Twisting the rod.
Thinking.
Michael.
I heard a pop. I dropped the rod and let it swing back against the blind. It dangled awkwardly.
“Ridiculous,” I said.
I hope you’re not expecting a moral to this story. Because I’m the one telling it, not Michael.
If he was telling it, I’m sure he’d include a moral. Probably something like, “Be happy with yourself and tell everyone about it. Or, “Appreciate people for who they are instead of trying to change them.”
So if you’re the type of person who needs a moral, how’s this? I tried to help Michael. It worked for a while, and then he messed things up. The moral? “Be very selective if you’re thinking of helping anyone.”
Of course, if this was a movie, I would have pulled Michael from a burning building by now (or vice versa), and we’d have put aside our differences, embraced, and become friends for life.
But it isn’t a movie.
I knew Michael would get suspended. That was a given. Leonard, too.
However, I had a bad feeling Michael’s life would probably be a lot better from here on out.
I mean, I was pretty sure people wouldn’t be picking on him for a while. The rumor (my rumor, in fact) had already made that so, but after what happened with Leonard, I doubted anyone wanted to risk a beat down from Michael. They’d completely lose their place in the food chain.
So that was something.
Oh, and Wanda.
Thanks to me, Michael knew Wanda. Not only did he know her, apparently she could actually stomach being around him for more than two minutes.
(Which reminded me, I really needed to speak to her about that.)
And his dad, right? He knew his dad now.
And Chrissy . . .
So all that time and attention, and all that success, and Michael still had the balls to kick me to the curb.
Well, anyway, Monday showed up way too soon. The only thing that made it manageable was vacation from Michael.
That, and I figured I’d probably get a call from Chrissy in a couple of days. There was still plenty of time to win that one. Unlike her ingrate of a half-brother, I knew Chrissy would apologize. And even though I wouldn’t answer the initial call, I decided to be lenient with her. She’d leave a message. I’d be nice and call her back in a day or two.
Wednesday came. Even though it was still a little early, a call wouldn’t have taken me completely by surprise. So I didn’t think much of it when she didn’t.
Thursday, I told myself as I was falling asleep. Definitely Thursday.
But no call Thursday either. Near the end of the day, I checked my phone for messages, figuring one might have slipped past me.
No message.
By Friday afternoon, I still hadn’t heard anything and was starting to simmer.
Once again, Michael had managed to irritate me, this time remotely. I was sure I’d get a call Friday night, but on the off chance I didn’t, I decided to take Mom’s car Saturday morning and make one last visit to Michael’s crappy house.
I didn’t bother thinking up a plan to get past Gut or persuade Michael to let me in. I’d break that fucking door down, tap dance on Gut, and drag Michael kicking and screaming from under his bed.
For all I knew, Michael had called Chrissy again just to make she understood the “danger” of getting involved with someone like me. By 9:00 Friday night, I was sure he had. A week had gone by and the only explanation that made any sense was Michael butting in yet again.
I was past simmer now. I’d reached a rolling boil, and the only thing that kept me from roaring over to Michael’s Friday night was the fact that Mom had actually gone out with some of her friends for the evening. Dad was, of course, elsewhere. Well, that and the fact that Michael was probably already in bed snoring peacefully.
I’ll give her until noon Saturday. Just to be sure.
(I was pretty mad, but not mad enough to get up early on a weekend.)
But I was up early Saturday.
If it’s the weekend and I’m alert and awake before 8:30, I know it’s going to be a bad day.
Refusing to be pushed around by whatever body part was unable to be quiet and let me sleep, I flipped over and tried to get comfortable. I stayed still for a while and glared at the ceiling. When that didn’t work, I tried almost every sleeping position known to man.
But instead of finding the right one, all the movement just added to my insomnia. I made one last angry flip and vowed to stay put until either sleep returned or my bladder burst. But my last flip brought me face to face with my window.
And as I studied the light that had somehow managed to sneak through the blinds, my eyes settled on the broken twisty rod. And that stupid twisty rod shoved me right back into Chrissy’s absurd phone call.
Michael and his nonsense had me up and in a shitty mood before 9:00 on a Saturday.
I jerked out of bed and started pulling on clothes.
Time for one last visit.
I cleaned myself up as best as I could, though I didn’t have much patience for it. I grabbed my music and was quickly out of my room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. I was so caught up with Michael that I forgot to peer in first.
“Wow, you’re up early,” Mom said. One of her many tired old jokes.
As usual, she was at the table.
“Back already?” I asked. “How was girls’ night out? Hit any strip clubs?”
I grabbed her keys from off the hook and turned to go.
“Are you taking the . . . Matthew! Get back here!”
I stopped and backed into the kitchen. I don’t know why I didn’t just bolt for the door. I wasn’t thinking straight. Heaving a massive sigh, I turned to face her.
“So, I guess you’re going out,” she said.
“Nope, just taking the keys for a little walk.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see a dear friend.”
I turned.
“Matthew!”
“Yes?”
“Who?”
“Michael.”
“Who’s Michael?”
“New kid at school. You’d love him.”
“Really? When am I going to meet him?”
“Maybe we’ll visit him at the hospital,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Can I go now?”
“No. When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. A couple hours?”
“How about lunchtime?” she said.
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
Just get out of my way or, so help me, I’m going to run you over.
“Matthew! I’m going to take those keys if you keep turning your back on me.”
“Yes, Mother,” I said. “What is it now?”
“I want you back at lunch, okay? Really.”
“God! I told you I’d be back. What else do you want?”
Watching her cringe, like I was an unstable dog that had just tried for her nose, almost pushed me over the edge. Keeping my voice in check took every ounce of self-control I had left.
“What?” I managed, pushing the words through my teeth.
She opted for a dramatic pause, before saying, “It’s important,” in a meek little voice.
I endured her Look of Concern as long as I could.
“Why? What’s going on?” I demanded.
“There’s a reason I want you back by lunch. I want to make sure we have a chance to talk today.”
I didn’t say anything right away. I should have said, “Okay, fine,” but instead I said, “Why?”
“There’s something we need to discuss,” she said, eyes dropping down to her piles.
“What?” I asked.
“Jus
t something we need to discuss,” she repeated. “I don’t want to talk about it now, okay?”
“No,” I said. “Not okay! I don’t have time for this crap!”
The hurt on her face just made me angrier. “Matthew . . . why are you—”
“Just shut up and leave me the hell alone.”
I turned and stalked down what little hall there was, threw the garage door open, and slammed the hell out of it after I was through.
I hopped into the car, clicked the button for the garage door, and pulled out before it was all the way up. Out on the street, as I was jerking the car into drive, I detected movement in the garage.
Glancing over as I pulled away, I saw Mom standing in the pocket door, eyes wide, mouth partially open. I didn’t bother to award myself any points. I didn’t feel like playing the Game today.
We’re so close to the Beltway that it’s almost always the first leg of any trip. I’d driven this stretch so many times that I was fairly certain I could pull out of our neighborhood and onto the exit ramp with my eyes closed. Today, I was almost pissed enough to finally try, but I wasn’t about to do anything that might delay my little visit with Michael.
Merging into the line of traffic, I loaded my music and went right to the Album—the one I only play three times a year.
The Unforgettable Fire. Not the whole album, mind you, just a chunk.
Songs four through seven.
I guess some people have a favorite song. I have four and they just happen to be right next to each other.
I never want to get tired of these songs, so I only let myself listen to them three times a year. But it was late spring and I’d already listened to them twice—not a good sign.
Barring any pile-ups or road work, the trip would be a quick one. It was only one exit away—the exit that would take me past school and, eventually, to Michael’s.
I stomped on the accelerator. The exit came up fast. I hauled the car into the right-hand lane and started to slow.
Then I took my foot off the brake and let my car slide right past the exit.
I guess maybe I needed a little time—time to think, time to draw up a basic plan. As I mentioned, I’m not big on improv.
There was another exit less than a mile away. I decided to take that one instead and make my way back toward school without the assistance of the Beltway. It would give me just enough time to plan.
I stayed in the right lane, ready to exit. I even hit the turn signal. But I didn’t take this ramp off the Beltway either. I just kept going.
I lost a bunch of anger after that. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but figured I’d find out soon enough. So I just drove, soaking up the Album, head empty.
It was a nice feeling that didn’t last very long. Once I crossed the bridge that separated Virginia from Maryland, I suddenly realized where I was headed.
As soon as I crossed the border, I reached for the radio. I stopped the Album, took it back to the first song, and let it go.
And for some reason, when I think back on that day, deciding to play the Album in its entirety always stands out as one of the strangest things.
By the time the Album was done, I was pretty close.
I took a quick look inside my head, wondering if I had a plan.
Nope.
No plan, but there was something. A little speck hidden under something old and dusty. Something from a long time ago, but something immediately familiar. And when I blew the dust off and looked at it for the first time in years, I almost threw it into the darkest corner I could find.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I held it in one hand. It bulged, then pulsed into an idea.
No, I thought immediately, this is ridiculous. It’s stupid. No way.
But now that I’d uncovered it, the idea seemed to have a life of its own. It began to grow, pushing outward in quick jerks. And by the time I found her exit, I had given in.
At the bottom of her ramp, I looked for a place to pull over.
I found a 7-Eleven, or something that used to be a 7-Eleven before someone pulled the logo down. They hadn’t bothered to paint over the outlines, however, and I wondered if they really thought the general public would believe it was an independent convenience store that just happened to have the same attractive green and orange color scheme.
I had my phone out almost before the car stopped rolling.
I tried to remember the name of Michael’s bookstore but quickly gave up. Baltimore was a pretty big city. There were other stores. And as long as they had what I needed, it didn’t matter which one I chose.
It didn’t take long. I pulled a scrap of paper out of the glove compartment and jotted down a few names and numbers I pulled up on my phone.
I found one on the second try.
Yes, they carried them. Yes, they were pretty close. I didn’t ask if they had the guy I was looking for. It didn’t really matter. As long as they carried them, I could make it work.
I wasn’t about to drive back home and get mine.
I told them where I was and scribbled a few basic directions. I managed to find the place without too much trouble. Finding a parking spot was another matter. It was on a one-way street; there were parallel lines of parked cars on either side next to a string of parking meters. Several blocks of specialty stores were packed as tightly as the cars flanking them.
Somehow, I managed to squeeze into something that was probably a space. After that, I was in and out of the store in under ten minutes.
Not only did they have plenty, but they had the guy I was looking for.
Back in the car, I retraced my steps back to Sort of 7-Eleven. My hand went to the radio again and the Album came to life.
This time, just four through seven.
I floated quietly toward her apartment. Back down streets that were becoming familiar, past a few landmarks. At some point, I crossed the line but wasn’t paying attention. Down her street and past her apartment. One U-turn later and I was rolling by her building, taking the first right and gently coming to a stop on the usual side street.
I sat in the car a while, looking at the glass vestibule, then down at the little bag on the passenger seat.
I opened the glove compartment and rummaged around until I found something I could use. Thankfully, it was a grocery store receipt, so there was plenty of space on the back.
I thought for a while, but it didn’t take long. On the back of the receipt, I wrote:
Chrissy,
This is for you. He was my favorite when I was a little younger. Guess I still like him. Hope you do, too. Just don’t tell anyone, okay (ha,ha)? Actually, tell anyone you want. I don’t care anymore.
Matthew
I took the comic book out of the bag and tucked the note inside the front cover. I left the top of it sticking out—just enough so her name was out. Then I hopped out of the car.
Inside the vestibule, I reached for the buzzer but couldn’t push it.
What the hell are you doing? Will you look at yourself, for Christ’s sake? Standing there with a comic book in one hand, suddenly feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.
Get back in the car before it’s too late!
I brought the comic book a little closer to my face.
The Silver Surfer.
I opened the door just a crack to my smelly little bathroom. Just enough room for a few memories to slip out.
Sitting on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the panels and thinking the Silver Surfer was the coolest guy in the world. Wondering what it would feel like to surf through the universe. Wondering what his planet Zenn-La was like. Desperately wishing I could leave this world and visit.
I thought I could handle the memories, but they were too potent. And they felt so ridiculous, I dropped the book on the floor of the vestibule and turned to go. I was a
lmost out when I heard the security door pop open behind me.
An older woman, black curls, enormous purse slung over one shoulder.
I turned and caught the edge of the door before it was too late. Holding on with one hand, I scooped up the comic book before she could step on it and jumped inside.
“Hey,” the woman barked, “what are you doing? Do you live here?”
Fortunately, she wasn’t concerned enough to chase me up the stairs.
Finding Chrissy’s floor, stifling the voice inside my head, the one demanding that I cease and desist.
At her door and breathing hard, I knelt and slipped the comic book underneath, sliding the top half into her apartment. I slapped a hand over the voice in my head and held on until I was at the bottom of the stairs pushing through the vestibule. Then I let it go.
But nothing came. It had nothing to say anymore.
Out the door and back into the car. I figured the voice was just catching its breath. I was sure it would kick up as soon as I started the car, yelling that it was my last chance, demanding I rush back up and get the comic book before it was too late.
But it didn’t.
Actually, my head felt incredibly light the entire ride home. I peeked in the smelly little bathroom, but for the moment, it was empty. I had the Album on again. I was way over my limit, but I didn’t care.
About five minutes after I got home, the phone rang.
I picked it up on the second ring.
This book is humbly dedicated to the following:
To Bruce, who restored my faith in many things.
To Harrison, without whom this book would not exist.
To Chris, who pulled it from the slush pile.
To my father, for reading me The Hobbit.
To my mother, for passing on a love of books.
To my sister, for her lifelong support.
To Brian W., who was and still is one of my best friends.
To Joe K., a loyal friend who came through when no one else would.
For all the members of the All Night Crew . . . “You can’t leave yet! Dave’s not even on!”
To Shane, for keeping me alive.
Changing Michael Page 19
