by Amber Kizer
I flip through, more than intrigued. Visit Aztec ruins or take a Roman bath. Bungee jump or spelunk. (I’m guessing spelunking is a cave thing since they’re in a cave and smiling—I don’t think it’s a German word for torture or anything). Eat baguettes in Paris, or sip European chocolate in Barcelona.
I pull out the application. I glance at the clock. It’s only 7:46. I have hours to fill and visions of Stephen and Jenny having sex to beat into submission.
I glance around my room. The mountain has been split into two large garbage bags and a small stack of pamphlets to keep. I have too much time to kill. I look at my bookshelves. Nothing jumps up and shouts “Read me!”
My toenails are polished.
I shuffle through the Passport application again. Why not? It’s not like I’ll get the scholarship portion, which is the only way my parents would consider letting me go. You probably have to be a valedictorian to get into this too.
I fill out the first two pages of mostly boring stuff. A couple of essay questions about why I want to participate. I do my best impression of a Miss America. World peace, feed the children, make a difference, blah blah, woo-hoo. I reread and smile. I sound all Gandhi and Mother Teresa’s love child.
Uh-oh. Must write five pages about myself. You’ve got to be kidding. What is it with everyone wanting to know all about me? It’s weird. And stalkerlike. Creepy, in fact. I wonder if Mr. Slater is a weird pervert who drinks beer in his tighty-whities while reading our essays. No. Bad mental picture. Really bad mental picture.
I debate spending more time on this. I decide to print out five pages from the draft of my Slater assignment. I cut and paste and edit a little and put on the correct title info. Print it out. Sign the application. Forge my mother’s signature. Slide it into the envelope. I don’t have snail mail stamps in my room.
“Mom! You have stamps?” I yell as I go down the stairs.
“Yes, Gertrude. They’re in the desk in the stamp drawer next to the bill box.” She says this like they’ve been there my whole life. Which now that I think about it, they pretty much have.
“What is that?” she asks.
“Oh, just this thing for school. Pen pal thing.”
“That’s nice.” Mom beams at me like I’ve delivered the Messiah and won the lottery. “Just put it in the mail-out basket and I’ll take it first thing.”
“Thanks.” I drop the envelope with its three stamps in the basket and head back up to my room.
“Your father and I are just getting ready to watch a film. Would you like to join us?”
“Does it have subtitles?” I ask.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Won any major awards?” I press.
“I don’t think so.”
The clock reads 9:05. “Okay, why not.”
It’s a homework weekend. Delightful. I’m making a collage of mouths for my history project. I figure the right I appreciate most is freedom of speech, so they’re all mouths in midword or sentence, not just smiles. Smiles are boring when you think about it.
“Gert, what are you doing?” Mom knocks and pokes her head around my door at the same time.
“Knocking usually requires waiting for a response,” I can’t help but point out. See? Freedom of speech.
She only looks at me.
I roll my eyes at her. “I’m working on my Bill of Rights project for history.”
She steps into my room, gingerly avoiding piles of clothes and papers. It just appears messy. I know exactly where everything is. “On what?” she asks.
I shove a pile of old magazines over as she tries to sit next to me on the bed. The good part about having really old parents who don’t throw anything away is the fact that I have, like, fifty years’ worth of National Geographic and Time to find mouths in.
Mom points to the poster board. “Explain this?” I can tell she’s wondering if it’s one of those signs they talk about on Dateline for mental illness issues. She totally thinks I’m goofing off and not really doing an assignment.
“We have to do a visual representation of the right we’d miss most.”
“And yours is?” She leaves this dangling like it’s not completely obvious.
“Freedom of speech.”
“Why the lips?” She still doesn’t get it.
“They’re talking, you know, speeching.”
“And you can’t put the whole face?”
“No, that would cross over into body language, and frankly, freedom of body language is not covered in the Bill of Rights.”
“Oh, Gert. I think it’s inherent in the law.” She shakes her head.
“Nope, not there. Doesn’t mention it.” I won’t hear her opposition. I’m exercising my freedom of hearing, too.
“Okay. You have a nice variety of mouths in various degrees of, umm, open.” She pats my head.
“I was going to do the right to bear arms just because we have to use actual arms—well, not actual arms, but we can’t use guns and so it just seemed cool to mangle a bunch of dolls.”
“Uh-huh.” The should-I-call-a-shrink expression comes back.
“But see, I haven’t ever held a gun, so it’s not like I’m going to miss something I’ve never done, right?”
“I see.”
I don’t think she does. “Anyway, working here.” I look pointedly at the door.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” She exits like an international spy, all quiet and tiptoey.
The phone rings. I have paste all over my hands. How does it always get everywhere?
“Hello?” Caller ID indicates Tim’s house. Also Lucas’s house, but that would be asking way too much.
“Gert?”
My heart ripples, then jumps into a rumba. I think it might be Lucas. “Yes?”
“Hey, it’s Lucas.”
I bite back the unattractive screech that threatens to fly out of my throat. “Hi,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Tim’s miserable. We should do something.” He gets right to the point.
Not the declaration of undying love I’m hoping for. “What?” I wipe my hands on Kleenex, trying to get the paste off.
“You know, Tim and Adam. You and I need to make it better.”
This sounds suspiciously like a plan I’d hatch. Damn, I wish I’d thought of it. Who knew Lucas had girly-interfering tendencies? “What do you have in mind?” I ask, intrigued.
“Here’s what I’m thinking.”
I pull out a pad of paper and start taking notes. I do like a good scheme.
Must remove father from living space. How? The truth? Or a big lie? I’ll try truth first. At least a version of it. “Dad, I need a favor.”
“Now?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. It’s the 1992 Duke win against Kentucky.
“Yes, now,” I insist.
He is not taking me seriously. “I’m watching the game.”
“Dad, Duke wins when Laettner hits a half-court shot.” I click the remote off. It’s a calculated measure.
“Gert.” Now he wants to pay attention and get all ticked.
I shrug. “Well, it’s not like it’s gonna change; it happened a life-time ago.”
“It’s still one of the—”
I finish his sentence. “—best all-time endings to a college game. Yes, I know, but I need you to finish watching it in the garage.”
“I don’t have ESPN Classic in the garage.”
“Dad, please,” I cry out in desperation. Lucas and I can’t interfere with Tim and Adam if we have to make small talk in front of my father. It’s not like he’d be a good relationship counselor for gay men, as it requires being completely comfortable with the idea. Besides, there’s no way in hell he’d let three guys go up to my bedroom. He’d think they’d gang-rape me, then kill him and Mom.
In my dad’s world, pretty much anyone who isn’t on the television playing a sport is a criminal. And when those same people aren’t on television, they’re most likely criminals too. He’s fai
rly paranoid across all time and space continuums.
“Gert, I should be able to watch television in my own house.” Dad pushes himself to his feet and continues mumbling. But he’s moving, which is a good sign.
“Faster. Faster,” I say, wishing for a cattle prod. Or a Taser.
“Going. Going,” he says.
I stop following him once he gets to the kitchen and go look out the window in time to see Adam pull up and get out. “Hey, do you mind parking next door?” I yell out at him.
Lucas thinks that if we manage to get them in the same room, with no escape routes, Adam and Tim will get over their issues. I’m dubious, but the first part is getting them in the same room. Adam’s arrival and partial car hide should help.
“Where?” he asks.
“Behind the hedge there. They’re out of town and Mom is being weird,” I say, pointing. Mom being weird is such a frequent occurrence that Adam doesn’t even question her fake request. Sad world.
“Better?” He shuffles up the sidewalk and steps past me.
“Thanks so much for helping me.” I’ve made up this huge story about needing his manly shape for my art project.
“What are you doing?” he asks as I point to a chair and pull out a roll of duct tape.
“It’s a photo collage of a kidnap victim.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t show your face, just parts of it in each of the photos. I want the audience to feel the despair and hopelessness of a hostage.” As I say this, I begin taping his wrists to the wooden arms and his ankles to the legs. I also tape across his chest just in case.
He keeps going on and on about Tim and how he isn’t giving in. It’s the same heartbreak sludge that comes out of every broken mouth. I stop listening when I can karaoke the conversation.
I glance up at the clock. They’re late. I pull out my camera. It’s a film kind my dad picked up around the time he still had hair. It’s also empty. So I pretend I know what I’m doing and I play with the lens screw thing and do stuff, snapping the shutter every couple of seconds like it’s a photoshoot. Where’s my wind machine?
“Gert, the tape is kinda tight. I think it’s cutting off circulation,” Adam mutters behind the tube sock I’ve tied around his mouth.
I didn’t know exactly how to do this as I’ve only ever seen it done in movies. I pause. “Do you still have feeling in your toes and fingers?”
“A little, maybe.”
“Then stop whining. This is art.” I totally get into my imagined role of pissy French cartographer; after all, I’m making a map of the human condition.
A car pulls up. I hear doors slam.
“Who’s that?” Adam asks.
“Probably Mormons.” I swallow.
“Huh?”
“I should go tell them I’ve found God hiding in the dryer with all the socks. You should be quiet or they may call the police. And that’d be bad.” I back out of the living room and go open the front door.
I’m speechless. Lucas is carrying his brother over his shoulder, so it’s Lucas’s face, next to Tim’s butt, that I see first.
“All clear?” Lucas asks, pushing past me. “He’s heavy.”
Tim’s sweaty red outraged face shoots me a look of utter and complete contempt. He has duct tape on his hands and mouth.
“Hey, Adam.” Lucas greets Adam like this is something that happens all the time.
“Ah, shit.” Adam’s tone tells me he’s figured out he’s been Punk’d.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” I close the living room door behind us, hoping Dad’s hearing is as bad as I need it to be.
Lucas rips the tape off Tim’s mouth as I finish taping his ankles to the chair.
“You asshole. I am so going to kick your ass.” Tim’s a little angry.
“It was her idea.” Lucas points at me.
“You called me!” I shriek. “He did; he called me.” I turn to Adam, knowing this is an important detail.
We sit them facing each other in the living room. Aside from rigging a face-holding device, we can’t really force eye contact.
I clear my throat and begin. “We’re going to work this out.”
“Yeah, you two are goners. Why don’t you just admit it?” Lucas is strangely verbal about his brother’s heart.
“Look, don’t hate me,” I say to Adam. “But you’re miserable, and the only way that’s going to get better is if you work things out.”
Both guys remain stubborn and silent.
Lucas and I share a look. This may take longer than I’d expected. Lucas shrugs. Obviously, the actual talking part of the plan is my domain. So I put all the hours of watching reffing on ESPN to use.
“Fine. Here’s what we’re going to do. Adam, you’re going to tell me one thing that bothers you about Tim. Then we’ll switch.” I wait.
To say the next three hours are painful and utterly devoid of progress is an understatement. But in the last few minutes, when I’m ready to give up and kick Lucas for having such a brilliant idea, Adam sighs. “I wanted to go, you know. But I’m scared. I don’t particularly want my ass kicked by a bunch of redneck homophobes.”
“Like I do?” Tim squirms. “I stopped feeling my hands about an hour ago. I won’t move, just untape them. Please?”
I get the littlest scissors I can find and start snipping.
“But you’re so fearless. You don’t give a damn,” Adam goes on.
“Yes, I do. I’m terrified,” Tim insists.
Lucas chomps on an ice cube.
Adam persists. “Then why force it?”
“Because they’ll still be there, even if we don’t make a show of being a couple. Even if we pretend we’re two straight guys hanging out, the hate and fear are still there.”
“I don’t get it,” I can’t help saying.
Tim turns to me, rubbing his hands together. “It’s not going to matter when we step out. Those jerks who want to make an issue, they’re still going to be there. Only they’ll be older, or be our bosses, or landlords.”
“He has a point,” I say to Adam as I begin snipping at his tape.
“I don’t want to be a flag bearer for gay rights.” Adam bites the words. “I just want to have my life.”
“Your life includes having a boyfriend, right?” Lucas says.
“So?”
“So you’re not living your life if you make decisions based on not upsetting the goons or not being a role model.”
Adam sighs. “Can you guys wait in the hall for a minute?” he asks Lucas and me.
I stand up. I’d like to say no, but that wouldn’t be very nice of me. “Fine.” I grab Lucas’s sleeve and pull him into the hallway, shutting the door behind us.
“You think it worked?” he asks.
“I hope so.” I rub my face with my hands. I’m hungry and cranky and frankly, Lucas is more human than he was before we started this. That’s good. He’s not quite so godlike. Though, of course, he’s still the most deliciousness boy in the world.
“Gert, you looking for a job? There are listings in today’s paper.” Dad really knows how to ruin a perfectly decent day.
“Yes, Dad, I’m looking for a job that works with my specific skill set.” I like the way that sounds. As opposed to not really looking.
“Which is what?” Dad has the audacity to sound like I’m bullshitting him. Which I am, but he’s not supposed to notice that.
“Stuff.”
He waits, with his patented drill-sergeant expression.
My brain whirls. “Like specific matching criteria.”
He shakes his head like an oracle. “You’re being too picky. Gotta start at the bottom.”
“I know.” But how far down the bottom do I have to start? There’s bottom like scooping dog crap and there’s bottom like running the personnel department of a small Fortune 500 company. I’m not looking for CEO, mind you, simply a job where it matters if I show up.
He clears his throat, preparing a f
ull-scale lecture—in between plays, of course. “That means doing something you’re—”
“Dad, I know.” I inhale and inch toward the door. “I want fulfillment, that’s not asking too much.”
He barks a laugh at me. And keeps laughing. I’ve never heard him laugh so long or so hard. “Fulfillment?”
I slam the living room door as I retreat to my bedroom. He’s laughing at me. Laughing. Holy-Mother-of-Booger-Appearing-Snorts, my father finds me amusing. That can’t be good.
I have to get a job. I realize there are people my age who have been working for years. But they’ll die young and decrepit. I have years ahead of me to work—why start early? I had a reprieve during soccer, but the season has ended and the parentals are making all sorts of job-finding grunts, and barking laughter at my answers.
Why do I have to work? I don’t want to work. I want to play. I’m not very good at it, but that’s just it—I need to get better at playing before I am forced to work for the rest of my life. I need memories to draw strength from when I’m too old to know what the latest chart-topping hit is. Which is what—like, thirty?
Jobs. Jobs. Jobs. What do I want to do? Mom stuck the classifieds under my door this morning. I think that’s another grunt.
I haven’t showered. I haven’t changed out of my pajamas. Really, what’s the point?
I pull out a highlighter. Food service is out; I don’t like touching other people’s spit. I can’t handle having to clean up after anyone—busing tables is out. Waitressing is out, since you have to start as a buser.
I’m so not interested in delivering papers or mowing lawns. I flip the page.
Dog walker. I’m an animal person. I’m not a crazy animals-have-feelings person, but I think dogs are cute. I could walk them. I read further. Six a.m.? Five bucks an hour? I don’t think so. I wouldn’t walk small children at six a.m.; why in hell would I get up early for five bucks to walk a herd of poodles? Someone needs to call and tell them they need to offer more in the way of dinero, or those dogs are going to be walking themselves.
I keep reading. I draw a smiley face over the office tech positions. “Donut shop looking for hard worker for after school and some weekends.” My interest is piqued.
