Please forgive me.
Your Friend,
Gabe
Mom brought me over to Edmund’s Toy & Hobby the next day. She waited in the parking lot and made me go in and face Mr. Edmund by myself. He didn’t want a Whoopee Cushion with “G-A-B-E” scribbled on the back, but he was interested in hearing my apology.
“I got this from your store yesterday,” I told him.
“I don’t remember your family purchasing that item,” he said, his eyebrows raised and confusion stretched across his face.
“I didn’t buy it,” I said.
“I see.”
“My parents didn’t want me to have it because they thought it’d get me in trouble.”
“But you wanted it anyway?”
I nodded.
“And it looks like your parents were correct about the trouble?”
I nodded again.
“Well, here’s what I can do for you. The item costs a dollar and fifty cents. I’ll start a tab for you, but I expect you to pay me back as soon as you’re able.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dollar bill—my only dollar—that I’d fished from my piggy bank after breakfast. I handed it to Mr. Edmund.
“I can respect a man that comes prepared,” he said. “Let’s call it even. I appreciate your honesty, son. But if I ever catch you stealing from my store again I won’t be so forgiving. Do you understand?”
I nodded for a final time and left the toyshop with the heavy burden of disgrace on my shoulders.
What a mess. About the only good thing that came out of my Whoopee Cushion incident was that Dad never found out. Mom sure knew how to keep a secret.
I wonder if she ever did tell him?
11
TATTOOS AND TRENCH WARFARE
It’s been a few days since Officer Patterson grilled me, and I start to breathe a little easier. Maybe the worst to come out of Grandpa’s mishap—apart from the kid’s injuries and all—will be a nicked up fender. Not a bad trade for my newfound celebrity status and a chance with Marlie.
Grandpa’s bruise is about twenty different shades of yellow, green, and purple—like an enchanted toad puked on his thigh. He hasn’t complained about it but, with the fuzz falling off our trail a bit, Uncle Nick and I figure it’s best if we let Doc have a look. So we head over to the veteran’s hospital after dinner.
There’s only one person in the waiting room when we arrive, and it’s Sofia. Her face is about two inches away from the surface of a sketchpad and she’s using a thick pencil to shade a section of spiked tail on what appears to be a dragon. Heavy guitar chords pump from her headphones, and I realize she’s oblivious to everything around her. Thank God, because somehow Grandpa recognizes her. His eyes get all big and he shouts, “That’s Gabe’s sex!”
Danielle the receptionist, Nick, and I are struck dumb. We’re frozen and staring at each other in round robin format. Sofia continues to sketch in her book as she mainlines her dose of punk rock adrenaline directly to the eardrums. Grandpa thinks we don’t hear him, so he looks to Nick for reassurance. “She’s for Gabe’s sex, right?” Nick’s mouth crinkles up and contorts—I can tell he’s biting his lip. Danielle can’t even go that far. She bursts out laughing and spits coffee all over her desk.
I run over to Grandpa. I don’t want to startle him, but I need to get him out of here before Sofia notices us and Grandpa tries to proposition the poor girl right here in the waiting room. The last thing I want is for her to pull off her headphones in time for Gramps to say something ridiculous like, “How’s two bits for a quickie in the broom closet with my grandson?”
Gramps’s wrists seem bonier than ever, so my grip is gentle but firm enough to hook him off the stage like I’m that crazy clown on Showtime at the Apollo. He grunts a bit, but he allows me to guide him out of the waiting room and to a corridor that leads to the examination room.
“How long today, Danielle?”
“He’ll be able to take you right back,” she says from somewhere below the sliding glass window. “Why don’t you take Ernie to room three while I clean up the rest of this mess?”
I start to lead Grandpa down the hallway, but I only move a step or two before Nick grabs me by the arm.
“You know what? I’ll take him back again.”
“Seriously? I mean, this is twice in a row,” I say. “What’s the catch, Nick? You trying to make up for something?”
“No. Not at all,” he says, and he’s smiling. Not just a happy smile. It’s happy, yes, but there’s something else in it. Then he whispers, “Besides, it’s not for you. It’s for your sex.” The bastard. I should have known he was setting me up all along.
Still, I take Nick up on his offer. “I’ll give you a holler if I need reinforcements,” he tells me as he leads Grandpa to the front lines.
“I don’t doubt it,” I say as I retreat to the safety of the waiting room.
Sofia removes her headphones when she sees me walk in. Her sketchbook is closed on her lap and her pencils are tucked away in a cloth case.
“What planet did you just invade?” she asks as I unfold a chair and sit with a squeak.
“I don’t know. Feels like a different one every day. Which one is this?”
She laughs. “Good question. If you hear anything let me know.” There’s a brief silence and Sofia’s eyes catch mine staring at her closed sketchbook. She pretends to adjust herself on the seat and uses it as an opportunity to place the book and her pencils on the floor beneath her. “You know, I saw you guys come in,” she says.
I feel my spine strain against the back of the chair. “You did?” I ask. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was busy.”
“Did you, uh—”
“Hear anything?” I’m partially frozen but I manage a cautious nod. “Not really,” she says. “I had Iggy Pop cranked up pretty loud.” She pauses to pick at a ragged cuticle. “Well, nothing apart from the sex stuff. That was pretty damn hilarious.”
“Oh, God.” My forehead descends to the shelter of my palms.
“Don’t worry about it. The old man doesn’t know any better. Either that or he overestimates his grandson’s game.”
“I have plenty of game.”
“Yeah, you’re playing flag football while everyone else is looking to tackle.”
I have no defense, and I can never fault a good sports analogy, so I simply say, “Nice.”
“So, what’s wrong with the old man this time?”
“It’s just a bruise. Nothing major.”
I must be boring her because she reaches down, pulls out her book, and goes into full sketch mode while I’m in mid-sentence.
“Don’t you ever do any homework?” I ask. “You’re always drawing stuff and listening to music. You never seem to have any real work to do?”
Sofia continues shading in the same area of the dragon as before. Then she erases, blows the spent bits of rubber off the page, and goes back to shading again. “This is my real work,” she says.
“No, I mean school work.”
“School?” Her hand continues to scratch across the page, but a smile rises on her lips as she shakes her head. “Nah, I haven’t been to that dump in almost two years. Dropped out the day I turned eighteen, before I even graduated.”
“You dropped out of school?” I don’t know why, but I ask the question as if her decision to abandon her education was like deciding to chop off her own leg.
“Didn’t really have a choice. Dad was long gone and Mom got cancer—that was her first bout with it. Shit needed to get done,” she says, and for the first time I’m aware of some edge in her voice. Like she’s getting pissed. “And, by the way, who are you to judge?”
Her question almost knocks me back off the folding chair, but I gather quickly. “I’m not judging. It’s just surprising, you know?”
“Why? Because you stayed in school? At least you have your uncle.”
“I don’t think I’d use Uncle Nick
as an argument in my favor.”
“Well, he’s better than no one.”
And that shuts me up fast—because she’s right. For as much of a pain in the ass as it is to have Nick squatting on my couch every morning, he’s still present. He still absorbs some of the tension. He’s still another soul who’s in this thing with me—something Sofia has scarcely known in her life.
“So tell me about your work before I have to use your technique and spy on it over your shoulder.”
“Not much to tell,” she says, still a bit cold. “I’m an artist.”
“I can see that. What kind?”
“Tattoo.”
I’m a bit stunned. The girl is, by far, the most unique person I’ve ever met, but I just can’t picture her—maybe anyone—jabbing inked-up needles into human flesh.
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“Take a look.”
She spins the sketchbook around to reveal a traditionally designed dragon that is sprawled out across the page with back arched, ready to strike. “I’m sketching out the line work for a new piece. Some macho bodybuilder. He wants to drape it over his shoulder.”
“Wait. You’re serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.” She rolls up the sleeve on her flannel shirt and her forearm is peppered with colors far brighter and more diverse than anything I saw in Grandpa’s bruises. She points to a small floral design at the base of her wrist. “This one’s a cactus flower. La flor. First one I ever did. Put the same one on Mom last time she went into remission. It was her idea. She says we’re dos chicas Mexicanas de culo duro—two tough-ass Mexican chicks.”
“I can see that, too,” I say, and I’m serious as hell when I say it. This girl really does look like she eats kids like me for a protein boost between piercing sessions. I can only imagine the woman tough enough to give birth to her.
She points to a portrait in the center of her forearm—a woman draped in a gold and purple veil with white flowing robes. The face is smooth and serene, like a porcelain doll’s. It’s beautiful. “Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe,” she says. “The patron saint of Mexico. I’m not big on religion, but she’s Ma’s hero. Or heroine. However you want to say it.”
“You tattooed that on yourself?”
“I had to do it upside down so when I’m walking around on my feet she’s not bouncing around on her pious, little head. Think about it.”
It takes a few seconds, but I get a picture of Sofia with the tattoo machine in hand and her other hand outstretched in front of her. She’s right. She would have had to sketch the portrait upside down if she wanted it to be right side up when she dropped her hand to her side—like for walking and stuff. Man, who knew artists had to think like freaking engineers half the time.
“That’s amazing,” I say. “Got any more?”
“Loads,” she says. “I’m the best canvas I’ve got. I never complain when the artist’s work looks like shit.”
“Oh man, you have to show me the rejects.”
“I prefer to think of them like Bob Ross would—happy accidents that I get to wear for the rest of eternity, or at least until this skin suit decomposes. Besides, we’d have to go on a whole lot more of these waiting room dates before you see any more of this.” She takes her index finger and waves it up and down the length of her body the way Vanna White would display consonants or vowels.
“Dates?” I ask.
“Oh, don’t get your geeky, little man parts all twisted up. I’m just having some fun with you.”
“Oh, fun.”
“You want to see something fun? Take a look. First tattoo I ever got—in the flat bed of an El Camino after a Ramones concert.”
She turns her head and parts the black waves of her hair. Trailing down her neck is the outline of a battery with the words “Shock Therapy” woven inside in plumes of smoke. Yellow flashes of electricity crackle around the edges in a maniacal-looking border. I don’t know if it’s badass or just bad, but it’s definitely unique. And it doesn’t surprise me at all that it’s a permanent fixture on Sofia’s body. It fits.
“You’re crazy,” I say.
“Wasn’t it Aristotle who said ‘no great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness’? You should know. You’re the one who gets dressed up in the schoolboy outfit every morning.”
“All I know is it was Nigel Tufnel from Spinal Tap who said, ‘There’s a fine line between clever and stupid.’ Dropping out of high school probably doesn’t fall on the clever side of that line.”
“Yeah, well, he never had a single mother fighting cancer. That fine line washes away pretty fast when the bills start to pile up. We needed money. And besides, why jump through the lion tamer’s hoop when you already know how to attack and devour the lion tamer?”
“Makes sense,” I say. “Guess it pays better than flipping pizzas at Perdomo’s.”
“That your new gig? I go there sometimes, especially when I’m looking for a discount.” She winks at me and makes a big show of it so I know what she’s suggesting.
“I don’t work the register,” I tell her. “I just do odd jobs, keep the place in order.”
“You’re a total rebel, Gabe. A real class-A daredevil, always living on the edge.” She holds her tattooed arm in front of her and pretends to be mystified by my mama’s boy charm. It kind of pisses me off a little, to tell you the truth—especially after the freaking parade of heroes that was thrown in my honor at school the other day. You know, after I handled Officer Patterson.
I don’t know why I feel the urge, but it’s strong. Like having a bunch of apostles at school all of the sudden isn’t enough. I need everyone to see what Gabe “Freaking” LoScuda is all about. So, I pull my chair a little closer to Sofia and tell her in a low voice so Danielle doesn’t overhear.
“You want to know about rebellion?” I whisper.
Sofia shrugs like she doesn’t care, but then she moves in a little closer so she can pick up every last word. Tattoos or not, she’s still a girl and she’s still interested in this kind of crap.
I tell her everything. About how Grandpa hit the kid with my car. About how John and I tried to cover it up with some terrible bodywork. About getting pulled out of class and grilled by Officer Patterson, and the flimsy story I told him to keep Grandpa’s nose clean. And about the new Gabe—or at least the old Gabe that now somehow matters at Schuylkill High.
I half-expected Sofia to jump out of her folding chair and offer a celebratory chest bump or pour a giant cooler of Gatorade over my head like I just won the Super Bowl. Instead, she says, “Are you freaking crazy? You lied to the police?”
“Jeez! Some rebel you are.”
I smile at her because I think she’s just screwing around with me again. But she’s not. She’s serious as all hell, and the look of motherly concern on her face tells me so.
“Do you have any clue what will happen if they find out you lied?” We’re still whispering and she says it so quickly it comes out in one, long hiss like a snake.
“Relax,” I tell her. “The police aren’t even looking for my grandfather anymore. Remember? They let me walk.”
“Boy, Gabe, you’re the worst kind of rebel. One without a clue.”
I can’t believe I’m getting this crap from Sofia. John? Sure. The kid wets his pants if he finds a penny on the ground and he’s not sure who it belongs to. He’s the kid that dressed up as a brain surgeon on Career Day back in kindergarten and will one day actually become a brain surgeon. The kid sets his own lines in the sand and refuses to cross them. No matter what. But Sofia? The living, breathing version of a protest sign? And she treats me like I’m some dumb kid and she’s my babysitter? No. That’s just uncalled for.
“You need to call the police and turn in your grandfather,” she says when I don’t respond. “Before it’s too late.”
“What?! No way!” I say, and I realize I’m not whispering anymore. So does Danielle. She peers over the high counter of the front desk. “And �
��” I shoot a quick glance at Danielle and her eyes immediately descend onto the paperwork. Then I’m back to a whisper. “ … you’re not going to tell anyone about this either.”
“Give me some credit, Gabe.” Her eyes flash and her chin cocks back a bit. She’s annoyed that I’d ever take her for a garden-variety snitch. Good. Now we’re even. “But you need to listen to me. They’ll—”
“Lock him away for whatever shitty moments he has left? Is that what you see as the best option? It’s not happening.”
“Gabe. You’re making—”
“A mistake? If protecting my grandpa is a mistake, then—”
I want to tell her about Mom and Dad. About how much I miss them. How I’m just bouncing around from bumper to bumper like the last pinball on a man’s final quarter. How the only way I can ever be with them again is through their wishes. But I can’t—and not because I don’t think she’ll understand what I’m going through. It’s because there’s a loud crash followed by a deep voice that echoes down the corridor. As soon as it reaches the waiting room, I know—it’s Nick.
Sofia looks at me and offers a resigned shrug of the shoulders. I guess saying goodbye under a hail of gunfire is, like, our thing now. I charge down the corridor with Danielle on my heels and hit the door to exam room three—and suddenly I’m in a recreation of the Battle of the Bulge. The exam table is pushed into the corner of the room, its roll of protective tissue paper strewn across the floor like a length of disemboweled intestines. Doc and Nick are pinned down behind it as Grandpa barrages them with tongue depressor missiles and cotton swab artillery fire. He mumbles a bunch of stuff under his breath about ‘flushing out foxholes’ and ‘sweeping the flank.’ Who knows what kind of war Grandpa was waging inside his own head.
I dive for cover behind the exam table with Doc and Nick. Their backs are up against it and their knees are huddled tight to their chests. Freaking shell-shocked. I have to take command, so I motion to Doc with my right hand and to Nick with my left. They nod their approval with the coolness of steel forming over their eyes. Then I grab a handful of stray tongue depressors off the floor and lead the counter attack.
No Sad Songs Page 12
