughing. “He wanted to be the one to knock Troy’s lights out this morning when he messed with Aimi, but then Kevin…”
“Snowman?” I interrupted them, looking at the white guy. I thought I hadn’t heard right. “You must be kidding me.”
“I wish.”
I looked back at the Goths, Snowman in particular. He looked about as friendly as the plague. “How do they get away with, you know…” I waved my hand at the wall of black clothes and spiky, multicolored hair.
“Looking like freaks and not being skinned, gutted and hung over a fence by Troy and his fathead football friends?” Michelle finished (I thought rather colorfully) for me. She seemed to be an authority on everything at TJ High. “They play The Hole on weekends. It’s this dump all the losers hang out at in the Bronx. They take donations for refugees from the West Coast, bring in a lot of money, or so I hear, so they can dress any way they want.”
“So they’re allowed to dress like that to promote the band,” I guessed.
“The teachers are down with it. And anyway, it’s Aimi’s band, and no one tells Aimi what to do. If they did, her dad would just get them fired.”
“I don’t get it."
“Her dad’s got mucho dinero,” Michelle explained while rubbing her first and second fingers together. “He’s Dr. Mura…you know, head honcho of MuraTech?”
I blinked in amazement. I was certainly familiar with the name. MuraTech is one of the biggest corporations in the world involved in water treatment plants and cleaning up toxic chemical spills. You hear the name everywhere you go, even if you’re not a science geek; there are always news articles about the company in magazines and on TV, stuff about MuraTech vacuuming up oil spills off the coast of Alaska and generally promoting better living through green energy. As far as I knew, MuraTech was still mopping up the mess left behind by Karkadon. Not that I was going to let on that I knew that much. If I read Wired and Scientific American, Michelle didn’t need to know about it.
“If Aimi’s all moneyed up, why’s she going here?” I said, glancing around the green cinderblock walls and dingy grey-tiled floors. I mean, Thomas Jefferson High looked like a prison both inside and out, not the type of place a girl like Aimi was likely to attend. “This place isn’t exactly Beardsley.”
“She was going to Beardsley.” Michelle rolled her eyes with just a hint of massive jealousy. “They threw her out after she displayed uncouth and generally slutty behavior. TJ High is the end of the road for Aimi before military school…or maybe jail.”
I found that just a little hard to believe. Aimi hadn’t struck me as your typical poor little rich-girl Paris Hilton-type on the easy road to self-destruction. Back in San Francisco, before the disaster, my mom and dad had worked as a catering team and had done tons of rich-kid-slash-celebrity parties. I knew what rich kids were all about. I made a point to avoid them.
I noticed that Snowman was looking my way, beady little blue eyes set fast on me like he just knew I was talking about Aimi. Great. I hadn’t even made it through my first day and it looked like I was about to experience The Bully Brigade 2: The Sequel.
“I wonder how she got like that,” I said. “It takes a lot to change a person. She probably didn’t start out that way.”
“Who knows,” said Michelle, peeling the wrapper off her second candy bar. “Who cares?”
I didn’t know if I liked Michelle any better than Snowman. Obviously, Michelle’s group and Aimi’s band were hating on each other big time. Just what I needed, I thought, turf warfare.
“Oh man, oh man, oh man!” Terry said, dropping his screwdriver and trying in vain to slink down in his seat, though he only managed to push his fat around in the seat.
I didn’t think something like this would actually happen on my first day, but Snowman got to his feet and started approaching our table. He had nerve, I’d give him that. Both Michelle and Terry leaned back in their seats, appreciating what they no doubt anticipated was an exciting floor show.
Snowman stopped at our table and stared down at me. He was big. Bigger than most of the teachers here. Maybe bigger than me. His gestures up until now had been fluid and overly elegant, like something he practiced in a mirror at home. Now he just looked like any other punk spoiling for a fight.
Michelle glanced up with catty eyes. “Like the coat, Snow. What time’s the funeral?”
Snowman smirked. “Like yours better, Michelle. It’s so butch, so totally you.” Before Michelle could respond, he turned his diamond-hard, laser-powered eyes on me. “Kenny, right?” His voice was rough, like someone with a perpetual cold.
It made me want to clear my throat. “Kevin,” I corrected him, trying to sound as neutral as possible. “What can I do for you, chief?”
“Can I speak with you in private?” His eyes lit over the table, nothing in them even remotely friendly. “Away from all the…ladies.”
I looked past his big frame to the rest of the Goths. Aimi was on her feet, hovering indecisively, but I didn’t want to signal to her. I figured I didn’t need to involve her any more in this than she already was.
Instead, I returned my attention to Snowman. “Sure. Why not?” Because if we had to clear the air, why not do it as soon as possible? I mean, he couldn’t be any tougher than Troy.
Could he?
5
I tried to ignore the three hundred or so pairs of student eyes that followed us out of the lunchroom, to no avail. I was probably going to make school history—again.
I thought we were going to step outside behind the school, where the traditional beat-downs always take place, but when we had reached the end of the hallway where the boy’s washroom was located, Snowman pushed the door open for me. I hesitated, recalling all the stupid action flicks I’d seen where the hitman takes out victims in the john. Then I kicked myself mentally. He was just a kid. He was tough. I was tougher. I ducked under his arm and stepped into the washroom.
Snowman waited until the door had swung shut mechanically behind us before he started sizing me up. “So you’re the hothead who punched Troy’s lights out.” He looked me up and down like he didn’t believe my skinny ass was capable of it.
“I guess so.”
“And you’ve met Aimi.” He smirked, not a happy look.
I stood my ground, met his even gaze. I had guessed right; we were about the same size, which was saying a lot. He was more muscular, but I could hold my own. “Yeah,” I responded, trying to stay cool-headed. “I’ve met her.”
“You talked to her this morning.”
I gave him a cocky look. I wasn’t aware that Snowman was Aimi’s PR manager, or that I had to make an appointment. “I talked to a lot of kids this morning. What’s your point, chief?”
“There are rules here,” he said.
“Really?”
“Really,” he drawled. “Rule One: you don’t mess with my crew. Rule Two: Aimi is my crew.”
“Brilliant,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes. “She’s a very special girl,” he said. “Very different.”
“Translation: you’re insecure and you think she’s stupid.”
He let out his breath like he was exasperated with me, turned sharply and punched in one of the stall doors. His fist left a mark. It was supposed to frighten me. It did.
I thought about what Michelle had said about Snowman taking on the Cinnamonster. I guess, like Troy, he was used to getting what he wanted around these parts. Unfortunately for Troy, he was home sucking Campbell’s chicken broth through a straw.
“I’ve known Aimi for a while,” Snowman stated in a menacing tone. “She has a lot of problems she’s dealing with right now. She’s not well. And she’s not ready for you.” He took a step toward me. Oh, he so wasn’t crossing the line into my personal space. He so
wasn’t going there.
“Maybe that’s for Aimi to decide,” I said. “What are you, her therapist?”
He glared at me. “I’m her best friend.”
I glared back. “Well, best friend, I didn’t see your sorry ass jumping in to fight Troy this morning. Were you asleep?”
Suddenly he was up against me, pushing me skirmish-style, the line forgotten. It wasn’t a hard push. It was meant to prove a point, not inflict real damage. But he was a strong bastard and it knocked me against a towel dispenser, the impact dislodging my sunglasses before I could catch them.
I waited for him to say something snarky about my eyes, or to go for me like Troy had, but we ended up just staring at each other and doing the spaghetti western thing again.
Finally he let out his breath. “You don’t understand anything about Aimi. Just leave her alone. Consider this a warning…your first and last.” He turned away and stormed out of the washroom, slamming the door behind him.
I let out my breath. He was warning me? I swore. I kicked in a stall door. But I didn’t feel any better.
Two fights. On my first day. I was so batting zero. I could just hear my dad laying into me if I wound up in detention. He really would think I’d turned into a punk. Then again, I thought as I picked up my glasses and exited the washroom just in time for the bell, maybe, at last, I had.
6
I managed to not get into any more fights for the rest of the day. Go, me.
I muddled through Computer Lab, then PE, which I loathe with a passion born of pain. Coach Kuznik was teaching wrestling, which made things even worse. There’s nothing like experiencing some sweaty guy’s BO up close and personal; it can drop you in your tracks, I swear. I should just kill myself now, I thought, but Shop was the last class of the day.
I usually love Shop—it’s the only class I really pay attention to anymore—but I just drifted through it, distracted by what had happened back in the boy’s washroom. I barely noticed that Michelle was in my class and was trying to make eye contact with me the whole time. I couldn’t help it. My head was back there, confronting Snowman, running a bunch of useless alternate scenarios through my head. Things like I should have knocked his teeth out, or I should have laughed it off and just walked out. Too late now.
Maybe my dad was right, I thought. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I ought to just get the hell out of Dodge. I was seriously considering it while threading my way back to my locker after last bell, but when I got there I found a note that someone had slipped through the grates. It was written on fancy, cream-colored notebook paper and read:
Dear Kevin,
Sorry about what happened with Snowman. He can be a big jerk, but you probably already know that. Maybe you’ll come see us play at The Hole this Friday? (I’ll tell Snow to behave.) I’m in a band. It’s not big (yet) but maybe one day.
I look forward to seeing you again.
Aimi
PS – Maybe you’d like to learn more Japanese words? Anata ga daisuki – that means I really like you.
I noticed a couple of things right away: the paper smelled like Aimi’s perfume and she had dotted all her i’s with those little hearts. I didn’t know if that was significant. Maybe it just meant that she’d been really bored when she was writing it.
Don’t laugh. Girls have it so easy. They just have to sit and wait for the guy they like to ask them out. Guys, on the other hand, have to do all the work and figure out all the signals. And we don’t get a girl body language manual to help us out, either.
I picked up my pack and slammed my locker closed, still studying the letter.
Across the hall I spotted Vice Principal Cinnamon, a.k.a., The Cinnamonster, standing like a dour sentinel under the bell, arms crossed, clicking a staple gun threateningly while she eyed all the students racing by. I could almost see her categorizing them as they passed—class-cutter, smoker, cheater, stoner, etc. She gave me a once-over, then narrowed her evil little reptilian eyes like she was trying to stuff me into all of those categories at once. I so didn’t need Meisterfrau Ilsa on my ass. I quickly slipped out the rear exit that led to the student parking lot behind the school.
Out in the chilly October sunshine, the buses were pulling out like a herd of hissing dragons. There were a few tough pusher-types smoking near the chainlink fence and a bunch of skate guys who had gathered to rocket race each other on homemade U-ramps made of plywood.
I immediately spotted Snowman. He was hard to miss. He was leaning against the low stone wall that encircled the back lot, talking and smoking cloves and being all clichéd with his band of unmerry Goths, Aimi among them. She noticed me at once and gave me a shy little wave.
I thought about waving back, but I knew that I would only draw Snowman’s ire. Instead, my eyes shifted to a black van parked by the wall with the emblazoned word DESTROYER painted on its side in crazy, fire-red gradient paint. I wondered if that was the band’s van. I wondered if Snowman had come up with such a lame-ass name.
Mr. Tall, Dark and Gloomy noticed me anyway. He took a long drag on his cigarette, dropped it, and crushed it under his boot heel like a gangster in a turf war movie. Then he hung his arm over Aimi’s shoulder, challenging me to do something about it.
“Man,” I said to myself, “you are so dead I don’t know why you bothered to be born at all.” I flipped him the bird.
He pushed himself off the wall, but one of the skate guys cut between us. I took the opportunity to jump aboard the nearest bus, making the decision to stick with the school if for no other reason than because my presence seemed to thoroughly piss off Snowman. And pissing off Snowman was about to become my new favorite hobby.
7
When I got home I immediately went upstairs to the loft we rent from Mr. Serizawa. It’s rough, barely habitable, really, a converted attic space with brownstone walls and a slanted roof that makes me stoop to see out the windows. But it’s better than the projects, which house two, sometimes three, families per flat since the disaster. I changed into my uniform and spent the rest of the afternoon in the restaurant downstairs, busing tables, taking take-out orders and going through the long list of dinner specials.
I like the work; it keeps that part of my brain that wants to dwell on everything else nicely deactivated. I don’t have to think, just do. But around eight o’clock my dad emerged from the kitchen in his grease-stained cook’s whites, stinking of soy sauce and peanut grease, to tell me the late-shift guys were coming in and I could do what I wanted—which meant, in Dad-speak: “Go do your homework.”
I stayed on, doing dishes, way too amped to look at textbooks, until well after ten, when my dad finally chased me out of the kitchen and told me to go check on Groucho. I gave in this time. I was tired, emotionally wiped from the day, and the incessant background noise of KTV was starting to get to me.
My dad likes to keep the TV running in the kitchen night and day. I think he’s afraid of being caught out unprepared should another Karkadon make landfall. But between you and me, I hate the Kaiju Channel. I hate the sensational news reports and the elaborate searches for the Chupacabra and Nessie that never come to anything. But with Karkadon dead, there was no new news to report. Documentaries and reality television shows had cropped up to fill in the empty time slots, and they sucked on so many levels. You can only interview people who saw the monster firsthand so many times before it all starts to blur together, before you start going numb.
Yet people continue to watch KTV as avidly as CNN after 9/11, afraid, much like my dad, of being hit on the blindside by disaster. But when I consider what happened to San Francisco, the extent of the damage, I wonder if any kind of advance warning would have been enough. Somehow, I doubt it. You can predict earthquakes and typhoons; you just can’t anticipate monsters.
It started to rain while I was outside walking Groucho. Groucho is Mr. Serizawa’s Rottweiler, bought for security reasons, except he’s afraid of sirens, storms, water, bright lights, and everything that breat
hes oxygen. On the upside, you never have to wait very long for him to do his business, because he’s terrified of the cats that scrounge around in the alley behind the restaurant. “This is like a country-western song,” I told Groucho. “Standing in the rain, under her window, thinking about her…except I don’t know where in the city her window is.”
“Baroo?” Groucho said nervously. He’d heard some rats fighting over a burger wrapper in the shadows at the back of the alley. In Groucho’s defense, the rats here are huge, probably because they eat the radioactive danger dogs off the sidewalk vendor’s carts. After a while we went back inside and Groucho followed me up to my room. He sleeps with me because I keep a light on at night and he’s afraid of the dark.
I spent a long time just lying in bed, reading through Pat Frank’s Alas, Babylon and listening to the rain pinging off the roof like BBs. Generally speaking, I can usually chunk out a 400-page novel in one sitting. It’s not something I like to admit to, but neither is it something I’m willing to give up. In fact, it’s the only thing about the old Kevin that I’ve hung onto. But tonight I was seriously distracted. I found myself thinking about Aimi and school and New York. Everything and nothing in particular. How crazy the world was. How the world was this one thing before Karkadon pulled itself ashore and how it became something else afterward. Crazy stuff.
Eventually I fell into a light sleep—the only sleep I experience anymore. And sometime in the night I had one of those long, involved dreams that leave you feeling exhausted and vaguely troubled the next morning.
Usually I dream about Karkadon. I dream about the night it came ashore. I dream I’m trying to phone my mom about the news report on the TV. Her cellphone rings and rings, but I never get through. No one ever picks up—because my mom’s car was already at the bottom of the Bay.
Raiju: A Kaiju Hunter Novel (The Kaiju Hunter) Page 3