King of the Screwups

by K L Going

  The question catches me off guard. This is the type of technicality no one ever asks me about. Dad always wants to know about the big, moral issues, never the specifics. I pause.

  “The person who offered me a ride was drunk,” I say at last. “Since I already lost my license for being stupid like that, I’m more careful about it now, so I didn’t get in the car. That’s when Dino picked me up.”

  Pete makes a face.

  “That’s interesting,” he says, more to himself than to me. He thinks for a long time and then he looks straight at me. “I was pretty angry when Dino called. I’m still pretty angry. I let you off easy after the school bus incident, and I thought you’d be more careful after that. I thought you’d think things through a little more thoroughly before sneaking out to a party and getting drunk. I have to admit I’m disappointed that you didn’t.”

  “I know,” I start to say. “I shouldn’t have . . .”

  Aunt Pete holds up one hand.

  “I don’t want to hear what you shouldn’t have done,” he says. “I want to hear why you put yourself in that position in the first place.”

  I don’t know what he means, but I don’t have time to answer.

  “You see,” Aunt Pete says, “I’ve noticed you do a lot of apologizing, but very little thinking ahead. In fact, you do very little thinking at all half the time, but you’re capable of it. Anyone who can learn from his mistakes and decide not to get into a car full of drunk teenagers is obviously capable of intelligent decision making. So, why don’t you make those decisions more often?”

  For a minute all I do is stare.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Pete asks. His jaw is tight and he’s leaning forward. “Here’s what I think,” he tells me. “I think you want to lay everything down like it’s an accident. A sad twist of fate brought on by your own stupidity, but I don’t think you’re stupid and I don’t think there are that many accidents.

  “Now, I’m going to say this straight out. You and your mother call me up and say you need to spend a couple weeks here. That’s a lie and we all know it. I’ve known it from the beginning. Allan didn’t kick you out for a couple weeks. He kicked you out. Period. But we’re going to put that aside for the moment. The truth is, I wanted this chance. I wanted it for a lot of reasons I’m not going to go into right now, but suffice it to say I wanted to help you out. I wanted to help your mom out. But there’s this big part of me that keeps thinking, What the hell am I doing with a teenage boy living in my trailer?”

  Aunt Pete’s voice is getting louder and he’s trying to make eye contact, but I stare hard at an old Doritos chip lying on the carpet.

  “Don’t tune me out,” he yells, slamming his foot down on top of the chip. “I want to make this work for you, and for Sarah, but I think you’re pretty angry at your dad.”

  “What?” I say, looking up. “I’m not.”

  Pete shakes his head.

  “Oh. So, you don’t think your going to the party had anything at all to do with your dad?”

  “No,” I say sharply. “I went to the party because I needed to relax.”

  Aunt Pete crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s it,” he says. “You needed to recover from all the sleeping and watching television that you do?”

  “If I sleep a lot, it’s just because there’s nothing to do around here, and maybe that’s why I needed to go to a party. It had nothing to do with Dad. Or Mom.”

  “Riiiight,” Pete says, drawing out the word with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re not avoiding anything.” His voice is pretty loud now, and I notice the lights go on in Darleen’s trailer. “You’re not trying to be someone you aren’t just to please a man you’re never going to please, no matter what you do?”

  “That’s bullshit.” The words come out before I can stop them. “That’s bullshit.”

  “This isn’t anger?”

  “No!” I yell. “It’s fucking not.”

  There’s a long silence after that and then I snap.

  “If I’m angry at anyone right now, it’s you. You’re the one who’s pretending like you want me here when you totally don’t. You’re the one who told everyone on the air that I screwed up again. Why don’t you just tell me to leave and get it over with?”

  “What are you talking about?” Pete says. “I’m not—”

  “I heard the radio show,” I holler. “I know I got voted off.”

  He stares at me.

  “No more Mr. Nice Guy,” I mimic. “Why didn’t you just kick me out at the police station? Why are you acting like you’re still giving me a chance when you’re not? You think I’m angry at Dad? I’m not. I’m angry at you!”

  Aunt Pete groans. “Aw, Liam,” he says. “You never should have heard that. I never should have done it. I just . . . I was furious. I got a phone call in the middle of my show saying you were in jail, and I don’t know . . . No one listens to my show. A bunch of drunks and insomniacs. That’s it.” He puts his head in his hands. “And Dino. God, why didn’t I think of that?”

  He looks up and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I screwed up. But, Liam, you’ve got to realize that those people who voted you off don’t even know you. They don’t know anything. Did you honestly think I was going to kick you out because a bunch of people I’ve never met said I should?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Well, trust me,” Pete says. “I’m not going to send you to Nevada, and I can’t send you home. After all, that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?”

  He waits, trying to meet my gaze, but I refuse to look at him. Pete sighs.

  “I’m not kicking you out,” he says. “I promise. But starting tomorrow I expect you to make smart decisions. Don’t give me any crap about why you can’t do it. I expect you to write that essay for Orlando and to work with him after school every day until you bring your grade up. I expect you to work for Eddie every Saturday for eight hours and you’d better damn well do it no matter what your father says when he finds out, because you’re good at it. And I want you to be yourself. I expect all my T-shirts back in my room by tomorrow morning. Got that?”

  I’m quiet for a long time.

  “Answer me,” Pete says.

  “Yes,” I say at last. “I got that.”

  41

  WHEN PETE FINALLY GOES TO BED, I decide I need to get out of the trailer, so I end up outside, lying on the picnic table. I try to focus on the part of the conversation where he said he wouldn’t be kicking me out, but instead I keep hearing his DJ voice in my head.

  “Looks like my nephew is goin’ down. It’s no more Mr. Nice Guy.”

  My life just gets worse and worse.

  That’s when I hear Darleen.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  I sit up quick.

  “Sitting,” I say, even though that’s fairly obvious.

  Darleen scowls. “Technically, you were lying down,” she says, “and I meant why haven’t you left? We voted you off.”

  I don’t like her use of the word “we.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, sighing. “I really do not know.”

  Darleen pauses. “Sorry,” she says after a moment. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I’m thinking there aren’t too many ways to mean “we voted you off.”

  “I heard you arguing with your uncle.” She clears her throat. “I didn’t hear everything. Just something about you making smart decisions and returning his T-shirts.” She makes a face. “You wore your uncle’s clothes?”

  She’s trying to be funny, make the conversation light, but I close my eyes. Right about now I cannot take Darleen mocking me.

  “Yeah,” I say at last. “It was stupid, okay? I was trying to impress you. Are you happy now? I’ve been trying to impress you for weeks and I’ve failed miserably.”

  Darleen sits down at the picnic table.

  “You’ve been trying to impress me? Why in the world would you want to do that?”

  I
don’t answer.

  After a while she says, “I’ve been thinking about everything.” She pauses. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about things ever since we had dinner on Friday.”

  I groan. Dinner. Now that was a disaster.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Darleen says, as if she’s reading my mind. “I mean, it was awkward, but the food was good.”

  This time I laugh, short and bitter.

  “You hated it,” I say. “You didn’t even eat anything and then you left.”

  She nods. “Well, that’s true, but it smelled good. Pete was right. We should have eaten it.”

  I pause, and it occurs to me that Darleen is trying to be nice. This throws me, and I try to think of something to say other than Why in the world are you being nice to me?

  I can’t.

  “Why in the world are you being nice to me?”

  Darleen sighs. “I’m apologizing,” she says.

  I stare, feeling like none of her features makes sense anymore.

  “You’re apologizing? To me?”

  Darleen nods.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Don’t tell anyone at school. I know they’re reserving me a spot as Class Bitch in the yearbook. If this gets out, I’ll know who told.”

  I’m pretty sure that was a joke, but I answer just in case.

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  I should leave it at that, but I can’t. Darleen is already getting up like she might go inside.

  “Wait,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s just that you’re apologizing to me, but I should be apologizing to you.”

  “How come?”

  I think, Because that’s the way it works, but instead I say, “Because I’m not really smart and studious like I pretended to be.”

  Darleen shrugs. “No kidding.”

  “And I have friends. A lot of friends.”

  She nods sadly. “I know.”

  “And I don’t love equipment. I can’t even work any equipment. I joined the AV club so you’d see how seriously I could take things and because I told my dad I’d joined an academic club.”

  “I see.”

  I keep waiting for the hammer to fall—for the moment when she’ll change her mind, maybe catch me with a zinger, but Darleen just waits.

  “Is that all?”

  I hesitate.

  “No,” I say. “There’s one last thing.”

  This time she looks suspicious. “What?”

  I don’t want to say it, but I have to.

  “If I’m still here by then, I might be voted homecoming king.”

  Darleen takes a deep breath. Her eyes narrow and she fixes me with a sharp stare. “Don’t push your luck.”

  Darleen’s right. I shouldn’t push my luck. Someone just apologized to me. Two people, actually. That should be enough. But it’s not. I take out my cell phone and call Dad.

  I get his voice mail and have to leave a message.

  “Dad, it’s me. Listen. I need to talk to you. I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I thought we could talk, and since my birthday’s coming up, maybe we could discuss everything face-to-face. I know you only want what’s best for me, and . . . well, this is the only birthday present I’m asking for this year. Just a chance to talk about my future. Please?”

  Beep.

  I stare at my cell phone. Part of me wants to laugh hysterically. I’ve just bet everything that Dad will come through for me, and the odds are not in my favor.

  42

  I FINALLY HEAR FROM DAD Wednesday night. I play the message on my voice mail over and over again.

  “Liam, it’s your father. I got your message and I’ve been thinking about your future. Please be ready at your uncle’s on Tuesday at six P.M. Not a second late. Dress nicely, but don’t wear any of that designer crap.”

  I am determined I will NOT screw this up.

  That means I only have until next Tuesday to get ready, so I start right away. I begin by cleaning my room, but my room is as clean as it’s going to get, so I move on to the kitchen. I stack all the electronic equipment on the edge of the living room carpet then wash all the counters. I start on the refrigerator but almost gag, so I have to stop and then start again. The food rotting in the back is no longer identifiable—just moldy, sprouting, smelly globs. I keep the garbage can right next to the fridge and take out two bags before the kitchen is done. I mop the floor and straighten the broom closet, then try to shut the kitchen window, which I pried open when I made stir-fry, only it’s stuck.

  Aunt Pete comes in and sighs loudly. He digs in the fridge.

  “Where is my beer? Did you throw away my beer?”

  I’m crouched on the floor, washing the cabinets.

  “It’s in the bottom drawer. The drawer made for cans.”

  Pete takes out two cans. “It stinks in here,” he comments. It doesn’t. It smells like Pine-Sol and that can hardly be construed as stinking.

  “Well, if it stinks it’s because you had an entire cow rotting on your bottom shelf.”

  “Where are my tools? They were right here a minute ago.”

  “They’re in the closet. The tool and broom closet. Why does it matter? You never use them.”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he stomps out of the kitchen. Then he stomps back in again.

  “Why the hell are you doing this?”

  For once I’m not going to lie.

  “Dad’s coming.”

  Aunt Pete chokes.

  “What?! Tonight?”

  “No. Not tonight. He’s coming on Tuesday. For my birthday.”

  Pete stares like I’m insane.

  “Allan’s coming next Tuesday, and you’re cleaning everything now? A week ahead?”

  I nod.

  “And how exactly did he happen to decide to come here? Did your mother put a gun to his head?”

  He looks like I’ve blindsided him, and I start to feel guilty.

  “I invited him. It’s my birthday, so he’ll probably take me out to dinner or something. I doubt you’ll even see each other.” I pause. “I know you don’t like Dad, but it’s important to me.”

  Aunt Pete takes a deep breath.

  “Allan is my brother,” he says. “It’s not that I don’t like him. There are larger issues involved and there always have been. I just find it hard to believe that he would come here to—”

  I slam the kitchen cabinet shut.

  “You find it hard to believe he’d want to see me on my birthday? Well, he does. Dad and I are going to sit down and work things out.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say,” Pete says, but I don’t want to hear any more.

  “You’ll be rid of me soon enough,” I mutter, and then I walk out the front door.

  The screen door slams shut behind me, and I stomp out to the picnic table.

  Darleen’s sitting there, sketching.

  “You guys should really try a different volume level,” she says. “Believe it or not, some people actually converse without yelling.”

  I sit down and rest my head against the picnic table.

  Darleen studies me for a minute.

  “So, did I hear you say your dad’s coming this Tuesday?”

  I nod.

  “Is that how come you and Pete were arguing?”

  I nod again. “Pete doesn’t think Dad really wants to visit, but he said he would, and my father is a man of his word. There’s no way he’d let me down.”

  Darleen pauses. “Liam, I. . .”

  “He probably doesn’t think Dad will change his mind about letting me come home again, either, but there’s a lot Dad doesn’t know yet. Like how I’m working for Eddie now, and doing better in school. I’m going to get a B on our physics test on Monday so I’ll have something academic to show him.”

  Darleen laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I’ve got to admit, this wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for.

  “You don’t think I can get a
B?”

  She makes a face.

  “No,” she says. “It’s not that you can’t do it. It’s just that, well, there’s a reason all the information is spread out. You learn little bits at a time because all the new stuff depends on the old stuff. It’s not like someone can teach you just what’s on this test, because if you don’t know the original stuff, it won’t make sense. You don’t seem to remember any of the math we’re supposed to use, or the chemistry information from last year.”

  Okay. Now she’s not helping.

  “Fine,” I say, getting up from the picnic table. “I don’t need a B. I mean, I do, but by the time Dad gets here I’ll have lots of other stuff to show him. I’ll have my, uh, other grades . . . and other stuff.”

  Darleen pauses. “You’re sure he’s coming?”

  I nod. “I’m leaving him phone messages every day so he knows I’m serious.”

  She nods slowly.

  “Maybe once a week would be . . .,” she starts, but then she shakes her head. “Who am I kidding? The truth is, if I had a phone number for my mom after she left, I would’ve been calling her every hour until she came back.”

  Darleen studies her drawing, then she looks up.

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you can get a B,” she says. “I don’t think you’re half as dumb as you think I think you are.”

  If I was smarter, I’m sure I could figure that out.

  43

  DAD NEVER RETURNS my phone calls. I call every day at four o’clock, and he never once picks up or calls me back. Even when I ask where to make our dinner reservation, I hear nothing. This is a problem because I can’t decide whether to make dinner, in which case I need Pete to make himself scarce, or whether to make reservations, in which case I need a restaurant within a fifty-mile radius that doesn’t have Pit Stop in the name. I’m awake all night debating.

  Under the circumstances, I hoped to be able to sleep a little later on my birthday—maybe hit snooze a couple times before getting up—but instead I’m woken up early by a high-pitched, piercing screech and the smell of something burning. I test the doorknob and open the door a crack.

  Eddie’s standing at the stove, scrambling eggs in a fry pan. Dino is mixing orange juice. Orlando’s cutting up grapefruit, and Aunt Pete is burning toast. The kitchen is filled with a thick black cloud, and somewhere a smoke alarm is wailing loudly.