One Kid's Trash

by Jamie Sumner

  It’s this kind of thinking that landed us here in the first place. He quit his job as a computer engineer to be a ski instructor. Yeah, I know. Crazy.

  One night he pulled into the driveway after another marathon workday and didn’t get out of the car. He just sat there. For hours. Mom and I watched him for a while, but every time she went outside, he would hold up his hand like, “Give me a minute.” At hour three, she ignored the hand and got in the Jeep. I started watching old reruns of SpongeBob.

  When they finally came in, he took his tie off and dropped it on my head. “Here,” he said. “Go run that through the garbage disposal, will you?” And we actually did, which was awesome. I wouldn’t have done it, though, if I’d known it was going to shred our whole life.

  Mom nudges my hand. “Your turn, Hugo.”

  I unfold my fortune.

  “Now is the time to try something new,” I read aloud. A moment of silence passes, and then Dad lets out a barking laugh. Mom and I just look at each other. All the worry about school comes up in a rush of partially digested chicken sludge. I swallow it down with my cookie.

  Way to state the obvious, fortune gods.

  Chapter Three It’s Science, I Swear

  Dad missed dinner the last three nights. Mom asked Alexa to play Brad Paisley and tried to fry a chicken. He’s gone again this morning before I leave for school. So much for the daily walks to the bus stop and the extra father-son “quality time” he said we’d be spending now that he didn’t have to work every minute of the day.

  “Something with the chairlifts, I think,” Mom says when she hands me a PediaSure and I ask where he is. Her hair is a tangle, and I’m almost certain the bunny slippers have grafted to her feet. I stash the drink behind the coatrack when she turns back to the fridge. I still don’t even know what he does exactly. Will he teach little kids to make the “pie wedge” shape with their skis? Will he operate the lift? Is he going to be the dude who stands there listening to ’90s rock and holding the safety bar up for people? Is that what we did all this for? The night I shredded his tie felt important. We were teaming up to find a bigger and better life! But then we get here, and my world feels smaller than ever.

  Outside, the lawn and streets glitter with a dusting of snow in the morning sun. I breathe in the cold, clean scent of it. My heart beats double time. Dad may be bailing on us, but the snow never does. It promises fresh powder and frozen ponds and road-sledding and, if I’m lucky, at least one day off school.

  Vij was out sick last Friday, and it was the first time I’d been at Beech Creek without him. When Mrs. Jacobsen gave us twice the amount of homework for the weekend, I turned around already whisper-complaining to him because I forgot he wasn’t there. Maddy, who sits across the aisle, saw it and laughed, and I wanted a sinkhole to open up and swallow me. And then in math, Mr. Wahl called on me to solve the equation on the board, and he let two solid minutes tick by without giving me any help while I tried to do it. Micah raised his hand and offered to jump in, but Mr. Wahl wasn’t having it. My neck was so hot from all the eyes staring at me, it was the world’s worst imaginary sunburn. At lunch I did the unthinkable—sat in Mrs. Jacobsen’s room to eat so I wouldn’t have to eat in the cafeteria because I’m still not sure if sitting with the newspaper crew is the right move and also, I didn’t even know if they’d let me join them without Vij. I complain when he tries to help me out, because I’m already treated like a baby by Mom. I don’t need my cousin to do it too. But without him there, it was like I wasn’t there either. I wanted to blend in. Instead I felt like I’d been erased. That night I cried for the first time since we got here—feeling exactly like the baby everyone thinks I am.

  But today, snow acts like a Band-Aid, covering all my grimy loneliness with a clean slate. I pass Jack and Gray in the hall before first period. They’re throwing slap bracelets against the lockers while two girls from history class huddle together in their short skirts and Uggs and ignore them. Everyone is easily distracted and hyper with the first snow. Except Emilia, of course, who sits cross-legged in front of her locker, typing away on her phone because heaven forbid she put it away for three minutes. Her sweatshirt has a picture of a cougar on it, the school’s mascot. Vij told me she’s the only one who buys anything from the pep store. The newspaper staff meets for the first time today, and I still haven’t given Vij a yes or no. No answer is an answer in its own way, right? I am about to risk a hello to Emilia when a wiry, dark-haired woman in a fleece jacket and pajama pants wanders down the hallway. She looks lost, but when she spots Emilia, she rushes right over.

  “Hey, kid.”

  Emilia stands so fast it’s like she’s spring-loaded.

  “Mom, what are you doing here?” she whispers, and I am frozen in place, the accidental eavesdropper.

  “Funny story,” her mom begins, and chuckles, but she looks frazzled and she’s out of breath. Emilia crosses her arms. “I can’t seem to find my phone and—”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, again,” her mom says, “and your dad’s working on a site today in Minturn. He’s supposed to call when he’s done so I can pick him up.”

  Emilia sighs. “Mom, your phone is plugged into the charger in the bathroom where you left it last night.”

  “Ahh. Forgot to check the bathroom.” Her mom smacks herself on the forehead, like it’s all a big joke. Emilia doesn’t laugh. “And my work shoes?”

  “I put them by the front door.”

  “Thanks, Em.” Her mom tugs on Emilia’s ponytail. “I’ll see you after school.”

  Emilia sighs again. “No, Mom, you won’t. I have the Paw Print meeting.”

  “Oh right, well, then after my shift at the restaurant.”

  As her mom leaves, Emilia huffs and yanks her ponytail tight again. It looks like it hurts.

  “Uh, you okay?” I ask, because I have to pass right by her to get to my locker, and I can’t think of a way to pretend I didn’t see the whole thing. She startles and for a second forgets to ignore me.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Uh, no reason.”

  Around us, kids scream and slip and slide on the floor that’s wet from tracked-in snow. Everyone is happy. Everyone except Emilia. And me, I want to say. I’m miserable too! But that’s not the kind of conversation you can have with someone who wishes you didn’t exist. She turns her back to me, and I take that as my cue to shuffle to my locker.

  On the way to algebra, a snowball whizzes between me and Vij and lands with a hard sploosh on the back of Micah’s head. It splits and sinks down his collar. His shoulders shoot up to his ears and he turns, wide-eyed, to look behind us. From the farthest end of the hallway, Chance laughs like a tractor starting up. He’s looking at me. That hit was a warning. I swallow hard. An icy cold settles over me that has nothing to do with the snow. My time of invisibility is up.

  Vij yells, “Not cool, man!” but we only have thirty seconds before the bell, so I push Micah forward toward class. But he stops again and actually says “Good shot!” to Chance as Chance sprints by us into the room. I shake my head and run. Vij makes it in, then me. Micah stumbles in one second after the bell.

  “Mr. Rosen, a word, please.”

  Mr. Wahl looms by the white board with the roll sheet in one hand and the green pad of detention slips in the other. He’s in all black today, a suspicious crow.

  “Mr. Wahl, it’s not Micah’s fault. Chance—” Vij begins, but Chance sits with his giant hands folded on his desk as if in prayer. The perfect student.

  “I’m not talking to you, Mr. O’Connell.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Wahl?” Micah says. Water drips from his hair and makes a sad little puddle on the floor.

  “Do you have the time?” Mr. Wahl inquires, polite and terrifying.

  “Uh, what, sir?” Micah’s hands are behind his back gripping the ends of his sleeves.

  “Kindly share with us the time of day, Mr. Rosen.”

  We all watch as Micah turns a slow hal
f circle to study the clock on the wall above the door. “Uh, it’s 11:16, sir!” He sounds happy. Micah loves to get the right answer. He always does what’s asked of him. He finishes his homework. He puts his lunch tray away. He even wipes down the table when we all get up. He doesn’t deserve to be picked on by bullies like Chance or Mr. Wahl.

  I want to say something. I want to rip the green pad from Mr. Wahl’s hand and throw it out the window. I want to kick Chance’s stupid size-thirteen feet. But I don’t, because I’m scared of Wahl’s beady stare and Chance’s feet. After almost twelve years of drawing attention like a laser beam because of my smallness, I’ve learned to shrink back, literally, from the spotlight. But I hate myself for being scared, because Micah is standing there blinking and dripping and half smiling and seemingly oblivious to what’s barreling toward him.

  “As you are all aware”—Mr. Wahl turns to the entire class now—“class begins at 11:15.” Chance smirks. Mr. Wahl continues. “Mr. Rosen, I’d like you to apologize to your peers for this unacceptable delay.”

  “We were basically late too, man,” Vij says. I can’t even nod.

  “I was speaking to Mr. Rosen. But since it seems to be all for one and one for all, Mr. O’Connell, why don’t you do the honors?” Wahl tears off three green slips and hands them to Vij. The entire class waits until Vij grits his teeth and hands one to me and one to Micah. I crumple the paper in my fist. My cheeks burn. I want to sit down. I want this to be over. But Mr. Wahl isn’t done.

  “Mr. Rosen.”

  Micah looks up from his green slip and stares at Wahl like he’s lost the plot.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We are still waiting for that apology.”

  “Oh! Uh,” he faces the class, his eyes even wider than normal behind his glasses. Chance clears his throat and checks his wrist for the time on a watch that isn’t there. “I’m sorry I was late,” Micah squeaks out, “… and I’m sorry, for the, uh, delay!” he adds. He looks to Mr. Wahl, to see if that was okay, but Wahl is writing a series of complex equations on the white board. Apparently, the humiliation is over and now it’s time to start class. “That will be one hour of after-school detention for the three of you,” he says with his back to us. “Take your seats.” And finally, finally, I slink down the aisle.

  I once heard that crows are one of the smartest birds on the planet. They’re as smart as your average seven-year-old. Which, as humans go, isn’t that smart, but it’s top-notch for a bird. They’re like avian Einsteins. They also recognize human faces. Which means, if you get on the bad side of one of them, it will remember forever. Beyond forever, actually, because it passes on the grudge to its fellow crows and its crow babies. Without even trying, you’ve made an enemy for life. Mr. Wahl is a crow if I’ve ever seen one.

  * * *

  I never ever agreed to be part of the newspaper, and yet somehow I am in trouble with Emilia for missing the first meeting. Well, technically, since half the “staff” ended up in detention, there will be no first meeting today. Emilia is not happy about it.

  She corners us by the cafeteria after the last bell rings.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Don’t blame us,” Vij says. “Blame Chance.”

  “No, blame the Crow,” I reply. At lunch I’d called Mr. Wahl “the Crow” and Jack laughed so hard he spit a chunk of hamburger across the table. Gray high-fived me. For a second it felt like I was back in Denver with my old friends.

  “Technically, I was the only one late,” Micah explains. “These two tried to help.” Emilia lifts her eyebrows at me and Vij, almost like she’s impressed, even though I had nothing to do with it. I do not correct her. “Can someone let me borrow their phone?” Micah asks. “I have to call my granny!”

  I hand him my phone, and when he turns away to dial, I mouth to Emilia, “His granny?”

  “Micah’s parents are divorced,” she whispers. “His mom lives in Oregon, I think. He’s usually with his dad, but when his dad got sent overseas, Micah moved in with his grandparents for a while.”

  “Overseas for what?”

  “The army,” she explains.

  “His dad is in the military?” It’s like trying to picture Micah with The Rock for a father.

  Micah hands me back the phone, saying, “At least detention will give us time to finish our math homework!” Micah might actually be the nicest human on the planet. I want his dad to helicopter in and crush Mr. Wahl for what he did to him today. Micah deserves a hero. I clench my fists, more angry at myself than ever for not standing up for him.

  The words come out before I can stop myself: “The Crow obviously needs a smoke and a girlfriend. Maybe then he’ll shut up the next time somebody’s one stupid second past the bell.”

  Emilia looks like I just spit in her Coke, but Vij busts out laughing.

  “Dude!” he says, wiping his eyes like it’s so funny he’s crying from laughter. “How do you know he smokes?”

  “Smoked. Past tense,” I clarify, rubbing my hands together like a magician, because I haven’t used this particular skill in ages. I explain: “When I turned in my equations, I saw an empty packet of nicotine gum in his trash. And an empty Red Bull and a supersize coffee cup. When people quit smoking, they drink a ton of caffeine to try to get the same kind of buzz.”

  No one is blinking. Maybe this was a mistake.

  “You know all about the buzz, huh?” Emilia squints at me.

  I learned the nicotine-caffeine thing from Mom. She would buy the double-caf coffee to make at her office for clients who couldn’t go more than twenty minutes without a smoke break. But I don’t tell Emilia that. Magic is better when you don’t reveal all your tricks.

  Vij shakes his head. “But what about the girlfriend? How do you know he doesn’t have one?”

  “Come on. You dress like that and breathe morning coffee breath on everyone? There’s no way he’d get a date, much less a girlfriend.”

  Emilia rolls her eyes. Micah tilts his head like he’s still catching up. But Vij loves it.

  “Well, that’s just great. We’re supposed to get the inaugural edition of the Paw Print out the first week in October, and you’re busy getting detention and digging through people’s trash,” Emilia says.

  “I wasn’t digging through anyone’s trash,” I start to say, but she’s pulling up her hood and walking toward the exit. I sigh, inwardly. One flash of brilliance and a few laughs and I’m already back to being invisible again. All I want is for Chance to ignore me and for my friends not to. Is that too much to ask?

  “Uh, guys?” Micah asks softly. “Can you get detention for being late to detention?”

  We sprint down the hall toward the library, squeaking our shoes extra loud because we can.

  * * *

  Detention, it turns out, isn’t that bad. It’s basically an hour of study hall, and the teacher on duty, Mr. Carpenter, my history teacher, doesn’t even care if you talk as long as you’re quiet and leave him alone.

  After about ten minutes, Vij starts fidgeting, pulling the drawstrings of his jacket back and forth so they make a zzzzzing noise. The library is one big room, and it tends to echo. I grab his hand.

  “So you really got all that about Mr. Wahl from his trash?” he whispers.

  “Well, yeah.” I pull out headphones to listen to music, even though I should be finishing my problem set for algebra. Micah, sitting on the other side of me, hums something that sounds suspiciously like “Elmo’s World.” He’s already halfway through his math. He stops when Vij closes both our books and says, “Explain, Sherlock.”

  I think back to the day I first learned all the magical mysteries that trash could reveal. One afternoon, when I was nine, Mom tripped over the trash can in my room. A whole pile of Legos spilled out. I’d lost a wheel to the Batmobile and didn’t want to play with them if it wasn’t a complete set. She made me pick them all up and then handed me a bag so we could donate them to Goodwill. “Your trash says a lot about you, Hu
go—what you value, what you think is worth saving and what’s not. Think about that the next time you decide to throw away perfectly good toys,” she said, and then sat on the floor with me and explained the science of garbage for the very first time.

  “It’s called garbology,” I say now to Vij and Micah.

  “What-ology?” Vij asks loud enough to make Mr. Carpenter clear his throat in a meaningful way without looking up.

  “Garbology,” I whisper, “is the study of people’s trash to learn more about them.”

  Vij narrows his eyes.

  “It’s science, I swear!”

  Micah nods. “Sounds cool to me.”

  “It’s not just cool. It’s a way to learn about a whole society.” I’m in danger of revealing all my deep-seated nerdiness, the polar opposite of “cool,” but between Vij and Micah, this is as safe a place as any. I keep going. “You can figure out what people value just by looking at their waste. Like, some cultures might throw away things that others would keep. I might toss a half-eaten apple, but somebody else would eat the whole thing, save the seeds, and grow a new tree.”

  “I tossed the Summer Scholars pamphlet my mom left on my desk this morning,” Vij says. “That seems like a pretty obvious clue to my priorities.”

  “Yeah, we all know you are in an epic battle against your mom to prove your slacker status, but it’s not always that obvious. Did you crumple the pamphlet?”

  Vij scratches his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Because if you did, that would show more anger than if you just tossed it, still folded and unopened. Also, did you toss it on top or bury it?”

  “I think I just threw it on top.”

  “Good. That means you’re not trying to hide what you think about your mom’s plans for you. You don’t care if she knows you would rather die than go to summer school.”