My Big Mouth

by Peter Hannan

  Then I thought about my mom. I remembered talking to her once when she was sick in bed. I was complaining about wanting to do something, and some jerk at school saying I was a moron. I don’t remember which jerk. There had been so many. I was clueless about how sick Mom was at the time, so it didn’t seem like what she said was some big piece of advice or anything. I don’t know now whether Mom knew she was dying, but I sure didn’t. She didn’t really seem that sick, anyway, just sort of tired. Heart failure doesn’t show on the outside.

  Anyway, she said that she’d always wished she’d written a book. She’d had an idea for one and I think she had started writing a few chapters or at least making some notes or something. But then she had me. And a job. And a house and a husband and a million other things. And she was never able to get back to it. She knew that she’d made certain choices, and she didn’t regret them. But she had realized something: She’d wimped out. I told her she was wrong, but Mom said no, there had been plenty of time. Just the bad TV alone added up to enough time to write a book. Maybe more than one.

  She said that when you really want to do something, there are a million reasons not to do it. There are people who’ll say it’s stupid and that you’re stupid for even thinking about it. There might even be people who go out of their way to get in your way.

  “You can go ahead and blame those people if you want,” Mom said. “It’s not their fault if you wimp out.”

  I thought about how I was riding shotgun in Dad’s car, where my mom used to sit. I looked out the window and saw a couple of kids playing catch, and a guy mowing his lawn. It reminded me of the funeral, when I realized that no matter what, the world keeps going.

  If I wimped out on Rock Around the Dock, I wouldn’t live it down for the rest of the year, or next year, or the year after. It would be my new “Urine Trouble, Pee Boy.” No doubt about it, I was scared — it really did seem like the Butcher was capable of just about anything. But as hard as it was to face him, not facing him would be worse. Not showing up was quitting, quitting like I’d never quit before. And even though Molly was out — maybe because she was out — the show had to go on. I had screwed everything up so badly with her that I couldn’t bear to screw this up, too.

  “You know, Davis,” said Dad, “this has been a tough time, but I think things are turning around for us.”

  I looked over at him. He was there to pick me up. He always was. He probably hated his job more than I hated school. I was sure there were tons of things he’d rather be doing than working where he did. His boss was probably a lot like Gerald. I imagined Gerald’s dad being my dad’s boss. What a nightmare.

  Dad was trying. Being a terrible cook didn’t take any less effort than being a good one. He wasn’t the best at understanding me, but I realized that I wasn’t the best at understanding him, either. And it was pretty great when we were laughing in that tent.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said. “I’m sorta supposed to play in a band tomorrow … you know, a rock band. At the canal.”

  He glanced over at me, eyebrow raised. “Since when?”

  “Since … I forgot to tell you.” I tried to play it cool. No big deal.

  “Well, sorry, but you’re still way too sick.”

  Yeah, this was a mistake.

  “No, I feel good. Please, I have to —”

  “Forget it.”

  We rode along in silence again. I wasn’t about to bring up my mom’s deathbed speech. He didn’t need to hear that.

  When we got to the house, I went in ahead and said I wasn’t hungry for dinner. Dad told me to take my temperature. So I did. But he didn’t need to know it was 103. I shook the thermometer down just as he came in.

  “See? Normal,” I said.

  “Still, you’re not going anywhere tomorrow. I have to go into the office, and I want you under the covers all day.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Good night, then.” I closed my door and got ready for bed.

  But once Dad was gone, I called Edwin to make sure he was still in for Rock Around the Dock. Of course he was. I also called Molly … and got her voice mail again. But this time, I couldn’t even speak. I couldn’t think of another way to apologize. I’d left so many messages already. I didn’t say anything for what seemed like an eternity, then muttered, “Whatever,” and hung up.

  Molly wasn’t coming — that’s all there was to it. But I told myself it really wasn’t about Molly or Edwin or the Butcher or the Dweebs anymore. It was about me. I would not wimp out.

  I needed to get to the dock by eleven thirty the next morning, so I set my alarm for ten, just to be safe.

  Then I quietly went over songs in my head until I passed out.

  BAAAAAAAAAAA! My alarm sounded like a sheep with an upstate New York accent. It felt like I had just fallen asleep. My throat was sore, and I was incredibly tired. I hit the snooze button.

  I guess I must have hit it a bunch more times, because when I finally woke up, it was 11:10.

  I leaped to my feet. My head was throbbing. I looked in the mirror. The whole right side of my face — from my forehead to my cheek — was black and blue and greenish. Thanks, Gerald. Thanks, tree.

  I thought about maybe going into my dad’s room and looking through my mom’s old stuff to see if there was some kind of makeup to cover it up. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. It probably wouldn’t have worked, anyway. I mean, if Gerald noticed it, he’d just have one more reason to kill me. I took some aspirin instead.

  I had to hurry. What to wear? I should have thought this through. I didn’t have anything in my closet or my drawers that looked vaguely rock-star-esque. That was okay, I guessed. The Amazing Dweebs should really look as dweeby as possible. It was just that, somehow, I was hoping for dweeby-cool as opposed to dweeby-dweeby.

  I sifted through the clothes on the floor and under the bed … and then I saw it. Molly’s Mad Manny the Monkey shirt. I’d totally forgotten that I had it.

  I tried it on. Molly was right. It was tight — rock-band tight. The shirt would definitely make the Butcher that much more rabid. But at the moment, I didn’t care. I might as well look cool while getting killed. He wasn’t really going to murder me in front of all those people, was he? And like Molly said, it was the perfect shirt for the leader of a band called the Amazing Dweebs.

  Dad had left me a note in the kitchen: “Please eat something for breakfast …” Too late. I had to get out of there. “… and then go right back to bed!” Okay, that wasn’t gonna happen.

  I spotted Dad’s sunglasses on the counter and put them on to cover up my black eye. They didn’t do much to hide the entire black, blue, and green side of my face, or the gigantic lump on my forehead. Oh, well. I told myself that I looked hard core, put my guitar in its case, grabbed a fistful of cough drops, and headed out.

  It wasn’t that long of a walk to the canal and the dock. I’d make it there in about fifteen minutes. I sucked furiously on a cough drop, nervously crunched it to bits, then popped in another one. I walked as fast as I could. I tried to sing a little, but it wasn’t until then that I realized I hardly had a voice at all. My throat didn’t hurt as much as before, but I sounded like a frog with a frog in his throat.

  When I got to the dock, it was already crowded. The barge was decked out in crepe paper. Very festive. There were tables of used books for sale, to raise money for new books for the library. Lots of students and a couple of teachers were milling around, waiting for something to happen. Charlotte Carlotta was selling tickets at a table near the entrance. It cost a dollar to get in. I reached into my pocket.

  “The entertainment doesn’t have to pay, Mr. New Yorker,” she snarled, sounding weirdly annoyed as she waved me in. I figured she was bored having to sit there with the cash box. Maybe something else about the event was bothering her poetic sensibilities.

  “Thanks,” I said, moving into the crowd. Danderbrook wiggled her fingers at me from behind one of the book tables.

  Everyone was talking, bu
t then suddenly it got a lot quieter — just a few hushed whispers. It’s like when you think everybody’s been talking about you. Usually, that’s not true. But in this case, it definitely was.

  Ivan Brink, the chubby vampire, was standing with Sparky, the kid from the dojo. I realized then that they looked a lot alike. Sparky was Ivan’s little brother. Of course.

  Ivan pointed and shouted to me, “Look out! The Butcher’s right behind you!”

  I almost had a heart attack.

  “April Fool’s!” he said, laughing. Sparky laughed even louder.

  “Very funny, you two.” I had forgotten it was April Fool’s Day.

  “Sorry, Dela-who,” Ivan said. He didn’t sound all that sorry. “Hey, cool shades. Cool shiner, too. Heard you gouged out a big chunk of the Butcher’s eye.”

  “Yeah,” said Sparky, smiling, “and his dad’s a lawyer. They’re probably gonna sue the crap outta your mom and dad.” He really didn’t like me.

  “Oh, my mom and dad, huh?” I whispered, accidentally sounding a bit like Clint Eastwood. Maybe the laryngitis was working for me. “Well, my mom’s dead,” I continued coldly, thinking that would shut him up. It didn’t.

  “April Fool’s?” asked Sparky.

  “No, Sparky,” I whispered threateningly.

  “Idiot,” said Ivan, rolling his eyes. “His mom is dead. Everybody knows that.” Then he turned to me. “But still, Dela-who, it’s illegal in martial arts to grow your fingernails into long sabers and stab them in the other guy’s eyes and stuff. I mean, it’s cool, but illegal.”

  “It’s totally illegal,” Sparky echoed, but in a snotty tone.

  “My fingernail is for playing the guitar,” I said, strumming the air. “Plus, it was self-defense.”

  “So, what’s in there?” asked Sparky, poking at my guitar case with his index finger.

  What kind of weird question was that? What was with this kid?

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Guitar, notebooks, lyrics …”

  “Yeah, idiot,” said Ivan, “what do you think?”

  Edwin arrived then, and blew right by me.

  “Edwin!” I croaked.

  “Hurry up, Delaware!” he barked impatiently. “What the heck happened to your voice?”

  What was his problem?

  He had a point, though. We were up first, so we had to get going.

  I ran to catch up with him. “It’s called laryngitis.”

  “It’s called a nightmare,” Edwin said, glancing over at me. “Speaking of which, what happened to your face? I thought you were sleeping like a baby, safely in your bed.”

  “Hard mattress,” I said.

  Mr. Shettle was guarding the gangplank like a bouncer. Gym teachers make good bouncers.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Delaware?” Shettle barked.

  “Croaky’s with me,” said Edwin. “We’re the entertainment.”

  “Oh, right … entertainment,” said Shettle, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Go ahead, Eddie. I guess Black-and-Blue Boy can go, too.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Larry,” said Edwin.

  Eddie? Uncle Larry? Rewind, please.

  “Shettle is your uncle?” I said, following Edwin across the gangplank and onto the barge. “April Fool’s?”

  Edwin wasn’t laughing. “Nope. He’s my mother’s brother.”

  I guess that explained why Shettle didn’t seem to care when Edwin strolled in so late to gym class.

  I grabbed his arm. “I can’t believe you never mentioned that!”

  “You never asked,” he said, yanking his arm away.

  Why on Earth would I possibly think to ask him that?

  “So, Molly’s not going to show,” I said, trying to sound like I didn’t care.

  “Forget her,” Edwin said. “She’s way too cool to be hanging around with a couple of dweebs like us. Why are you wearing that crappy shirt, anyway? It looks ridiculous.”

  What was with him today? I didn’t answer.

  The deck of the barge was covered with cables. Some student-council kids were working as tech support, setting up and plugging things in.

  “I need to find a bathroom,” I said.

  Edwin and I put down our guitars and headed toward the back of the barge. Edwin used the tiny, stinky bathroom first, and I called to him through the door.

  “What’s wrong? I mean, it seems like something is bothering you.”

  “Nope,” said Edwin flatly.

  Okay, I admit, I hadn’t known the guy that long. But when Edwin Martin gives a one-word answer to any question, something is definitely wrong.

  Back on the stage, I took out my guitar. My notebooks weren’t in the case. I must have left them at home, in my rush to get out of the house. But I could have sworn I’d brought them.

  Wonderful.

  Everything was so screwed up. No lyrics, no voice, no Molly, weirder-than-usual Edwin. But the show would go on, because it had to go on. Without the show, I had nothing. This was my chance to prove myself to the whole school. I remembered the words to some of the songs, so since I didn’t have my notebooks for reference, those would just have to be the songs I’d sing.

  I looked down into the crowd and spotted the Butcher. He was wearing a black eye patch, which made him look like a tough, crazy-angry pirate. Ominous. He and all his goons were right up in front, peering up at the stage with smiles on their faces. The kind of smiles that say, We are sooo happy to be here … and sooo happy to see you fail.

  The rest of the audience was ready to hear something, anything. Someone hollered that they wanted to hear the Amazing Dweebs play.

  “Hey, where’s Molly?” yelled someone else.

  “Yeah,” said Willard Gourdinski, vibrating with anger. “Without her, you’re just plain old dweebs. Nothing amazing about it.”

  Gourdinski was right. We were nothing without Molly.

  Edwin picked up his bass and plugged it in. We set up about six feet apart, but he barely looked at me. He was completely stone-faced. I plugged in my guitar and turned on the amp, which crackled and hummed. That got some applause.

  Edwin was screwing around with the bass, plucking a few random notes, pretending to know what he was doing even though he obviously didn’t. When it came right down to it, we had barely practiced at all, so Edwin hadn’t gotten much better. I started tuning and tried hard to look cool, like I wasn’t a swollen purple-faced loser on a dirty barge on a smelly canal.

  After a minute, I noticed a pretty girl I’d never seen before staring at me from the crowd. I mean pretty. She waved to me. Just one wave, her arm bent at the elbow like a slow-motion windshield wiper. It seemed like she was saying, I see you … do you see me? We know each other.

  Or maybe I was just delusional.

  I squinted and stared, but I had absolutely no idea who the girl was. She pointed her finger at her head and drew circles in the air — the universal symbol for You are out of your freaking mind, you crazy black-and-blue lunatic. So I guess she didn’t know me. She just knew exactly what she thought of me.

  Danderbrook walked over and leaned into the microphone. “I trust Mr. Delaware has finally tuned that guitar.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “What on Earth happened to your face?” she asked me, covering the mic.

  “You don’t want to know,” I mumbled.

  “Okay, then,” she said, turning back to the microphone. “Hi, everybody! Thanks for coming down to Rock Around the Dock! This year, we have two great bands here to raise a little money for a good cause: the school library!”

  The smattering of applause was nearly drowned out by widespread groaning.

  Danderbrook continued: “Okay, okay, let’s get started! First up, the new band on the bill. This is fitting for a library benefit, since the band’s leader is a new student who has made quite a mark in the English department at Woodrow Wilson in a very short period of time. Without further ado, here are the Amazing Dweebs!” She gestured to me and Ed
win, then headed for the gangplank to join the crowd.

  The crowd cheered, clapped, hooted, hollered, booed, and laughed. All at once.

  “All right,” I croaked into the microphone, which squealed with feedback. “Hello, Rock Around the Dock.” I felt totally embarrassed saying that. It was like ordering a Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity. Having to say it almost makes you not want it.

  But when I looked out at the crowd, I knew that I did want it. I wanted to be there. I wanted to perform. I was tired of being scared of the Butcher, and there was nothing he could say or do to stop me. Maybe it was the fever, but I just didn’t care about him anymore. I didn’t care that Edwin seemed to be cranky or grumpy or whatever. I didn’t care that I sounded like a froggy Clint Eastwood. If your voice is reduced to a whisper, sounding like any kind of Clint Eastwood is probably the way to go.

  I didn’t even care that Molly hadn’t shown up.

  But then she did show up. And I realized that I did care. A lot.

  There was a commotion in the crowd as she worked her way toward the barge. She crossed the gangplank and walked right up to me. The Butcher watched her like a hawk.

  She was wearing my sweatshirt. She looked beautiful.

  She moved in close to the microphone. “Nice shirt,” she said.

  “You, too.”

  Molly punched me gently in the stomach, holding her fist against me for a second, and whisered, “It was that last message. Especially the super-long pause — I mean I thought maybe you had passed out — followed by that mournful ‘whatever.’ That got to me.” She smiled. “You didn’t really think I was going to let down the Amazing Dweebs, did you?”

  I didn’t know what to think. Was Molly there because she liked me despite everything, and finally knew how much I liked her? After all this time, I still hadn’t revealed that. In fact, I’d denied it. Repeatedly. At this point, Molly would have to have been a mind reader to have a clue what I thought about her. Maybe she still hated me and was only there for the Dweebs.