The bell on the door rang, and the protection of Vic Hansard was gone.
There was no one else in the store because it was midmorning by then and the customers sort of dry up between early morning and noon. Thank God because Dad and Grandpa crowded right up to counter and they definitely would’ve frightened any customers who might’ve been in there. They scared RC III. He backed up against the wall, tilted his head down, and stared at the floor.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dad whispered. “Where in the hell have you been? Why are you here?”
“Uh…because I work here?”
“You never came home!” Dad shouted.
“It was an accident!” I said.
“Were you with him?” he pointed over at RC III, who pointed at himself and shook his head no.
Dante popped his head out from back, smiled, and said, “Hey there, Rob, why don’t you come back here and help me lift some…lift some dough…onto the table?”
RC III nodded quick and disappeared in back.
“We’ll talk later, okay?” I said fast. “You can’t just shout in a business.”
“Are you on drugs with that kid?” Grandpa whispered, jaw clenched.
“RC III? No! Are you serious? I wasn’t with him at all! He drove me to Gore’s.”
“Who the hell is Gore? Is Gore that zombie chick’s pimp?” Grandpa barked. Dante was clearly listening right at the door because he let out this big-ass laugh and then pretended he was coughing.
“Pimp?” I said. “Are you crazy?”
“Gabe,” Dad whispered. “Where were you last night?”
“I’m sorry. It was stupid. I fell asleep at Chandra Wettlinger’s house. She’s Gore, the zombie you’re referring to, and she’s not a prostitute!”
Dante laughed loudly again, sir. Then he turned on the food processor, which drowned him out. Grandpa and Dad looked at the door and then back at me.
“I didn’t sleep a wink,” Dad hissed. “Your grandfather and I drove all over town. I called Justin, but he didn’t know where you were, which scared me worse. I couldn’t get the number of your quarterback friend. And I called and called you. Again and again, Gabe. You just had to pick up your damn phone, which I pay for exactly because I want to be able to get hold of you in circumstances like this.”
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I said. “It went dead.” I was breathless. Oh, shit, Mr. Rodriguez.
“You,” Grandpa said, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I really didn’t think you’d care,” I said.
“Why the hell wouldn’t he care if you’re dead?” Grandpa hissed.
“I just didn’t think you’d worry that much, Dad. You know I don’t get in trouble like that.”
“Come right home after work,” Dad whispered. “I took the day off. We have some talking to do.”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay. Sorry.”
“Good for you,” Dad said. Then he turned and left.
Grandpa stood staring, his face still red, sort of trembling. “You’re a fat turd. You got that? An ungrateful, fat turd,” he said. That was like getting kicked square in the junk, sir. My stomach dropped.
“Jesus Christ, Grandpa,” I whispered.
“See you at home, Chunk,” he said.
Oh, crap. What a great morning, huh?
I just wanted to fold over and die, but it didn’t end there, Mr. Rodriguez.
As soon as Grandpa and Dad left the store, RC III popped his head out from in back, blinked, then said to me (not Dante), “Sir, might Gabe and I take a quick break?”
“Ten minutes,” Dante said. “Don’t call Chandra’s pimp! Ha-ha!”
I was shell shocked, you know? Wasn’t exactly sure what was happening. Felt a little dizzy in my head, sir. I followed RC III around the counter and out the front door. He leapt up on the picnic table, pulled up his hood, which he wore underneath his donut T-shirt, and then said, “Man, that was one giant verbal ass-whupping you just got dealt.”
“I had it coming,” I mumbled. “But ow, my verbal ass hurts pretty bad now.”
RC III took a deep breath. He nodded and then said, “You can’t go home after work.”
“No, I have to.”
“You can’t. You have a bigger responsibility.”
I sat down in a plastic lawn chair next to the picnic table. “Dude, my dad might literally kill me, okay? I can’t—”
“Hey, man. Have you noticed my name?” RC III asked.
I looked up at him, “Well, I clearly know your name.”
“My pop’s name is William. Bill.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“But everybody calls me RC III like Robert Griffin the Third, right? RG III?”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Dude. There’s no Robert Carter the First. Pops is not Robert Carter Jr. He’s Bill Carter. I’m RC III because RG III is a hero of mine. I named myself after RG III.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Nobody even thinks about it, except Pops, and I’ll tell you this: It pisses him off. ‘Your given name isn’t grand enough for you?’ He says shit like that.”
“Oh?” I said because I didn’t have a clue at what he was getting at. “Sorry?”
“No reason to be sorry. My pops is a hard ass and he gets on me all the time, grounds me for coming home one minute late. But I’m me. I’m RC III, man.”
“Okay?”
“You gotta be Gabe. You set up this protest and Gabe has to be there, even if your old man kicks your ass for it.”
“I can’t,” I whispered. “Dad’s imbalanced.”
“Don’t talk to me about imbalanced. My pops took a thousand shots to the head playing ball. He’s imbalanced. And you and me are supposed to be up at the school at 2:15, man.”
“Dude, I can’t.”
“If you don’t show today, your band nerd movement is done. You get that? It’s all over. I’m not opening the school door without you, man. I can’t be responsible for that without your leadership.” RC III pushed himself off the tabletop, pulled down his hood. “We’d better go back in.” RC III reentered the store.
I sat there, blinking. “Oh. Damn it. Okay,” I said to an old lady with a dog who happened to be passing by.
When I reentered, Dante started making zombie prostitute jokes. But RC III told him “Not now” and Dante shut up. Wish I had that kind of power.
RC III didn’t say another word to me. He didn’t even really look at me. He was friendly enough with customers. Many wanted to talk football with him. I think he was worried about the band nerd movement. He likes the band nerd movement. He likes me, I guess.
After the lunch rush, I pulled my phone off the charger, took a deep breath, shut my eyes, and called Dad. He answered right away. I said, “Dad, this is a lot to explain. But I’m leading a protest after work and I can’t come home because everyone is counting on me.”
“No,” he said. “Come home.”
“No, this is serious.”
“Come home.”
“I won’t,” I said. “You’re…you’re not listening to me.”
“I’m telling you to come home.”
“Sorry. Some things are too important.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What kind of protest? Who do you have to protest?” he barked.
I hung up and felt like I’d been kicked in the wang because even though I don’t really like my dad, I love my dad. I had to lock myself in the bathroom to regain my composure.
Yeah, he knew there was something going on with the band! He’s the one who told me to write the stupid letter to the editor!
Dad called back three times, but I didn’t pick up. Then I texted his cell, This is important. I’m helping the band and all geeks.
Dad texted back, You’d better come home.
I didn’t go home.
You know, when Mom first left, I stayed at Justin’s for about a week. Dad couldn’t feed me. He couldn’t hold it together at all. He broke a bunch of Mom’s stuff and he stayed up all night sort of trashing crap and crying, which was not too great for me to see. When I went to Justin’s, Dad barely knew I was gone, I swear. Doesn’t matter. It sucked. That time sucked bad. Anyway, one morning, me and Justin were watching Adventure Time in his basement, eating some pancakes, and during a commercial, Justin looked over at me and said, “My mom thinks your dad is emotionally controlling. He’s, like, kind of abusive.”
I looked at him, blinked, but didn’t say anything because I was trying to figure out if what he was saying could possibly be true.
“Dude, you can totally live here if you need to. We want you to. Me, Mom, and Dad all agree,” Justin said.
“Okay. Thanks,” I said.
But right after I said thanks, I felt horrible, sir. That made me feel so bad for Dad. He’s not a bad guy, Mr. Rodriguez. I think he’s just had a crappy life. I don’t think he was that bad to Mom and she was obviously not that nice to him, okay? I went back home the day Justin said that.
No, I don’t want to hang out with Dad. Not at all.
No, no, definitely not. I don’t blame him for being pissed at me about being at Gore’s. I stayed out all night without telling him. Mom ran away without ever letting him know she’d fallen for some Japanese dude until she was already out the door. Makes sense he’d be freaked out.
Yeah. Yes, sir. Justin is a good guy. His parents are awesome and I miss them because they’re my family too. They would’ve taken me in, no doubt. I’d probably be a far more successful human being if I’d lived with them instead of with Dad and old dirty-mouth Grandpa.
That makes me feel bad too. I really like my grandpa.
CHAPTER 22
We left right after the store closed. We didn’t say a word while we rolled through Minnekota, but RC III smiled.
I wasn’t smiling. I was nervous, had to shut off my phone. No more Dad texts.
RC III and I pulled into the parking lot in his Honda. There weren’t many cars, but we were early by a few minutes. Gore was there. She sat on her hood with the Petersen twins. They were holding their French horns. I nodded at RC III and then climbed out and went over to her.
From there, we watched as RC III hoofed it to the west entrance of the school, where you can get into the weight room without going through the cafeteria.
“You think anyone’s going to show?” I asked.
Schae Petersen nodded.
Gore said, “Yeah, according to the messages, maybe too many people.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Lots of Geekers out there,” Schae said. Caitlin, her sister, smiled.
We fell into silence as RC III came back around the corner. He nodded to us, got into his car, and drove away.
Within a couple minutes, cars began flowing into the parking lot. Austin Bates’s yellow Dodge Charger came roaring in. (I wasn’t that pleased he’d come back after his dick-swinging moves the day before.) Then pickups, old shit Pontiacs, a Prius, a big-ass van (Mindy Solen’s Dad’s) filled with like eight people, and more. More and more.
And then the freaking tour van, okay? Wall of Sound rolled into the MLAHS parking lot. It took the van about thirty seconds to pull around. Everybody sort of swallowed their breath. Then all mouths hung open and they all looked like they’d been slapped in the face by the stupid stick. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Schae whispered.
The bus came to a halt about thirty feet from us. Then the door opened and Randall Andersson, MLAHS grad and band alum, climbed down. One other dude with curly black hair followed. He carried a bongo drum. Randall nodded and smiled at all the Geeks. Then he looked at me. “You Gabe Johnson?” Randall asked.
I nodded.
“Recognize you from Facebook.”
“How are you?” I asked, sort of shaking in my shoes.
“Everybody else in the band is asleep, but me and Jake are in,” he said. “We’ll follow you, man.”
I wanted to say, “Holy balls! Jesus! Holy nuts! What the hell are you doing here? I love you!” but I held it together. I said, “Cool.” I felt the power, sir.
Then I looked around at the mass of people. “Okay,” I said. “We’re going to have to move fast. There’s a ton of traffic out here. We’re going to get recognized…stopped out here in the parking lot, right?”
Schae nodded. Gore nodded.
“It’s time to roll. Get your instruments ready.”
Gore, the Petersen girls, and I slid off the car and motioned at the others who were just pulling in to hurry it up.
I watched while Tess Cook pulled her clarinet out and started putting it together.
Then it dawned on me. “Oh, crap! My trombone!” I said. “I don’t have it.”
“No worries, Mr. Gabe. You’re going to have to talk if there’s talking to be done,” Gore said.
“Just like middle school,” Schae said. “Everyone is following you around.”
I looked over at Schae and she was smiling hard just like smiley Caitlin, her twin. See, sir? I did have a natural leadership bone back in the day. It just went away for a couple years.
All around us, band geeks either held their instruments and stared at Randall or put together instruments without saying a word. Omar Fulwider and Cory Carlson pulled snare drums out of the back of Omar’s car. Lots of people weren’t band peeps at all actually.
Like small-sport jocks—cross-country runners and swimmers—and gamers and burners and chess players and crap. These people had brought kazoos and noisemakers like you use at New Year’s parties. What a throng, man, all dressed for summer in shorts and T-shirts and bikini tops (Tess). Didn’t look like a 1960s protest from a movie—but pretty cool anyhow!
I looked at the office window behind the front hedges, Deevers’s office. I could see a florescent light bank burning in there. No one looked out. When all instruments were assembled, I clapped a bunch of times. Everybody in the lot turned toward me. I motioned them to come closer. They all closed in.
“Here’s the deal. The outside door to the balcony weight room is open. We’re going to go in as quiet as damn mice, okay? We’re going up the stairs and to the balcony, and then on cue, we’re going to let those cheerleaders have it. We’ll blow for a minute or two whether or not they’re shouting at us. I’ll cue you to stop. Then I’ll say my piece. Everybody cool?”
Everyone nodded. Craig, Mark, and Teller, the cross-country guys, nodded. Jordan, Nick, Krissy, and Stephan, the gamers, nodded. All the many band people nodded. Randall and Jake from Wall of Sound nodded. Randall said, “Solid.” Even the burners (and there were like ten dudes and Mike Timlin and Raj Weigel were smoking cigarettes) nodded. Only Austin Bates sat there smug. “Whatever, butternuts,” he said.
“Don’t screw this up, ass wipe,” I spat back.
Gore grabbed my hand and smiled.
“Don’t worry about me,” Austin said, putting his hands over his head. “I’m cool, yo.”
Man, that 90s rapper thing is irritating, sir. I didn’t see him pull a huge Army duffel from his car before we went in. I turned and marched and thought everyone was right behind me.
RC III had done it. The door was open. We slid in without incident. Everybody really tiptoed because that back hall is all tile and concrete and it should’ve been noisy. I mean, it is noisy, but we all did great.
When we got to the top of the stairs, I pushed the weight room door open and poked my head in. There was no one in there, just like RC III had said. All football players were down running sand sprints at the beach. But I didn’t hear anything from the gym either. From there, I should’ve heard the cheerleaders and their big-
boobed, barky lady doing their thing. I looked back and held up my hand to tell no one to move and then I felt filled with adrenaline, my heart pounding in my throat so hard I worried someone could hear it, I got down on my hands and knees and crawled across the weight room floor—which is disgusting and sticky by the way—and slid up and peered over the edge of the balcony.
Sure enough, they were there. Kailey, Janessa, and Emily Yu were out front, drinking plastic bottles of water (not pop of course!) and Big Boobs was messing with the sound system in the corner.
A moment later, she clapped her hands like I had a few minutes earlier in the parking lot, got the girls’ attention, and began barking instructions at them. We need energy, girls! This isn’t about turning on your little boyfriends. This is about showing the world that you’re a force. The TV cameras are on you! What are you going to do about it?
The dance squad lined up. Big Boobs pressed something on a remote. The music began to pound. And Kailey and the team got all speedy stripper on it.
I motioned for the hoard—there must’ve been forty of us in total—to follow me over to the balcony. Just natural as can be, they all slid across the floor, keeping their instruments from hitting up against one another or anything else. Dance music thudded. Nick, a gamer, had his phone out of his pocket. He held the phone up and took video. I also saw a couple other raised phones. We all nodded in time with the music. We all packed in by the balcony wall. Then I gestured with my fingers, heart exploding, 1, 2…3! And just like that, we all stood up and began blowing our horns and flutes and pounding our snares (and bongo) and screaming and whooping.
The cheerleaders stopped and stared, as did Big Boobs. We totally drowned out the stripper music. In a matter of moments, the band (even Randall Andersson’s boy, Jake) naturally fell into playing the song we all know—“Tequila”!—like we do at basketball games and a couple of the younger cheerleaders started doing the “Tequila” dance from halftime. Big Boobs looked at us in shock, as did Kailey and Emily. But then Janessa started screaming (not that you could hear her) and the young cheerleaders (Jenny Case and Peri Jonas) stopped dancing. But we kept blowing hard and then Big Boobs took off running toward the main floor gym doors. And then Jenny and Peri, because obviously they couldn’t help themselves, started dancing again. When it got to that part of the song, we all—including Jenny and Peri—shouted “Tequila!”
Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders Page 12
