I'm with Stupid

by Geoff Herbach

  I remembered Dad’s funeral for the first time. Me, Andrew, and Jerri rode in the back of Grandma Berba’s car. (That’s Jerri’s mom—she lives in Arizona now.) We all wore black (little black pants and a white shirt—that’s what Andrew wore). Grandma kept changing the radio station in the car until Jerri yelled at her. At the service, these tall men read poetry. Who were these men? Dad’s friends?

  Evith sobbed. She gulped for air.

  There was a dog loose in the cemetery. It galloped down a hill and around the burial people. The dog scared me. I grabbed Jerri’s arm. She pulled her arm away. I looked up and her chin shook. She shook her head like someone trying to clear the cobwebs after getting hit on the football field.

  “Mommy?” I asked because I called her Mommy back then, not Jerri.

  “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  This was in Chicago. I remember seeing tall buildings from the back of Grandma Berba’s car.

  I remember Grandma Rose, Dad’s mom, hugging me, telling me she loved me. I remember there were little green leaves on this skinny tree. I climbed on that tree and someone pulled me down. Another tall man. I remember Grandpa Stan, how he’d been so funny before, how he once called me a little pistol because I tore through their house so fast. At the funeral, he wouldn’t even look at me. I remember Tovi hanging in the folds of Evith’s dress, just one eye uncovered staring out at me.

  Before Curtis killed himself, I had no memory of this at all.

  You know what? Before last year, I didn’t remember Grandpa Stan. I didn’t remember Grandma Rose existed at all. I didn’t even know I had a cousin.

  Brains are damn weird beasts. A few months ago, I read about post traumatic stress disorder on the Internet. Guess what? I’ve got it. Apparently, we weak-ass, trembling little human beings make bad memories disappear. This is weird, right? I had suppressed memories.

  “Suppressed” means they were always there though. Just hiding. They were in me and I didn’t know about them. Back in the fall, Gus told me I didn’t know myself well enough. How could I justify my existence? Clearly, he was right. Jesus. Whole important people had disappeared from my memory.

  During that part of January, I spoke at length to Gus only one time. I told him about the memories. He said, “This is probably normal for a dude like you.”

  Normal? Paranormal? Alien inside me? Who am I?

  “That’s good,” I mumbled.

  For weeks after Curtis’s funeral, the memories just blossomed in my brain like gross flowers trembling awake in time lapse on PBS, and I could barely think about anything else, definitely not the phone calls from recruiters and the coming ESPN announcement (how dumb and useless). I’d sit in class, barely able to breathe, seeing dirt on the cuff of Grandpa Stan’s pants after he shoveled a little dirt on my dad’s coffin in the ground. (I think this is a Jewish thing.)

  Space case. Mr. Linder said stuff like, “You in there, Felton?” when I didn’t hear him to answer a question he asked during class.

  “What?” I asked, shaking my head. “What?”

  “Never mind,” he said, looking concerned.

  In the halls, people kept getting in my face.

  “You okay?” Gus asked.

  “You okay?” Cody asked.

  “You okay?” Abby Sauter asked.

  “I’m okay,” I told them all. Filled with buried treasure.

  Occasionally, my phone buzzed. Aleah texts. Out of the blue. After she tortured me with silence. You okay? I’m thinking of you.

  I wouldn’t respond to her. No more. She’d hurt me enough.

  One time, she texted: I’m writing a lot of music, Felton. You’re the inspiration.

  I wouldn’t respond.

  Days and nights sort of blended together. I remembered the ambulance in front of our house. I saw my dad in a damn bag being pulled out of the garage on a gurney. I heard Jerri sobbing in the bedroom. I saw Andrew coloring in a Mickey Mouse coloring book. He turns to me and says, “Daddy’s dead. That means he won’t come home.”

  No shit, little guy.

  I’d climb out of bed and hold my phone, thinking about Tommy Bode. I wanted to call, to ask Tommy if he was okay. I worried so much about that little pig boy and his crazy dad. I wanted to tell him to come over to my house. To get out of there. But I never called. I was too wussy to call.

  Tommy didn’t come back to school in January. He was out all four weeks.

  Sometimes, awake in the middle of the night after suffering through all these new memories, I’d ask the air, “Are you there, Dad? Please?” I didn’t hear, “Yes,” like I did in Florida.

  Aleah texted once: I know about the boy from Andrew, okay? We can talk. I’m here.

  I didn’t text back.

  No Aleah, no Cody, no Karpinski. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  I didn’t even want to hang out with Gus really.

  You there? I only wanted my dad, so long ago dead. You there?

  I read and reread that high school poem of his.

  I will break the mold.

  I will start to stop now.

  I’m a Flying Wallenda between two clouds.

  I am not what I do.

  I am not what I will be.

  I will stop and let go, balanced between two clouds.

  I will break this mold.

  I thought: Why did you want to be dangerous? Why didn’t you want a safety net? Why did you want to break stuff?

  I got no answer. There were these blinding moments when I thought I should break stuff.

  It’s freaking weird. The death of Pig Boy’s brother made me miss my dad like I’d never missed him before. Uncovered. Pig Boy’s brother made me remember my dead dad like never before.

  I was not in great shape.

  And in January, I stopped running, stopped working out, stopped functioning.

  (Track season? What’s track?)

  (School? Never heard of it.)

  Chapter 18

  Andrew Thinks I’m on the Cusp of Recovery (Uncovering Causes Recovery?)

  When Andrew first left for Florida, he said that of me, him, and Jerri, he was the only one who had managed to grieve for Dad appropriately.

  “I figured out what happened. I figured out how old Jerri was when she got pregnant. I figured out that Dad was angry and mean and that he slept with other women. I sat in the garden eating pukey tomatoes and crying. That was what I needed to do to make peace with our father’s demise.”

  “You burned your clothes and shaved off your hair,” I told him. “You didn’t shower for like two months. I’d say you went nuts.”

  “No, I went sane,” Andrew said. “You started running like a scared ostrich so you could bury your head someplace else, and Jerri started taking antidepressants so she could see straight enough to buy new clothes. You’re both in trouble still. But I want you to know I still respect you and will be here for you when you break.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot, you little asswipe.” That’s what I said to him back then.

  ***

  One night during January, while I was totally suffering my Curtis-Bode-induced Dad memories, I called Andrew. Andrew said, “You’re doing it, Felton. You’re dealing with it. Maybe you should see a counselor or something? Someone who could help you make some sense.”

  “You didn’t see a counselor,” I said.

  “I’ve read a lot of philosophy and religion, you know?”

  “I know, Andrew. I know.” Even though I like books, I used to make fun of him for his reading habits. He read the complete works of Spinoza last summer for Christ’s sake. What kid does that? (I don’t really know who Spinoza is, by the way, other than that he’s some philosopher.)

  “I made the decision to move on in my life in a certain way. And I’m very healthy, emotionally speaking. I’m my own counsel
or,” Andrew told me.

  “You’re fifteen, Andrew.”

  “I’m timeless,” he said. He didn’t sound like he was joking.

  “Okay…okay,” I said. “I’m not timeless and I can’t be my own counselor. After this ESPN announcement, I’m going to get some help. I’m so tired of this shit. I have to get out. I’m dying, man.”

  “I’ll help,” Andrew said. “I’ll research psychologists who accept Jerri’s insurance.”

  “Okay. I’m going to do this,” I said.

  When I was little, Jerri did send me to therapists and I had a really bad time. Terrible time. The therapists made it all worse, I swear to God. I didn’t want to go back to that…

  But this Dad stuff. Seeing him hanging. Missing him. Talking to him. Seeing his funeral in my brain. Not being able to study or sleep or think really…I knew this shit could take me down for real. I felt it. (Andrew told me I had a healthy response in that I understood the danger.)

  But.

  You know what dudes like me love? A good excuse not to deal. I created a huge one too. Nationally televised.

  Some part of my messed-up brain decided to screw up bad so I wouldn’t have to deal. Really.

  I’m weak and weird and scary.

  I’m also normal.

  You are not alone.

  Chapter 19

  The Badger Baiter

  I knew it was coming. Those football programs, especially the four I’d visited, texted and texted. Called and called. I didn’t respond to any of them, not even Stanford, but I knew it was coming.

  Early in the afternoon of January 31, Mrs. Duensing, the assistant principal, got on the intercom and announced that second-hour classes the next day should go to the gym instead of meeting in their rooms because the whole school was invited to see my ESPN announcement live. “We could all use a reason to celebrate,” she said. “Let’s show our school spirit! Everybody wear school colors!”

  My classmates were pretty psyched to get out of an hour of school. Jess Withrow actually hugged me because my ESPN thing delayed her chemistry exam.

  Here’s what I thought: Are you shitting me? A reason to celebrate? Curtis Bode is dead, Duensing.

  The ESPN producer called me in the evening and told me all I had to do was show up. “Your family can come out on the floor with you, and we’ve already talked to your coach. Just relax and get ready to make a little history. Sound good?”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled.

  “Bring your A game,” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I didn’t ask Jerri to go with me. I barely slept. I saw Dad hanging in the garage.

  Then, that morning, after I got out of the shower (after I listened to messages from coaches at the four schools…“We look forward to watching the broadcast!” they all said), I checked email and saw I had a new message from Tommy Bode. (He hadn’t been in school that whole time.)

  Oh shit…Oh shit…

  I swallowed hard and opened the message.

  Here’s all it said:

  I know who killed Curtis.

  “Jesus Christ,” I shouted. “Curtis killed freaking Curtis!”

  I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling, the inside of my head crackling.

  Why the hell did you decide to be a senior mentor? I asked myself.

  You want to be a good person, I answered.

  Yeah, good luck, idiot! I shouted (in my head).

  Are you going to protect the weak? I shouted back.

  Stop. Ask Jerri to go with you. Stop. Please.

  I slapped my computer shut, dressed, climbed up the stairs, and found Jerri dressed up, ready to go. “You’re coming with me?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Jerri said.

  “Thank you,” I said, nodding.

  “Terry’s going to drive us in the Cadillac,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Terry?” Jerri said, squinting at me.

  “Oh. I don’t care,” I said.

  I cared that Terry drove when we got to the school and Abby was in the parking lot. She stared at us as we rolled into a spot.

  When I got out of the car, I sort of waved. Terry smiled big and stupid and waved. Abby stared for a second longer, then turned and walked fast (half ran) into the school.

  Turns out brave Terry Sauter hadn’t told his kids that he was dating anybody. Turns out he didn’t really talk to them at all. I never mentioned him to Abby because why the hell would I want to talk to her about our gross parents making out? Plus, I was quietly going psycho all January. Plus, I figured she knew anyway.

  No.

  Anyway, she was quietly going psycho too.

  ***

  Okay.

  How can I communicate the intensity of the next hour or so? They stuck a mic pack in my pants and clipped a mic to my shirt. Jerri and I got very sweaty while people told us how to sit, stand, where to look, and the gym filled up, up, up…

  Not good enough.

  Okay, imagine this:

  I am thinking about my dad hanging. I sit behind a table on the floor of the gym. I am surrounded by TV lights and a TV crew and there’s a camera pointed at me. The stands are filled with people not just from the school but from all over the state of Wisconsin. I’m serious. Maybe from the whole damn world. Who are all these people?

  I’m shaking in my boxer shorts. I think of my dad in a body bag.

  Coach Johnson sits next to me. He keeps patting me on the shoulder. “Good stuff, my boy. You earned this,” he says.

  Jerri stands behind me. She’s a little twitchy. “Wow,” she keeps saying.

  Boom…Boom…Boom. (That’s my heart pounding.)

  “Looking cool, my man. Use this towel to wipe your forehead, all right?” An ESPN guy hands me a towel.

  “Uhh…” I say, taking the towel.

  “You’re fine, man. You’re fine.”

  “Uhh…”

  9:14 a.m. The crowd gets louder. They’re really packed in.

  I find Gus. He sits next to punk girl Maddie. Her bleached hair explodes off the top of her head like a big white chicken. Her black eyeliner makes her eyes look like bat caves. She gives me the finger, laughs.

  Jerri sees. Jerri says, “Nice manners.”

  I wonder if my dad made an official announcement when he decided to go to Northwestern, when he was alive, when his body wasn’t dangling from the ceiling of the garage.

  Karpinski, Abby, Cody, Jess, and Reese sit twenty feet away from Gus and Maddie. They’re all clean shaven and dressed in their Bluffton black and gold. They’re all laughing and joking, except Abby, who stares off into space. Her face is hot. She’s blinking. I can tell her face is on fire, even from the gym floor.

  And then a crew of freshmen comes in. At the back of that line, wearing his BULLY ME, PIG BOY T-shirt, is Tommy Bode. He’s back. He’s here. He looks skinnier. He looks confused. My number, 34, is on his back. He squints to the front of the gym and sees me. His mouth hangs open.

  I nod. My heart pounds. His brother, Curtis, is buried in the ground. His brother, Curtis, is decomposing. Don’t think what he looks like in that coffin. Don’t think…

  Tommy nods back. He gives me a slow thumbs-up.

  “Who is that?” Jerri asks.

  “Dead kid’s brother,” I whisper.

  “He’s staring at you weird,” Jerri says.

  “I know.”

  Coach Johnson leans over to me. “Are you friends with him?”

  “I’m his protector,” I say. “I’m not a great protector.”

  “Oh?” Coach Johnson squints at me. “You okay, buddy?”

  “Fine,” I nod. I see Dad’s zombie body in the ground, his neck cracked to the side.

  Pig Boy. Friends? Abby. What am I doing here? Pointless shit.
r />   The ESPN guy points at me. He nods. It’s 9:15 a.m. and the TV lights come on for real. It’s so damn bright I can’t see the people in the stands. I can’t see anything.

  Coach Johnson says, “Get ready.”

  My heart pounds in my throat.

  The ESPN guy says, “Here we go. Nick’s going to ask you a few questions, then you’ll make your announcement.”

  I nod. My throat is dry leaves scratching. I cough.

  There are baseball hats from the four schools sitting on the table in front of me: the Not to Be Named, Wisconsin, Stanford, and Northwestern. I’m supposed to put the baseball hat on my head from the school I chose when I make my announcement.

  “We’re live,” says the ESPN man.

  The whole gym explodes in shouts and cheers. Kids chorus, Bluff-ton High-School! Clapping and repeating. Bluff-ton High-School!

  A voice comes over the sound system, a voice from back in the ESPN studio.

  “Felton Reinstein,” says the sportscaster. “Good to see you, buddy. Nick Clemmons here.”

  “Yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah,” I say to the air. “Hello, sir.” Lights so bright they’re burning my face.

  “Looks like you have a full house out there in Wisconsin.”

  “Big,” I say.

  “Well, there’s a lot of excitement in the studio too. How are you feeling about your choice?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I blink into the lights. I feel sweat roll down my forehead. Where’s that towel?

  “Your mom happy? She sure looks proud.”

  I feel Jerri move. She puts her hands on my shoulders. She squeezes.

  The whole thing is only supposed to take a couple minutes. ESPN will cut to another recruit in just a few minutes.

  “So let’s get to business. Felton Reinstein is rated the number three running back prospect in the country by…”