Me, Myself and Ike

by K. L. Denman

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  Ike snorts. “Why wouldn’t I know it? I like documentaries, just like you, remember?”

  Right. That’s probably the only thing Ike and I have in common. And for sure, he does seem to remember at least as many details as me. Maybe more. He’s not all bad.

  I go back to the book list. “In the number three slot we have one published in 1783—The American Spelling Book by Noah Webster.”

  “That’s gotta be bullshit, man. A spelling book?”

  I shrug. “That’s what it says.”

  “Check a different list.”

  I click back and pick another site. This one shows the same two books in first place, then some other Chinese titles followed by the Koran. “That’s strange,” I mutter. “How can it be different?”

  “Who cares? Just find something that makes sense.”

  I scan through the titles and find a few I recognize. “Here’s Lord of the Rings.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “And there’s Harry Potter. And—”

  Ike cuts in. “Is this necessary? I don’t care what all the best-selling books are. Just pick the ones you’re going to bring.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “Well you’re not going to bring some spelling crap that was published two hundred years ago, are you? That’s stupid.”

  “Okay, okay. You’re right. But how am I supposed to decide?”

  “Just pick the ones you like. Or the ones from the last hundred years, like the music.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But I should probably bring the Bible, even though it’s—what—two thousand years old, right?”

  Ike considers, then says, “Sure. Why not? Makes sense, considering how many of our laws and traditions come from there. Plenty of problems too.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “You know. Religious wars and stuff. Wouldn’t it be funny if the dudes in the future got into an argument over it and started fighting?”

  “That’s retarded. The Bible didn’t start any wars. People started them because they came up with different interpretations of what it says.”

  “There you go. Either way, it’s subversive.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  Ike laughs. “Look who’s talking.”

  I take a deep breath. “This from the guy who just five minutes ago told me I was normal?”

  “That’s right. I did, didn’t I? And you sure managed to change the topic, didn’t you? What about the condoms and the weed and the meth, eh?”

  Crap. We’re back to that. “Even if I wanted to, how am I supposed to get that stuff?”

  “What, you don’t think there are condoms in the drugstore? And nobody’s selling at your school? It’s easy-peasy, man.”

  He’s right, of course. Everyone knows who deals at school, and condoms are a no-brainer. “I’m going to have to explain that stuff in my manifesto,” I say.

  “Sure. Whatever. But you agree it’s important to tell the truth about our society, right?”

  I sigh. “Wouldn’t it be good enough to just write about it?”

  “As if,” Ike scoffs. “Why write when you can provide the real thing? What if the hard drive on the computer corrodes and your manifesto is gone? Or even if you write out a copy on some sort of freakin’ acid-free paper, it could rot away too, whereas the real thing—it’s more likely to last.”

  “Fine. I’ll try to get the real thing.”

  I can’t sleep. The stuff on my artifact list goes round and round in my head, and I start thinking about how I’m going to get all of it. I know I don’t have enough money. And then I think about Melissa. I still see her at school sometimes. She smiles, but then her eyes slide away and she goes by. It’s over three months since we were together, and every time I see her I still get this ache, deep in my gut. I loved her then. I still do. I can still feel the texture of her kitten-soft hair, the smooth lines of her cheeks, the round curve of her hips. I can still smell her, that lemony rose scent she wore. I can taste the strawberry lip gloss and the cinnamon gum she liked to chew.

  When she dumped me, she said, “You’re the sweetest guy ever, Kit. But it’s just, well, we have nothing in common, you know?”

  She was wrong. We had sweetness in common. Unless she was lying. And then that would mean I’m not sweet and neither is she for lying, and then we’d have that in common—being un-sweet. Either way, there was something between us. I know there was.

  Maybe I should have asked Fred for advice. He always seems to have a girlfriend, so he must know something. I remember this one time, last summer, when we were shooting some hoops. We were just fooling around, not really keeping score or anything, which wasn’t like him. He usually played to win, forced me to play up to his level. He’s two years older than me and he’s always been ahead, always better at most everything.

  Still, he hasn’t been a bad brother. If it wasn’t for him pushing me so hard, maybe I wouldn’t have been good enough to make the basketball team. For sure not good enough to be one of the best players. And I have to say, Fred has never let me down. If he said he was going to do something with me, he did it. Like on that day I’m thinking about, I heard him talking to one of his buddies on the phone. Fred said, “The beach? What time?”

  Then I heard him say, “No can do. I told Kit I’d shoot some hoops with him.”

  There was a pause, and he said, “No man, I’m not going to blow him off. Later, okay?”

  But when we started playing, it seemed like he wasn’t into it, seemed more like he wanted to talk. He asked me how it was going.

  I said, “It’s going.”

  “Yeah? Is your team going to make the finals next season?”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked.

  “So that’s a yes. Good stuff. And how’s Melissa?”

  Man, all I had to do was hear her name and I couldn’t stop a smile from landing on my face. I think Fred knew it too, and he’d ask about her just to see me go goofy.

  “She’s great.”

  “Great?”

  “Yeah. I mean, she’s a great person, you know?”

  “Cool. Not too hard on the eyes either, eh?”

  I gave Fred a look. “That’s not why…I mean, she is, but that’s not what’s important. It’s more, uh… It’s like she’s so…”

  I tried to tell him how it wasn’t her looks that were so special, but I couldn’t get the words out. My brain just sort of jammed up on me. It used to really bug Melissa when that happened.

  Fred laughed and said, “I know, I know. You love her for her mind, right?”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “And her…her…” I blanked again.

  Fred looked at me funny, like he was trying to figure something out. “You okay, Kit?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah? So what’s with the stutter thing?”

  “It’s not a stutter!”

  “No? Maybe not. But something’s different. You and your buds smoking weed?”

  I shrugged. “We tried it. Who hasn’t? But we’re not getting to the finals by smoking up, are we? Besides…”

  “Besides what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Fred shook his head. “There you go again. Gapping out.”

  “I wasn’t gapping out. I was just going to say I don’t like weed anyway. Makes me feel strange.”

  Fred laughed then. “Stranger than usual you mean?”

  I punched Fred’s shoulder and said, “Game on.” I took a shot, waited for the ball’s slide through the hoop and was ready to grab it on the rebound when Fred’s long arm swiped in and snatched it away.

  “You,” Fred said, “are going to pay for that cheap shot. Think you can catch me off guard, huh?”

  We played hard for a while then, and it seemed all normal, all good. But if I’d been smart, when he asked about Melissa I’d have told him things weren’t perfect with her. I should have asked him what I was doing wrong, and
maybe he could have told me. And maybe I’d still be with Melissa.

  SIX

  I see Ben at school on Monday and it’s only then that I remember about the movie on Friday night. He strides right past me in the hall, shaking his head like he just saw something disgusting.

  I call after him. “Ben?”

  He doesn’t stop.

  Jeez, how did I forget about the movie? Right. I hung out with Ike and got so busy with the research and planning…I feel like a jerk. But then, maybe it’s better this way. It’s not like I can tell Ben what I’m doing; if we hung out together, I could slip up. And he’s not going to miss a loser who never keeps his word either, right?

  It’s definitely better this way.

  I drift through my English class, then go to art. Instead of letting us draw, the teacher, Ms. Thorpe, gives us a slide show of famous works of art. This is good because I can just prop my chin in my hands and keep my face there and that’s it. There was a time when I might have been pissed off about not being able to work on one of my boat drawings, but I haven’t started anything new lately, and Ms. Thorpe’s been on my case about that.

  I’m watching the slides flash by, just starting to think I should include some pictures of modern art to show to the future, when along comes this slide of a naked dude sculpted in white marble. A couple of idiots start sniggering about his dick, and suddenly I’m hearing what the teacher is saying.

  “This is Michelangelo’s David. It’s considered by many to epitomize perfect male beauty. Stunning, isn’t it?” She pauses to give us time to study the sculpture, and then she says, “A few years ago I read about a disorder dubbed the ‘David Syndrome.’ It seems that when some especially sensitive people view this piece, or other extraordinarily beautiful works of art, they’re overcome with emotion.”

  “What happens to them?” a girl asks.

  “I don’t recall all the specifics, but I believe the viewer initially experiences deep wonder. Do any of you feel that way?”

  I stare at the statue and get nothing. It’s just an image on a projection screen.

  “Anybody?” Ms. Thorpe asks.

  The same girl giggles and says, “Well, he is pretty hot.”

  More sniggers erupt but Ms. Thorpe cuts in. “I’d be surprised if you did. It only happens with the original artwork. The peculiar thing is that after the viewer feels wonder, they often get panicky and then disoriented and aggressive. At that point, they may attempt to attack the work of art. In fact, a number of years ago, one man actually succeeded in doing considerable damage to one of David’s feet with a hammer.”

  “Weird,” someone says. “Why?”

  “It’s difficult to say. Something in the extreme beauty disorients them. Some experience hallucinations. Quite a few people have even been temporarily hospitalized until their emotions are under control.”

  “I don’t get it,” the girl says. “If you think something is beautiful, why would you want to wreck it? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “No,” Ms. Thorpe says, “it doesn’t. But I wanted to mention it because I think it illustrates how powerful art can be.”

  I don’t hear the rest of the exchange. I just keep staring at David until she flips to the next slide, and I’m still stuck back there, thinking about how crazy people can be. I glance around the art room and realize that any one of these people could be insane. How can I tell which one? I can’t. On the surface, they just look like a bunch of kids.

  Suddenly it’s lunchtime, and I figure I should go check out the bush area behind the parking lot, where the dealers hang out. I’m not ready to buy yet, but the last I heard, that was the place to score. I saunter down there, lean on a tree and wait. My back tattoo starts to itch, and then I get this really weird sensation. It’s as if the tattoo is coming to life.

  I know it’s stupid. A tattoo can’t come to life. It’s nothing but ink. Unless the ink has something in it. What if Tony mixes nano-size transmitters in his ink? Or nano-robots? How would anyone know? The robots could start crawling around, enter the bloodstream, go into the brain and then…Then Tony could take control of my brain.

  I bang my head against the tree trunk, and then I look at the trunk and wonder if maybe it’s an oak tree, like those sacred oaks the Druids had. Did they plant them or just find them in the forest? Who planted this tree? I’m studying the tree, trying to figure it out, when a group of stoners slouches by. One of them snickers; he sounds almost exactly like Ike. I whip my head around and look at them, and someone says, “Talk about your freak shows. You trippin’ or what?”

  I stare at him and say nothing.

  Another guy says, “Him? No way. Isn’t he one of the jocks from the basketball team?”

  “Whatever, man. Who knows? Who cares?”

  And they’re gone. And the strange sensation is still there. It’s like a buzz, a drone, and with absolute clarity I realize it’s exactly the same sound made by Tony’s tattoo machine.

  I start running. I don’t stop until I’m home. The first thing I do is strip off my shirt and check my back. The tattoo is coated with a thin layer of scabbing. Maybe the nanos are in the scabs? And maybe the buzz is them warming up before they’re released into my bloodstream. If I’m lucky, that could be it. I scratch at the scabs and little chunks break off. I scratch harder, and then there’s blood. That’s good, because the nanos will be flushed out with the blood. I strip off the rest of my clothes and get into the shower, letting the hot water pound on my back while I scrub at it with one of Mom’s loofahs.

  After a while, the loofah is covered in black scabs and blood, and my back feels like it’s on fire. I don’t care. The buzz has stopped; I’ve beaten Tony. No way for him to take control of my brain now. I get out of the shower, towel off and rub lotion into my raw back, lots of lotion. I’m careful to make sure there isn’t any lotion left on the floor, and I take everything— the bloody towel, my clothes, the loofah— and toss it into the washing machine.

  I’m really tired. Almost no sleep for the past few nights and then this…I crawl into bed, and the next thing I know, Mom is leaning over me.

  “Kit? Kit? Are you sick? The school called to say that you missed some classes today.”

  Her presence startles me. I bolt upright and ask, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She takes a step back. “Excuse me? Do you think you might want to rephrase that question?”

  I stare at her. “What?”

  She sighs, reaches out and places the back of her hand on my forehead. “You do feel a bit warm.”

  I’m suddenly aware of my tattoo; it’s hot and sticky. I lie back and say, “Yeah?”

  “Is your stomach bothering you? Have you been throwing up? I noticed you put your clothes in the wash.”

  “Yeah. I, uh, puked and thought I better clean up.”

  “Well, that was considerate. I’ll give the school a call tomorrow and let them know you were ill. Aren’t you supposed to sign out at the office or something, so they know?”

  I nod. “Sorry. I felt lousy and just left.”

  “I see.” Her brow furrows. “Well, how are you feeling now? Do you want me to bring you a glass of water or some soup?”

  “Soup would be good.”

  “You think it’ll stay down?”

  “I think so.”

  Her brow smoothes and she smiles, her lips curving up only at the edges. I love that smile. It’s the one that always seems like it was made just for me. “All right. I’ll go make the soup. Chicken noodle okay?”

  “For sure. Thanks, Mom.”

  I get the smile again, and then she’s gone.

  I reach around and feel my back. Damn. It must have kept oozing. I’m going to have to wash my sheets now too, but I can’t do that while Mom’s in the house. Seems like she notices every little thing. Guess I’ll have to act sick enough to stay home from school again tomorrow just so I can wash the sheets.

  Dad brings me the soup. “Hey, guy, not feeling so good?�
��

  I nod.

  “That’s too bad. Maybe a stomach bug or something got you, eh?”

  A stomach bug? A bug in my stomach? Oh. He means that sort of bug. I’m not really sick, not at all. It’s just the tattoo. I shrug and say, “I guess.”

  I wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits down on my desk chair and stretches out his legs. “Seems like we haven’t talked much lately, Kit. How’s everything going?”

  “Good.” I take a mouthful of soup. I hope he gets his little visit over with fast.

  “Glad to hear it. School going all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good, good. So, what about basketball? When’s your next game?”

  Basketball. What’s with everyone bringing up basketball? I haven’t thought about it for a while. Things went wonky with it this year. When the season started in October, I went out for the team as usual, and for the first while everything was okay. But by December, I sucked. It was horrible. I’d go to do a layup and trip over my own feet. I’d drop the ball, miss catching it, was lucky to get a shot off, never mind score. The coach was freaking, trying to talk to me, telling me to get my head in the game, giving me extra drills…nothing helped.

  The other guys were okay with it at first, slapped my back, said stuff like “too bad” or “that was bum luck” or “c’mon, Kit, you just gotta focus, man.” But after I let them down a few more times, they weren’t so supportive. I started getting dirty looks and they stopped talking to me and I…Well, I stopped caring about it. When school started up after the winter break, I didn’t go back to basketball.

  Dad says, “Kit? When’s the game? If it’s an evening one, I’d like to come and watch.”

  Shit. I try stalling. “I don’t know. I think it’s next week.”

  He frowns. “Not until then? That’s funny. The finals are coming up in March.” His frown deepens. “Come to think of it, you haven’t mentioned the team lately. How are you doing in the standings?”

  I give him a look. “I quit.”

  His mouth gapes and he shakes his head. “You quit? When?”

  I shrug. “A week or so ago.”