Changing Michael

by Jeff Schilling

  Rationale: You don’t really want to find or speak to them. You just want a believable excuse when confronted later for not asking permission. I think it’s called “possible deniability” or something. If you’re that worried about it, go look it up. Here’s an example:

  “Why did you take the car without permission?”

  “I didn’t. I tried to find you, but you didn’t answer.”

  “I was in the next room!”

  Whisper: “I’m worried about your hearing loss.”

  I took my time wandering up the path that led to Wanda’s front door.

  Everything about Wanda’s place is unusual and worth a second look. The flagstones are cut from some material I can’t identify. The shrubs on either side of the path are either flawless replications or impeccably manicured living things. I stopped to inspect one.

  I wasn’t in a hurry. I hadn’t called to see if she was home and didn’t know where I’d go if she wasn’t. I took a quick look, didn’t see anyone nearby, and squatted beside the closest shrub. I still couldn’t tell, but if they were fake, they were the greatest artificial plants ever produced.

  I stood and dusted my hands, though it was more for show than to remove any real dirt.

  Wanda’s house is long and low. Large, spreading oaks protect it like a giant bird standing over her chick. There never seems to be any direct sunlight bearing down on the roof. There’s a second, slightly higher roofline behind the first, but it can be difficult to see on an overcast day. I can’t really tell you how big the house is. It’s not something you can determine from the outside. Or from the inside, for that matter. I’d been inside several times, but only gotten past the front room once or twice. Like I said, Wanda doesn’t let many people in.

  I wandered up to the front door and rang the bell.

  It was one of those bells you can’t quite hear from the intruder’s side of the door—the kind that leaves you thinking it might be broken, and maybe you should give it another push, just to make sure.

  I waited uncomfortably, raised my hand to ring again, then tried to drop it when the door suddenly opened.

  “I heard you,” Wanda said. “You don’t need to lean on it.”

  “I wasn’t going to . . .” I started, but conceded the point to Wanda and slipped inside.

  “Thanks for calling first,” she said, walking to the middle of the room and settling into a slick black couch that faced the front door.

  “You know you were waiting for me,” I said.

  Wanda snorted, sounding almost exactly like my mother. She stretched out across the length of the couch and propped herself up on an elbow, staring at something on the cushion. It might have been a tablet, but there was something about the shape or size that was off.

  Wanda’s house was filled with that sort of thing: items that were exotic, understated, and obviously expensive.

  I sat across from her on a smaller couch (a love seat, or whatever they’re called). Both seemed to be covered in black leather (either that or some new fiber only available to the military elite). My couch didn’t have arms, which got me thinking. I pushed myself to the edge of it and leaned down in an attempt to look underneath. I couldn’t spot any legs, so I just assumed the couch hovered.

  There was something daunting about Wanda’s “front room” that usually left me quiet and compliant. Medical waiting rooms could save themselves the hassle of unruly patients by studying it. It was spacious and spare, all its items streamlined and modern. The one exception was a tall piece of pottery, a vase that stood on a short, black box near the entrance to the kitchen. It could have been anywhere from three years old to three thousand. I was afraid to go near it, assuming I’d either crash into it or insult it by not averting my gaze.

  All the furniture in the front room was angular and sharp. You had to be careful about how and where you moved or else risk a slash from the corner of an end table.

  The front room’s light was always muted. There was a row of windows behind the love seat that ran the length of the wall and ended at the front door.

  There was an enchanted forest on the far side of the room. Exotic flowers grew in clumps across the ceiling.

  Okay, so I made up a couple things, but I was getting a little disgusted with myself. I don’t know why I tried to describe her house in the first place, but apparently I’ve just written the beginning of a book Michael will really enjoy.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” she muttered, distracted.

  “What’s that thing in front of you?”

  “You.”

  “Hilarious,” I said. “The thing laying next to you—the device that seems to be getting more attention than I am?”

  “What do you think it is?” she asked, looking up from her screen.

  Wanda was stretched out on her couch like a lioness. The couch was long but not quite long enough. Her bare feet dangled off the edge. She turned off her device, then stood and stretched.

  The curve of her body seemed to fill the room from ceiling to floor, a nearly perfect arc. It took me a minute to realize I was staring; I was definitely off my game.

  She wandered toward the back of the room and into the kitchen. “Want something?” she said, her voice floating back to me from around a corner.

  “No . . . thanks.”

  I sat on my hover-couch and folded my hands.

  Looking around, I noticed a massive painting to my right. It was abstract, and the design was familiar, although it wasn’t something I remembered from my last visit.

  I stood and carefully slithered over to it. Having felt the burn of Wanda’s sharp furniture once or twice, I refused to move at any speed above old-man shuffle.

  I stopped a few feet from the painting.

  “Is this real?” I asked.

  I could see globs of paint that appeared to be three-dimensional, but wasn’t quite sure I could trust my eyes.

  I shot a furtive glance toward the kitchen, then brought a tentative finger toward a blob of red.

  “You don’t do that at the gallery, do you?”

  The voice was so low and close that at first, I thought the painting was upbraiding me.

  “No,” I said, defensively tucking my arm against my side.

  Wanda’s mother emerged from a wormhole and stepped up beside me.

  Her mother is just a bit taller than Wanda and, though not quite as muscular, somehow more imposing than her daughter.

  “What do you think?” Mrs. W asked, nodding toward the painting.

  I always called Wanda’s mother Mrs. Wanda or Mrs. W. Can’t really explain why. It just seemed to fit and she didn’t seem to mind.

  “Umm . . . it’s real?” I tried.

  She laughed.

  “It better be. Do you like it?” she asked.

  I turned back to the painting. I didn’t need a second look to decide whether I liked it or not. It was hideous. But seeing Wanda’s mother was an anomaly, and I needed a moment to get my head out of my ass.

  “Of course I like it. It’s very . . . it’s . . . Actually, no . . . no, I don’t,” I finally admitted.

  She smiled.

  “Me, neither. But it’s worth a lot.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  Wanda’s voice cut in from the other side of the room.

  “Going to work?”

  “Mm-hm,” her mom said.

  “What time you coming back?”

  Mrs. W shrugged.

  “Can’t tell me or don’t feel like it?” Wanda asked.

  Setting a tall drink on an end table that must have scuttled in behind her, Wanda folded herself back onto the couch.

  “One of those,” her mom said.

  I don’t know what her mom does for work. Wanda says she knows but can’t tell me. I think she’s
lying. I’ve pressed Wanda on it a few times but haven’t gotten anywhere.

  “Headed for the pet shop?” I guessed.

  Another smile from Mrs. W.

  She slipped from my side, threading her way across the room and over to her daughter. “You can order dinner,” she said, bending over Wanda to kiss her on the cheek.

  Wanda had her device going again.

  “You can stay for dinner if you like, Matthew,” Mrs. W offered.

  “Thanks.”

  “Not if he doesn’t ask me first,” Wanda said.

  “You’d better watch yourself,” her mom replied.

  The change in her voice was subtle, but I suddenly found myself a bit more alert than I had been just a second ago.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wanda said, quietly.

  Her mother stood over her a moment, assessing, then leaned down and kissed her other cheek.

  Wanda smiled.

  To me, she said, “Wash your hands if you’re planning on touching that painting again.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  A quick smile and she slipped out the front door.

  I stood in place a moment, then shuffled back over to my hover-couch. My leg brushed a coffee table on the way, opening a five-inch gash.

  I fell into my seat, stared at my hands a minute, then looked up at Wanda.

  “She gets to you, doesn’t she?” Wanda said, smiling.

  “Please,” I said dismissively.

  Wanda continued to stare. Wanda can see much farther into me than anyone else—it’s a feeling I don’t care for, but also one of the reasons I spend time with her. She’s a worthy opponent. I haven’t found a way past her barriers and definitely haven’t discovered a way to beat her on a consistent basis. Spending time with someone like Wanda is good practice, not that I need a lot.

  “I’d say she gets to you,” I said.

  “Different,” Wanda said dismissively, eyes back on her device.

  I raised my eyebrows but didn’t press.

  Not yet.

  I cleared my throat and lowered my eyes just as hers lifted. I ran my palm across the fabric of the cushion. I frowned and brought my hand closer, staring at the palm. I shook my head—not much, but just enough.

  “What?” she said.

  “Nothing,” I said, rubbing my palm against the leg of my pants.

  “There’s nothing on that couch,” she said.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Then why are you rubbing your leg?”

  I didn’t answer, but tried to look as if I might in just a moment. I gazed at the pottery, opened my mouth slightly, then closed it.

  “Matthew?”

  “Hey, what do you think of Michael?” I asked, nonchalantly.

  “Michael?” she said.

  “Yes, Michael.”

  “Michael who?”

  I told her.

  She lifted an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Don’t know him.”

  I had to be careful. Too much push and she’d start asking questions. I feigned a renewed interest in the horrible painting.

  “Why’re you interested in Michael?” she asked.

  I held up a finger, making her wait.

  “Hey,” she said, giving her cushion a thump.

  Not yet.

  “Better put that finger away,” she said.

  I complied, but did so slowly.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Well, what? Oh, right . . . Why am I interested in Michael?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t know. I was thinking about him the other day . . . thinking maybe there’s some potential there.”

  “Potential?”

  I nodded.

  “For?”

  “Not sure, yet . . . I mean, he’s not a bad guy, right?”

  Wanda shrugged.

  “Seems to get more shit than he deserves,” I said.

  “And that’s your battle?” she asked.

  “Battle?” I said. “What are you talking about? What’s in that drink, anyway?”

  “You know what I mean,” she said, voice low. I watched her poke the device with a little more force than was required.

  “Battle,” I repeated, as if I hadn’t quite heard her right.

  “Quit being such a pain in the ass,” she said without looking up.

  I gave myself a point. It’s like the game I play with Mom. Getting Wanda to complain about my behavior is worth a point.

  “Don’t you think he could use a little help?” I asked.

  “From you?”

  Although it wasn’t a bad comeback, it was easy, and the delivery was overdone. I chose not to award her a point.

  “Yes, from me. I’m quite helpful.”

  Wanda stopped fiddling with her tablet. We stared at each other.

  It was a draw, so I awarded myself another point.

  “Good luck with that,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she touched the screen in a few key places and put it to sleep. She set the tablet on the end table and stood up from the couch.

  “I said—”

  “I heard you,” she said, stretching her arms toward the ceiling again.

  “And?”

  “And I’m not going to answer. You know what I mean.”

  “Not fair.”

  “Neither are you. I got to get ready, honey,” she said, looking down at her drink.

  “Are we going out to eat?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh . . . you’re making something?”

  “You need a ride home?” she asked.

  “I just got here,” I said.

  “Should have called first.”

  “I’m supposed to stay for dinner.”

  “No, you’re allowed to stay for dinner,” she said. “I’m not going to be here for dinner.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to do some shopping.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You want to hang out while I try on clothes?”

  “Sometimes it’s important to get a second opinion,” I said, giving her a meaningful look.

  Based on Wanda’s face, I awarded myself another point.

  “Doing anything tonight?” I asked.

  “Got a poker game.”

  “Can I come?”

  “You know how to play poker?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know everything about me,” I said.

  She smiled. “I know one thing: You’re going to get yourself in trouble if you start fooling with Michael and messing in his business.”

  “Michael?” I said. “Michael who?”

  “I got to get going,” she said again but didn’t leave. “You want anything to eat?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know where the kitchen is.”

  She turned and walked down the hall. I gave her a point for not looking back.

  I sat on the hover couch and reviewed my performance while I waited. Although the start had been a bit shaky, I’d made a nice recovery. In fact, it was such a nice recovery, I decided to give myself the win.

  As I gazed at a corner of the room, Michael floated back into my head. Trailing along after him like a banner was Wanda’s comment about getting involved in his “battles.”

  I shook my head.

  If I could score a win over Wanda on her home field, winning a few battles for Michael was nothing. I might even put in my second-stringers.

  They could use the playing time.

  The rest of Saturday and all of Sunday were so boring I was almost glad
to get to school Monday morning. I decided to look for Michael, but he wasn’t in the cafeteria. Instead, he was standing by my locker, looking all flushed and out of breath.

  “You’re not going to tell me about some computer game, are you?” I said.

  “What? No . . . I was going to tell you about the weekend.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. “What’s up?”

  He hesitated, looking confused.

  “I wanted to . . .”

  “Did you get lucky?” I asked.

  “I . . . no . . . What?”

  “Nothing. Sorry, go ahead.”

  Michael cleared his throat, paused, and said, “I did that thing we talked about. Remember?”

  “The racing thing?” I asked, a little surprised.

  He nodded, regaining some of the geek flush he’d lost. He let his backpack slide off his shoulder and onto the floor. He squatted down beside it and began to rummage through. It took him a while, but he finally closed it up and slung it back into place.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Michael held a spiral notebook in one hand.

  “My research,” he said, handing me the book.

  My jaw dropped as I flipped through. There must have been fifteen pages of notes. There were diagrams—little clouds with names inside floating around the page and different-colored lines linking one cloud to another.

  “What is this?” I asked, pointing to the clouds.

  “Oh, that’s just something to help me remember different teams and owners.”

  “Just something, huh?”

  Michael looked pleased. “Actually, it’s kind of interesting the way some drivers—”

  I held up a hand. “That’s okay. I appreciate the thought, but no thank you.”

  I skimmed through a few more pages and handed the notebook back.

  “Excellent,” I said. “So now you know everything in the world about racing.”

  “Is it too much?”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  He looked uncomfortable.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I told him.”

  “Told who?”

  “My stepfather. I told him about the rumor.”

  I closed my eyes. “Michael, this isn’t going to work if you don’t follow my instructions.”