Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.
* * *
Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.
To Maja, without whom this would not be.
To Ramsey and Wren, without whom this would not matter.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
SYLVIA PLATH, “DADDY”
I
I ONLY HAVE TO CLOSE my eyes to see that son of a bitch Zukowski, passed out like he was on the dining hall floor. Then came the looks of revulsion on the other kids’ faces at the sight of me trying to shake him awake while shouting out for help. After an ambulance came and hauled him off, Mister McGovern grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall and blurted out, It wasn’t something sexual between you two, was it?
• • •
LISTEN, CLAREMONT PREP may be an all-boys school, but that doesn’t make it a gaybo factory. And even if it was, Lord knows I wouldn’t be with the likes of Zukowski. For the record, Ariel J. Zukowski wears horn-rimmed glasses. He combs his greasy hair to the side in a desperate attempt to look debonair. But despite his prodigious effort, he’s still a dork. Which, believe it or not, has nothing to do with why I wanted to see him dead.
Then there’s the issue of his mole-infested face, which is why nobody sits with him. Which, if I may harken back to my very first day at Claremont, five years ago, was how I ended up taking pity on the little twerp in the first place. But what was I supposed to do? Sit at a table filled with those other namby-pambys while he ate in the corner all by himself?
Like a schmuck, I sat down beside him and there I was, brimming with butterflies because it was, after all, the first day of school, and that god-awful quiet between us sitting there together was made worse by the giddy buzz of chatter from the tables around us, where kids were going on endlessly about their summer up the Hamptons or wherever it is they play croquet.
Then, out of nowhere, Zukowski took his sandwich from his lunch tray and pushed it over to me and said that I could have it. He’s got some kind of weird allergy and couldn’t eat it anyway. I was stunned. You see, sitting there in my wrinkly button-down and wrong-color tie, I’d steeled myself in preparation for nonstop douchebaggery, but that smushed Saran-wrapped triangle gave me hope. Funny thing is, I’d just assumed that Zukowski was sitting there alone like that because he wasn’t as, well, shall we say, refined as the others. So you can imagine my surprise when I found out that it was his first day, too. The revelation came as something of a miracle because I thought for sure that I was the only new kid. You see, starting up at a place like Claremont in the fifth grade is a kamikaze mission. The other kids have been going here since kindergarten—not to mention that their fathers and grandfathers all went here since kindergarten, too. So right off the bat we were the oddballs, which was something great to have in common, even if it was the only thing.
Which it wasn’t. After school that first day, I discovered that he took the subway, just like me. On the way to the station, I told him that in a way you could say that I grew up around money because my mom was the housekeeper for mattress magnate Zachariah Blumenthal, who lives on the Upper East Side with his fat wife, their twins, and a pet iguana that has his own room. Zukowski didn’t care one bit because his dad’s just a plumber.
He said that the only reason they gave him a bunch of dough to come to Claremont is because he’s some sort of whiz kid. So I asked him, What’s one hundred twenty-one divided by eleven times five add two and take away ten? He promptly responded with, Forty-seven. Thinking that even a busted clock is right twice a day, I fired off another one. Okay, hotshot, so what’s fourteen times fourteen divided by two plus twenty take away three? He paused for a second, and then said, One hundred fifteen.
Sweet mother of God. I bet you’re smart enough to bring up the whole school’s average!
He curtsied like a real faggot and asked what my excuse was. I’m NYCHA, I told him. Of course he didn’t know what the hell that was.
When I explained that I had been awarded the honors of a student of outstanding scholarly accomplishment by the New York City Housing Authority, he looked at me like I was joking. The funny part was that I’d left out the corny bit about me having won it in a writing competition among my semiliterate neighbors in the Jacob Riis Houses.
On East Fifty-Ninth Street you have to go underground to board the train. When we got to the top of the stairwell, I told him flat out, You’re a jackass, Zukowski. A real fairy. I’ve seen kids like you my whole life, strutting around with your glasses on and your head up your ass. And now that I’ve got you up close, I oughta punch you. But I won’t. Because I like you. Don’t ask me why, but I do.
We had what Mom calls rapport. Even if he was a blowhard, he wasn’t a douche. Besides, Mom had told me that not being too picky was the key to making friends. So we shook hands, and I just stood there watching him prance down the smut-covered stairwell, thinking that all I had to do was to sit behind him in Coach Picareaux’s pre-algebra class and I’d do just fine.
Me and Mom eat at the HoJo’s up on East Seventy-Second on the days she works late. Seeing as how I only had one token left, I hightailed it uptown on foot and jumped into a booth beside her and squeezed her like she was the very last of the toothpaste. As we were catching up I told Mom that there was another kid there who was just like me, or at least kind of like me, or at least he was more like me than I thought anybody would be!
And for the most part, Zukowski was. For five whole years. Then came the day in the ninth grade when we went more than a few blocks out of our way to check out the St. Michael’s Academy girls’ field hockey team practice after school. And let me tell you, if Claremont’s more of a mansion than an actual school building, St. Michael’s is a full-on manor estate with castle and moat. We passed the Guggenheim and saw the girls up ahead, lined up at midfield doing warm-up exercises. We took up our usual position at the wrought-iron bars some twenty yards behind them, which I thought was discreet, but apparently it wasn’t because no sooner had they started their windmill routine than one of the girls in the back row caught sight of me from between her legs. She shot straight up and shouted for us to stop gawking. When we didn’t just run off like a couple of pansies, she picked up her field hockey stick and started straight for us like she meant business.
Zukowski yelped like a poodle and booked it. The girl stepped up to the fence and just sort of stood there looking at me like I was something her biology teacher had just brought into class on a petri dish. I stood there, fully aware of the entire squad behind her—coach included. They were ready to charge me at the drop of that stick, while I stood there with mouth agape, staring at her like an imbecile. She was friggin’ hot.
She rolled her eyes. You go to Claremont?
Yeah.
Well, stop ogling us. We don’t like it.
Okay.
Before I knew it a screeching whistle sent her galloping back to t
he field. Zukowski, still in awe that I had talked to a girl, reappeared from behind the sculpted bushes in front of the Russian consulate.
We hopped on the downtown 6 train, hooting and hollering like a couple of lunatics who’d just won the lottery. You see, even if it wasn’t exactly a friendly interaction, it was the first time we’d made contact with a St. Michael’s girl. Zukowski didn’t care one bit who it was she brought when the time came for our inevitable double date. He thought that the best thing we could do would be to take them back to my place and play Spin the Bottle. But even if Mom was hardly ever home, what with her practically raising the Blumenthal twins like she was, there was no way I was bringing them back to my apartment. Zukowski’s house was out of the question, too. Never mind that it was two hours away on the Q line; his mom hung their laundry out to dry in the windows, and the whole place stank of goulash.
Instead we decided it was better to take them to a matinee, because we could sit in the back row and get them plastered on peppermint schnapps we’d hustle from one of the drunkards in Times Square, who were rumored to be so desperate for a nip they’d damn near suck on your balls for a spare quarter. Only problem there being that all the theaters were showing Midnight Cowboy, which, it turns out, isn’t a cowboy movie at all.
So there we were, back at square one, wondering how on earth two kids like us could leverage our status as Claremont boys to nab a couple of St. Michael’s girls. We got off at Astor Place and cut through Tompkins Square Park, kicking at the sandy path on our way to my place, because even if neither of us would say it outright, we both knew that our ship was sunk before it’d even got out of port. That’s when Zukowski elbowed me in the gut and pointed at this big-bellied woman pushing a stroller coming the opposite way. He said we’d have a better chance getting her.
I smacked him on the head. Fuckwad. Pregnant women can’t fuck. That’s how babies get brain damage. Jesus, don’t you know anything?
Zukowski skipped off toward the fountain, yelling Leggo-my-Eggo-I’m-preggo! Only I’m not looking back at Mister Dildo Breath scaring away the pigeons but in front of us. I look up toward Avenue C and what do I see but this big-as-hell billboard on the side of the Con Ed Building promoting the one hundredth anniversary of big-league ball. I think to myself, Jesus. Has it only been a hundred years? For some reason I just kind of assumed that baseball had been around forever. And that’s when the answer to all my problems hit me—the only rub being the extra bread needed for two tickets to a game. You see, even if being a Claremont boy was a big selling point in most quarters, we weren’t supposed to be stone broke, and a St. Michael’s girl paying her own way was out of the question.
• • •
ZUKOWSKI THOUGHT I was crazy. Maybe I was. But he sure was singing a different tune come game day, when we met that chick and her friend on the Fifty-Ninth Street subway platform, where we hopped onto the 7 because the Mets were our team. All of us were chatting on the train ride out to Queens and happy once we hit the elevated because the clouds were starting to break up and we could tell that it wasn’t going to rain after all. Me and Suzie Hartwell were already starting to get hot and heavy on the way there, even as more and more people piled on with every stop.
When we finally got to Shea, Suzie and I untangled ourselves to exit. Zukowski and his date, Amanda something, who wore crooked glasses and a ponytail and kind of had the same mole thing going on, spilled out with the rest of the train. We walked past the goony-looking scalpers hawking tickets for an arm and a leg in their singsong way. The afternoon sun warmed our faces as we sat down, and right smack in front of us was an infield raked as smooth as our Japanese teacher Mister Yamaguchi’s sand garden. Everything was so pristine it felt like the inside of a cathedral. Not that I’ve ever been in one, mind you. It’s just what I imagine it to feel like.
By the seventh inning the Mets were getting clobbered. Suzie got up and said she had to use the restroom. Okay, I figured. That was just a polite way of saying that she wanted to make out some more. So I winked at Zukowski and got up and left with her. Only it turned out she really had to use the bathroom. So we threaded our way past the inevitable beer line to the ladies’ room, and on our way back she was taking her time, walking real slow and twirling a long strand of brown hair between her fingers. She asked me if anyone had ever told me that I looked a little like Omar Sharif.
Sharif? I didn’t know who he played for. She laughed and pulled me behind one of those hulking I beams supporting the grandstands above and we started smooching. A few seconds into it, she took out her chewing gum and told me I was pressing too hard. I promised to do it more softly next time. Only when the next time came, she said for me to stop sticking my tongue so far down her throat. So I told her no problem; I’d fix that, too.
I could tell that I was getting the hang of it after a minute or so because she was combing her fingers through my hair. I made do with planting my hands on the soft angora at her waist because first, it was our first date, and second, we were in public, and third, I was starting to really dig her. Suzie came up for air for the third time in fifteen minutes, which I suppose wasn’t too bad, and, after she put her chewing gum back into her mouth, told me that I had an awfully big mouth. I buried my hot face in her cool, soft hair and pretended not to care.
When we got back to our seats, Zukowski handed me back my popcorn with a wink. What took you so long?
The line to the restroom practically went out to the parking lot.
You lovebirds missed a whole inning.
I turned to the game at the crack of a bat. Chacón was shouting out for the high, looping fly ball sailing out to shallow left in Spanish. Thomas plowed straight into him, and the ball just sat there in the grass like a hot potato. Ashburn picked it up and threw it in, holding the runner at second. What a circus. The crowd was booing so loud that I couldn’t hear a word Zukowski was saying. I tossed a handful of popcorn toward the field, then sat back down and explained to Suzie that Chacón was from Puerto Rico, which is why he wasn’t able to call off Thomas in English. She asked if that was where my family was from. I’m from Georgia, I answered, half expecting some stupid joke about the South. She gave me a surprised look. Oh. So—you’re American?
I turned back to Cookie Rojas standing there, digging himself a trench in the batter’s box, and prayed for him to knock a line-drive foul ball straight into Suzie’s teeth. Zukowski accepted the hot dog being relayed to him by Amanda, then leaned in over me so far he was practically sitting in my lap.
Yeah. His dad’s white. His mom’s just colored, is all.
The little prick shoved the hot dog in his mouth and sat back to watch the game. Suzie did a double take: first to Zukowski, then to me, then back at Zukowski.
Whaddya mean?
Ouch! Hey! That was my foot, Huey! Whadja do that for? Then, to Suzie: Whaddya mean, “Whaddya mean”?
You mean he’s not—?
What?
I dunno.
No. He’s colored.
Suzie’s gum went still in her mouth. I couldn’t get myself to look at anything but Rojas and that trench he’d dug for himself. I wished I could climb into it with him. Zukowski kept munching on that damned hot dog of his. Right next to my face. Like it was the best damned ballpark frank he’d ever eaten. When Suzie just sat there speechless, Zukowski leaned in over my lap toward her and said, You probably just don’t know what to look for.
• • •
MISTER MCGOVERN SAT back in his chair, kicked up his feet beside Zukowski’s lunch tray, and nudged his thin, wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“What to look for”?
Mister McGovern looked confused as he puzzled over those words. I could tell that he felt uncomfortable talking about the fact that most people don’t think I look like I’m colored. I slumped in my seat and said never mind. He knew damn well what Zukowski had meant. But how could someone like Mister McGovern possibly understand what it felt like to be outed in the midd
le of a ball game, sitting as I was, between my friend and my girl having a bonding moment at my expense.
Zukowski’s sandwich had one bite taken out of it. Mister McGovern asked how the peanut butter smeared in with the tuna fish had gotten there.
If you don’t mind my saying so, sir—he doesn’t have a single friend in this place. It could have been anybody.
A pack of Winstons sat in a square glass ashtray on the corner of Mister McGovern’s desk. He reached over the lunch tray for them.
Horseshit. You locked him out of the gym naked last week. The week before that, you stuffed his textbooks down the john. Before that it was the dog shit you smeared through the air vent in his locker. Not to mention that you punched him in the mouth at the pep rally. What do you take me for?
II
THE SECOND TIME I SAW Zukowski, he was standing in the gym with his Keds tied so tight they seemed to strangle his pigeon feet.
Zukowski, right?
Yeah.
How ya doing?
Good. You?
Good. Good.
I took in the dusty light glaring down from the narrow slit windows above the rafters, the cinder walls covered in a thick coat of fresh paint. The wooden stands teetered all the way up to the blue-and-gold banner. I tried to whistle. I mean, wow. Just, wow.
Say, what are you doing here?
Trying out.
You?
A door marked EXIT creaked open, and Coach Picareaux limped in with his duffel bag stuffed with basketballs knocking against one leg. First, we did jumping jacks, which were a breeze. Then came wind sprints—which were considerably less of a breeze. By the end of the fourth one, I was looking at Coach Picareaux like he couldn’t be serious. By the middle of the sixth—or maybe it was the fifth—I turned back a few feet shy of the blue lion they’ve got painted on one of the walls, clutching my gut as I trudged back toward the other side. By the ninth one, I was hacking so hard I was surprised not to see blood when I went down on all fours and spit.
They Come in All Colors Page 1
