I smiled, liking how her words made me feel.
“Zod’s like a . . . I don’t know . . .” She looked around for inspiration and found it. “He’s like that snow blower over there. He’s loud and he’s dangerous, but if you stay far enough away, you’ll be fine. But if you get too close, and somehow you get pulled in? Not pretty.”
“I think you’re underestimating me,” I said.
Karla took one last long pull on her cigarette, then launched it out the window. “And I think you have no clue what you’re getting into.”
I WAS RIGHT, she didn’t want to go shopping. At least not with me.
We stopped at a donut place—I got a glazed, she got a coffee—and I told her what Geralyn had said, how I was banished and how it probably meant her too. I said it was strange; she said it was about time—both of us wondering how it would play out at school on Monday, neither of us all that concerned.
We talked about the party, about the music and the strange people, the beer, magically avoiding any mention of Zod. I told her I bought a Ramones and a Runaways album, she told me she wanted to see Saturday Night Fever, and when I laughed at that, she kicked me under the table, somehow hitting the exact same spot as before. We stayed for an hour, then she dropped me off at the mall and headed to her grandparents’ for the weekly Manetti family dinner. I didn’t need anything at the mall, didn’t want to be there, but it was better than sitting around the house, waiting for my father to start complaining about how hard he had worked last night.
Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there was no woman in the car. A trick of the light, a weird shadow, that’s all. And maybe there was a problem with the assembly line. Things like that broke down all the time. And fixing it at night made sense—they wouldn’t have the day shift all standing around, doing nothing. It could happen.
But the comp-time thing? Work a few hours for the promise of a lot more off later? That’s where he took it too far. It was a union shop, and even though I didn’t know exactly what it involved, I’d heard enough over the years to know that no employee ever worked a minute if he wasn’t getting paid for it. Besides, it was the week before Christmas. The factory shut down completely for the holidays. If there were any repairs to be done, that’s when they’d do them. And that left me where I’d been since I’d watched my father get in the full-size, luggage-rack-on-the-top, wood-on-the-side 1975 Chevy Caprice Estate station wagon with the strange woman in the passenger seat.
This is why I needed a new life.
Part of it anyway.
I could close my eyes and totally imagine how it would all roll out if I didn’t have my list and if I stayed doing what I’d been doing. And what I saw was me becoming my father. I had his genes and looked enough like his old high school photos that it was creepy. Imagining I’d inherit the rest of it didn’t seem impossible. He didn’t exactly have the kind of life a kid should grow up wanting to have. I’m not talking all the cheating-on-your-wife stuff. I’m talking the stuck-in-a-rut life that was boring to watch and probably worse to live. I’m sure it’s not the life he thought he would have, either—I mean, who would? Now, could my list protect me from that fate? I didn’t know, but I knew I had to try something, and at that moment, a list with eight words and four lines was the only thing I had.
I wandered the mall, thinking all this through, ending up at Sears, where the store manager told me that the punching bag was for display only. I pulled on my knit cap, stepped out into the snow flurries, and headed for home.
THE SPORTS SECTION of the paper had the stats.
Oakland Raiders: 10 wins, 3 losses.
Kansas City Chiefs: 2 wins, 11 losses.
The Las Vegas odds makers had the Raiders winning the game by two touchdowns. Stupid enough—or drunk enough—to bet on the Chiefs? You better make sure the other guy was spotting you fourteen points.
I’d settled for a lousy field goal. Three points against a fourteen-point spread? I didn’t stand a chance.
The game was in California, and that meant a four p.m. kickoff. Even with my slow, cold walk home, that still gave me two hours to think about it. I could hear Zod’s voice saying things he hadn’t said yet but would be saying soon, things like, “You owe me six hundred bucks” and “Every damn penny.” Eyes open, eyes closed—it didn’t matter—I could see everything I saw that night three and a half years ago in the park by the school. Zod, the knife, the blood, all of it playing back, only this time Zod was older and bigger, and this time I was the guy bleeding.
I wanted to clear my head, think it through, plan something, figure out where I’d get the money, but my mind was tweaking and there was nothing I could do but sit there and take it. I told myself I wasn’t going to watch, that I’d wait till it was over to find out how badly I had lost, but at 4:05 I was on the couch, clicking through all thirty-six buttons on the cable box, looking for the game. I had hoped that my father would still be in bed, but, no, he was there, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, feet up on the La-Z-Boy.
“Take it easy on that thing,” he said. “You’re gonna break it changing channels like that.”
I slowed, but the shows all stayed the same—ancient black-and-white movies, thirty-minute commercials, ice-skating, reruns of Gilligan’s Island, The Odd Couple, Bewitched, Star Trek, The Brady Bunch.
My father grunted. “Are you looking for something, or are you just here to annoy me?”
Both, I thought, then said, “I’m looking for a football game.”
“A football game? You? Well, what do you know. Try channel eight.”
I hit the button on the cable box and a game popped on.
“There you go,” he said. “The Patriots and the Colts.”
I shook my head. “That’s not the one I want.”
“Too bad. It’s the only game that’s on.”
“That’s it?”
“This late on a Sunday? That’s all that’s ever on. Two early games, one late game.”
I went back to clicking. “What about the other channels?”
“You’re not listening,” he said. “CBS and NBC had the early games. They’re over. ABC’s got the late game, the Pats and the Colts. That’s how it works.”
I kept clicking. “Is there, like, a channel that just shows scores from other games or highlights or something?”
“Yeah, I wish. Now go back to eight and leave it there. What game are you looking for, anyway?”
“Oakland and Kansas City.”
He laughed, which for some reason pissed me off. “You are kidding, right? That’s a meaningless game between two West Coast teams. The Chiefs are even worse than the Bills—if that’s possible—and the Raiders will probably win the Super Bowl again this year. Even if they start their benchwarmers, they’re gonna walk all over the Chiefs. Now, the Pats and Colts, that’s the game you’ll want to see.”
On the screen, the two guys in beige sport coats were telling all the fans at home what a great game they had in store for them from Baltimore, on this, the last day of the regular football season. I dropped the cable box to the carpet and slumped back on the couch.
“Before you get all comfy,” he said, “bring me a beer.”
I got up and went out into the kitchen, grabbing my coat off the back of the chair as I walked past the fridge. I was reaching for the back door when my father yelled, “And get a beer for yourself, if you want one.”
Outside, snow was whipping down the street. The mall closed at five on Sundays. It’d be a miserable walk, and I’d get there just in time to turn back home.
In the living room, my father was already bitching about the refs in a game I didn’t want to see.
But in the fridge there was beer.
No doubt a bag of pretzels or potato chips in the cupboard.
Maybe pizza at halftime.
I opened the fridge and checked, just to be sure, then tossed my coat back on the chair.
“LET’S HEAD OUT to Oakland, where Johnny and Steve have watch
ed the Raiders hand the Chiefs their twelfth loss of the season.”
“Thank you, Roger. Well, Johnny, whenever these two teams take the field, you know that it’s going to be a battle.”
“How right you are, Steve. And today’s matchup was no different. The Raiders came into this game with the division wrapped up, while the Chiefs staggered in with just two wins under their belts. Any way you look at it, the game had no meaning whatsoever.”
“Try telling that to the players!”
“They were certainly fired up today, Steve. From the opening kickoff to the final gun, every player gave one hundred and ten percent, if not more.”
“Let me tell you, for these guys on the field, it was all about pride.”
“I spoke to Coach Madden before the game, and he told me frankly he didn’t care if they won or lost, he just wanted to get out of the game with all of his players healthy. That’s why he let his second-stringers carry the weight today.”
“They may not be the starters, but they played like it was the most important game of the year.”
“That’s the Raiders way, Steve. One hundred and ten percent. And even without their star players on the field, they come away with yet another win, heading into the AFC playoffs next week as early favorites.”
“But you gotta hand it to those Chiefs. Sure, they made plenty of errors, but they never gave up.”
“No, sir.”
“And while they didn’t win, they showed that they had plenty of heart.”
“A proud team who struggled through a tough year.”
“How right you are, Johnny. Well, folks, we’re going to send you back to Roger in the studio. So long from sunny Oakland, California, where the Raiders squeak out a one-point win over the Chiefs, twenty-one to twenty.”
My father was saying something about namby-pamby kickers and how anybody could miss two extra points and a field goal in the same game he didn’t know, but in the dull roar of a four-beer buzz, all I could hear was the sound of six hundred dollars falling into my lap.
CELEBRATION TIME.
I snuck two more beers up to my room, put on my headphones, dropped Rocket to Russia on the turntable, and cranked it up.
Usually with a new album, I’d read over the liner notes on the cover while I listened, but that night I kept the lamp off, letting the red light from the power button and the blue-green glow from the tuner fill the room. There were pops and a hiss as the needle slid to the grooves, then a wash of grinding guitars and a guy singing about cretins and beaches and girls and blasting radios. The songs were fast and driving and each one over in less than two minutes. No deep meaning, no violins or synthesizers, just two guitars, a drummer, and singer, and all of four chords between them. It was raw and real, and I could feel it in my chest, my heart pumping to keep up with the frantic beat.
Six tracks and twelve minutes in, somebody shouted “Go!” and “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker” started blaring, and instantly I was back at the party, jumping around like an idiot, making out with ashtray-mouth girl, having a truly epic time.
Side B was a carbon copy of side A, which made the whole album pretty much perfect. There’d be no going back to the church-choir harmonies and five-minute guitar solos I’d been listening to for forever. I’d found the soundtrack for my new life.
When the last song finished, I flicked on the light and switched Rocket to Russia for Queens of Noise.
I cracked open the last beer and listened to the title track, leaving the lamp on to get a good look at the cover. It didn’t fit the music. The songs were straight-up hard rock, but the photo had the band hanging off of brass poles like strippers in black jumpsuits. I’m sure it was done that way to sell albums, but the looks on their faces told you that they thought the whole idea was stupid, too.
There was one face on the cover I couldn’t stop looking at.
Dark hair, dark eyes, shaggy haircut.
Joan Jett.
Halfway through the flipside of the album, it was her voice singing “I Love Playing with Fire.” But at that moment, and after the beers, I would have sworn I heard her say, “Have a nice night, Nick.”
Monday, December 19
AT LONG POND HIGH SCHOOL THERE WERE TWO TYPES OF SENIOR SCHEDULES, unofficially referred to Track 1 and Track 2.
A Track 1 schedule had English, physics, calculus, plus advanced classes in biology and art that weren’t even requirements for graduation, with no study halls, no late starts, and no getting out before three p.m. It was the schedule for scholarships and out-of-state colleges, SATs and GPAs, the schedule of choice for brainiac jocks and kids who took French.
A Track 2 schedule met the minimum standards to earn a basic diploma.
If the mandatory courses were completed before twelfth grade—and if at least sixteen elective credits had been earned in classes like home economics, woodworking, and intramural sports—the only things on a Track 2 schedule were English, social studies, math, study hall, and gym. It was the schedule for the chronically absent and soon-to-be-dropouts, JDs and DWIs, the schedule of default for stoners and underachievers.
On the Monday of my first day as an outcast, my Track 2 schedule started with English 12 with Mr. Kerner.
If it had been a study hall or gym, I would have stayed in bed, rolling into school just in time for lunch, but if there was any hope of graduating in June—and it was still a mathematical possibility—I had to get at least a D in English 12 every quarter. And since Mr. Kerner was notorious for start-of-the-class pop quizzes that counted for way too much of your grade, I had to show up on time. So when the first-period bell rang, that’s where I was.
The other students in the class were jocks and polys, with a few stragglers tossed in. Jay was supposed to be in this class, but by the end of the first quarter, when it was obvious that he didn’t have enough credits to graduate this year, they let him drop so he could sign up for Woodworking II. Again.
I hadn’t seen any of my former associates since Geralyn came by the Stop-N-Go to tell me I was banished from Bangerstan. If I wanted to see any of them, I knew where to look—back stairwell before school, cafeteria for second lunch, the smoking lounge if they were skipping a class. That made them easy to avoid. My white shirt and tie—standing out and standing fast—were a reminder to myself that I was moving on.
The pop quiz in Kerner’s class consisted of three short-essay questions on a poem we were supposed to have read for homework, which I had forgotten all about. Back in September, I would have bullshitted something onto the blank page, but I’d learned that it was a waste of time, since Mr. Kerner gave no points for effort. So while the others got busy writing, I sat there, chin in my hand, and let my mind wander.
Six hundred dollars.
Sweet.
But Zod would probably want some of it.
A hundred bucks? Two? More? All of it?
It wasn’t like it was mine in the first place.
If I had lost, Zod would have had to pay, and then I would have to pay Zod. At least I didn’t have that to worry about.
Because Zod would have made me pay.
One way or the other.
And, let’s face it, if Zod wanted to keep all the money, there was nothing I could do about it.
I had hoped Zod was gone for good when the courthouse guards led him away after the trial, but, no, he came back, hanging around the same neighborhood, a disturbance in the Force I could feel but couldn’t explain. If Zod decided to walk off with all the money and disappear forever, it would be worth every penny.
When Mr. Kerner said, “You have five more minutes to impress me,” my mind jumped back to Friday night at the Stop-N-Go, to the first person in a long time I’d impressed, the girl with the dark eyes and tall leather boots, smoky voice and glistening lip gloss.
That wicked smile.
She’d used me to rip off the store, used her looks to distract me while I let her talk me through the quick-change scam I knew was wrong.
I believe
I’m supposed to say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
So cool, so confident.
And she thought I was impressive?
There was something about her, something real, electric.
Something even Karla didn’t have.
Something I wanted.
AFTER ENGLISH 12, I had two study halls, back-to-back, a common feature of a Track 2 schedule.
In my first study hall, I had completed my social studies homework—twenty-five fill-in-the-blanks about the Great Depression—leaving me free to spend the second study hall watching the clock. I could’ve gotten a pass to the library, reread The Warlord of Bimskala again, but it was a Monday and the room was quiet, and it was good just sitting there, brain off, not thinking about anything.
Ten minutes in, the girl behind me poked my shoulder with the eraser end of her pencil.
“You’re wanted,” she said, flicking her chin at the front of the class.
I expected to see Mrs. Moyer doing that curling-finger summons, but, no, she was at her desk, playing chess with the exchange student from Finland.
The girl poked me again, aiming her pencil where I should look, the square window in the classroom door where Zod stood smiling.
Shit.
There was no use pretending I didn’t see him, not with the way Zod was looking at me. And it’d be stupid now to wait for the bell, hoping Zod would wander off. He’d found a way into the school—a school the court had barred him from entering—and he’d found the one room in the building where I was sitting. There was the chance that Zod being there that morning, looking in that window, was simply a coincidence. The odds were high against it, though. About the same as a two-and-eleven team beating a three-point spread against the reigning Super Bowl champs. I knew I wasn’t that lucky.
Snow Job Page 6
