Kings, Queens, and In-Betweens

by Tanya Boteju

  “Hey,” I said, mentally reconstructing my upper torso. “Charles needs some snazzy pants. Somehow, we have to make him look presentable.”

  “Impossible,” Ginny replied.

  “That’s what I think.”

  “A-holes,” Charles mumbled, pulling at his shirt.

  Ginny crossed the short distance between her and Charles in two graceful leaps, gave him a giant hug, and finished with several violent kisses to his cheek.

  I wondered if she’d ever kiss my cheeks like that again after my fumbling attempt the other day. I’m sure I’d managed to shift our friendship into a more formal zone. I hated to think that everything I did now would be tainted with my choice to try to share my feelings with her. I watched helplessly as Charles squirmed in her arms.

  “Get off me!” he grunted, but the corner of his mouth betrayed the beginnings of a smile.

  “Come with me, monsieur. The ‘Boys on the Verge of Manhood’ section is right this way,” Ginny said, grabbing his arm.

  She led us to the back of the store, passing women’s coats and children’s wear. Old Stuff wasn’t huge, but every inch of it was used to maximum capacity. The aisles between clothing racks were narrow, and beneath each of the racks were cardboard boxes of random bits and pieces that didn’t fit anywhere else, like candleholders and unopened skin products. You really had to be in an excavating kind of mood to dig through those.

  While Ginny rifled through several pairs of corduroy pants for Charles (great minds), I had a look at the meager hat selection. As I tipped a black trucker hat over my head, the entryway bell dingled.

  “Trying to butch it up, Clark?”

  Gordon Grant.

  “Trying to jerk it up, Gordon?” I mumbled, keeping my eyes on the smudged mirror leaning against the wall. The hat felt too tight across my forehead. I pulled it off and rubbed at the line it left above my eyebrows.

  “What’d you say?” he asked, and I could see him in the mirror, coming closer.

  “Now, now, kids.” This was Davis McCain, Gordon’s loathsome sidekick. Like Gordon, I’d known him since elementary school, and he hadn’t always been awful. But I also knew his very wealthy parents were almost never here, given that Davis’s house was the go-to spot for most weekend parties (not that I ever went). I guess being ignored can make you cruel.

  Apart, Gordon and Davis each had an edge that made me uncomfortable. Together, they were a double-edged sword ready to slice you without warning.

  At that inopportune moment, Charles and Ginny walked out of the curtained-off portion of the store that served as a changing room. Charles wore some sweet burgundy cords and an even sweeter gray shirt with several screen-printed crows across the chest.

  Gordon and Davis would have a field day with how slim-fitting and colorful those cords were unless I did something, quick. Charles found these two even more unnerving than I did. His eyes flashed panic now as he noticed them.

  Desperate times. My stomach flipping, I called out, “Here!” and flung the hat over to Gordon. It came close enough to Gordon’s head that he flinched. My body tensed but I pushed through it, thinking too that I could show Ginny a brief moment of color among my usual gray tones. “Why don’t you wear it? The black matches your mood.”

  As soon as I said it, I instinctively took a step back. Gordon could be unpredictable. He’d never done anything to me, but I know he’d been in plenty of fights before. I heard he’d whacked some guy with the guy’s own textbook in class once—right in front of the teacher. But his eyes flickered something other than anger for a moment—something that momentarily put me off-balance.

  Before I could figure out what it was, though, it shifted into an icy glare and I braced myself for whatever was coming. But then Davis wrapped his arm around Gordon’s neck in a headlock and yanked him close, following with, “But I love Gordon’s broody moods!” Gordon immediately started punching Davis in the gut. I turned away in disgust toward Ginny and Charles, who were staring—also in disgust—at the two jerks behind me.

  “So? How’d you make out?” I asked.

  Davis paused his assault on Gordon long enough to offer, “You guys were making out back there?”

  Glancing at them nervously, Charles answered in a whisper. “I was gonna go with this. What do you think?”

  “I think you look like a black version of my little sister!” Davis called out through a sleazy grin. At this, Gordon glanced sideways at Davis, then laughed—a loud, forced laugh, it seemed to me. That same unsteady feeling made me shift my feet a little wider. Gordon was giving off signals I couldn’t quite get my head around.

  While I tried not to tip over, Ginny snapped, “Shut your mouth, Davis, or I’ll kick you out of here.”

  Luckily, Ginny was the prettiest angry girl you’ve ever seen. This had two simultaneous effects on people: they melted a little, and also looked as though they were going to pee their pants. I was never sure which reaction had to do with fear, and which with hormones.

  Davis almost looked chastened, scratched his chin, then shoved Gordon off to the other side of the store.

  I was relieved that Ginny had managed to defuse the moment, but also disappointed in my own predictable inability to offer anything of value to the situation. With great difficulty, I blinked back the burning in my eyes and looked at Charles. “I think that’s basically the outfit I told you to wear from the beginning, but whatever.”

  Ginny, restored to her genial self, placated me. “Nima, sometimes it takes an expert to get through to someone in a truly meaningful way.”

  Yup. And that expert is definitely not me.

  “Now let’s ring these gems in so I can close up,” she continued. “I don’t want to have to deal with the two beasts behind you any longer than necessary.”

  While Gordon and Davis continued to pummel each other across the store, exploding the carefully arranged shoe section, Charles paid for his pants and shirt. Then we helped Ginny count the receipts and tidy other parts of the store.

  Ginny planted herself by the door, arms crossed. “That’s it, everyone—we’re closing up shop. Time to go,” she announced.

  “Too bad, we’re not done,” Gordon said, a pair of bowling shoes in his hands.

  “Yeah, what kind of business is this, anyway?” Davis shouted over his shoulder.

  “The kind that closes at five p.m. We’re open tomorrow at ten, though. Feel free to come back then.” Impressively, she kept her tone light and cheerful.

  Davis picked up a child’s toy tiara from the shelf next to him and placed it on Gordon’s head. “Ooh, look, Gordo, you make such a pretty little queen!”

  With an abruptness that startled even Davis, Gordon swiped the tiara from his head and flung it to the ground. The cheap plastic snapped in two and skidded across the floor.

  At first everyone just stared at the broken pieces. Davis was the first to shift the moment out of silence with an uneasy and feigned bout of laughter. But Gordon merely stared at the segments of plastic for a moment longer before digging his hand into his pocket and pulling out some change. He slammed the coins on the shelf that had held the tiara and dared anyone with his eyes to say anything.

  Ginny was the only one who actually did.

  “Good grief. Can you two please just get your shit together and go before you break anything else?” she ground out through her teeth.

  Pretty, Angry Girl strikes again. Gordon and Davis slunk toward the entrance, Davis kicking at the tiara remnants along the way.

  We let them pass by us, all in silence, until Davis offered a witty, “That’s it! I’m leaving!”

  I watched them go as Ginny locked the door, Gordon’s long, lanky figure a stark contrast to Davis’s stockier, blocklike frame. Gordon turned and looked back at us in that moment, something both menacing and hesitant in his face.

  “Shall we?” Ginny asked.

  “Those guys freak me out,” Charles muttered as we started walking away.

  Ginny rubbed
his hunched back. “Forget ’em. They’re not worth the worry.”

  “Well, they’re worth a little worry,” I said. Ginny gave me a look. “Well, they are!”

  “Maybe. But why waste any more breath on them?” She placed her arm around Charles’s shoulders and guided him forward. I wished I was in his place. Maybe if I hadn’t said anything, I would be. The same empty feeling that had consumed me three days earlier on this same pathway with Ginny crept into my belly again.

  In an effort to fill the void, I asked, “What’s for dinner, everyone?”

  “I’ve gotta head home,” Ginny replied. “I told my parents I’d have dinner with them. See you guys tomorrow, though?” She gave Charles one last punch to the shoulder and split off toward her house.

  “Okay, yeah—see you tomorrow,” I said, with as much nonchalance as possible. Watching her go, I thought I’d feel a little relieved it was just going to be me and Charles for the night. But as my evening stretched out in front of me—dinner with Charles, on my patio, with our books, in silence—it seemed my entire summer might unfold in the same manner.

  On our way back to the house, we stopped by the Fast Pick to buy some bread for Charles’s and my go-to dinner: grilled cheese. Mr. Helms greeted us from behind the counter with a grimace and an armpit scratch. He’d owned the Fast Pick for as long as I could remember. Small white tufts of hair poked out of his ears, and a perpetual smattering of stubble grew along his jawline. He could give you the hardest stare with his glassy blue eyes, and his bulbous nose reminded me of three cherries—one large flanked by two smaller ones.

  I asked Dad once why Mr. Helms was such a grump. Dad said he was probably lonely. That loneliness makes us grumpy sometimes. He seemed to know what he was talking about, and even though this conversation happened before Mom left, I often wondered if he already felt lonely at that point for some reason.

  Strangely enough, as we paid for the bread—the same plain white bread we always bought—the idea of our usual grilled cheese sandwich imbued me with a similar feeling.

  At home, I tried to override my gloom by ordering Charles around. I commanded him to grate the cheese, and I melted some butter in a pan. We ate on our own, since Dad had gone back to work while we were out. He did a lot of mechanical tinkering for Summer Lovin’—tightening bolts, safeguarding against malfunctions, and greasing mechanisms all week long before the festival began. I’d barely seen him that week, but the extra work was good for him, and I was glad he’d gone back to the festival job.

  Last summer he’d declined to help and almost skipped the festival completely. Understandably, he couldn’t seem to bear the thought of going without Mom. She adored Summer Lovin’, and in years past, they’d stroll up and down the booths for hours, trying a bit of every food on offer and competing with one another at the games. I guess he didn’t feel right wandering around without her. Eventually, I persuaded him to join me and Charles, and we spent the entire first night with him until he got tired of us hovering and told us amicably to “bugger off already.”

  I took it as an encouraging sign that he was back at it this year.

  Despite the prospect of another Summer Lovin’, though, and a belly full of cheese and bread, an emptiness spread through my heart. As Charles and I draped ourselves across my patio furniture after dinner, my surroundings seemed to reflect the general pallor of my life—the brittle grass, the slivers of graying paint peeling off the banister, the brown moths shuddering next to the porch light. This is it. This is what I have to look forward to, I thought. And in the dimming light of a summer just begun, the hollow already growing in my gut widened, like a deep, dark cavern.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day was the first morning of the festival, and despite my general melancholy, I woke up early, as usual. Gus was my primary alarm clock. I let him sleep in my bed, and in the morning, he’d plow his snout beneath my pillow to raise my head off the mattress, then pull out quickly so my head thumped back down onto the bed. Then he’d do it again and again until I’d had enough, which was about twice.

  This morning, after his endearing ritual, I rolled out of bed, noticing that the sun was just rising. My night had been fitful—occupied by a very conscious panic over a looming life of mediocrity followed by unconscious dreams about everyone growing disinterested in me because of it.

  Every part of me seemed to drag as if in slow motion. But as the glow of pink sunrise slipped through my sheer curtains, I closed my eyes and absorbed the warmth.

  I needed to get outside. To find some color, some fresh air.

  After I shook the sluggishness out of my body and put on a light sweater, Gus and I marched with purpose to the community garden to start digging out squashes.

  Dad and I still enjoyed tending to the shared plot of vegetables near the center of town. Today my contribution would be to collect all the summer squash I could for the festival veggie booth.

  In a couple of hours, everyone in town would be scattering in different directions to prepare, darting into stores and back out again like bees to flowers. But this early, Gus and I had the streets to ourselves.

  I drew open the gate and perched myself at one end of a line of ripe, long squash. Gus snuffled around, yelping at the tiny bugs flitting about. As I began to part squash from vine, I allowed myself to get lost in the morning quiet and my slow, methodical movements.

  Shortly, however, a gravelly voice interrupted my Zen moment.

  “Somebody shut that freaking dog up.” I hadn’t noticed it before, but a rusted, light blue truck was parked just outside the garden fence. The voice came from the open driver’s-side window. I knew that truck.

  As soon as he heard the voice, Gus went nuts and began barking in earnest, bouncing around next to the fence. A hand grasped the top of the truck door and heaved forward the rest of the body attached to it. Gordon’s face appeared in the window, his hair greasy and disheveled and his face pale. When he saw me, he huffed a bitter laugh. “I should have known. A yappy dog for a yappy chick.” He rubbed his face with his hands.

  I snapped my fingers for Gus to calm down and come sit by me, which he did, reluctantly. Frustrated to let go of the small oasis of peace I’d found, but also surprised to see Gordon looking more haggard than usual, I asked, with as much calm as possible, “What are you doing?”

  “What the fuck are you doing? The sun’s barely up. People are trying to sleep, for shit’s sake.”

  Jeez. He made it hard to maintain any sense of composure. “Why are ‘people’ trying to sleep in their cars, next to public space?” I muttered.

  He set his hands on the steering wheel and yawned forcefully. “None of your damn business,” he said, staring through his front window. His jawline tensed. I wondered if it ever loosened. The memory of my dad standing near the fence, hands out, as Gordon fumbled with an armload of carrots and potatoes fluttered in front of me like a falling leaf.

  “Well, since you’re awake, I could use an extra hand.” I scrunched my nose in anticipation of his derision.

  Without turning his head, he stretched his arms out straight against the steering wheel, but I could see his eyes dart toward me and the garden. He’s actually thinking about it. I unscrunched my nose.

  Too soon.

  He shook his head, laughing that bitter laugh again. “Fuck that.” He dug in his pocket for a second, pulled out a key, and started the ignition. “Get a life, Clark.” His awful truck growled like it was pissed off too and spat out a dark cloud of exhaust. Without another word, he roared off toward his house, which was way past the high school, as far as I knew. It wasn’t like he’d ever invited me over for tea, after all.

  Great. Tranquil morning ruined. Worse still, even Gordon seemed to know I needed a life.

  I was committed to completing my task, though, and after a short while, I’d collected a small fortress of thick, hard squash in one corner of the garden. This would be picked up later for the festival. Good deed done, I brushed off the soil from
my knees and called Gus after me as I passed back through the gate to head home.

  As I crossed the square, hints of opening day were beginning to pop up—the owners of the Two Suns Café were setting up their outdoor seating area, a few vendors were already unloading vans, and I could smell barbecues beginning to smoke. The festival took up almost all of Bridgeton. It started in the square and ran down to the south end of town, where it opened up into a wide field most people referred to as the Weeds, due to the fact that it spent most of the year overgrown and unused. The Weeds’ sole purpose seemed to be to accommodate this festival four days of the year.

  By the time I arrived home, Dad was up and making a festival day specialty he’d picked up from my mom—pancakes and chicken curry.

  He was wearing his ocean-themed muumuu, his thick, hairy legs and plump feet appearing out the bottom. I’d given him that muumuu eight years ago for his birthday, before I knew muumuus were for women, and he’s worn it at least once a week ever since, even though it was wearing thin in places. I don’t think he wore it just to make me feel good either. He actually seemed to appreciate its comfortable looseness, sometimes wearing it for days at a time. He said Mom’s dad wore a sarong all his life—why couldn’t he wear a muumuu? Mom couldn’t argue with that. When my mom and I realized how much he loved wearing it, we started buying him a new one for each birthday. He had a whole collection now, but this first ocean one with its fish and seaweed tangles remained his favorite.

  I was ravenous, and I welcomed the mound of food he set in front of me as soon as I plunked myself down at the table.

  “Squash?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Good yield?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hungry?”

  With my mouth full of pancakes and curry, I nodded my head. I’d done my best not to show too much of my heartache around him these past few days. He had enough of his own and certainly didn’t need my pitiful mistakes added to his plate. Besides, as far as he knew, Ginny was just a good friend.