Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

  “Ugh, gross,” Meckles says.

  “Girl Meckles!” Mike shouts, swooping in and wrapping his arms around their necks, leaning into their faces.

  “Get off,” Cam yelps, laughing. He flails and knees Mike in the thigh and sends an elbow into his armpit, while Deanna slaps both her hands at his chest.

  “Had to do it,” Mike says, stumbling backward and grinning at their expressions—Deanna’s eyes are bright, belying her frown. “Meckles was about to seizure.”

  Cam sticks his tongue out at him, because Cam is approximately five years old.

  It’s not that crowded at the Lot for a Friday night. A couple scattered groups, some guys on bikes down at one end, a bunch of girls smoking in front of the Sears entrance.

  Lisa tugs Deanna to her feet and Mike snags Deanna’s skateboard, pushing shakily off toward the center of the Lot.

  Lisa yells, “Careful,” after him, and he hears Omar groan and say, “He’s gonna brain himself one of these days.”

  Like Mike is anywhere near as bad as Cam.

  So, okay, it’s true that he’s got absolutely no sense of balance. There’s a very real reason why Mike’s own skateboard, a much-begged-for gift for his thirteenth birthday, is buried in the back of his bedroom closet.

  He should probably never be on a skateboard, but he can’t help himself. Whenever he sees Girl Meckles’ board he goes for it, thinking maybe he’ll become magically better at it, but it never works. Whatever. It’s a flat surface, and he’s got all four wheels on the ground, and he likes to live a little dangerously. He did grow up with Cam, after all. Almost all of Mike’s bad decisions throughout the years can be blamed on Cam, despite him being his very best bro, and Omar’s usually the voice of reason that Mike should always listen to. Of course, more often than not, he doesn’t.

  The stupidity of that is suddenly highlighted when one of the wheels catches on a piece of gravel. The snag probably would’ve hardly even shaken a normal person, but it pitches Mike forward into the asphalt right in front of four strangers, who are, Mike gleans from a passing glance midfall, all relatively hot and cool. Great.

  Mike is bleeding from an elbow and his chin feels raw. He rolls over onto his back, the pavement damp against his T-shirt. He coughs a little, staring up at the sky, at stars blurry with fuzzy nimbuses. He can hear Cam hooting in the distance.

  “Are you okay?” a guy asks, and Mike blinks up at him, red faced. There’s a light behind the guy’s head that makes his hair glow like an angel.

  It’s possible that Mike’s hit his head, too. “Maybe?” He pushes himself up so he’s leaning on stinging palms.

  “Oh my god,” one of the girls says. “That was hilarious.” She snaps her gum, grinning.

  “Thanks,” Mike says dryly.

  The guy says, “Here,” and leans down to help Mike up. Mike starts to go a little dizzy as he gains his feet, and he appreciates the guy’s strong grip. Head wound is definitely looking likely.

  “I’m good,” Mike says.

  “Sure.” The dude has a nice smile, now that Mike can properly see his face. There’s a lip ring involved. Mike’s impressed.

  “Nice, uh.” Mike catches himself just in time, because complimenting a guy on his grin, even with a few screws knocked loose, is pretty weird. He manages to end the comment with “shirt,” because he’s motherfucking smooth.

  “For real?” another girl says, incredulous. She’s got ridiculous, tiny pigtails on top of her head, so Mike doesn’t feel like he has to explain himself to the likes of her.

  Just when he’s sure he’s going to have to commit seppuku to get out of this with even a shred of dignity intact, Deanna and Lisa wander over.

  Deanna flips her board up, grabs it with one hand and tucks it under her arm. She frowns and says, “Mike, we don’t need a trip to the hospital tonight, okay? Stick to walking.”

  Great, now Girl Meckles is berating him—like she has any business lecturing anyone, considering the shenanigans Cam gets into on a daily basis—in front of whoever these people are. It doesn’t really matter, since they’re not anyone he’s ever going to know, but he still kind of wants to melt into the pavement.

  Mike shrugs tightly and lets Lisa thread their fingers together. She swings their arms as they walk, and Mike tries to shake off the weird, fuzzy feeling in his head. When he glances at her, Lisa’s staring at him, smiling a little.

  “What?”

  Lisa waggles her eyebrows. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah?” He’s not buying it.

  She laughs and ruffles his hair with her other hand. “You’re adorable sometimes,” she says.

  “I’m adorable always,” he says, even though he’s still confused.

  “Whatever. C’mon, Cam’s trying to convince Meckles to build him a bike ramp out of old fencing.”

  “That’ll end well,” Mike says. Cam is nuts. Mike might have, like, inner ear issues or something, but at least he doesn’t attempt to jump lines of trash cans on his dirt bike and then act surprised when he ends up taking a header straight into a pile of garbage.

  Anymore. Mike doesn’t do that anymore.

  Lisa nods. “It’ll end fantastic, and then we can watch Deanna yell at him a lot.”

  “Hey.” Mike lifts their twined hands and points off toward where Omar’s van is. There’s a pale guy loitering. He’s like a ghost, with hair so light it blends into his skin. “Isn’t that your boy?”

  Lisa jerks her hand out of his and punches him in the middle of the spine and hisses, “Don’t point, oh my god, are you dumb?”

  “Ow,” he says, twisting his back. He glares at her. “He’s not even looking this way.”

  Lisa’s cheeks are pink.

  Mike sighs and tilts their heads close together. “Lisa Linnet Delany,” Mike says in a low voice, “stop freaking out. Larson would be lucky just to breathe the same air as you. He’d probably wet himself if you said hi; you’re totally in. Just remember that I’ll hurt him if he ever does anything to make you cry.”

  Lisa makes a face. “He’s over six and a half feet tall,” she says.

  “Are you calling me short?”

  “No, I’m calling you average. I’m calling him freakishly tall and dreamy.”

  Mike flicks his gaze to Larson and then back to Lisa. She’s got that weird smile on her face again, and it kind of makes Mike want to vomit. “I will accept this,” he says finally. “I’ll sic Meckles on him instead.”

  “Michael,” she says, exasperated.

  “Lisa,” Mike says, echoing her tone, “let me have this. I’m imagining Meckles getting some sweet punches in before Larson suggests a danceoff.”

  Lisa bites her lower lip. “That would be kind of funny.”

  “Hell, yeah.” He pushes her toward the van. “Now go talk to him about paper frogs and interpretive dance.”

  She kisses his cheek and says, “I hate you.”

  * * *

  It’s getting even colder. Mike can almost see his breath. In front of the Payless, he sits on the edge of the cracked sidewalk next to Jason, his thin wrists resting on bent knees. There are flyers plastered all over the telephone pole next to him, and Mike reads them absently—three lost and founds, a couple roommates wanted, reminders about South Morrison High intramural baseball and soccer, open mic at the Beanery, an old Vote for Fitzsimmons and Smith sticker.

  Jason’s humming something lame under his breath.

  Mike jostles him with his elbow. “Dude.”

  Jason blushes. “You have no appreciation for the classics,” he says.

  “I have plenty,” Mike says. The Lemonheads, that’s a classic band. Peter Cetera, not so much. He shakes his head and says, “Chicago,” in this sad, disappointed way that always gets Jason scrambling to make him proud. Mike has no idea how or why this reaction started, but it’s almost as good a reason to keep Jason around as Casio management.

  Jason pulls out his iPod and gives Mike one of the earbuds. “Fall Out Boy, Nada S
urf, or Bleachers?” he asks.

  “Nada Surf, man,” Mike says, then flops back on the cement to stare up at the stars.

  three.

  Weekends for Mike are usually a whole lot of bumming around in his pajama pants. He has a part-time job at his uncle’s cheese shop, but he tries to keep his schedule mostly during the week, after school, so working won’t conflict with the long stretches of nothing—with a side of possible band practice—on Saturday and Sunday.

  Mostly, he spends as much time as he can with his little sister, because she pretty much worships him, and that’s always gratifying. Plus, it keeps his mom off his back for when he wants to actually do shit. Rosie drives him crazy sometimes, but she’s a cool little dude. Occasionally Mike’ll end up playing with Barbies, but for the most part they just make forts or race tracks for her Matchbox cars and hermit crabs, and Mike can deal with that.

  “Mikey.”

  “Rosalinda,” Mike says, snapping together another LEGO. They’re building a castle, have been building a castle for over an hour; castle building is serious business. They have recommended directions, but really they’re just making it as tall as possible.

  “Sandwich is hungry,” Rosie says.

  Mike looks up at her, eyebrow arched. She’s got her hands balled on her hips, short blond hair still spiked from all the mousse Mike had put in it earlier, only it’s kind of flat on one side now. “He is?”

  “Yep.” Rosie nods. Sandwich is her latest imaginary friend. Before him there was Box Head, and before that, Poppy Carlos. Rosie routinely gets notes from her first grade teacher that tiptoe around the fact that she’s certifiably weird.

  “Should we find Mom?” Mike gets to his feet, swiping his palms on his thighs. He groans and twists his back, because he’s been sitting in one position too long. He’s extra sore from the night before, and he’s gonna have some sick scabs on his arm.

  Rosie purses her lips, like she’s really thinking about it. “Only if you think she’ll give us pizza.”

  Mom’ll give them tuna salad sandwiches and applesauce. Mike weighs the pros and cons of leaving Mom out of the lunch equation. She’ll probably be pissed that they didn’t drag her out of her office to eat, and there’s a chance she’ll smell the Ellio’s before it’s even out of the oven, but Mike decides he’s willing to risk it if Rosie is.

  They’re successfully stealthy—Mom must be in a writing groove. He hasn’t heard a peep from her since midmorning, when she’d stumbled out, zombie-like, for a coffee refill. He pops in a movie while they eat. It’s Return of the Jedi, because there’s no arguing Rosie out of the Ewoks, but at least she’s off her Wizard of Oz kick. They’re just finishing up, empty plates on the coffee table, when the doorbell rings.

  Mike stares in the direction of the front door from the couch for a minute. He doesn’t feel like getting up. Maybe they’ll go away.

  “Door, Mikey,” Rosie says, eyes glued on the TV.

  It rings again.

  Mom yells, “Door, Michael,” from the back of the house, so Mike heaves himself to his feet with a sigh.

  On the other side of the door is a tiny black-haired girl with a huge smile and bangle bracelets all the way up to her elbows. There’s glitter all over her cheeks. She says, “Hi!” and, “Can Rosie come out and play?”

  Mike doesn’t know how the Wallace family can produce such a strange spectrum of offspring. There’s Rook, the jockified douche, then Serge, the pale-faced, basement-dweller artiste, Lilith, who Mike’s never actually heard talk, at least not in English, and finally Teeny, who is probably not actually named Teeny, but Mike’s never heard her called anything else.

  Teeny Wallace is deep in the throes of puppy love with Rosie. It’s funny, because it’s kind of obvious Rosie doesn’t actually know what to do with her. They don’t have a lot in common, so of course, they’re basically inseparable.

  “Rosie’s watching a movie,” Mike says, then waits to see whether Teeny will invite herself in or not. It could go either way.

  She fidgets on the stoop, shiny, mary-janed feet pressing on top of each other, right hand playing with the hem of her pink skirt.

  Mike surreptitiously scouts the front yard for signs of Rook Wallace. They live four houses down, and it’s theoretically possible that he’s using his baby sister to lure Mike out of the house for a good old-fashioned beat-down. Not that that seems to be his style, nowadays. Wallace is apparently far too freaking nice to beat the ever-loving crap out of him anymore. Mike doesn’t trust the peace. He doubts Wallace has had such a change of heart—more likely he’s just biding his time. Probably. It’s been a few years, but that doesn’t mean Mike should just let his guard down. Wallace has been smiling at him a lot more lately, which probably means he’s just waiting for the perfect time to eat all the flesh from his bones.

  Teeny finally lets out a breathy sigh and says, “Okay,” and then just stands there, staring up at him with her huge, baby deer eyes. She’s adorable. He doesn’t get how she can be related to Wallace.

  Mike steps aside and says, “C’mon in,” waving a hand toward the den.

  Rosie doesn’t acknowledge her beyond shifting over when Teeny drops to sit on the rug next to her.

  Mike sighs. They’re quiet now, but he knows sooner or later Teeny’s going to make noise about playing house or bakery or Candy Land, and Rosie’s going to say no. And then they’re going to get into a screaming fight, complete with tears. Rosie will stomp upstairs and slam her bedroom door, and Teeny will make her way huffily home and come back an hour later with an entire sketchbook filled with these I’m-sorry drawings that Mike’s pretty sure are supposed to be cats and teddy bears and ducks but basically all just look like dragons and weird cheese. This happens at least once a week.

  Before anything like that can even start, though, Cam texts Mike: practice @ meckles

  He pokes his head into his mom’s office to let her know he’s taking off, then heads out to meet the guys.

  * * *

  Mike drives his mom’s car over to Meckles’. Since she basically works from home, it’s easier to just use hers—on the rare occasions that he can’t get Omar or Cam to swing by and pick him up—than it is to save up for a car of his own.

  Band practice is always in Meckles’ basement. It used to be in Meckles’ garage, but then his dad started getting pissed off that he could never park his car inside, so they migrated, because they’re easygoing dudes. Mike’s not sure Meckles’ dad is thrilled with them being under their kitchen either, but the most he does is complain about them leaving drinks on the felt of his pool table.

  Mike says hi to Meckles’ mom as he lets himself in the back door, and then he slinks down into the basement, guitar case hefted over his shoulder.

  “Hey,” he says when he hits the bottom of the stairs. It’s muggy, and smells like feet and ass.

  Jason is folded up on the floor, playing with something on the back of his keyboard. Meckles is absently tapping out a rhythm on his snare drum. Cam, a white, soft-brimmed cap mashing down his blond curls, is sprawled on the beaten, sagging couch, singing Bon Jovi.

  “Are we really practicing today, or did you just call me over to fuck off?” Mike says. He drops his guitar case on Cam’s stomach and Cam gives him a dirty look. “Where’s Omar?”

  “Here.”

  Mike bends down to peek under the pool table. Omar waves at him from the floor, where he’s lying on his back, bass resting on his belly.

  “So,” Mike says, straightening back up, “fucking off, I can dig it.”

  Cam rolls his eyes. “Just get your shit set up.”

  Omar shimmies out and gets to his feet. He tugs the strap of his bass over his head and glances meaningfully at Mike, like he hasn’t been wasting just as much time staring at the underside of the pool table.

  Mike has never been able to successfully one-up Omar, though, so he just sighs and starts lugging the amps off of the far wall, unrolling all their wires.

  “O
h, hey, check this out,” Cam says, sitting up, “I came up with a sweet name for us.”

  “I’m vetoing anything that has the words assclown or pussylicker in it,” Omar says absently. He’s fiddling with his bass, humming occasionally under his breath.

  Cam’s face falls. Cam is nothing if not extremely predictable.

  Mike turns to Meckles and says, “Seriously?” because Cam has an actual, real-life, totally cool girlfriend, and Mike has no idea how that happened. “You let your sister date that?”

  “I don’t let Deanna do anything,” Meckles says, offended. “Have you seen her?”

  Deanna has Meckles’ height, half a foot taller than Cam, and she’s gorgeous and boy-hipped. She also shaves the sides of her head in the summer and designs most of her own clothes, held together by safety pins instead of thread.

  “She’s scary,” Cam says with a dreamy smile.

  Jason plays the opening notes to “Axel F” on his keyboard. Mike’ll never admit it out loud, but Jason is occasionally his favorite.

  * * *

  “What’s up with you and Lisa?” Omar asks. He’s caught Mike outside, sitting on the edge of the Meckleses’ concrete patio, smoking a cigarette. It’s spitting out, a fine, soaking mist, but there’s an awning, so only Mike’s sneakers are getting wet.

  “Nothing,” Mike says.

  Omar pretty much has zero bad habits, because Omar is awesome. Mike’s mom calls him a good influence. He’s squeaky clean, almost to the point of nerd. Like Jason, if Jason had a shaved head and looked as super fly in sunglasses. Mike kind of wants to be Omar when he grows up.

  “That’s what I meant,” Omar says.

  Mike shrugs. “We’re fine.”

  “Right,” Omar says, like he doesn’t believe him. “Cam says you broke up.”

  “Yeah, well.” Mike deflates; the Cam’s a bitch is silent but there. “Maybe.”

  Omar makes a sympathetic sound and swings an arm over Mike’s shoulders.

  Mike’s starting to feel like a girl here, but he leans into Omar anyway.

  “Apparently we weren’t really dating, though,” Mike feels compelled to say. The weight of the words could go either way—he’s kind of upset that Lisa hadn’t been taking him seriously, but also relieved that nothing got messy, that apparently there wasn’t anything there to get messy about.