Huge

by James Fuerst

Yeah, she was okay. After a few more minutes of working in silence, Staci laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, you can tell me.”

  “It’s nothing, really.”

  “C’mon, Staci, please?”

  “It’s just, I mean …”

  “What?”

  “I was laughing because I was thinking how much easier it is to do this on a ladder.”

  It took me a few seconds to realize what she meant, but when I did, it was like a pair of icy cold hands had torn through my abdomen and ripped out my spleen. The tips of my ears sizzled, my mind raced, and just like that I could see it all too clearly. If you had a brand-new moped to stand on, you wouldn’t need two people to pull the job off, but that didn’t mean only one had done it.

  Jesus H. Christ, that so fucking figured, didn’t it? How in the shit-smeared world did I not see that coming? How the hell could I be such a sucker? Goddamn it! Why didn’t anybody tell me? But did anyone else even know, like Neecey or Darren or someone else? No, they couldn’t have known. But if they couldn’t have known, then why were Darren’s words from the arcade thundering back to me, telling me all I’d needed to know, right from the very beginning: wank, hand painted, hand job. Maybe because my life was a joke, that’s why—a dirty fucking joke.

  Sure, everybody knew, why not? They fucking had to. Shit, they all knew what’d really happened, everybody except me, and they’d all been laughing their asses off about it behind my back. But why didn’t somebody say something last night? Why was I the only one left in the dark? What the hell was so goddamn wrong with me that everybody always had to treat me like a fucking chump?

  I felt empty and all alone, and I was gripping the wooden rails of the ladder so hard that it seemed as if they’d splinter through my palms.

  “Hey, your face is like all red. You okay?”

  I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. I didn’t know what I was, or what the hell I was supposed to be. Worse still, I didn’t know a goddamn thing about anyone else. I didn’t know if Neecey, Darren, and the others hadn’t told me last night because they didn’t know, or thought I knew already, or for some other reason. Maybe that’s why I’d wondered about them acting all friendly and nice to me, because something about it just didn’t seem right. Maybe it wasn’t all in my head, maybe they’d just been pretending to like me to serve their ulterior motives. But why? What had I ever done to them? Why would they play me like that? Did they think I was some kind of wild, piece-of-shit, vicious asshole of a menace who needed to be lied to and dicked around and handled with kid gloves like … like Razor? Was that why?

  Jesus, the idea of being lumped together with that scumbag just totally and completely sucked, and there was no way I could tell if that’s what people around here really thought of me. I sure as hell hoped not, because I didn’t think I deserved it. But I honestly didn’t know, and that made everything seem even worse. Yeah, I’d had my doubts about Darren and the crew and I thought I’d gotten over them, but I still couldn’t tell if everything they’d said to me was true, or if the way they’d treated me was real.

  And I couldn’t tell about Staci either. She must’ve thought I already knew, she must have, because she’d asked me why I’d brought her here in the first place, she’d been casual about admitting what she’d done, and she didn’t seem to be hiding anything. But she was hiding something, wasn’t she? She’d been hiding things all along. She’d been hiding what she’d done with Razor, and that she’d been here, with him, at the sign. She’d done it, she was to blame; that’s what she’d been hiding, and that’s why she’d been so goddamn eager to repaint the sign, to hide it all over again.

  Okay, sure, maybe Razor had forced her to do that, too, but even if she’d been forced to do some of it, she hadn’t been forced to do all of it, and none of that would ever change the fact that she’d just copped to being the perpetrator, and that’s something she would always be. That counted for something; there were consequences for that.

  It was happening all over again. I was back by the reservoir in the dark, standing on the edge of a cliff, and the ground was giving way. All the heartache and madness were back, fresh and painful as ever. It was like I’d never left, like I’d never escaped, like wherever I went or whatever I did, they’d be right on my tail and I’d never get away. I closed my eyes and tried to steady myself, but all I could see was Staci painting the sign while standing on Razor’s moped, one of her black rubber bracelets falling to the ground without her noticing, the two of them alone together, kissing, touching. It made me feel hateful and sick. And it made me realize I wasn’t the blond Satan I’d thought I was, because at the end of the book Sam Spade refused to play the sap. But that’s exactly what I was doing: I was playing the fucking sap, covering up a crime for the sake of a guilty chick.

  Goddamn it. Knowing, really knowing where I stood and what I was doing was a hell of a lot worse than any punishment I could’ve ever dreamed up for myself. I felt foolish, shamed, humiliated, used, and I knew if I didn’t make a stand and part ways with Staci right now, then I’d not only play the sap, but I’d be guilty, too. I’d be an accessory after the fact, and that would rope me in with the rest of them, with all their lies and petty crimes, all their cliques and false friendships, and I’d be just like everyone else. It seemed too high a price to pay for what I’d done, too harsh a sentence, a sentence I’d be reminded of each time I looked at Staci’s face. And that would ruin everything, like a stain, or a wound that wouldn’t heal. Unless I cut her loose, there’d be no escaping it, and not much hope that it would ever go away.

  Those were the facts of the case, my case, and they said I was screwed. I’d either have to get used to being a pussy-whipped pushover chump, or go right back to where I’d started, as a violent half-crazed loner, only now with a broken heart, too.

  Then it hit me there was another way to look at things, another set of facts standing side by side that told the same story with a different slant. True, I didn’t know Staci all that well, and I didn’t know how far I could trust her. But I liked her anyway. I’d liked her before I’d met her and I liked her even more now. She’d earned it. She’d forgiven me for the way I’d acted at the reservoir, how I’d scared her, hurt her feelings, made her cry, and she still wanted to hang out with me and have Kathy call her my girlfriend and fix the sign with me and tell people that I’d defended her. So she was either the biggest idiot in the entire tristate area, or she really liked me, too.

  Either way, I figured we were made for each other. She was coming to me with enough baggage to open her own luggage kiosk at the mall, but I wasn’t exactly a saint, and while she might not be all that smart, I wasn’t any kind of genius either. No, I wasn’t. Other people had always said that and they had always been wrong. I was just a mixed-up kid hanging out with the girl he liked, trying to do something right and good for a change.

  Those were facts, too, and I could see my case both ways, the good way and the shitty way, and how I couldn’t have the one without taking some of the other. So maybe that was three ways. Whatever. None of them told me what to do or which way to go; they were just facts, there for anyone to see. Then again, maybe how you saw things wasn’t always what mattered most. Maybe everything depended on how much shit you were willing to take. Fuck it. I made my decision.

  I took a deep breath, rolled my neck out, and got right to the point. As calmly as I could, I asked her why she’d painted “arted” over “irement,” although I used different words and grammar when I put the question to her.

  Staci looked over at me and told me that the night they’d been together, Razor had picked her up on his moped and brought her here, and even though it’d seemed a weird place to hang out, she hadn’t thought much of it. Not too long after he’d coerced her into doing the first thing, he said he had one more thing for her to do, and told her to
get up on the moped seat with the paint can and brush (that were in the backpack he’d worn) and paint something on the sign. She took the things and stood on top of the seat, but when she got up there, she didn’t know what to do, or what to paint. So she asked Razor, and he said, “I don’t know, paint anything,” and she said, “God, you’re retarded,” but he was too busy being nervous and looking over both shoulders and hiding in the bushes to pay attention to what she was saying, so he replied, “Yeah, that’s good, paint that, whatever, just hurry.” Staci looked back at the sign, realized some of the letters were already there, left the first three as they were, blacked out the end of the word in a few quick strokes, slopped the rest out as fast as should could, jumped down, handed everything to Razor, and begged him to hurry packing up so they could leave. And she kept looking me right in the eye the whole time she was telling me about it.

  I nodded and took another breath. “Did Razor force you to do that, too?”

  “Not really, I guess.” Staci looked confused. “But it was right afterward.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t think about it. I was upset and I thought Razor would leave me alone if I did, so I did it.”

  “But what the hell made Razor decide on this sign in the first place? You know, what was the point? What was he trying to prove?”

  “Oh …” Staci replied hesitantly, maybe because it was too many questions at once. “I dunno. I thought he was biting off Darren and the crew to try to be popular, like everybody else does, but that he was too chicken to go through with it. I didn’t ask him, though, so I don’t know for sure.”

  “You didn’t ask him?”

  “Why would I? I was feeling all bad about everything and what he’d say to everyone and thinking how much I hated him and how much he sucked. I just really wanted to go home.”

  Staci had a point there. Razor did suck. “So you didn’t mean anything by it?”

  She tilted her head and frowned. “What, you mean like ranking on the old folks or something?”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Ohmigod, I like never even thought about that,” she cringed. “So you hate me now, don’t you? Because your grandmother’s like, uh, because she like lives here and all?”

  “No, Staci, I don’t hate you,” I said, “I really don’t. I was just asking.” I paused, struggling for something to say. “By the way, you know you spell retarded with a d and not two t’s, right?”

  “Really? Whoa, maybe that’s why everybody thinks I’m so dumb.” Her face reddened and she tried to laugh. It didn’t work. “I’m not dumb, though. I just don’t like school, and I’m not a good speller.”

  I had to give it to her: if Staci was anything, she was honest. It was hard not to like her for that, and I knew right then it’d be even harder to let her go. So I wasn’t going to.

  “I’m not crazy about school either,” I said, “but I can pretty much spell my ass off. I can help you if you want.”

  “That’s sweet.” She smiled. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

  That was it. Seriously. I’d asked, she’d answered, and it was done. I wasn’t exactly clicking my heels together with glee or anything, but I wasn’t beside myself with rage about it either. I knew what’d happened and I’d found out who’d done it, but there wasn’t much I could do about any of it. I’d already punched the sleazebag most responsible square in the nuts—in public, for everyone to see, no less—so if I’d had a hankering for revenge, I figured I’d satisfied it already. Then again, as much as I couldn’t stand Razor, I’d learned he wasn’t the only guilty party involved. Staci was kind of guilty for what she’d done, and now I was, too.

  We finished repainting the sign and cleaned up when we were through. Yeah, I’d covered up the crime I’d been paid to solve. I was a chump; I’d played the sap. And I knew for a fact I’d do it again. Case closed.

  I knocked once on the door to grandma’s room and pushed it open like I always did, and she was sitting in her chair by the window with it turned to face the door, as if she’d been expecting me. Her wig was a little bit crooked, but both of her eyebrows matched, and her teeth were in, so she looked fine. But the expression on her face said it all. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes were narrowed and sharp, her lips bunched, and everything about her said she was more disappointed in me than she’d ever been before. I’d always tried my best to do everything she asked or told me to do. But I’d failed on the case and I knew it, I’d broken my promise to her and I knew it, I’d failed her and I knew it. It was all too clear that she knew it, too, and she was letting me know through the look in her eyes.

  That hurt me more than anything else I’d been through, and it would’ve been unbearable, broken me down to tears on the spot, if I hadn’t seen it coming and had the presence of mind to stop by the front desk beforehand and arrange for some backup. Kathy nudged me aside from the threshold and pushed Staci by the shoulders into grandma’s room, then introduced her to grandma as my girlfriend. Everything about grandma changed instantly; she sat up a little straighter, she tilted her head, flashed her eyes, flung her hands out toward Staci, smiled as big and happily as she could, and told Staci to come over and give her a kiss, and Staci smiled back and said okay and did. It was the closest thing to a miracle I’d ever witnessed, and yeah, it got me totally off the hook. Well, at least for the time being.

  But it was awesome. Kathy and Staci got my back and then grandma picked up the ball and ran with it; she treated Staci like an old friend or a member of the family, and sat her down next to her and patted her knees and played with her hair and paid her compliments and offered her shitty candy and made Staci tell her all about herself, as if I weren’t even there. Ordinarily, that would’ve made me jealous and crazy, because she was my grandma and she was supposed to be paying attention to me, but for some reason, it seemed better to share her at the moment, and Staci and grandma seemed to be enjoying it, too. Yeah, I loved that woman, and I was going to miss everything about her when she was gone. But that was sorrow for another day. Today she was here and with me and talking and laughing and all on my side every step of the way, and I—I was overjoyed.

  It was about three-thirty when we left, after we’d kissed grandma good-bye maybe fourteen times apiece. When we finally got out of there, I asked Staci what she wanted to eat. She asked if we could have pizza, and I said we could have pterodactyl if she wanted, and she said no thanks, she’d never tried that before. Okay, she didn’t get the joke, and it was hard for me to tell if she was dumb or not, but I knew where the good pizza joint was, so that’s where we went. I locked the Cruiser to the bike stand out front, went to the counter, ordered a small pie and a Cherry Coke for her, because that’s what she wanted, and a vanilla milkshake for me, while she went to the back and got us a booth. That’s what you called the division of labor, and it seemed like a pretty good racket.

  When I brought our drinks over, she asked how come I wasn’t having soda, too, because it went better with pizza than a milkshake. I said she was right, and it wasn’t like I had anything against soda, but I had to have my daily quotient of dairy; it built strong bones and teeth and helped you grow, and if I wanted anything in life, I wanted to reach my full height. As soon as I’d said it, I got the feeling I’d heard it before, or maybe read it somewhere. I couldn’t remember where, though, so I wasn’t sure if those were my words or someone else’s, but I realized they had nothing to do with inches. Staci smiled and said I shouldn’t worry. She liked it that we were both the same size; it was like we were a pair, like we matched.

  We were at the pizza parlor for maybe an hour and a half, just talking, hanging out, stuffing our faces, and having a great time. Then we got back on the Cruiser and I took Staci to her place. She asked me if I wanted to come up to meet her mom, because it was a little after five and she’d be awake, but I told her I’d have to take a rain check, because I was grounded and had to get home to do my chores. I’d pressed my luc
k with mom far enough, so I intended to hold up my end of our bargain. I didn’t mention anything about Pauline to Staci, though, because having a babysitter for the foreseeable future made me feel, well, it made me feel like a baby. I guessed I’d have to tell her sooner or later, but I thought it could wait for some other time.

  Instead, I asked her what she was doing tomorrow, and she said we could do whatever if it rained, or go to the pool together if it was nice. I said cool and kissed her good-bye and felt a bittersweet pang as I watched Staci and her butt and all the rest of her disappear through the door. I was about halfway home before I realized that as a detective I’d gotten everything wrong or backward. Everything. Shit, I didn’t even get the girl in the end. The girl got me.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Early the next morning I was on my hands and knees in the upstairs bathroom, gloved to my elbows, scrub brush in hand, bucket of sudsy disinfectant by my side, scouring the tub, toilet, and tiles like some kind of galley slave, when I heard the phone ring. I booked it downstairs, peeling off the gloves, taking two steps at a time, because I thought it was Staci. It was. She said hi and asked if she’d woken me up and I told her I’d gotten up extra early to get all my chores done this morning so we could spend the whole day together, but that it’d be about an hour before I was finished. She said that was okay, because the pool didn’t open until ten, so we had plenty of time. I told her I’d be at her place at ten o’clock sharp, and she said okay. Then I said, come to think of it, I might want to shower first, so make that ten-oh-three. She said okay. Well, better make it five after, I said, just to be on the safe side. She said okay. Hey, Staci, I said. What, she asked. Nothing, I said. She said okay. I said good-bye, hung up the phone, and nearly fell on the floor laughing. I couldn’t help it. Everything was just so goddamn okay.

  Well, maybe everything wasn’t okay, but as I got back to cleaning the bathroom, I realized everything felt different. Sure, it probably wouldn’t matter to most people in town that I’d had a change of heart, or that I’d finally gotten myself a real friend—more than a friend, a girlfriend, which everybody knew was totally cool—because people were assholes, so sooner or later they’d find a way to shit on that, too. I could practically hear the kids at junior high now: “Psst, check out the half-slut and the lunatic,” or “Hey, Dopey and Crazy, where are the others?” Christ, I’d have to be a goddamn idiot to think for one second that crap like that would ever go away, and I might’ve been a sucker, a sap, a psycho, and a fool, but I wasn’t an idiot. I knew that kind of nonsense would be coming down the pike one way or another, but even the thought of more mocking bullshit like that just didn’t seem as important anymore.