Storky

by D. L. Garfinkle

  She clamped her hand on his thigh the whole time. She has these really long fake nails. Everything about her is fake. Dyed hair, phony personality, probably little plastic boobs too.

  Dad tried to start a conversation. “How’s school? You still friends with Gina? You ever hear from that friend of yours who moved away?” He couldn’t even remember Brian’s name. We only hung out together like every weekend for 4 years. When we hit the usual long pause, Dad turned on the radio to a football wrap-up show. The whole time I was thinking, Why am I here?

  He goes, “We decided to eat at this seafood restaurant Mercedes Bonnafeux recommended on the radio yesterday.” We? I thought, Who’s we? Dad and The Thighmaster are the we. Not Dad and me.

  I said, “I went out for seafood for lunch.” Which isn’t a lie. I had a tuna sandwich at Nate’s house. We also ate the whole bag of miniature Snickers that was supposed to be for the trick-or-treat kids tonight. Nate’s mom will be pissed off.

  Dad says, “Oh, where did you eat?” I go, “A place called Nathan’s.” The Thighmaster says, “I never heard of it,” like accusing me of lying. I said, “It’s really small and it’s in a bad area.” Which is true too.

  When I suggested going to the Jim Carrey movie instead, he had to look over at The Thighmaster before he said okay. I don’t remember him ever looking at Mom that way.

  The Thighmaster started whining about how hungry she was, and how she couldn’t eat in the theater because hot dogs had all these nitrates in them and the popcorn wasn’t air popped, and on and on until she made Dad stop at Sub-marina. Then we had to hear how fattening subs were if you used mayonnaise and cheese. The whole time I kept saying over and over to myself, Why am I here?

  The fight started at the new 14-plex at the mall, but I was pretty pissed off before then. By the time we got there, the Jim Carrey movie had sold out. If we could have just bought hot dogs in the theater, or eaten afterward, we’d have gotten in and everything would have been okay. Or sort of okay.

  I suggested the James Bond movie. But The Thighmaster wanted to see this stupid movie I never heard of. The poster called it the most passionate film of the year. Dad goes, “His mom doesn’t want him seeing R-rated movies.” Then The Thighmaster goes, “Screw his mom.” That’s what she said, Screw his mom. What a bitch!

  I didn’t say anything, because I thought Dad would yell at her. Instead he broke into this big explanation of how he and Mom are trying to respect each other, blah blah blah. He went on so long, pretending to be so understanding, we had to step out of the ticket line.

  Then he suggests, like it’s this brilliant idea, that I could see the James Bond movie and he and The Thighmaster could watch the passionate film and we could meet in the lobby afterward.

  That did it. I walked away. Dad started walking after me, so I ran. He called, “Mike, Mike,” and I kept running. Out of the theater. Through the mall. I just ran. I tried to think what to do—go back, call someone, yell at Dad—but really I couldn’t think at all. I just kept running. I ran and ran, until it dawned on me that most of the stores were closed and nobody was around, and I got kind of spooked.

  I stopped. I was almost to the end of the mall. There was a McDonald’s at the very end so I went in there. I ordered 2 Big Macs, then realized I only had $2. Does anything ever go right for me? I got a Sprite instead.

  I sat in a booth in the back, sipping my Sprite, thinking about Dad calling, “Mike, Mike” as I ran away, and I started to smile. I was thinking, I hope he looks all over for me. I hope he leaves The Thighmaster in front of the theater while he goes to every store in the mall. I hope he has to call Mom and explain what happened.

  Then I realized Mom wasn’t home. She was at Dr. Vermin’s supposedly studying. Then I wondered how I’d get home.

  I tried to think who I knew that drove besides Mom. Aunt Marsha, but I knew she’d tell Mom everything. There was Grandma, but she’s such a Dad fan, she’d probably haul me back to the movie theater. I couldn’t think of anyone else but Amanda, so that’s who I called. When I told her, all she said was, “That bastard! I’ll be right there.”

  She must have left the house as soon as we hung up. It only took her 8 minutes to get to the McDonald’s. Right after Amanda came in, Dad showed up. He didn’t seem out of breath or anything. It was like he’d been strolling around the mall, thinking, Wouldn’t it be nice if he should happen to bump into me? When Dad saw me, he gave me this tiny smile, but then he saw Amanda and looked totally thrilled.

  It didn’t even seem to faze her. She just laid into him. She goes, “You can’t even sit next to him at the movies one day a week. He just wanted one-on-one time with you, Dad, that’s all.” She says, “He can’t talk to you because one of your girlfriends is always around. He had to write down what he wanted to say, he wrote it all out, and then he couldn’t even face calling you.”

  Dad didn’t say much. Just that it was no excuse to make him chase me through the mall and make everyone miss the movie. Amanda went off on him so much, maybe he couldn’t say everything he wanted to. Though he could have said he was sorry. He could have fit that in.

  I didn’t like Amanda butting in. It was my problem. She has plenty of her own problems with Dad. People at Mc-Donald’s were staring at us. Even this homeless guy who probably sees plenty of strange stuff stared at us.

  Then I realized Amanda must have read my journal. It’s the only place I wrote down what I wanted to tell Dad. All this time I worried Mom was reading it. I never thought Amanda cared what her geeky little brother was writing.

  I couldn’t yell at her at McDonald’s. I was too weirded out to talk. My head was pounding like a gong had gotten stuck inside it. I could barely think. So I said, “Just take me home, Amanda,” and she did.

  In the car she went on and on about what a pig he is. At first she yelled about it and then she started crying. She brought up the assistant gymnastics coach, how she used to spot Amanda during the day and screw Dad at night, how she made small talk with Mom when she picked Amanda up from practices, all the time doing it with Dad behind everyone’s back.

  I was mad about her reading my journal, but also sorry for her with her crying and everything, and grateful that she came to get me and said she wouldn’t tell Mom. With Gina crying last week, and now Amanda, I see even popular people have problems—not as many as us dweebs have, I’m sure, but they have problems too.

  I can’t write about this anymore. I’m tired. My hands hurt from typing all this. I feel too crappy to go all over it again. I’ll finish tomorrow.

  Monday, November 1

  I’m still so pissed at Amanda. How dare she read my journal? I deleted all the entries today. I only have the hard copies now, hidden in the middle of my box of comic books.

  She must have read about me crossing out that graffiti about her. Oh, crap, and now she knows I like Gina, and all my perverted secrets.

  So I have to figure out what to do not only about Dad, but also about Amanda sneaking into my journal. Plus I have to give an oral report next Monday in Honors English. Ms. Dore is making each person stand up in front of the class and recite a poem and explain it. Like she figured out everyone’s worst nightmare. I never get poetry. Like that one about the rose that everybody else in the class knew was about sex, except me. I thought it was just about a rose. Plus this Friday there’s those geometry and history midterms I haven’t studied for.

  I’m going to spend all my time this week studying. I won’t even let myself think about Dad or Amanda. I’ll be totally focused on English, geometry, and history. I’ll even be too busy to write in this journal.

  Tuesday, November 2

  Couldn’t study today with my brain crammed with Dad thoughts. Told myself there’s still Wednesday and Thursday.

  So I biked over to see Duke. He goes, “You score a perfect 10 on the glumness scale today.” I didn’t feel like telling him about Dad. I mean, I did feel like it in a way, but I couldn’t. It’s embarrassing when your own fa
ther thinks you’re a loser. The whole thing of running through the mall just seems lame now. So I told Duke I had these tests Friday I should be studying for and a stupid oral report I haven’t started.

  Then he swept his shaky arm over the Scrabble board, ruining the game. Not that I was winning or anything, but still. He goes, “You need to start studying right now.” When I told him I didn’t even have my books with me, he insisted on helping me with my oral report.

  Turns out he’s got a whole bookshelf of poetry books, plus overflow stashed in his closet. We went through them, weeding out anything too girly, hard, old, or weird. Which got rid of most of them. We finally settled on something by Robert Frost.

  After he helped me with the report, he made me go home and promise to study for Friday’s tests. I really was going to. Until I turned the TV on just while I ate some Twinkies for energy, and saw Patriot Games just starting.

  Wednesday, November 3

  Dad called. Luckily I didn’t answer the phone. Mom did. She spoke to him for 52 minutes, real quietly. I wonder what they talked about. Probably me. I wish I could have heard it. Then Amanda got on the phone. Only for 6 minutes, but for her a big deal. I’m supposed to call him back. Ugh.

  Thursday, November 4

  WHO WOULD BE GREAT TO HAVE AS A FATHER 1. Tony Gwynn. Great seats to Padres games, and he’s supposed to be a really nice guy. (But then I’d be black. Hard to picture. Though I have the hair for it.)

  2. George W. Bush. Secret Service guys would protect me from jocks attempting wedgies. (But I couldn’t fantasize about Bush’s wild twin girls anymore, they being my sisters.)

  3. Bill Gates. Great computer toys, plus the inheritance.

  4. Hugh Hefner. Playboy Bunnies running around the mansion.

  5. Tom Cruise. Could borrow his race cars. But he’d probably be all over Gina. Never mind.

  Friday, November 5

  Went to the new slasher movie with Nate. He joked with these 8th graders in front of us all through the previews. During the first murder, he tickled the Asian girl on the back of her neck. He even got her phone number afterward.

  I, on the other hand, just laughed at Nate’s jokes like a talk show sidekick and tried to think of something to say. I bet he never would have introduced himself that day at lunch if he’d known I was such a shrub.

  Maybe not a total shrub. After Spanish class today, Sydney said I had a beautiful accent. She goes, “I love how you roll your R’s.” Score one for Captain Sensitive.

  I wish I’d said something besides thanks. Like that I was good with my tongue. She probably would have slapped me.

  Nate wants to lose his virginity by the time he turns 16. I think I’ll stick to my goal of 19. I’ll be grateful just to kiss a girl by then.

  Saturday, November 6

  I’m too busy to deal with Dad. I have that stupid poetry report Monday. Besides, I’m a wimp. Got up early to call him during his 9:00 tennis match. Thank God for answering machines. “Hi, Dad, it’s Mike. I won’t be able to see you tomorrow. Bye.”

  Sunday, November 7

  Amanda finally apologized about reading this journal. Now I only have 100 things to worry about, instead of 101.

  It all started by Amanda coming into my room without knocking. I was sitting on the bed with her June Cosmopolitan that I snuck out of the trash last summer. Turned to page 67 as usual, that redhead in the $118 turquoise bikini. Who would pay that much for a bathing suit anyway? I slid the magazine under my pillow when she came in. I hope she didn’t notice. She didn’t say anything about it. But so what, she never said anything about my journal all this time.

  She goes, “I think you should talk to Dad.” Miss Superior! She doesn’t talk to him for over a year, but she tells me to. I told her, “You butt into my room, you butt into my problems with Dad, and you butted into my journal.” She says, “I didn’t butt in about Dad. You were the one who called me last Sunday.” Which is technically right.

  I go, “What about my journal? You sure butted into that.” She’s like, “What?” Her face got all pink and she looked up at the ceiling. I should give her lying lessons, she’s so pathetic at it. So I said, “That stuff you told Dad you could only know from reading my journal.”

  And then she did a half-assed apology. She said she could barely help it. She said I’m so quiet she never knows what’s going on with me. Like it’s my fault she read my journal.

  Still, I sort of relate. Though I wouldn’t tell Amanda that. If she had a journal, I bet I’d be all over it. Hey, maybe she does have one. I should search her room.

  We ended up having a big heart-to-heart. Totally cheesy. It’s embarrassing how much I liked it.

  Amanda’s pretty smart, I guess. First of all, she explained that Gina’s being pressured to have sex. Now that I think about it, it’s obvious. The Incredible Hunk must always be trying to devirginize her. Then I had to make that joke and try to rush her in Scrabble and that’s why Gina freaked out.

  Hunk’s such a jerk. She’s only 14. I hope she doesn’t give in. He’s so hulky and hairy. He’d probably crush her. She’d probably never want to have sex again. It’s too sick. I can’t even think about it.

  Amanda also tried to convince me how bad it is being popular. How everyone’s really phony and all people talk about are looks and clothes and being popular. If it’s so bad, then why does everyone want to be popular? You never see the A-list people asking if they can eat at the nerd table, or sitting by themselves at lunch. It is an option.

  She even tried to complain about being pretty, how people don’t appreciate anything else about you. I sort of get it, but on the other hand, I’m dorky-looking and people still don’t appreciate anything about me. Amanda gave good advice about Gina, but if she thinks I’m all happy now about being unpopular and funny looking, she’s definitely wrong.

  She also listened to my report 4 times and gave me lots of tips. Since I know she can’t read my journal anymore, I can write that it’s good to have her around sometimes.

  Monday, November 8

  I’m so psyched! My poetry report went really well. Ms. Dore said I had an ear for poetry. Awesome. Sydney Holland told me she heard I did a great job. And she’s not even in my English class. Maybe I’ve just got the Captain Sensitive rep now. It beats being called Storky.

  I’m glad Duke helped me find a short poem without all that old English. Good old Robert Frost, “The Road Not Taken.” Mark Gillespi did a Shakespeare sonnet with all these thous and thines, and I had no clue what he was talking about.

  Nate went up right after me and totally choked. First he said his poem so quietly that Ms. Dore made him stop and do it over louder. The second time he talked a little louder, but started shaking. Even his voice shook. Painful. When he finished, the whole class was still, like everyone was embarrassed. Then I really felt sorry for him.

  He left class as soon as the bell rang. I don’t know where he went. I was so fired up at lunchtime I raced over to Amanda on the senior lawn. This is how wacked school is: if you touch the lawn and you’re not a senior, they throw you in the Dumpster. So I had to stand on the concrete, shouting to Amanda like a squid.

  She comes by with her best friend, Bulimic Michele, and I tell her I aced the report. I just wanted to thank her for her help. She gave me this look that could chill a polar bear, and goes, “I thought it was an emergency the way you geeked out.” The whole time, Bulimic Michele won’t even glance in my direction. Then they rush back to the popular people Amanda says she doesn’t like, as if they’re worried I could give them some disease. Dorkitis. It’s like there’s Home Amanda, who’s nice, and School Amanda, who wishes we weren’t related.

  Whatever. Her little brother was a star today.

  Tuesday, November 9

  Finally talked to Dad today. He started off the phone call saying, “I don’t understand what got into you last week.” The guy makes big bucks managing all this technical engineering stuff at Qualcomm, but he pretends not to know why h
is son ran away from him.

  Ordinarily I’d probably apologize for leaving the movie theater. Not tonight though. Maybe it was from acing the poetry report, or just being so mad at him. Whatever it was, I didn’t back off. I told him I didn’t like having to see his girlfriend every week.

  Then Dad said, “She’s quite fond of you.” Quite fond of me. Yeah, right. That she’s this important part of his life, that he loves her, blah blah blah. Instead of listening to me he had to defend himself. And I know The Thighmaster can’t stand me. Saying she’s quite fond of me is a big fat lie, and how stupid is Dad for trying to pull that over on me?

  Not stupid. Just, I don’t know, someone who thinks his son is stupid. But I’m not. Just ask my English teacher or Sydney Holland. I’m Captain Sensitive.

  Then he got another call and put me on hold.

  So I walked around my room with the cordless, thinking, I hate arguing with people, especially Dad. Thinking I should just see how things turn out Sunday—maybe The Thighmaster will be nicer. I waited forever. Well, 4½ minutes. I was ready to give in, like I usually do.

  Then I started whispering my poem. I pictured myself in front of the Honors English class again, Gina staring at me with her big dark eyes, Ms. Dore scribbling notes. I remembered Duke going through all those old poetry books with me. And I imagined Robert Frost, hunched over a little wooden desk like mine, but without the computer and Princess Leia mousepad, writing out the poem with a long quill pen. I pictured myself telling my classmates that the road less traveled can make all the difference.

  And then I imagined myself squishing my long Gumby body into the backseat of Dad’s car, while The Thighmaster rode shotgun with her fake little smile.