Wolf Gang

by Chris Lynch

  “Well, you were wrong, weren’t you,” I said defiantly.

  “Good one, bonehead,” Wolf said.

  “Why don’t you both just admit it? The reason for this, for everything that has happened, is very simple: You are both in love with me.”

  Wolf and I both turned to stare at her while still clutching each other.

  “And Steven is so jealous, he’s willing to act like an idiot for everyone to see.”

  I started to say something to her, but Wolf cut me off. He even let go of me so he could be dramatic with his hands, the fool.

  “First,” he said, sounding more like his old self with every word, “Steven has never had any trouble acting like an idiot for the world to see. And second, he is jealous, but it’s not over you, it’s over me.”

  I didn’t even absorb it right away.

  “Ya,” I said to Monica. When she began howling with laughter, I replayed the tape in my head.

  I turned my full attention on Wolfgang now. With every ounce of me, I threw my free hand into his chest with such menace, my whole arm went numb.

  “You mental case!” I said as I watched his wheelchair tip completely over backward.

  He lay on the ground.

  Laughing.

  There are a few absolute, unbreakable rules, even in the mano a mano combat world of men killing men. It is always very bad form to hit a wheelchair-bound person. And you never ever kick a man when he’s down. These are pretty universally accepted rules.

  I kicked him in the ribs.

  We both laughed. Nuts, huh?

  I kicked him again, but this time he was ready. He grabbed my foot and started twisting, over and over and over, like on the nature programs when the crocodile is wrestling something into the Nile.

  “You two make me want to throw up,” Monica snapped, and started back through the aquamarine door.

  “Well, good,” I said, choking Wolf as we lay grappling in the gutter. “Finally, we’re even.”

  Just before she slammed the door, Wolf got in the last word, as he always does. “Now look who’s jealous.”

  She left us there, on the pavement, whaling on each other. Smiling. Killing each other. Laughing.

  11

  Our Nuke-u-lar Family

  AS I RODE ON the handlebars of Wolfgang’s wheelchair—feeling my swollen lip, admiring the big red apple growing out of his forehead—I was thinking how great it was going to be to have the old unit all together again.

  “The guys are going to be so psyched to have you back,” I said to him as we pulled up in front of Lars’s. “You wait out here. I’m going to warm them up, and I’ll call you when it’s time to surprise them.”

  Wolf shrugged. “Sounds a little weenie to me, but I’ll go for it. Just don’t keep me waiting too long, or I’m outta here.”

  Right, I thought. Like, where are you gonna go?

  “And what’s that funny smell?” he asked as I unlocked the door.

  I had no time for funny smells. As I stepped inside, I leaned back against the door. What am I doing? They are going to think I’ve lost my mind completely. The guys? The guys are going to be so psyched? What was I thinking? The guys are terrified of him. And never mind the guys, what are the GALS going to say?

  Hey. What is that smell?

  Oh my god?

  I rushed into my club. Holy smokes, I was only gone for a little while….

  There was a boom box sitting on top of Lars’s tool cabinet, playing dance music. My car—I ran to my car and threw myself on the hood, stroking it like it was an injured animal I found by the side of the road. “You poor thing, what have they done?” What they had done was, they put curtains up all around the inside of the windows. They had put what smelled like a whole case of air fresheners inside. I threw open the door. “Oh my god, oh my god,” I said again.

  “Do you mind?” one of the six—count ’em, six—Girl Scouts gathered inside said to me. “We are trying to conduct a meeting here.”

  THEREWASAGIRLSCOUTMEETING-HAPPENINGINMYCAR!!!!!!!!!!!INMYCARINMYCARMYJOHNNYCHESTHAIRMOBILE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!MYCARMYCARTHECENTER OFTHEENTIREJOHNNYCHESTHAIRUNIVERSE!!!

  Girl Scouts. Crammed into my car. Sipping tea. Getting cookie crumbs all over the upholstery.

  This would be the equivalent of showing dirty movies in a church.

  I rushed around looking for answers. My men? Where were my men?

  I’ll tell you where.

  Ling was lying in the hairdo chair with his face covered in green gunk. Nessy was applying the gunk.

  “That’s right,” Jerome was telling her. “The facial should feel as good to the person who is applying it as it does to the person receiving it.”

  “My hands do feel a lot softer,” said Nessy.

  They had set up a second chair—business was so good—where Jerome was now working on Rock’s hair.

  “Oh, I can see it now,” Jerome said. “When you do corn rows, the thing to remember is to pull the strands harder than regular braids, and to keep this center strand over like this the whole time….”

  Even my nightmares never went this far.

  Wolfgang had by now let himself in and joined the party. Oddly, his appearance caused not a ripple in the room.

  “Now I know what that smell is,” Wolfgang said, barely able to form words through his laughter. “It’s aromatherapy.”

  I myself was beyond attempting words. “Ahhh!” I screamed. “Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!”

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” Wolf said calmly. “They have taken one of the butchest operations in He-Man history and turned it into a …”

  He let it hang there on purpose, to torture me.

  “Ahhh!” I continued. “Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!”

  “Y’know, what y’all need,” said Cecil, leafing through a booklet, “is some … tea tree and ylang-ylang. That’s for treating shock.” He nearly toppled over trying to pronounce ylang-ylang. “And then some frankincense for stability, some chamomile for your tantrum problem …”

  “My club!” I yelled. “What have you done to my cluuuuuuub?”

  “And some sandalwood and tangerine to help you stop living in the past. Sit right on down there, Steven. We’ll fix ya right up.”

  I did. I did sit right down. Beaten. Broken. I plopped down on the garage floor holding my nose, closing my eyes, trying to figure a way to cover my ears with my feet.

  Wolf wheeled up beside me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Gee, you sure showed me, huh? Stealing all my members. What a good idea that was.”

  “But I won, didn’t I?” I said, sounding even to myself like a crazy person. “I won. I won. That’s the important thing.”

  “Ya,” he said. “You won. See ya, buddy. Have fun with your club.”

  “Wait!” I said, scrambling after him, not begging, exactly, but dangerously close. “Do something. You have to do something. Can you do something?”

  “Of course I can,” he said. “Just let me handle it. And whatever I say, just don’t disagree.”

  If that wasn’t a windup for a sucker punch, I don’t know what is. But I was in a spot.

  Casually, Wolf turned from me to the assembled masses.

  “Attention, everyone,” he yelled. All activity stopped, just like it does in the zebra pack when the lions cruise by. “Steven here has seen the light of day, and brought me back as president of the He-Man Women Haters Club.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Go have a cookie and shaddup,” he said.

  There was a groan from the crowd.

  “So,” he went on. “As most of you no doubt remember from the last club we were in together, there will be an initiation ceremony.”

  The groaning grew louder.

  “All of you who are not original charter members of the HMWHC will now line up over here for the official ‘Kissing of the President’ procession.”

  “You are such an embarrassment,” I said.

  Even the groaning stopped. The Scout meeting inside the Lincoln
broke up like a cookie in milk. The owner of the boom box yanked the plug out of the wall and hoisted the thing on her shoulder. Vanessa wiped her hands off on Ling’s shirt, and Rock stood up with her half a head of corn rows and made for the door. They marched out single file like a colony of ants.

  Wolfgang. As he had done so many times before, one way or another, he’d changed the world by merely opening his mouth. And, as usual, he was enjoying every bit of it.

  “What?” he called, wheeling after them. “Was it something I said? I know, you can’t decide who goes first, right? You’re rushing out for some breath mints, is that it? Hey! It’s okay, go on and fight over me. I’ll kiss the winner and losers, I don’t mind—”

  Slam! They were gone.

  I went right over to Wolfgang and shook his hand, laughing. He basked in his ability to clear a room.

  Over in the corner the He-Men stood expressionless.

  “What about you guys?” I said. “You must have something to say.”

  Jerome spoke for all of them. He shrugged. “Who wants a haircut?”

  “That’s it? What about this?” I pointed at Wolf. “Aren’t you shocked?”

  “Shocked? Steven, we are not shocked. We are He-Men.”

  “Ya,” Ling said. “We figured out about two weeks ago that you were trying to get him back.”

  “Ahhh!” I said. “Ahhh!”

  “Never figured you was gonna make him boss again, though,” Cecil said.

  “Oh, no, that part was just a ploy to scare the girls out,” I assured them.

  “Ploy, nothing,” Wolfgang said. “That was my fee for getting rid of them. I’m the Man again.”

  “What?” I protested. “No. No. No way. This is my club, and besides, you think these guys are going to have you back again after all you’ve … ?”

  I looked to the guys. All three shrugged.

  “Would you stop doing that, please?” I snapped.

  Jerome, my oldest and dearest compatriot, came over to reassure me. “Steven,” he said, punching my shoulder, “does it really matter, with this bunch, who’s in charge? Is that really the important thing with us?”

  Jerome was still able to make me feel stupid more than the rest. And considering how all the worst things always seemed to happen as a result of my lust for power … I was feeling extra foolish now.

  “Ya, you’re right,” I said, turning to shake Wolf’s hand once again like this was the official ceremony ending a very cool and important war. “What matters is that the He-Man Women Haters Club is together, not who’s in charge of it.”

  Lying my hairy butt off. Of course it mattered. It mattered a whole lot. And the first chance I got …

  A Biography of Chris Lynch

  Chris Lynch (b. 1962) was born in Boston, Massachusetts, the fifth of seven children. His father, Edward J. Lynch, was a Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority bus and trolley driver, and his mother, Dorothy, was a stay-at-home mom. Lynch’s father passed away in 1967, when Lynch was just five years old. Along with her children, Dorothy was left with an old, black Rambler American car and no driver’s license. She eventually got her license, and raised her children as a single mother.

  Lynch grew up in the Jamaica Plain neighborhood, and recalls his childhood ambitions to become a hockey player (magically, without learning to ice skate properly), president of the United States, and/or a “rock and roll god.” He attended Catholic Memorial School in West Roxbury, before heading off to Boston University, neglecting to first earn his high school diploma. He later transferred to Suffolk University, where he majored in journalism, and eventually received an MA from the writing program at Emerson College. Before becoming a writer, Lynch worked as a furniture mover, truck driver, house painter, and proofreader. He began writing fiction around 1989, and his first book, Shadow Boxer, was published in 1993. “I could not have a more perfect job for me than writer,” he says. “Other than not managing to voluntarily read a work of fiction until I was at university, this gig and I were made for each other. One might say I was a reluctant reader, which surely informs my work still.”

  In 1989, Lynch married, and later had two children, Sophia and Walker. The family moved to Roslindale, Massachusetts, where they lived for seven years. In 1996, Lynch moved his family to Ireland, his father’s birthplace, where Lynch has dual citizenship. After a few years in Ireland, he separated from his wife and met his current partner, Jules. In 1998, Jules and her son, Dylan, joined in the adventure when Lynch, Sophia, and Walker sailed to southwest Scotland, which remains the family’s base to this day. In 2010, Sophia had a son, Jackson, Lynch’s first grandchild.

  When his children were very young, Lynch would work at home, catching odd bits of available time to write. Now that his children are grown, he leaves the house to work, often writing in local libraries and “acting more like I have a regular nine-to-five(ish) job.”

  Lynch has written more than twenty-five books for young readers, including Inexcusable (2005), a National Book Award finalist; Freewill (2001), which won a Michael L. Printz Honor; and several novels cited as ALA Best Books for Young Adults, including Gold Dust (2000) and Slot Machine (1995).

  Lynch’s books are known for capturing the reality of teen life and experiences, and often center on adolescent male protagonists. “In voice and outlook,” Lynch says, “Elvin Bishop [in the novels Slot Machine; Extreme Elvin; and Me, Dead Dad, and Alcatraz] is the closest I have come to representing myself in a character.” Many of Lynch’s stories deal with intense, coming-of-age subject matters. The Blue-Eyed Son trilogy was particularly hard for him to write, because it explores an urban world riddled with race, fear, hate, violence, and small-mindedness. He describes the series as “critical of humanity in a lot of ways that I’m still not terribly comfortable thinking about. But that’s what novelists are supposed to do: get uncomfortable and still be able to find hope. I think the books do that. I hope they do.”

  Lynch’s He-Man Women Haters Club series takes a more lighthearted tone. These books were inspired by the club of the same name in the Little Rascals film and TV show. Just as in the Little Rascals’ club, says Lynch, “membership is really about classic male lunkheadedness, inadequacy in dealing with girls, and with many subjects almost always hiding behind the more macho word hate when we cannot admit that it’s fear.”

  Today, Lynch splits his time between Scotland and the US, where he teaches in the MFA creative writing program at Lesley University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His life motto continues to be “shut up and write.”

  Lynch, age twenty, wearing a soccer shirt from a team he played with while living in Jamaica Plain, Boston.

  Lynch with his daughter, Sophia, and son, Walker, in Scotland’s Cairngorm Mountains in 2002.

  Lynch at the National Book Awards in 2005. From left to right: Lynch’s brother Brian; his mother, Dot; Lynch; and his brother E.J.

  Lynch with his family at Edinburgh’s Salisbury Crags at Hollyrood Park in 2005. From left to right: Lynch’s daughter, Sophia; niece Kim; Lynch; his son, Walker; his partner, Jules, and her son, Dylan; and Lynch’s brother E.J.

  In 2009, Lynch spoke at a Massachusetts grade school and told the story of Sister Elizabeth of Blessed Sacrament School in Jamaica Plain, the only teacher he had who would “encourage a proper, liberating, creative approach to writing.” A serious boy came up to Lynch after his talk, handed him this paper origami nun, and said, “I thought you should have a nun. Her name is Sister Elizabeth.” Sister Elizabeth hangs in Lynch’s car to this day.

  Lynch and his “champion mystery multibreed knuckleheaded hound,” Dexter, at home in Scotland in 2011. Says Lynch, “Dexter and I often put our heads together to try and fathom an unfathomable world.” Though Dexter lives with him, Lynch is allergic to dogs, and survives by petting Dexter with his feet and washing his hands multiple times a day!

  Lynch never makes a move without first consulting with his trusted advisor and grandson, Jackson. This photo was taken in 2012, w
hen Jackson was two years old, in Lynch’s home in Coylton, South Ayrshire, Scotland. Lynch later discovered his house was locally known as “the Hangman’s Cottage” because of the occupation of one of its earliest residents. One of his novels, The Gravedigger’s Cottage, is loosely based on this house.

  Lynch dressed up as Wolverine for Halloween in 2012.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1998 by Chris Lynch

  cover design by Elizabeth Connor

  978-1-4804-0465-6

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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  New York, NY 10014

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  THE HE-MAN WOMEN HATERS CLUB

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