Goth girl says holy cow. Ha-ha.
After the shop closed, me and RC III sat down at the picnic table out front, which was becoming like our office because we sat out there so much. RC III brought a whole box of leftover bismarcks. (Dante overproduced donuts because the morning before was so crazy.)
RC III opened it and grabbed a jelly-filled one and then offered the box to me.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Really?” he asked.
“Can’t. Those things will make you fat,” I said.
“True. If you eat too many of them.”
“Every day, which is what I’ve been doing for the last couple years.”
“Well, not lately. You dropping weight?” RC III asked.
Okay, Mr. R. Okay. This question filled me with such instant pride I can’t even tell you. I had been in huge pain and exhausted for almost five days. I hadn’t broken though. I ate no donuts. No pop. I barely had a third of the dinner I usually ate. I’d worked out…hard. And yes, that morning, when I pulled on my damn stretchy pants, they felt a little loose in the midsection.
Like the stretch didn’t have to stretch so far.
“A little,” I said, nodding. “Working out with my grandpa.”
“Your grandpa in his jock strap at the door? Weird, dude,” RC III said.
“Yeah. Totally.”
Awesome he mentioned dropping weight because that was enough for me to look those donuts in the eye and say, You’re not going down the hole, chocolate friends.
Then he asked me about Gore; “She have a boyfriend or anything?”
“I don’t know what she does,” I said.
“She’s cool,” he said.
“I guess,” I said.
“You like her?”
“No!” I said. “Remember? I’m mean to her.”
“Chill. Just asking, man,” he said. “Watched you on the phone with her. Your face was all lit up.”
“What do you mean ‘lit up’?”
“Smiley. You going to her house tonight?”
“Uh. Yeah. Everybody. Because—” I got all tongue-tied because I suddenly wondered if I loved Gore. I’m crazy. “Just because she volunteered her house. Guess we’ll put her ballroom to use. We have to practice for our nonexistent concert, you know.”
“Uh-huh. Did you come up with any better strategies? I fear for that concert.”
Then I told him the story about my letter to the editor and he shook his head.
“So much for free press, man.”
“I know. Blows my mind,” I said.
“You know what? I think you should have a protest.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Why are you laughing?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?”
“No, this town is backward and inbred and shit. Needs some shaking up. You should protest those cheerleaders and that new candy coach of theirs right up in their faces.”
I thought about it. He’s right, right? Then I pictured me with super long hair and Camille in her hippie pants playing tambourine, singing We shall overcome to the cheerleaders. “That’s pretty funny,” I said.
“How is that funny?” he asked.
“Like, if they had evil corporate cheerleader offices and we’d come and camp out in their plaza and smoke weed and play Hacky Sack and guitar and bongos and crap. Hilarious.”
“First, my grandfather was part of the civil rights movement and he’d be pretty offended by what you describe as a protest.”
“Oh, sorry.”
RC III stood up. He was jacked. “Second, those girls have already occupied your summer program. That crazy-ass coach is up at your school, squawking at them like she belongs. Don’t you think they should know the pain they’re causing you all? The pain of occupation?”
“Maybe—” I said.
“Uh-huh. I’m right.”
“You are?”
“Mind if I come over for your practice tonight?” he asked.
“No.” Then I shook my head. “You want to come to band practice. Really?”
“Yeah, I’m curious about your band.”
“You know we’re like a marching band, not a rock band, right?”
“Uh, dude, I heard you play a lot last year. I’m in sports, you know?”
“No. I had no idea!” I said. “You? You’re so small and out of shape!”
RC III laughed his hehe giggle laugh. “You farmer kids crack me up, man.”
“I’m not funny,” I said. But I got a little burst of adrenaline. If RC III showed up at the band rehearsal, people might think we’re friends.
Whoa. I just said that out loud, Mr. Rodriguez. I want you to know that I know saying that out loud makes me sound like a big superficial idiot, okay? I’m telling you the truth about everything because clearly a liar would try to hide the fact that he’s so superficial and dumb, right?
At the time, I thought RC III wanted to go to the practice because he was hot for Gore, but I think he actually really likes nerds generally.
CHAPTER 16
After work, I walked in the door and found Dad lying on the couch, eating some Italian cheese bread, which I like. Italian cheese bread is one of the better things Dad makes. (He doesn’t make much, Mr. R.) “I left you a couple slices in the oven, Gabe,” he said. My heart began to beat a little heavy. My mouth watered. Like a zombie looking for flesh, I hobbled into the kitchen. I pulled the oven door open and took a big whiff. Oh, the sweet smell of melted butter and mozzarella on French bread. Without a thought in my head, I reached out for a slice and then received a blow to the shoulder, which made me cry out in pain.
I quickly turned to punch out whoever had done this to me. (Really, I meant to punch.) Grandpa stood there shirtless, a snarl on his lips. In his right hand, he carried a small, red-and-white, speedo-like swimsuit. “Put this on,” he whispered. “We’re going to the river.”
“Why?” I whispered back.
“Your old man took the day off so he could stay home and keep an eye on us.”
“Eye?”
“Spying. You want a workout?”
“Yeah,” I said, staring at the swimsuit.
“Strap this sucker on your nuggets.”
“I don’t know, Grandpa,” I whispered.
“Do you even have a pair of shorts you fit into?”
“No.”
“Then you’d better do as I say or we’re going to have to skip today—unless you want your old man to know you’re working out, which is fine by me.”
Yeah. Tiny suit. I still find it hard to believe I agreed. Back in the day, I was a pretty good swimmer. I did summer swim team with Justin for a few summers, but I hadn’t been in water other than the shower for a couple of years (and I sure didn’t want to wear any swimsuit, much less a damn banana hammock swimsuit). But I thought about RC III asking me if I’d lost some weight and I really didn’t want to miss a workout. And I didn’t want to be in the house with that cheese bread and I really didn’t want Dad involved. Stupid, maybe. But I did it. Wrapped that sucker around my nuggets.
Stupid in that it caused me trouble. Maybe because in the end, who gives a crap about Seth Sellers and mean people? Who cares what they think?
I went down to the basement and pulled on this red-and-white checkered suit, which was as small as they come. I think the thing was something Grandpa wore in the 70s when he was a little bit bigger. It slid up over my thighs okay. (Grandpa had giant bodybuilder thighs back in the day.) But my waist is pretty dang big. I tied the thing and it settled under my gut. I looked in the mirror and I looked like one of those inflatable clown punching bags for kids with a rubber band wrapped around the middle. I bulged out on either side. Big time. “Oh, man,” I said. I pulled my stretchy pants on over the top and grabbed my hoodie and climbed the stairs. Fe
lt like I was losing blood flow to my wang area. Not pretty.
Grandpa met me at the top of the stairs. He carried a duffel bag. He wore his giant old-man sunglasses. He called out to the living room, “Me and Chunk are going for groceries. You need anything?”
Dad was clearly snoozing. “What?” he mumbled back.
“Groceries,” Grandpa said.
“Good, good,” Dad said.
Grandpa went out through the back door and then crept around the side of the house. I followed, sort of ducking, I guess to stay out of sight. We jogged to the front where Grandpa parks his orange van, which he’s had for my entire life. It’s a 1980s Chevy. It has ripped-up seats. It sounds like a construction site when it runs, which it doesn’t very often because Grandpa doesn’t leave the house much, only for groceries (or to take me to school the couple times I was late).
When we were both in, Grandpa said, “Spunk River Challenge. Used to do this when I was a kid.” He turned the key. The van exploded with noise. We took off. There are no seatbelts in this van, sir, which is highly illegal.
We drove through town, scaring children with the violent noise. (We made a toddler cover his ears and cry on Park Street. The mom glared at us.) We parked at the far edge of the lot at Wilson Beach near the mouth of the Spunk River.
“We can’t swim here,” I said.
“Sure we can,” Grandpa replied. “Current makes you work hard.”
“People are going to see me,” I said.
“So?” Grandpa said. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem is I’m a blimp,” I said.
“Get over yourself,” Grandpa said. “Nobody gives a damn but you.”
“Yeah. Right.”
I was very, very nervous and jumpy pulling off my pants and hoodie, but I did it. I’m glad I did it. Take back the night. Reclaim Gabe!
Grandpa (wearing a silver suit so tiny it was pretty much a thong) waded right in and he’s all muscle, so he’s kind of a sinker. He took a couple steps and boom—he was under. I cried out and then jumped in after him. As soon as I hit the water, Grandpa’s head popped out from under the surface. He spit water out of his mouth and said, “Stroke it, boy!” Then he took off dog-paddling. I know how to freestyle and I passed by his ass really easily.
The river is not huge, right? It’s what…maybe twenty yards across at Wilson? Well, I beat the old man across by about ten yards. He shouted, “Give her another run!” So I pushed off the muddy bottom and swam back. About midway through, my muscles started burning and I stopped and took in a big breath and sucked some water in and coughed a bunch and panicked for a second and then thought, Dude, you’re like ten feet from where you can walk. Don’t be a wuss. It’s not like the Spunk is super deep. The lake drops off pretty fast, but no matter what, ten yards just isn’t that big a deal. So I swam another four or five strokes and got to the edge and I felt awesome. It took Grandpa about five minutes to turn around and come back to my side.
“Let’s do her again.”
I did. And my muscles burned more and the current pushed me. But I just kept kicking. And the sun beat down on the water and birds flew by in the sky. And back and forth I went another time.
The third time I honestly thought I might die. (Not really, not exactly, but I was dousing out like a late-night campfire.) It took me a long time to swim that one, my heart crushing out thuds in my chest, and Grandpa totally kept up with me, doing his dog-paddle spittle swimming. He must’ve swallowed a couple gallons of that gross water because by the end of the third back-and-forth, he was pretty cashed.
“Good boy. Good work, Chunk,” he coughed.
We had to sort of slide up the banks on our bellies and we got pretty muddy. And once we got out, Grandpa coughed and threw up a bunch of water on the grass. That’s gross.
He stood up straight, put his hands on his hips, coughed some more, and then laughed. “Hell’s bells,” he said.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I don’t know how to swim too good. But I knew you liked it,” he said.
“I do,” I said. “That was super fun,” I gasped.
“Mind if we lie down for a minute?”
Grandpa pulled a couple towels out of the duffel bag he’d brought. We spread them out on the ground and I spread-eagled on my back. The sun beat down on my flesh (for the first time in years), and unfortunately, I was asleep within seconds. Swimming is tough.
I wouldn’t have gone to sleep if I thought anyone was around. We were too close to the maintenance shed. Easy to see for city park workers like Seth Sellers, who has a summer job with the city. He’s silent like an assassin. He didn’t wake us up anyway. Seth Sellers posted a picture that afternoon. “Beached Whale and Donkey Man asleep in park.”
I wish I’d at least pulled on my hoodie, you know? But the sun felt really good. I’ve missed the sun.
When we got home, Dad said, “Where are the groceries?”
Grandpa stumbled around for words. Then I said, “Well, I’ll be damned. We left them in the cart.”
“You were gone for two hours,” Dad said.
“You were asleep, you lazy ass,” Grandpa said. “We were gone a half hour.”
“Oh, really?” Dad said.
We had to climb back into Grandpa’s shit mobile to go back to the store. The mud on my belly was itchy as hell.
Dad was totally suspicious. What a jerk.
At least it absorbed enough time in the afternoon that I didn’t have time to look at my computer. I don’t know if I’d have gone to Gore’s house with that Facebook humiliation hanging over my head.
Beached whale.
Hey, Mr. Rodriguez, there’s a dude at the door.
CHAPTER 17
What did Chief Bartell have to say? Does he think I’ll get the electric chair?
Yeah, thank God we don’t have capital punishment in Minnesota! People really hate pop machine robbers. Die, pop robber! Zap!
The case is developing? That sounds a little scary, okay? What do you mean?
I’m telling you the whole story.
Yes, I am. If you know something I don’t, you should say it!
Fine. We met at Gore’s that afternoon. Camille picked me up.
Yes, sir, it is a castle. Big old pointy turret Victorian castle. It’s pretty freaky really. Scary if you’re scared by stuff like that. (Tess Cook, for example, is totally freaked out by old-castle-looking places apparently.)
Why would you live in a place like that when there are only two of you? Just Mr. Wettlinger and Gore in there? There are like eight bedrooms and five bathrooms!
Yes, they have parties. And there always seems to be people visiting from out of town. I saw a group on Friday. Gore’s dad is gay obviously. It’s not like a big secret or anything. He has old-man dance parties. I’ve been to one now.
I’m a pretty great dancer, sir.
In any case, the point is this: Between Camille’s invitation and my freak-out post about how we’re all idiots, lots of band peeps were motivated to show up at the meeting.
Wow, you have a list of attendees?
Yes, that’s everybody, I think. All the original Geekers. The police do good work.
No, RC III wasn’t there. He couldn’t. He texted that he got in a fight with his dad, so he had to stay in for the night. He doesn’t really belong anyway, you know? He’s not a Geeker. Not by any stretch, man. He’s a jock.
J. D. Carlson? Are you kidding?
No, J. D. Carlson wasn’t there. He had nothing to do with this. He’s a crazy loser. Totally on drugs.
He was caught breaking into pop machines last night? Huh. Really?
I think he did that on his own then. Random coincidence?
Well, a couple big things happened while I was out swimming, sleeping, and buying grub with Grandpa. First, Seth Sellers
posted the picture of me wearing a tiny checkered swimsuit on Facebook. So that was great. Second, word started to spread around Minnekota that the school board was meeting on Friday afternoon to discuss the possible dismissal of Mr. Shaver.
The dude did it to himself, you know? Drive around drunk in this little town? Come on! Problem is, he’s a nice guy and a great band teacher, so this hurt.
Camille and I got to Gore’s first. We rang the bell (sounded like a church bell bonging). Gore opened the door, didn’t smile, nodded, and turned and we followed her back through the giant house—big foyer, living room with giant fireplace, and giant leather couches attached to an open kitchen. (They had clearly remodeled the hell out of the place. Mom used to watch a lot of HGTV, so I recognized the quality appliances and crap.) Then we went out a deck door to the back, which has docks and looks over the lake.
“Dang,” Camille said. “I thought our farm was pretty.”
“Your farm is pretty,” Gore said. “I’ve seen it.”
“Oh?” Camille asked.
“You want some chips? Lemonade?” Gore gestured to a cooler with her spatula.
I walked over and got a lemonade. Camille sat down and stared out at the lake.
Gore stood over sizzling meat, totally grilling up a storm, which looked funny as hell because she was wearing a black dress that went all the way to her feet and thick black eyeliner and lipstick and she’d totally pancaked her face white as a ghost. Because I’d seen her a few times at Dante’s wearing an apron, the full regalia was pretty startling, especially as she was grilling hamburgers in it.
Without looking at us, Gore said, “So that picture of Gabe. Attempt at crushing you, huh?”
“Oh,” Camille sat up straight. “Yeah. It’s pretty bad. What were you doing lying around on the ground like that, Chunk?” she asked.
I popped open the lemonade and took a sip. “When? What?”
“When Seth Sellers took that picture of you and your grandpa in your shiny underpants,” Camille said.
“What?” I shouted.
“Crap. Okay. I thought you were avoiding the topic. That’s why I didn’t mention it in the car,” Camille said. “Chunk, um, I’m sorry to say that you’re an MLAHS Facebook sensation.”
Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders Page 8
