I hold my finger against Stevie’s doorbell, and when Mrs. Jenkiss finally answers, by snatching the door open and staring at me as if I have two heads, I immediately hold up my hand.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just itching to see Stevie. He in?”
She continues to dry her hands with a kitchen towel, before nodding her head toward the stairs. When she does, I run up them, two at a time, and push my way into Stevie’s bedroom before closing the door tight behind me and standing with my back to it.
“Duuude,” I whisper.
‘“What the fuck man?” he mouths back.
“I did Decker.”
“You what?”
“We did it. The whole thing.”
“You fucked Decker?” he loudly whispers.
“Shhhh... shhh, man. Yeah. I fucked Decker.”
Stevie coughs and sneezes into his elbow before getting to his feet.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“What was it like, man? Ya know... I obviously know what it’s like to fuck, but what’s it like to fuck somebody so much older?”
“She was totally experienced, dude. She knew what she was doing. She bent herself over the desk, man, told me to just get right up inside her and to keep pumping. So I did.”
We do our handshake thing, and with huge smiles plastered across both our faces, then we sit down and reach for the Nintendo controllers.
“Imagine, dude,” he says, “if you and me can fuck all the hottest chicks in school as well as one of the teachers, imagine the damage we are gonna do in London and Paris and wherever else it is we’re going….”
“European pus-say,” I say, cupping my mouth and pretending to shout.
“European pus-say,” Stevie says, doing the exact same thing.
Then I press at the red button and we begin our game.
MERIC MILLER
There weren’t many bills in Momma’s oversized pink purse when I looked through it while she slept. Three ten dollar bills and a few loose quarters. I couldn’t take that. She’d definitely notice it missing ’cause it’s such a low amount. So here I am, biking round Esbon, wondering how the hell I’m gonna get my hands on a hundurd bucks so I can take it to that crazy-ass psycho psychic bitch before Caoimhe’s reading tomorrow night.
I decide to wait across the street from the bank that Madam Aspectu’s tent is set up behind. She’s in there already. Cos when I rode round the back earlier and somebody pulled back the curtain, I saw her with her wig on, sitting at the table, smoke rising behind her.
A man stops at the cash machine, sticks his card into the slot and waits. So, I wait too. And as I do, I measure him up inside my head and realize he’s prolly only the same height as me, but he’s not worth robbing. He could beat me up. Easily. Would prolly even call the cops. Then I’d end up arrested and in a shit load of trouble. So, I stare through my hair up and down the street to see if anybody much weaker than him might come by to pick up some money from the cash machine.
I’m nervous. But I’m also kinda excited. Because if Madam Aspectu tells Caoimhe that she’s already found the right guy, then I’m officially gonna have a girlfriend. And a really pretty Irish one, too. This is prolly the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in my life. Either this or the time Mom bought me this bike for my birthday five years ago. She says I was old enough for a big gift that year ’cause I had finally reached double digits. I’m also excited ’cause Caoimhe came down to my newspaper office yesterday, even if she didn’t say much while she was down there. But she still looked pretty. And she still took the time to come see me. I was pretty weirded out by the fact that she didn’t really wanna read my newspaper, though. She looked at it, definitely looked at it, then nodded her head, before she tried to hand it back to me. I told her to hold on to it, and she stuffed it into her bag. But I bet she didn’t read it. She prolly threw it in the trash can as soon as she got outside. What weirded me out even more was that, when I asked her to be in the newspaper next week, she shook her head and said, “No way.” She had no interest. Why would somebody have no interest in being in a newspaper? That doesn’t make any sense. Maybe when she gets to know me better and we officially become boyfriend and girlfriend she’ll agree to be in it. I’ll write a great article about her. Take a picture of her beautiful smile and put it on the front page.
As I’m daydreaming about her orange-and-gold hair, two old ladies approach the cash machine. Perfect. They take forever pushing the buttons to get their cash out, prolly ’cause they’re both in their seventies or maybe even their eighties. When I finally see them leaving to walk t’wards the town, I throw my leg over my bike and begin to slowly pedal after them. The woman with the hat on folds the bills she got from the machine into her wallet, then places her wallet into her side coat pocket.
When they turn onto a quiet street that leads to the town, I pick up my pace. I try not to make any noise, but the squeaking wheels on my bike don’t really care. I skid the bike to the ground behind them, then grab her, the one with the hat, around the neck, while I reach inside her pocket with my other hand.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I never do anything like this, but I need this money... I just need it.”
They both gasp and the one with the hat begins to shake while I still have a hold of her.
I let go, then open the wallet, to see that she has lots of bills inside it. Then I remove five twenties before throwing the purse back at her.
“Sorry, this is all I need. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I say as I pick my bike back up and begin to pedal away as fast as I can.
After a few minutes of riding around the dirt roads, I find myself at the back of the bank again. I look up and down the quiet street, drop my bike to the grass, then jog toward the curtains.
“I’ve got the hundurd bucks,” I say, sweeping the curtain aside.
“Ahhh... thought I’d see you today, boy. Your little Irish girl has a booking with me tomorrow night.”
She snatches the bills from my hand, then stares up at me with her black eyes. She’s such a freak. But she’s a freak who’s going to help a pretty girl fall in love with me.
“So… you want me to tell her she has already found the right one, that right, boy?”
“Yep,” I say, nodding. “And tell her she has to give him time… that it’s her job to bring him out of his shell, okay?”
“You got it, boy,” she says. Then she opens up a small box that she took from under her table and tosses the bills inside it before slapping the lid back closed. “You ah… you told me when you first came to me and gave seven dollars and two candy wrappers that your name is Miller, boy, that right?”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“From Lebanon?”
“Uh-huh. How’d you know where I’m from?” I ask her.
“Says so here in ma crystal ball.”
“What?”
“Says your Momma’s name begins with an A, that right?”
“Abigail. Yeah. Really?”
I take one step forward so I can stare into the ball on her table. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for; all’s I can see is a funny reflection of my own nose.
“Ma ball is saying you should visit Bloom Avenue in Smith Center.”
“What? Bloom Avenue in Smith Center?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“That’s all, boy…” she says, tapping her long fingernail against the small chalkboard on her table. “Reading is over. It’s forty dollars if you want more. I just gave you a little free sample ’cause you gave me the hundred bucks.”
“Bloom Avenue in Smith Center? But… what the hell does that mean?”
“Ma ball just said that’s where you should visit.”
She shrugs, then holds out her hand.
“I don’t got no more money,” I say.
“Well, in that case I can’t tell no more details, boy.”
I scratch my head.
“Well�
�� you know what to say to Caoimhe, right?” I say, pointing at her.
“Don’t worry, boy. When that girl leaves here tomorrow night, I’ll make sure she is going to fall head over heels in love with you.”
I brush my hair away from my eyes and smile at Aspectu. Then I turn around, sweeping her curtain open before jogging across the grass.
“What the hell does she mean by Bloom Avenue?” I say to myself as I throw my leg over my bike.
CAOIMHE LARKIN
We hold hands, as if we’re madly in love, while we continue to walk a long — very long — dirt road that leads us out of my new hometown. Kai lives out a fair bit; about two kilometers north of Lebanon; further up north than the center monument.
“You sure you’re comfortable doing this?” I ask Wendy.
“Of course. It’s what he needs, isn’t it? In fact the reason he prolly tried to kill himself is ’cause nobody ever visited his house before. Shit. I don’t think I ever saw Kai even talking to another person at school cept that pretty little cousin of his. Kai has no friends. We can be his friends now.”
I grip her fingers even tighter, because I’ve never heard anybody talk like this before. I’m beginning to feel as if I’ll never have a better friend than Wendy Campbell. I mean, Debra and Elaine back home were cool best friends and all. And I still love them to bits. But Wendy is somethin’ else. This girl was literally told yesterday that her Mam only has days left to live, and yet here she is thinking about somebody else already.
“I love America,” I say to her.
“You love America, girl? You sure?”
“It’s just... I mean, where in the world would I ever meet a girl like you, Wendy? Where else would I meet somebody like Kai? I don’t even know him yet... but already... he’s… he’s... I dunno. It’s like he’s already had an impact on my life. I’ve never known anything like the madness I’ve lived through these past few weeks. I just love how different everybody is. A Black girl. A Native American guy. I’ve got classes with two dumb jocks who are like real-life versions of Beavis and Butthead. Teachers who are funny and cool. America is… well, it’s like every single person is unique, isn’t it? In Ireland everybody’s the same. We’re all white. We’re all Catholics. We all go to the local pub every weekend for a sing-along. S’like we’re all clones of each other. Sure, even when Irish folk go on holiday, all we do is find other Irish people so we can all go to an Irish pub together where we can sing Irish songs. Ballymun in the sun, me Dad used to call those holidays. I guess he’s right. I love Ireland and all... it’s just, I’m finally starting to feel excited about living in America... about living here in Lebanon. I’m falling in love with it. I’m falling in love with the people round here. Especially you.”
She lets go of my hand and turns to face me.
“Your eyes are getting all wet, girl,” she says, patting at my cheeks with the cuffs of her sleeve. And then she turns back around and we continue to walk up the thin dirt road we seem to have been walking up for ages now.
“I hated it at first,” I say. And when she turns to look at me again, I just continue, “being here. Really hated it. I mean, I knew I was in the middle of America, but it seemed to me as if I was in the middle of nowhere. But it’s not the middle of nowhere. It’s the middle of everywhere. Does that make sense? I think I’ve done more growing up in these past few weeks than I ever remember doing in all my fifteen years before.”
“Sixteen soon,” Wendy says.
“Yep. Sweet sixteen,” I say.
“Your Poppa take you lookin’ for cars yet?”
“We’re doing that next weekend,” I tell her.
And then she screeches a high-pitched scream from the back of her throat and lets go of my hand so she can clap both of hers together really quietly.
“Girl, when you have a car we can drive to Smith Center all the time. We can even go to Wichita. That’s the nearest big city.”
“Wichita? How far is that away?”
“Three hours.”
“Three hours?” I say, almost as high-pitched as Wendy’s screech was. “That’s like driving the whole length of Ireland.”
When Wendy stops giggling, she stretches her finger to point through the bare branches of the trees, to a chimney in the distance puffing out clouds of smoke.
“That’s Kai’s house there,” she says.
And then she re-grabs my hand and we continue up the narrow dirt road toward the smoke.
“I’m nervous about this,” I say. “Are you?”
LUCY DECKER
I fold up another tissue and dab my eyes before swiping it across my nose. Then I toss it onto the carpet — on top of the heap of tissues already forming a mound down there — as I lay my head back down on the sofa cushion.
I’ve felt down before. Depressed before. But I’ve never cried uncontrollably because the pain of the depression was physically hurting me like it is now. The worst thing is that I know the depression has gotten this painful because I’m mostly feeling sorry for myself. I’m all me, me, me. I’ve been wrestling with the fact that I am the arrogant leftie Johnny told me I am. He’s absolutely right. Us liberals are arrogant fuckers. Of all the things going wrong in the world right now, all I seem to be able to think about is myself. I’m feeling sorry for myself because I can’t get pregnant; I’m feeling sorry for myself because I can’t afford the money it would take to get pregnant; I’m feeling sorry for myself because I didn’t realize a student of mine who sits in front of me two days a week has been having suicidal thoughts; I’m feeling sorry for myself because all I do is teach when my life promised so much more when I was younger. It’s all me, me, me. Suffocatingly and depressingly so. I’m also feeling bad about how I handled Brody yesterday. That was out of order. In all my years of teaching I have never done that to a student. My face was purple with rage. I could actually feel the veins throbbing in my neck as I roared and screamed at him. My spit actually sprayed his face as he sat there blinking at me, in total shock that I could rant and rave as much as I did. He just flipped a switch in me that was begging to be flicked. I’ve had students flirt with me before. But none have blatantly come on to me like Brody did yesterday. My impatience, coupled with my depression, just finally erupted. I let him have it. Both barrels. I scolded him like I’ve never scolded any student in all my years of teaching.
“If you ever say anything like that to me again, young man,” I spat, “I will be calling your mother up here and telling her exactly what you have been saying to me.”
He looked like a lost puppy, sitting all stiff while I sprayed his face. Then I just pointed to my door and he got the message that it was time for him to leave. After I calmed down, I immediately started feeling sorry for myself that I ranted and raved so much. Brody’s only a kid. I shouldn’t have got so angry. I shouldn’t have taken all of my rage out on him.
“Ugggh,” I say, balling my fists as the anger erupts within me again. I hate being this fucking sad. In fact, sad is the wrong word to describe me right now. I’m pathetic. Pa. Thet. Ic. Especially when I have so much I should be looking forward to. Who wouldn’t want to be heading to Europe to see three of the most fabulous cities this world has to offer in just two weeks’ time?
Maybe being in Europe will offer me the ideal opportunity to do something I swore I’d never do. Mia is right. I should just screw somebody; let them do me the way every man wants to do a woman and then hopefully I’ll get lucky and my egg will hatch. I could do with a good fuck anyway. I don’t know how long it’s been. Too many months to count. Too many months that I should no longer be counting in months, but in years. Well… one year and then some months, I guess. A fuck would actually be quite nice. I imagine myself being taken by a faceless French man; me bent over a bed and him slapping his hips against my stretchmarked ass. And then the thoughts of an orgasm suddenly makes the weight of my depression lift a little and I think about taking out my vibrator that may or may not have working batteries inside it because
I genuinely can’t remember the last time I used it.
“Fuck it,” I say to myself. Then I heave myself up from the sofa and head down my narrow hallway so I can go look under my bed for my pink vibrator. I’m down on my hands on knees, patting the dark carpet under the bed when the doorbell rings, startling me.
“Shit,” I whisper, slapping my hand off the carpet. Then I tut before making my way to the door and snatching it open.
“Hey,” Zachary says, grinning at me. What the hell is he doing here? He has never knocked on this door before. He leans against the doorframe and grins up at me. “I uh… I hear you’re trying to get pregnant,” he says.
KAI CHAYTON
I stare at the gorgeous yellow dress I bought two weeks ago as it hangs in my closet. It feels so weird that I almost hung myself while I was wearing it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve tried to think my hanging through lots and lots and lots over the past few days, but I can’t seem to get my head into the same space it must have been in that day. I mean, I’m still down. Still hurt. Still an absolute mess of a human being. But I feel like such a weight has lifted from my shoulders ever since I told Momma and Poppa that I wanted to be a girl. In fact the weight has lifted so much that there’s no way I’d wanna kill myself now. I see a full life ahead. A full life of me being who I am meant to be.
I think I’m gonna keep my same name. Momma and Poppa would appreciate it and nobody would have to get used to calling me anything different. Kai is a unisex name, anyway. But aside from that, everything else is gonna change. Especially this closet. Which is why I have it open right now and am staring at the shitty black and navy blue T-shirts I’ve worn ever since I can remember.
Momma said she’s gonna have to take time to get used to everything. But Poppa… well, he hasn’t really spoken to me since I came out to him. The only noise he has made around the house is to breathe in and out really loudly through his nose. I feel sorry for him. I do. I know he’s hurt by this. Deeply hurt. But he’ll come to terms with it. He’ll have to.
In The Middle of Middle America Page 20
