by Sean Platt
If he did wake up last night, I’m getting nothing from Tommy to tell me.
Stacy sits back down across from me, puts the phone on the table, eyes on her plate as she forks the eggs and takes a bite. They’ve gotta be cold by now, but she doesn’t flinch as she swallows.
I wait for her to look at me.
When she finally does, I expect her to say something about who she was on the phone with, even though it was obviously private.
She looks at me, head tilted. “You okay?”
“Why?”
“You’re eating eggs without ketchup!”
“Oh,” I say, feeling exposed, “wasn’t in the mood, I guess.”
She gets up, puts a hand on my head. “Well, you don’t have a fever.” She withdraws her hand, then gives me this intense look. “Who are you, and what have you done to my son?”
She stares at me.
Oh, shit, I’m busted. How? By not eating ketchup?
My heart is racing, and I’m sure my face looks terrified.
She picks up a salt shaker, aims it like a gun. “Get out of my son, alien pod person!”
She bursts out laughing and returns the shaker to the table.
I sigh with relief.
“You’re such a dork, Mom.” Echoes of Tommy saying similar things stir in my head.
“Dorks are the new cool,” she says, tousling my hair. “And besides, I thought you were proud to be a dork.”
More flashes of memory — Stacy and Tommy sitting at this very table over the years, playing board games and cards, reading comics together. They used to have lots of fun before Frank came into the picture last year.
“Proud to be a geek, Mom, not a dork. There is a distinction.”
“Hey, I like all the same things you like. And I liked most of them long before you were born. If I’m a dork, then you are too.”
“Fair enough,” I say with a smile.
She brushes the hair from my face and looks into my eyes.
“Ah, there’s the smile I was looking for.”
She’s smiling, too. It feels good to see her happy. I get the feeling it’s not something Tommy sees a lot of these days.
Frank steps into the kitchen, coughing loudly, looking like he just woke up from an eighteen-hour hibernation.
“Okay, who drugged me?”
I’m not sure if he’s serious. His eyes are half-closed, his hair a mess, and he’s still wearing the clothes he, or I, wore to work yesterday.
“Wow, you slept long,” Stacy says, immediately taking her plate from the table, even though she’s not finished eating.
She looks at me. Her expression tells me to stand and give the lord his space.
After putting her plate in the sink, she grabs a newspaper from the counter and hands it to him. He grabs it, shuffling past us before sitting in the chair where Stacy had been sitting just moments earlier. She goes to the oven and opens it, then pulls a plate she’d been keeping warm. She brings it over to him: eggs, toast, and bacon.
That bastard gets bacon?
I get up and bring my leftovers to the trash, scraping the remaining toast into the can. Then I bring my plate to the sink and place it, along with the fork, on top of Mom’s.
I stand at the sink, hoping to hear Frank say something that might tell me what he remembers, but after a moment, I feel super-obvious and go to my room.
Fortunately, the house is small, and only one story, so even though I’m on the other side, standing in my bedroom’s open doorway, I can hear Frank as he starts to talk.
At first, I don’t hear what he says, but his second sentence is crystal clear. “Seriously, did you drug me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I dunno, I feel all fuzzy. And I’m pretty sure I was fired yesterday.”
“Fired?”
“Yeah, but I barely remember what happened.”
“No, I didn’t drug you,” Stacy says, sounding offended, but not like she hasn’t had to deal with wild accusations before. “Maybe you were … ”
She either doesn’t finish the allegation or says it quietly so I can’t hear it, or to keep him from being offended.
“I wasn’t fucking drunk!”
“I wasn’t gonna say that. I was going to say maybe you’ve come down with something. Do you have a fever?”
I can’t see her, but I’m imagining Stacy putting a hand on his head as she’d done with me.
“Hmm, don’t feel warm. Maybe you should go to the clinic?”
“I’m not going to the clinic,” he says, annoyed.
“So, what do you remember?”
Silence.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps.
I scramble, closing the door, making sure not to make a sound, then hop onto my bed, grabbing a book off my nightstand — a tattered old paperback of Stephen King’s Skeleton Crew with a toy monkey on the cover.
The door opens, and I look up from the book to see Frank standing in the doorway, brows furrowed with suspicion. “Were you listenin’ to us?”
“No,” I say, making my eyes wide and hopefully innocent. “I’m reading.”
He looks me up and down, and I try not to think about how weird it is to have this person whose body I was in yesterday staring right at me. I can almost feel his thoughts as if he can sense that I — not Tommy — had recently invaded him.
Frank says nothing then closes the door.
I breathe my second relieved sigh and try to read enough to move my mind from the disappointment of no longer being able to eavesdrop.
I leave the house with Mom. She says, “Good luck” to Frank.
After she closes and locks the door, I ask what happened.
“Frank’s not feeling well. He lost his job yesterday and isn’t sure what happened, so he’s going into work to see if he can’t fix things.”
I stay quiet, calculating his odds of getting his job back. I’m hoping he can, and not just because it’s my fault he lost it. No, the main reason is so he’s not home. Too much Frank won’t be good for anyone. The quicker he lands on his feet, the safer their household will be.
Mom looks at me. “I know what you’re thinking. That he got drunk again.”
I’ll let her continue. Not like I’m going to tell her what I’m really thinking.
“You should give him a chance. He’s not a bad guy.”
“Really?” I say, pointing my bruised cheek. “Do good guys hit kids?”
I hit a nerve. Her eyes are watering, and she looks torn between protecting her son and standing by a man she loves for reasons I — and maybe even she — can’t quite comprehend.
“I know. He shouldn’t have hit you. He said it was an accident and apologized. I told him if he ever did it again, that’s it. It’s over.”
“He didn’t apologize to me,” I say, feeling Tommy’s resentment bubbling up.
I get a flash. This may be the first time he’s hit Tommy, but he’s had other accidents in the past. He’s hit Stacy a number of times, and yet she stays.
“I don’t care about him hitting me. I don’t want him ever to hit you again. Why do you stay with him?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” She grabs a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose, fighting hard to stop the tears.
I hate upsetting her like this. I can tell how much she cares for Tommy. It’s clear in her eyes. I saw it in how quickly she rushed to help clean the spilled milk. I can hear it in her trembling voice.
“Try me,” I say.
She looks back at the house. I turn, see Frank standing in the front window, the curtain parted, staring at us.
“Can we talk about this later? How about I leave work early and pick you up from school? We can get ice cream and talk about this whole thing. Okay?”
Her hopeful smile, the pain and love in her eyes — how can I say no?
“Okay.”
She hugs me tightly. It feels good.
I’m not sure if it’s the remnants of Tommy’s love for
his mother surging through my system, or if these are my honest responses to her warm embrace.
I have no memories of my own parents, let alone loving hugs. There’s something comforting about being squeezed by someone who loves you so much — a warmth like no other sensation.
She pulls away and kisses me on the head. “I love you, Tommy.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
She wipes tears from her eyes, then says, “I’ll see you later.”
To our right, two houses away, I see Old Man Wilbur, the neighborhood gossip sitting on his porch pretending to read the paper, when everyone knows he’s spying on the street. I’m annoyed that he stole our moment, and is documenting it in his tiny round head. If I were in an older body, I might even go over and tell him to mind his own business.
Stacy gets in her car, waves back at me one more time, then heads to work.
I walk to the bus stop without looking back. I’m sure if I did, Frank would still be staring from the window.
The bus stop is on a sidewalk along 112th Terrace, a fairly busy road in the subdivision.
There are twelve kids here, most sprawled along a guard rail in front of a small lake opening to backyards on either side. While all the kids are sitting within one small area, divisions within the cliques are easy enough to see if you look.
Then there are a few outcasts at the far end of the rail.
I pass by all the groups, trying to get a feel for whether any of these are Tommy’s friends. Only after reaching the end do I realize he’s not pals with any of these kids, including the outcasts. He’s all by himself, utterly alone.
You’d think he’d have at least a friend or two, seeing as these are all neighborhood kids, but no. It’s not that the kids don’t like him, though I get that vibe from a few people eyeballing me as if wanting to start something. For the most part, Tommy seems invisible.
I sit on the guard rail, grab the Skeleton Crew book from my backpack, and read it until I hear the grinding brakes of the bus pulling up.
Somehow, I’m first in line when the bus opens its doors, and I step aboard. We’re the first stop, so the bus is empty. I decide to take a seat in the back.
I focus on my book, mostly to avoid eye contact with anyone until we get to school. A few kids sit two rows ahead of me, but nobody else comes all the way back.
Do they hate Tommy that much?
I pretend to read, though it’s hard to focus on the words. I can feel people staring. I hear muffled giggles, and “oohs,” obviously about me, but I can’t figure out what I did to draw their attention.
Did I wear some criminally out-of-fashion shirt? Do I have a booger hanging out?
I look in the window, catching enough of my reflection to check my nose.
The bus slows then settles. This next stop has double the number of kids. The doors hiss open, and there’s a swell of anticipation in the air. Everyone from my stop is turning back to look at me.
What the hell is going on?
Kids from the second stop climb aboard.
All eyes turn to the newcomers, who look toward the back of the bus, at me, just like everyone else. Their eyes are wide.
I hate where this is going.
Then everyone’s attention turns to the front of the bus as a tall, zit-faced muscular kid wearing a retro Iron Maiden shirt climbs aboard. He has long bright red hair and angry red eyebrows. He’s glaring right at me.
Who the hell is this? And why is he giving me a death ray stare?
A name pops into my head: Evan Glassman.
Behind him, four other kids, including two girls — obviously a part of his posse — are also staring.
“Oh, shit, what is he doing?” says one of the girls, a pretty blonde cheerleader type, laughing at me.
Evan comes up to me. “What the fuck you doing in my seat, dickbag?”
“Sorry, I didn’t know this was your seat,” I say, looking up at Evan and his group. Everyone is watching me like Evan is going to rip me from limb to limb.
“Bullshit.” Evan reaches out, grabs my book, and tosses it up the aisle.
“Hey!” I say, jumping to my feet, pissed.
I try to see where my book went, but Evan’s goons are blocking my view.
His eyes widen, seemingly surprised that I stood up to him. “What?”
“Give me my book back.”
Evan looks behind him, likely checking to see if the bus driver is paying attention, then turns and punches me hard right in the chest.
I fall back into the seat, gasping for air.
Laughter from his friends, who are blocking the driver’s view. So long as he’s quick, Evan can do whatever he wants.
He leans forward.
I’m too busy catching my breath to defend myself.
Instead of hitting me again, the bully grabs my collar, yanks me forward, and hurls me down to the floor. “Get out of our fucking seats, faggot!”
My knees feel like someone smashed them with a hammer.
The bus driver, a large black woman with large shades, calls back, “Please take your seat.”
Is she talking to me? Sorry, lady, I just got thrown from my seat! Why isn’t she calling out the junior thug and his friends who are all laughing as they take over the back two rows?
“Okay,” I say, still trying to catch my breath.
I stand up, looking up the aisle, searching for a seat.
I don’t see my book. One of the other kids must’ve grabbed it. Maybe they’re gonna play keep away to torment me further. Fuckers.
I start up the aisle.
While most of the seats only have one or two kids sitting in them, and there’s room for three per row, many of the kids refuse to make room or to look at me. A few even occupy more space and deny me a seat.
What the hell? Does everyone hate me?
I make my way toward the front of the bus, unable to find a seat, or anyone willing to share.
The bus driver raises her voice. “I said find a seat!”
I’m burning inside. I want to say something, but it will only sound whiney and give these assholes what they want — to see Tommy in pain.
I find a homely looking girl with giant glasses. She’s from my stop. I think her name’s Wendy. She doesn’t look at me, but stays in her spot next to the window, not denying me space.
“Can I sit here?”
“I guess,” she shrugs, even though she doesn’t seem particularly happy about the arrangement. Even the outcasts hate Tommy.
I take my seat.
“Thank you,” the bus driver says. I look in her big mirror to see the exasperated expression of someone with no time for bullshit.
The bus rolls forward.
I turn, looking for my book, actually Stacy’s book, which she had as a teenager, and let Tommy borrow.
I don’t see it.
All I see are a bunch of giggling faces and darting eyes, a bus filled with kids complicit in screwing with Tommy.
Evan is glaring at me from the back. He catches my eyes, raises a finger, and makes a slicing motion across his neck, mouthing the words, “You’re dead.”
Great.
We make a few more stops, and more kids board the bus. I try to ignore the giggling and whispers behind me. But I’ve become the highlight of everyone’s morning.
I pore through Tommy’s memories and realize that until now the boy has managed to fly under Evan’s radar. The bully had moved to town last year and had pushed around a lot of kids since. Somehow, Tommy had avoided tripping his wire.
Until today.
Way to go, Ella.
When the bus finally gets to school, I’m torn between getting off as quickly as possible — easy since I’m in the first row — and staying behind to look for my book, which is likely lying on the floor under one of the seats. I don’t want to lose Stacy’s book. I can feel Tommy’s sentimental attachment. Or hell, maybe I’ve developed an attachment. Either way, I want to feel it in my hands.
I le
t Wendy off, then sit and wait for everyone else to disembark.
As the procession makes its way, I keep my head down, not wanting to meet any stares or acknowledge their mocking. I hear the snide comments: You done did it now, dork; Way to go, Tommy; Man, that was dumb.
My heart races as the back of the bus begins to empty. I know Evan and his crew are going to say something, but with the bus driver sitting a few feet away, I figure I’m relatively safe.
Then I feel something hit the seat beside me.
I look down, it’s my book, or what remains of it — cover ripped off, and several pages shredded. What’s left looks like a dog has been playing with it all morning.
Evan leans toward me and whispers, “Here’s your book, faggot.”
Then he punches me hard on the arm.
I resist the urge to cry out and give him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt me.
I look up and meet his eyes.
Again he mouths, “You’re dead.”
Then he steps off the bus, and I’m all alone, fighting my tears.
Despite the rocky morning, the school day’s okay. For one, Tommy’s best friend, Danny, hung out with me at lunch in the hall outside art class, commiserating over the morning’s events. As lonely as I felt on the bus, having at least one friend helped me feel less alone.
Danny is a big-time geek, but not an outcast like Tommy. His brother, Dale, is on the high school football team, so he inherited some cool by association. Having a popular older brother also insulates him from the bullies, and has emboldened him to be quite a smart ass.
“You want me to do something?” Danny had asked.
I told him thanks but no. Just having him to share a laugh with was helpful.
Fortunately, Evan isn’t in any of Tommy’s classes, and when the 3:30 end-of-day bell rings, I don’t have to take the bus home and receive my death sentence. I stand in the car line with Danny, who is waiting for his brother to get him.
