by Sarah Daltry
A small kid with huge hair, giant glasses, and buck teeth walks to the center of the stage and the camera zooms in. The person taping it has palsy or something because it shakes incessantly, but I recognize the glasses. George apparently has a similar philosophy as his parents. Fifth grade George is wearing light brown corduroys and a green sweater with a bunny on it. He coughs on the stage and approaches the mic.
“Nice sweater,” I tease.
“My parents hate me,” he says.
I tuck my head into his arm. “I think it’s cute.”
He smiles and wraps his arm around my shoulders. We watch George read the Easter story from the Bible and then recite “Peter Cottontail.” Little Lanyon is off in the back waiting for his triangle cue. He hops back and forth like he needs to pee.
A teacher walks over next to George and leans down into the mic. “And now, we have a very special surprise. Our own George Lindell has written a poem to celebrate Easter and he will be sharing it with us.”
I look over. “I thought you didn’t write poems.”
He closes his eyes. “I don’t.”
George
“‘The bunny hops,’” I watch my young self say. “‘He likes grass.’” That seems sketchy. “‘He comes to houses, and he leaves us chocolate.’”
“There is no rhyme scheme of any kind,” Katie says, but she seems to be loving it.
“Quiet. Don’t talk over my triangulation,” Lanyon warns.
“‘He hops up the road; he hops in the town. Then he gives us candy, which is yellow and brown.’”
“Why do I seem so focused on bodily waste?” I ask as young me continues to read. “‘Easter is a time for family and fun. Now it is time for our show to begun.’”
“Adorable,” Katie says.
“Silence. Triangle.” Lanyon’s former self, who was abnormally tall even then, shoves a tiny girl out of his way and unleashes a torrent of clanging glee upon the small metal instrument.
“This is the best Easter pageant I’ve ever seen,” Katie says.
“Of course it is,” Lanyon says. “It is the greatest Easter pageant that has ever been. Just wait for the dancing bunnies.”
“Shit. I forgot about the dancing bunnies,” I say.
Sure enough, a squad of children bumbles around, dressed in paper bunny costumes. They’re really just cheap masks and shirts with pictures of bunnies on them. They do have cotton tails, though.
“We went all out on the costumes,” I comment.
“I think this is awesome,” Katie admits.
“Good job, Lanyon. I like how you manage to cock block me with salt and vinegar chips, your general presence, and now the even dorkier version of me from the past.”
“It’s a cock block hat trick. I think there’s an achievement for it. Dong Rejection. Twenty points.”
We settle in and watch the rest of the pageant in relative silence. There are a few chuckles and Lanyon occasional shouting out “Shazam” when his past self works the triangle.
The tape ends and we sit in the fuzzy glow of the TV for a few minutes. Suddenly, some thumping steps resound off the stairs and descend. A flashlight beam jounces about. Then, a figure appears in the doorway. The light bounces to each of our faces. In the shadowy figure’s hand is a gun.
“What the hell?” I ask.
“What?” asks my dad. His shadow looks rather large and creepy behind his flashlight beam.
“Why the hell do you have a gun?” I yell.
He looks down at it. “I thought maybe you were intruders.”
“Would you have shot us?” Lanyon asks.
My dad shrugs. “Maybe one of you.” He looks over at us. “Don’t stay up too late. If you get hungry, you can make a sandwich.” Then he turns and lumbers back upstairs.
“Your dad is intense,” Katie says.
“And weird,” Lanyon adds. “Why the hell would we make a sandwich now?”
I turn off the TV. “Why don’t we go back to my room? I almost never get shot in my room.”
We head up the stairs. “Actually,” Lanyon stops us as we reach the first floor. “I do want a sandwich.”
Katie and I practically sprint upstairs to my room as Lanyon stays behind to make, and hopefully eat, his sandwich. We didn’t say anything to each other, but I feel like we both have the same idea. Privacy. I shove the door open, pull her inside, and shut the door. Then, although it’s childish and maybe a bit kidnappery, I prop a chair under the door to slow down Lanyon’s entrance.
I look over at Katie. “You know, just in case he has the worst possible timing.”
As I turn away from the door, she grabs me and drags me down onto my bed on top of her. My bed is a tangle of blankets and us. She feels warm against me as a cool breeze from the window, which should not be open, spills into the room. The darkness surrounds us and I forget about FDX, Lanyon, and everything else. I’m not sure how much time passes, but it seems as if Lanyon returns far too quickly. Confirming his obliviousness, he smashes right into the door without knocking. The chair bends but holds up.
“Hey guys, hold off on the coitus for a minute. I’m coming in.” He shoves the door hard and the chair comes free. We have enough time to re-shevel ourselves for the most part.
“What is it, Lanyon?” I ask.
“One, I would leave you guys alone, but I don’t have a ride home. Two, what is this sister of Chad’s name? And three, I want to try out a new pickup line on you guys before I say it to her.”
“Fine.” My skin is raging with heat. “What is it?”
“Here it is.” He clears his throat. “You have 243 bones in your body. Want another one?”
“No, Lanyon,” Katie says. “Do not use that.”
“What if I just tell her she has a nice Asimov?”
“What if you are just real quiet during the whole date and try not to ruin things by being crazy?” I suggest.
“No,” he says. “I gotta be me.”
Katie
There is little to do in the middle of the night at your boyfriend’s house when you’re stuck in his bedroom with his friend. So we grind. By dawn, we are nearing the mid-40’s and George plays for a bit as well. We snack on the detritus from the 7-11 run until there’s movement out in the hallway.
“Time for breakfast,” Lanyon says, around a mouthful of Snickers.
We save and head to the kitchen, where George’s mom is cooking. She’s for real cooking – a whole breakfast with sausage and bacon and eggs and waffles.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask George.
He shrugs. “Breakfast?”
George’s dad comes in, kisses George’s mom, grabs a cup of coffee and a handful of bacon, glares at Lanyon, and heads out to the garage. We sit at the table and George’s mom feeds us. As soon as the food is on the table, she drags George out into the hallway.
“What’s that about?” I ask Lanyon.
He pauses with the syrup midpour and cranes his neck to look. “She’s telling him to use protection.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“She is. Ask her.”
Since that’s not going to happen, I eat and wait until they come back. They do shortly after and George’s mom sits across from me. “So, Katie, tell me about yourself,” she says.
George groans and slathers butter on his waffles.
I shrug. “Not much to tell. Just relaxing between semesters.”
“Are you a junior, too?” she asks.
I nod. “I am. At Amherst.”
“Oh, that’s perfect. You’re right near George.”
“Yeah, not far. We haven’t really talked about going back to school yet,” I say.
“What are you majoring in?” she asks.
“Mom,” George says. “Leave her alone.”
“I’m just talking to her, George. Relax.”
“I’m an art history major actually,” I tell her.
“You are?” George asks.
His mom looks at him and shakes
her head. I don’t mind, though. I don’t know his major, either. I didn’t even know his last name until the Easter pageant video. Which, in retrospect, is probably stupid, but then I turn and look at him and Lanyon. George is absently chewing his bacon and Lanyon has a mouthful of waffle.
“What?” Lanyon asks, waffle bits falling to his plate.
“Nothing,” I say. I don’t think it really matters that I didn’t know their last names. Come to think of it… “Lanyon?”
“Yeah?” he says, still eating.
“Is Lanyon your first or last name?”
“First,” George says. “He’s simply unfortunate, no matter how you look at it.”
“Be nice,” George’s mom says and then she turns the focus back to me. “Katie, what are your plans for Christmas? Would you like to come here Christmas night? We have a tradition-”
“No,” George stops her. “Please, please, no.”
Lanyon chuckles a waffley chuckle and I raise my eyebrow. “What?”
George’s mom shakes her head. “I’ll wait for George to tell you, I suppose. But we would love for you to come.”
“Yeah, of course. I mean, we usually visit my grandparents, but they’re not far and we’re generally home fairly early. If it’s not too late, I’ll let George know.”
She nods. “Excellent. Well, I suppose I should get to cleaning the place. This mess isn’t going to take care of itself.”
I look around. There are a few pizza menus in the center of the table and there’s a coaster on the end table by the couch, but the entire place is pretty spotless. Except for the disaster that’s George’s room. But I don’t think she’d dare go in there. George just keeps eating and Lanyon starts humming Christmas carols.
I finish my breakfast and there’s an awkward moment when I’m not sure if I should ask for a ride home or wait for George to offer. Lanyon goes to George’s room to get his stuff, leaving the two of us alone. “So,” I say.
“Do you want to stay for a bit? We can bring Lanyon home and then hang out?”
“I’d like that, but I’d also like a shower. Why don’t you drop me off, bring him home, and then come back for me?”
“That’s a fast shower,” he says.
“I’m a terrible girl,” I reply.
“So, do you need any of your stuff from my room?”
“No, I’ll get it when I come back.”
The conversation is uncomfortable. I feel like a teenager again. It wasn’t uncomfortable when we were in his bed while Lanyon was eating a sandwich, but for some reason, now it’s awkward and weird and we’re not talking. I hate dating and all of its stupid confusion.
Lanyon comes downstairs while we’re standing around like freaks. He looks between us both. “Don’t worry, guys. I’ll be back tonight. You won’t even know I’m gone.”
George
The next week is a sweet mixture of key hunting and Katie body inspection. In fact, I even say that to her directly and she’s cool with it. Tonight is our big triple date and, for some reason, Lanyon and Katie both come to my house to prepare. It has a very girlfriend sort of feel to it.
“I like hanging out with you,” I tell Katie. “You’re like a cool friend of mine whom I can also make out with.”
“You can make out with me,” Lanyon says as he tries on a thin leather tie that should have been burned in ‘89. He has a whole suitcase of stuff with him.
“You’re not really my type,” I tell him.
“No boobs to smack around?” he asks.
“I do like smacking a boob now and again.”
“You’re not supposed to smack them around.” Katie pauses as she considers a belt.
“Ooh, that’s a sexy belt,” I say. “George would love you in that. Should I giggle now or something?”
“I don’t hang around with giggle girls.”
“What about Anna? You seemed to imply she was of a rather helium-brained stature,” Lanyon says as he considers sunglasses.
“A little. But she’s still my friend. And you are not wearing sunglasses. You’re going to look like a jackass.”
“Nothing can stop that now,” I say in my best James Earl Jones voice.
“What about this shirt?” Lanyon holds up a tee that has a picture of Link on it. “Screw the princess. I’m a playah” is written on it.
“That is the worst shirt I’ve ever seen,” Katie says.
“So far,” I add. “Give him some time. He’ll top it soon enough. By the way, why did you guys come here to get ready?”
“I thought we had to,” says Lanyon. “Isn’t it one of those rite of passage things? You hang out with your friends and try on clothes for the big date.”
“If we were girls,” I say.
“I’m a girl,” Katie reminds us.
“Yes. But shouldn’t you be with Anna and asking her about shoes and hats and stuff?” I bumble.
“Hats? Who the hell wears a hat on a date?” she asks.
“Tip top, madam,” Lanyon says and he puts on a ship captain’s hat. “I shall sail the seas of love.”
“You shall sail the seas of masturbation and tears if you wear that.” I knock the hat off of his melon.
“No hats?” he asks.
“No hats!” I scream at him.
“Man, you hate hats.” He digs back into his suitcase and pulls out another shirt. This one just has a huge smiling face on it and says, “Please don’t block my pop-up.”
“What is that?” Katie asks. “Is that supposed to be sexual? I can’t even tell for sure.”
“It’s all in the subtext. You need to read carefully. Language is a nuanced dance of sound and structure. An artistic- gah, my nuts!” I interrupt Lanyon’s speech by giving him the old snapping bag tag.
Katie’s phone pulses. “It’s Anna. They’re on their way over. That gives us like ten minutes.” She looks a bit flustered. “We need to hurry.”
“What are you getting nervous for? The dude you have to impress has been here the whole time,” Lanyon says.
“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried that one, you and Anna won’t like each other. Two, that Chad will be weird or, more likely, Lanyon will be weird. And three, that Chad’s sister will hate all of us and murder me in my sleep for setting her up with Lanyon.” Katie gasps a bit after spitting out so much information rapid fire.
“Well, shit; my confidence is at an all-time high now. Bring on the boss fight of my social life,” Lanyon declares. He has chosen a tasteful t-shirt with which to meet his blind date. Its message is simple and eloquent. It reads: “If you don’t like video games, then your mother is a whore.”
“Maybe that shirt isn’t a great choice.” Katie bites her lip in worry. Which is pretty hot, I have to admit.
“Lanyon cannot be contained. There is no point in hiding the true Lanyon since he will, nay, he must, be revealed at some point. Instead of being concealed in the shrubbery of mores, the Lanyon must strike out against normalcy. He must hit society in the tits with the real urethra of Lanyonness and see if it can handle the bruise.” He storms from the room.
“He was speaking metaphorically, right?” asks Katie.
“I’d like to hope so. But you can never be too sure.” I look at her. “Chad’s sister isn’t that important to you anyway, is she?”
“I hope not.”
Katie
The bowling alley is hopping. I repeat, the bowling alley, at 8 pm on a Saturday night, is hopping. Worse, it is hopping with my entire high school graduating class, I think.
“Is there some kind of underground bowling club I wasn’t aware of?” I ask Anna.
She shrugs. “There’s nothing to do here except go to the mall, movies, or bowling.”
“It’s Saturday night. Don’t people go to bars?”
“Not when they’re home from school. They pretend they’re still in high school and hang out with people they feel obligated to continue to see. Hence, bowling.”
I look at her. Does she mean us
? Are we only hanging out because we feel obligated?
Chad’s sister and Lanyon surprisingly hit it off and are discussing bowling shoes options at length. George awkwardly hops back and forth and looks lost. The last week has been sweet, but weird. We alternate between gaming and randomly making out, but he hasn’t pushed for more and he’s started to treat me the same way he treats Lanyon. I like the comfortability, but I also wonder if he even likes me.
“So, Katie, how’s school?” Chad asks. “Heather is looking at Amherst actually.”
“Really? That’s cool. It’s a good school. ”
“Yeah. She’s the smart one,” he says.
We make our way to the seats, except for Heather and Lanyon, who are still talking about shoes with the cashier guy. Anna and Chad are all over each other; meanwhile, George asks if I want to play him in Mortal Kombat.
“Sure,” I say, and he’s off without even checking to see if I’m with him.
I don’t know why I thought any of this was a good idea, but it becomes a definite bad idea after I defeat George in Mortal Kombat. We’re heading back to the group when Stacy and Vicky cut us off. Stacy and Vicky. The two sluttiest, bitchiest girls I went to high school with, and the ones who made me pray every day that school would end. They look mostly the same, maybe slightly sluttier and bitchier.
“Katie Garretty?” Stacy asks. “Wow. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Really?” I ask, since I know I don’t look much different than I did in high school.
She laughs and flashes me a smile. “I thought you were a guy at first.”
“Nope. Not a guy,” I say.
“So, what have you been up to?” Vicky asks. “Did you go to college or something?”
“Yeah. I went to college. What about you?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard?”
“Nope. Clearly not,” I reply. Whatever it is they think I should have heard is not going to be anything I care even remotely about knowing. But that isn’t going to stop them from telling me, and somehow trying to make me feel inferior.
