by S R Savell
“Come on.” I stalk closer, sneakers scraping the floor.
“What if I—?”
“Yeah?” I pull the word out as far as I can.
“Break it.”
“Break what?”
“The chair?”
Silence, or as close as it ever gets in Cesspit 2, settles like trickling silt. We stare at each other for a time, my resolve and his reluctance pushing against each other.
He looks to the floor.
“You, sir, are being an ass.”
“Huh?”
“Get in the chair. Things are made to be broken.” To prove my point, I send myself spinning once more, catching my stop with a grab of the tabletop.
“You sure?”
“Can’t hear you over the fun,” I yell, wrenching my arm as far as I can before flinging into spinning motion.
He steps closer and closer to the other black plastic chair, then eases onto it.
I play oblivious and start spinning again, smattering my vision with color mania.
A heavy squeak, a grinding sound, and he’s spinning too.
I stop myself, watching him go. I laugh, but not at him—not really. He’s a bear on a unicycle, a rat on a thimble, too big for the space he’s in, but damn is he enjoying it. Legs tucked in, body squished down, he’s whirling, the chair compact under his bulk. I hear him chuckle, see his grin whip by, and I spin, letting out a whoop, going faster and faster until my head might pop off like a Ping-Pong ball. The world is dizzied insanity, a pigment goulash. It takes a long time for it to readjust.
Nathaniel’s face is flushed and content.
I lean back, laced fingers cradling my head. “Well?”
He goes to say something, then nods, grin wide.
“I thought so.” I rub my stomach, hoping my large intestine will go back in place on its own. I grab my backpack off the wall. After some rooting, I find my notebook stuck behind my spare set of clothes and my mini bag full of random stuff like flashlights, tape, gum, trash bags, thumbtacks, duct tape, an umbrella, and cigarette lighters.
“Michelle?”
“Yo.” I’m flipping through the papers, looking for the one I wrote on last night, thinking it was between random recipes and the odd laws pages.
“Thank you. It was fun.”
“Where there’s a chair, there’s a way,” I say, obviously incapable of intelligent conversation. “That was stupid. I blame the brain sloshing.”
“Not stupid.” He crosses his arms and rests his elbows on his knees.
I find what I’m looking for, right behind the lyrics page. “Well, thank you. And would you like to do something?”
“Sure.”
I rip out two pieces of paper, one blank and one written on. “You wanna take a quiz of mine?”
He points at himself. “Me?”
“No, the other guy taking up half the room. Yes, you.” Before he can say anything, I cut in, “And if you make fun of me, I will kick your ever-loving ass.” I click my pen. “No pressure, though.”
“I wouldn’t make fun of you.” He leans in to take the paper.
I reach to poke the scar, nearly jabbing his eye when he startles. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
A blush mottles his face. He looks down.
“It’s cute when you do that.”
He blushes deeper. “So, um, name. Nathaniel.”
“Full name.”
“Oh, right. It’s Nathaniel Lee Slater. Yours?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
I feel happier hearing him laugh, knowing I was the one responsible. Sure, he’s the insanely cheerful type, but there’s just something about knowing I made him happy that makes me feel like a better person for it.
“So, yeah, it’s Michelle Leanne Pearce.”
“That’s pretty.”
“Not really. It’s a bitch hearing Michelle Leanne every time I get in trouble. Why do parents even do that?”
“My grandma says the more of the name they use, the madder they are.”
I scratch my nose in thought. “I think she’s right.”
“That’s my grandma.” Sitting up straight, he’s about as tall as I am when I’m standing. And, considering I couldn’t reach the cornflakes in the cabinet this morning, I’m a little jealous. His shirt is nearly too small, strained in places from too much person and not enough material, ripped in small spots scattered across his torso.
“Can I ask something?” he says.
“Shoot.”
“When I brought my letter in, why’d you tear it up?
I wish his tone were accusing or angry, but of course it’s only questioning. “Because I thought you wanted my job.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” I pick the pen up and do the rubber pencil trick, shaking it between my fingers. “I’m a bitch like that. Tell me, why’d you want this job so much?” I ask without thinking, a bad habit, but still I don’t pull my question back.
He studies his hands, now the most fascinating objects in the room.
“Nathaniel.”
Nothing.
“Psst, Nathaniel.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me . . . tell me now . . .” I wobble my arms midair, casting some kind of voodoo curse to conjure the answers from him with my bewitching pen.
He clears his throat. “Well, uh, my grandma. She’s sick. And I have her bills to pay.” His ears redden. “And, I really, ah, wanted to be closer to you.”
My guts skip rope to the beat of my heart. It’s gone as fast as it came, a swishing in my midsection I’m already missing. I look at him again, the pink in his face yet to go.
I want to say something comforting about his grandmother. I want to tell him he’s a great guy for caring for her and that so far he’s ranked in the top three nicest guys I’ve ever met.
I end up with, “I’m glad. Glad about the me part, not about your grandma, because that would be horrible to want her to be sick so you’ll be here. Which I don’t want. Not that I want you to leave or anything, but if your leaving makes her better—” I clamp my mouth, then try for damage control. “I’m glad you’re here and sad she’s in the hospital.”
“I’m glad too. That you’re glad, that is.” The hands have stopped moving.
I point at them. “This answers number thirteen on the list: What is your nervous habit?”
He gives me something surreal when he smiles this time. It’s not the normal Nathaniel smile but an even gentler one, a for-Michelle-only smile. And so I grin back, teeth and all, my Nathaniel-only grin, before more customers break the moment apart like a log raft with a severed rope.
When they leave, we get through all the easy, normal questions, sidestepping anything too personal. He isn’t freaked out by my nosiness, so I don’t bother apologizing for it. And it’s nice having someone genuinely interested in me, not because they’re paid or obligated to. “Six foot eight? Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Dude, don’t be ashamed of that. I know I wouldn’t be. I knew you were tall, but damn.”
“My height’s always been a bad thing.”
“Bad how?”
“It just is.”
“So, um, what’s the next one?” I stretch, seeing him through squinted eyes.
“Um, it’s age. I’m nineteen.”
“You look a lot older.”
“The height thing again. What about you?”
“Seventeen, eighteen in February. And for what it’s worth, you act like a kid.” I braid my ponytail down my shoulder, rooting out tangles.
“Is that good?”
“Definitely.”
For the last few hours we finish all the questions and then some. Before I know it, we’ve burned up three hours just playing forty-plus questions with each other, no more silences or awkward moments anywhere in the mix. We decide to make it a weekly tradition with promises to up the ante on question difficulty.
When he tries to refuse a ride agai
n, I whack him in the stomach with my backpack. “Carry this to the car, will you?” Seeing my bulky bag cradled by the even bigger Nathaniel, I can’t stop the quirk of my lips.
When we’re outside, I ease the cigarettes from my pocket.
“Where did you get those?” he asks, small frown appearing.
“Mi casa, señor.” I struggle with cold fingers to pull one from the flimsy paper package.
“Michelle.”
“Nathaniel.”
“No,” he mumbles.
“Well, aren’t you bold?” I light one up, watching the cold eat away at the flame, bruising the embers inside until they want to burn out. I give them a light breath and they flare, tiny sparks of wonder.
“No,” he says, taking the cigarette from my hand. Calloused fingers kill the embers with one squeeze, and he tucks it into his pocket.
My heart kicks when the flame dies, at hearing his voice like that. I take out another, light it up, wanting him to take it.
He tries, and his hand brushes my wrist before I back away.
“Let’s burn ’em, okay?”
And we do, the whole pack, one by one, until only filters remain.
Chapter 5
The next week is uninterrupted by the home, work, and school stress I’m accustomed to. Peter is a no-show Thursday and Friday. He calls in to let me know he’s busy but available for emergencies. Saturday, as expected, goes to hell. I walk in to find the Big Kahuna himself in my seat, looking very displeased in a button-up white shirt with a small stain on the collar.
Peter never has stains. It’s not efficient. And it’s then that I know I’m screwed.
Danny dashes through the door before it can even close.
Coward.
The bags under Peter’s eyes sag like a gutter-drowned newspaper. “We need to talk.”
“Are you breaking up with me, Peter?”
His arms cross.
I edge around him, dropping my bag next to my seat. “Look, if it’s about my grades, I’ve been trying.”
“Nora says otherwise.”
“Nora don’t know her ass from a hole in the dirt.”
He rubs his temples again, a hip leaning against the counter.
Nathaniel. It’s his fault. Because any other time, I would have enjoyed the show: Peter’s suffering right before my eyes.
But.
The guilt thing is hard to shake. So I belt out a sigh and ask if I’m fired.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know,” he snaps, pushing off the counter. He walks toward the coffee machine.
I catch my tongue between my teeth and hold it, making a mental note to tell Nathaniel how good I was today. “Are you okay?”
“No. No, I’m not.” He downs the coffee, black, and tosses the cup. Manicured nails preen his hair, straightening and patting in places. His palms move to straighten out the wrinkles on his shirt. Finally, he looks at me, some flare of the old boss burning. “But I will be. So everything’s been fine here? No problems?”
I put an earbud in. “Nope. All’s well on the home front.”
“Good. If you need me, call.”
“Will do.”
I’ve been scribbling, trying to fill up one whole notebook page with random thoughts in as small a font as possible. It’s a good time consumer. After twenty minutes, I’ve only gotten about three inches down the page, the font growing as my patience shrinks. When I catch on, I start printing extra small again.
The workday is blessedly slow, so the whole shift has been slack time—well, for me, anyways. Why exert myself if I may not have a job in a few days? Admittedly, if I worked harder before, my job might not be in danger now, but I can’t just unlearn years of half-assing in a couple of days. So I’ve been praying and hoping Mrs. Nora Fanna (God, her parents were cruel) will give me some more time.
Nathaniel has been working like his life is in the balance, per usual, leaving me in solitary slackerdom. The only good thing about this is that he usually finishes his work early in the week, which leaves us time to do our quiz thing. He’s even visited on some of his days off.
The more time I spend with the guy, the more amazing he turns out to be. Yeah, I’ve only known him for about a month, but wars have been fought and won in a month’s time. Surely becoming a close friend to someone in that span isn’t too ridiculous, even for me.
“Michelle?”
“What?”
“I asked if you wanted to go somewhere with me tomorrow.”
“Oh, sure, where to?”
He can’t tell me. Not yet. I know it even before he says, “It’s a surprise.”
“What time, then?”
Noon tomorrow at the bus stop is what he decides.
I’m in my bed daring the wall to move when Mother Dear raps on the door in that annoying tap-tap-ta-tap pattern of hers.
“What?”
The black, silky pajamas are too clingy for her rounded body. Her red hair is a mess, piles of it stuck in a claw clip on her head, the other half hanging down her neck. I can’t place the name, but I picture the octopus lady in The Little Mermaid.
“Can I help you?”
She crosses her arms.
I feel The Look forthcoming, so I get into Michelle defensive position, stock straight and legs crossed, my back to the headboard. “What?”
“You know what.”
“I’m pretty sure I just said I don’t.”
She’s clearly contemplating child abuse. The Look is rolling in, angry clouds misting her tired face. “Your grades have gotten worse.”
“I blame the economy,” I say with a sad nod.
I can almost hear the first boom of rage. I sure can see it, her big ol’ baby blues boiling me whole. “Michelle Leanne, so help me, if you don’t act right—”
“So now I’m a bad kid?”
“I never said—”
“Pretty sure you did. You so just did.”
“That’s not—”
“Just because I don’t bow to you and Fanna doesn’t mean I’m shit.”
I’m winning this interrupting war. I always do, talking until I’m the only one speaking, not needing to raise my voice.
“I—”
“Because shit is what you treat me like. And, hey, excuse me for actually having a job. I can be a leech if you’d rather—”
“Enough!”
I quit talking.
I start again. “Look, tell Fanny if you want. I don’t care. I’ll be eighteen soon enough, and then you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
“You know I love you more than anything in this world.”
The quiet drags on, The Look phasing out with each awkward second.
Before she walks out, she turns my way, watching me at an angle. “Work if you want, but if you don’t graduate, any money set aside for your future is no longer yours. Got it?”
I give her a nod. It’s the least I can do.
I’m reading over Nathaniel’s quiz papers again, counting out six pages. I’ve been memorizing his answers one by one, melding them in my memory bank for easy recall.
He does it again, without even being here, without even knowing. I settle against the pillow, clicking off the light while the smile stays on.
I recite to the walls until sleep takes me to a place where I don’t dream.
Chapter 6
Mom and I didn’t always fight so badly. I mean, we never got along great, but it wasn’t until I turned thirteen that being together became so insufferable. It just sort of happened, I guess. One day we were snapping at each other, little comments that stung, and the next thing I knew we were bloodletting with comments neither of us would forget.
I guess between my personality (or lack of) and our hormonal destinies to war until I’m in my thirties, we just can’t have a good relationship. Sometimes I feel bad, like those times she falls asleep while cooking and nearly burns the house to the ground.
A
nd then there are the times when I don’t feel so bad, moments when I just want her to quit talking altogether. Listening to her is like salting an open wound.
“Don’t I need to write you an excuse for missing school?”
I’m eating cornflakes, contemplating the effort versus reward of walking to pick up the sugar jar. It’s eight, an unholy hour for a weekend, but I want to be ready for today. My brain can’t spark the synapses fast enough to understand what she’s saying. “You mean for missing last week?”
She’s muttering to herself, rubbing her forehead. “Oh no. I was going to, but then I forgot. It was a Friday you missed, wasn’t it?”
“Thursday,” I say, crunching some more.
She goes to the drawer, pulling out some stationery and a pen. “Tell them I know it’s late.”
I swallow. “I’m not giving them an excuse for an absence that long ago. Besides, only a doctor’s note is excused.”
“But I always wrote you excuses before—”
“In middle school.”
“And why can’t I write this one?”
“Because . . . only a doctor’s note . . . is excused . . .”
“Well, I’m writing it anyways, and I want you to give it to the office.”
I drop the bowl into the sink on top of the dishes of two days ago. “No, Mom.”
She’s scribbling, hunched over the table.
I sigh. “Whatever. And I’m going with Nathaniel somewhere, okay?”
Her head pops up. “Who? And where?”
I’m already out of the room. “Nathaniel. And I don’t know.”
She’s a hound in pursuit. “What do you mean you don’t know where?”
I stop on the steps. “He’s taking me somewhere. It’s a secret. I don’t even know.”
“I don’t want you with that man.”
I chuckle.
“Michelle—”
“Call Peter and ask who Nathaniel is. I’m going to get ready.”
She calls my name again, but I’m already upstairs. I click the door closed and fumble for an outfit in the drawer. I decide on my red long-sleeved shirt and black jeans, the Converses a given because, aside from two pairs of dressy shoes, they’re the only ones I own.
