Under the Wolf, Under the Dog

by Adam Rapp

  The diner was hot and smelled like bleach and bacon.

  “Steve!” a voice sang out.

  It was June. She was wearing the same shirt from the day before — that one with the pickle on it. She was kneeling in a booth.

  “June,” I called to her feebly.

  “You look terrible,” she said.

  “I had sort of a rough night,” I explained.

  “Let’s eat and then we’ll discuss our future,” she announced.

  “He ain’t eatin’ in here,” the heavyset waitress ruled, suddenly appearing from behind the counter. Man, she was pissed about what had happened in the bathroom.

  “Sorry about that,” I offered, but the waitress just sort of stared at me like I was highly contagious or something.

  “Let’s go to Mickey D’s,” June said, pinching my arm and then twisting. “I’ll buy you a combo.”

  22.

  On the street, June whirled.

  “Check out my new move,” she said, snap-kicking the air in front of her. An invisible foe fell to the pavement. June pumped her fist victoriously. She repeated the move and continued walking.

  I was like, “Wow. Where’d you learn that?”

  “Five Deadly Venoms.”

  “Five Deadly Venoms?”

  “It’s a kung-fu movie. I’m still working on my centipede. Eljay can do the monkey-style without popping back up.”

  “Who’s Eljay?”

  “My mom’s boyfriend. He’s cool. He bought me a PlayStation II for Easter. Sometimes he lets me use his cell phone. He owns a speedboat.”

  We headed toward McDonald’s at a slow pace. The sun was starting to lapse into the horizon. It was sort of this bloody orange color and looked flattened, like it had been kicked. The humidity was starting to feel like something that was always there now. It hadn’t let up all day.

  My feet ached and my jeans were really irritating. I walked like there were thumbtacks in my boots.

  I’m convinced that the acid was tweaking out my emotions. Every time I took a breath, I thought I’d start crying.

  “Is your mom picking you up later?” I asked June.

  “Yeah,” she said, skipping ahead a few paces, “but we got time. Her and Eljay went to Cedar Rapids today.”

  “What’s in Cedar Rapids?” I asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe a new dancin’ gig.”

  We walked. The sky was filled with sickly gray clouds. June did another snap-kick, almost taking out a parking meter. She backed up suddenly, playfully throwing a hip into my leg. “I told her about you,” she said. Her voice got a little flirty when she said that.

  I was like, “You did?”

  “Yop. It’s funny ’cause she thinks you’re like twelve or somethin’.”

  I was like, “Um, like what did you tell her exactly?”

  “Nothin’,” she said, skipping ahead again. June had about five gears going.

  “Hey!” she offered, turning back around. “A ham sandwich walks into a bar and orders a drink. What does the bartender say?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What?”

  “Sorry, buddy. We don’t serve ham sandwiches here! Get it?”

  I was like, “Totally got it.”

  “Can I bum a square?” June asked.

  I reached into my dad’s Marine Corps bag and fished out a Camel Light. June snatched it out of my hand and rolled it between her fingers. I lit it and she smoked.

  When we reached McDonald’s, we sat down outside at the same picnic table we’d used the previous day.

  “I’ll be right back,” June said, taking a long drag on her cigarette, then flicking the butt several yards. “Whuddaya want?” she asked.

  “Um. Maybe just an apple pie.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t want no fries?”

  “Not really.”

  “But you need vitamins. Nutriments and stuff. Fries got vitamins, Steve.”

  “You can have all my vitamins.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, turning and half skipping into the McDonald’s.

  I looked in through the brown window. There were about eight families stuffing their faces with burgers and fries and Chicken McNuggets. They were all wearing bright T-shirts and cargo shorts. The T-shirts were blue or red or yellow and they all had pockets. It was sort of like they had all called each other at home to arrange a wardrobe theme for a post-McDonald’s fun-photo.

  June sort of spun through the tables on her way toward the front and did a cartwheel just before she got to the ordering counter, almost clocking this dad in the head.

  A blade of pain rotated in my stomach. I hadn’t even been away from home for two days, and I felt like I had aged like twenty years or something.

  From my dad’s Marine Corps bag, I removed Saint Bonaventure. Somehow I knew he would have answers. He was a saint, after all. I stared at him for a long time. He looked sort of bored and tired. Saints have to work harder than this, I thought. They can’t give up just because some wolf is giving them a hard time.

  “Saint Bonaventure,” I said, “what’s it all about, anyway?”

  I waited for him to answer but he didn’t respond, so I shook him a little.

  I shouted, “Come on, Bonnie!”

  He still wouldn’t respond, so I thwacked him in the head a few times.

  When he spoke, for some reason he possessed a slight Australian accent, I swear.

  “What’s what all about, mate?” he answered back.

  I was like, “I don’t know, Bonnie. All of it.”

  “All of what, mate?”

  “The reason, man. Like the moon and stuff. Like water and fish and twenty-foot speedboats and the Internet and — and — and — and like girls!” I practically screamed. “I mean, what’s the whole point of it all, Bonnie?”

  “The point?”

  “Yeah, man,” I said, “the point.”

  He chuckled a bit and went, “You tell me, mate.”

  “I mean, you get like totally pooped out into the world, and all you do is eat cheeseburgers and watch shampoo commercials and wait for Christmas and take tests and learn derivatives and what’s x and what’s y and then there’s limits and sine and cosine and SATs and e-mail and those cell phones that display your stock options and all the college brochures with those sad girls in those totally varsity-looking sweaters —”

  “Um. Who are you talking to?”

  I looked up. It was June. She was holding an apple pie out in front of her. It might as well have been a brick, the way she was holding it. I glanced down at Saint Bonaventure and waited for him to say something else, but he’d already turned back into a statuette.

  I took the apple pie from June, and she sat down on the other side of the picnic table and started feasting on a supersize two-cheeseburger combo and an orange pop.

  For some reason, I started feeling really paranoid. Maybe it was the way June was eating. She was suddenly so interested in her food, it made me feel totally insecure. To tell you the truth, it sort of made me feel like I was disappearing.

  For some reason I was like, “June, can I ask you a question?”

  She went, “You just did, but ask me another one.”

  I took a breath. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  June swallowed another fry and went, “Eljay’s the crazy one. He carries this monkey wrench in the back of his Beemer. I seen him beat a tree with it once. There was a birdhouse in it, too. He beat the tree so bad, the birdhouse fell and broke on the sidewalk. That’s crazy, Steve. You’re just lonely.”

  June just stared off, drinking her pop. The sun was almost gone, and the sky over the river looked dirty.

  “You’re a very confused and disturbed individual, Steve.”

  “I know, June,” I said. “I’m usually not so disturbed, but right now I totally am.”

  “Maybe you should like see a shrink or somethin’.”

  “No way. Shrinks are total co
n artists,” I said. Which is what I truly believed at the time. I’m sure Dr. Shays or Mrs. Leene won’t feel too thrilled about that statement, but it’s really how I felt back then. Mrs. Leene, if you’re reading this, you’re an exception to the rule.

  “My mom sees one,” June continued. “She goes to Alcoholics Anonymous, too. That’s where she met Eljay.”

  I pictured her mom and Eljay slow dancing at some AA singles’ meetings, her mom in some cheap dress from the mall and Eljay in a sharkskin suit, his big monkey wrench propped on his shoulder. I know that’s not fair of me imagining them that way, but when I closed my eyes, that’s what I saw, I swear.

  Then June said, “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, but I didn’t know what to talk about. For some reason I started thinking about Mary Mills again. How we almost had a moment at the Pizza Hut. How she really did feel sorry for me.

  I said, “What is it about girls, June?”

  “Oh, brother,” she said, finishing my apple pie.

  “I mean, these days you have to be this total country-western singer to score. Either that or some kind of offensive lineman with a Jeep and the windows have to be like totally smoked or whatever. I mean, come on, I know I’m not Hercules or Garth Brooks or — or — or — or — or Sammy fucking Sosa. Hell, I’m not even that guy on the news — the one with the totally blow-dried hair.”

  “Storm Field?”

  “Yeah, Storm Field. The weatherman with the hair. I’m not even that. But I’m pretty cool. I mean I’m tall, right?”

  “Tall’s a handsome feature.”

  “I got a good set of teeth. I have cool clothes.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “I like how you never change ’em.”

  She was totally dead-on with that observation, especially then, but I didn’t let it derail me.

  “And when I had hair,” I continued, “it was well tended to and I didn’t have dandruff or anything.”

  June said, “I had lice once. My mom made me take this bath in medicine. It smelled like Reynolds Wrap and chicken.”

  I plowed on.

  “I guess it’s all about Jeeps and stomach muscles and the thickness of your neck.”

  June smiled and said, “I’m a girl.”

  “Yeah, but you’re like four, June.”

  “I’m gonna be eleven, Steve. Eleven.”

  “Yeah, but —”

  “Eleven’s not four!”

  “What is it with you beasts?”

  “I’m not a beast!” June cried. Then she pinched me.

  “Ouch!” I cried. It really did sort of hurt, but I continued on.

  I said, “I mean, take kissing for instance. You can practice for months. Like on an apple or a pear or a toaster oven or whatever. You can practice till your lips practically fall off, and it doesn’t make one bit of difference. The minute — no, the second, the absolute second you get the opportunity, all of that practice — all of those apples and pears and toaster ovens fly right out the window.”

  “Are you gonna try to kiss me, Steve?”

  “No, June,” I said. “No way. I’m not gonna try to kiss you.”

  That’s when something really weird happened. I’m not sure if it was all that Robitussin in my crotch or another wave of Dr. Seuss taking effect, but I looked at June and she started turning into Mary Mills. The black hair. The green eyes. The perfect skin.

  “Red Rover, Red Rover, send MARY right over!” I blurted.

  June-slash-Mary said, “What?”

  “Come on, Mary, play along!” I cried.

  Then I was going after her, like I was totally trying to capture her or something. And she was countering my every move. We were sort of enacting this slightly playful but also slightly desperate game of catch-me-if-you-can around the picnic table. It was our most romantic moment yet. I felt myself swipe at her. In fact, just as I grazed her hair, Mary-slash-June turned into my mom. Her teeth went sort of blue and her hair fell out and her eyes dulled to the color of pork grease. Her lips got all small and dry, too.

  “Go to St. Rose’s, Steven, honey. Go to St. Rose’s and light a candle for me,” I heard her say.

  We stared at each other for a moment, and then just as she reached for me, I was out of there. I turned and ran, my free arm pumping, my dad’s Marine Corps bag sort of rattling behind me.

  “Steve,” I heard. “Wait! What about the movies?!”

  I ran down an alley. It had a dead end, so I turned around and chose a different alley. I ran through garbage heaps and stacks of newspapers and something that looked like a person. I jumped over a collection of pop bottles. I heard a dog barking and knew for sure it was in pursuit of me. Then I stopped and leaned up against a very mossy-feeling wall and vomited like nothing I had ever experienced before. I won’t describe it, don’t worry. When I was finished, I pushed away from the wall and started walking again. My feet felt like they weighed two hundred pounds each. I vomited again while I was walking. Then I tripped over a box of recycling hopefuls and vomited while I was tripping. Then I stood and then I went to a knee and then I stood again and then I went back down to a knee and vomited a final time in a strange sort of genuflection.

  Somehow I wound up back at the diner. It was almost dark now, and all the streetlights were on. Dantly’s Skylark was parked in front, the engine idling. The headlights were off and I could see Dantly’s and my brother’s heads framed in the windshield.

  The engine was running, but as I drew closer, I could see that they were actually sleeping. Dantly’s head was lolled back on the headrest, and he was sort of snoring. Welton was seated in the passenger’s side and he had this totally gleeful smile on his face.

  I looked back at Dantly, and I could see a handgun peeking out of the front of his jeans.

  The Skylark belched, and the motor started running faster. Dantly’s foot must have accidentally pressed on the gas. Welton shifted his position on the passenger’s side. That’s when I pushed away from the car. The steel door radiated into my palms for a moment and then, just like that, I was facing the other direction and sort of jogging away. My shin was killing me and I was starting to limp.

  I jog-limped around the corner and ducked into another alley. There was a fire escape full of potted plants and broken toys and bicycle parts and stacks of spoiled newspapers.

  I sat under the fire escape and stared up at the darkening sky. It was that weird, flattened hour when God or whoever it is up there decides your fate. It’s not quite night but the day is definitely over. This is when he either ruins your life or snaps his fingers and — POW! — things suddenly change for the better.

  In the distance I heard a car horn. It honked three times, sort of desperately, and the final honk went on a little too long. It was my last chance to come out of the alley, but I couldn’t move.

  I pulled my dad’s Marine Corps bag close and just let my head fall back against the alley wall. After a minute I could hear the car pulling away.

  23.

  So Shannon Lynch has to leave because he got caught trying to kiss this new Blue Grouper from Griffith, Indiana, named Jason Gilecki.

  It pains me to know this information for a myriad of reasons, and I will name three. First, he was my best friend here at Burnstone Grove. Second, I feel like maybe he was just using our friendship so he could see if he could kiss me. Third, if he’s gay, he should just say that he’s gay and not worry what people think, because he’s incredibly cool and it wouldn’t matter. Silent Starla told me about it after we made out in the common room. We were alone and she had been chewing grape gum.

  “He totally tried to put his mouth on Jason’s,” she said.

  “Did Jason kiss him back?” I asked.

  “Well, obviously not, seeing as he narked on him.”

  “So where are they sending him?” I asked.

  “To this place in Lake Geneva, Illinois, called Unity House. It’s mostly junkies at that one.”

  “He tried to
kiss me, too,” I told Silent Starla.

  “I figured,” she said. “He’s such a ho. He does that trick where he puts all that change up his nose and he sort of lures you in. And then he starts talking about Sam Shepard and Harold Pinter and the theater and he gets all the straight boys to go all gaga over how cool he is and then before you know it, he’s laid one on you. Am I right?”

  I didn’t answer because it was totally true.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to answer that. Did you kiss him back?”

  “Sort of,” I said.

  “So are you like bi or something?”

  “No,” I said. “He sort of took me by surprise.”

  “And you’re still friends?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s big of you,” she said, and then we started kissing again. It was weird, though, because even though Shannon kissing me did take me by surprise and it did sort of suck, I think it made me a better kisser somehow, I really do, so I have to give the guy a little credit, right?

  After about two minutes, Silent Starla stopped again.

  “Do you want to have sex with me?” she asked.

  I said, “Really?” and then I swallowed like six times.

  “Yeah, really,” Silent Starla said.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “If you don’t want to, just say it.”

  “No, I do,” I said. “I totally do.”

  “So let’s go,” she said, and then she took my hand and led me to this weird maintenance room on the other side of the cafeteria. Man, was I nervous. I don’t think I’d ever been that nervous in my whole life.

  The room was mostly cement and it smelled like that pink liquid soap they use in all the Burnstone Grove bathrooms.

  “No one will find us here,” Silent Starla said.