Storky

by D. L. Garfinkle

  Wednesday, January 26

  Went to the moot court competition. Mom and Chad won! They’re the best pretend lawyers in the whole school. They stood on stage arguing in front of 3 real judges and hundreds of people in the audience. The other team was these 2 macho blowhards, and Mom and Chad kicked their butts. Mom got all smart and loud. I couldn’t believe it. Her genes probably helped me ace the poetry report last semester.

  Berm gave her a standing ovation. Aunt Marsha did one of her wolf whistles. I clapped so much my hands got red. Even Amanda quit looking at her watch and cheered for Mom.

  Afterward we got pie at Applebee’s. Not Amanda, because she’s on a diet. Except she had so many bites of everyone else’s pie that if you added it up, she probably ate at least a slice and a half. I don’t know why girls are always going on and off their stupid diets.

  Oh, yeah. Chad came too. With his domestic partner, as he called him. Troy, a hairdresser. Okay, I’m dumb. So that’s why Mom laughed at me for getting jealous. Why was I jealous anyway? Dr. Berm must be growing on me. Like mold.

  At Applebee’s, Aunt Marsha goes, “Geraldine, you’ve always been a wonderful big sister. And now here you are, managing law school, 2 teenagers, and a boyfriend, all with such grace and style.”

  I doubt the words Geraldine, grace, and style have ever been used in the same sentence before. I mean, it’s pretty obvious Mom gave me my extensive collection of dweeb genes. But tonight she did seem graceful and stylish. Awesome, actually.

  I got carried away. When we came home, I dug up that old G necklace I bought for Gina, still wrapped up, even, and gave it to Mom. Really, what else could I do with it? How many girls’ names start with G besides Gina and Geraldine?

  Besides, Mom deserved it. I told her I was proud of her. She got all teary and said hearing me say that was even better than hearing the judges announce her name tonight. Screwy!

  Then she said she was proud of me for visiting Duke and doing so well in school. And not drinking anymore. I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV real loud.

  Sunday, January 30

  WORST THINGS ABOUT NIGHT WITH DAD 1. He came 26 minutes late.

  2. He wore this Spider-man baseball cap backward.

  3. He talked on his cell phone the whole way to the restaurant.

  4. It was an Indian restaurant.

  5. That actress from the sucky play met us there.

  6. He didn’t seem to care that Mom won the moot court contest.

  7. He said he won’t buy me a car.

  Friday, February 4

  One of the best nights I’ve had in a long time. Went out with Sydney. Not like on a date. We went to Eduardo’s for our report. Whoever knew working on a Spanish culture team project could be so fantastic? It was perfect.

  Well, forking over $25 for my part of the dinner wasn’t perfect, especially since the food didn’t taste any better than what you could get for 5 bucks at Taco Bell. Actually, my part of the bill was only $23.77, but I didn’t want to look cheap. Aside from the money factor, it was totalmente perfecto.

  She came to the house exactly on time. And looking really pretty. She wore this tight yellow sweater. Very tight. She has great gazongas. Like big, soft, round water balloons, bobbing all over the place when she walks.

  Oh, man, now Rex is waking up. I can’t think about Sydney in her yellow sweater and type this thing at the same time. I need to take a break.

  Okay, I’m back. So the restaurant was really fancy. Dark red tablecloths, hardly any lights, the waiters dressed up in suits. Sydney ordered this chicken with mole sauce, which has chocolate in it. Gross. Chicken and chocolate together. I just wanted a couple of beef tacos, but she said to get something more interesting. So I had to order this fish thing with its eyeball still on, looking all pathetically at us and costing $6.50 more than the tacos.

  Sydney was real friendly to the waiter, telling him about our project. The waiter got Eduardo to come out of the kitchen. He let Sydney take his picture. He explained how he used to work at his mom’s restaurant in this little Mexican village. It’ll look great for our oral report. If Sydney hadn’t been so friendly, we’d never have all this help.

  Then Eduardo had his brother the chef come out. Both of them were mega-fat. Muy gordo, as they say en espanol. Dad says it’s good for chefs to be fat because it shows they love food. I don’t know. I bet they dip their fingers in the food before it leaves the kitchen.

  Eduardo took a picture of me and Sydney with the chef. I put my arm around her. Even though her shoulders are sort of like a guy’s because she’s on the swim team, I felt really warm because of her yellow sweater and maybe the spicy food too.

  After Eduardo took our picture, I left my arm there for like 30 seconds more and Sydney didn’t pull away. That was the total high point of my night, of my week, probably even my month and year. And even though this wasn’t a date, since it was for school and she drove and we split the bill, it felt like a date during those 30 seconds, and it felt excellent.

  Oh no, there goes Rex. I guess I typed enough. Bedtime.

  Saturday, February 5

  Mom’s been a total mental the last few weeks. She’s either all tense or she’s sleeping. And it’s not like anything unusual has happened. Me and Amanda are just our normal bratty selves. Mom doesn’t even have law school finals until May. The only thing I can think of is she’s coming down with menopause. Isn’t that supposed to take a couple years though? I can’t handle it that long.

  What’s really weird is that the more neurotic Mom acts, the happier Berm seems to get and the more he hangs out here. If my girlfriend was always yelling at everyone and falling asleep at 8:00, I wouldn’t be coming around all the time.

  If Mom and Berm broke up, I wonder if I’d ever see Berm again. He asked me to bowl for the spring league, but what if Mom and him get into a fight or whatever. Would he blow me off? I’m starting to think possibly not.

  Tonight Berm came over for dinner, and Mom made this raunchy chicken cacciatore. It was all dried out and the sauce had black burn spots in it. Lucky for Amanda, she was on a date.

  I went into the kitchen to make myself a bologna sandwich. Then Mom had a fit. She went on and on about working hard in the kitchen and no one ever appreciating her. Berm and I didn’t say anything. I just went back to the table and choked down the rest of my dinner. None of us had seconds, which like never happens, so I’m sure Berm hated it too.

  Then Berm started clearing the table, and Mom got mad at him for rushing her. Then she got mad at me for not helping him. So we had to clear and wash the dishes while Mom sat on the couch reading about corporate law.

  Next thing we knew she fell asleep with the book on her lap and the highlighter in her hand. It was only 8:26. I thought maybe Berm would go home, but instead he sat on the couch with me and watched the Lakers game. They rule.

  At halftime, since the game was such a runaway and Mom was sitting in between us snoring and we were hungry after that awful chicken cacciatore, we drove over to Der Weinerschnitzel and ate some dogs in Berm’s Jeep.

  I’d love a Jeep. The problem is, by the time the average guy can afford a cool car, he’s already too old for it. A Jeep isn’t so bad, but when you see like an old bald man in a red Porsche or something, that’s when you realize life sucks.

  33 hours until driver’s ed class.

  Sunday, February 6

  I’m 15 now. It’s not that big a deal. Not like when I turned 13 and became a Man and got $1,935 in bar mitzvah money. And it’s not like 16, when I can drive, or 18, when I’ll get my own apartment. But at 15 I can get my learner’s permit and Dad will start giving me driving lessons. In exactly a year I’ll drive myself home from the DMV.

  Mom offered to have a party. But I wouldn’t know who to ask besides Nate. And possibly Sydney. Anyway, at 15 you don’t let your mom throw a party for you. I think, anyway. So Mom said she’d cook whatever I wanted for dinner.

  The steak was awesome. I got a big T-bo
ne and did a Fred Flintstone number on it. Aunt Marsha came over. She brought her own grainy vegan thing and kept giving dirty looks to the meat. Mom and her mostly talked about Amanda. Even on my birthday, Amanda gets more attention. Mom was pissed because she hadn’t come back from Bulimic Michele’s house for the big family dinner.

  When the Amanda talk died down, Aunt Marsha asked me whether The Pig called to ruin my birthday. Mom gave her a look, like I told you not to call him a pig. I went, “No, he probably forgot. He’s probably screwing his latest bimbo delight.”

  Aunt Marsha started clucking and stuff, and Mom gave me these meaningful glances, like maybe she was thinking, My ex is such a pig, it’s all his fault I have such a mopey son. I told everyone to lay off. There’s nothing worse than people feeling sorry for you, especially on your birthday.

  The night just continued to bomb from there. Aunt Marsha baked one of her barfy nature food cakes, full of wheat germ and shredded vegetables. I had to eat it because it was for my birthday and because Mom kept kicking my foot.

  Amanda finally came home with Bulimic Michele, who totally pigged on the roughage-cake. Anyone who could eat that has to have serious eating problems.

  While I choked down my piece of cake, Mom did the dumbest thing in the universe. She goes into the kitchen and whispers into the phone. About a second after Mom comes back to the table, the phone rings. She tells me to pick it up. I’m thinking, Why don’t we let the machine get it, like we usually do during dinner. Then I pick it up, and it’s Dad saying happy birthday. You don’t have to be Einstein to figure it out. Couldn’t he have waited like maybe 5 seconds after Mom called him?

  Monday, February 7

  Driver’s ed was totally lame. Spent 45 minutes learning about curb colors. I thought I’d learn how to drive.

  Got home from school to find Mom laying on the couch crying over this news show about animal shelters. I definitely can’t take 2 years of her with menopause.

  Tuesday, February 8

  Nate came over after school today. We’re going to lift weights 3 times a week. This summer we’ll be total babe magnets at the beach. Or at least not embarrassed to take off our shirts.

  When I dragged the weights out from under my bed, I practically choked on all the dust covering them. Underneath was a dead grasshopper. We worked out for 30 minutes exactly, sweating like pigs. It felt great.

  Amanda barged into my room to laugh at our scrawny bodies. Nate’s so lucky he doesn’t have a sister. In 7 months she’ll be out of here, hopefully as far away as possible. Living in some dorm room, dating all the college dudes, hardly ever coming back home. Maybe Mom will let me turn her room into a weight room. If we put a TV in, I could watch while working out.

  Soon my shoulders will be bigger than Sydney’s.

  Wednesday, February 9

  I never knew I had so many muscles. Every puny one of them is killing me. I might as well have jumped into an empty cement mixer or thrown myself in front of a tractor, or called the football team a bunch of queers. And for all I’m going through, I don’t see one speck of muscle growth yet.

  Called Nate tonight at 8:00 to see if he felt thrashed too, but his mom said he was sleeping.

  Saturday, February 12

  Awesome night, but I’m tired. Spent an hour and 43 minutes cleaning my room before Sydney came over to work on our report. Found $1.42, that math homework I searched all over for last semester, and half a sandwich that might have been turkey.

  The dinner pictures turned out good. Sydney scanned them in her computer and blew them up. Everyone has a cool computer except me. We’re not using the picture with my arm around her. Our cheeks look really red in it. I wish I wasn’t too wimpy to ask her for a copy.

  After we finished the report, we just talked. About Spanish class, swimming, cars, books. She’s read every novel Edith Wharton ever wrote. I dropped that I’d read War and Peace over winter break. She said she liked a man who could read Tolstoy. A man. When I showed her my complete collection of S. E. Hinton novels, she said “Wow” like she was looking at football trophies. Of course I didn’t mention my other collections—the box of comic books in my closet or the Scrabble stuff hidden under my bed.

  She volunteers at the Boys and Girls Club once a week. I asked her what she did there, hoping to hear the word Scrabble or at least the words board games. But she just helps with their homework.

  It seemed so noble, I couldn’t mention Golden Village. The whole nursing home volunteer thing sounds good, I guess. But then I’d have to admit I only go whenever I feel like it, and usually talk to only one guy, who mostly just kicks my butt at Scrabble.

  I sat on my desk chair, but she lounged on my bed with the pillow propped between her back and the wall. I should get rid of that Batman pillowcase I’ve had since I was 7. I kept picturing me on top of her in the bed, both of us naked. Luckily I kept Rex under guard. In my vision I was all muscular. Me and Nate better keep lifting weights.

  The only bad part was when Mom came into the room Even When My Door Was Closed, with this sudden need to put away laundry. Oh, and also when someone started hurling chow in the bathroom. I explained to Sydney that Bulimic Michele must be over, but I’m sure she got totally grossed out. Listening to those ralphing noises killed any shot of kissing Sydney on my bed. Not that I would have gotten up the guts to kiss her anyway.

  Sunday, February 13

  Dad’s bimbo delight used the word fabulous 13 times tonight. Fabulous arugula, fabulous chorizo, fabulous presentation of the sashimi-feta-risotto stack. All in all, a fabulous restaurant, for fans of minuscule portions of weird food. I’d kill for a Whopper right now.

  Looked up back journal entries and calculated that just 3 months ago I asked Dad not to bring his girlfriends along on Sundays. Miss Fabulous came the last 3 Sundays. It’s just getting worse with him.

  Maybe once I’m all muscular and start driving, I’ll seem almost like a friend he wants to do stuff with. I could join his gym and lift weights with him and check out the girls in their exercise bras, and maybe hang out afterward at the juice bar. Does Dad’s gym have a juice bar? They always do on TV. I’m not going there until I’m in better shape.

  Monday, February 14

  Nate and I really planned to work out today. But then Nate didn’t feel like biking over here. I lifted by myself for 5 minutes, rounded up from 4. I only quit so I wouldn’t be sore for the oral report this week.

  Amanda got 6 Valentine’s Day cards, flowers from 2 different guys, and a box of chocolates from a secret admirer. What do they see in her? I mean besides that she’s beautiful and popular and smart. She threw away the candy because she’s on a diet, but when I came down to watch TV tonight, I saw her digging it out of the trash.

  Berm came over and gave Mom a teddy bear. She cried again. I don’t think that’s such a great gift. Definitely not worth crying over. Isn’t she old for stuffed animals? Maybe she’s going through a midlife crisis.

  I got absolutely nothing. No candy, no presents, not even a card. The usual. I wonder if Sydney got any valentines. Maybe I should have bought her something. No. Look what happened after I spent all that money on Gina. But Sydney’s a lot different than Gina. Thank God.

  Wednesday, February 16

  Duke really helped me today. As soon as we laid out the Scrabble board, I asked him the question that’s been bugging me for 3 days: Do most gyms have juice bars or is that just a TV thing? He said as far as he knew, they didn’t. His old gym just had a drinking fountain that was out of order half the time.

  Then he said I looked glummer than the lady he ate breakfast with who just had her legs amputated. I told him I’d been hoping I could lift weights with Dad and hang with him at the juice bar afterward. Instead of just going out to eat with him and his bimbo delight every other week.

  Then he started acting like a prosecutor, asking me all these questions that I think he knew the answer to all along. I bet he was a great D.A. before he retired.

  He
says, “Whose idea was it to go bimonthly?” I told him, “My dad’s.” “And you want more?” he asks. I nodded. He cocked his shaky head and frowned at me.

  I said I wanted to lift weights with him, and maybe take up a sport so he could root for me at the games. Then Duke goes, “Like your older sister? Does he root for her?” I said she doesn’t talk to him anymore. Then he asks, “But did he used to?”

  It hit me. Big time. That Dad never did much for Amanda either. Even when he lived with us, he never hung out with her or anything. What he did for Amanda was bang her assistant gymnastics coach. “Never,” I told Duke. “He never even rooted for my sister in gymnastics. Or in anything.”

  He didn’t have any more questions. Just sat in silence while I stared at the Scrabble game for a long time. I was so weirded out, I didn’t even notice how much time. I didn’t notice much of anything. Just the letters blurring on the board and the sour smell of old people dying as I thought about Duke’s questions. As I finally realized Dad never rooted for either of his kids. No matter how athletic or popular or smart or good-looking we are.

  After Duke reached out and patted my shoulder, I put down atlatl, which he’d used on me back in the fall, and Duke goes, “Good, you’re learning.”

  I guess all this time I’ve been going about the Dad problem the wrong way. All this time I thought there was a solution.

  Friday, February 18

  Our report went great. Me and Sydney made a good team. I wore a sombrero, and she wore this little sheer white blouse that I guess was supposed to be like a Mexican peasant outfit. It made her gazongas look huge.

  Everyone laughed when we showed the close-up picture of my mouth full of food. I aced the speech I wrote in Spanish. I even threw in the word arraba just to show off my perfect r roll. Ms. Padilla clapped really hard for us and went, muy bueno. We’ll definitely get A’s.