by Justin Olson
Seth plops down next to me on his bed. “I love big cities.”
“That’s a really sweet computer.”
“I have it for my pictures. I can see them better to edit.”
I look over and see a large flat-screen TV hanging on his wall in line with his bed. “How big is that?”
“Forty-two inches.”
“That’s huge.”
Seth laughs. “I’ll have to see your room sometime.”
“Ah, no. That’ll never happen now.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Nuh-uh. You have so much cool stuff. I look like Oliver Twist compared to you.” I immediately regret that choice of comparison.
“Is your name the only reason why you’re made fun of?” He moves again, to rest against his headboard with his hands behind his head.
I feel uncomfortable with that question, to be honest. I have never had to talk about why I am a constant target. Everyone just knows, and I’m not sure I want Seth to know all my faults, or my family’s. But I get the sense that his intentions are genuine.
“There are a lot of reasons I’m teased. But it started in elementary school.” I stand up and look at a black-and-white photograph on his wall. There are two small mountains that slope to a flat horizon in the middle of the picture, where the sun is setting. The mountains, the ground, all look barren. And the sun is only showing a sliver above the horizon. “Did you take this?”
“I took all the pictures in here.”
I look at another black-and-white one. It’s a face of an old man, and really close up, so you can see all the wrinkles and his big, black-framed glasses. He has wisps of gray hair falling around his ears, but he’s bald on top. He’s not smiling but not frowning either.
Another picture is a small aluminum boat on a mountain lake surrounded by trees. There’s one lone fisherman with one lone pole hanging out of the boat. But the boat is far away, so you can’t really make out any details.
“You’re really good.”
“Thanks.” He smiles.
Seth is waiting for me to continue my story. I guess I can tell him a few reasons why I’m teased, but I won’t tell him about my mother. At least not yet. And anyway, he will probably hear about it sooner or later. I mean, it’s like one of the town’s best stories. I doubt it will ever die. So I decide to tell him about the easy stuff: “Let’s just say I’m a walking cliché.”
Seth’s eyes narrow. “How so?”
“Gym class. Fumble. Fumble. Fumble.”
“Well, not everyone’s athletic.”
“You look like you’re pretty athletic.”
“I do okay at a few things. Track is my favorite.”
I shake my head. “I can run, but I can’t catch anything. Half the time I was called a girl in grade school.”
“Kids can be mean.”
“Once a target, always a target. I don’t even think it’s personal anymore.” I turn to stare at the sunset picture again. “I mean, I guess it is. But I have to tell myself it’s not. Otherwise, not sure I could make it through.”
There is a knock on Seth’s door. “Yeah?”
“Cookies,” says Ms. McLean on the other side of the door.
Seth’s eyes widen. He jumps up and lets Ms. McLean enter. She’s wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, and I notice this because she isn’t in the scrubs that I’m used to seeing her in. “Hi, boys. Some fresh-baked cookies? Compliments of Toll House.”
“Yum,” says Seth, taking three and then the plate, which he hands to me.
“Thank you.” I grab one of the warm cookies.
“I’ll just leave the plate with you two. Everything going okay?”
I nod.
Seth says, “Great.”
Ms. McLean smiles. “It’s so great that you have a friend over. And it’s Charlie, no less.”
“Okay, thanks. Bye, Mom,” says Seth as he blushes, closing the door on her.
But now I’m wondering why Ms. McLean said that. I hadn’t thought about the fact that I might not be the only one without friends. But Seth has an excuse: he’s new to town.
“Good, huh?” he asks, eating his third cookie already.
I take a bite absentmindedly, but I don’t respond. I’m having some stupid thoughts, like missing my mother, and worrying about having Seth as a friend, and screwing it up.
Seth cocks his head. “Something wrong?”
“Oh. No. Sorry.”
“Eat up,” he says, reaching for another cookie on the plate.
I take a bigger bite, and turn back to his photos. “The sunset one might be my favorite.”
Between chews he says, “It’s actually a sunrise. I like beginnings more than ends.”
BUT SOME DAYS ARE MADE FOR ENDINGS
• • • • •
Elation doesn’t begin to describe my feelings after I hit my alarm this morning.
Yes, I, Charlie Dickens, have survived another school year. I am one year older. Wiser. (Ha!) And closer to being done with Whitehall, Montana, forever. Hallelujah. Amen.
This morning’s sky is a picture I call Hope Is a Million Golden Sunrays.
* * *
Ms. Monakey has taken all the posters down. Her desk has only a pencil and a piece of paper on it. I think all this cleanup is a bit overkill for a summer vacation.
She’s sitting at her desk with her head down, staring at her lap.
Being the only student in the classroom, I figure it’s safe to talk to Ms. Monakey. “Where is everything?”
She looks to me with watery eyes. “I’ve been let go.”
I try to fully understand the impact of that. “Fired?”
She nods and grabs a tissue. “I told myself not to get emotional today, but here I am.” She blows her nose with a force that seems to shake her thin body.
“Why’d they fire you?”
Ms. Monakey is a great Spanish teacher. Even though, as I said before, she doesn’t appear to have an ounce of Spanish in her.
“Budget cuts. They gave me a nice letter of recommendation.” She weakly holds up the lone piece of paper from her desk.
I scan the room again. It’s funny how different a classroom looks when it’s empty. It’s like it’s missing a soul.
Seth walks into class and smiles at me. “Hey, Charlie.” He slides into the desk behind me, and I turn to face him. Ms. Monakey sniffs, and dries her eyes with another tissue.
“What happened?” Seth asks.
“Fired,” I whisper.
“No shit,” says Seth. “That sucks.”
“Possibly no Spanish class next year.”
“I’ve been told worse things.” Seth winks. “So, what are you doing to celebrate this momentous day?”
“Throwing a party,” I deadpan. But I can’t hold on to the seriousness of my statement, and a smile bursts forth. “Actually, probably going to take Tickles for a walk.”
“Tickles?”
“Yeah. He’s a dog.”
“Who names a dog Tickles?”
“A six-year-old girl.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but she couldn’t keep the dog.” This is actually a story Geoffrey once told me.
“Can I come? I’ve always wanted a dog, but my mom’s allergic. Or so she says. I have my suspicions that she’s lying to avoid being pestered about getting a dog.”
The one-minute warning bell rings. Students continue to walk into the classroom and then pause in the doorway as if they are in the wrong room. It’s actually funny to watch.
“Anyway, walking a dog sounds like a celebration to me,” Seth continues. “As long as we can get ice cream at some point.”
“I haven’t had ice cream in forever.”
“What do you do with yourself, Charlie Dickens?”
“Laundry. Dishes. Homework.”
“Well, it’s time you live a little.”
The class bell rings, and Ms. Monakey blows her nose before standing up from her desk. She makes her way to the fro
nt of the room. “All right, class,” she says, not clasping her hands. “This is the day it ends.”
PAPERS FALLING FROM ROOFTOPS
• • • • •
The final bell rings. I am free! As I leave class, papers seem to fall from the sky, filling the hallway with assignments and homework—both graded and never-turned-in. Seth catches up to me as I kick papers out of my way, heading to my locker. I hate students who throw all their schoolwork at the final bell. It seems like a slap in the face to teachers who try to do some good in their students’ lives. Plus, as lame as it sounds, I can’t bring myself to litter like that. I can be so pathetic sometimes.
“It’s chaos,” Seth, coming toward me, yells over the screams and shouts.
“Did this happen at your old school?” I realize that I don’t know anything about Seth’s history.
Then it feels like a brick hits the side of my face. It stings. Slightly stunned, I hear laughing as papers flutter to the ground. I adjust my glasses.
Joey and Matt stand there. “Have a good summer, nerd,” says Joey. “I hope you get some good writing done.” He throws another smaller stack of paper at me. He laughs, and Matt follows.
I’m walking away, thinking about how much I hate Joey and how I’m almost out of this damn building for three months, when I notice that Seth isn’t next to me.
Oh shit.
He is right in Joey’s face. “What’s your problem? Your penis too small so you have to pick on people to make yourself feel bigger?”
“Listen, new kid, you better back off before you create a problem you don’t want to have,” says Joey, straightening up and puffing out his chest.
“Oh yeah? I’m not afraid of you or your loser friend.” Seth scoops up some of the papers from the floor and chucks them at Joey’s face.
Joey charges at Seth but halts when a deep voice booms from down the hall. “You two. Over here. Now.” The principal, a demanding man who always wears a dark blue button-up shirt and khaki pants, points to his side.
Both Seth and Joey walk down the hall to the principal. I try to hang around for as long as possible, staring at the stupid sports trophy case like it interests me. I’m craning my neck, trying to hear what the principal is saying. But shortly afterward they head to the principal’s office, and it gets too obvious that I’m loitering. So I walk outside. To loiter some more. The grass is so green, the sky so blue. I am ready to start summer, but I can’t leave the school until I know Seth is okay.
I find myself sitting on the grass as the parking lot empties. I am twisting grass blades in my hands until they tear.
The world seems surprisingly empty at this moment. Few cars. Light traffic. No people. No birds. Or insect sounds. Just the occasional flutter of leaves.
Finally the door opens, and out walks Seth. His forehead is creased and his lips pursed. I stand up immediately. “What happened?”
“Tha!t dick Joey. He outright lied.”
“Figures. He’s a wuss.”
“I have detention.” Seth looks at me.
“But school’s over.” I don’t understand how that works. Is there such a thing as summer detention?
“I know.” He strides past me. I grab my backpack and catch up with him. “I start next year with a week of detention.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Seth stops and turns to me. He seems so serious that I’m not sure if it’s the same Seth. “I will not let anyone pick on you. Or do anything to you. I swear, Charlie. I will kick that kid’s ass. He’s lucky the principal stopped things when he did.”
I’m speechless, and I don’t think a “thanks” would cover it. So, like an idiot, I keep quiet.
Seth walks to the parking lot, and loses all the seriousness he just had. “Let’s go walk a dog,” he says. Then laughs. “A dog with the worst name in the history of dogs.”
THE WALK OF THE LITTLE ROBOT DOG
• • • • •
Standing on the front porch of Geoffrey’s house, I’m about to knock, when I stop and say, “Oh. One thing. Geoffrey is quite . . . large. So there’s that.”
Seth smiles. His camera hangs around his neck, becoming almost like a comfort to see.
I knock and enter, and Seth follows me inside.
Geoffrey is snoring loudly on his green, less-newish love seat. I look at Seth, and his eyes are wide in amazement. I turn back to Geoffrey and clear my throat. That does nothing to wake him, and I always feel awkward about waking people up anyway. So I wonder if we should just come back later. Though, the next thing I know, Seth is racing across the living room and catching Geoffrey’s laptop as it slides off his belly. Geoffrey wakes up with Seth standing next to him, one hand holding his laptop. Geoffrey screams in terror, and Seth looks startled.
I step toward them and say, “It’s just me.”
Geoffrey turns his head and finally looks like he recognizes something in this world of his. He puts his hands down and tries to adjust his massive frame on the couch. It’s a bit of a struggle.
“Scared me half to death.” Geoffrey puts his hand to his heart. “Still beating, so that’s good.” He coughs.
“Sorry for scaring you,” I say. “This is my friend, Seth.”
Seth nods and hands Geoffrey his laptop. “Was just trying to save your computer from falling.”
Geoffrey takes the computer. To be honest, he seems slightly out of it.
“We’re going to walk Tickles,” I say.
Geoffrey nods.
“Tickles!” I shout. His little bell gets louder as he comes from the back bedroom.
Seth’s eyes grow wide again. “Whoa. Is that a fake leg?”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “I forgot to tell you that Tickles had a run-in with a car once. The car won.”
“That leg is awesome,” he says.
“Ready for a walk?” I ask. Tickles jumps up onto my leg, and his tail wags.
“Seems like Tickles is doing pretty good for himself,” says Seth. I kneel to connect the leash to the collar. As I’m petting Tickles, I hear a click and turn to see Seth also kneeling with his camera pointed at me. “Can’t waste a good moment.”
“Uh.” I stand. “I’m not used to having my picture taken.”
“Sometimes I get involved in a shot and forget to ask if it’s okay to take it. Is it okay?”
“You already took it.” If he wants pictures of me, I guess I don’t care. In a way, it is flattering. But kind of frightening, too, like my life is always one random moment away from being on display for the town to mock. Or being captured, possibly forever.
Geoffrey says, “No pictures of me.” He coughs. “My mom would die if she saw me this big.”
“Well, I’d never show her, then.” Seth smiles at Geoffrey.
“Where is your mom?” I ask. “In Whitehall?”
Geoffrey chuckles. “Oh, no. Vermont. Tiny little city. Before you go, have a cookie. Judy made them. I think they’re chocolate chip.” There’s a plate of homemade cookies, with a sizable portion of cookies missing from one side, on the coffee table next to Geoffrey.
“Oh, awesome,” says Seth, smiling. “I love cookies.” As he eats, he asks, “Is Judy your wife?”
I explain to Seth that Judy is the woman who helps Geoffrey with chores and taking a shower and things around the house. She’s also the one who goes to the store for him. Seth nods. “May I?” He grabs another cookie.
As Seth and I make our way down the street, cookies in hand and Tickles in tow—or rather, leading with his little legs, bell ringing—Seth turns to me. “He is huge. Reminds me of this show I watched called My 600 lb. Life. But the irony was that the people on the show didn’t have much of a life until they lost, like, half of themselves in weight. Like, this one girl never got out of bed, all because it hurt her knees to move. How much do you think he weighs? Can he walk, or is he stuck on the couch?”
“Not sure and not sure.” I take a bite of the cookie.
“It stink
s really bad in there.”
“I didn’t notice. Maybe I’m used to it? He’s lived there for about five years. He was pretty big when he moved in, but in the past five years he’s probably doubled in size.”
Seth shakes his head. “I’d love to document someone like him.”
“A movie?” I ask.
Seth holds up the camera around his neck.
“That would be cool, but he’d never let you.”
“Seriously, how much do you think he weighs?”
“Probably around six hundred pounds.” It’s a guess, but probably not off by much.
Seth watches Tickles for a minute. “That dog can move. He’s like a little robot dog.”
I smirk. Little robot dog.
We decide to walk Tickles through town and not on the dirt road. With new company, a different route seems to be in order. Tickles doesn’t seem to mind the shake-up in the routine either.
“Want to hold the leash?” I ask.
“Yes!” Seth puts out his hand. “Did I mention that I want a dog? I think I mentioned that.”
“I think you did,” I say with a smirk.
We make it to the corner of the street, and Seth holds Tickles back from darting into traffic. We don’t want Tickles to lose another leg. Bad joke, but it’s true. A loud diesel truck revs by, and a thick black cloud of exhaust consumes us. Tickles shakes from the noise as he hides behind my leg. “We should probably pick him up and cross and go to a less busy street.”
“D-bags,” says Seth. “I hate those trucks that don’t have exhaust filters.”
“They should be illegal.”
“Totally. Like throw-their-ass-in-jail-for-killing-the-planet illegal.”
“Do you want to pick up Tickles? Or want me to?”
Seth quickly takes off his camera. “Can you hold this?”
I’m waiting for him to tell me to protect his camera with my life, or something equally dramatic. And when people say those things, aren’t they basically saying that the object they hand you is worth the same (or more) than your life? And isn’t that stupid? But Seth doesn’t say anything like that. He holds the camera out to me, and I nervously take it and put the strap around my neck, and even hold the camera with one hand. I want to protect it with my life anyway.
