She wasn’t frowning, but she wasn’t smiling either. She said, “I bet Mr. Hood was pretty upset about the painting.”
Note to self: Cats crawling into bags—funny. Making fun of cat lady—not funny.
“I don’t think he minded too much.”
She wrinkled her brow a bit. “Why do you say that?”
“Law said the painting had been up for over a week. I think if it bothered her husband, he would have painted over it or something.”
I pressed on to less controversial subjects like what teachers she’d had in high school and subjects she liked and disliked.
After half an hour, the tall twenty-something guy from the kitchen approached our table.
I figured he wanted to lock up and go home.
He said, “Who’s this guy? Did your dad hire you a bodyguard to keep the mashers away?”
Mashers? Who says “mashers” anymore? How old are you, man, ninety or something?
Lisa ignored his questions. Maybe he wasn’t the boss after all.
He moved around the table to face me. “I’m Terry Donaldson, the manager.” Okay, so he is the boss. He pointed to the nametag pinned to his red-and-white apron bib. “And you are?” He stuck out his hand.
I stood, and Terry took two quick awkward steps back as his eyes widened to the size of Frisbees.
I didn’t mean to spook the guy. It’s just that Mom always said, “Be sure and stand when shaking hands,” and as she would after every etiquette rule, she added, “It’s impolite not to.”
Terry gathered himself after he decided he was in no imminent danger, and offered his hand again. This time, in a slower and more deliberate manner.
I shook his hand and said, “I’m Bonaparte Shagnasty. I’m an agent-in-training for the BTAT. The Brummagem Threat Assessment Team.” My cell phone app gave me brummagem as my vocabulary builder word that very morning. Its definition: a showy but inferior and worthless thing. Bonaparte Shagnasty and BTAT, however, were figments of my warped imagination.
Lisa laughed aloud.
Man, I love her laugh.
Terry’s face crooked to an uneasy grin. I think he suspected he was being ribbed but didn’t know how to react. He told Lisa, “Raymond and I are done cleaning. It’s time to lock up. You and Mr. Shagnasty will need to go.” After a pause, he added, “Please.”
Lisa stood, took my arm, and pushed me toward the door. Outside, she waved to Terry over her shoulder through the glass. As we reached the parking lot, she grabbed my arm and turned me to face her.
“I thought I was going to burst when you said what you did. That Bonaparte business was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re crazy.” She was laughing again. “And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
“You won’t get in trouble will you? Me smarting off like that?” I asked.
“Heavens, no. Besides, I can always work for the Hormeyer Museum. The owner’s wife was my mom’s best friend.”
Was? Either her mom or the friend was gone, or perhaps the best friend part was gone. There had to be a story there, but I let it pass.
She nodded toward my truck and asked, “Is this yours?”
I nodded.
“Would you mind giving me a ride home? I’m supposed to ride with Terry, but he’s been trying to hit on me lately.”
“You want me to—” My face flushed.
Lisa interrupted, “What? Beat him up?”
“No,” I said, trying to ease the tension of the moment. “I was thinking more like stuffing him headfirst into the Blizzard machine.”
“Eeeeeew, no. I love Oreo Blizzards, and I don’t want them contaminated by little bits and pieces of Terry Donaldson.” She was still smiling.
I’m a sucker for dimples. I reached around her and opened the passenger door.
Once inside and safely buckled in, she asked, “Todd, how did you come up with the word brummagem? That’s not exactly a word everyone uses, now is it?”
“I should have known a brain like you would have known what it meant.”
She quit smiling. “Don’t call me that. I’m a person, not just a brain.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think that. Honest.” Lisa wasn’t just a brain. She was a more, much more.
By the time we turned onto Cherry Orchard Way, Lisa’s street, the conversation was light and friendly again. She said, “Let me off under the streetlight on the next corner. You haven’t met my dad yet, and he’s sort of old-fashioned.”
I wondered if her definition of old-fashioned and mine were the same, but I guessed we could go into that later.
It’s now or never. I bolstered my courage as we slowed to a stop at the corner of Cherry Orchard and Jasmine. I said, “Lisa, I was wondering if you would like to go out with me sometime.” Please say yes, please, please.
“Sure, it’d be fun.” Then she added the word that started my head spinning. She said, “When?”
It was a bit of a struggle, but I got the words out, “Uh, ah, uh, how about seeing a movie on your next night off?” My heart was beating a mile a minute.
“I’ve already seen the movie.” She paused and added, “Twice.”
Oops, strike one.
“Do you like stage plays?” I asked. “My Mom said there was a community theater here in Branard. Have you ever been?”
“No, I never have.”
“They perform Thursdays, Fridays, and twice on Saturdays,” I said.
She said, “I can’t get off this week, but I can go out next Thursday night, if you like.”
If I like? If I like? Of course, I like.
She winced a bit and said, “But…”
“But what?”
“I hate to be rude, but I heard the community theater group is kinda lame. They’re a bunch of bored trophy wives and used car salesmen who couldn’t put two words of dialogue together if they had to.” She winced and apologized. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so critical. We can go if you like.”
“We can do something else. And Thursday next week is good.” I fought back the urge to say, “Anytime, anywhere, any thing. I am your devoted servant,” but said instead, “What would you like to do?”
“Surprise me.” She grew quiet for a moment, then said, “Uh, like I said, my dad is pretty old-fashioned, so you need to talk to him before I can go out with you.”
“No problem.” I said. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Uh, I was wondering, is your dad a football fan? I mean, is he big into Bulldog football?” I had to ask.
“Not really, he’s more into shooting pool and playing dominoes with his friends. Why?”
“Most folks around here are mad at me, but I’m really not a bad guy.”
“I know.”
“It’s just that there’s this football thing.”
“He won’t care.”
Now there’s some good news.
I watched her walk the three houses from the corner to her house and disappear inside. I have a date with an angel. I think somebody wrote a song about that. And if they hadn’t, they should have.
Chapter Ten
Monday morning I had to go to school. I would have rather given the situation another few days to cool off, but arguing with Dad was less than useless. He scowled and growled at me for even suggesting that I skip.
Aside from the usual glares and whispers, it was a typical day at school. It might have been wishful thinking, but a few of the kids actually ignored me. You know you’ve had a rough time of it when you consider being ignored as a good thing.
As I was leaving the field house, I remembered I was supposed to talk to Hayden Wallenski, the teammate who said he knew I didn’t hold. I spotted him as he was walked down the sidewalk toward the main parking lot. I caught him as he reached his truck. “Hayden, I need to talk to you.”
He jumped, and the whites of his eyes widened. He said, “Please, Todd. Please.”
Is that a tear in the corner of his eye?
“Leave me alone. I can’t help you.” He sighed. “I would like to, but I can’t.” Then he said something that surprised me—no, shocked me. He said, “My dad works for Lance’s dad. I could get him fired.”
I let his statement sink in. I knew Hayden was no coward. As a matter of fact, he was one of the toughest guys his size I’d ever met. I told him, “You’ve got no idea how bad things have been for me.”
“It’s not my fault, Todd.” He turned his head away.
“I know it’s not your fault. I just need you to tell Coach what you saw.” I barely resisted the urge to grab Hayden and shake him. “Just tell the coach it wasn’t me. That’s all I’m asking.”
He paused with his hand on his truck’s door handle and turned to face me. “I did tell him. Now, leave me alone.”
I stood mute as Hayden closed the door, started his truck, and drove away.
That afternoon, and well into the night, Hayden’s words—“I did tell him”—echoed in my head.
The next morning, instead of dwelling on this latest revelation, I decided to give my scrambled brain a break. I threw myself into my classwork. I wasn’t getting anywhere by stewing over it.
Chapter Eleven
First period was Mr. Daniels’ American history class. Our textbook, A Nation on the Verge of War, was about two opposing political groups, the War Hawks and the Federalists. Mr. Daniels hung two flags at the front of the room. One had a drawing of a cannon shooting at a dozen or so British soldiers who were running away. The other flag had a picture of a farmer handing a basket of corn to King George the Second, or maybe the Third.
I never could keep the Georges straight.
The king was handing the farmer what appeared to be some gold coins.
It was a good illustration of what the two sides wanted. The War Hawks wanted to invade Canada. I don’t remember why, but they thought the British were disrespecting them. The Federalists were against war. Not because they thought war was wrong, but because they were afraid the British would quit buying American-made products, and they would lose money. Pretty interesting stuff, actually, proven by the fact that I managed to stay awake the whole class.
Second period was Miss Nightingale and English lit. She was a stickler for being on time, and her room was on the opposite end of the school from Mr. Daniels’. As I rushed around the corner into the main hallway, someone hit me dead center of my lower back with what I first thought to be a water balloon. I wish. The balloon was filled with urine. When it burst, it splattered all over my books and clothes. Before I realized what happened, the nasty sniper was gone, and I was soaked all the way through to my boxers.
I went to the office for permission to go home and change. The smell was so bad the attendance lady, Mrs. Maynard, couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. She sent me home to shower and change clothes. She said I should be back to school by fifth period. I guess she figured the rest of second period, all of third, and fourth period lunch, would be enough time for me to make myself presentable again.
Mrs. Dawson, the office supervisor, suggested all I had to do was to change shirts, and everything would be, as she put it, hunky-dory.
I raised my shirttail enough for her to see that my jeans’ waistband was wet as well. I told her I had to take a shower and change all my clothes. “I don’t have a choice,” I told her. “I need to go home.”
I thought of asking if she would like to give my pants a sniff but remembered how Dad said my actions not only reflected on me, but on my whole family, and the church too. Sometimes it sucks to be a preacher’s kid. Times like these, when a crude statement is called for and begging to come out.
By the time I showered, changed, and ate a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, washed down by a tall glass of milk, I had missed all of third period and part of B lunch. I took my time wiping the countertop off with a cup towel, and settled back on the couch with a bottle of grape juice and a banana.
I clicked on the TV and watched a rerun of Harry and Buz, the one where Harry tries to use the robot to pick the lottery numbers. When Buz fell in love with Harry’s great-grandmother and chased her around the kitchen, I laughed until grape juice came out of my nose, and I had to change shirts again.
After watching a recorded episode of Mumbly House, I checked the clock. Fourth period Sports Physics class had already started, and I knew how angry Coach Garrison got when people came into class late. I didn’t want to upset the coach, so I skipped. That’s me, always thinking of the other guy.
I hooked up the BotBox and played Motorcycle Warriors until I captured the Armory Lord’s key to the Gongul Cave on Level Five. I saved my progress and checked the clock again. Fifth period was more than half done. By then, I figured going back for just two classes wouldn’t be worth the hassle, so I cut sixth and seventh as well. I figured I’d be able to come up with a plausible excuse by morning. If not, what was the worst they could do, suspend me? With the way things were going at school, suspension would be a welcome relief.
When I showed up for school the next day, no one mentioned my absences from the day before, not even Coach Garrison. I guess Mrs. Maynard felt sorry for me and cut me some slack and marked me excused.
Mr. Daniels spent most of American history debating himself. It was pretty funny. He would stand at one end of his desk and make an argument as to why the colonists ought to go to war with England, and then he’d run around to the other end to make a counterpoint. He must have run back and forth a dozen times during the lesson.
He’d don a red three-sided hat and say, “We can’t go to war. We’ve recently tripled our cotton sales to England. We can’t afford to lose all that business.” Then he’d take off the red hat, scurry around to the other side of the desk, put on a blue one, and say, “We’re no better off now than when we were under the king’s thumb.” Then off he went to change sides again.
For homework, he wanted a three-page argument in favor of war and another three-page argument against going to war. It was due Friday. I didn’t mind, though. I was beginning to like American history.
Between classes, I kept a close eye over my shoulder for urine balloons and other disgusting projectiles. By sixth period, I had convinced myself I just might make it through the day without an incident. I should be so lucky.
After sixth period government, I had sports. To get to the sports locker room, I had to follow an outdoor covered canopy leading from the rear door of the main building, around three temporary metal buildings to another walkway, and finally, to the gym’s side door.
As I approached the metal buildings, I heard an odd noise from between the first two buildings. As I turned to investigate, something crashed into me from behind with the force of a runaway bus. My world plunged into total darkness as I gasped for breath. Some invisible brute force pinned my arms to my sides. My legs buckled and folded. I hit the ground with a crushing force. A ten-ton weight pinned me to the ground under a tarp or blanket of some sort. I smelled a distinctive odor. What was that smell? I fought against my bonds, but the cocoon drew tighter. I was pinned and helpless.
I blinked my eyes, trying to determine if I were blind. Reality came slowly into focus. I was pinned facedown on the ground covered by a tarp, or an old tent. The smell was unmistakably old canvas. The pungent, musty odor reminded me of my old tent from my Boy Scout days.
A vicious blow jarred my right side. A numbing one to the left side of my head followed. Then what must have been a stomp to the back of the head. That one sent a hard, shivering pain all the way from the base of my skull to the soles of my feet.
I tried to draw my body into a ball, but the canvas was drawn too taut. I couldn’t move. With a lull in the beating, I allowed myself to believe the worse was over. Another blow struck my right ear, one to my left thigh, followed quickly by another, landing halfway between my left ear and my collarbone.
The pain was intense. I felt as though I were about to pass out. Instead, I belched up a flood of vomit, as I took a blo
w to the side of my stomach. I began to choke on my own puke. I heard a laugh. I recognized Lance Brighton’s evil cackles and shouts. One more blow to my left leg, and the cocoon slackened. I tried to push myself up onto all fours but was too weak. I lay still, hoping to ward off another onset of vomiting.
Eventually, the tarp slackened and slid off to one side. A feminine voice asked, “Are you okay?”
I look up to see a horrified girl with frizzy red hair and wire-rimmed glasses. I wanted to say, “Do I look like everything is okay?” or, “Oh sure, I’m fine. I always lie down for a short bleed between classes. It helps me throw up.”
As if on cue, more vomiting ensued.
»»•««
Incredibly, or perhaps, not so incredibly, no one witnessed the beating, although I remember several of my teammates walking only steps in front of me at the time. Each would later swear none of them noticed anything amiss.
As the nurse wrapped gauze around my bleeding head, mummy-style, Mr. Welch, the principal, walked into the school infirmary. He puffed his cheeks and wagged his head, as though I were the villain and he somehow the victim. It was obvious he was more annoyed by the interruption to his daily routine than by my condition.
“Can you identify the one who attacked you?” I doubted he wanted to hear a yes. That would just ruin his whole day.
It hurt to talk, but I said, “It was Lance Brighton’s voice I heard. He said, ‘Harder, Jay, harder.’ The Jay had to be Jamel Crockett. He’s Lance’s main man.”
Mr. Welch asked, “Weren’t you covered with a blanket or something at the time?”
“Yeah, but I know it was them.”
“How can you be sure, since you admit you didn’t see them?”
I thought a moment and said, “I didn’t need to see them. I recognized Lance’s voice. Both his and his lackey Jamel’s. They’ve been giving me trouble since the game.” I was more than a little surprised I was so calm rather than livid and out for blood. Between the pain in my head, my shoulder, ribs, and back, I guess I was too weak and distracted to be mad. The rage would come later. Of that, I was sure.
Half the Distance Page 8
