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King of the Screwups

Page 20

by K L Going


  I’m at my locker ahead of everyone, so I hardly notice when Darleen comes up beside me.

  “Your announcements were unique today,” she says. “I thought you had a good point about the school lunches. It is rather fascist the way they insist on putting meat in everything, isn’t it?”

  I have no idea how that’s fascist, but right now I couldn’t care less.

  Jen catches up to me before English.

  “Feeling any better?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “Well, thanks for making that announcement about the fashion show. I’ve got a bunch of seniors who want to participate. We’re thinking of scheduling it near the end of the afternoon—after the cheerleading exhibition but before the pie-throwing contest. That way the stage will be clear and the cheerleaders can participate in both. Nikki’s planning the music, but she wants to know what kinds of clothes you’ve got.”

  Crap.

  I completely forgot about getting clothes for the fashion show.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be there,” I say, and Jen’s jaw drops. Now she’s not worried, she’s pissed.

  “No way! We’ve got everything planned. I’ve given you guys a forty-five-minute time slot, and the senior class is counting on the money.”

  “I’m sure Eddie will still do it. I just don’t think . . .”

  Jen is horrified.

  “No one’s coming to see Eddie. They’re coming to see you.”

  The bell rings and I go in, but Jen follows me.

  “We’re counting on you,” she says sharply. “I’ll tell Nikki to call Eddie about the clothes, but you’d better be there.”

  Orlando is hovering next to my desk.

  “Jen. Your seat,” he says. Jen scowls at me one more time before walking back, but I don’t look up. Orlando waits a moment then clears his throat.

  “All right. Everyone take out Hamlet.” He turns to me. “Liam, where’s your book?”

  “Do you want me to go to the office?” I ask, because obviously I don’t have it.

  Orlando pauses, then he takes an extra book out of his desk drawer.

  “Sit up,” he says. “You can use this one today.” He tosses it across the room, and I catch it but set it down unopened.

  “You said I’d have to go to the office if I forgot my book again.”

  Orlando is about to write something on the board, but he stops with the chalk halfway up. “I did say that,” he says, “but that was before I realized you were going to forget your book every day. I’m giving you a reprieve.”

  The class snickers and I stare at my copy of Hamlet.

  “I’m never going to remember to bring the book if you give me a new one.”

  This time Orlando puts down the chalk.

  “Do you want to go to the office?”

  I shrug. “I’m just saying that you said one thing and now you’re doing something else.”

  There’s an awkward silence while all eyes shift from me to Orlando.

  “Do you want to go to the office?” he repeats. “Feel free, because the door is open.” He takes a step back. “I’m not keeping you here,” he says, turning to write something on the board. He writes, “Father, Mother, Uncle, Son,” then turns to the class.

  “Okay. Let’s talk about family dynamics. What’s going on in Hamlet’s family? How does Hamlet’s father, a character who appears only as a ghost, change the plot of the story? How does Hamlet’s relationship to his mother change from Act One to Act Five? How about the crazy Ophelia? Does she influence things? Is Hamlet a victim or a perpetrator? Anyone?”

  I stand up.

  “Liam?”

  “I’m going to the office.”

  There’s a long pause while the entire class stares. Finally, Orlando nods.

  “All right,” he says, so I step out of the room and don’t look back.

  46

  THAT NIGHT I WAIT until Pete is at work and the trailer is empty, then I sit by the phone. I pick up the receiver, dial, and hang up. Then I pick up the receiver but don’t dial. I wait until the phone starts to buzz loudly before hanging it up again. A half hour later I dial the recruiter. The conversation is short, and he agrees to arrange everything so I can join the army’s delayed entry program. I tell him I’m a little bit worried about passing the GED, but he says, “Don’t worry, son. You’ll do fine.”

  As soon as I get off the phone I call Dad at his office.

  “Hello? Allan Geller, please.” It’s eight o’clock, but Dad always works late. Hold music drifts across the line. When Dad finally picks up, I recognize the pleasant business voice he uses with co-workers. I try to remember the last time I heard that voice.

  “Allan Geller here.”

  “Dad? It’s Liam.”

  The shift is immediate. “Oh. Liam.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “I talked to your friend. Sergeant Braddock. He came by the trailer.”

  There’s a pause.

  “And?”

  “And I agreed to join. He’s going to arrange everything.”

  Dad pauses. “That’s excellent,” he says, and I think, for once he means it.

  “I wanted to know if this means I can come home. I’ll need a tutor to pass the GED and . . .”

  I hear Dad shuffling papers on the other end of the phone line. “Of course,” he says, and I can’t tell if he means of course I can come home, or of course I’ll need a tutor. I tear off a piece of loose plastic from the countertop and jab my finger until a small drop of blood smears its edge.

  “When do you want me to come home?”

  There’s not even a pause. “It makes no difference.”

  “It doesn’t matter?”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “Right. Saturday morning then. Can you come get me Saturday morning?”

  Dad’s distracted. “Uh-huh. I’ll be there.”

  I want to ask him, Will you, Dad? Will you be here? But I don’t.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say instead.

  I picture Dad poised to hang up, then bringing the phone back to his ear.

  “What is it?”

  I don’t know how to ask, so finally I just say it.

  “I had something I wanted to tell you,” I say. “I thought you were coming on Tuesday, and I was going to tell you then, but . . . Well, anyway, Mom said I should wait, but I thought maybe you’d be . . .” I choke on the word. “I’ve been doing some modeling. Nothing serious, but I’ve come up with a couple displays for Eddie’s shopwindow.”

  Silence.

  “The thing is, I think I’m good at it.”

  Silence again.

  “Eddie says I have talent, Dad. He says I’ve got creativity and vision.”

  I wonder if Dad is still on the line.

  “Dad?”

  When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravelly.

  “If you think I’d allow my son to parade down a catwalk so people can take his picture then get drunk at all those parties afterward and sleep with everyone in sight . . .”

  His voice is getting louder.

  “How many times did I tell your mother to keep you away from all that? How many times? Ever since you were tiny she’s been dragging you to everything, taking you into the goddamn dressing rooms with all those men putting on makeup, and half-naked women . . . Letting some flaming designer watch you while she waltzes down the runway. Your goddamn mother . . .”

  “I don’t know why I brought this up,” I say. “I already told you I’m enlisting. I just wanted to know what you’d think of the other thing . . .”

  More silence.

  “Dad, I’m sorry,” I say, even though I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. I’m doing exactly what he wants.

  “I’ve got another call,” Dad says. “I’ll see you Saturday morning. I don’t intend to go to your uncle’s trailer, so meet me at the school. I’ll arrange a meeting with your principal so we can take care of things.”

/>   He clicks off and the phone buzzes in my ear.

  47

  FRIDAY MORNING I don’t intend to go to school. I roll over and go back to sleep. Twice. Aunt Pete has to wake me up at eight fifteen.

  “Why aren’t you up yet? You’ve got fifteen minutes till Jen gets here. You’ve already missed Eddie, so I called her on your cell as backup.” He kicks my mattress. “C’mon. Get up.”

  I roll over again, but Aunt Pete grabs the corner of my mattress and tips it until I slide onto the floor.

  “You’re tired? Well, so am I. I want to go to bed; therefore, you need to get up. Got it?”

  I consider explaining, but I don’t have the energy, so I stand up instead and pick some clothes off the floor. Aunt Pete stops.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting dressed.”

  “Yeah, but you wore those yesterday and they’ve been on the floor all night. Don’t you need to dry-clean them or something?”

  I shrug.

  “Fine. I’ll wear something else.”

  Pete hovers in my doorway. He looks as if he might leave, but he doesn’t.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jen beeps, so I throw on some clothes and splash water on my face. I leave the trailer and hop in her car. Joe and Nikki talk about the homecoming football game, and I try to listen but my mind wanders.

  “You got a cigarette?” I ask when we pull into the parking lot. Joe takes out a pack and hands it to me. The girls go in, but Joe stays while I light up.

  “There’s still a six-pack in the back from that party at Rob’s,” he says. “I had to empty it out of my car because my parents were suspicious. I gave it to Jen, but she’ll never drink ’em. You want one?”

  I nod. A beer or six sounds pretty good right now. “Want to skip first period?” I ask.

  Joe shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says. “Homeroom though.”

  Joe crawls into the back and digs out the cans of beer, and we stretch out on the hood of the car. It’s cool outside, but I don’t mind. Lying on Jen’s car is kind of like lying on the picnic table.

  “Senior year’s the best,” Joe says. “Homecoming’s going to rock. We might even win the game this year. We never win, but Redwood’s got no defense. And for once our offense kicks ass . . .”

  “I’m dropping out.”

  Joe stops midsentence.

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. I’m joining the army.”

  Joe studies a scratch on the car hood.

  “What about the clothes stuff? I thought you were going to do that.”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I was just playing around. I’d just . . . I don’t know. I’d mess it up somehow. The army’s not so bad, right?”

  Joe looks like he doesn’t want to answer. “No. It’s not bad, it’s just . . .

  The bell between homeroom and first period rings, and Joe slides off the hood. He stands beside the car, kicking a rock. “You want me to hang out?” he asks, but I shake my head.

  “Nah. I’ll come in later.”

  Joe glances at the school.

  “You want the rest of my beer?”

  This time I nod. I watch Joe disappear into the school building, then I take the beers and the pack of cigarettes out to the bleachers. I stretch out along the top bleacher and stare up at the sky.

  Three hours later I wake up and watch the cars go by. I drink the rest of Joe’s beer, then the rest of my beer. I smoke half the cigarettes then drink the rest of the beers and lie back, listening to the sounds from the school building. I can hear the bells ringing between classes and the voices of the kids echoing through the halls. Eventually, my stomach growls, so I decide to go in for lunch, but by then it’s already seventh period so lunch is over. I think about going to class, but I’d be late, so I sit in the boy’s bathroom instead. I try to concentrate, but everything’s spinning, and the cigarettes are starting to make me nauseated. The bell rings and I get up.

  It’s time for English. I need to go to English because it’s Very Important. I have to tell Orlando that I’m failing, and that I . . . no, wait. Orlando knows I’m failing. I have to tell him I’m dropping out. Now if I can just remember where my classroom is . . .

  I try two doors before I get it right. Number twelve. That’s it. Twelve. As in two one, or one two. I meander across the room and sink low in my seat. The rest of the class is already seated, so I guess I’m a little late. Maybe a lot late? But I don’t mind. It’s good to sit down.

  “Liam,” Orlando says, “come talk to me outside.”

  I don’t move.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Orlando is silent.

  “Look at me,” he says, but I can’t focus because my head is spinning. Orlando walks to the front of the classroom and writes something on the board. “Which piece of modern literature has most affected your life?”

  “Two pages. Tell me what and why,” he says to the class. “Liam, outside.”

  I don’t get up.

  “Outside, now.”

  The class is silent. Not a single pen or pencil moves.

  “Don’t make me ask you again.”

  Finally, I stand up. My legs are unsteady, but I walk across the room, and Orlando slams the door shut behind us.

  “Are you drunk? You smell like cigarettes and alcohol.”

  This time I laugh.

  “This isn’t funny,” Orlando says. “You need to pass my class if you’re going to graduate, and I’m giving you every chance . . .”

  I shake my head. “What chances?” I slur. “What chances have you ever given me? You’ve known from the beginning you were going to fail me, so why do you pretend like you’re giving me a chance?”

  Orlando’s jaw clenches shut. “I am giving you a chance,” he says. “I’m giving you chance after chance if you’d just take them. I offered to let you rewrite the essay. I’ve offered to work with you after school. I haven’t failed you yet, but if you disrespect me this way . . .”

  I scowl. “Why shouldn’t I? Nothing I do is good enough for you, yet I’m supposed to respect you? You pretend like you care about my future, but that’s bullshit.”

  “Liam, if I hear one more swearword out of your mouth . . .”

  “What? What the hell will you do about it? Call my uncle? Call my dad? Do you think I fucking care anymore? I’m sick of trying so hard for you.”

  Orlando slams an empty locker shut.

  “Why don’t I ask you a question?” he says. “How about this one? Why don’t you tell me why you’re so afraid of my class? You haven’t lifted a finger all year. You haven’t brought your book. You stare out the window when I’m lecturing. Leave in the middle of class. You do everything but force me to fail you. Why is that? Huh? What are you so afraid of?”

  My eyes are burning. Doors are opening all along the hallway, and a small crowd is gathered at the door of room number twelve. I glare, but Orlando isn’t through.

  “I’m not your father, Liam,” he spits. “I don’t know what you think you’re—”

  “Go to hell.”

  This time I walk away. I hear Orlando yelling after me, but I don’t turn around. I walk right out the emergency exit.

  48

  I RUN UNTIL MY SIDE ACHES and my head stops spinning. Then I throw up at the side of the road, turn around and walk the rest of the way to Aunt Pete’s. It takes me almost an hour to get back. When I arrive Dino’s squad car is already in the driveway, along with Orlando’s beat-up old Ford. I open the trailer door and I’m greeted by Aunt Pete.

  “Where the hell have you been? I warned you not to do this to me again.”

  He’s pacing in the living room, and Dino and Orlando are sitting at the kitchen counter. They all stand up, but I walk past them without saying anything. Pete follows me into my room, but I ignore him. I take out my cell phone and start to
dial.

  Fine. Dad can pick me up now instead of Saturday.

  “Don’t ignore me when I’m asking you a question,” Aunt Pete growls. “You owe Orlando an apology, and Dino needs to talk to you because you set off a school alarm, so if I were you, I’d be doing some serious groveling about now.”

  I wait for Dad’s phone to ring, but Pete grabs my cell.

  “I’m calling my father,” I say, grabbing it back.

  Aunt Pete snorts.

  “The hell you are.” He plucks the cell phone out of my hand and in one fluid motion smashes it on the counter so tiny shards of plastic shoot through the trailer like missiles.

  “What are you doing?!”

  “Don’t ignore me,” Pete growls. “You think you’re going to do whatever you damn well please? Well, two can play that game.”

  Now he’s pissing me off, so I grab the kitchen phone.

  “I can make a fucking phone call,” I start, but Pete yanks the phone off the wall and throws it out the window.

  “Go ahead. Make your goddamn phone call.”

  I storm into my room and slam the door, which is totally ineffective because Pete just opens it again.

  “As long as you’re living here, you’d better listen to me.”

  “Well, I’m not,” I say. “It’s over.” I throw a stack of CDs into an empty box, but Pete grabs it and dumps the CDs onto the floor. Dino puts one hand on Pete’s arm, but he shakes it off.

  “You guys need to calm down,” Orlando says. “Just calm down.”

  Aunt Pete laughs sarcastically. “Tell me, Liam, where are you going to go?”

  I don’t answer.

  “I swear, you’d better answer me when I ask you a question, and you’d better apologize to Orlando now and I mean freakin’ now or else—”

  “Why? Why should I apologize to Orlando? Because he gave me detention for an essay I tried hard at? Because he failed me in a class I was never going to pass anyway? Because he acts like my goddamn father?”

  “I’ve never done that,” Orlando says from the doorway.

  I shake my head. “Well, it doesn’t matter now because I’m joining the army. I called the recruiter last night and there’s nothing you can do about it, so you can all—”

 

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