by Crystal Chan
• • •
Mina didn’t scream the day Dad shot himself, six months ago on a Thursday. Mom, Mina, and I had gone out to the movies, and when we came back, we found Dad in the living room, the brown carpet all wet and black and thick with stench. Mom rushed over to him, I called 911, and Mina just stood there, staring at Dad on the floor, her eyes big and wide. Mina was still staring when I hung up the phone, and that’s when I slapped her in the face like they do in the movies, and she fell onto the floor. I wasn’t pissed or anything, but you can’t let a kid look at shit like that. I couldn’t think of anything else to do in the moment. Mina didn’t say anything about any of that, either, so maybe she understood. Like I said, she’s smart for a fourth grader. But smart or not, I was glad she didn’t see that my hands were shaking. I tried to get them to stop, but they shook for hours after the ambulance took Dad away.
• • •
After we dropped Jello off at his place and were headed back home, Mom was playing chauffeur in the front seat with the news radio on. Suddenly Mina said, “Stop the car,” loud and firm.
Mom stopped, and before anyone could say anything, a cheetah sauntered in front of us, its long spine undulating up and down with every step it took, like it owned this fucking town. The cheetah paused right in front of our car, turned its head, and stared at us for a long-ass time. Then it flicked its tail and continued on its way.
The news had switched to the wolf shooting, and the announcer was urging listeners to call in any sightings of animals immediately, as they were extremely dangerous. And to my surprise, Mom calmly reached out and turned off the radio. The three of us sat in the car in silence in the middle of the road. It was like that cheetah was still in front of us, although it wasn’t. “What do you guys want for dinner?” Mom asked after a while.
“Pizza,” Mina said happily.
“Okay,” Mom said. She put the car in gear and continued driving home.
That was the coolest thing Mom had ever done.
• • •
A few days later, on a Thursday, I was hanging out at George’s place, trying to teach her little terrier, Genghis, how to press the on button of the TV’s remote control with his paw. I was sitting on the sofa with Genghis under one arm and holding the remote control with my free hand.
“You just go like this,” I said to him, and pressed the power button with my finger. Then I took his paw and put it on the power button.
Genghis cocked his head at me.
“I don’t know,” I said to George. “Maybe Genghis isn’t the TV-watching type.”
George looked up from the A-frame model of a cabin she was working on. “I think you’re doing it wrong,” she said with a sly grin. “You have to get on the floor on all fours and show him how to do it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “On all fours?”
George nodded. “If you don’t demonstrate it, how is Genghis going to know what to do?”
“You mean I’m supposed to get down on all fours to show your dog how to—”
“Yes.” George’s eyes twinkled.
Only George could make me do shit like this. “You promise you’re not going to tell anyone?”
“Promise.” Her hand went to her pocket. “It’s just between you, me, and my phone.”
“Oh hell no,” I said.
“Are you blushing?” she asked.
“Dark-skinned people don’t blush,” I said.
“Yes, but I could swear that—”
“Fine, fine,” I said, getting off the couch and onto the floor on my hands and knees. Genghis sat right down next to me, watching me with curiosity. I put the remote control in between us and put my hand on it, then took my hand off. Genghis cocked his head again and lifted his paw, like he thought I wanted to shake it. George was rolling with laughter.
Suddenly both of our phones started buzzing at the same time.
It was an all-school text: The man who was attacked by the wolf was none other than Mr. Hendricks, one of our physics teachers. He just died after being in critical condition for a couple days. The principal, who sent the text, announced the loss of one of our best teachers.
I did another mental check: Yes, it was a Thursday.
George gasped when she read the text. “This is so, so sad,” she cried. “He was the best teacher, only to . . .”
“Have his ass chewed out by a really hungry wolf?” I offered.
“Ronney!” George said.
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Mr. Hendricks was known to be one of the toughest teachers in our school. “He got his own ass-chewing. Now, that’s poetic justice.”
George glared at me though her tears.
“It’s called dark humor,” I muttered, but I could feel my neck getting hot.
“You know what your problem is, Ronney?” she said. She pushed aside the wood pieces of the model she was working on.
I held my breath and braced for the worst. When a girl starts off saying “You know what your problem is?” you know you’re screwed. Because she’ll be right: You’re a dick. And even if she’s not right, if you argue with her, you’re an even bigger dick for arguing with her—at the very best, you’re a jerk-ass dick who just happens to be right in that one instance. And let me tell you, when a hot girl like George walks away with a conclusion like that, it’s not really a victory at all.
“The problem with you,” George said, getting all in my face, “is you’re cold.”
“It was a joke,” I said, putting my hands up. “I didn’t mean it.”
She shook her head, her eyes glistening angrily. “You don’t joke about things like this,” she said. “Mr. Hendricks was the person who connected me with architecture schools. He told me he was going to be my reference when I apply to them.”
At that point I wished for nothing more than the ability to take back the last thirty words that shat out of my mouth. But when I didn’t say anything, George got even more worked up. “How could you say that about someone who inspired me? Who was violently killed? Who was one of our teachers?” she said.
“I didn’t know him,” I protested. A tight feeling came over my chest. It was suddenly hard to breathe.
“So that means you can talk like that about Mr. Hendricks? How do you think his wife feels right now?”
“Wait,” I said, “what do you mean ‘cold’?”
“You think about no one but yourself,” she said.
“That’s not true,” I said defensively.
“Of course it is,” she snapped.
“I think about you all the time,” I blurted out.
Silence. Her eyes widened as she stared at me.
My stomach dropped. I mean, even if girls say they want the truth, they don’t really mean it. They only want you to tell them what they want to hear. Case in point: If a girl only wants to be friends, she never, ever, ever wants to hear that you think about her all the time. Especially if it’s true.
“I didn’t want to hear that,” George said quietly.
George’s eyes left my face and settled somewhere over her family’s flat-screen TV. Genghis waddled over, started walking on the remote control, and looked up at me expectantly, wagging his tail.
“I take care of the house,” I said quietly. “You know that.”
George sighed. “A house is not a person.”
“I take care of the house so the people inside are safe and warm,” I said.
“It’s not the same,” she said.
My mind went blank. Although I’m sure there were a million things I could have said, this is what came to mind: absolutely nothing.
George fidgeted. “Ronney, I don’t know how to say this,” she said, curling her hair around her finger. She didn’t look at me.
I felt a little nauseous at that point. This could get worse?
“My parents don’t like me hanging out with you,” she said.
Of course it could get worse, considering what day it was. I don’t lie about these things.
/> “Why don’t they?” I asked, shocked. The tight feeling spread from my stomach to my chest.
“Since your dad tried . . . to . . . you know,” she said. “And you cut classes a lot. My parents don’t think . . .”
“I’m stable?” I said icily.
A tear slipped down her cheek. “It’s just that—”
“Or maybe I’m not a good influence on you,” I finished, and stood up. This was starting to piss me off. “Jello, for all of his studious ‘good influence,’ was the one who dragged me into going after that wolf.”
George’s eyes grew big. “What?”
“Mom thinks he’s smart,” I said. “She couldn’t be more wrong. Jello’s on a safari, hunting down these animals for his photo shoots. We were practically at Mr. Hendricks’s house when the wolf got him. We talked with Dan the News Man himself.”
Her face dropped in shock. “Ronney, you’re crazy.”
“I’m crazy?” I exploded. “This was all Jello’s idea,” I said, gripping the back of the living room chair. “In fact, I was the one who decided we should leave because we didn’t have any meat. Jello would have fed the damn thing his leg and called it a splendid afternoon.”
It was obvious: Jello was crazy, and I was the bastion of reason and logic. I had probably saved my friend’s life just then, or at least his left leg. Instead, George’s hand flew to her forehead, like she didn’t know it was possible I could be so stupid. “My parents would kill me if they knew—”
“Knew what?” I asked sharply.
“That . . . well . . .”
My face tensed. “I get that you’re into your family,” I said, “and maybe one of your parents didn’t just take a gun to himself, but where the hell did this come from? When did you get to be such a pleaser?”
Her eyebrows scrunched up. “It’s not about pleasing—”
“Like hell it’s not. You are—and I am paraphrasing—telling me you don’t want to hang out because of what your parents think of me. Not what you think of me. Your parents.”
Another tear slipped down her cheek. “You don’t understand, Ronney,” she said. She reached for my arm.
I backed away. “I understand more than you know,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice. She had absolutely no idea how much she was ripping me up right then: Her parents think I’m a loser, and she’s going along with them. With them. She didn’t try to defend me—not even once? Well, if she could hurt me, then I could hurt her.
“And I’m sorry to break your bubble,” I said, prepping for the counterblow, “but your parents don’t give a shit about you.”
“Stop it,” she cried.
“It’s true,” I said. I grabbed my shoes. “They want you to make them happy. And when you stop doing that, you’ll see what life is really like. Trust me.”
George sank back down in her chair, hands over her face. For the first time, I didn’t imagine wiping away her tears.
• • •
I left George’s house after that, just like she told me to. And even though that cheetah was still on the loose, along with a camel (what the hell is so hard about catching a camel?), the python, and a good number of other animals, I took the long way home. Leave it to George to get all emotional over a joke. It was a joke. It’s not like I really wanted Mr. Hendricks to die. But no, she goes from saying I’m cold to telling me her parents think I’m crap. Hell, like it’s my fault Dad turned suicidal. How could they blame that on me? How could she?
I raced my bike home, jumping curbs as hard as I could. And what the hell did she mean, I’m cold? I help her make cookie houses, for God’s sake. I say one wrong thing, and she turns into a judger.
I knew I wasn’t walking away from this smelling like roses, either— I gave her a low blow. I’m not exactly sure that George’s parents would dump her if she became the misery of their lives, but hasn’t she ever wondered what would happen if she turned off the perfection? If her parents would turn away? Because after watching my family, she sure as hell knows that parents can.
I jumped curbs for a long time because I didn’t want to make Mina freak if I came home pissed as hell. Turned out, though, that I bent my back wheel on one of the jumps, so I had to walk my busted bike the last couple blocks. Go figure. As I was carrying my bike to the garage, who else but that little Sam runt showed up again. He stood there awkwardly and watched me like the stalker he was.
But there was something about him in that instant that made him not look like a stalker. Maybe it was the way his feet fidgeted like a ten-year-old kid’s or the way he scratched his arm. Whatever it was, it hit me: Perhaps I had been overreacting. I guess I was still thinking about how George said I was cold, or how I was worried about how Mina was holding up, or how I was still impressed that Sam was buying back all of his brother’s shit, or maybe it was just a Thursday and nothing ever, ever happens the way it should, but I sighed and said to Sam kind of nicely, even, “Mina’s inside.” I shoved my bike in the back, by the lawn mower, before turning around. “And look, Sam. Keep the jeans, okay? I’m not going to beat you up.”
“I’m not here for Mina,” Sam said. He played with the zipper of his hoodie.
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
He swallowed. “I need your help.”
9
SO I WAS WRONG: SAM wasn’t the stalking kind. He was the needy kind, which was almost worse. Because, you see, since he was needy he was going to want my help, and then I’d have to tell him: Hell no. There’s no way I’m going to be responsible for yet one more thing. But if I told him to leave me alone, then I’d feel responsible for whatever disaster happened because I didn’t help. So either way I’d be screwed: Either I took on his shit and was responsible for it, or I didn’t take on his shit and felt responsible for not taking it on.
Screwed, with a capital S. But in the grand scheme of things, not helping out was clearly still the way to go.
“Not going to help you,” I said to Sam, who stood between my garage and the front door. “I can’t help that you don’t fit into those jeans. No alterations.”
Sam didn’t move. “It’s not the jeans.”
My nice mood was melting off quickly. I threw him a glare. “And, by the way, you’re a little shit for telling Mina to steal them for you.”
Sam’s chin tilted slightly higher as he looked up at me. I could have sworn that a victorious glint sparked in his eyes, but it sputtered out, replaced with concern. “Mina didn’t get in trouble, did she?” Sam asked.
“If you don’t consider her face covered in snot and tears trouble, then no,” I said. I paused. “Probably a bruise.”
Sam flinched.
I made a face. “Yeah. Getting a minion. Clever.”
Sam looked at me like he wasn’t quite sure what “minion” meant but suspected I’d given him a compliment. Made me remember I was conversing with someone in fourth grade. “Look, kid,” I told Sam, stepping around him, “I gotta go. But keep the jeans, okay?”
Sam counterstepped so he was still blocking me. “I need your help,” he said.
I stared at him. This kid really threw me off. I mean, where the hell did he get his balls from? If I had his kind of balls, I would have told George that I wanted to talk to her parents, or told Jello that this safari was a stupid idea and I was out. Who knows, maybe I’d run away from home, Mina or no Mina. For a kid his age, they were small, but freaking made of steel.
In a strange way, though, I understood him; there’s not many fifteen-year-olds fixing up a house. Maybe you need different kinds of balls to call roofers, but hell, balls are balls.
For the record, I’m not saying that all other kids on the face of the earth are losers. For instance, Jello pulled me out of a not-quite-frozen-over lake when we were ten. I was thrashing in this water, my legs turning into chunks of lead, and I was grabbing for the ice shelf that kept breaking off in my hands—and Jello somehow got me out. Don’t know how he did it, even to this day, but he said it wasn�
�t that hard; I clung to that stick like a leech to warm skin.
But maybe that’s what it is. People like me grab what they need because they don’t know if another chance is going to come again. People like Jello say “when.” People like me say “if.” There’s a world of a difference between those two words.
Clearly, Sam says “if.”
“Go home,” I said to Sam. I took a huge step around him—bigger than he could counter—and headed up the little sidewalk to my front door. He followed behind, of course. “Do your math homework,” I said, not turning around.
“I don’t do math homework,” Sam said.
“That’s why you’re flunking math,” I said cheerfully as I pulled out my keys. “Do your homework so you don’t have to come by here anymore.”
At that point, a lion roared in the distance.
“Some kids in my class got foghorns from their parents so they can scare the animals away,” Sam said.
“Wonderful. I can just imagine how much fun recess is going to be,” I said.
The lion roared again.
“This is just so weird,” Sam said, shaking his head.
I faced him. “You know what’s weird?” I asked. “You. What the hell you need my help for?”
Sam played with the zipper of his hoodie. “I need to get Nick’s poster back. From the secondhand store.”
I sized him up. “So it’s true? Your brother ran off?”
Sam looked away. “She wasn’t supposed to tell you,” he said quietly.
“Not her fault,” I said.
Sam was quiet. Far away, multiple gunshots went off.
“I’m not going to give you money for the goddamn poster.” I paused. “I’m not going to buy it for you either.”
“Then go in and take it,” Sam said.
