Storky

by D. L. Garfinkle

  That’s when the poem clicked. I figured out what Frost was saying before, but tonight I really felt it. It was so weird, I almost saw a lightbulb turn on in front of me, like in those old Warner Brothers cartoons.

  I thought about the usual road I take, just going along with people, waiting for things to happen. Waiting for Dad to get back on the phone. Waiting to see how it would go on Sunday. I decided right then to take a different road.

  He got back on, not even apologizing for keeping me on hold so long, just saying, “Hi, Champ,” like calling me Champ would make everything all right.

  Then I said it: “I won’t see you with your girlfriend.”

  Long silence. Then he goes, “Mike?” And I go, “Yeah?” He didn’t say anything. Then I said, “Dad?” And he said, “What?” Then another silence. Then he finally goes, “I’ll call you back,” and he hung up on me.

  So today I took a road less traveled. I don’t even know what’s going to happen with me and Dad now. But I’m 14 years old. I told him what I want. And that has made all the difference. I hope.

  Wednesday, November 10

  Heather Kvaas slid a note into Nate’s locker today. I think I remember what it said exactly. I should. We stared at it long enough.

  Your poetry reading sucked a lot.

  But I still think you’re pretty hot.

  Have a great day.

  Love, Heather K.

  So I ace the report and get an A from Ms. Dore. Nate blows the report and gets a love note from one of the prettiest girls in 9th grade. Figures.

  Thursday, November 11

  Went to Golden Village today to thank Duke for giving me the poem. He wanted to show me more poems. Thought I might enjoy them. I’m not that much of a nerd. Though Duke said that when he was in high school, Shakespeare’s sonnets and half a bottle of wine helped him score the first time. Cool.

  I said I wanted to impress Gina with my sensitivity. I go, “She’s in my class so she got to hear my report. Maybe I blew her away.” Duke told me to take the road not taken, to ask her out. When I told him she’s dating this dumb 11th grade jock, he just put his shaky hand on my shoulder and said, “She doesn’t care about sensitive.”

  Friday, November 12

  Gina looked so beautiful today. She was the 5th girl to do a Sylvia Plath poem, but hers was the best. She wore this long skirt with birds on it and a soft pink sweater and a little braid in her hair. I’m crazy about her. I didn’t really get the poem though. Something about a dead Nazi.

  All the girls talked about how Sylvia Plath died by putting her head in the oven. I don’t understand that either. How could she have kept her head in there? Wouldn’t you pull it out at the last minute? Did she get burned to death, or was there like a breathing problem? Why didn’t she pick an easier way to go, for instance a quick bullet through the head or at least an overdose of Valium?

  Saturday, November 13

  Called Gina this morning to congratulate her on her poetry report. Wanted to tell her how pretty she looked in the pink sweater, but instead said, “You sound really knowledgeable about poetic structure.” Lame.

  I was hoping she’d say something about my poem. Like what a sensitive guy I must be. So sensitive she just knew I’d be a good boyfriend or at least boyfriend material. All she said was, “Why did Nate choke so bad on his report?”

  I don’t know. I never would have suspected. Not from a guy ballsy enough to show me his dirty playing cards that day in the crapeteria when he didn’t know anything about me. And he doesn’t seem to have a problem picking up girls.

  I tried to answer Gina in a sensitive way. I actually said, “Poetry may be daunting to some people.” Daunting. The vocab of Captain Sensitive.

  But she interrupted me with an important announcement about the Incredible Hunk. He asked her to the Snowball. Supposedly, he’s really sweet because the Snowball is more than a month away. And his face looked really sweet when he invited her. And he gave her this sweet kiss when she said yes. I bet he already rented a motel room.

  Sunday, November 14

  Dad took me to see the new James Bond flick. Just me and him. In a TV movie, we’d be all huggy and apologetic and form a deep father-son connection. But we just pretended like the whole fight never happened.

  It was one of the quietest nights of my life. We have absolutely nothing to say to each other. It was so pathetic I even started missing The Thighmaster.

  I need to figure out how to get Dad to like me. The only idea I can think of is joining a sports team. Something real macho. Obviously I’m not cut out for wrestling. And it’s too late for football this year, thank God. I could try basketball.

  Wait, I hate basketball. I mean, I love watching basketball on TV or whatever and reading about it in the newspaper. But I hate actually playing basketball. I hate playing any sports. Except bowling and channel surfing.

  What’s better? Staying after school most days aiming balls into a basket while you sweat like a pig and people jab you with their elbows? Or sitting in a car with someone in total silence who’s your own dad but can’t stand you?

  At least when he teaches me to drive, we’ll have something to talk about.

  Monday, November 15

  Tonight started off weird right from the beginning. Dr. Vermin called, and I said, “My mom’s watering the backyard,” and he goes, “I wanted to speak to you, Mike.” I’m thinking, Why did I have to answer the phone? I was so happy on the couch with my Fritos, watching the aliens from Planet Genius on Jeopardy.

  He was at the bowling alley. It was so noisy I could barely hear him. He wanted me to bowl. One of the guys on his team broke his thumb, and they’d have to forfeit if they couldn’t get someone. He told me there are all these teenagers in the league, lots of fathers and sons. I said, “I’m not your son.” And he goes, “I know.”

  I asked him if there were any girls in the league. Then he did that isn’t-he-cute laugh that totally bugs. He’s like, “No, but there’s 4 pretty teenage girls a couple lanes over from us.”

  He kept begging, so I figured maybe I can get something out of this. I said, “I might bowl if you’ll buy me some nachos.” He goes, “You’re on, John,” which he must think is current teen slang. Pathetic. Then he started begging again. Just to shut him up, I guess, I said I’d do it.

  Mom practically did cartwheels when I asked her to drive me. Like telling Dr. Vermin I’d bowl has anything to do with liking him. It was just to get him off my back, maybe take a look at those 4 girls, and because I hadn’t bowled since I got that 205. It’s hard to find people to bowl with.

  So Dr. Vermin was pretty cool, for a guy who’s screwing my mom. Except he lied about teenage girls bowling nearby. At least he admitted he lied. And I can understand why he did it. He was pretty desperate for a substitute. He didn’t mention Mom at all the whole time. That was nice of him. I bowled a 158, a 167, and a 189. Decent.

  He wants me to call him Howard, but I don’t know. You use first names for adults you see a lot of. I’m not planning on hanging with him or anything. This was a one-shot thing. Plus it’s a horrible name. Just saying Howard out loud could make me even more of a nerd.

  Tuesday, November 16

  Nate told me he choked on the English report on purpose so Ms. Dore would feel sorry for him and give him a decent grade. Uh huh.

  I’m not really mad at him for that lame lie. It’s hard to be pissed off at someone when you feel sorry for him. I should be a lawyer when I grow up. I always see both sides of everything. I can’t see Mom as a lawyer though. She’s not oily enough. I’d be oily enough.

  At first I was going to let it go. Then, thinking about that poem, the new road I’m taking now, I told Nate, “I don’t like being lied to. You lied to me about your house too, how you had all those TVs and a den, and it doesn’t have that at all.”

  Then he started psychologizing. He said his life is so crappy, he has to make up stuff about it. He told me how his dad doesn’t give his mom any mo
ney and only sees him every year or so.

  His dad moved to Reno a long time ago, and just shows up at Nate’s house with presents that are always wrong. Like last year he got him a down coat. Hello, we live in San Diego. Once he brought over a puppy and Nate’s mom put it right back in his car. The D.A.’s office is helping his mom sue for child support, but Nate says any money his dad ever had is at the blackjack tables in Reno. Compared to Nate’s dad, mine is Father of the Year.

  Wednesday, November 17

  Had the house to myself for 2 hours tonight. I don’t think Amanda keeps a diary. But she does have 3 condoms, The Joy of Sex with Post-its, love notes from 6 different guys plus someone named Elizabeth, and a picture of herself and Dad at her middle school graduation. I guess I’m the only virgin in this house.

  I wonder what Gina writes in her diary. Is my name mentioned even once? With my luck every page of the journal I gave her is filled with love poems to Hunk. I can just imagine: He caught a pass for our great school. His pecs and ass are really cool. She probably taped his picture on the cover and kisses it every night before she starts writing. I’m making myself sick.

  Thursday, November 18

  STORY OF A TOTAL LOSER 1. He bikes to his friend’s house after school. She thinks he’s a friend, but he can’t get it through his fat head that’s all they are.

  2. It starts raining on the way over. He’s not wearing a jacket. His Brillo pad hair instantly turns into a Jewfro.

  3. In his backpack is a thin gold necklace with a small G charm, a birthday present that took 4 hours to pick out and that he spent 31 minutes wrapping the night before. A card taped to the present took 23 minutes to choose as the mall was closing, while the saleslady at Suzy’s Hallmark shot him dirty looks and flicked the lights on and off. The card has a message handwritten on it that took him 37 minutes to compose last night. “Happy birthday to the nicest 15-year-old in the universe. I hope I get to see you for all your birthdays. Sincerely, Mike.” He laid awake for 86 minutes wondering if the message was too corny. Total time spent on said birthday present: 6 hours and 57 minutes.

  4. When he gets to her house, he takes the present out of the backpack. It is wet and the bow is smooshed. The word Gina on the card’s envelope is runny.

  5. He rings the doorbell.

  6. Gina answers the door with one hand. Her other hand is holding Hunk’s. She is wearing a necklace like the one he bought for her, only the chain is thicker and the G is bigger.

  7. He runs to his bike while stuffing the present in his backpack.

  8. He pedals quickly.

  9. He falls going down Gina’s driveway.

  10. He hears Gina say, “Mike, are you okay?” and Hunk shout, “Need a hand, Storky?”

  11. He gets back up, doesn’t turn around, and bikes home. His face is all wet. He tells himself it’s from the rain.

  Fry Ember 19

  Me and Nate go movies. Snuck bottle of win. I so bum thinking bout Gina and Inedible Hunk. Threw up gain. Into popcorn tub. Lucky jumbo size. 2 time. Maybe 3. Maybe 3. I go sleep now. Still fell little out of it. I hop I make sense. Luck I spill check.

  Saturday, November 20

  Mom took away the TV for the whole rest of the year. Where does she hide that thing? I woke up this morning and it was gone. Mom gave me this big talk and all these threats about drinking, but I had trouble concentrating. My head was pounding so much, I just sat on the flowery couch like a rock, trying not to move.

  After the lecture I called Nate. He said I was slurring my words, and then I fell asleep in Mom’s car after the movie with my mouth open like a candy bowl. Nate said after I passed out, she started going off on him. She yelled at him for being a Bad Influence and kept calling him Mister and Young Man. I don’t even remember the drive home.

  Monday, November 22

  Gina came over to copy my English notes. She didn’t mention Hunk all night. She did this whole thing about a hypothetical girl who has a hypothetical crush on a hypothetical guy who thinks he’s just her friend. She goes, “Hypothetically speaking, what should the girl do about it?”

  The whole time she talked I thought, There is a God, my prayers have been answered. I stared at her little glossy lips, wanting to kiss them. Except I was also thinking I had that chili cheese dog with onions for lunch, and even Nate said my breath should come with a poison warning.

  I go, trying to sound calm, “Anyone I know?” She got all embarrassed. Then she said, “It’s Heather Kvaas.” Not a total bummer at that point, since Heather’s so pretty and all. I tried to remember any clues that Heather liked me. Then Gina says, “Don’t tell Nate, but Heather has a crush on him.” And I said, “Oh.”

  Nate’s got it so good. Except for his flaky dad, and chain-smoking mom, and crummy little house, and bombing the poetry reading. Never mind.

  Tuesday, November 23

  At lunch today, Nate walked over to Heather’s table in the crapeteria, took her aside, and asked her to the Snowball. He’s so cool with girls. I would have written down what I wanted to say, practiced it a zillion times in front of the mirror, put it off a week, and then wimped out at the last minute.

  Nate wants me to double-date with them, but I don’t think I have it in me. Gina’s going with Hunk, of course. I could ask Sydney Holland. Nate gives it 4 to 1 odds she’d say yes. He says she stares at my back in Spanish class with this spacy expression on her face. Plus she always seems to be right by my locker, like more than a coincidence. I’m probably hallucinating. Anyway, I can’t dance and I don’t want to watch Gina and the Hunk make out.

  Maybe I could learn to dance, and maybe Sydney would kiss me, and she’d have her braces off by then so it wouldn’t hurt my tongue or anything, and maybe Gina would get jealous, and realize I was her true love. So I should just ask her because it could be the best night of my life.

  Wednesday, November 24

  Aye caramba! Mierda! Que un baboso! Today’s journal entry will be deleted about 5 seconds after I print it.

  I bet this whole thing never would have happened if my Spanish teacher had shown up today, or if the sub had worn a skirt instead of those tight pants.

  That sub had the biggest lips I ever saw. Huge puffy ones, like two Costco hot dogs resting on her face. Maybe if she hadn’t worn those tight polyester pants, I wouldn’t have wondered what she could do with those lips.

  No. I’m such a perv I would have thought about it if she was wearing a potato sack. Come to think of it, during the potato sack race at the school picnic last spring, I kept picturing me and Gina making out in one of the sacks.

  Besides the usual sex stuff, I wondered if those big lips gave the sub a special talent for horn instruments or if she could blow up balloons really fast. But I kept getting back to the pervy stuff.

  Probably it wouldn’t have happened if Hot Lips hadn’t called me up to the board to conjugate estar. It’s so easy. Estoy, estas, esta, estamos, estan. I walked up there just fine. Maybe it was the way she put the marker in my hand, touching my palm a little, sexy-like.

  I got a boner at the whiteboard. It was those big lips. There he stood, Rex, king of kings, trying to pop out of my Levi’s.

  I kept my back to the class, whispering, “Chill, Rex, chill, Rex” and staring at the board. I tried to picture David Spade naked, and Whoopi Goldberg on the can, but Rex wouldn’t come down. It didn’t help when Hot Lips went, “Are you having a hard time?” Very hard.

  I thought if I could stall long enough, Rex could come down before I had to turn around. I wrote estoy really slowly. Then Hot Lips said, “What’s up?” Rex was up. I just stood at the whiteboard, staring at it, pretending to think about the next word.

  This has to be the most humiliating day of my life. Why do these things always happen to me? I’m getting embarrassed just typing this.

  Like things weren’t bad enough, Hot Lips asked who’d like to give me a hand. Sydney Holland must have sprinted out of her seat. Just thinking about Sydney’s hand made Rex even
happier. I didn’t need a hand. I needed a tranquilizer dart. She got to about an inch from me, looked down at Rex, and whispered, “Oh my God, Mike.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Hot Lips asked. Which made Sydney laugh. I managed to write estas. Sydney picked up a marker, but she shook so bad, she couldn’t even write. She has this silent laugh, like Gina’s. I saw her smile and nod her head up and down, but no noise came out. Hot Lips goes, “What is so hard here?,” which caused Sydney to double over.

  I tried to remember what Dr. Berman’s fat butt looked like while he was bowling, but Rex stayed airborne. I hate being a guy sometimes. Girls never have this problem. I guess their nipples can get pointy, but it’s not the same.

  After I wrote estamos, I pictured that thing on Discovery I saw last week. They showed this beautiful forest, and zoomed in closer and closer, to a snowy clearing, and then to this brown furry dead animal lying on its back. Finally they closed in on the thing’s face and all these huge white maggots just ripping into it. Skeazy. As I remembered it, Rex finally calmed down. I finished estan.

  By that time, Sydney had staggered to her seat doing her silent laugh while Hot Lips told her to get a grip. I forced myself not to think about Sydney’s grip.

  Sydney stood near my locker today after school, but I pretended to be in a big hurry to get home. I’m not asking her to the Snowball or anywhere else.

  Thursday, November 25

  So tired. I laid awake most of last night stressing over the Rex Incident. For all I know, Sydney wrote up the whole story for the school paper or broadcast it all over the Internet. I was half expecting to find Rex’s picture in the San Diego newspaper today, with the headline Local Boy Finds High School Exciting.