by Moe Bonneau
Thumb War
Next morning my apple-Jacks and I peel ourselves off my TV room couch and stroll into the diner and who else but the flesh-and-bones Ms. Ancient History is sitting with the Pretty Pennies in a shiny orange-and-blue plastic booth. We pass their table and smile hellos and Eve holds my gaze a little bit long. Our crowds are universes apart. They are queens of the hive. We are ants. They are honey. We are not impressed. But we are.
The Cats sit in the booth behind theirs and scat and laugh too loud. After ice cream sundaes shaped like clown faces, I can’t help myself—I turn around and pull Ms. Ancient History’s curlicue hair. She swivels and I look away and scheme it wasn’t me. She whistles, poorly, as she drops an ice cube down the back of my shirt and I yelp and grab for it as it runs down my back and into my skinnies. She’s cracking up and me, I’m a soaking mess.
“It’s on,” I challenge. “One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war.”
“Five, six, seven, eight, try to keep your thumb straight.” She grabs hold of my hand.
“Nine, ten, let’s begin.”
I win, but only after we establish there’s no “snake in the grass” or “tag team” schemer tactics allowed. Eve’s got an advantage, as her thumbs are oddly flexible and I suspect, double-jointed. But I talk massive trash and she laughs. BAM! She’s pinned. I win. She is Sore Thumb Loser.
“You’re all thumbs, Brooks,” I laugh.
She tells me about a toaster going hit tonight. “In the woods,” she says. “Under Suicide Bridge, by the lake, nine p.m. You Jacks should be in.” And we shake on it and agree to a rematch. The Pretty Pennies stand and throw their tip of crumpled dollars on the table and we watch as they sway and shimmy out the large swinging door.
I turn back to the Cats and see in their expressions that I’m a traitor, a treasonous double agent. They give me massive stink eye, but I also know Zoë and Maya are squirming with excitement.
“Word, so we scrounge up some sleeping bags and brew.” Zoë grins and we are heads down in super-stealth planning mode.
“Yo, Drug-Free,” I poke at Maya. “Got any ideas?” And we’re all cracking up, balance restored. As we talk, I picture my retro Ninja Turtles sleeping bag and know Eve will be hit for it. I can’t wait.
* * *
While loitering at Maya’s criminal cousin’s ramshackle trailer, hoping to score some tars and sauce, I get a buzz from Dad saying Oma’s okay. Which is weird ’cause I didn’t know she maybe wasn’t. I dial Miles, then Dad, to no avail. Finally I get Auntie Kay on the line and she says things like unexplained bleeding, needles, transfusions. I get a little woozy, my neck prickling and chilled. She says they’re hiring a nurse to camp at Oma’s place overnight, maybe for the rest of the week. Just in case. But, really, she’s fine.
“Sounds serious,” Zoë says, shaking her head at Maya, who’s shamelessly flirting up her hillbilly blood relation in the glare of the Chariot’s headlights. “All that blood.”
I shiver. “Y’think? But my aunt says she’s okay.”
Zoë shrugs. “You’re the one wants to be a doctor.”
“A surgeon, dummy.”
“What, surgeons don’t see blood?”
I shiver again.
“Blood.” Zoë grins and I punch her in the arm. She laughs, rubbing at where I socked her. But then she says, “Y’know, we don’t have to toast tonight, if you’re not feeling it. I’d get that.”
“Naw,” I say after a bit. “Oma’s a hard nut. I’ll go scope her tomorrow. Plus, Kay said she’s gonna be fine. Right now I just wanna get sauced with my apple-Jacks.”
“Word, Jack.”
Booze Pirates
We’re standing around a bonfire: the Stray Cats, the Hit-Jacks, the Stranger-Jacks, the Massive Flap-Jacks, the Pretty Pennies, and their Gaggle of Doting Minions.
Maya’s massive flip, acting the odd man out. Zoë and I manage to keep our wits about us and are having a grand ole time. We socialize, we mingle. We’re super switch. We’re also far, far more sauced.
Maya shivers and whines. “Let’s jetset,” she says. And, “I’m freezing.”
I say, “All right, clash-Jacks, who stole my left shoe?”
Zoë and I pilfer brews from large, manly coolers. And I find her, Ms. Ancient History Sore Thumb Loser, and amble over, walking a crooked line. I gift her one of my schemed brews and Nate Gray’s by her side, giving me a warm-as-peach-pie smile. I smile, too, but only with my eyes.
He says, “Lucy Butler, that’s so switch of you to gift Eve your brew.” I shrug and with a shifty grin hide my other full brew in my zip-up hoodie pouch.
“Look, Mom, no tars,” I announce to Eve, holding up my empty mitts.
“Beatstreet.” She grins but then Nate is leaping aloft to snag an errant football lobbed over the fire, hard-bumping into Eve, who shrieks, her brew slipping from her hand and into the dirt. She moans, head back, and I lean over to scoop it up and then she’s close, by my side, her warm, boozy breath in my ear. “Gotta pee,” she says, so we heel it to the edge of the clearing, her warm hand yanking mine.
I crack open my brew and chug as I pee.
“Pesky Bug, can’t you wait until you’re done?” she scolds, steadying her sauced self on a tree trunk.
“It’s so flip,” I say. “It’s, like, in one end, out the other.”
“Crank!” she hoots as she’s zipping her fly, tipping over laughing like it’s the riotest thing she’s ever heard. I catch her, but fall, too—two loose screws and she’s grabbing my wrist and doesn’t let go and we’re ass-down in the twigs and leaves. Then there’s a snap-crack in the woods and we freeze, holding our breaths. We wait. “BTs!” she hisses.
“What?”
“BTs! Bathroom Trolls! We’re the BTs of Suicide Bridge!” she yells and we’re cracking up massive and I can smell her hair and it’s like oranges and ginger and clove. We’re still hysterical as we return to the fire too soon and I linger, swaying, as she resumes her position at Nate’s side and he pulls her in, wrapping ape-long arms around her from behind and she is His Betty. Nate’s Girl. If it’s possible, I’m liking him less.
Zoë comes by, tugging me by my sleeve, and I hold up peace sign digits and Eve laughs, rosy cheeks all aglow. “I know, I know,” she says. “Rinse and then do it again,” and I give her a wink and a nod and heel it away. Zo and I slink off in search of more coolers and are booze pirates once more, Yo ho!
* * *
Eve never does see my Ninja Turtles sleeping bag. She heels it in a dark moment through the trees and shrubs with Nate I’d-Never-Cheat-on-You-Baby Gray and Zoë and I squeeze into my sleeping bag in a tent with six other flap-Jacks and our group is like sardines in a can, stench included. Maya’s long gone many hours past. We’re not sure how or with whom.
Night is short, and in the morning as we break down the tent Eve’s flap-Jacks are all, “Next weekend. Same time, different place. Clay Beach, Green Lake,” and the Pennies draw a rough map with a crayon from the floor of their massive swank whip, bumpy red lines indicating a turn here, a tree there, a large circle for the lake and a smaller one for the brewkeg. The brunette pours it on thick as molasses seeing as I didn’t spill beans on her and Nate. Zoë and I smile and fool with them a bit before heeling it to suck down pancakes and bacon at the diner to jive stories of the sauced things we did the night before.
“They’re not such clash cogs after all,” Zoë says as she pulls into my drive. “They’re actually sorta hit.”
“I’m not quite final sale on that,” I say. “But they’re kill to toast with.”
“Word,” she says, looking at me. “So what’s the beat with Eve Brooks? Are you Jacks hit again?”
I shrug. “I suppose we sort of are.”
“Word. I was just wondering. Not that you need my permission, obviously. I just thought it seemed massive random. She certainly seemed happy to see your ugly mug last night.”
I laugh. “I guess I just like giving her a hard time. S
he’s beat, y’know? Different from the rest.”
“Well, I’m not quite final sale on that. But I’ll take your word on it.”
She cuts the engine and sighs and I think maybe she’s a wee bit steamed. I fidget in my seat, watch a wild cotton-tailed bunny dash across the neighbor’s front lawn next door.
“Y’know,” she lays in. “Nate Gray is massive cheating on her. Maya heard it a while back and then last night there were some flap-Jacks scatting it up. You should probably spill it to her. Now that you’re bestest apple-Jacks again.”
I let her snark slide, not wanting to get into it. Or worse, give myself away.
“Maybe.”
I open the door and Zoë’s rubbing her sleepy-eyed mug, giving me the once-over. “She’s getting massive skinny, too, don’t you think? I thought maybe she was yakking up her food but everyone says she just doesn’t eat.” I just nod, snagging my sleeping bag from the back and sliding out.
Halfway up the back stairs I remember to wave goodbye, but when I turn, Zoë’s whip is already gone.
I drag my bones up to the back porch and I see through the glass that Dad is hunched over a bagel and a cuppa joe at the kitchen island and there’s nowhere to go but in.
“Guten Morgen, mein Vater,” I say, pulling on a half grin and plopping my Ninja Turtles bag down onto the counter.
He scans me like an X-ray. “Lookin’ a little rough there, camper.”
I shrug. “What can I say, it was in-tents.”
“That’s my joke.” He smiles. I snag half a bagel off his plate and jam it in my mouth. “So, your Oma,” he says.
“I know. I talked to Auntie Kay. I was thinking I could heel it on over there later, bring her some ice-cold double chocolate crunch.” Though the thought of doing so makes me a bit queasy.
He nods. “We’ll see. She needs to rest right now. We all just need to rest.”
“Word,” I say and look at my dad, notice how disheveled he is—his threads wrinkled, tie on crooked, a small red stain on the cuff of his shirtsleeve. I shiver, wonder whose it is. “Lots of parties these days, kiddo,” he sighs. “Miles said he found some beer cans in the woods.”
“Little Trashrat,” I groan. “Those are for sure his, Dad. Don’t let him fool you.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Just…” He trails off as a buzz on his speak comes in.
“Just?” I say.
“Just can it.”
“Haha. Can it?” But Dad is clicking away, lost to the void. I see my window and make a stealthy escape, relieved I’m not busted, and head upstairs, my soft cushy cloud bed beckoning. I heel it by Miles’s door and chuck my sleeping bag at his head and feel a wee twinge of regret when he wakes with a frightened squeal.
“Narc,” I say half-heartedly and schlep off down the hall to sleep for the next two billion years.
On the Verge
I’m completely caught in the middle. Slow and coma all day, I’m on the verge of total mind melt, lying like a useless sack of meat in my bed. Eli buzzes and says he misses me and we should get into it again. I lie in bed and think about buzzing him back, telling him I’ll heel it on over and we can drag tars and swap spit in his dingy den and maybe together find some of that powdered white slip. It would be so easy. Too easy. I could even have sex with him again, I guess. It’s basically all I can think about, sex. But not with Eli.
Eve is no longer Ancient History.
I let thoughts of her creep and spread through me, my new Never-Ending Pending, my mind on her like flame on spilt gasoline. I think about her hand around my wrist. And her perfume. And her lips. I think about her crank heart-Jack. And her hand. And her lips.
I think about what the soft warmth of her skin would feel like pressed against mine, sliding against me, pushing, in my mouth. How she would taste. I think about her fingers on my back, gripping me, pulling. And her hand. And her lips.
I worry about Oma. And then switch back to brooding over Eve. I half consider dishing everything to Maya, feeling I might burst if I keep it all inside. I think maybe she’d listen and keep the Eve stuff on the DL and I even buzz her What’s fresh, Drug-Free? but she doesn’t buzz back. I know that even if she did I’d prolly lose my nerve. I don’t even think of dialing Zo.
I call Oma’s and the speak just rings and rings.
So, I just sit at home and pine and suffer alone.
I get up and run miles upon miles, and pine and suffer alone.
I shower, and pine and suffer alone.
I lie here in bed, and pine and suffer alone.
And I love it.
No Big Whoop
I’m in my weekend tank top and boxers, finally getting around to loading gas into the lawn mover, accepting my fate of riding around in circles on the bouncing, stinking seat of the ride-on mini tractor, when I glance at my speak and see Dad has dialed three times and even left a voice mail, which sets off alarm bells. I jog back into the quiet cool dampness of the garage and press play.
“Lucy, your aunts are here at the hospital. Oma’s not doing well, we admitted her again and they’re running more tests. But it doesn’t look good. I don’t know, honey, this is pretty serious. Call me.”
I stand there, frozen from top to toe, counting the seconds in my head to let my brain reset. I replay his message, thinking if I hear it again I’ll understand what this could actually mean. It’s not feeling real, not even a little.
I dial back and get him first ring, which makes me even more tweaked.
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” his shell-shocked voice says, the beep and blip of hospital noises and my brother’s high-pitched voice calling for him in the background. “She says she’s done, Lu. No more transfusions. Do you understand? It means she’s only got a little time left. A week or two, at most. She wants to be in her own house with all of us, and your aunts and I are gonna help her with that. She’s tired, Lu. She’s ready to go.”
“No,” I say. “I thought she was fine. Everybody said she was fine.” I swallow down a lump the size of my fist and feel my speak getting hot against my ear.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy,” he says again, but then Miles is crying and I’m handed off to my aunt who, with military precision, tells me I can either pick up my god-awful sister at the airport or go to Oma’s house and take apart her bed to make space for the medical equipment hospice care is providing. I opt for the latter and she says they’ll be there soon, so I better hustle and I almost ask her what hospice means exactly, but then I don’t. She says this is Oma’s choice and it’s not easy and everyone’s dealing with it in their own way. She says my Oma’s brave. Very brave.
I just say, “Okay.”
* * *
In the glass of the creaky front door, I catch a glimpse of my sad-sack face. I wanted to cry the whole way over but couldn’t. I think maybe I’ve forgotten how.
In the kitchen, Bitsy greets me with yips and snarls from under the old wooden dining set and I flick on the overhead light and stare at Oma’s place mat on the table, empty bowl, clean spoon on top, a tub of chocolate ice cream I discover is soup when I pull open the lid.
I find an old flat-head screwdriver and sweat and grunt while I break down her and Opa’s old bed and then vacuum at least three decades’ worth of animal and human hair from the musty, pink-hued carpet. My two younger shaver-Jack twin cousins, useless as ever, pull up in my aunt’s van, and half-heartedly help me haul Oma’s mildewed bedspring down her perilously steep cellar stairs. At the bottom I nearly send Bitsy’s skull careening into drywall as she whips past my feet to ransack her stored feed below. I chase her around the cellar for a few dusty minutes and then sneeze my way back up into the living room, where the boys turn on SportsCenter and glue their eyeballs to the screen.
Then Jesse From Hospice is knocking at the front door, rushing in with clipboard and badge, rambling at breakneck pace as I try and work the gears of my brain back to life. I remind myself I’m premed and can handle high-intensity medical banter as he’s loading in a
n oxygen machine and tank and a heart monitor and this almost-toilet thingy on wheels I should know the name of, but somehow, right now, can’t seem to remember.
Then comes Oma’s replacement bed, a glorified hospital cot on glistening steel limbs and I’m getting panicky as I help Jesse From Hospice pop this lever into that hole, this hinge into that socket, until it stands freely. And then he’s rattling on, telling me how to start up the Beep-Beep machine and how to hook Oma in and how the oxygen tank might explode if you push this button here, but on the other hand it probably wouldn’t even if you did, but just in case, don’t.
And I’m a slow-crumbling mass of brick and mortar, loose bits shedding and skipping in my clumsy, fragmented wake. I’m covered in cool, clammy sweat, a death grip of cold fear wrapping icy-hot fingers around my neck. I’m blinking my eyes, trying to focus on his lips moving and a faint buzzing sounds in my ears, a transparent green sheath of fuzz descends on my sight in a vibrating wave. And just then Dad and my aunts come ripping into the house and Jesse From Hospice gives them the same exact spiel and Dad’s a doctor, so everything’s under control, he’s seen this all before. No big whoop. None at all.
I prop myself in a stiff, high-backed formal chair in the corner of Oma’s room and breathe. Breathe. Breathe. And I’m doing okay, getting my head clear as order is restored with armloads of sheets and a quilt and a pillow on the thing looking more and more like an actual bed, when lo and behold here comes my Oma.
They’re rolling her up Opa’s old wheelchair ramp and they push her through the door and instantly stale body-and-rubbing-alcohol-scented musty wafts color the suddenly overcrowded bedroom. Oma’s sedated head lolls, with tubes in her nose, an IV in her rice-paper wrist, bruises up her arm, and the palest of pale, blue-tinted skin. I feel a dark, hot weight on my back and legs and arms, crawling, creeping, clinging. And more cars are pulling into the drive and the ambulance is backing out and here she is and this is all really happening.
