by Alan Sitomer
“Expelled?” I said, shocked by the words.
She nodded. “Expelled.”
I looked down the hall. The red sweater was gone, having disappeared into a soup of students.
I took a moment to think about it. Dr. Cox was just nutty enough to have me kicked out of school even though I really hadn’t done anything to deserve it. And our vice principal certainly wasn’t going to take my side of the story over hers.
Maybe my parents would have my back?
Yeah, right. I dropped my head.
“Lead the way.”
“Good decision, Bobby,” she replied. “Good decision.”
A few minutes later, we took our usual seats in her office, me on the couch, her in the upright office chair.
“Look, I’m sorry about back there,” she began. “It’s just been a tough day, you know?”
I didn’t answer.
“I mean, I just don’t understand why I always fall for the wrong guy,” she continued. “It’s like I’m a magnet for losers or something. Really, why do I always choose men who are afraid of commitment?”
What the heck is she talking about?
“Or liars,” she continued. “Oh, do I love the liars. I mean, come on, I should have known by the way he always carries that bullhorn around and thinks he’s so much more superior than all the students that things weren’t going to work out with this one.”
Carries his bullhorn? Is she talking about Mr. Hildge?
“Oh yeah, always the losers for me,” she complained. “Always the losers.”
Dr. Cox gazed off in the distance with a faraway look in her eyes. A moment later, she took off her eyeglasses and began to rub her temples.
“You know, I think it goes back to my own feelings of inadequacy surrounding my father.” She stood up and walked over to me.
“Huh?”
“You know, the role of the paternal in the formulation of an adolescent’s psyche is one of the most critical components to healthy childhood development,” she said. “It’s in all the research. Mind if I sit?”
“’Scuse me?”
She scooched me off the couch. We had traded places—I was now in the chair.
“You know, Bobby, you’re the only one who takes me seriously on this campus. Every other kid I see thinks I am a joke.”
Dr. Cox reclined.
“Of course my dad wasn’t good with intimacy.” With her head back, she looked up at the ceiling. “I never remember him hugging me, you know? Like really hugging me.”
For the next forty-five minutes Dr. Cox blabbered on about her feelings of insecurity, about how she always just wanted male approval in her life and about a rocking horse that had really traumatized her when she was in middle school. I had no idea what she was talking about.
But the longer she talked, the worse she got.
“And then,” she said with tears streaming down her face, “after all that, I still didn’t get the yellow doll. Can you believe that? How could they not get me the yellow doll? Didn’t they know how much the yellow doll meant to me?”
It took her three full boxes of tissues before she finally told me I could leave her office. As soon as she wrote me out a hall pass on official school stationery, I was gone.
I caught up with Allison just before the bell to begin fifth period was about to ring.
“Hi-hi,” I said.
“What, Bobby?” Allison replied.
No hi-hi, I thought. Oh boy, she was mad.
“What?” she repeated.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“No, we don’t, Bobby. We don’t need to talk at all. Ever.”
Allison walked away. Suddenly, I felt a chin rest itself on my shoulder.
“Oh, the tiny little cream cookie is gonna be saying gobble, gobble, gobble in no time at all. Ya got her right where you want her, Bobby boy. Right where you want her.”
“Shut up, Finkelstein,” I said, pushing him away. I dashed off to catch back up to Allison.
“Allison, wait,” I said. “Don’t be mad. I’m not going with Jenny to the dance. I swear, I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not,” she replied.
“But Finkelstein was just making that stuff up so that—”
“That’s not why I’m mad, Bobby,” she said, spinning around to face me. “I’m mad because you stole the tickets.”
“Stole the tickets? I didn’t steal the tickets. I—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Bobby.” She walked off again.
“But Allison,” I pleaded, chasing after her. “You don’t understand—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Bobby. My dad knows it was you.”
“But Finkelstein and my sister—”
“Bobby!” Her cheeks were red hot. “Just answer one question: Did you or did you not take two tickets from the green envelope when you were at my house yesterday?”
“You don’t understand, I . . .”
“It’s a yes or no question, Bobby,” she said. “When you were at my house yesterday—I don’t even know why I’m asking ’cause all the tickets are numbered and my dad knows who bought which ones anyway, but humor me—did you or did you not go into the green envelope?”
“But I . . .”
“No buts, Bobby. Yes or no?”
“But you see, I . . .”
“Yes or no, Bobby?” She put her hands on her hips. “Did you or did you not go into the green envelope?”
I stood there like a block of wood.
“Yes or no?”
Her eyes were laser beams. There was a long silence.
“Yes,” I said softly, lowering my head.
“I thought I could trust you,” she replied. The words practically burned a hole through my heart. “Good-bye.”
“But—”
“Good-bye!” she repeated. “And don’t ever talk to me again.”
She stormed off. Finkelstein approached a second later.
“Worked like a charm, right, Bobby boy?” he said with a big, goofy grin. “The lil’ coffee cup just needs a few vanilla beans and then—”
“Leave me alone, Finkelstein.” I slowly shuffled away.
“Aw, don’t be like that, Bobby,” Finkelstein said, catching up. “It’s all going perfect according to the master plan.”
“Shut up, Finkelstein.”
“Hey, bro,” he said. “You just need some faith that the jelly jam you’re planning for the toast parade is—”
“I mean it!” I said. “Shut up! You’re an idiot, you know that? A total and complete idiot.”
“He-hurrgh, He-hurrgh.”
“I’m being serious, Finkelstein.” My anger grew. “Look at you. You’re a bozo. And you do nothing but annoy the crap out of me,” I said. “Really, you do. You’re like a genuine loser in life and the truth is, I wish you would just leave me alone.”
His shoulders sank and the grin disappeared from his face.
“Stay out of my life, okay? We’re not friends. We’re not buddies. We’re not nothing,” I said. “I mean, how in the world can I make this more clear to you?” I leaned in close. “You’re a moron. Stay away,” I said. “Just stay one hundred percent away!”
The bell rang. Next period for me? Math class, of course.
I left Finkelstein in the middle of the hall. After a deep breath, I opened the door to class and slipped quietly into my assigned seat.
“Take out a pencil,” Sheriff Mustache ordered all of his students. “Time for the Friday quiz.”
Sheriff Mustache walked up and down the aisles handing each student a test. I looked at Allison. I’m sure she felt my eyes on her, but she didn’t turn around. When Sheriff Mustache finally got to me, he put a piece of paper facedown on my desk, but instead of walking on, he stopped.
“You have some nerve, Bobby,” he said in a low, deep voice. “You know that? Some incredible nerve.”
20
I sat at the kitchen table making train tracks in my mashed potat
oes with my fork. I hadn’t eaten a thing. Hadn’t even sipped my milk.
Behind me, dancing around in the brand-new yellow dress my mother had just bought her, was Hill.
“Can I just say how excited I am to meet my Secret Someone? Like, wow!” She twirled around.
“Yeah,” I said. “Bet he’s gonna be just gorgeous.”
“Shut up, Bobby,” Hill snapped. “What do you know?”
“Dots and stripes,” I said under my breath.
“What?”
“Nothin’,” I said. “Nothin’.”
Boy, was she in for a letdown. I pulled an envelope from my backpack.
“Just give this to Allison for me, okay?” I said, holding out the envelope for Hill to take.
“Who’s Allison?”
“She’s that new math teacher’s daughter.” I’d heard Jamie Parker tell Bonnie Johnson that Allison’s father was making her go to the Big Dance even though she didn’t want to. Sheriff Mustache had to be there to chaperone, so Allison was going whether she wanted to or not.
“Just do it, okay?”
She took the envelope and thoughtlessly shoved it into her purse.
“Whatever,” she said.
I brought my plate into the kitchen, scraped the uneaten chow into the garbage, then headed for my room. On my way back through the living room, my dad shook his head in a “tsk-tsk” type of way.
“What?” my mom said to him.
“Second-class folks chasing first-class goods,” he replied, looking at me. “It’ll break your heart every time.”
“Excuse me?” Mom was lost.
“Nothing, honey,” Dad answered. “Just remembering the reason I married you, dear, that’s all.”
Dad smiled.
“And why’s that?” Mom asked, putting her hands on her hips.
“Because we’re right for each other, honey. You and I are right for each other.”
Mom grinned and gave him a little peck on the cheek. Dad then winked at me.
What a jerk. My whole stupid life was filled with jerks.
Suddenly, a car horn beeped outside. One of Hill’s eighth grade friends, Zoe Elkins, had come to pick her up for the giant event. Hill practically glowed from the idea of getting her old life, and her old friends, back. At least for a night.
“Bye, Mom,” Hill shouted as she grabbed her purse. The door slammed. Hill was on her way to the Big Dance.
And I wasn’t.
I looked at my dad one more time. He shook his head and gave me an “I told you so” look.
And who doesn’t love getting those? I went to my room, shoulders slumped.
When I opened my bedroom door, my grandfather was standing stark naked in front of the window. His wrinkled, flabby butt stared at me.
“What are you doing?” I exclaimed.
“Ventilating,” Gramps replied, turning around.
I quickly covered my eyes before I saw his willy. The last thing I needed right then was a full frontal view of my three-hundred-year-old grandfather’s overripe banana.
“It’s good to get some fresh air on your weenie every once in a while,” he said to me. “Besides, Mr. Friendly enjoys the great outdoors.”
“For goodness’ sake, put on some clothes, will ya, Gramps?”
“All right, all right.” He reached for his underwear, a pair of tighty-whities that were torn at the waist. When I get to be a crazy old man, I hope someone just shoots me.
“Why do you always have to do this freaky stuff in my room?”
“Well, you’re in some mood, huh?” he asked. “This got something to do with that hot little tamale your dad said just dumped you?”
“She wasn’t a tamale. She was a person!” I snapped. “A nice person that I really, really liked and now she hates me, okay? Jeez, people aren’t food, ya know, Gramps!”
I crossed the room and slammed my window closed. I was sick and tired of my grandfather always being such a . . . I don’t know.
Such a putz!
“But how would you know about that anyway?” I continued. “I mean, you’re pathetic. To you, people are tamales or tomatoes or whatever other stupid food things you call them. But I cared about Allison and now I blew it. I totally blew it and I lost her.”
I threw my curtains closed.
“And that sucks. To me, that really, really sucks!”
I waited for a smart-aleck response. I was sure he’d have some stupid, offensive or insulting thing to say. But instead of responding with a wisecrack, Gramps got quiet, and it was a long moment before he spoke.
“She kicked me out.”
“What?” I said. “What are you talking about? Who?”
“Your grandmother,” he said, slumping into a chair. “She kicked me out.”
When Grandpa Ralph looked up at me, his eyes were bloodshot.
“I’m not here for a few more days, Bobby,” Gramps admitted. “I got nowhere to go.” He sniffled. “You think you blew it? I’m the one who blew it. I screwed things up with the most important person in my life, the person I just spent the past fifty-four years with.”
He ran his fingers through his uncombed hair.
“I guess she finally got sick and tired of me acting like a jackass, flirting with all the young girls, making stupid comments every chance I got, stuff like that,” he said. “So she gave me the boot. And can you blame her? Can you really blame her?”
A tear fell from his eye.
“She was my dream girl,” he said. “She was the honest-to-goodness best thing that ever happened to me. And I took her for granted. Acted like an idiot. And I lost her. I lost her, Bobby.”
He started to cry. Really cry. I stared at him, not knowing what to say.
“You know, you’re right, I am pathetic,” he said. “I’m nothing but a pathetic, sad old man. A fool.”
Gramps sat there weeping in the chair. I’d never seen him like this before. I had never once seen him act like, well . . . like a real person with feelings.
He sniffled some more. As he hunched over, I noticed, for the first time, how much he and my father looked alike.
I mean they really looked alike. The way their eyes were set. The way their foreheads sloped. The size of their noses.
I looked in the mirror and saw how I kind of looked like them, too. People had always said so my whole life. All three of us had the same dimpled chin.
“Get up, Gramps,” I said, grabbing him under the arm.
“Why?”
“Because you gotta go get her,” I said.
He pulled his arm away. “Forget it, Bobby. She’s gone.”
“She’s not gone, Gramps,” I said. “And neither is Allison. Together, we’re gonna go win back our girls. Come on, stand up.”
“Go without me, Bobby. My chance is gone,” Gramps said. “I’m just gonna sit here and blow farts till they throw me in an old persons’ home and feed me Jell-O.”
“Stop talking like that,” I said, trying to lift him up again. “We’re going. Now!”
“What the hell has gotten into you?” he asked.
“My father,” I said.
Gramps wrinkled his forehead, not understanding.
“I never want to be like him,” I answered. “And really, Gramps, neither do you.”
He thought about it. Suddenly, I saw a light in his eyes.
“You know what? You’re right. Pass me some underwear, Bobby,” he ordered as he rose to his feet. “Let’s do it!”
“Um, Gramps,” I said. “You’re already wearing underwear.”
“I know.” He crossed the room and opened my drawer. “But I like to double up and yours provides good support for Mr. Dongster.”
He put a pair of my undies on over the ones he was already wearing.
“You’ve been wearing my underwear?”
“Not on the outside,” Gramps answered. “Usually I wear them on the inside, but I figure we’re in a rush, so I’m trying to dress quickly.”
Uggh. He readju
sted my tighty-whities.
“Best thing about ’em,” he said, “is that when I’m done, I just throw ’em right back in the drawer. Cuts down on the laundry for your mother that way.”
“Okay,” I said. “Freaking out over here.”
“So tell me,” Gramps said, hoisting up his pants. “What’s the plan?”
“Can you drive?” I asked.
“I lost my license seventeen years ago for running a red light.”
“They take away your license for running red lights?” I asked.
“They do when you’re going a hundred and seventeen miles per hour down the sidewalk,” he answered. “I’m not so good in traffic,” he confessed.
Hmm. I thought about it for a sec. “But you can drive without killing us, right?”
“You mean, if I had a car, could I drive without killing us? Yeah, I think so,” he answered.
Two minutes later Gramps and I were standing in front of my father. “Dad,” I said. “We need the car.”
“No chance,” he answered. “Move. I can’t see the TV.” Some stupid bowling championship had him riveted. “This guy’s only two strikes away from a three hundred.”
“A perfect game?” said Mom as she folded a load of towels on the couch. Though she’d been sitting in the room, she hadn’t really been paying attention to the TV.
“But Dad . . . ,” I said.
“No way, Bobby,” he replied. “And don’t try to negotiate with me, either. I’m not in the mood.”
“Phillip,” Gramps said in a firm, fatherly tone. “You can either give me the car keys or you can have your son watch me kick your little ass.”
“Gramps, please don’t use the A-word,” Mom said.
“Eat a lemon, Ilene!” Gramps snapped. “It’s crazy the way you two are raisin’ these kids. Now gimme the keys, Phillip, before I lay some thunder on ya.”
“Calm down, Pop.”
Gramps started rolling up his sleeves. “Ya know, it’s been a few years since I dropped a man, but I betcha I can still whup your wussy little butt. You always were one of those mousy, whiny twit kids, anyway.”