by T. J. Klune
My God, the Kid is about to give a presentation.
I glance at Otter, wondering if we should try and stop this or see how it plays. But Otter is watching my brother with such adoration that it takes my breath away, leaving me unable to say a damn thing. For a moment I forget about stupid fucking David Trent and his gigantic muscles, and as if he can hear me thinking (which, to be honest, I think he can), Otter turns his eyes to me, and that adoration doesn’t lessen. If anything, it grows. Christ. I start getting choked up, and I have to look away. He knows, as he always does, reaching out to pat my hand gently, his thumb caressing my knuckles. I nod my head once, letting him know I get that he gets it, that we’ll step back and let the Kid go and see what happens.
The three opposite us stare dumbfounded as Tyson takes a moment to gather his thoughts, rifling through his notes, muttering to himself, his brow furrowed in deep thought. I feel slight unease, having not known that Tyson was going to make this a big deal. The Kid isn’t exactly known for his discretion (what kid is?), and I can only hope he won’t be going along with his normal thought process. But while I hope this, I know that it won’t matter in the end. I figure I can cut it off if need be and deal with the consequences later.
At the very least this should be entertaining.
The Kid finally seems ready and looks across at the others, ignoring Otter and me completely. He stands, taking a deep breath. I can see his hands are shaking a little bit, the laser pointer clutched in his tiny fist, the knuckles going white. He’s nervous. The Kid is fucking nervous. It is enough to break my silence and heart both at the same time. Otter feels me tense, and his grip on my hand tightens. I look over at him and he smiles quietly at me, shaking his head just once. So much is said in that one look, like he knows every fear I have, how it’s killing me to see the Kid nervous, because he’s never nervous. Worried, yeah. But nervous? No fucking way. And if he’s nervous now, it means he’s scared, and it means that I have to go to him. I have to protect him. I have to make it better. It’s my job. It’s who I am. It’s what I’m supposed to fucking do. I glare at Otter but he knows. He knows.
“Thank you all for agreeing to meet with me today,” the Kid says, his voice small but firm. “I am here to tell you why I feel you should allow me to be moved up from the fourth grade to the fifth at the start of the upcoming school year. It is my hope that, after my presentation, you will see that I have many interests, such as animal rights and math.” He raises an awkward hand and removes the top page from the stack, and I have to put my hand to my mouth to keep myself from laughing and bawling all at the same time as I see next page says, I LIKE ANIMAL RIGHTS AND MATH in large block letters, to which Ty points the laser pointer, highlighting each word to emphasize something. I don’t know when he would have printed this stuff off the computer. I never saw any of this. I wonder if Otter knew. I remind myself to threaten to withhold sex from him until he tells me.
“I am academically inclined, as you can see from my test scores,” the Kid says, reaching down to his “Genius” folder and taking out copies of his report cards and passing them out among the three who are currently staring at him raptly. I should have realized it wouldn’t have taken much for them to fall under Ty’s spell. He’s a charismatic Kid, that’s for damn sure. They murmur their thanks as they take the papers from him, studying them closely, as if they’ve never seen such things before, as if they haven’t already known what his report cards look like.
“Now,” the Kid continues, his voice stronger, more sure, “before I get into the meat of my presentation, which, by the way, is the only time meat is acceptable, I would like to show that I have a wide variety of interests outside of academics. I would like to read you a poem I wrote.”
Oh fuck. Oh no.
Otter starts to lose it next to me. He’s quiet, but I can feel his hand shaking on top of mine. This is going to be a nightmare.
The Kid picks up another piece of paper from his folder and removes the second sheet from the metal stand. The next paper says, A CONTEMPORARY POEM BY TYSON MCKENNA ENTITLED “WHY I SHOULD SKIP A YEAR (ODE TO EINSTEIN AND MY ANIMAL FRIENDS).”
He takes a deep breath, and I wonder if I should try and stop him before he speaks, but I’m too late. All I can do is sit back and let the Kid perform his poetic epic. And from the sound of it, he’s found out how to access the thesaurus on the computer. He’s going to be unstoppable.
To the faculty of Seafare Elementary
I’m here to impress upon your will!
I consider myself to be cognoscenti
(that means a person with a high degree of skill).
I say this not to brag, because that would be really lame
(even though it sort of is kind of true).
Nor am I here for eternal glory or fame.
I just want to talk to you!
People often ask why I am a vegetarian,
and I’m honest when I look them in the eye;
I say, “Well, why are you such a barbarian?
Putting those animals in your mouth to die?”
They’ll look at me funny, and will sometimes start to stutter,
but I’ll continue on, not to be deterred,
saying, “I can’t believe you’d use that mouth to kiss your mother,”
as they start to choke on what is undoubtedly some endangered aquatic bird.
People can’t believe that I’m actually only nine.
“Kids don’t talk like that,” they say, “no matter how mature they be!”
Really? You don’t think so? That’s okay. That’s fine.
It’s not my fault the most syllables in a word you use is three.
But I think I deserve a chance to show you exactly what I can do.
After all, in school Einstein barely got passing grades.
And if he can be considered the father of modern physics through and through,
Then I think there’s a chance I’ve got this made in the shade.
I’m not saying this to sound cocky, that’s not my intent at all.
I’m merely trying to stress a little point.
So I’m hoping that coming up here in the fall,
You’ll let me skip ahead a grade in this here joint.
In conclusion, where things inevitably come to an end,
I am happy you’ve let me have my say.
As I hope it will be in my ability to tend
to grow smarter with each passing day.
Oh, and one more thing, in case my subtlety confounds:
don’t eat meat. I mean, really, why would you?
There are plenty of plants around.
Take a chance! Try something new!
I promise it’ll make your life profound!
IAMBIC pentameter, meet wood chipper. Wood chipper, iambic pentameter.
He stops and looks up nervously.
Motherfucker, I’ve got tears in my eyes.
Otter and me begin to clap at the same time, the two of us creating such thunderous applause that it sounds deafening in the tiny office. The Kid looks startled by the noise, but only for a moment. He looks over at us, and I see the nervousness that has plagued him since he opened his mouth slowly melt away. The smile that grows on his face is breathtaking. Jesus, I’m so proud I feel like a mom at a soccer game whose kid has just scored his first goal.
The others in the room (those that haven’t gotten to see the Kid’s interpretation of “poetic license”) are staring at him with what can only be described as matching looks of awe. I can’t tell yet if that’s a good thing or not. It’s how I would imagine people would look like after they’ve discovered a new species of bug, and they don’t know yet if it’s poisonous. They are filled with wonder, but it’s cautious.
Tyson doesn’t seem to notice any of that, so I guess it’s okay, although it doesn’t stop me from shooting glares at all three of them, which they recognize and begin to clap politely. I didn’t know that Seafare was the center of the poetry universe to all
ow them to be such snobs about the whole thing.
Jerks.
But it’s enough, and Ty’s courage returns in full force and for the next twenty minutes, he speaks, sliding page after page off the stand, laying out each and every bullet point that Otter and I had read over and allowed to stay in, not knowing it would be the Kid presenting them. There’s times he veers off on random tangents (“I would also like to implement a student council that could assist the faculty in moving this school into the future; to start with, we need to go green, people. We only have one Earth. I think new leadership is needed to bring about this change. But please don’t think I mean my administration to be a dictatorship. You, as the paid staff, would still be allowed to provide what I’m sure is your valuable input. This isn’t Cuba, after all.”) and times that he gets preachy (“Did you know that thirty cows are slaughtered somewhere in the world every two hours? How is that fair?”), but in the end, it doesn’t matter. It’s obvious he’s thought this through, his master thesis on what it means to be the Kid. If anyone ever again asks me how he can be the way he is, I’m just going to have him give a repeat performance, poem and all.
I’m about to give him the universal signal to wrap it up, but he finishes with a flourish, quoting some dead guy who said something about something. I don’t know. I’m half listening as it is, making sure to keep an eye on the faculty members across from us, ready to launch myself across the table in case one of them shows even the remotest signs of disinterest. Otter knows this, and his grip on my hand tightens ever so gently, and I have moments to marvel that I’m sitting here in public, watching my little brother give his fifth grade dissertation while my boyfriend—er, partner—holds my hand.
Gee, look how far I’ve come. I only think nervously about removing my hand once or twice, especially when I catch David sneaking glances at Otter’s apparent need for public displays of affection. Yeah, maybe I am rubbing it in a little, but he’s gotten under my skin somehow, and not in a good way.
But the Kid finishes and bows slightly, and we clap again, and I notice with trace amusement when the faculty immediately applauds, louder this time. Either they got my pointed stares, or they’re just glad it’s over.
Ty puts his stuff away and comes to sit down next to me in his chair and leans over, burying his face in my shoulder. Otter leans over, almost resting his chin against my other shoulder, his breath sliding over my neck, causing gooseflesh to prickle, and we both wait for the Kid, knowing he’s going to need reassurance with whatever it is going on in his head right now. This has been a big step for him, one that I’m sure he wouldn’t have been capable of four months ago.
“Derrick?” he finally asks, his voice muffled by my shirt. Worse than I thought, I guess. He usually reserves calling me Derrick when he’s about to ask one of his Very Important Questions About (fill in the blank).
“Yeah, Kid?”
“You’re not mad, are you? I just wanted this to be a surprise. I wanted to show you and Otter that I can do this, that I didn’t need any help.”
Echoes of a conversation a few weeks before come flying back from a time when I was in a raging panic, thinking that I’d lost the Kid forever, only to feel the weight of him in my arms. I shiver slightly, feeling it roll up through my spine. “I’m not mad,” I say roughly. “I could never be mad at you for that. That was pretty damn amazing, Ty. That took some balls.”
Otter reaches over and ruffles his hair gently, his big hand pulling on strands of the Kid’s dark hair. “We’re proud of you, Kid,” he says quietly, only for us to hear. “And you don’t ever think you can’t ask us for help, even if you did that all on your own.”
Ugh, we’re getting saccharine in front of people who for all intents and purposes are strangers. I kiss the Kid’s head and hear him grumble about it, but he pulls away, a small smile on his blushing face. I glance at Otter, who grins at me and mouths the word “softie,” and I almost fight the urge to roll my eyes, but do it anyways. Whatever. I’ll get him back later.
David Trent, Mr. Franklin, and Boobs McGee (God, I’ve got to stop thinking of her like that!) are obviously relieved when our little family moment is over and they don’t have to stare at the ceiling or the floor in an attempt to give us our privacy.
Mr. Franklin juggles the papers on his desk and clears his throat, tapping a finger on the desk. “Well, Tyson,” he starts, “that was certainly… a first in all my years as an educator. You made some very… unique points that we will undoubtedly be talking about for years to come.”
The Kid preens. I scowl.
“Now, Derrick,” he continues, eyeing me warily, “as you may remember at the end of last year, we discussed the probability of advancing Tyson a year, given his aptitude for pretty much everything. It’s rare, to be sure, and I’ve met only a handful of truly gifted children in my life and have seen how many of them can flounder if they are not adequately challenged. I seem to remember discussing with you if you felt Tyson would be ready for such a change, and hearing your hesitancy in the matter. May I ask what has changed?”
Wait, now I’m on trial here? Hell. What should I tell him? Should I say that we’re reasonably okay now that I’ve found out that I like dick? No, I think that might be too crude. Do I tell him it’s because Tyson and I have finally found at least a semblance of peace because Otter came back? Nah, I don’t think it’s fair to rest all of that on Otter, even if it is a good thing. But no matter what I think, I can’t help but notice how it all comes back to Otter, no matter which way I try and spin it. That, without him, Tyson and I would probably still be antisocial shut-ins hell-bent on making it through day by day. How can I fully explain that to him when I really haven’t even said those things to Otter? Sure, I think he knows on some level, like he seems to know everything else, but he needs to hear it from me, and not in a room full of people where I can’t accurately show how much he does mean to us, means to me (and yes, I am being way dirty here, which is not the best place to have thoughts about sucking my boyfriend’s cock until he does that thing that shows me he’s close: the toe-curling, hair-pulling, low-grunting thing that shows me that I might have a knack as a dick sucker after all.)
Shit. Now I’m horny. Again.
And apparently my train of thought has been hijacked again by masked bandits on horseback, as I’m pretty sure a full minute has passed in complete silence with me staring slack-jawed at the people sitting across from us. Great. Gorilla struggling to learn sign language, just like the Kid predicted. Where’s Mrs. Paquinn when you need her? She wouldn’t have allowed this much time to pass without at least giving her thoughts on whatever it is that decides to wander through her brain at that given moment, either aliens or the social ramifications of cottage cheese (long story).
“Er… well, you see,” I stammer, sure I’m not helping anything by speaking. “We’ve… ah, how would you put it. We’ve… gotten to a better place? You know, in our lives?”
How articulate! it chortles gleefully. You are obviously a cogno-whatever just like your brother! My God, how are you not a rocket scientist by now?
“Is that so?” Principal Franklin asks. “Could you elaborate?”
Oh, I bet you’d like that. “Well, Tyson and I have recently moved into a house, so no more apartment. And, uh, we have a more stable home life. You know, at home? And we have a great support group around us that… surrounds us.” I need to stop because it sounds like I’m choking on my words. Jesus, the Kid can give a thirty-minute presentation, and I can’t speak for two freaking seconds? I look at the one person in the room I know can help me, and he’s there, always there, and something passes between us, and he nods at me, squeezing my hand gently before turning back to Franklin.
Otter says, “I’m sure you’ve been recently made aware of the events of three years ago? Tyson’s attorney informed us that she contacted your office and advised you of the current legal situation.”
Boobs Mc—Leslie Parker speaks up. “Yes, I have had a con
versation with Erica Sharp. And I must say that we were obviously surprised hearing about your mother’s… departure. We were under the impression that Derrick was acting in her stead with a power of attorney because of a health issue.” She looks at me sternly, though not unkindly.
“I never said it was a health issue,” I grumble.
“Be that as it may,” she says, “you let us believe that it was. Derrick, I don’t know whether to hug you or throttle you.” That’s nothing new. Most people have that reaction. “Didn’t you ever think to ask about any financial assistance? The school has resources to provide for low-income families. It would have been so easy for you just to talk to us about what was going on so that we could have helped you.”
Ah, there it is again, people’s innate need to worry, to want to help. It was this very thing that had caused such great discord in those first couple of years, what with my damnable pride and lack of trust in most everyone around me. I could attempt to explain them, but anything I say, any argument to the contrary, will sound weak. Because my decisions were weak. Even though I thought I was reacting in the best interest of the Kid, there’s times when I wonder if I was watching out for myself even more, cocooning us both inside that apartment where we were reasonably safe, where the outside world could just pass us by without so much as a second glance. Was I in the wrong? I don’t know. Maybe. But the time to second-guess myself is in the past. It’s not something I care to focus on anymore, especially given where we’re headed now. It’s easy to drown in the past if you allow yourself.
