Stick

by Andrew Smith

  There were no other boats, no neighbors, nothing, as far as I could see, in every direction.

  I lifted my suitcase from the bed of the truck and followed April down the creaking catwalk. It felt like I was going to jail or a hospital, or something.

  Everything moved: the metal walkway, the dock, even the house itself shifted as the weight of our bodies made ripples beneath our footfalls. It made me dizzy.

  “Ever been on a houseboat before, Bosten?”

  I didn’t have to think about it. “No.”

  I followed her up the suspended gangway to the porch, and April unlocked the houseboat’s front door.

  We went inside.

  I put my suitcase down on the shag-carpeted floor. The place was as un-boatlike as anyone could ever imagine. The front room, the living room, looked like something you’d see in a regular apartment, with deep green carpeting, a sofa and chair with a glass coffee table shaped almost like a surfboard. The room was wide and surrounded by windows that faced out at the river and the bank. It opened onto the kitchen, made separate by a counter and bar that served as a dinner table. At the back were three doors that stood open on the bedrooms and a small bathroom in the middle.

  “Put your suitcase in that room.” April pointed to the door on the left. “That’s Willie’s rental. Where you sleep tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s better than a backseat, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  The room had a small cot that was covered with a red corduroy spread, and empty shelves that looked like pine wood were built into one of the walls. For some reason, I immediately got the feeling that there had been lots of tenants coming and going over the years.

  Then April showed me around the place:

  the bathroom

  “There’s enough hot water for

  one shower,

  so if you’re going to take one,

  you should do it now, before Willie comes home.”

  (I wondered what it would be like to

  take a shower with April.

  I thought it would be nice,

  especially the way she said to take one now)

  the living room

  “The TV gets three Portland channels on VHF, but

  you might have to fuck

  around with the rabbit ears.”

  (something about how she said that made me realize

  I had a boner)

  and the kitchen

  “You can drink the water from the sink,

  and Willie won’t mind if you find something in the

  refrigerator you want. Just be

  sure to leave him at least three beers.

  Willie always drinks three beers when he comes home.”

  “I don’t drink beer.”

  “Ever?”

  The sound of her question made my mouth water. And I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her, tasting her tongue, putting my hands up inside her blouse.

  “Yeah. Never.”

  I had to take a deep breath.

  Again.

  “You looked like a good kid when I first saw you.”

  I look like a monster.

  Who are you kidding?

  I took off my Steelers cap and watched April’s eyes.

  She didn’t flinch, didn’t flicker any doubtful look.

  April smiled. “Who cuts your hair, anyway?”

  I looked at the floor. “My mom was the last one. That was weeks ago.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a mess. I could give you a trim if you want.”

  April raised her hand. I knew what she was going to do, but somehow I couldn’t stop myself from leaning away when she combed the side of my hair with her fingertips.

  Nobody touches me.

  I knew she could see how embarrassed I became. “I kind of want it to grow long.”

  “I could trim the ends. So it looks good when it gets longer. It won’t look shorter at all.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Go in the kitchen and sit on one of Willie’s stools. I’ll get the scissors.”

  The kitchen had an orange linoleum floor. I pulled out one of the stools from the counter and sat on it. April went into the bathroom. Then she called out, “And take your

  shirts off.”

  First I had to adjust my boner. It was killing me.

  April was making me insane. I stripped out of my shirt and T-shirt and sat there on a waist-high stool, waiting for her.

  I wondered what beer tasted like.

  April came into the kitchen, carrying some scissors and a thin black comb.

  I kept my eyes on her swaying breasts as she walked.

  As soon as she touched me, I tensed up. She ran her hand flat over the top of my head, pulled my hair up through the comb, and made a few quick snips with the scissors. I felt goosebumps spread from my neck down to my nipples. And I felt stupid and childlike when April sighed and put her tools down on the counter, saying, “Relax, Bosten. You don’t have to be afraid.”

  Then she began to rub the back of my neck and shoulders—so hard it almost hurt—until my muscles loosened up. It felt really good, but not sexy. It felt like someone being nice to me. April went back to cutting my hair. It tickled as it rained down on my skin and made me sneeze once.

  “Bless you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There. Done.” She swung around in front of me. “You are a very good-looking boy.”

  I am ugly.

  Don’t lie to me.

  I am ugly.

  I didn’t want to move.

  She brushed the hair away from my shoulders and chest with her fingers.

  Goosebumps again.

  “I can sweep it up. I always do at home,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly. This is where I cut Willie’s hair, too.”

  I looked down at the orange tiles on the floor. “I bet you don’t even see his hair when it ends up down there.”

  She laughed. “You should go rinse yourself off.”

  “Emily says I should always take a bath after getting a haircut.”

  “Is Emily your girlfriend?”

  “Yes. And we take baths together.”

  I went red again, could see myself blushing on the pale skin of my belly.

  April’s eyebrows arched. “You do? I guess you’re not the good little boy I thought you were, after all.”

  I laughed.

  “But you won’t want to take a bath in there when you see how filthy Willie’s tub is. You better stand up.”

  “Oh.” And, me being completely dumb, I thought she wanted me to stand up now. So I did awkwardly, hoping April wouldn’t notice how I had to adjust the stubborn stiffness between my legs, so it wouldn’t stick out so much.

  She didn’t see. She was already pulling a broom and pan out from the corner beside the stove.

  “So, it’s okay if I take a shower?” I hadn’t taken one since Monday after gym class.

  I probably smelled like Paul Buckley on a bad day.

  “Sure. Make yourself at home. I’ve got to get Willie’s truck back, anyway.”

  April leaned the broom against the stove, then walked over to me and gave me a tight hug. Her breasts, heavy and full, pressed into my bare chest; and I’m sure she could feel the boner inside my jeans that pushed against the soft warmth of her belly, even if she politely pretended not to notice it.

  “I’ll probably see you tomorrow, Bosten.”

  “You’re not coming back?”

  She laughed. “I don’t live here. Willie’s my cousin. He’s just letting me use his truck since I wrecked my car on the bridge a week ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “My husband and me live over in McNulty.”

  Then I really felt stupid.

  And alone.

  “Bye.”

  I watched her walk across to the door and leave.

  “See you, April.”

  I went into the bathroom and took a standing-up
shower in Willie’s oily bathtub.

  * * *

  I fell into sleep watching television on Willie’s couch.

  The news broadcasts from Portland fascinated and terrified me. It was probably the first time I’d ever paid attention to news in my life, but I was somehow convinced that if I watched long enough, I’d see someone reporting a story about the missing teenage brothers from northwestern Washington.

  When I woke up, the TV was still on, and it was nighttime. Willie was cooking something in the kitchen. His hair was dripping wet, and he was wearing nothing but polka-dot boxer shorts, standing barefoot, drinking a beer. The smell of steam and soap drifted out from the open bathroom. He had just gotten out of the shower, I figured.

  I sat up, and Willie turned around when he noticed me.

  “Hey. Your alternator came in tonight. I’ll get it installed first thing tomorrow.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  “No big deal. I’m making hot dogs. You like hot dogs?”

  I was starving.

  “Yeah.”

  “But I only have ketchup. I hate mustard.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “You want a beer?”

  “No thanks.”

  Willie shrugged like he couldn’t figure me out. I guess teenager equaled beer drinker in Scappoose, Oregon.

  * * *

  When I slept that night

  I had a dream

  that Bosten was dead.

  * * *

  I didn’t realize how much two nights spent sleeping in a Toyota had deprived me of rest, so when I woke up in Willie’s rental room the next day, it was already nearly noon and I was all by myself in the houseboat again.

  I didn’t bother getting dressed, either. I figured Willie was the same as Aunt Dahlia as far as morning—or evening—standards of clothing were concerned. I went out into the living room. That’s when I saw the note he’d left for me on the counter.

  I always was a slow learner and had particular trouble, they said, with “language acquisition,” but Willie’s spelling made me feel like a college professor.

  bostun,

  I will fix youre car for you today. Sorry thiers not a phone, or I would call you when its done. I’ll be back when I can get finished up at the station. Theirs instant coco in the kitchen if you drink that. If it takes to long or something comes up you can stay till tommorow. See you later.

  willie

  I had to wash out a pot with cold hot dogs in it, just so I could boil water for Willie’s instant hot chocolate, but it was what I wanted, and it tasted good after the long night of sleep I’d had.

  * * *

  I started missing Emily so much it hurt.

  And I didn’t even want to think about Bosten.

  But they were both trapped inside me.

  * * *

  It was deathly quiet on the river, and I wanted to leave. But I was stuck there, floating on the water, helpless, just like I’d imagined so many times before. I tried watching the news, convinced that I was ultimately going to hear about me and Bosten, but we either weren’t important enough, or nobody even knew we were missing.

  Kids disappeared all the time, I supposed, and Bosten was technically old enough to take care of himself, anyway. At least he was old enough according to Dad, and to the State of Washington, even if the State of Washington had its own other set of special rules about boys like Bosten and Paul Buckley.

  * * *

  Nothing happened at all until Willie came home.

  It was after dark.

  Then more happened than I care to think about.

  * * *

  Through the living room windows, I saw the headlights on Willie’s truck bouncing along the bank. And I heard him talking to someone when he walked over the catwalk down to the dock, but it was too dark to see, and I naturally assumed—in an excited kind of way—that April was with him.

  She wasn’t.

  Something was different. I could see it right away.

  Maybe the way I hear things, or how I don’t hear things, makes me more sensitive to the expressions on people’s faces, the way they tense certain muscles. It was like that time Mrs. Buckley drove Bosten home, and I could see, just by watching how they moved, that something wasn’t right. But I was at the door as soon as Willie opened it, and I looked him square in the face. He seemed like a different person.

  He walked past me, carrying a paper grocery sack that was obviously heavy. It was full of beer bottles. I heard them clink when he put the bag down on the kitchen bar.

  There was an older man standing behind him in the dark on the porch. I put my hand up on my head. It was a habit of mine around strangers, especially when they surprised me. I wanted to be sure I had my Steelers cap on.

  I smiled at Willie. I guess I was lonely, sitting there in that house by myself, all day long. “Hey, Willie. Is my car fixed?”

  Willie looked serious, edgy. He held the Toyota’s keys out and I grabbed them.

  “It’s running good, kid.” Then he pulled out a carbon receipt from the pocket on his jumpsuit and handed it to me. “It cost thirty. Like I said.”

  “Oh.”

  The man on the porch came into the living room and shut the door.

  I fumbled in my back pocket for Bosten’s wallet and handed Willie a twenty and two fives. “Thanks so much, Willie. I guess I should head out.” I strained at doing the math, trying to figure out how much money I had left, and whether it would be enough to get me to Aunt Dahlia’s.

  The older guy carried a black canvas duffel bag. He dropped it on the floor and went over to Willie’s couch, where I had been watching TV most of the day. He had wild gray hair that made him look as though he’d been electrocuted, and he wore a dark wool CPO-type jacket that gave off a damp, sweaty odor.

  “Well,” Willie said. “I’ll take you back to the station in the morning. It’s Friday, kid, and I feel like doing a little partying, if that’s okay.”

  What could I say?

  I tried to think about how far it was back to the gas station.

  “Oh. Um. Sure thing.”

  Willie pulled two brown bottles from the sack. He had one of those bottle openers that had been bolted right into the kitchen wall. He let the caps fall and roll across the linoleum.

  “Want one, kid?”

  “No. No thanks, Willie.”

  I glanced at the man on the couch. He didn’t say anything more than a grunted and unintelligible something when Willie handed a beer across the coffee table to him.

  Then Willie put a full six-pack on the table and sat down, pulling the chair across the carpet so he was close enough to grab them.

  “Oh,” he said, “and this is my buddy, Brock.”

  The old man looked at me and nodded. His eyes were sunken and stained yellow.

  “And the kid’s name is Bosten,” Willie added.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I been to Boston. Around twenty years ago, I think,” Brock said.

  I didn’t care enough to correct him. I just stood there, wondering if I should sit or leave, thinking about how many times in his life Bosten had heard comments about baked beans and tea parties, or the Red Sox.

  Willie emptied his beer and took out another bottle. He opened it on the edge of a key he wedged into his palm. He dropped the cap on the rug.

  “And you’ll need to get your shit out of the room. Brock’s renting it tonight.”

  I didn’t really understand what was going on.

  I still don’t know for sure exactly what happened that night.

  The old man looked at me like he was waiting for me to say something.

  “Okay.” I started toward the room. “Maybe I can sleep on the couch.”

  “No,” Willie said. “We’re going to be partying. You can stay in my room.”

  “Oh.”

  Brock took off his coat and dropped it on the floor at the end of the couch as though marking a territor
y where he didn’t want any kids hanging around.

  His party territory, I guessed.

  It wasn’t like I had that much “shit” to clear out of the room, anyway. I un-carefully stuffed what I had out on the bed into my suitcase and carried it through the doorway into Willie’s bedroom.

  “Maybe I should just get out of your way. It’s not that far of a walk back to my car.”

  “It’s five miles,” Willie said. “Relax.”

  Brock looked at me and then at Willie. I could tell he was quietly trying to make some kind of a decision about me, and I found out soon enough.

  Willie said, “He’s all right.”

  Brock tweezered two fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out some little folded squares of white paper. He spread them out, like playing cards, in front of him on the glass tabletop.

  Willie tapped my forearm with his beer bottle. “Hey, Bosten, will you do me a favor?”

  I was already confused enough about what was going on. I imagined all the possible unreasonable things Willie was getting ready to ask me to do.

  “Sure.”

  “Put some music on, will you? And then go over there to that first drawer by the sink and grab me a couple razor blades. They’re right in front.”

  “Uh. Okay.”

  I turned Willie’s stereo on. It sat on three overturned plastic milk crates beside the bar. Buffalo Springfield. A little old, but I liked them. I thought of all the times I’d watched Bosten sing and dance around to “Mr. Soul.”

  Is it strange I should change? I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?

  The razor blades were each wrapped in thick paper. Single-edge utility blades, right where Willie said they’d be. I still didn’t have any idea what he wanted them for.

  As I picked them up, I thought about Paul Buckley. I wondered if he was okay.

  Brock opened up one of his paper squares and dumped a small pile of white powdery stuff out on the glass table. I gave Willie the blades and watched as he unwrapped one of them.

  Brock caught me staring, my mouth hanging open.

  “Haven’t you ever seen coke before?” he said. “Where’d you grow up, anyway? In a monastery?”

  Two things ran through my head: First, I didn’t think Brock actually wanted to hear me answer those questions, and, no, I had never seen coke before. I knew what it was, though. Kind of.