Beau is his parents’ only kid. He was always a good son, who totally loved them both, but admired his dad, who really liked sports and hunting and fishing. His dad was handsome and buff and could make or fix anything. His dad also liked to drink. A lot.
Beau’s dad got weird about Beau early. Beau is creative and artistic. When he was three or four, Beau’s dad, Jason, started telling him not to be “such a little fag.” This would be over something like if he used too many colors in his art project. Beau, being in preschool, didn’t even know what “a little fag” was. Just something really bad that he didn’t want to be . . .
So, he tried not to be such a little fag.
It was such a baffling word to Beau. The first time he heard it, from someone other than his dad, was in first grade. Two girls were holding hands in line, and a third grader, a loud kid named Joel, whom they all (privately) called Mean Joel, pointed at them and yelled, “Fags! Look at the fags!”
When Beau looked, the girls, who were wearing the same kind of shoes, were staring at Mean Joel blankly. They both looked in confusion from his finger to their shoes, as did Beau. They all thought maybe fags was slang for Dora the Explorer sneakers.
So that was his first impression—until his dad got all wild-eyed and very diligently explained it to him.
“Fags are disgusting and they are going to hell, Beau! If anyone wants you to be a fag, you punch them in the face so hard they eat teeth! You hear me?! This is how you make a fist! Like a brick! No! Like this! Jesus, Beau, get it right; don’t be such a puss! Wrap your thumb around your fingers, ya little baby!” Frowning like a tough guy, Beau would glue his eyes on his fist so his dad wouldn’t see his dazed bewilderment.
Because, mysteriously, Beau kept acting like a little “fag.” It seemed like every time he wanted to do something after school, it turned out to be “a faggy thing.” An example . . .
Beau was in sixth grade when he decided he wanted to try out for the school play and got the part of Caliban in a middle school version of The Tempest. He was overjoyed! They said double-check to make sure he could go to rehearsals. His mom said sure; she would be fine running him back and forth. His dad, on the other hand, was not so enthused. Actors are gay.
“What are you gonna do? Skip around and sing some doofy song like a little fairy? Jesus, Beau!” Jason looked over, highball already in hand. Highballs had a way of turning Beau’s dad into Mr. Hyde by midafternoon. In spite of this knowledge, Beau still tried his best to convince him. He wanted this so much. Full steam ahead!
“Dad! I wanna be in it! It’s not doofy! I’m Caliban! Dad; I’m like the monster!”
“What the hell is a Caliban? Wait a minute—like a terrorist? What the hell, Beau? How do you even know anybody in the Taliban?!” Jason wasn’t faking being clueless either.
“No, Dad! Caliban’s a monster! A sea monster, Dad! He’s a badass!” In desperation, Beau glanced over to his mother. She did her best to help.
“It’s Shakespeare, Jason. The Tempest. Completely terrorist-free.”
Jason snorted. “Whatever . . . Shakespeare’s a fag! And an idiot! You start doing a bunch of plays, and you’ll be an idiot too, Beau! Is that what you want to be—a faggy little idiot?!”
“Jesus, Jason!” Gina was so scandalized she was almost laughing.
“Bunch of homecoming queens!” Jason jeered. “But it’s not too late, Beau; I can send you to anti-faggot camp! That’s where they scare it out of you!” Jason’s face was red with fury—and his old buddy, Johnny Walker, also red.
Gina broke in. “Okay, you need to shut up, now. You’re going to say something you’ll regret if you don’t, Jason . . . and so will—”
“—or maybe military camp! Wanna go to boot camp, Beau? The other guys’ll beat the fag outta you!”
“JESUS, JASON!” Beau’s mom screeched then, horrified at the notion and no longer laughing. “SHUT UP!” She covered her ears. Beau watched her turn and stomp back into the kitchen.
His dad reached over and grabbed the remote control. He hit VOLUME and turned it up. Loud.
He looked over at Beau and gestured, and when Beau sat close, he put his strong arm around Beau’s neck. Beau lived for these fleeting, squeezy moments. The problem was they were so hard to come by. They whispered together for a while, watching TV.
Later, Beau told his mom that he didn’t think he wanted to be Caliban after all. He said he didn’t care; after he’d thought about it for a while, it did sound like it’d probably be stupid.
He hated the sound of her deflated, defeated little sigh.
But his dad could be so nice. When Beau managed to do things the “right” way, he always looked up to meet his dad’s shining gaze, feasting like a panther on his dad’s approval. Beau kept a clear and cherished memory to remind himself with . . . from when he was much younger, a little Cub Scout . . .
So, as always, in a new town, his dad signed Beau up for Boy Scouts, and this time the timing was perfect. He signed Beau up just as the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby was gearing up.
The Pinewood Derby is this giant race for little Cub Scouts and their cars. They create a car from a block of wood, and the car is their own design, and the Cubs are supposed to build it themselves, a race car from a chunk of wood and some supplies like axles and little wheels—and the dads aren’t supposed to do it for them; they are just supposed to “supervise.”
That is like a main rule, so Beau’s dad bit his lip and held back. They went by the rules, and if Beau needed something explained then that was okay, they’d talk about it, but he was on his own. Except that he could tell his dad was rooting for him, and that filled him with this deep resolve, even as a little grade-schooler, or whatever. He would rock this!
He carved the wood himself, under supervision. His dad gave him giant leather gloves to safely hold the knife and peg of wood while he whittled. He watched and nodded quite seriously as Beau explained his design concepts, his dad asking him questions, with that look in his eye, to Beau’s amazement and elation. Lots of attention Beau was getting from his dad . . .
Beau had built his Pinewood Derby car all by himself, and it had turned out pretty great. Especially the paint job. He brought it into the living room to show his dad. He was so happy. He was proud of his job well done. He had painted it red, and watched with trepidation—but also pride—as his dad examined the little car’s body. He’d given it five coats, to make sure it would be super glossy.
However, as Beau proudly watched, his father’s face grew angry—without him even being aware of it—as he turned the little vehicle this way and that. Unconsciously snotty. Beau’s budding joy quietly died. Immediately, he took back the little car.
“It’s not done—um, that’s just the primer.”
Beau got his mom to take him to the store and bought something, secretly, with his own Pokémon money. He had a theory about what might make it better.
He repainted it blue. Five coats. Very glossy. His dad’s delighted face was reward enough, but there was more. Eye contact! Shoulder crushing!
“Nice, Beau! Hey, good job! Blue instead of that sparkly red crap, right?! Sweet!”
And it was sweet: the expression on his dad’s face, the look in his eyes. The Smile. Who cared what freaking color was his own favorite, right? He’d choose another. No worries.
Then, finally it was the day of the big ol’ race and everyone was amped. Beau and his mom and dad arrived at the church and went down the stairs to the social hall. In they walked: his mom and dad on either side, all of them beaming, supporting Beau—a family. But not for long.
As they entered the large church social hall, the other Scouts—and dads—were already qualifying their race cars. Beau’s dad went over to watch the other little cars in the qualifying heats. That’s when the beaming ceased—abruptly. His expression quickly turned to outrage.
“What the hell—your kid didn’t make that by himself! Or yours! Look at these! They look professional! They’re like r
eal toys! Are you kidding?! No way did they make these alone!”
He was not pleased. The dads he called out started to bluster and defend themselves like crazy.
“Hey, I just supervised while he used the saw!” “He did so do it himself!” “I just watched!”
Beau’s dad just started cussing and pointing. He was a big pointer. These cars were frauds! These dads were frauds! These kids were supposed to be on their own! That was the ONE big rule! Rules are rules, dammit! He grew flushed, and there was flame in his eyes. His rhetoric also grew fiery. Beau watched anxiously. He got the distinct feeling that his car was going to lose.
His dad stormed away.
“Goddam bunch of cheaters!” he snarled. “We’ll show ’em, kid!”
He proceeded to pull a bunch of coins from his pocket and start taping them under the back of Beau’s car with the duct tape provided at the “pit stop.” Beau watched, perplexed. His dad noticed and curtly explained. “Ballast, Beau. I wanted to tell you that all along—but I thought it would be cheating! But now you know what? Screw ’em!” He taped several coins underneath the tail of the gleaming blue body.
Time for the trial run.
Immediately speedier! Definite improvement! Way to go, Dad!!
Beau was thrilled. They were a team: him and his dad! They were a team.
Such a feeling. But then . . .
They lost. They lost so badly! They got hammed on sooooo bad! Apparently, the little derby cars were all supposed to weigh the same. Beau and his dad were disqualified.
Jason put his arm around Beau—not painfully, for the first time, ever, and stood beside him, scornful and defiant, blue eyes glittering, his upper lip curled, and his chin high.
Standing beside him, his dad’s arm loosely around his shoulders, Beau looked at his striking father’s proud stance—like a Roman soldier—no, a Roman emperor; and felt strong. He stood tall and stuck out his chin defiantly too. On the way home, his dad bitched about cheaters and how they’d get ’em next year!
Then, incredibly, at one point he even said: “And if goddam red is your lucky color, Beau, fine!”
It was the best night of Beau’s life.
Beau’s eyes are soft as he remembers. The good eye, anyway. I can see the memories illuminate the unbruised side of his face. A half smile rises from his lips and eye and smoothes his stressed forehead. I smile too.
“So did you win the derby the next year?”
At that Beau’s forehead unconsciously furrows again.
“Nah. We were moving again, and missed it.” Beau looks over at me. “Is this too boring?”
I shake my head. Some of it is painful and sad—and familiar—but not boring.
He smiles. “Should I keep going or cut straight to a story about the Hurt Patrol?”
“Whatever,” I say. “I want to hear all the stuff—everything I’d already know if we had grown up together.”
So that was pretty much the way they were, in all their little houses on the prairie. They moved around a lot. Jason was restless, like Pa Ingalls. No one was sure what he was looking for, least of all Gina and Beau.
One of the main problems of being an only child or the new kid, as Beau saw it, was that there was no one to talk things over with who could understand, so if there was a spark of possibility of making a friend, Beau would get very hopeful. Usually, it didn’t work out because he had to move again too soon, but he never lost hope. If he just had someone to bitch to and laugh with, it could be so different. Less overwhelming. Sadly, most of the kids he met melted together in his mind. They were usually more interested in kicking his ass than making friends with the new guy. In Beau’s experience his arrival usually caused anyone who was socially insecure or just a jerk to pick a fight and see what he was made of.
Beau consistently proved to be made of flesh—and fresh blood. It made moving from school to school very challenging.
Eventually, Beau started high school in Kansas: Garfield High, an average Midwestern high school. The new school was both the same and different. Different = better lunches. The same = random dorks threatening to kick his ass.
But now, Beau was finally a freshman. The end was in sight. Four more years = no more school. And another amazing thing: for once, he wasn’t the only new person, transferring late. A girl actually transferred in after school started, after he did. So he wasn’t even the total focus for once. Awesome!
They wasted no time at Garfield High getting overwhelmed with homework. The final project was assigned at the beginning of the school year. It counted for so much of the grade that the students would work on it all semester. Their US History teacher, Ms. Finch, assigned partners.
“Okay, Darrow, Jess, and Travis: you three. Um, Tony, Homer, and Riley, you three are a team. Okay, Beau, Rae Anne, and—” Immediately the new girl shot her hand up, but fleetingly—too fast for anybody to see—except Ms. Finch.
“—and Julia. You three.” Ms. Finch smiled at them.
Cool. Beau looked over at Julia, really noticing her for the first time and they smiled at each other with instant liking. She had the palest eyes he’d ever seen. Pale green. Rae Anne, the other partner, was a farm girl, pretty in the same way everybody there was, blond and tan and down-home. Besides that, she’d made no impression on Beau, so far, but they nodded at each other amiably. Beau and Julia picked up their collective crap and moved to Rae Anne’s table, which had the most space. They all made room for each other.
Julia looked at Beau. “Hi.” She smiled.
“Hi.” Was all Beau could think up.
Julia and Rae Anne nodded at each other, smiling. Briefly they greeted each other.
“Hi, Rae Anne. What’s up?”
“Hi, Julia!” said Rae Anne.
Beau wondered how they knew each other. Rae Anne cleared it up as she went on:
“I haven’t seen you too much since Bible camp, back in the day.”
“Yeah, that was a while ago! How many summers did you go?”
“I quit the year after you did.”
“Omg, remember how homesick we all got? I hated going to sleep-away camp! I used to sneak off and call my mom all the time! Why’d you stop going?”
“After middle school they make you decide if you want to be a counselor, and I totally didn’t, after the orientation thing they make you do.”
“Why?” Julia tossed her notebook on the table and sat across from Rae Anne.
“Because everything’s on you: if the kids cry because they’re homesick, especially at night. You’re the one who has to wake up and go say comforting crap to them. If they get sick and barf, if they get in a fight with each other . . . it’s just way too much drama.”
“Yeah . . .” Julia commiserated. “That sounds horrible.”
“I think if I had little brothers and sisters, I’d be better at it. I like your hair. The bangs.”
“Thanks. I think I’m going to cut it off after winter. . . .” Blah-blah—boring talk about hairdos.
Beau looked around. The groups were all buzzing—or not. You could already guess which ones were going to have a good project and which weren’t. Ms. Finch chose people she thought would get along, but she didn’t know some of the more quietly simmering rivalries or epic betrayals . . . the guys were bad, but the girls were quiet so they got away with more stuff. Beau tried to tell who would be nice; he didn’t know most of the others very well yet, but just by studying people’s body language, he had gotten good at telling who was going to be trouble. He had learned to spot simmering rage—
“Okay, Beau?” Julia and Rae Anne were both looking at him, curiously.
He’d missed it. Whatever it was. He did that a lot.
“Sorry. What?”
“You and Julia write the text, and I’ll take the pictures. Since I live so far out you two will have to do the partner stuff without me,” Rae Anne repeated.
“Oh. Okay. Sure.” Beau nodded.
He glanced at Julia, who smiled back, shyly
. He had a feeling they’d get a very good grade.
A week or so after that, Beau & Parents attended his new troop’s monthly potluck. It was a warm fall evening, and the three of them descended into the brightly lit church basement.
As required by age, Beau peeled off promptly to sit at the table with his troop instead of with his mom and dad, before they could embarrass him. No one else was sitting down yet, but the table had his patrol flag. He didn’t feel confident enough to just go around and mingle, so he sat down and pretended to get a text, to better observe the others in action....
It was noisy. Everyone was greeting friends by joyfully yelling. The yellowed linoleum reverberated with the welcoming shrieks and sneaker squeaks, in spite of the ceiling’s useless old acoustic tile.
Beau was just looking around, minding his own business, when his life changed. A tall, good-looking guy plunked down across the table from him. He had dark eyes that already showed faint laugh lines and rich, wavy brown hair, the kind that streaks blond in the sun.
Beau jumped. The guy smiled. Beau regarded him cautiously. Then the guy laughed.
“Hi. I’m Pete. I’m in this patrol too. ’Sup. I saw you looking around, and we haven’t met.” Pete grinned. “How’s it goin’?”
“Hi. Good. I’m Beau. ’Sup.” They chin-bobbed, in greeting.
Pete wasted no time. Eyes wickedly twinkling, he leaped into action. Leaning in close, he announced, “So, Beau, guess what? My sister likes you. Your partner, Julia.”
Beau almost ejected off his seat. “No, she doesn’t!” he blurted, in automatic denial. His ears felt hot. The light in the church basement was suddenly much brighter.
Pete nodded. “No, yeah. She totally does. She’s the new girl who just transferred in your class.”
“I know who she is. We’re partners.”
“Her name’s Julia. That’s my sister.”
The Hurt Patrol Page 2