My Big Mouth

by Peter Hannan

“What new development?” I asked, sounding as shocked and innocent as possible. I was sweating. “Nothing for him to hear about. We were just messing around.” The words kept on coming, even though I hated myself for saying them. “Let’s get one thing straight, once and for all. Molly and I are just friends. Period.”

  Molly’s face got red.

  “You fools go ahead and practice. I quit,” she said, walking out the door.

  “But the concert is in two days,” Edwin protested. “You can’t quit.”

  “Apparently I can,” she called, “because I just did!”

  “Wait a minute!” I said, chasing after her.

  “Don’t even think about following me,” she spat, walking quickly down the path. “You’re nuts. Maybe I should let Gerald thrash you after all.”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that.

  I went back inside the barbershop and looked at Edwin.

  “What’s going on with her?” I said. “First punching, then kissing … now this?”

  “She and her brother used to punch each other all the time,” said Edwin, shrugging. “She punches people she likes. Apparently kisses some of them, too.”

  I blinked. “But, I mean, she’s still with Gerald McMusclehead, right?”

  “I think so. Listen, we’d better practice,” said Edwin, picking up his bass.

  “Yeah, but — did she really quit?”

  “Definitely. She’s stubborn about stuff like that,” said Edwin. “Looks like it’s you and me, lover boy. Romeo. Stud muffin.”

  “Shut up, Edwin.”

  What the heck? The only reason I even got involved in this was to be in a band with Molly. Now the only thing I was clear on was that Gerald Neander-creep was more apt to kill me than ever. He had more of a reason to than ever. Molly was probably running to him right now, telling him everything, and sealing my death warrant with a much bigger kiss than the one I got.

  I was such an idiot! Just when I found out that Molly actually liked me, I rejected her. No wonder she thought I was nuts. I was. It was like when tragic lovers are kept apart by disapproving parents or society or something. Except in this case, I was coming between us.

  Edwin and I practiced for a while, but my heart wasn’t in it and my throat was killing me. We sounded horrible. That was nothing new, but with Molly gone, horrible was all it was.

  I tried calling her a bunch of times that night, but she didn’t pick up. I left her messages, saying I was sorry, trying to explain, and asking her — fine, I admit it, begging her — to come back to the band. No response. She obviously hated me.

  Dad had left a note saying that he wasn’t getting home until late, and that if I was better, he would pick me up after karate the next day. So I left a note for him, saying that yes, I was feeling good, and yes, that sounded good.

  What a joke. I felt anything but good, and everything about going to karate sounded unbelievably bad. But I couldn’t stay home sick again. I had to talk to Molly.

  On Friday morning, I felt queasy, woozy, sick, ailing, run-down, and rotten. Pretty much anything in the thesaurus under “horribly, deathly ill.” I tried everything — antibiotics, aspirin, cough syrup, that super-numbing throat spray, and lozenge after lozenge — but I still felt like something the cat dragged in … after the cat found me lying in the road, having been run over by a car. Make that a truck. An eighteen-wheeler.

  But somehow, I made it to school.

  My heart was pounding like a sledge-hammer in my head as I walked through the front doors. Every little noise — footsteps, whispers, the sound of my eyes blinking — sounded like a car alarm. My scalp was prickly, hair follicles electrified, brain buzzing. My nose was running, my eyes hurt, my joints ached, and my throat felt like it was on fire. I think my hair was on fire.

  So, yeah. I didn’t feel so good.

  And surprise: Molly was absent. There was no point in me even being there. Wonderful.

  The Butcher was waiting at my locker after first period. He wore a weirdly dead expression, like he had finally run out of patience. I could tell that he was sick of all the roadblocks preventing him from pulverizing me.

  “Hello, dweeb,” he said, crossing his arms. “Sensei Jo-Jo says that I should give you a private lesson today. We might need to use the workout room in the back. You know, just so we can get some real learning in.”

  Real learning. I did not like the sound of that.

  “So,” Gerald went on, “see you at ka-rah-tay.”

  But he didn’t leave. He just stood there, leaning in close to me and staring while I nervously worked my locker combination.

  He just kept repeating, “See … you … at … ka-rah-tay.”

  My lock finally opened, but the door was jammed again. I yanked as hard as I could, and it unstuck. This time, it slammed the Butcher hard in the knee.

  “OW! You pathetic dweeb!” he yelped, holding his knee and balancing on his other leg.

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” I croaked. This was the second time I’d accidentally assaulted the Butcher. Good work.

  “Yeah, right,” he sneered. “Well, then I won’t mean what I’m about to do to you.”

  I could only imagine.

  Just then, Mr. Rigo walked out of his office. It turned out that my locker was in a convenient location.

  “Is there a problem, boys?” he asked, coming toward us.

  “No,” the Butcher and I said quickly, simultaneously.

  “Are you sure?” Rigo asked. “It definitely sounded like a problem.” He peered at the “DEAD DWEEB” on my locker door. “What have we here?”

  “Wow, I hadn’t noticed that, sir,” said Gerald.

  I wasn’t about to rat out the Butcher. “Me neither.”

  “Kind of hard to miss,” said Rigo, rubbing his fingers across the etched skull and letters. “Gerald, I’d like to speak to you in my office. Alone.”

  “I didn’t do it, sir,” the Butcher lied. Not very convincingly, either.

  Rigo just raised an eyebrow and turned back to me.

  “I have no idea,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  Rigo rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Boggs, let’s go.”

  They went off together, and I headed to my next class. Oh, man … now I had gotten the Butcher into trouble. Without even meaning to. That’s something you definitely do not want to do to an alpha goon.

  I didn’t know exactly what went down in Rigo’s office. He didn’t have proof of anything, but it was all pretty obvious. I heard the Butcher got detention and that, since spring break was about to start, his parents would come in after to discuss the locker situation.

  None of that did anything to slow the Butcher’s Campaign of Intimidation. All day long, he kept sneaking up on me in the hallway, grunting like a wildebeest: “See … you … at … ka-rah-tay.” The sixth or seventh time, he really got to me. His weird and ominous pronunciation of “ka-rah-tay” was on a permanent loop in my brain. I even heard it when he wasn’t around.

  I definitely was not going to ka-rah-tay. But Dad was picking me up at ka-rah-tay, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I wanted to quit ka-rah-tay. And I had to go to the dock the next day — as a matter of pride, and because I’d promised Edwin — so I couldn’t use the fact that my fevered brain was bubbling like lava as an excuse to skip ka-rah-tay … ka-rah-tay … ka-rah-tay.

  When the last bell rang, I went to my locker and grabbed my backpack. I snuck out the back door, across the football field, and into the woods. My head was spinning. I felt like a wimpy little squirrel running for cover. The crunching of leaves under my feet was amplified in my burning ears.

  I was sweating, and my pulse pounded in my brain. That rhythm was faster than the rhythm of my footsteps. Have you ever heard a drum solo you thought would never end? Well, this was like two drum solos playing simultaneously — both bad, and both way too loud. It was like the whole world was kicking me in the head.

  I found a spot under a tree and sat down. I
would wait it out. When the time came, I would get over to the Dojo of Death to meet Dad. I’d time it so I would arrive just before everyone got out, so the Butcher wouldn’t see me.

  How did this happen? How did my promising new start in a new school turn into such an old disaster? Dad was right. I was quitting again.

  I felt sick. Lovesick and sick-sick. And I was exhausted. Girls, fear, and fever can really wipe a guy out.

  I leaned back against the tree and closed my eyes. I felt the pulse in my temples. At least there was only one bad drum solo now. And even that was starting to fade. Having my eyes closed was by far the best feeling I’d had all day.

  I hadn’t noticed the fog rolling in. It was cooler now. Sunlight filtered through the branches like in a sappy movie, when something super-sappy is about to happen. I heard a twig snap, and there was Molly walking toward me through the trees. She looked more beautiful than ever.

  I stood up to greet her.

  She gave me a once-over … and started to laugh.

  I looked down and saw that I wasn’t wearing pants.

  Lots of other kids popped out from behind trees, and they were laughing and pointing, too.

  I screamed.

  I turned to run and slammed into a tree.

  My eyes eventually opened. It had all been a bad dream. Except the slamming-into-the-tree part — that was real.

  I was lying flat on my back. I rubbed my forehead and felt a huge lump. Then I noticed that the sun was going down. I glanced at my watch: 5:26. Dad would be at the dojo any minute.

  I leaped to my feet and almost fell down again. I was dizzy. I’d never been delirious before, but this must have been it.

  I took off, out of the woods and into the nearby neighborhood. I cut through lawns. I ran as fast as I could, looking around, hoping no one would see me. A crazed terrier in one yard lunged and sunk his teeth into my pants at the ankle. I yanked hard, tearing the fabric halfway up my leg in the process. I leaped and vaulted over a fence, landed on my back, popped up, and kept running. I felt like I was in a war movie — darting from tree to house to parked car to tree again. I was huffing and puffing and zigzagging like a crazy person.

  Maybe I was a crazy person.

  I got to the block of the dojo and hid behind a parked truck. I tried to catch my breath. The drums started up in my ears again. The coast was clear. No one on the sidewalk. A few bored parents waited in cars. I made a break for it, ducking around the side of the building. It would take the class a few minutes to pack up and get out the door, so I’d wait there until I saw Dad’s car, then run out and hop in.

  5:33 PM:

  Dad wasn’t always so good at being on time. I wasn’t really sure what direction he’d be coming from, so I kept looking both ways, nervously peeking around the corner, checking the door of the Dojo of Death.

  5:37 PM:

  I saw Dad’s car pull up to a stoplight way down the street.

  A few kids started coming out of the dojo. No Butcher.

  The car was getting closer. No Butcher.

  The car arrived. I snuck out onto the sidewalk, trying to mingle with other karate kids. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a huge, unmistakable shape.

  Yes, Butcher.

  But it was okay. The car was right there, too. I turned toward the Butcher and nodded and waved, making it look to my dad like I’d had a good class and was making friends. The timing could not have been better.

  Except that when I reached for the door handle, I realized that Sparky was right next to me, also reaching for the handle. Why was this little twerp trying to get into my car?

  Wait a minute. Who was the weird dude with a mustache behind the wheel? And why were the car seats blue, and not black? The obvious answer was that this was the right model, but the wrong car. But my fevered brain wanted to run through all the completely illogical explanations first: Dad had grown a mustache in one day, he’d had the seats reupholstered, he had adopted Sparky to take my place….

  “Jerk!” said Sparky, sliding onto the front seat and slamming the door.

  “Munchkin!” I replied.

  The car sped away.

  When I turned around, the Butcher was in my face.

  “Gee,” he sneered, “too bad that wasn’t your daddy-poo. And too bad you missed classy-poo.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say but, “Yeah, well, next time, I guess.”

  “But, dweeby-poo,” Gerald said with an expression of unbelievably fake concern, “I really feel bad. I mean, you’re new and everything. I’d be happy to give you that private lesson right here on the sidewalk.”

  “No, that’s okay … I’m actually not feeling that well, anyway….” My mind was racing. What had Molly told him? Did he know about the kiss?

  “Lesson one!” the Butcher barked. He leaped up and landed with the loud slap of sneakers on concrete, feet spread and hands in the classic ready-to-kick-your-scrawny-butt position.

  “No, really,” I said, “next time is fine. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “MORO ASHI DACHI!”

  “Moro ashi what-chi?”

  “FIGHTING STANCE! MORO ASHI DACHI!”

  There were a few kids still waiting for rides, and they all got interested fast.

  “Umm …” I said, holding my hands up in the classic I’m-an-idiot-who-doesn’t-know-what-the-heck-he’s-doing position. I mean, my one karate lesson had been given by a glorified toddler.

  “MORO ASHI DACHI!” the Butcher cried again. “MORO ASHI DACHI!”

  He was saying it in that clipped karate way that, unfortunately, struck me as funny. Must have been the fever. I closed my eyes for a second and laughed to myself.

  At least, I thought it was to myself.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Gerald barked.

  My eyes snapped open.

  “No, no, not at all.” I scrambled to find something to say, but my head wasn’t cooperating. “It’s just that this is turning into a pretty bad day —”

  “Really? That’s weird, because it sounded exactly like you were laughing at me.” With that, Gerald started throwing all kinds of kicks and punches. Not hitting me, just terrorizing me … and showing off.

  “AGE ZUKI! CHOKU ZUKI! HAISHU UKE! EMPI UCHI!”

  And just as I was starting to think that this demented demonstration of his would go on forever, he lunged.

  “HIRAKEN ZUKI!!!!!”

  I stuck my arms out straight, out of instinct, and shoved my stiffened fingers as hard as I could in his direction. My long guitar-picking fingernail stabbed him right in the eye.

  “OWW-OOO-OWW-OOOOO!” howled Gerald, holding his face in his hands.

  Oh, god.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to do that!” I said.

  “OWW-OOO-OWW-OOOOO!”

  He sounded like a wounded Sasquatch.

  How did this keep happening? This was the third time I’d hurt him. It was like waving a red cape at a bull. Except I was actually stabbing the bull in the eye.

  Bull’s-eye.

  The other kids were stunned. A couple of cars pulled up, and Gerald got quiet and turned away from the street. He walked toward the dojo, hiding his face. The cars picked kids up and drove off.

  Before long, it was just me and the Butcher. Wonderful.

  He was leaning against the wall, holding his eye, breathing heavily. I didn’t know what to do. It was completely possible that I had blinded him.

  I walked up to him slowly. “Ummm … you all right, Gerald?” No answer. “Gerald?”

  “DON’T EVER CALL ME THAT!” he seethed. He spun around, and this time he didn’t bother with any fancy stances or terminology.

  He just slugged me in the eye. Hard.

  My head snapped back and the pain shot through my brain, which sounded like it literally rattled around in my skull.

  Worst. Drum. Solo. Ever.

  I saw a flash of colors and leaned back.

  “How do you like it?” Gerald yelled.
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br />   Somehow, I didn’t fall over. I just slowly slumped to the sidewalk. My dad pulled up as I reached a seated position. I looked over at the Butcher.

  “An eye for an eye …” I mumbled. “I guess we’re even.”

  “No way,” he hissed. “We’re not even till you’re dead. See you at the dock tomorrow.”

  I got into the car and was able to hide my budding black eye from Dad, since it was on my right side.

  “Tough practice?” he asked with a smile.

  “Not too bad.”

  “Who was that kid you were with? A new buddy?”

  “Yup. New good buddy.” Somehow I said that without laughing.

  “See? Didn’t I tell you karate was a good idea?” Dad sounded proud of himself.

  “Yup.”

  He glanced at me as he pulled out into the street. “You sound terrible. Are you still sick?”

  “No, no … I feel fine,” I croaked pathetically. I wasn’t even convincing myself.

  “No you don’t,” he said. “You’re going back to bed. For the entire weekend.”

  It was hard to argue with that. I was sick, tired, scared, and in pain. My entire body hurt — inside and out. Bed sounded good. Really good.

  We rode along in silence. That was it. I wasn’t going to the dock. I was glad I was sick. It was the perfect excuse. I would call Edwin and explain. Without Molly, the Dweebs sucked, anyway. What was the point?

  I watched the houses and buildings go by out the car window. I had actually fooled myself into believing that my life was getting better. I’d just started to not feel like a total misfit. But then everything went bad. Beyond bad.

  I would drag myself back to school with my tail between my legs after spring break. Everyone would ask why I hadn’t shown up at the dock. But they would know that it was because of the Butcher. The Butcher had won. Butchers always win. I was really sick, but that thought made me feel about a hundred times sicker. Especially since people were actually liking me. They liked those poems. They might have liked them even more as songs. If only. The Dweebs — this performance — might have been the best thing I’d ever done.