by Andrew Smith
EMILY
“Hi, Em.”
“Oh my God, Stick, are you okay?”
“I miss you so much.”
Aunt Dahlia cleared her throat and made it obvious she was leaving to go outside.
“I love you, Emily.”
“I love you, Stark McClellan.”
Make yourself not get choked up.
“Please tell me you’re coming home.”
“I love you so much, Em. I wish I could hold you, and just hold you forever.”
“Stark?”
“I don’t belong there with Dad.”
“Please come back.”
“I have to live here now, with Aunt Dahlia.”
When I said that, Emily began crying.
“You will like her, Em. She promised you could come stay with us this summer. And I will sleep out on the couch. Unless nobody notices I’m not there.”
“What will I do without you?”
“Summer’s not too far away.”
“I know you can’t come back. I hate this.”
“I love you.”
“You promise I can come?”
“Yes.”
“Will you wait for me?”
“I think Aunt Dahlia wouldn’t care if we took a bath together.”
“You better not do that with anyone else.”
“I promise.”
* * *
When Aunt Dahlia came back, she carried strawberry ice cream from the Corner Store—a place that sold bait, surf wax, and beer—that was just at the top of the Strand. She put a birthday candle right in the middle of the carton and lit it, and she promised that she would never forget my birthday again.
Then, after we watched television until we both started dozing off on her couch, Aunt Dahlia tucked me into bed and kissed my forehead.
“I suppose now that you’re fourteen years old, I’ve missed out on an entire lifetime of chances to tuck you in and kiss you good night, Stark.”
“Not too much,” I said.
She flicked off the light and closed my door, and the words that Emily said tried to eat their way out of me.
* * *
I know you can’t come back.
* * *
On a Friday
before Saint Patrick’s Day,
Emily Lohman planted a miracle in me.
When I woke up
* * *
when I woke up
* * *
in the morning
my chains were loose.
* * *
I know you can’t come back.
MOM
The following Monday I started school at Anacapa Junior High.
I wore my Steelers cap.
I was afraid.
* * *
Aunt Dahlia drove me there. We sat in the parking lot together. It was almost an hour before the first class, and hardly any kids had shown up yet. I was nervous about this new situation. I didn’t know anyone at all. Evan and Kim went to high school. I couldn’t imagine feeling more out of place than I did at this new school.
But that was only part of it.
I had been in California for a week now, and we hadn’t heard anything about Bosten. Aunt Dahlia knew what was happening to me. I felt like I was dying, like I was completely losing my connection to the most important thing in the world.
* * *
They did not put me in the mentally retarded class.
I don’t think they had one in Oxnard.
But during homeroom, they called me up to see the school nurse, a big brown woman named Mrs. Mendoza, who had very warm hands and big teeth that showed when she smiled.
She asked me to take off my cap.
I knew what this was about.
“I’m not mentally retarded.”
Teeth.
She put her big, warm hand on my shoulder.
“My goodness, I’ll bet you’re six feet tall. Do you play basketball?”
I shook my head.
I imagined they’d be measuring and weighing me in gym class today.
“And who ever said you were mentally retarded?”
I shrugged.
I took off the cap.
Mrs. Mendoza gave me some candy. It wasn’t bad at all, I mean, having her look at me. She was very nice, and it felt warm when she touched my neck, feeling around for things that I didn’t know were in there.
Anotia.
She said a name for it: being born without an ear.
Anotia.
All this time, I never knew it had a name.
That it was something.
The word went in my head, and stayed there.
It sounded nice.
It felt comfortable.
Like I was something.
It made me feel so good that I wanted to hug Mrs. Mendoza. She knew who I was, like I was just another kid, and maybe for the first time in my life, I started to feel like it really was no big deal.
I wondered if she knew the name for being born with three nipples.
“You aren’t the first boy I’ve seen who was born this way.”
There were others.
“Really?”
“Really. One day, maybe you and your aunt can come in together and we can talk about it.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“You just let me know if it’s giving you any trouble doing things in class, and we’ll work on it. Okay, Stark?”
“Okay.”
“And welcome to California. I hope you like your new school.”
“Oh. I do.”
When I went back to class, I felt taller.
Anotia.
I wrote it down, so I could see what it looked like.
* * *
Anacapa Junior High School was different in just about every possible way from the school I went to in Point No Point. To begin with, the kids were all kinds of colors. There were Mexicans, Filipinos, and black kids; and even the white kids weren’t as Elmer’s-Glue white as the kids in Washington.
Up in Washington, just about everyone was the color of fish stomachs.
And the PE coach didn’t wear dark glasses that hid his eyes. Maybe he was inexperienced, but he didn’t carry around anything to keep records in, either. And we played outside, too.
The kids called him “Coach Mo.” His real name was Mr. Mortenson, but I guess Coach Mo was easier to say. Anyway, it sounded good. It sounded like anotia.
During gym class, Coach Mo told a boy whose last name was Sage to take me into the locker room and have Jerry stencil my T-shirt and shorts. All the boys had their last names stenciled in black on their gym clothes, and Jerry was the guy who worked in the locker room, in charge of running the showers, passing out towels, and stenciling stuff.
The kid named Sage had thick black-rimmed glasses and lots of freckles.
“Come on. Follow me.”
Then he said, “What’s your name?”
“Um. Stark.”
“That’s your name? I thought Coach Mo called you McWilliams or something.”
“Oh. Stark’s my first name. My last name’s McClellan.”
“That’s your first name?”
“I know. It’s weird.”
“Well. Not really. My first name’s Miles, but nobody calls me that. They call me Ed. My middle name’s Edward. What’s your middle name?”
“Alden.”
“Eww.” Miles Edward Sage was obviously not afraid of being honest. “Well, I won’t tell no one. Stark.”
“A lot of people call me Stick.”
“That’s dumb, too.”
I shrugged.
I was getting used to being called Stark, anyway.
Jerry worked behind a wire mesh cage. I don’t know why they had to put wire up as a kind of window onto his towel-shower-stenciling office. Maybe the boys threw things, I thought.
I took off my shirt and slid it beneath the cage. I could smell the paint fumes as Jerry stenciled my name across the chest. It smelled like cocaine. The
n he folded my T-shirt and slid it back to me. It said MC CLELLAN.
I don’t think they used lowercase letters in the alphabet of gym class.
I put it on, and it made me feel like more of a regular kid here.
When I slipped my shorts off, I was half convinced that Ed Sage was going to force me outside and pin me against a wall in front of the girls’ classes, so I was prepared to make him become the first guy I’d punch in California—if it came to that.
But I guess Ed was an okay guy.
He just shook his head and said, “That’s totally seventh grade.”
Jerry began painting my shorts.
“What?” I said.
“Wearing a jock this late in the year,” Ed explained. “Get with it, Stark. In eighth grade, guys wear them maybe on the first day. The first week, if they’re pussies. Nobody checks after that. What are they going to do? Put you in detention hall for not wearing a jock?”
I didn’t know what they would do. I never wondered about it in Mr. Lloyd’s class. It was a rule, and Mr. Lloyd kept records.
Ed went on, “Coach Mo tells us he doesn’t care what we keep our nuts in as long as we don’t have boxers hanging out of our shorts. Then he gets mad. But wearing a jock in the middle of April? Total seventh-grade move.”
“Oh.”
Jerry slid my shorts back under his screen.
“Well, I don’t have boxers,” I said.
“Then you should go change. So the other guys don’t make fun of you.”
“Okay.”
I started to go back to the row where my locker was.
“And hurry up, so we can play,” Ed said.
“Okay.”
“And throw that fucking thing in the garbage.”
Miles Edward Sage was my first friend at Anacapa Junior High School.
* * *
“I like it here.”
I could see the worry wash clean off Aunt Dahlia’s face when I sat down in the Dodge and shut the door. I slid across the seat and kissed her on the cheek. “I really like this school. A lot.”
“I’ve been so worried for you, I thought I was going to be sick. You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say you like it here, Stark.”
“It was no big deal. No big deal at all.”
* * *
After school was surf time for the kids on the Strand.
I was out in the water, floating between Evan and Kim, and everything felt healed. Perfect.
There weren’t any waves. We just floated.
Evan bumped my arm. “Hey. There’s your aunt.”
I turned around so I could see the shore.
In the afternoon, when you’re out on the water and the sun is angled lower behind you, everything on the shore looks like a Technicolor movie—so clear, painted as bright as a carnival midway.
A blue dress with parrots and bamboo stood on the sand beside Aunt Dahlia.
Mom had come for me.
She was smoking a cigarette.
Even out there on the water, I could suddenly smell it.
I put my face down on the deck of the surfboard.
I wanted to float away.
“What’s up?” Kim said.
“That’s my mom.”
“Oh.”
Evan and Kim both knew enough about how things had been for us back home. I’d told them about Mom and Dad, the Saint Fillan’s room, and they knew Bosten left home after the last fight he’d had with Dad.
I didn’t tell them the whole truth about why the fight happened or anything about Paul Buckley. It wasn’t like I was ashamed of Bosten or anything. I could never be ashamed of my brother. I just felt something like that—Bosten being gay and everything—if anyone else needed to know about it, my brother would tell them himself when he decided it was the right time. Just like he did with Aunt Dahlia.
If he ever came back.
* * *
“You need a haircut.”
Just like that. It was the first thing she said to me when I got out of the water.
Since the last time she pinned me steady in the freezing air and buzz-cut my scalp on the front porch that morning after Bosten, Paul, and I set off the UFO that attacked Seattle, my hair had grown so much that it covered the spot where there might be an ear.
* * *
I drive at night.
I blow things up.
I have anotia
and long hair.
Now go away,
* * *
Mother.
And what could I say to that, anyway?
“No, he doesn’t.” Dahlia answered for me.
I looked back one time. Evan and Kim were still in the water. I waved at them and pointed at the board I was carrying. I wanted Evan to know I was going to put it back in his yard.
“I need to give my friend his board back. I’ll be home in a minute.”
I stabbed those words at her like lances,
friend
home.
Aunt Dahlia and Mom waited in the living room while I got dressed. Mom smoked. I could smell it crawling in under my door. Nobody ever smoked in Aunt Dahlia’s house.
I wanted to break something.
It was the same as being stuck in that room on the houseboat. There was no way to escape. There was only silence, and smoke, on the other side of the bedroom door.
And I hated myself for doing it, but I was every bit as afraid here in California as I’d been on the river in Oregon; so I put on a white undershirt and tucked a collared shirt into my jeans.
Mom and Dad carried their rules around like invisible swords.
I saw how Dahlia looked at me when I finally came out. I could tell. She was disappointed because I’d been beaten. I sat on the end of the couch, so Aunt Dahlia was between us.
Mom lit another cigarette.
“How have you been, Stick?”
“Good. Do you know where Bosten is?”
Aunt Dahlia kept her eyes on Mom.
“No.”
“Why are you here?”
“That’s not very nice. I thought you wanted me to come back.”
I looked down at my jeans. They were new and stiff. I should have taken them off right then and there and left them with Aunt Dahlia. I didn’t deserve such things.
“I did.”
“I came to see if you want to go home now.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
I saw Aunt Dahlia’s eyes. They looked so heavy. I couldn’t hurt her. I wouldn’t let Mom treat her that way.
* * *
Like she didn’t matter.
Like we were both empty suitcases,
and Mom was there to pick over
the unclaimed stuff that came
out of us.
* * *
There was nothing
holding me and
Mom
together.
I sat there
feeling the things that held me
together
my brother
Dahlia
together.
* * *
“I have a comfortable place. In Seattle. In a big brick building.”
“I started school here today.”
I was not going to cry.
I was not going to cry.
I tried to not think about it.
I could feel it.
Mom put her cigarette out.
Then I stood up. I had to do something before I started wailing like a goddamned little kid. And for some reason, all I could think about was how Jerry had stenciled MC CLELLAN on my clothes, and didn’t that mean that I couldn’t just go away?
“This was my first fucking day at school here! My first fucking day!”
Mom got up.
Aunt Dahlia said, “Please.”
I looked out the window. Evan and Kim stood in the street beside Mom’s blue rental car, dripping, in their wetsuits. They looked like they were waiting for something. Maybe smoke to come out of the house. I don�
��t know.
And Mom was going to hit me for saying that, but I stood my ground. I did not shrink back, like I might have done some other time.
I raised my hand, and she froze. I saw how weak and withered she had made herself. I think it was the first time I noticed.
“You’re not big enough anymore, Mom.”
She sat down.
Then I spun around and ran back into the room. I slammed my door.
I took off the clothes Aunt Dahlia had bought for me to wear to my new school. I folded them, following the creases pressed into them so they would fit in perfectly with the other things on the shelves of the store.
I realized my face was wet. I was a stupid, ugly little kid.
And I lay down on my bed and put my face in the pillow. I was not going to cry. I was not going to scream. I just stayed there and waited.
* * *
When Bosten was in grade seven,
I remember how he was taller than me
and I was in the normal kids’ school,
but I didn’t do anything very good,
and the kids called me retard.
* * *
Three bigger kids,
and one of them tripped me
outside of Mr. Lohman’s store.
And Bosten said
nobody fucks with my brother
you piece of shit
but I should have told him
lots of people do.
Bosten got his nose busted
and kicked in the stomach.
* * *
I came to see
if you want to go home now.
* * *
Here are five bullets for the boys on the boat.
Here is one more for the saint.
* * *
I fell asleep.
And I dreamed again that Bosten was dead. It was back in the house, and I was lying on my bed with my ear pressed up against the pipe so I could listen to Dad and Bosten fighting up above while I kept my eyes pinned to the little window, the golden rectangle of night. I saw Dad carrying Bosten outside, down the path to the well. He put Bosten inside the little pumphouse and shut him in there. And he closed the door on him and said here is one more for the saint.
And when I woke up, I was still crying. Aunt Dahlia sat on the bed next to me. It was very dark, and she pressed soft circles with her palm between my shoulder blades.
“Don’t worry, baby. Don’t worry. You’re not going anywhere.”
Mom had taken her rental car and gone.
But the house still smelled like her.
