Eddie's Choice

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “I’ve got a new chair on order—a better fit for the new color scheme.”

  So that’s why I have such a top-quality, ergonomically designed chair. Max says my chair and William’s recliner are the best pieces of furniture in the house.

  I check my text messages even though I’ve been listening for that ding since 4:00 this afternoon. No message. I call.

  “Hey, Eddie,” she says.

  “Hey, Rosie. Did you get my texts?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’ve been working on my college application essay, and I’m just so stressed!”

  “I can come rub your back,” I say, all hopeful.

  It’s like she hasn’t even heard me. She says the application guidelines say a successful essay is based on your own unique experiences, world view, way of thinking, and personal style.

  “I mean, seriously??” she says, her voice all high and choked. “My world view? My way of thinking? I don’t have a clue!”

  I know not to tell her she worries too much because that irritates her. But she does worry too much. It seems like everyone I know is all stressed out about college applications and what to emphasize in their essays, and where to apply, and will they get financial aid, and...and...and. I’m glad it’s not my thing.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Rosie says.

  “Yeah, okay. You know how Brianna and Meghan hang out together sometimes?”

  “Yeah. They’re both on Student Council.”

  “So, Cameron’s set Brent up with her. Meghan can’t go out alone with a guy, but she can double date so Brent and Brianna are getting together with them.”

  Rosie busts out laughing.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You know, Brent Bruno, Brianna?”

  “Oh...the ‘BR’ thing!” Now I’m laughing, too.

  “It’ll be perfect. It’s meant to be,” Rosie says. Another bout of laughter. It’s good to hear Rosie laugh.

  “So, do you want to hang out with them Friday night?”

  “Doing what?” Rosie asks.

  “Well...”

  “Doing what?”

  “Playing cornhole?”

  “Cornhole???”

  “Yeah. You know. You throw beanbags at a board with a hole in it—try to get the beanbag into the hole.”

  “Well...okay. But first we have to stop by that fancy toy store I’ve been telling you about. I need to figure out what I’m getting Zoe for her birthday.”

  “Sure, that’s fine.”

  We decide on a time, talk a little more about Rosie’s application anxiety, my Irritable Teacher Day observations, how Zoe was all upset when she came home from school, too. Something about some mean kids saying bad things or something. Then it’s back to Brianna and Brent.

  “I hope they like each other,” Rosie says. “Brianna’s been pretty sad in the guy department ever since she broke up with Christopher.”

  “Why’s she sad if she’s the one who broke up with him?”

  “She says she feels like she’s the only senior who doesn’t have a special person in her life, especially now that you and I are together.”

  After we hang up, I see by my phone that we’ve talked for twenty-one minutes. I never talk with anyone for twenty-one minutes, but it’s easy with Rosie.

  CHAPTER NINE

  And You Eat Health Food?

  Fuck! It’s the first thing I see as I speed into the empty student parking lot. Halfway across the outside wall of the music building, in big black letters:

  Out Jews!

  Out Mexicans!

  Out Niggers!

  Out Moslums!

  Keep America White!

  I screech to a stop near the scrawled hate, grab the spray paint from my trunk, and start spraying over the words. The idiot who did this can’t even spell Muslims! Cretin! Whoever wrote this shit has the brains of an earthworm! I stand back for a better look, give the near empty spray paint can a quick shake, and fill in a spot I missed.

  “Barajas!” I turn to see Marcus, the security guy, sprinting toward me. “You working on a suspension??”

  I point to the giant “Welcome to Hamilton High” sign that’s painted on the front of the administration building.

  “I don’t think we want an ‘unwelcome’ sign,” I tell him. “Did you see that shit I just painted over?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. That’s why I started down here . . . It’s nasty stuff, but it’s not up to you to mess with it.” He nods toward the paint can. “I’ll take that,” he says.

  I hand him the can. It’s almost empty now, anyways.

  “You should have left this to the custodians. That’s their job.”

  Marcus is a big, buffed up black guy who some kids say did prison time. I don’t know about that. I don’t think they do, either. I know it’s best not to get Marcus mad, though, so I don’t say what I think about how slow the custodians are to clean up graffiti.

  “I’m letting you off this time, but any more paint can antics and it’ll be a suspension. Defacing is defacing, whatever the reason.” Marcus says, walking over to where kids are getting off the early bus.

  I’m glad they’re not seeing that white supremacist shit. And except for the sick, the pretend-to-be-sick, and whoever’s been suspended, all the rest of the 3,127 Hamilton High student body will be here in another 20 minutes and they won’t see that crap, either. I don’t care what Marcus thinks, I’m glad I painted out the hate. I move my car to a marked parking space, get my backpack, and jog to WriteLight.

  Miss May is rushing around, pulling coffee and snacks from locked cabinets emptying oranges out of her big tote bag.

  “Where’ve you been?” she asks, not looking up.

  I grab the cleaner and paper towels. “Sorry. I had an errand,” I say, cleaning the table closest to me.

  “At 6:30 in the morning?”

  “Yeah, well, you know, some things can’t wait,” I tell her.

  She pauses to look at me. “Like getting the writing room set up for zero period?” she says, all sarcastic.

  She’ll get over it. I’m almost never absent or late, and besides, if Miss May had seen that graffiti out there this morning, she’d have covered it up herself.

  Even though I’m late getting started, I still have time to slip out and meet Rosie in the hall before she goes to class. I put my arm around her and give her a quick peck on the cheek. She leans into me, nuzzles her head against my shoulder.

  “I’m so tired,” she says. “I was up until two this morning finishing the ‘Macbeth’ assignment.”

  “Maybe you can sleep in class,” I say. “It’s not that hard.”

  She gives me one of her affectionate pokes in the arm, then there’s the bell, and we rush off to our classes.

  Lunchtime. Brent and Cameron, as usual, already have a table in the quad. I open a plastic container and show them my spinach and kale salad, expecting some smartass remark. But Cameron hands his phone across to me. Instagram. A picture of me in front of the painted over graffiti, handing my paint can to Marcus. Caption: Get spics outta my country. #pepe #StopWhiteGenocide #P8RIOTS.

  I dump a small can of chicken and a packet of ranch dressing onto my salad, and mix it up. Cameron takes his phone from me, goes to Twitter, and hands it back. #P8RIOTS. Same picture with a black swastika over it.

  Brent’s got his phone out now. “Facebook, too,” he says.

  I give Cameron’s phone back and find the Facebook post on my own phone. It’s a crude drawing of a brown guy. Whoever did it isn’t good at drawing hands, but he (probably he and not she) was good enough that he could draw five stick fingers on one hand and a thumb and a blob for the other. There’s a red prohibit symbol over the brown guy and “Enemy of Free Speech. Impure Race. Defective” in the comment box.

  I sit staring at the post. Whoever wrote it can spell better than the “artist” from this morning’s crap.

  “What’d you do that for?” Brent says.

/>   “Do what?” I ask.

  “You shouldn’t have painted over that stuff!” Brent says. “Whatever it said, it didn’t mean shit.”

  “Yes. It did. It exactly meant shit.”

  “But c’mon, Nature Boy,” Cameron says. “You eat health food, but you piss off the Patriots? That is definitely not healthy!”

  “Hate’s not healthy,” I say.

  “What’s it to you? You’re not a Muslim,” Cameron says.

  “Barajas. Remember me? Your friend? Eduardo Barajas?”

  “Yeah. But you’re not really Mexican...I mean...not illegal or anything.”

  “Well, they don’t make distinctions about what kind of Mexican I am. None of this stuff is saying ‘Oh, never mind. He’s legal. We take it all back.’”

  Brent gets up, dumps his trash, and carries his tray to the counter. He comes back with another Coke and sits opposite me.

  “But man, you know. Those guys can be brutal. Fuck! Remember what they did to that gay guy last year? He ended up with broken ribs and a smashed-in face! He was in the hospital for over a week! And he hadn’t even done anything.”

  “I don’t know how they got away with that,” Cameron says. “Everyone knew who did it.”

  “He wouldn’t testify,” Brent says.

  The warning bell rings, and we go our separate ways. World History: Film day. That’s good. I can zone out. Text ding. From Rosie, the picture of the stick figure guy with the blobby hand.

  Rosie: u ok?

  Me: thumbs up emoji

  The thing is, I don’t care what anybody posts about me. If I’m good with my friends, I’m good.

  Yoga’s down to a routine now. In the beginning, everyone was all stiff and awkward, but now it’s just grab a mat and start stretching as soon they get into the room. Even the skinny girl with the greasy hair. Right away, she starts going through stretches and postures like there’s no one else around—way different from the first few weeks.

  The only one who doesn't start stretching is that squeaky-voiced Jason guy. Still sits way in the back of the room. And when Joe tells him to bring his mat closer to the rest of the group, he drags his mat about two inches. And he does the most minimum possible for any of the postures. If he’s in here for anger management, I don’t think it’s working. He always looks pissed. Today he looks really pissed. And he wears that camo jacket all through the class. It’s got to be hard to do yoga wearing a heavy camo jacket.

  I’ve just put the last of the mats and blocks away when Joe motions me into his office.

  “I’m supposed to meet Rosie, like five minutes ago,” I tell him.

  “I’ll make it quick,” he says. “I saw those Snapchat and Twitter posts. You know what I’m talking about?”

  I nod. “No big,” I tell him.

  He rubs his tattoo. “Yeah, big. Hockney’s scheduled an emergency faculty meeting for about right now. Friday afternoon. You know how much teachers want to stick around school on a Friday afternoon?? That’s how big a deal it is.”

  “Why? Those guys are just a bunch of losers. They don’t scare me.”

  “You might want to rethink that,” Joe says. “I know their kind from the prison skinheads. They’re vicious.”

  “Those guys aren’t skinheads,” I say.

  “Same thing. Whites only in America. Get rid of everyone else.” Joe stands and grabs his jacket. We walk out together. “Watch your back,” he says, as I turn in the direction of the gym.

  Rosie’s on a bench by the tennis courts, her notebook open on her lap.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I tell her.

  She smiles her bright smile. “It’s okay. I need all the time I can get to study for tomorrow’s calculus test.”

  We walk to the office to pick up my spray paint, then back to the choir room so she can get her music folder. She’ll be singing a solo at the winter concert, and Sofia’s going to accompany her. “Accompany.” Maybe another SAT word?

  By the time we get to the choir room, clear on the other side of campus from the gym, and then back to the parking lot, my car’s practically alone and . . .

  “FUCK!” I run to the car to be sure I’m seeing what I don’t want to see. “FUCK!”

  Rosie comes rushing up. “What’s wrong?” I point to the front tire. Flat as a pancake. So are the other three. “Oh, my gosh! You got four flat tires all at once?”

  I run my hand around the front tire wall, then the back. “Slashed. They were slashed.”

  “Oh, my gosh! That’s horrible! Who would do that?”

  I shrug.

  “I bet it’s whoever’s been posting all of that stuff about you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’re you going to do? My mom should be home by now. I can call her to come get us.”

  “No. I need to call Triple A. But, shit! All four tires! They’re not that old, either.” I stand staring at my tires, as if maybe that’ll pump them up again.

  Rosie takes her phone from the special phone pocket in her backpack and calls her mom. Ever since the embarrassing canvas bag dump, Rosie keeps her phone in a special place so she always knows where it is. Me? It’s like: is my phone in my backpack? My jacket pocket? My car? I check my jacket pockets, then my jeans pockets, then the outer pocket of my backpack where I finally find it buried at the bottom, under binders and The Grapes of Wrath and my dirty lunch containers.

  I call Triple A, then text William to tell him I probably can’t get to the job this afternoon. Then I text Max to see if she can swing by to get me on her way home from work.

  Max texts back: all ok?

  Me: 4 flats. calling aaa.

  Another text ding. Max: Where r u?

  Me: HH parking lot

  Max: Be there by 5

  Me: k

  Rosie moves close beside me and slips her arm around my waist. “My mom’ll be here in a few minutes—sure we can’t take you anywhere?”

  “Triple A should be here soon.”

  I lean into her, knowing now that she for sure likes me.

  Rosie’s mom pulls up beside us in her bright red Honda, lowers her window, and sticks her head out. “Hey, Eddie. What happened?”

  “Somebody slashed my tires,” I say.

  “That’s terrible! Who did it?”

  “Not sure,” I tell her.

  Rosie and I’d only been hanging around together for a couple of weeks when her parents said it was time for them to meet me. Awkward! It turned out not to be too bad, though. We met for dinner at JJ’s, a kind of hamburger place that’s lots better than McDonald’s. It was cool that we met there instead of them picking me up and all of us going together in the family car. That would have been double awkward.

  Rosie’s mom and dad are cool. They weren’t all like, what do you plan to major in in college? Or, what’s your favorite subject in school? One of the first things Ms. Coulter asked after the glad-to-meet-yous were over was: what did I like to read? I told her straight out I usually didn’t read assigned books, but that I liked true stories about real people, and some historical fiction and regular fiction. Mrs. Coulter’s a librarian at the alternative school, and pretty soon she was sending books my way, always with sticky notes that said something like “You might like this. Take your time.”

  Rosie gives me a quick kiss and, after shoving about twenty mostly hardcover books to the side, climbs into the backseat. I’ve never seen Mrs. Coulter’s car without a bunch of books in the backseat. I guess it’s a librarian thing. Zoe is in the passenger seat, licking what’s left of a chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream cone. I know it’s chocolate chip cookie dough because that’s the only kind of ice cream Zoe ever eats.

  “What’re you reading, Eddie?”

  “The Grapes of Wrath.”

  Rosie leans forward and sticks her head in that space between the two front seats. “Mom...”

  “Like it?”

  “Just started it.”

  “MOM...”

  Ms. Coulter turns to lo
ok at Rosie. “I know. You’ve got to get to Sofia’s.”She turns back toward me. “Isn’t that required reading?” she laughs.

  “I’m giving it a try, anyways.”

  Rosie’s doing that eye-roll thing.

  “Okay. Okay,” her mom says, giving me a wave as they drive off.

  I get into my car. Not that I’m going anywhere, but I’m tired of standing there, watching my tires stay flat. I take The Grapes of Wrath from my backpack and settle in to read.

  I’ve just finished the part where Joad, the hitchhiker, tells the truck driver that he got out of prison after seven years ‘cause he killed a guy when I see Max turn into the parking lot. She pulls up beside me on the passenger side, gets out of her car, and into mine.

  “Triple A should be here pretty soon,” I tell her.

  “How’d this happen?”

  I shrug.

  “No idea? Not even a guess?”

  I shrug again.

  “Talk to me, Eddie. Talk to me.”

  That’s Max. Whenever anything, I mean anything goes wrong, she pushes me to talk about it. But the thing is, back when I was nine, after that guy molested me, I stopped talking for a while. Like for weeks. Not one single word. So, Max gets worried and pushy when I go silent. I understand where she’s coming from, but it still bugs me. Sometimes I just don’t feel like talking.

  CHAPTER TEN

  WWCCD?

  Between waiting for Triple A to come, then waiting for their flatbed truck to come, and for the car to get loaded onto the truck and taken to the tire place, then filling out the paperwork, etc., etc., it’s nearly nine o’clock by the time we get home. Buddy runs a circle around me, then around Max, then around me again. It’s his happy greeting.

  “Hey, Buddy,” I say, leaning down to ruffle his big, grey-flecked, yellow head.

  “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge,” William calls to us from the living room where he and Imani are watching “Frozen” for about the thousandth time. “And salad.”