Ronny stepped to me. But I could take that. “Yeah, well you should. You go home and fuckin think about what an asshole you are.” I could probably even take that. “Instead of comin’ here to see your little girlfriend, your little…” See, this was gonna be a problem. This is what happens when you back off: they fuckin press and they press until you go off. Cause here it comes. Here comes the thing I can’t let pass. “… Chinese bitch up there who’s got—”
And I was on him.
I drove him back against the fake wood paneling, and everybody started yelling. Before we hit the wall, I had landed two punches on his ribs. I kept my head down because he immediately moved to lock it up and punch my face.
There’s this release when you finally cut the crap and start beating someone who deserves it. Everything else is pretending or waiting. All the stuff we do every day to keep ourselves alive and entertained is just so we can get to this moment, this truth. Which is: Ronny Bellman deserves to have every one of his ribs broken, and I get to do it.
You know when you’re hot for someone and you go on a date and talk, talk, talk, and finally you start hooking up? Everything on the whole date was in the way of kissing, and now you’re finally kissing. That’s what beating on Ronny felt like. Even getting hit felt right. It was part of the flow, like getting wet when you step in the ocean. And it never hurt in the moment, only later.
I felt a rib crack finally. Ronny yelled out in pain, which would bring his boys over, and they’d really hurt me. But then, heavy footsteps down the stairs. Three VFW guys pushed everybody out of the way. Ronny and I jumped apart and tried to look normal.
“What the hell is going on down here?” a guy with a potbelly yelled, mostly at me.
“Nothing,” I said, sticking to the code. “We were just playing around.”
He looked at Ronny, who nodded, though he was having trouble breathing.
Roger Bartolino came down the stairs, and I looked away. There was, it turned out, a lot of blood coming out of my nose and mouth. Ronny must have landed some nice shots while I was cracking his rib.
“Both of you out of here.” He sounded harsh, but this was the merciful thing to do. Roger could have called the cops, which, as he undoubtedly knew, would have been very bad for me.
“Come on, we were just playing,” Ronny said, like the VFW guys were pussies for thinking this was a real fight.
“Play somewhere else,” Roger said, and then looked at me. I coughed, and a mucus-y blood ball splattered on the floor. He shook his head.
I couldn’t look at him. What could I say? I’m trying to stay right? I tried harder tonight than I have all year? Didn’t matter. My whole life, adults had looked at me with concern, then pity, then disappointment. First, I’m a decent kid in a crappy situation. Then I’m proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Fuck that saying, by the way. And fuck you if you’ve ever said it. You have no idea.
Walking out, kids either stared at me because I was bleeding or looked away because they didn’t want me to punch them. People act like fights are a big deal. Fights aren’t a big deal. Fights are what happen as soon as you stop trying not to fight. Like a naked body. It’s always there, butts and crotches and tits. But take the cover away, and everybody freaks.
Upstairs, I looked into the main hall—still no music—and saw Tina and her flashing necklace trying to start a slow clap. A hundred kids, maybe a hundred and fifty, had their backs to me.
EIGHT
Sitting home was misery. I turned against my house, hating everything about it. The long wait for the kitchen fluorescents to get bright, the gas snaking back and forth, making up its mind whether it wanted to help you tonight. The numbers scrawled on the wall by the phone in Al’s impatient, little-boy handwriting, especially the ones where the pen stopped working and he cut inkless, angry circles before switching pens. The toaster that only worked if you held the lever down the whole time.
I considered trying to get beer, but it wasn’t worth risking my freedom for a six-pack. At 9:30, I knew Meili was finished, and I was only missing Sonic Doom. That helped, but I was still away from her on her big night. Couldn’t things be nice for once? Couldn’t I have one good night that didn’t involve fighting over the biggest mistake of my life?
I wrote Meili a note. It took a lot of editing because her standards were so high, and because I was trying to secretly tell her something else, something embarrassing.
Dear M.,
DJ Esmerelda,
DJ Frosting,
Amazing set! That set was brilliant, to use a word my dear friend cellmate Melissa is fond of. So sorry I left in the middle before the end. There are battles that follow me. I had to defend someone’s honor who shall remain nameless. I had an unscheduled meeting with my friends from the hot dog stand.
The crowd loved you and I did too.
The crowd loved you almost as much as I do.
I fully agree with the crowd’s assessment of you.
The crowd saw something I already knew. You were, and are, amazing. the dog’s bollocks the cat’s vagina, or as we say in Unionville America Alabama, pussy pussy.
Please put me on your mailing list for future musical events.
Love,
Your Rubber Roommate,
Sincerely,
F.B.
I recopied it, and, by the end, it was fun. I imagined Meili reading it, and I could hear her laughs and groans and edit accordingly. That meant something, right? I got her.
I put it in an envelope and rode to her house. Maybe she would read it and come visit me. Or maybe she’d be there now when I dropped it off.
When I pulled up on her block, there were three cars out front. I got nervous, waited till two of the cars pulled away, and then walked up, envelope in my pocket.
It was Stephen’s car, and he stood on the curb, yelling into his phone.
“No! Chris’s house. Chris Valentine … What? Yeah, whenever … Jesus … OK.” He hung up. “Jason?”
“Hey, Stephen.”
“What’s up? What are you doing?” Stephen was texting furiously.
“I came by to drop this off,” I said, without specifying what “this” was.
The passenger door opened, and a kid with an asymmetrical hairdo got out. “Ben’s not coming,” he said to Stephen.
“I know. He’s such an asshole,” Stephen said, face in his phone. “But, whatever. I’m gonna have fun.”
The other kid looked at me. “Hey.”
“Miles, this is Jason,” Stephen said, finally looking up. “Don’t worry, he’s cool. He just looks scary.” Was that about my cut-up face or me in general? “Are you coming, Jason?”
“I’m dropping this off for Melissa.”
“She just left.” Dammit. I shouldn’t have waited. “But you can give it to her in person if you come. Party in Kendall. I’m hoping DJ Esmerelda will bless us with another set.” Stephen was walking around to the driver’s side. “If I can keep her sober.”
“Little late for that,” Miles said, looking at me. “Girl can drink.”
“Girl earned it, OK?” Stephen said. “She killed. That whole show killed, even with the tech problems. And you’re welcome, Unionville. No need to thank me for putting it all together and basically teaching her how to DJ.” He held the back door open for me. “Coming?”
I got in, leaving my bike since it was technically illegal for me to ride this late.
It took over an hour to get there because we stopped to pick someone up (no one home), at someone else’s house to get vodka (they were home, but only gave us a half bottle, which Miles began drinking), and at a third house where we picked up a twenty-year-old and a case of beer.
Chris Valentine lived in a farmhouse that was done up the way people who don’t farm do farmhouses. Big windows, wide-open space inside, nice lighting, weird art on the walls, pool out back. This world, more of it in Kendall than Unionville, made me nervous. It was all transplants and preppi
es, and though they seemed to be doing interesting stuff, it was out of my reach.
Case in point: walking into this party. I was intensely aware of how fucked-up my face looked: swollen eye, bruise on my cheek. Everybody tried not to stare at the dirty local. And failed. Stephen and Miles immediately found friends and forgot me.
I walked through the living room into the shiny open kitchen, and there she was. Sitting on some long-haired dude’s lap and speaking Chinese.
I walked over as she laughed at something Long Hair said.
“Oh my god, look!” Meili jumped up, then swayed a bit. “What happened to you?”
“Some of my old buddies didn’t want me at your show,” I said, hoping for a hug but not initiating one.
“God, yeah, I heard about the fight.” Her eyes were looking toward me but not exactly at me. “I heard you started it.” She was a bit drunk. More than a bit.
“Who told you that?” Seeing Meili with another boy pissed me off. And now people were lying about me?
“But you didn’t? You didn’t start it?”
“God, no! I wanted to see your whole set,” I said. “I was pissed off I couldn’t stay.”
“Damn Harris.” That was a glimmer. “You did see some of it, yeah? Before the disaster?”
“It was amazing. I even sort of danced, that should tell you something. What disaster?”
“God, it was a nightmare. Something got overloaded, and it took forever. When we finally got it back, it was like three songs until that horrible band.” She said something in Chinese that made Long Hair laugh. “Jason, this is Martin, who speaks fucking Cantonese. My god. I’ve got a whole new faith in the American educational system. Seriously. I can barely find anyone who speaks English around here, and then along comes Martin.” She punched his shoulder.
Long Hair said something in Cantonese that included the word “Unionville,” and Meili laughed.
Asshole.
“Martin, this is Jason, who’s, like, the best person at my school. But I must warn you, he will fucking hurt you for, like, absolutely no reason, so watch your step. No sympathy, this one. Tore into me earlier today right when I needed him.” I liked that phrase, when I needed him.
“Hey, man, nice to meet you.” Martin stood and extended his hand in a regular handshake like we were buddies on the golf course. Like meeting a dad.
“Bug, I am in no way agreeing with what you said back in the parking lot. I don’t fall apart when someone stands up to my shite, but…” She was still stuck on that, which felt good. Martin sat back down, and, cruelly, Meili sat on his lap. My face flushed so strongly my black eye pulsed. “That was good. You turned my words right ’round, didn’t you? Bravo, you’re an arsehole; bravo, you’re forgiven.”
“Thanks, but I didn’t ask to be forgiven. Let’s be clear about that.”
She got right up in Martin’s face. “See, he’s good. You don’t even know how brilliant that last bit was.” Martin nodded, watching her mouth, not listening to her words. “Where’s my drink?” Meili looked around on the floor.
Awkward pause. A girl in a tank top that prominently showed off her plaid bra was soaking her friends with the kitchen sink sprayer. They screamed and covered their heads.
Martin turned to me. “You were at the show?”
“Some of it,” I said.
“What about this DJ?” he asked, pointing at Meili. “Ridiculous, right? Where has this one been hiding?”
If he only knew how loaded that question was. But he didn’t, because he didn’t know her. I knew her.
“I got friends up at State, and I’m telling you, she could make five hundred a weekend, easy,” Martin said to me, but really to her. “I’m gonna put you in touch with them. Seriously. They’re gonna flip their shit. Cause that was: Off. The. Chain.” He added something pretentious in Cantonese.
Yes, I could tell it was pretentious.
“I’ll want to practice a bit before I go out and humiliate myself again,” Meili said.
The music from the living room tripled in volume, physically attacking my ears.
Meili shouted, “Want a drink, Jace?” Since when did she call me Jace? “Thayre’s a dayumn kegger yout beeack.”
“Yeah, man, keg out by the pool,” Martin yelled, all helpful and douchey.
“But we can’t go in the pool,” Meili shouted, shaking her head.
“Can’t go in the pool,” Martin agreed, grinning.
“Definitely not allowed,” Meili yelled, turning back to Martin, her face right near his, looking mostly at his mouth, not his eyes.
“Not allowed,” Martin said to her sternly.
Jeezus.
I went to find the keg.
“Bring me a drinky, luv!” Meili shouted after me, which felt nice till she added something in Cantonese.
I gave her the two-fingered reverse peace sign, a code: I know you.
“I will not piss off,” she yelled.
I walked through the living room, resisting the urge to cover my ears. Miles sucked on an orange bong, and Stephen was rolling a cigarette, a trick he’d undoubtedly picked up from Meili. Down the hall toward (I hoped) the back door, girls and boys pressed up against the walls to make room for scary me.
What was I doing here?
The keg had a line, with a chatty guy drawing beer into red cups. Not regular beer either, some fancy local brew called “Angry Woodsman,” according to the block letters on the side of the barrel.
When I got near the front, beer guy said, “Whoa! Dude, what happened?” He stared at my face while filling someone’s cup. Everyone turned.
“Stage-diving accident,” I said.
“Seriously? At the show?”
“No, I got jumped by some assholes. Yes, at the show.”
“No way! You call the cops?”
“Uh, no. I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m on probation.”
“Seriously? What’d you do?”
I thought about this one. Why tell the truth? But then again: come as you are.
“Arson.”
“Oh, shiiiiiiit. That’s real, dawg! I’m getting you two beers.”
Arsonist with facial wounds? No waiting. I stepped to the front and took two beers.
“Thanks, man. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me all night,” I said.
“Don’t mention it, bro. I got you. Who’s next?”
A stronger man would have taken a beer to Meili. A more mature man would have jumped in and made friends with Martin, been charming and tough. Not me.
I took my beers out past the pool, which was, by the way, full. Why no swimming? A couple was hooking up on the lawn in front of the barn, so I headed toward the pasture fence and lay down in the cool grass. Beyond the glow of the house and the thump of the music, the stars glared with no moon to compete.
I had to leave. This night was going to keep breaking my heart. I didn’t cry in those days. The closest I ever got was a swelling in my chest that dampened my eyes but not enough to form tears. And that’s what happened. All of it—the fight with Ronny, my lonely house, the preppies at this party, Meili on somebody’s lap—it all brought that wave up from my belly, and I huffed out a sob. That was as far as it ever went. I don’t know why.
Sure, I could smack Martin in his toothy little face. But it was bigger than that. This was Meili’s world: smart kids in nice houses, college kids, rich kids. She fit in, I didn’t.
I was clever and hip in the Rubber Room, but not here.
“Andy? Is that you?” A tipsy girl staggered past the pool toward me. I sat up and wiped my eyes.
“No, not Andy.”
“Who is it? Noah?” She was squinting as she got closer.
“Not him, either. Sorry. My name’s Jason.”
“Jason, how you doin’? You by yourself?” She was right over me now, bright-orange tank top and intentionally ripped jeans.
“Taking a break.”
“Ohm
ygod, me too. It’s so loud in there.” She plopped down. “Are these yours?” She pointed at the two beers.
“Yeah, take one. It was for someone else, but I think she left.”
“The keg’s dead and everybody’s like: ‘Where’s the beer?’ Ohmygod, what happened to your face?” Her eyes had finally adjusted, and, of course, I was scary.
This was getting old. “You really wanna know?” She nodded. “There are these guys who hate me, and every time I run into them, they try to beat the crap out of me.”
“Seriously? You should call the cops.” Everybody in Kendall wanted to call the cops. In all my fights, the concern was not having the cops show up.
Change the subject. “Can I ask you a question? For real?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
I could flirt with her. And I could talk about my Meili situation because, who the hell was this girl? She was drunk, it was late, she didn’t know me.
“Alright, you’re a girl, right, you seem smart and pretty and nice.” She giggled. I hadn’t flirted in a while. God, I hadn’t been to a party since the fire. “No, I mean, you’re a decent person, right? So, I’m trying to figure out this situation. With a girl.”
“I can totally help.”
“Great. That’s great. What’s your name?”
“Stephanie.”
“Hey, Stephanie, I’m Jason.” She looked for a spot to balance her beer cup. “So, there’s this girl—”
“Cause I literally just helped my friend get out of this relationship that was … You know when your friend starts acting not like herself? And it’s cause of some guy she’s seeing? And you totally see the whole thing? But it takes her like a couple weeks to see it? How she’s acting and whatnot?” Stephanie was pushing her hair back then pulling it forward and messing it up with her fingers, occasionally looking toward the house like she was expecting someone. “I told her, I said: ‘This is not you, Erica, and you know it.’ So I—like, I get it, Jay. I know how girls are.”
“It’s Jason.”
“Totally. Jason. Sorry. Stephanie.” Again, a handshake. Did they teach that in school here? “Nice to meet you.”
Wilder Page 8
