Lunchmeat

by Ben D'Alessio

  “Had what?”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know… something Jewish like that… ya know?”

  “Ferraro, I don’t know what you are saying, but don’t interrupt us unless it’s something good. If I hit that cone with this cone, I beat Silas for the first time this week.”

  But I had something good, something so good they would have to drop their pinecones and listen. And right as I was going to let it out, the whistle blew. Recess was over. Silas and Maine Ogden chucked their remaining cones into the woods and sprinted past Mrs. Lydell into the multi-purpose room.

  At lunch, I sat sandwiched between Louis Martino—the fattest kid in the school—and Kader Kalan, the darkest.

  “Hey Kader, you have horses, right?” I asked as I unwrapped the tinfoil from my gabagool sandwich.

  “Yes, my father owns a few horses. My whole family plays polo back in Pakistan.”

  I used to really like sitting next to Kader, because his mom would pack him containers full of interesting soups and meats that had bright colors and smelled like magical and faraway lands like the Amazon or Lithuania. But one time Pierce Stone said that his keema looked like it came out of his dog’s ass, so Kader made his mom pack turkey on white. Pierce Stone said he’d give Louis Martino five bucks if he ate the keema off the floor—Paxton and the Barriston brothers matched it.

  “Isn’t that where Iraq is, Kader? In Pakistan?” asked Paxton.

  “No. Pakistan is its own country. It is next to India.”

  “What are you talking about? The Indians aren’t in the desert. We have a field trip to the Lenni-Lenape trail next week!”

  “But… those aren’t Indians.”

  “Ms. O’Donnell says that’s inconsiderate, Kader. Remember what she said to Andrius? Just because they don’t use tipis doesn’t make them not Indians.” And Paxton turned back toward the other end of the table, his three rows of beads bouncing in his hair.

  “Hey Kader, do you ever take those swords from your house and ride your horses and pretend to fight orcs?” I asked.

  Kader had a big house that sat on a hill overlooking the street—similar to the Geigers, but the lawn was less cascading. There were weapons all over Kader’s house, like crossed swords on the walls and full suits of armor. There were also guns, but they were old and probably wouldn’t be any help in a zombie attack.

  “Uh, what?” He was still coming out of a daze from Paxton’s comment. “No. No, never.”

  “That’s a bummer. If I had horses, I would ask my Mum Mum for some armor for Christmas or my birthday and pretend to be Lancelot… or Galahad… or Gawain—he fights the Green Knight. I don’t like the Green Knight. He’s mean and doesn’t have a head.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, he has a head, but it got chopped off! He holds it by his side. There is a Green Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but I don’t think it’s the same one. That one has a head, like on its neck. Have you seen that? Karl and I watch it every day after school. Sir Lancelot kills this entire wedding…”

  “My mother doesn’t let me watch violence. I have to sneak Mortal Kombat when she isn’t home.”

  “Doesn’t let you watch violence? But your house is full of weapons!” I was still holding in Paxton’s secret like a fart. Pierce Stone was rubbing his sandwich on the floor and taking wagers from the table on whether Louis Martino would eat it in one bite or two. Paxton didn’t detect a thing, so I leaned in toward Kader and whispered, “I have something… to say, ya know?”

  “What?”

  “I have a secret. But you can’t tell anyone. Not even Paxton, okay?” My legs were pumping under the table like pistons.

  “Um, okay.”

  I leaned in close and disclosed my secret and it felt so good, I could understand why Paxton was smiling after he told it to me. And I didn’t even feel bad. I wanted to stand on the fold-up tables and shout it to Mrs. Lydell in the corner and to Louis Martino eating the sandwich off the floor. But Kader didn’t share my mirth. He put down his turkey on white and said, “That’s sad.”

  “Sad? What do you mean, sad?” I looked down the table to see Pierce Stone shooting ketchup into a Snack Pack and mixing it into a concoction for Louis Martino to slug. I told him again, just in case he didn’t hear me right the first time.

  I was so overjoyed to have shared my secret that after school I inhaled my Burger King classic chicken sandwich and grabbed a loose-leaf piece of paper from the Geigers’ pantry to start a new story. I was breaking the hiatus; I was going to write again.

  Karl already had his shirt off and was in the process of booting up the desktop to finish another orc campaign.

  “What’s it gonna be about?” he asked, eyes on the screen.

  “Well… I’m not sure what I’m gonna write, but I promise there will be dragons.”

  The Geigers’ train phone sounded off from the living room and crawled its way down into the basement: chuggachuggachugga choo choo! I hated that phone. I looked at the clock: 5:28. Crap. February’s darkness made 5:28s arrive earlier than they should.

  “Vic, Mom says go home!” Mrs. Geiger called down the stairs.

  “See ya tomorrow, Karl.”

  “Until tomorrow, Vic,” he said, clicking vigorously on the mouse.

  I ran across the cascading lawn at a full sprint, the flailing first chapter on loose-leaf in hand—like I said, it was dark, and I didn’t have any weapons.

  I threw open the side door that led to the kitchen and was almost clotheslined by the stretched-out spiral telephone cord.

  “Victor said that? My Victor?” she said, with the phone tucked into her shoulder as she unpacked the white oyster pails steaming with takeout Chinese.

  “Hey, Mom, so I’m writing this story…”

  “Well that just doesn’t sound like him, but I’ll ask. He just came in.”

  “… about Saint George fighting the dragon, but what if the dragon wins? Do you think Mr. Geiger will mind? Or…”

  “Victor, sit down, hun. I have to ask you something.”

  “… what if they become friends? That could happen, right, Mom? Do you think a knight and a dragon could become friends?”

  “Victor.”

  “Yeah, Mom?” I smoothed out the loose-leaf on our green dinner table with the nicks and grooves.

  “Did you tell anyone that Pierce Stone’s parents are getting a divorce?”

  I froze. I immediately became furious with Paxton. I imagined him shooting out of the dirt like the snake in the woods, slithering toward me with the succulent, forbidden secret dangling from his lips: “But you can’t tell anyone, okay? You can’t tell anyone, okay? But you can’t tell anyone, Vic, you can’t tell anyone, Vic, but you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “You can tell me, Vic.”

  “Ah! What? No. I didn’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “Why are you talking to me like that?”

  “It wasn’t me. It was Paxton.” I lied, and I think I had crossed the threshold from white lyin’, too. “He told me that, but he said not to tell anyone. So I didn’t. I don’t care if Pierce Stone’s parents get a divorce. His dad already has a fort anyway.”

  “A fort?”

  “Yeah, why does Pierce Stone and Paxton and Maine Ogden and the Barriston brothers get everything? I hate my lunchbox and I didn’t say anything, I just want to go to Jamaica!”

  “Oh… okay, Vic. Why don’t you go take a shower, and I’ll call Mrs. Stone and say you had nothing to do with it.”

  It hurt to lie to Mom.

  My parents made me go to Silas’s birthday party because they said I needed to make friends in my class. I didn’t want to make friends. I wanted to sit in the Geigers’ basement and drink Stewart’s Root Beer and play Super NES—Karl wasn’t invited because he was a grade younger than us and wasn’t fr
iends with Silas. They didn’t care that Pierce Stone was going to be there either. They said if I had nothing to do with the rumor about his parents then I shouldn’t have to worry.

  We pulled up to Silas’s house, which reminded me of our house, but closer to their neighbors and with a sidewalk that separated the front lawns from the street. Even in the cold and thin layer of snow, kids played in the front lawns up and down the block, shooting basketballs in their driveways or throwing snowballs that appeared to disintegrate into dust in midair.

  “Okay, Vito, make sure to shake Mr. Badenhorst’s hand and look him in the eye. He’s a man of God, a pastor, you know,” said my father.

  “Where’s that, hun?” asked my mother.

  “That church over on Hartshorn.”

  “Did you know it’s pronounced Harts-horn?”

  “I didn’t know that. I’ve worked in this town for twenty-two years and never heard that nonsense.”

  “Yeah, well, this woman corrected me the other day when I said we actually lived closer to Hartshorn School than Glenwood.”

  “Do I have to leave Glenwood now, Mom? Because I won’t leave Karl.”

  “No, honey, you don’t have to leave Glenwood. Do you have the gift?” she asked, twisting around in the passenger seat of our station wagon.

  “Where are they from again, hun?” asked my father.

  “Namibia.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In Africa, dear.”

  “They have good food in Namibia? Hey Vito, did Silas say whatcha guys gonna have for dinner?

  “Yeah, pizza.”

  “From where? Joe’s? Frank’s? Tagliano’s? It’s a shame Star doesn’t deliver to Short Hills.”

  “Domino’s.”

  “Domino’s? This is New Jersey, not New Mexico. Best pizza in the country. I don’t care what they say up in New Haven. Connecticut and pizza? Give me a break.”

  “Silas said we’re getting it with pineapple. It’s called Hawaiian. Dad, why can’t we…”

  “Pineapple?! On pizza?! How ameriganz!” (Translation: uncultured, philistine, sacrilegious, American; see also: ketchup on spaghetti, that neon-yellow mustard, and casseroles.)

  “Tony, let him try new things.”

  “We come from Southern Italy, down in Avellino. My son isn’t eating pizza with pineapple on it. I’ll go pick up a bunch of pies from Star and bring ’em later.”

  “No. We have to be in Mendham in half an hour. Just let him go. Go, Vic, get out. And don’t forget the gift.”

  “Fine, but wait, ashpet (translation: wait, hold on). Take this.” My father flailed spastically in his seat as he tried to retrieve his wallet from his pocket. “Here.” He handed me a card for Frank’s Pizzeria: 355 Millburn Ave, Millburn, NJ. 973-555-0243. “Take that and give it to Mr. Badenhorst. Tell him we don’t eat pineapple pizza in New Jersey.”

  “Don’t tell him that, Vic. Just eat whatever they feed you.”

  “Ey! And don’t forget your goobalini (translation: snow hat, ski hat, beanie). It’s cold out.”

  I left the car.

  “And don’t forget to look him in the eye when you shake his hand!” my father yelled out the passenger-side window as he leaned over my mom.

  As I crossed the Badenhorsts’ frosted front lawn, a car pulled up behind my parents, and out popped Andrius and Lenny.

  “Vic!”

  “Victor!” they called as they sprinted across the grass.

  “Andrius! You forgot the present!” Mrs. Varnas shouted over the roof of the car. But Andrius didn’t hear her.

  “Hello Victor, did you know that tonight we eat the pizza with pineapple? Is this a custom here?” Andrius asked me, but I looked through him as his mother strutted across the frostbitten lawn in knee-high boots, her hips popping from side to side with every step. I could see her neck down to her chest. She wasn’t even bundled, as if she was in command of the cold, the ice queen of the magical, faraway land: Lithuania. When she smiled I forgot all about Jamaica or Puerto Rico or MartInik, or Montes-rat. I wanted to live as a knight in her ice kingdom and defend her from orcs and ghouls and even dragons—I would kill a dragon for her. My face became hot and I wanted to throw off my jacket even though mom told me to bundle.

  “Vic, are you okay?” asked Lenny.

  “Victor, have you heard about this pizza?”

  “Ask my dad…” I said, my eyelids frozen open.

  “But he is driving away!”

  I was Jack from Three’s Company, and Suzanne Somers was headed right toward me.

  “Andrius, you forget da gift, sweetheart. Who is this?”

  “This is Victor. He is a friend of mine.”

  “Hello, Victor.” When she bent down, her golden hair covered the top half of her eyes. “I am happy that my Andrius has friends like nice boys as you.”

  “…”

  “Okay den. Have fun my sweetheart. Lenny, I get you tomorrow with Andrius.”

  “Bye, Mama.”

  Andrius and Lenny rushed inside, but I couldn’t move. I watched as she glided through the thin layer of snow, reached her car, and looked back to see if her “sweetheart” had made it inside the house. When she saw me still staring at her, she waved and smiled—I felt a jolt knock me backward and I almost fell into the white dust.

  “Come on, Victor! The pizza!”

  The breaking and shouting sounds of juvenescent mischief could be heard from beyond the basement door, which grew louder as we descended the steps. Jurassic Park was playing on a big box television (like ours, but without the crack in the bottom), but no one seemed to be watching. The Barriston brothers were playing foosball against Matt Dershowitz and Jeremy Finklestein as Maine Ogden and Kader attacked each other with plastic swords (I knew he liked weapons!). Paxton launched a rugby ball past Silas that crashed into Lenny’s stomach. I felt like I was entering a new planet, void of the laws of physics and nature and Mrs. Lydell.

  “Is that Ferraro?!” And Pierce Stone was a rogue meteor intent on decimating us all. “Who invited you, huh? I don’t want to have a sleepover with liars.”

  “I didn’t lie. Hey, did you know that Tyrannosaurus Rex didn’t even live during the Jurassic period?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I pointed to the TV as the giant beast chased Jeff Goldblum into the back of a Jeep. “Tyrannosaurus Rex lived during the Cretaceous period, not the Jurassic. They need Allosaurus or Megalosaurus instead of…”

  “Jeez, Ferraro, alright! But what does that have to do with you lying about my dad?”

  “Does he still live in his fort?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  I caught Paxton eavesdropping on us, and he darted behind a stack of boxes that had rommel written on the side.

  “I think Paxton knows about that.”

  “Paxton? I already asked him. He said he knew nothing about it.”

  “Did he white lie?”

  “What? No. I don’t know!” He stepped up to me and put a finger in my chest. “He said you were saying my parents are getting a divorce!” I bumped into the foosball table. “That’s like saying I… I have an ass for a face?” I heard a few giggles disperse around the basement. “Which is not true. Do I have an ass for a face, Ferraro? Huh?” I imagined Pierce Stone’s face swirling and transforming into a giant ass.

  And like a crack of thunder—the voice of God—Mr. Badenhorst’s sonorous Namibian voice, the one he used to hold the attention of his own flock, boomed from the top of the basement steps to round us up for pizza. Before Pierce Stone could emit his threat, I turned to sprint up the stairs, shifting through Kader and Matt Dershowitz like Deion Sanders returning a punt.

  We hopped into open chairs as if they were our only vessel to the pies. The pizza on top of the stack in the middle of the table was still steaming�
��we watched it rise like we were looking for a signal in the heat. I saw the pineapple chunks wedged in the cheese and remembered that the Frank’s Pizzeria business card was still in my pocket.

  “Oh, here, Mr. Badenhorst.” I reached across the table and handed him the card. “My father says we shouldn’t eat ameriganz, but it’s okay with me, I like Dominos.” The imposing pastor looked at his wife and they both shrugged.

  “Hey Mr. Badenhorst, if you guys are from Africa, how come you aren’t black?” asked Pierce Stone as he caught the string of cheese falling from his chin.

  “Pierce!” Paxton called from across the table. “Ms. O’Donnell said we’re supposed to say African-American.”

  “Well, there are actually white…” Mr. Badenhorst started.

  “Sorry, Mr. B. How come if you’re African-American, you aren’t black?”

  “But they aren’t African-American,” said Kader.

  “Namibia is in Africa and they are in America. That makes them African-American. Have you ever seen a map?”

  “My nanny Roseline is black, but she isn’t from Africa. She lives in Irvington,” Jeremy Finklestein said as he picked the ham off his slice and put it aside.

  “She is African-American,” Kader asserted.

  “But she speaks French.”

  “Black people can speak French, too,” Kader said.

  “I thought you said she was African-American?” asked Lenny.

  “Kader, you are sorta black, are you African-American?” asked Pierce Stone.

  “I’m from Pakistan…”

  “Where is Pakistan?”

  “It’s in Iraq,” said Paxton as he leaned in to grab another slice.

  Kader put his elbows on the table and rubbed his temples like my dad does when my Mom and Mum Mum and Bill Clinton are yelling about the Democrats.

  “Hey Silas…” I started as I bit into my pizza, but I burned the roof of my mouth on the cheese and dropped the slice on the paper plate.

  “Aww, look, Ferraro can’t read or eat pizza!”

  “I can read! I’m even writing a story.”

  “I need more ketchup for my pizza,” said Paxton.