Because I didn’t want her in my room, we climbed the stairs and went out to the patio in the backyard. Grandpa eyeballed us as we passed. He knew I had a friend that was a girl, but Camille hadn’t ever spent time at the house since he’d been there. He nodded at me and winked.
No, there’s nothing between me and Camille Gardener. Don’t ask again.
After we sat down, Camille took in a deep breath and said, “Justin isn’t going to participate.”
“In what?” I asked.
“The concert.”
I shook my head. (I mean, I already sort of knew he wouldn’t do it.) “Wow. Are you kidding?” Actually, Justin was one of the big problems with the concert I’d already begun to consider. He’s first chair trumpet. He wins trumpet like he wins everything. Trumpets are important to a band. We’d sound like crap without him. “Why?” I asked. (I knew why.)
“He says he doesn’t have the time.”
“But he barely works.”
“He doesn’t work. He doesn’t start teaching swim lessons until June 24,” Camille cried.
I mean, she cried, sir. As in crying.
“Did he tell you?” I asked.
“Tell me what? That he broke up with me? That he has someone new?”
Oh, man. Dating? Crazy Camille. “You guys were dating?” I asked. “I didn’t know.”
“Weren’t we?” Camille asked. “What does dating mean? We went to movies and prom and out for coffee and we did homework together. Isn’t that dating?”
“Other than prom, I was with you for all of that.”
“We weren’t dating?” Camille shouted.
I mean, she shouted, sir. Seriously.
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, if you two were dating, then I was dating you too, right?”
“Who is she?” Camille shouted. “Who is he dating?”
“Oh? Who?” I asked. I figured Justin had confessed about Janessa.
“Is there someone else?” she cried.
Grandpa came out and said, “You’re waking the dead. Keep it down.”
“Sorry,” Camille said.
He grumbled something and eyeballed me in a way that said Get rid of the psycho hippie and then he shut himself back inside.
No, I couldn’t tell her, Mr. Rodriguez. It was at the tip of my tongue, you know? I wanted to get the news out there into the world because I was pretty upset about it too. But I couldn’t say the words, “Justin Cornell is dating Janessa Rogers.” Especially not with Camille so crazy and loud already.
What did I say? Something like, “He’ll rue the day, Camille. He’ll be sorry about all this.” Judging from last night, I think he does rue the day. Maybe.
“We can do this without him,” Camille whispered. “You and me.”
Before she took off, we posted to the band’s Facebook page.
Something like, MLAHS Peppers and Marchers, would you like to participate in a Spunk River Days fund-raising concert? Let’s raise money and save marching camp!
In an hour, there were about thirty comments. They all said something like, Money? Why money? Whose money? What money? Is this money for you, Camille? (Camille did the post.) Austin Bates, who’s this 90s gangster rapper wannabe, posted, Y’all are stupid bitches.
We seriously failed to communicate the money situation, sir. I did. It was my job because I was the one who had figured out that something had gone amiss, right?
Yeah, Shaver knew too. He should’ve been doing something. Last year, when the school board tried to get rid of the fall play, Ms. Feagan organized a letter-writing campaign. The Minnekota Lake Journal was filled with letters of support for the drama program. And when the school board met, like three hundred people showed up and it didn’t go through. Fall play is going strong. Ms. Feagan is meritorious, as I’ve said.
No, I don’t believe there were public meetings. Not real ones. I’ve looked back through weeks of newspapers and there weren’t any postings about upcoming school board meetings. All the crap that went down about the band was hidden.
That’s illegal, right?
No, Shaver sure didn’t handle this stuff very well, maybe because he, like Dad, couldn’t handle the breakup of his own family?
That’s just guessing. I’m trying to figure out why Shaver, a totally great teacher, shot out into the outer limits like he did.
At like two in the morning, in response to Camille’s Facebook concert thing, he posted, Don’t you bother!
I’m assuming Shaver made that post before his arrest. You should ask the cops what time they pulled him over. Teachers getting drunk-driving tickets? That’s not good. Maybe a teacher could fly under the radar up in the Cities. But in Minnekota, you get your butt pulled over for being a dangerous idiot and the whole town knows about it within a few hours. On the radio, in the paper, bubbling out of every convenience store clerk’s piehole, right?
That’s probably just what’s happening to me right now. Everybody chattering about the fat boy breaking and entering. Glad I’m locked in here instead of being out there in the cruel world.
RC III and Gore were scheduled at Dante’s for the morning, so I wasn’t in. In fact, I was sleeping like a big gourd in the garden when my phone buzzed.
Gore had heard first thing because Dante rocks out to the local station and they were broadcasting it every ten minutes. Minnekota Lake Area High School band teacher Barry Shaver was arrested this morning for driving under the influence. She doesn’t carry a cell, which is weird, but she’s weird. She called from the store’s number.
When I saw it was from Dante’s, I freaked a little. Answered, “Oh, crap, am I supposed to be in?”
“Gabe?” a very quiet girl voice said.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“You’re not supposed to be at work.”
“Good. Who is this?”
“Chandra Wettlinger,” Gore said.
“Why are you calling me?” I demanded. I blinked. My eyes burned from sleep.
“Your band teacher was arrested. I thought you’d want to know. The news keeps playing on the radio.”
“Oh, man.” It felt like a hot poker pierced my chest. “Oh, crap.” I couldn’t breathe. “Is he okay?”
“I think so. I don’t know. He might have a bad headache,” Gore whispered.
“Did he get in a fight or something?”
“Driving drunk,” Gore said.
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah, it’s not good news,” Gore whispered. “I’d better get to the counter. It’s busy.”
We paused, both of us.
“Hello?” she said.
“Thanks for calling, Gore,” I said.
Then she sort of laughed. “I don’t think you’re supposed to call me that to my face.”
“Sorry.”
“Bye, Gabe,” she said.
What an idiot, huh? Turns out Gore likes the nickname Gore. But really, that’s just a stroke of luck. It’s like if she got off the phone by saying, “Thanks for calling, lard ass.” How would I feel about that? I’m as bad as the rest, man.
I used to be anyway.
Even though it was only like seven in the morning, I texted Camille. She’d just heard. She called back instead of texting, which I normally wouldn’t appreciate, as I don’t really like talking on the phone. But this was pretty huge. “Did you see what Shaver posted to Facebook?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “I’m just getting up.”
“Check it out. I’m beginning to worry we’re going to lose band completely. What if they fire him?”
“Lose band?” I whispered.
“Shaver’s a criminal now,” Camille said.
“I can’t lose band!” I shouted.
“What’s with all the shouting?” Grandpa shouted from upstairs.
“What’s going on?” Camille shouted from the phone.
I put the phone back to my ear. “I have to go,” I said to Camille.
Here’s the deal, Mr. Rodriguez. Band has been my life, right? I mean, Jesus. Who would I even be? Nobody. My horn playing is the only consistent claim to any kind of excellence and love I’ve got. I really don’t do anything else.
“No,” I whispered. “No—”
On Friday, I’d made this declaration of war, but I didn’t really know what I was fighting for. I was just super pissed. Down there in the basement at that moment, I realized I was fighting for my life.
I opened up my laptop and got on the band’s Facebook page. I read through the comments, including Shaver’s early morning Don’t you bother! I became enraged. These lazy bandmate jerks were giving Camille lip? Giving me lip? (No, they didn’t know I was with her when she posted—but still.) Mr. Shaver said not to bother? Were we the only ones who cared? I got jacked up as hell and then I wrote. I figured everyone would just make crap of me, but I didn’t care.
Go ahead, sir, pull up the post. It’s public.
Gabe Johnson, June 10 at 7:25 a.m. near Minnekota, MN.
You fools, listen up. First, we are all seriously fools! Why? Because second, the cheer squad dance team—or whatever the hell they are—has been given all the money from the pop machine. I don’t know who did this, but I assume it’s Deevers and the Kaus family. We don’t have marching band because the school district is clearly, silently taking potshots at our program. Now our idiot teacher is getting arrested. (Oh, don’t you bother, Shaver, you jerk!) That plays right into their hands, okay? They could easily get rid of Shaver altogether and take the band from us. Who needs music at the basketball games and football games if there’s a bunch of girls in skirts jumping around? Get your heads out of your asses. If you care about band at MLAHS at all, you’d better message me today. Got it? You freaking Geekers are pissing me off.
I slammed my computer shut and screamed up at Grandpa, “Is Dad home?”
“More shouting, huh?” he shouted.
“Is Dad home?” I shouted again.
“Left for work.”
“Let’s work out right now!”
A couple minutes later, Grandpa came down the stairs in his compaction shorts. “You are one noisy son of a bitch lately,” he said.
I nodded. “So?” I said.
“I’m just saying,” he said. Then he put me through a hellacious kettlebell workout.
Not only didn’t I cry, but I rocked it, man. Grandpa’s right. Using anger to fuel a workout is killer, Mr. Rodriguez.
Two hours later, I had fifteen new messages on my Facebook post. By midafternoon, I had twenty-six.
The Geekers were becoming united. Sort of.
Strengthening the bone, I guess. The leadership bone.
Here’s the problem: I didn’t really have anything to tell any of the twenty-six band people who contacted me. So I wrote back to all of them. I’m putting together a plan of action. Stay tuned. This is the beginning.
Everybody was pretty cool, except Austin Bates, who wrote back to me, Can’t wait to hear about your big plan, fudge nuts.
Camille had to go to her grandma’s house to help her weed and crap, so she wasn’t available for counsel.
No, didn’t hear a peep out of Shaver. Why would Shaver contact me?
I know people think Shaver had something to do with all this, but other than falling apart and getting arrested, he didn’t.
Justin was totally silent. Remember how he texted me a couple days before with Talk tomorrow? He didn’t contact me at all. I’m sure he saw all the stuff on Facebook. He’s the class president and he stays on top of everyone’s business. Dude seriously knows if someone’s grandma in Ohio has a cold or whatever. He wouldn’t miss this band news just because he’d fallen in love with a magical evil witch.
Kailey? How would I know her reaction, man?
Okay. Sure. You already know apparently. Yes, I did get a Facebook message from Baba Obi that said I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
No, sir, I don’t mind if you use the facilities. Good luck to you. They aren’t pretty.
CHAPTER 12
Welcome back, Mr. Rodriguez. You were gone a long time.
Talked to who?
Yeah! You’d think the cops would do a better job cleaning their bathroom. It’s like they hired Doris to be the janitor or something. Better laugh than cry.
Way to change the subject by the way. Who did you talk to?
Fine. I’ll tell you about Tuesday.
Resort people really started flowing into the donut shop on Tuesday morning. It’s been a pretty cool start to the season, right? But the weather Tuesday got summery, temperature in the 80s (not great for a fat kid who sweats like a hot dog). The rich people swarmed, man. Two Long Johns! Is this whole wheat? Do you use local ingredients? Half dozen of the glazed—Gore and I were on, but Dante had to call RC III to come help too. That’s how crazy it was.
While all the richies shouted about donuts, Camille texted me like ten times. She kept suggesting different places where we could have the concert. Wilson Beach on the sand, the playground next to the marina, softball field (which is actually in use throughout Spunk River Days), etc. Then she asked questions like Where are we going to practice? I drove up to school. It’s locked. How can we get the sheet music? Music stands? How many songs do you think we all know by memory? Haven’t marched or pepped in a long time.
At one point, even though customers were staring at me, I texted back TOO BUSY. TALK LATER.
RC III and Gore glared at me. Gore said, “Stop looking at your phone. Too many customers. You’re not acting like a professional.”
“Like a professional donut salesman? What’s that?” I asked while I was pulling a jelly-filled donut for a blonde kid.
The kid’s mom smiled.
“Quality in all we do,” Gore said.
“Hah,” RC III laughed. “That’s what my dad says.”
“Quality in looking like a zombie,” I mumbled.
“I heard that,” Gore said. RC III glared at me and shook his head. But Gore laughed a little. Gore doesn’t ever let rip like a roaring laugh, but she actually laughs a lot. It’s just sort of hard to tell. Her black lipstick mouth doesn’t really smile. She just makes a little exhale sound and her eyes crinkle.
Did you know she has purple eyes?
Well, blue-violet anyway.
Man, we worked and worked and worked.
Around 10:30, the store emptied out, largely because Dante didn’t have enough donuts made and our shelves were all pretty much bare (except for just the regular, unfrosted cakes, which aren’t that tasty).
I lifted my apron up and wiped sweat off my face.
“Not smart, man,” RC III said. “That’s a dirty apron.”
“You have icing on your forehead,” Gore said.
I used my sweaty hand to wipe icing off my forehead. What a sticky mess. Donut work ain’t easy work.
RC III made a face. “I’m going to go get you a wet towel,” he said. He disappeared in back.
Gore leaned over the counter and took a deep breath. She didn’t wear a Dante’s T-shirt like RC III and I did. She wore a lacy blouse with the sleeves rolled up and a Dante’s apron over the top.
“Who keeps texting you?” she asked. “Your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said.
“Camille,” she said. “Is that who keeps texting?”
“Yeah.”
“What does she want?”
“Jesus. Why do you care?” I spat.
“I don’t know,” Gore said. She swallowed hard. “Never mind.”
RC III came from
in back and tossed me a towel. He gave one to Gore too.
“No. Sorry,” I said, wiping my face. “She wants to know where we should practice and where we should have the concert next weekend because it has to be a place around Wilson Beach where Spunk River people will actually show up.”
“Go up to school,” RC III said. “Practice there.”
“It’s locked up,” I said.
“No,” RC III said. “It’s open in the afternoon for a couple hours.”
“Oh,” Gore said. Then she stood up straight. “Too bad you’re such a jerk.”
“I’m not a jerk,” I said.
“No, dude! You a real ass to her,” RC III said, pointing at Gore.
“I am?” I asked.
“You know there’s a ballroom in my house?” Gore said.
Yeah. Gore lives in that giant Victorian place about two blocks up shore from Wilson Beach. Twin Cities richies used to build mansions instead of jamming themselves into little cabins and resorts.
Yes, sir. It’s a cool place. Scary. Which is appropriate. I mean, that sort of adds to her legend, you know? Legend of the murder-crazed girl in the haunted house.
“Oh?” I said.
“So if you weren’t such a jerk, I’d let you practice there. Dad isn’t home this week.”
“Wow. Okay. That’s really, really nice of you,” I said.
“I didn’t offer anything, you jerk,” Gore said. Then she went in back.
“Why are you so mean to her, man?” RC III said. “It’s like you never learned common manners. Why would you pick on that girl?”
I paused for a second. “Ow,” I said.
“Yeah, ow, man,” RC III said.
Honestly, I didn’t know I could be mean to anyone.
“Holy balls. I’m really, really sorry,” I said to RC III.
“Don’t tell me, dude.”
“Right,” I said. Then I ran outside and picked a bunch of dandelions off the strip between the sidewalk and the street. When Gore returned from in back, I handed her the bouquet.
She looked down at them. “Okay,” she said.
“These are yours, okay, because I’m really, really sorry I’m a jerk.”
“Nobody has ever given me flowers,” Gore said.
Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders Page 6
