“We’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “We’re going to be okay, okay?”
“You’re damn straight we’re going to be okay,” I whispered back. “I have no worries whatsoever.”
Mrs. Mullen started class like five minutes late because she couldn’t seem to get her words out and she had to go to the bathroom. While she was gone, the whole class turned to stare at me and Maggie. Their mouths hung open, and their eyes watered like they were monkey zombies. Nobody said anything, except Maggie, who started turning red in the face. She said, “Hey, dick bags! Mind your own business!”
The rest of the day went just like that too. It was Maggie and me against the whole openmouthed, whispering school. They didn’t seem like they were going to attack us Lord of the Flies style, yet they couldn’t take their eyes off us either. “We’re going to be okay,” I said to Maggie at lunch.
“Yeah!” she shouted really loud. She smiled too hard, dingus. Scary smile.
After school, she acted like a total spazmo.
“We’re going to be just great! Awesome! Killer awesome!” Maggie said when the last bell rang. She kissed me. She high-fived me. And she went out the door to meet Mary, who was picking her up.
You know, pal, even with her spazmo flying full sail, I tried to believe her, tried to keep riding on the Good Times Express, but later when I was at Nussbaum’s, I had a hard time concentrating on the majesty of the law files.
Spazmo. Spazmo. Spazmo.
I took over for Emily Cook at the emergency desk at eight. She didn’t look at me or talk to me, even though I was all like, “Hi! What’s happening?”
She walked straight out the door. I chased her. “Seriously. Emily, what’s happening?”
But she didn’t answer.
And then I had to sit there for hours filled with my enormous worry, which totally kicked my energy sack. It took me, like, an hour to walk home in the morning.
And I couldn’t do it, couldn’t go to school. I called in sick. “Hello, I’m calling to say Taco Keller has fallen ill and he can’t get up.”
“Isn’t this Taco?” the secretary asked.
“I’m my own guardian, and in my capacity as guardian, I’m telling you Taco Keller has fallen ill,” I explained.
“Feel better,” she said.
I slept until 2:00 p.m. without waking once. It felt like five minutes. At that point I got up and called Nussbaum to tell him I was super ill because my head ached and my body hurt.
He said, “You looked like shit on a cracker yesterday. We’d better talk about your future before you run yourself dead, amigo.”
Then I slept again. The phone bleated like five times while I was in bed, but I couldn’t get up to answer it. I was too far gone.
At 9:30 p.m., after I’d spent the better part of thirteen hours asleep, I stumbled into the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat. There was a dry hot dog bun in a cupboard but no hot dogs.
I cried a little bit and then walked down to the EZ shop in subzero temperatures. I spent $3.99 on two turbo dogs and a fountain Pepsi. They made me feel as sick as sick as could be, but at least I got some calories in me because I wouldn’t get another paycheck for several days. I gave a fistful of that money to Maggie, and I had to pay for electricity and heat, which didn’t leave me enough to live on.
Only when I got home did I realize there were all these messages on the answering machine, and these messages made me forget my selfish hunger and illness.
“Where are you?” Maggie cried in her first message. “Jared Chandler just called me ‘whale mother.’ I’m hiding in the costume loft. I need you here.”
Twenty minutes later she’d called again. “Taco! Come to school!”
An hour later she’d said, “Why are people being so mean to me about being pregnant? Why don’t they respect life, man?”
Like ten minutes later, she’d said, “Coach Millen just snagged me in the hall. She said we have to talk after school. I don’t want to talk.”
Coach Millen is the cheerleading coach. Didn’t sound good.
And then finally, sometime later in the afternoon, she’d said, “I’m outside your house. Your door is locked. I rang the bell. I pounded, man. Where are you? Where are you? Don’t abandon me!”
I slammed down the phone and ran to the front door, flinging the thing open and looking out into the snow, but of course, Maggie wasn’t there. (Thank God because she would’ve been frozen to death on the lawn.) I must’ve been asleep so hard, dingus. I didn’t hear the bell ringing or pounding or anything.
I called Maggie’s cell, but it went straight to voice mail. “I’m here! I just got really sick and fell asleep for thirteen hours. Call me!”
Then I got on the computer and emailed Maggie.
Call me! Call me! Call me!
I waited by the phone for several hours, but there were no calls. There were no new emails either, except from Brad Schwartz, who wrote simply,
Uh-oh, dude. Pregnant???
I couldn’t sleep—half because I’d slept all day, half because my body clock was all messed up from working nights, half because I was having surges of adrenaline, waiting for Maggie to contact me, and about a third because Ms. Carlson, the band director, had also left a message telling me I’d skipped a basketball game without excuse and they’d have to find another bass drummer if I couldn’t be counted on, which made me want to puke.
Maggie finally emailed me at six o’clock the next morning. I’d been hitting refresh for forty-five minutes when the message popped up. She wrote,
It’s way too late to get an abortion, Taco. I’m coming over there, and we’re skipping school to talk because I need you to stand up and be a man and not think it’s okay to sleep while I’m getting burnt at the stake like Hester Effing Prynne.
Burnt? Hester Prynne had to wear a big A. Nobody burned her! But that wasn’t Maggie’s point, was it?
I hurt in my forehead. I took a deep breath. I’d already skipped a day of school. Would another hurt? Did it even matter? Did anything matter if I was such a screwup?
Yes! My kid mattered. And wasn’t I a dad, and didn’t our (me and Maggie’s) success as parents depend on me being available in times of need?
I wrote back,
You got it, lady pal. I’ll be here.
Maggie responded,
Stop calling me that. Cut the bullshit, Taco.
Lady pal? Stop with lady pal? But that’s what I called Maggie. How was that bullshit?
I went to the bathroom and stared in the mirror and promised myself I would cut the bullshit. Then I got in the shower and showered as hard as I could to try to wake myself up, but I was dizzy and very sad in my muscles, which is a really weird feeling. How can your muscles feel sad? They can. That’s why I laid so still after Mom died. Because even though I couldn’t cry, my muscles were so sad, they didn’t want to move. Liquid sadness had pooled in them. I wanted to lie down in the shower too. So I sang Wizard of Oz songs to try to cheer up. But I was no longer the Mayor of Munchkinland, and my pregnant girlfriend felt like she was being burnt at the stake because I was a little bullshitty boy who couldn’t even show up to school to protect her!
I toweled dry. Then I pulled my jams back on, slid on my bear-claw slippers, and sat down on the couch while I waited for Maggie to show up.
Maggie didn’t show.
Then I waited another hour, pacing, staring out the window, opening the front door, and looking up and down the street.
Maggie didn’t show.
By that time, both of us should’ve been in English.
Then I waited another hour, panicking until I thought I’d barf on the carpet like a drunken Darius.
But Maggie didn’t show.
I began jogging from the kitchen to the living room and back again.
Right before calc was t
o start, Brad Schwartz called. “Where are you?” he asked. “What are you doing, man? Everybody says you quit school and ran away.”
“I didn’t run away!”
“Why are you out of breath?” he asked.
“I’m running in circles,” I said.
“Run to school. Come to calc,” Brad said.
“I can’t. Maggie Corrigan is coming over, and we’re going to be adults and talk about this baby like adults,” I said.
“I just saw Maggie in the hall. She doesn’t look like an adult. She looks like a kid who is pregnant with a kid.”
“You saw her at school?”
“Yeah,” Brad said. “What other hall would I be talking about?”
“Oh my God! I’ll be right there!” I shouted.
Why did Maggie tell me to stay home and then go to school? I still don’t know, dingus. But I’ll tell you this: It caused me great consternation. Massive, crazy, energy-buzzing consternation, which, to be honest, wasn’t smart consternation. I slammed down the suite phone and took off for school as fast as I could. In fact, I bolted so fast, I was still wearing my PJ pants and my bear claw slippers. These furry slippers didn’t keep me warm in the snow, not at all. Snow soaked my slippers. Snow froze my toes as I ran. My jams didn’t keep me warm either. The wind blistered through the thin fabric and bit me on the butt. I ran down the hill and up to school.
Wearing this bedroom getup, I showed up shivering and red-faced and watery-eyed about ten minutes late for calc. I burst in the door. “Hi,” I said too loud to Brad Schwartz and the rest of the class.
Mr. Edwards took one look at me, pointed at the door, and said, “No, Taco. No way. You go straight to the office.”
Brad Schwartz looked scared.
“Okay, thanks,” I said because I didn’t really want to sit in calc anyway. In fact, I’m not even sure why I headed there in the first place. I guess because Brad called, right? Really, I wanted to know what the crap was going on with Maggie. That’s why I’d run to school in my damn PJs.
I was on my way to Maggie’s current events class when Dr. Evans, our principal, spotted me. “Stop, Taco. You come here right now.”
But I didn’t. I cut left and flew down a perpendicular hall, slipping with every step in my wet bear slippers. (I fell once and whacked my knee, but I popped back up.) Dr. Evans must’ve taken off running too, but not after me. Ten seconds later just as I got to Mrs. Schoebel’s room, an announcement boomed over the school intercom. It said, “Taco Keller, report to the office immediately. If any faculty or staff sees Taco Keller, please escort him to the office.”
I didn’t have a lot of time. I pounded on Schoebel’s door like a mountain gorilla. Maggie looked up from her desk and sort of screamed, “Oh shit.” Schoebel whipped open the door and grabbed the back of my neck in this Vulcan death grip. I tried to shake loose, but Schoebel is the volleyball coach, and the lady has some mad strength.
“Maggie!” I cried.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Maggie wailed, but she didn’t get up out of her chair to help me.
Mrs. Schoebel dragged me down the hall. I couldn’t stop her because my bear slippers have no traction (especially when they’re soaked). I kept twisting around to see if Maggie would follow us, but she didn’t. Coach Johnson ran up out of no place and grabbed my arm, and he kept me from twisting around.
These two big athletic teachers hurt my spirit, dingus. As they pulled, I said, “You can both let go, okay? I’m not fighting anymore. I’m going to the office.” But neither of them let go, and neither of them said a word. Truth is, if they’d let go, I would totally have run back to Maggie.
Later, Nussbaum told me I could sue them for getting physical. But I liked Schoebel and Johnson a lot, and they were just doing their jobs, even if it hurt to get dragged by my neck and my arm at the same time.
They pulled me into the office, past the secretaries, who were all standing and flushed in their faces, and back to a little conference room. I backed into a corner, and they crowded in after me. Both Schoebel and Johnson were breathing really hard, and their faces were all sweaty. Mrs. Schoebel glared. Coach Johnson shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“What?” I couldn’t take the pressure of all their eyeballs on me.
“What?” Coach Johnson spat. “What are you doing, Taco?” he shouted. “What in the hell are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know!”
Mrs. Schoebel sighed. “I have to get back to my classroom.”
“Tell Maggie I’m okay. Please!” I said.
“I’m not your messenger,” Mrs. Schoebel spat. She glared again before she stepped out.
As she left, Dr. Evans came in. Dr. Evans and Coach Johnson looked at each other for a moment. Then Dr. Evans turned to me. “So what is this?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“No?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“I don’t even know who to call, Taco. Your dad? The mental ward? You’re wearing bear slippers and pajamas. You’re breaking into classrooms? What are we supposed to do with you?”
“Why do you guys keep asking me questions? Why would you think I know what you’re supposed to do? Clearly I don’t know anything!”
“Calm down, Taco,” Coach Johnson said. “Right now, kid, or else.”
“Oh yeah? There we go again with the ‘or else,’” I said. “Everybody says, ‘Or else.’ Or else what? Or else you’ll kick my ass?”
“No,” Dr. Evans said.
“Yes!” I shouted. “Dad says everybody wants to kick my ass and that you’re just looking for an excuse! Well, here it is! Go ahead! Or else I’ll keep taking care of my baby!”
Dr. Evans blinked a couple times. Then she said, “Taco, I don’t want to hurt you. Nobody here does.”
“Or else!” I cried. “Or else!”
Dr. Evans said quietly, “No, we won’t hurt you, Taco. You have to calm down or else we can’t protect you. Do you understand?”
“Protect me from what?”
“Yourself, Taco, because your behavior warrants more serious intervention—police intervention—that could really mess up your life.”
The police? No, dingus. No. “Cops,” I said. I took some deep breaths. I nodded. I tried to blow out all the pain in my chest. I sucked in air and tried to talk calmly. “Calm down or else I’m a criminal. Is that it?”
Dr. Evans nodded. “That’s what we mean.”
I nodded again. I breathed more. “A real top-grade delinquent? Like a public enemy?” My voice cracked.
Dr. Evans nodded again.
I exhaled long and slow. “No,” I said. “I’m just me. Seriously.”
Dr. Evans nodded. She reached out and put her hand on my arm. “Now who do I call?”
“Um,” I said. “I can’t say. I don’t know. Could I have a minute to compose myself? I don’t really know how to answer your question, but I don’t want you to call the police or the mental ward.”
“Okay,” Dr. Evans said really quietly.
“You want me to go too?” Coach Johnson asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” I said.
“You won’t do anything stupid if you’re alone, will you?” Coach Johnson asked.
“No, I’ll just sit here for a few minutes. I swear. I’m just me.”
“I’ll be right outside this door,” Dr. Evans said to Coach.
“Well, okay,” he said and left. Dr. Evans left too, and it was me in my Taco cage, dingus.
Whoa. Who is the real dingus? Just call me Mr. Dingles.
After maybe twenty minutes of sitting and taking deep breaths, during which I couldn’t conjure up the voice of my mom or the image of the Tibet baby for guidance, I couldn’t really think of any adult who’d care enough to deal with me. (I couldn�
��t have them call my dad because I hated his guts for what he was doing to me and Darius.) I decided I had two choices. One, I could ask to be released on my own reconnaissance, which seemed like a long shot. Two, I could ask them to call Mr. Nussbaum, even though he was just my boss at my job that didn’t pay money. At least he seemed official since he’s a lawyer.
I also thought about climbing into a heating vent to escape. Except I wouldn’t ever be able to come back to school, and I wanted to learn, not become a criminal.
I stood and tried to leave to find Dr. Evans, but I’d been locked in the room, which seemed reasonable. So I knocked quietly but loud enough to be heard by somebody in the office. A second later, Dr. Evans opened the door and sat down at the table across from me.
“Are you composed?” she asked.
“I am. I’m not going to try to break out like Jason Bourne,” I said.
“That’s a relief. Is there someone I should call now?”
“Well, it’s complicated, Dr. Evans. I’m pretty much alone in the world, and maybe that’s part of my problem. If Mom were around, I know this wouldn’t be happening. But she’s not around, and it is happening.”
Dr. Evans nodded solemnly. “I liked your mom.”
“Yeah. Uh-huh,” I said. “Given that I’m alone in the world, my preference would be for you to not call anybody. If things were different, I might have asked you to call Darius, but my brother is already beyond the ‘or else’ stage. I don’t want to go there.”
Dr. Evans nodded. “You are already in trouble though, correct? I understand you’re the father of Maggie Corrigan’s baby. Is that true?”
“Yeah, we didn’t mean to make a baby. But we did it. You know…it. A lot,” I said.
“Okay,” Dr. Evans said. “You’re not in jail, but doesn’t that baby make you beyond the ‘or else’ stage in a different way, Taco? Aren’t you in over your head?”
“Oh,” I said. “Huh.” I thought for a moment and tried to answer that question as honestly as I could, and it seemed to me that I answered truthfully. “I don’t think so. I have a job, so I make some money. And I have a nice bedroom, so the baby could live with me, and I could definitely be its best pal. We could go to the swimming pool, and we could go running in the park—you know, do some swinging and have goofy little kid dance parties. I’d be the best dad.”
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