by K L Going
Aunt Pete hesitates, but then he laughs. “Yeah,” he admits. “We planned that days in advance. Laid out every detail ahead of time . . . how she’d be in the living room with my parents, and as soon as they started ripping on her—because there was no question they would—the maid would sneak out the back and tip me off.”
“So you were waiting in the car the whole time?”
He nods. “Yup, only it almost didn’t work out so well because I caught the train of the dress in the car door when I was rushing to get inside and . . .” Suddenly his voice trails off, then he stops completely. “You know,” he says, “it was a stupid joke. If we’d known how your father would react, we never would have done it. I mean, we knew he’d be mad, but we didn’t think . . .”
I remember Dad’s face when I told him I was going to stay with Aunt Pete instead of his parents.
“. . . he’d go ballistic?”
“Yeah.” Pete nods. “Nuclear explosion. I never realized he was so much like our father until that day at the party, but by then it was too late. After that he never let me come back. Your mom and I screwed up, big-time.”
I want Aunt Pete to say more, but for some reason he doesn’t, so while the silence drags on I stare at the red dress.
“So, do you still wear it?” I ask at last. “The dress, I mean . . .”
Pete looks up, as if I’ve startled him.
“No,” he says. “I’ve never worn it again.”
He eyes the dress and there’s a hint of longing in his eyes. It’s designer, still in mint condition—layers of sheer red silk. He looks at it the way most guys would look at a Corvette. Then he looks away.
“Come on,” he says, “we’ve got to find those papers.”
13
WE DON’T FIND THE PAPERS.
In fact, after searching the entire trailer three times, Aunt Pete gives up and goes back to bed in despair.
“You’ll get to school tomorrow. I promise,” he says.
That’s fine by me. I’m not exactly jumping for joy about starting a new school. The only problem is, this means I have an entire day to fill without texting, e-mailing, or using my cell phone since all my friends are in school and Aunt Pete doesn’t own a computer, which is insane. I’m not sure what people who don’t own computers do with their lives, but I opt for a marathon of old America’s Next Top Model reruns because Dad’s not around to tell me to “turn that crap off.”
When Aunt Pete shuffles out of his bedroom that afternoon, J. Alexander is showing everyone how to perfect their runway walk. He’s this large African American man everyone calls the Queen of the Runway, and I have a vague memory of meeting him once in Paris. I wonder if Aunt Pete will say anything about the flamboyantly dressed man strutting down the catwalk in a miniskirt, but he just squints at me as I lie on the couch eating popcorn.
“Weren’t you in this exact same spot five hours ago?”
I nod.
“What are you watching?”
“Nothing,” I say, flicking off the TV.
Pete scratches his chin.
“Well, you can’t just lie around the trailer all day. I guess we should . . . do something. Uh . . . something together, maybe. What do you normally do after school?”
“I work with Mom at the boutique.”
Pete frowns.
“Anything else?”
“Well, I like to go running.”
Somehow I can’t imagine Pete will want to go running, but he nods.
“Right. Okay. I can do that. I used to run back in the day. Dino and I did a five K once in college, when he was training for the police academy. Just let me get ready.”
He ducks into his room, and I try to digest the fact that my uncle is actually going to go running with me. I find my sleek blue Adidas running shorts and brand-new Pro-Wear sneakers in my bedroom, change real quick, then wait outside for him. As I’m waiting, Darleen comes out with her art supplies.
She’s wearing overalls and clogs, and it is not a fashion statement. It’s a mistake. Loulou de la Falaise was once asked which item of clothing she considered an absolute fashion “don’t,” and she said, “Those things with the straps.” Overalls.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello,” she says back.
That went well enough, so I decide to say more.
“I’m going for a run with my uncle.”
Darleen smiles. “Great.”
Now there’s an awkward silence, and I hate those, so I say, “You want to come?”
I cringe because that sounded dumb. Obviously she’s not dressed for running. I can already see the way her eyes are narrowing and I can tell she’s thinking how stupid I am, so I add, “Running is a great cardiovascular workout,” because cardiovascular is a large, impressive word. Then I add, “It will improve your heart health and help you lose weight.”
The instant the words escape my lips, I wish I could stuff them back in.
Darleen’s eyebrows shoot up, and she takes in a sharp breath.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded . . .” I sputter, but she’s already turned on her heel to go back inside. When she opens the door to her trailer, I hear her say, “I am NOT fat,” and whether she’s saying it to me or to herself, I can’t be sure.
Crap.
I’m debating about knocking on her door and explaining, but right then Aunt Pete comes out, dressed in the most horrible spandex shorts I have ever seen in my entire life. They’re black with a white, blue, and yellow confetti design, and he’s got on a bright red muscle shirt.
“Oh god,” I murmur, but Aunt Pete is oblivious. He’s doing overenthusiastic stretches next to the picnic table.
“This is great,” he says. “I haven’t gone running in years. This is just the incentive I’ve needed to get back into it.”
I look back and forth between my uncle and Darleen’s trailer, but I don’t have time to do anything because Pete claps loudly and jumps up and down several times. His beer belly jiggles under his shirt.
“Let’s go,” he says.
We take off slow, and Aunt Pete sighs loudly. “Ahhh, this is perfect.”
We’re not even out of the driveway yet.
“The great outdoors . . .” he murmurs as we pass the first trailer.
My legs are barely moving we’re going so slow. In fact, I consider just walking, but I don’t want to insult him.
“Wait until I tell Orlando about this,” Pete adds.
I pick up the pace ever so slightly.
“Have you guys been together a long time?”
Aunt Pete nods. “Off and on since high school.”
That’s a very long time when you’re as old as he is.
“So how come you don’t live together?”
Pete pauses. “It’s complicated,” he says, and I frown because people have been telling me this my entire life.
“How complicated can it be?” I ask, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. Pete glances over.
“Well,” he says, wiping a layer of sweat off his brow, “sometimes people love each other, but when they try to live together they drive each other insane.”
I snort. As if I don’t know that.
“Is that why Gram and Gramps kicked you out? Because of Orlando?”
Aunt Pete’s feet barely make it off the ground. “No,” he says, huffing loudly between words. “I got kicked out . . . because your grandfather . . . caught me trying on . . . one of your grandmother’s dresses . . . You can imagine how well . . . that went over.”
I’ve got to admit, even I can’t top that one. “Where did you go?” I ask. “Afterward, I mean?”
“I went to . . . Orlando’s house,” he says between gasping puffs of air. “His parents were much more . . . open. They took me in . . . until I finished school.”
I’m cutting my strides in half so he can keep up with me. “So that’s when you two started dating?”
“Yeah. Of course, his parents didn’t know that.” Puff. “I
mean, hell . . . this is the seventies we’re talking about.” Puff, puff. “Open as in caring, tolerant, and generous is one thing. Open is another.”
He stops for a moment and puts his hands on his knees.
“I’ve just got to tie my shoes,” he says, even though they’re clearly tied already. He makes a big deal of kneeling down and untying each shoe real slow, then retying it and double checking the knot.
“We can go back to the trailer if you want,” I offer, but Aunt Pete holds up one hand.
“No way,” he says. “Are you kidding? This is great. So much fun.”
He forces a smile that’s so pained, I don’t ask any more questions for a long time.
“So your band is pretty popular,” I say at last. “How come you live, uh, here?”
That came out wrong, but Pete looks like he’s in too much pain to really care. He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a sputter.
“Pineville’s where . . . my friends are,” he says. “And the band . . . had its heyday . . . a long time ago . . . before glam died . . . a painful death . . .” Aunt Pete stops on the word death and gulps in a huge breath. He stands still for a minute with his hands on his knees, then forces himself forward again. “It’s a hobby now . . . but that’s okay . . . brings in some extra cash . . .” He glances over at me. “Aren’t you . . . getting tired?”
“Tired?” I say. “Oh, right. Sure.”
“Okay, then,” Aunt Pete puffs. We make it the rest of the way around the loop, and then he collapses onto the driveway. His shirt is soaked and he’s breathing so hard I worry he’s having a heart attack, but eventually he gets up and brushes himself off.
“Great workout,” he says as he staggers to the front door. “We’ll have to do this again sometime.”
14
DAD AND I sit across from each other in the school psychologist’s office. We’re here to talk about the fact that I’ve been suspended yet again for accumulating too many detentions.
“Liam, the things you’ve gotten detention for—talking during lectures, not bringing in your homework, chewing gum, texting, making out with girls in the halls, being late, skipping first period, forgetting your books, sleeping in class—do you see your behavior as a cry for attention?”
I shift awkwardly. “No,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“And you, Mr. Geller? How do you view Liam’s behavior?”
Dad snorts. “It’s certainly not motivated by lack of attention. Liam gets more than his fair share.”
He means from Mom, but I don’t say that. The psychologist makes a note in her notebook. She asks us a lot more questions about my transition to high school and Dad’s job and Mom’s past, but then she returns to the attention thing.
“What was the last activity the two of you did together?”
There’s a long silence while Dad and I try to come up with one. I can see him getting annoyed, and finally he rolls his eyes.
“Breakfast, lunch, dinner, making sure his homework is done, cleaning up after him, buying him everything he asks for . . . Trust me, this kid is not neglected.”
The psychologist nods slowly.
“Liam, what would you like your father to do together with you?”
I uncross my arms and sit up straighter. No one’s ever asked me this before, so I feel as if a genie in a bottle just asked for my wish. I think about it a long time.
“Basketball,” I say at last.
Immediately Dad shakes his head. “You know I’m not good at sports,” he says. Then he turns to the psychologist. “If my son really wanted my attention, he’d choose something he knows I enjoy.”
Dad stands up, glancing at his watch. “Time’s up.”
That night Pete finally locates the FedEx envelope under the couch cushions along with the TV remote.
“Thank god,” he breathes. “I was beginning to think it was gone for good.” He’s wearing a white satin women’s nightgown and fluffy slippers and holding a beer. “We’ll meet with your principal tomorrow.”
I’m feeling out of sorts, so I shrug like it’s no big deal. “You can just drop me off. I’m sure I can handle the meeting on my own.”
Pete looks appalled. “No way,” he says. “While you live here, I’m your guardian. That means I go too.”
I don’t know why, but I roll my eyes just like Dad would. “You don’t look much like a guardian,” I say.
Aunt Pete stops drinking his beer and nods slowly.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“What?”
“You should get it all out now. Because after this I don’t want to hear it. This is my home and I will do what I want here. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Is there anything else you want to say?”
There is. I want to say thanks for taking me in, and thanks for going running, and maybe tell him that I don’t really care what he wears because I’ve seen men in just about everything you can imagine on the runway, but instead I say this:
“Just that you’re not my father.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“Good,” I say, and I mean it.
The next morning we meet with Principal Mallek. I dress in a new pair of Diesel jeans and a short-sleeve button-down shirt that looks studious, yet cool, because I want to project the look of someone who is about to take life seriously, but apparently Aunt Pete wants to project the look of someone who hasn’t changed his clothes in three days, because he arrives home from the radio station wearing the same rumpled outfit he wears every day.
I think about the way he dresses at home—everything satin and shiny—but the rest of the time he looks like he couldn’t care less.
“Let’s go,” he says when the clock hits eight. This seems way too early to leave, but I follow him out to his zebra-striped Nissan. When we get to the school office, he paces outside the principal’s door.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
He shoots me a look. “I don’t want to screw this up.”
When the door to the principal’s office finally opens, Pete and I file inside and take the two large leather chairs across from his desk.
“So, you’re Liam Geller,” the principal says, sizing me up. “My secretary tells me you’re transferring from Westchester. I’m not sure if you’re aware that school actually started yesterday here in Pineville.”
I nod. “We couldn’t find the papers . . .” I start, but Pete gives me a look, so I shut up.
“Well, I trust you have the papers today,” Principal Mallek says. I nod and look to Aunt Pete to hand them over. Only he’s looking at me.
“I don’t have the papers,” I say. “I thought you were bringing them.”
Aunt Pete’s eyes get big, and he starts to sputter.
“Do I look like I’m carrying papers?” he asks. “They were on the kitchen counter. I thought you took them!”
Principal Mallek takes a deep breath.
“We can’t move forward without the paperwork, so perhaps you’d like to go get it?”
Pete stands up. “Of course,” he says, glaring at me. “You wait here. I’ll be right back.”
I open my mouth to protest but think better of the idea. Instead, I sink back into my chair, preparing to make myself comfortable, but Principal Mallek clears his throat.
“You can have a seat out in the secretaries’ office while you wait.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right.” I get up and move to one of the stiff plastic chairs in the outer room. I keep myself busy drawing doodles of Principal Mallek’s long neck and tiny head, which look even worse because of the vertically striped shirt he’s wearing. If I could, I’d tell him to wear only solids and preferably things with collars, and I imagine a whole new Principal Mallek wearing a dark gray, double-breasted overcoat with a solid black turtleneck, but just as I’m thinking this, Principal Mallek walks past me and sees the drawing of his long neck and pinhead.
<
br /> Crap.
By the time Aunt Pete arrives with the papers, Principal Mallek is grouchy, and when he finally hands me my locker number and schedule, he says, “You’re off to a bad start, Mr. Geller. Hopefully you can improve upon this.”
“He will,” Pete says before I can answer.
A loud bell rings, and Principal Mallek says, “That would be the homeroom bell,” so Aunt Pete and I shuffle out of his office.
“Catch you on the flip side,” Pete says, and he heads back out to the Nissan. I wish I could follow him, but instead I make my way through the halls, trying to find my locker. Which isn’t hard since this school is ridiculously small.
Then I spot Darleen.
Her locker is right near mine, and when I come walking up, she looks totally disappointed to see me—like maybe she was hoping I wouldn’t be going to school this year.
“Nice to see you,” I say as Darleen walks away. She doesn’t turn around.
I see her again because we both have physics first period. The fact that I even have physics is appalling. I suck at science and math, and physics involves both of those things, so I’m doomed.
Still, I make a point of waving to Darleen again in the hall before class, but she doesn’t wave back. She goes directly inside and starts talking to the teacher. The teacher. Then, as if that’s not bad enough, when the teacher turns around, it turns out it’s . . . Principal Mallek. I look at my schedule twice.
Since when does the school principal teach physics?
Principal Mallek nods when he sees me.
“Mr. Geller,” he says. “Since you couldn’t make it in yesterday, you’ve missed some important information, so I’d advise you to sit down and pay strict attention.”
I nod.
The only empty desk is in the front by the window, so I take it. Since class hasn’t started, I decide to take a lesson from Darleen and I ask Principal Mallek a question.
“Do you always teach this class?”
“Excuse me?”
Suddenly the room gets really quiet. Just a minute ago, when I asked the question, people were talking, taking out their books . . . but now they’re all sitting quietly. I rearrange my stack of pens as everyone stares in my direction.
