Do you have a nickname?
I guess you could say that Mick is a nickname, but that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about nicknames like 151 or Pool Boy, tags Brody stuck on me. I don’t mind 151, although I don’t really like that other people in school know about it. It’s funny, in junior high, you wanted everyone to think you were cool enough and old enough to get drunk, but now, it’s not something you share, it’s something you do. Pool Boy I don’t like because it is kind of a put-down name, but Brody’s the only one who uses it, so I guess that’s okay. Worst nickname I ever heard was one this kid back in seventh grade, Robert Smith, had. I didn’t really know him well, most people didn’t. He was one of those kids who just shows up at school every day, nothing special about him. One day in history class, we’re taking a test about Indian tribes. It’s really quiet in the room, and he farts really loud. Everybody heard it. Somebody asked, “Who did that?” Brody, who was sitting right next to him, points at Robert Smith and says, “It was Chief Brown Cloud.” Everybody laughed, maybe even the teacher. Smith looked like he wanted to die right then, and for the rest of the school year everybody called him Chief Brown Cloud, even me. I knew it was mean, but he just seemed so hopeless that it was easy to do because he couldn’t do anything about it. He transferred schools at the end of the year. Thinking about him now, what strikes me is this: in one second, his life changed forever. It wasn’t something he did on purpose, just an accident. But from that moment, his life spun in a different direction. Every day you live through exactly 86,400 seconds, but a stupid mistake or accident or bad judgment in just one of those seconds can change every other second of every minute of every day for the rest of your life. And it can happen to anyone: it doesn’t matter if you’re the president of the United States, Chief Brown Cloud, Mick Salisbury, Brody Warren, Aaron Bishop, or the Scarecrow.
Seventh Period
Looking down from the rocking bleachers filled with Dragon pride, I couldn’t care less as the cheerleaders proclaimed, “We’ve got spirit, yes we do, we’ve got spirit, how about you?” The football players ran out onto the gym floor while the band played the school song. I wished I could slip on my jPod to drown them out, but instead I waved for Brody to join me in the last row of the bleachers closest to the front door. I hated pep rallies, but I didn’t mind missing my seventh period computer class where Mr. Scott insisted on teaching us things we all already knew.
“Dude, what’s up?” I asked, and then tensed for Brody’s hard backslap greeting.
“Nothing,” Brody said. He looked glum and kept his hands at his sides.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Brody just stared at his beat-up boots. “Kirby nailed me for cheating!”
“Shit!”
“Don’t worry, man, I didn’t rat you out,” Brody said as he jammed his finger into my chest. “I’m gonna blow her tires or something.”
“Dude, don’t make it worse,” I said, but I wanted to say, Brody, it’s not her fault that you decided to cheat. Take responsibility for your own actions, be a man. But I said nothing. I knew there are two kinds of friends in the world: those who tell you what you want to hear, and those who tell you what you need to hear. Brody’s all about want, never about need.
“It’s not like other people don’t do it too,” Brody said as he flipped Mrs. Kirby the finger from a distance. Ever since I got kicked off the football team, if I do something wrong, I get in trouble.”
“I know,” I mumbled as I spotted Nicole and Kyle on the other side of the gym. I wondered what would happen if Kyle cheats on Nicole. I also wondered how Kyle and Nicole got together so soon after our breakup. Had she cheated on me first? Maybe he had already had his taste. Kyle, that sad bastard, doesn’t know that a little taste is all he’s gonna get.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Brody punched himself in the head through his long, tangled hair.
“Dude, don’t worry about it,” I said. “Tonight around seven, it’s all forgotten.”
“Right,” Brody said, then raised an invisible glass. We stayed silent for a while, letting the noise of the pep rally surround us. When Coach Simpson spoke, Brody looked agitated.
“You miss it?” I said, as I stared up at last year’s division banner hanging from the gym ceiling.
“What? Football?” Brody responded.
“Yeah, playing football.” Brody never talked about it much after he got kicked off the team other than swearing revenge on whoever ratted him out for breaking the Words of Honor oath.
“I miss playing,” Brody said. “I miss making those tackles, smacking pads, yeah, I miss playing the game, but I don’t miss being on the team. Don’t miss rules. Don’t miss practices.”
“Bet you miss the cheerleaders,” I said as I pointed to Lita Gomez. The only Latino girl on the squad, she’s the odd one out, so I suspected she would be Brody’s favorite.
“Maybe,” Brody said, then laughed. “I miss getting As, not getting in trouble. No way Kirby would have called me out if I was still on the team. People kick you when you’re down.”
“True,” I said as I felt all of Brody’s resentment wash over me. I didn’t hate the jocks, like the stoners or the artsy kids in theater did. I don’t like sports much, but ex-Dad was always taking me to games or making me watch them with him on TV, and I accepted it as my manly duty.
“Well, we’ll have our own celebration tonight, right, 151?” Brody said with a hard backslap.
“Dude, I’m so ready. I bet Aaron’s ready to go again, too.” My eyes scanned the crowd for the third member of the Rum Drinker’s Local 151, but Aaron was nowhere to be found.
“Something was seriously wrong with ATM last night,” Brody said, then rose.
“The dad thing,” I muttered, kind of half-hoping Brody didn’t hear me.
“Come on, let’s sneak out of here,” Brody said as he gestured for me to join him. We started down the bleachers through the sea of red Dragon jackets worn by football fans who’d once cheered for Brody and now turned their back on him, which is something I knew I’d never do.
Just as we hit the last step, the cheerleaders got the crowd fired up again. Brody looked like he wanted to spit, but instead he said, “It’s just a stupid football game. It’s not like it’s life or death.”
I grunted and thought then how most decisions were never that simple: life or death.
What do you think death feels like?
I read once that the difference in weight between a living body and a dead body is 21 grams. It’s not like I know what that means, but it doesn’t sound like a lot. What is in those 21 grams: your soul? Where does it go? Is it like a puff of smoke? Do you go toward a light? We’ll never know because the dead don’t talk to us, they just haunt us. Our ghost-to-be lies in front of us, arms outstretched, legs almost curled underneath him, and his tongue dangling from his almost toothless mouth. Even if he was alive, I doubt he could have breathed, because it felt like we were sucking up all of the oxygen in the cluttered, filthy space. What was his last breath like? What is the moment of realization when you understand that you’re about to die? Is it a thing of stark beauty or indescribable fear? Does it matter how you die? Is it better to go slowly with cancer eating away at your body, or to go quickly: in an auto accident crushing your bones and organs like a trash compacter, or a violent death at the hands of another, wielding a gun, knife, fist, boot, or brick? Is it better to know when and how you’re going to die, or to have it come upon you suddenly and unexpectedly? As I sit with my arms wrapped around my knees, and my head hanging low ready to vomit again, I want to rock myself back toward birth. If I’d never been born, then I wouldn’t have to die. If I’d never been born, then I wouldn’t have ever killed.
After School / 3:00 p.m.
I made my way to my locker after the prep-pep rally, walking mostly uphill against the teeming Red Dragon masses crowding the hallway. Brody was at the office getting his punishment, while I was caught in a cloud of negative thoughts. M
aybe it’s how that day started with Mom’s questions about homecoming and some unstated expectation that I was failing to reach. Maybe it was seeing Whitney so beautiful at the bus stop or Rex so ugly to me before gym class. Maybe it was the stupid loudness of the rally or the silent loneliness I felt whenever I saw Nicole. Maybe it was all of these things, maybe it was nothing, but I’d never felt so pissed off. After tossing my books into the bottom of my locker, I loudly slammed the door on the day. The sound catapulted me into thoughts of tonight—drinking with Brody and Aaron, where nobody had expectations of me and there was nobody to answer to or judge me.
“You lock it?” I heard Aaron shout to get my attention. It was odd to hear Aaron’s voice at that volume. While Brody almost always yelled, I’d never known Aaron to, unless he was drunk.
“Sorry,” I said, then turned around to reenter the locker combination.
“No problem,” Aaron replied. I was amazed that Aaron, who had been so angry, so loud, and so drunk the night before could be so calm, so soft-spoken, and so far from hung-over.
“What time? The bus leaves at seven,” I said, using finger quotes around the word bus.
“Wanna meet up around six forty-five?” Aaron replied. “I gotta spend stepdad time before.”
My eyes bounced back a strange mix of envy and sympathy. “You going home now?”
“No, gonna go study,” Aaron said as he loaded up his backpack. That’s what hard classes and high expectations get you: strong arms and a surefire way to disappointment.
“Gotta run,” I said, then sprinted off toward the bus. I joyously pulled down crepe paper and stomped on balloons as I left the building, trampling on a little of that Dragon false pride.
Outside, I hung back by the flagpole as other riders gathered for the bus. Rusty and Bob were absent, probably in some pregame team meeting. While I felt bad about Brody getting kicked off that team and all, I liked having him around to hang with at school and after.
“You catching this ride?” I pointed to the bus as Brody slouched toward me.
“Nah, I’m hitting the weight room,” Brody said, then slapped the muscle on his left arm with his right hand. “Be my last chance to move some iron after school for a while.”
“How bad?” I asked, but didn’t want to look Brody in the eye about this topic.
“I got a week’s detention, plus I’ve got to rewrite the paper,” Brody said.
“Sorry, man, you know it’s my fault. If I would have told you I wouldn’t write it for you, then none of this—” I started, but Brody was having none of it.
“Damn Kirby’s fault, not yours or mine. She needs to get a life. So I cheated. If she wants to catch cheaters, she should spend time there.” Brody pointed at the football field.
“I guess,” I said. I knew I wasn’t to blame, but I was drowning in guilt anyway.
“See you tonight,” Brody said, then started to walk away.
“Six forty-five, right?” I reminded Brody, knowing I’d end up waiting for him regardless.
“No, Mick, 151!” Brody’s laugh was almost as loud as the crowd boarding the bus.
I waited until the Whitney World got on before I entered the bus. I kept my eyes on the floor, looking past gum wrappers and lost pencils, toward the seat behind Whitney. I slipped in easily, like I belonged. Whitney never blinked; she was busy talking with Shelby. I put my headphones on, so it looked like I was listening to music rather than listening in on them.
When I heard Whitney mention math, I treated it like Brody used to treat a fumble.
“When’s the next test in math?” I asked her.
“Next week, I think.” She sounded unsure of herself, or maybe she was unsure of me.
“Do you study a lot for that class?” I said, then leaned forward. I was making a big show of removing the headphones.
“I guess.” Whitney’s tone sounded more annoyed than embarrassed. I wanted to say, Look, I just don’t know how to talk to girls, but I’m really a nice guy. But then I imagined her response: From what I heard, you know very little about girls, and have little to do it with.
“It helps if you look at the board in class sometimes,” Shelby said, then giggled. And I knew I was busted. I didn’t say anything but my blushing face acted as my confession.
“Maybe,” I mumbled, then stood up and rambled toward the back of the bus feeling like everyone was staring at me: my humiliation seemed total as Shelby whispered something to Whitney, who laughed and then turned to the girl next to her. It was a tidal wave of embarrassment washing over me. The bus lurched forward as I walked against inertia to seek out Dave Wilson. Wilson was back in the same place I’d left him this morning, face against the glass. I kicked his seat gently.
“What?” Dave said, eyes still closed, obviously aware of my presence, no doubt because of the smell. I wondered if it was the stink from not showering after gym or from the shit that Shelby dumped on me. My odor was mysterious; Dave Wilson’s was obvious stoner.
“You got a smoke?” I asked, trying to retain some sense of cool self.
“Sure, dude,” Dave said as he opened his eyes.
“I owe you.”
“I’ll put it in my book,” Dave said, then laughed. A stoner laugh. Wilson reached into his long trench coat and pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels. He handed me a single stick.
“Thanks.” I put the smoke behind my ear, then moved back up near the front of the bus. I didn’t even stop to look at Whitney—shouldn’t I be looking at the board?—and waited for the next stop, which happened to be at WindGate. I breathed a smoke-free sigh of relief that Roxanne wasn’t on the bus as I exited with a few others. I watched the trailer parkers head toward their tiny homes, then watched the bus with the Whitney World pull away toward my neighborhood’s nice houses. Standing alone by the side of the road, I waited until the bus was out of sight before I pulled out my white lighter, a gift from Brody for my birthday. I knew Brody loved the lighter, so it really was about the thought, not the thing itself. Ex-Dad gave me a bunch of stuff, including tickets to a Lion’s football game next weekend, but Brody’s beat-up lighter meant the most.
I cupped my hand against the wind, then lit the smoke. I wasn’t scared of being caught by anyone. What was Mom going to say? Smoking is wrong. I knew ex-Dad was at work. He was always at work or pretending to be when he lived with us. I pulled the smoke deep into my lungs and started the long, lonely mile-plus walk toward my deserted house.
Then I saw him by the side of the road: the Scarecrow.
He had his HUNGRY VET, PLEASE HELP, GOD BLESS sign out, but few cars stopped. No doubt the ones that did were like ex-Dad, hurling insults rather than pitching pennies.
The cigarette dangled from my lips as I reached into my pockets looking for change. My wallet was free of pictures, love notes from Nicole, phone numbers, or even unused condoms. Those were stored with the First Times DVD deep in my closet. I found a couple of quarters, then walked toward the Scarecrow.
With each step, my make-believe dialogue built. I wanted to say, Man, how did you get like this? What happened to you? I had no idea what to do with my life, but I was figuring out pretty fast what I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to be some nine-to-five GM jerk like ex-Dad; I didn’t want to work at some clothing store like Mom where the world orbited around appearance. I didn’t know what kind of job I wanted, and sometimes I wondered if I’d even get a job. Last year in social studies class with Mr. Daunt, rather than reading about the dead civilizations of Greece and Rome, we read about current events. Mr. Daunt would bring in the Flint Journal and open my eyes to what was around me. Flint was becoming a modern city of ruins.
I threw my coins in the Scarecrow’s mostly empty can. The echo of a metallic clank rang in my ears, while my eyes focused on him. He looked back at me, and I felt the urge to flee.
With each slap of my shoes against the pavement, the anger within me raced. I ran past Whitney’s house, where she was no doubt still laughing at Shelb
y’s smackdown of me. I ran past Brody’s house; no doubt he was still at school pumping iron and building up a thirst. I ran down our vacant driveway and didn’t stop running until I was inside. I was out of breath, and drowning in rage. I slammed the door behind me loud enough to rattle the windows.
As I charged through the kitchen, I saw money on the table, a message on the machine, and felt the crushing feelings of disappointment, embarrassment, and humiliation closing in from all four walls. Everyone needed a place to be, but I was still shopping for a place to put my anger. It was backing up inside me, deeper and darker. I’d put my hand into the Bunsen burner this morning, but that only provided a temporary release for this fiery fury running through my veins. I took off the bandage and looked at my burned skin; the pain felt right as I reached for the phone to dial Nicole. I needed her acceptance to save me from my terrible day, or her humiliating rejection to push me over the edge.
What’s the most humiliated you’ve ever felt?
It was the first and last summer I played little league baseball. I was eight, and it was a strangely cold day with a light drizzle on a late June afternoon. I was waiting to hit, or rather to take three swings then sit down, when I noticed my parents in the stands. I felt stupid—both of them taking the time to watch me fail at sports. Dad looked bored; I could almost hear sighs from where I stood in the on-deck circle. Mom looked worried, like something other than rain-filled dark clouds was bothering her. I tried to focus on taking my swings, which didn’t seem to kill the butterflies in my stomach, it just sent them fluttering throughout my body. When the guy in front of me hit a double, I felt even more pressure. It was the last inning, the score was tied, and there were two outs; a hit would win the game. If there was anyone left to pinch-hit, I’m sure the coach would have put him in, but I was the last one in the game. I was almost crying I was so nervous, and I didn’t see Mom come onto the field until she was in the on-deck circle with me. In front of all the guys on the team and the other team, she handed me this bright yellow windbreaker to put on, to protect me from the cold. I tried to tell her to go away, but she was having none of it. Later, I told her how embarrassing it had been, to do that in front of my friends, but she’d told me something then that she’s repeated more than once so I’d always remember it: Mick, your friends will come and go, but you’ve only got one mother, who will protect you no matter what.
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