by David Lubar
I was completely dying to catch Jillian’s eye and exchange a meaningful look with her, letting her know that I knew that she had displayed great wisdom in rebuffing Paul’s advance.
But I figured any attempt to do that would lead to me splattering my crotch with another drool bomb, losing an eye, or maybe accidentally blowing myself up.
When the bell rang, ending the school day, I found myself following Jillian down the hall.
Halfway to the front exit, I forced myself to stop. Isn’t this how pervs are born? One day, you’re wondering where someone lives. The next, you’re hiding in the bushes, wearing nothing but a raincoat and sneakers, jerking off to glimpses of the beloved snatched through a gap in closed bedroom curtains.
I’d seen plenty of stories on the news about obsessed stalkers hounding celebrities. Some of the stalkers do ridiculous things. Others do scary and dangerous things. I didn’t want to become ridiculous or scary. I leaned against the wall and let the escaping crowds flow past me like spawning salmon.
I’d actually been going in the wrong direction—both metaphorically and geographically—while I was following Jillian. The shortest route to my house is out through the gym and across the football field to Leary Street, which runs parallel to Vorhees on the other side of the school.
I was almost at the door at the rear of the gym when something smacked the back of my head. I could try to craft a clever literary device to convey disorientation total my but that thing of sort is half too clever by. So, it with on get let’s.
After the moment of orientdisation and foncusion, I noticed a football wobbling to a stop within rebound range of my skull. Scanning farther afield, I saw a cluster of Thug Nuts tossing footballs near the middle of the gym. Football was out of season, but meanness wasn’t. I guess I was lucky I hadn’t been clocked by a baseball. Clovis was there, of course, wearing his usual smirk. It was obvious he’d thrown the football at my head. It was also obvious he felt damn proud of his achievement.
I thought about picking up the ball and hurling it back at him, but I could already picture my pathetic throw. No matter how hard I hurled the ball in my mind, it always rolled off my fingers at the wrong time, turning the killer bullet into a harmless flapjack. Why doesn’t my mind have my back?
I pushed my way out the door, fighting against the efforts of my back muscles to pull my head down in anticipation of a second assault. I managed to escape the gym unrescathed. As I cut across the field, I scanned the perimeter, making sure none of Clovis’s crew had gotten their hands on a javelin, discus, or other lethal projectile.
I live a block and a half away from the school, which is pretty convenient when it comes to things like sleeping as late as possible. This is an older part of town, but most of the houses are in good shape. Our house had two stories, with the bedrooms upstairs. There’s also a small attic and a large basement. So, in essence, there are four stories, though one was subterranean and the other superficial.
Dad was in the dining room when I got home. He’d converted that space into an office. Or, as Mom called it, his war room. That’s where he spent his time, searching for a new job. The dining room was past the living room, but Dad could see the front door from his desk, if he wanted to.
He was staring at his laptop and tapping the chair arm the way he always does when the Internet is too slow. He didn’t look up when I came in. I think he was still bummed about yesterday. April 15 used to be a big day for him, when he had a job. That’s the day all the tax returns were due. It was a high-pressure time at the accounting company where he worked. At midnight, they had a party with champagne and lobster. Mom would meet him there. They’d stagger back around 2 or 3 A.M., talking too loudly, laughing too quietly, and banging into things. The company got taxis for everyone, so they could party hard and get smashed, but not get into a smashup.
Seven or eight years ago, the company took all the employees and their families to Bermuda. That was a great trip, except for the sunburn I got on the second day. The year I had my appendix out, back in sixth grade, they sent me a fruit basket and a handheld video game. And they gave small scholarships to employees’ kids, to help pay for college.
But all of that was gone. Dad lost that job two years ago. He’d found another job about six months later, but that one hadn’t lasted long. As I moved past his line of sight, I guess he finally realized I was home. “Cliff,” he shouted, “did you deposit your last paycheck?”
Crap. I’d forgotten. It wasn’t like it was enough money to make a fuss about.
I flinched as I heard him slam the desk. “Damn it, Cliff, you need to be more responsible!”
“I’ll stop at the bank on my way to work,” I said.
I didn’t have my own savings account. I know that sounds crazy, but Dad had explained everything to me way back when I was little, right after I’d gotten money from my grandparents—the ones on Mom’s side—for my tenth birthday. The more money I had in my own name, the harder it would be to get a good student loan. So all my college savings were in my parents’ names.
When money started to get tight and the savings dipped, Dad figured out the total cost of college, including tuition and an estimate for textbooks (adding in a recapture when the used textbooks were sold back to the bookstore) and decided that anything above that amount could be better spent on our family’s current living expenses. As my college savings dwindled toward that level, Dad realized I didn’t have to go to an expensive university. Not long after that, it dawned on him that I didn’t even have to be a full-time student. I could split my time between working, to earn money for my expenses, and taking classes. I went from “I’m going away to college” to “I’m going to County” to “I’m probably taking a class or two.” So, yeah, I’d be living at home for a while longer. But not forever.
Usually, I started doing my homework as soon as I got home, but I was beat. I went up to my room and napped until I was awakened by the clatter of dinner plates in the kitchen. It was only five thirty, but we eat early, since Mom tries to go to bed by seven or eight o’clock. It smelled like we were having meat loaf. That’s one of my favorites, but I wasn’t feeling very hungry.
Before I went down, I checked myself in the mirror. My face got off better than my hand, but it was red and puffy on one side of my jaw, making me wish I’d grown a beard. Okay—making me wish I could grow a beard. I pulled up my shirt collar a bit, and hoped nobody would notice anything.
No such luck. The instant I took a seat at the table, Mom gasped and pointed to my face. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing. I fell.”
“You have to watch where you’re going,” Dad said. “That clumsiness will get you killed. Or turn you into a perfect playmate for that drooling idiot you like to hang out with.”
“He’s not stupid,” I said. I didn’t bother to add that I was already at least halfway qualified for the “drooling idiot” label. Possibly even three quarters.
“Fell?” Mom asked. She sounded like she didn’t believe me. She stared at Dad, as if wanting him to help her get to the truth. I guess she couldn’t accept that I was clumsy. I doubted she’d feel better if I explained I’d been distracted by fantasy and lust. I decided to skip that detail.
“Remember the Pit?” I asked. Mom grew up here. This was actually my grandparents’ house. They’d moved to South Carolina five years ago, for the weather.
“Sure,” Mom said. “They added that wing during my senior year. A lot of parents felt the Pit was dangerous.”
“They were right.” I held up my hand, displaying my injured palm, and then rotated to show undamaged knuckles to prove I’d really fallen and not fought. She seemed satisfied.
I took a small serving of meat loaf, potatoes, and green beans and ate quickly so I’d have more time to do my homework. An hour or so after dinner, I’d head out for a stretch of real-world work. I have two part-time jobs. I work the deep fryer and cash register anywhere from two to four times a week at Moo Fish, a
burger and fried-fish place in the mall. And I stock shelves three nights a week and bag groceries on the weekends at Cretaro’s. It’s an upscale supermarket just a half mile from here, where people go to pay too much for food and snarl at each other. But half the time, there’s nothing to do, so I always take a book.
I went out to the backyard to do my homework. We have an old picnic table, painted the dull red that looks like last week’s blood, flanked by benches of similar hue. The table’s on a small rectangle of bricks that we think of as a patio. I like being outside. If I had some free days, I’d love to go hiking, or just sit by a lake somewhere and watch the breeze blow ripples across the surface of the water.
The kitchen window was open. My parents were still at the table. Mom would be drinking herb tea. Dad wouldn’t. I could hear them talking.
“I think it would be good for Cliff if he could go away to college full-time next year,” she said.
“And who’s paying for that?” he asked.
“We could get a loan,” she said. “Or refinance the house.”
“I’m not risking our future so he can go party and play beer pong with a bunch of other aimless losers.”
“Think about it,” she said. “It could help him mature.”
“He’s a dreamer. College won’t mature him. It will just make him believe he can earn a living doing what he likes, no matter how impractical or absurd it is. There’s nothing to think about.”
That was the end of the discussion. I felt good that Mom wanted me to go off to college. I felt bad that she’d brought it up. I’d get there someday. I tried to picture myself at a university. Butch had taken Robert and me to Princeton once, when she’d gone to see Judah. I’d slipped into a lecture hall and sat at the back. It was pretty awesome. And a little scary. Not that it mattered either way. For now, the closest I’d get to the Ivy League was doing homework at a picnic table on a patio, with broadleaf weeds growing through the cracks between the bricks.
I pulled my calculus book from my backpack, grabbed a notebook and pencil, then sat there, staring at the clouds and thinking about Jillian.
She was so amazing. Which made it all the harder to accept that I’d have just as much chance getting a date with her as I would with Aphrodite or Lara Croft.
“Hey, Cliff.”
I guess I’d dozed off, because the voice startled me. I looked up at the sound of a shuffling step. “Hey, Jimby.”
He came over and sat across from me. He’s a good-looking guy—always smiling, but not with a stupid smile. He’s just basically content. He’s got green eyes, nice reddish-brown hair, badly cut, and what most parents would call “a healthy complexion.” He was wearing a Mets Windbreaker and a Jack Daniel’s hat, brim forward. I don’t think there was any irony intended on his part. The hat was probably a present from one of his mom’s guy friends.
“How would you let a girl know you liked her?” I asked.
He shrugged and blushed at the same time. “I’d kiss her.”
“You can’t just kiss a girl,” I said.
“Course not.” He gave me a look like I was an idiot. “You have to ask permission.”
“Good point,” I said.
“Nobody has the right to kiss you without permission,” Jimby said. “Or touch you in bad places. Or hit you. And you can’t hit a girl, no matter what. Not ever.”
“What if she’s coming at you with an ax?” I asked.
Jimby didn’t answer me right away. He appeared to be giving the question some serious thought. Finally, he said, “Okay. You could hit her then. But just hard enough to knock the ax out of her hands. Though, I guess if she had a good grip, you’d need a pretty hard hit.” He swung a right hook through the air, knocking the imaginary ax clear across the yard, then shook his head. “Still doesn’t seem right to hit a girl. I think I’d run.”
He plucked a long splinter from the edge of the table and stared at it for a moment, then said, “Wait! Is she pretty?”
“Unbearably so,” I said. I thought he’d gone back to the kissing question.
“Then I’d let her hit me with the ax,” he said.
“Why?”
“So she’d feel guilty. Then we’d get to know each other and fall in love.”
“Good plan,” I said. “As long as you don’t let her hit you too hard.”
We discussed the range of severity of ax wounds. Somehow, that got us into an examination of the relative destructive powers of zombies, shotguns, and Apache helicopters. After we’d exhausted those topics, Jimby headed home.
Ask permission to kiss her.
What a wonderful world it would be if dating were that simple. Or if I were that brave.
Back to calculus. And since nothing noteworthy happened that evening, at work or at home, I will now, through the magic of being able to travel through space, time, and text at the blink of an eye, or the click of a pen, take you back to Calculus class the next day, when things took an interesting and unexpected turn.
Press Pass
PICTURE THIS—ADMITTEDLY, a strange request, and probably an unnecessary one, given that you’ve been picturing everything I’ve said. I guess we’ll have to agree that “picture this” is a polite way of asking you to pay close attention, and not just skim these words while you’re doing seven other things.
Picture, if you will, rows of desk chairs crammed a bit too closely together in a classroom because budget cuts had reduced the number of teachers last year.
If your pictorial memory is solid, you’ll see that Jillian was three seats to my left and one row ahead of me. As I sat in Calculus on Wednesday morning, listening to Mr. Yuler delve into the intricacies of finding the first derivative using the chain rule, Nola, who sat immediately to my left, leaned against me.
Feeling that I was invading her space, I leaned away. Feeling, also, that I was somehow at fault for this intrusion, I got ready to offer an apology.
Nola leaned farther, reconnecting.
Was this some sort of game? Nola had sat next to me for three marking periods, without any interaction above the level of Can I borrow a pencil?
If I kept leaning away, I’d eventually topple over, or press against Lucas. Instead, I returned to my original upright position, which increased the pressure. I enjoyed the warmth of Nola’s shoulder against mine. It was the first female contact I’d had in a long time.
I looked over at her, turning my head without moving any other part of my body. She didn’t respond. Her eyes remained aimed at the board. Her pencil eraser pressed lightly against her cheek, right where a dimple would have been if she’d had a dimple. Loose strands of her blond hair were trapped between our shoulders, but the bulk of her hair was free, and lovely. It had the scent of some herb that guys can recognize but never name.
I took the liberty of a longer survey. She was wearing a sweater. I think it’s the kind they call a cable knit, though that’s a guess. It was off-white wool, with raised patterns on it that looked sort of like a knitted cable.
Sweaters are hot. I don’t mean in a Kelvin/Celsius/Fahrenheit sort of way. I mean in a body-caressing, viewer-stimulating, testosterone-simmering way. They flow over all the interesting parts.
On the other hand, they offer no hope at all of any cleavage sightings. All the mysteries are shrouded. Crap. I really do sound like a perv. It’s not like I spend all my time trying to catch a glimpse of part of a breast. But I sure don’t avert my eyes in fear that the Angel of the Lord will strike me blind with a vengeful blast of lightning if my gaze moves within five centimeters of forbidden surface features.
I shifted my attention three seats over, one seat up, at an acute angle, toward a cute angel. My overdriven fantasy generator watched Jillian spin out of her seat, point at me with a rage-quivered finger, and say, “I knew it. Men are pigs! You blew it, Cliff Sparks, you horny bastard!”
So there I sat, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Nola, while wondering if I was being unfaithful to someone I had absolutely no relati
onship with.
Good God! What if I pretended I was in contact with Jillian? Would that be the start of a twisted journey to a place I didn’t want to visit? Was I moving beyond stalker into the world of sociopath? The crazy people you see in the news—the ones being led, handcuffed and wild-eyed out of a run-down house where they’ve done unspeakable things to their fellow human beings—did they start out spinning some half-innocent fantasy scenario like this? There’s no way I wanted to go down that path.
But I was trapped between Nola and Lucas. I was pretty sure he’d react to shoulder contact from me with a suitable, and understandable, lack of enthusiasm. Or a punch in the nose.
And the contact—which I had not initiated—did feel nice. In the end, I let things remain the way they were and spent an entire period in Calculus enjoying shoulder pressure from Nola, dreaming about what lay beneath those knitted cables, flitting into fantasies of rubbing shoulders with Jillian, then snatching my mind back like it had brushed a glowing filament.
Differentiating composite functions using the chain rule?
Beats me. I was lost in other chains of thought until the bell rang.
Nola dawdled, gathering her books. I dawdled, gathering my thoughts. Butch and Robert walked ahead, arguing amusingly.
As I trailed Nola out of the room, I decided to show her how witty and desirable I was. After making sure Jillian was well ahead of us, I moved within speaking range of Nola and gave her my best line.
“Hi,” I said, managing not to drool. I cleared any sign of You’re my backup fantasy from my face.
For a fraction of a second, during which my heart beat seventeen times, I wondered whether she’d even heard me. Just as older people can’t detect high-frequency sounds, I frequently got the feeling my voice fell outside the range of human hearing. Especially human female hearing.
But this time, I guess my words—I mean, word—registered. Nola looked at me, narrowed her eyes in a sexy gaze, gave her lower lip a slow, erotic swipe with her tongue, breathed in a deep breath that made her chest rise in wonderful ways reminiscent of Maddie’s landmark yawn, and said, “I don’t understand my boyfriend.”
