But I’m not a kid anymore. I’m in middle school now, so I have to make it real good. I start looking around the apartment for stuff. There’s cotton balls and Kleenex, so I could make a cloud costume, but that’s really dumb. (Maybe I’ll do that for Ford. If he asks nicely.) There’s not much in our place, so I go out to the dumpsters. I know that sounds gross, but most stuff is in plastic bags so it’s not as dirty as it sounds. I kind of peek in and look around. I’m not going to hop in unless there’s something really rad.
Sometimes, Benny jumps right in and starts ripping open trash bags. He’s found some neat stuff like old flags and broken furniture that looks like ninja weapons, but mostly he just finds food leftovers, cigarette ashes, and beer bottles. That’s what makes dumpsters stink so bad.
When I don’t spot anything, I check behind the dumpster. There’s some broken electronics, wood scraps, an old coffee table covered in stains, and a bag of clothes. Inside, there’s a pair of jeans, some black boots, and some flannel shirts. One of them has a big stain that looks like blood. It gives me an idea.
In this one horror movie series, Friday the 13th, there’s this guy who wears a hockey mask and uses a machete to go around hacking up sexy teenagers at some kind of summer camp. I’ve never been to a summer camp, but Jason Voorhees would be a cool costume. In middle school, you can’t dress up as a cartoon character or anything kindergarten like that. I need something that other people won’t make fun of.
Plus, Jason is kinda an easy costume to make. Especially now that I have the right clothes. After I wash them, I paint the jeans and shirt in some mud, so it looks like I crawled out of the lake. Then I draw a machete on a cardboard box and cut it out. I wrap the blade part in foil, and the handle in brown packing tape. For the hockey mask, I do the same thing, except I paint it white and black. I skip lunch one day, going to hang out in the art classroom instead, so I can use the paints there. Then I add a strap to the mask, so it stays on my face.
Benny and Brad make about a gallon of fake blood from corn syrup and red dye, and let me have some. So I splash that on my jacket, hands, and the machete. My costume turns out really good.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Mom asks.
“Jason Voorhees. From Friday the 13th.”
“That’s a horror movie,” she says. “How do you even know what that is? You’re not allowed to watch that crap.”
“Yeah, but kids at school talk about it.”
Mom doesn’t let me watch horror movies. She says they’re evil, that I shouldn’t see all that violence. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, coming from her, ’cause she hits me all the time.
It’s a dumb rule. Which is why I ignore it. I watch scary movies, just without permission. Brad’s always renting them. They’re not even that scary. Monsters and vampires and witches and stuff don’t scare me. Not even when they’re killing people. I feel like stuff in real life is way scarier.
Except for zombies. They really freak me out. ’Cause I feel like they could really happen in the real world.
Anyways. I’m glad I made the costume. When I get to school, everyone is dressed up. Some kids look like popular presidents or famous movie people. One girl is dressed as her favorite singer. Some students dress up real funny, like hamburgers or other food and stuff. Others are the usual monsters. My favorite one is this one girl wearing a prom dress and like a ton of blood. She says it’s from a famous movie based on a book by Stephen King. I make a mental note to find the book.
In first period, this one guy has cereal glued all over his clothes, and a plastic knife stabbed through a Froot Loops box on his head. I don’t get it until he tells someone, “I’m a cereal killer.” I can’t stop laughing. That’s really smart.
I think when people wear masks, they’re different. I mean, everyone’s smiling and laughing and trying to guess who’s who behind what mask. No one is sure who I am. People keep asking, “Who are you?” I just shrug and raise my machete like I’m going to kill them. They usually laugh. I kinda like people not knowing who I am. I feel more free or something. Like I’m not me. Like I’m someone else.
At least, that’s how I feel until third period. Mrs. Winstead says, “No masks in my class. Take them off. All of you.”
Then she calls out our names one by one. Our homework was to write a short Halloween story to read in front of the class. Usually I hate speaking, but I wrote a really good story. When it’s my turn, I’m all excited to read it. Mrs. Winstead stops my turn after I read the first paragraph. “You can’t read about killing people, Mr. Ogle.”
“They’re not dead-dead. They’re ghosts. Well, demon-ghosts. It’s a Halloween story. It’s supposed to be spooky.”
“Abject foolishness. Not in my class. Have a seat.”
I’m real pissed off. The assignment was only for one page, but I wrote six. Everyone else has some dumb story about trick-or-treating or a cat scared of a pumpkin. Mine has a haunted house, and all these really horrible demons killing people, and only one girl surviving, just like a movie. Mrs. Winstead—a real-life witch—doesn’t let me get to the surprise ending. No one is really dead. It’s all a big prank.
For the rest of class, I just sit there, arms crossed. She’ll probably give me a bad grade, even though my story was better than anyone else’s. I had to handwrite the whole thing twice, just so there were no errors in it. When the bell rings, I’m glad to get out of there and put my mask back on.
On the way to lunch, Liam calls out. “Ogle! Hey, is that you? I heard your costume was awesome. And it is. Holy cow. You made that? So cool. Looks just like the movie.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Do you like my costume?” He’s wearing his red-and-white jersey over his shoulder pads, along with his cleats and helmet—his whole football uniform. He even has a football in one hand.
I say, “I don’t get it.”
“I’m a football player.”
“But you are a football player. That’s not a costume.”
“Sure it is,” he says. I still don’t get it, but he changes the subject. “Sucks that you didn’t join the football team. I never see you. Maybe try out next semester. I can coach you before. Teach you everything I’m learning.”
“Thanks.” That’s really nice of him. I’d like that. But I don’t want to think about what would happen if I asked Mom to play football again.
“We should hang sometime,” he says.
I shake my head. “Sure. When’s good?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m always at football practice. When I’m not, Dad makes me practice with him.”
“Let me know,” I say. I mean it too. I miss hanging out with Liam. Todd too. Even Zach.
This girl walks by. I think her name is Amelia, but I’m not sure. She’s dressed as this yellow slinky alien from a candy commercial. When she sees Liam, she gives him this little wave, the way girls do when they have a crush.
Liam smirks. “Nice costume! You look like a giant condom.”
I don’t really get it, but I laugh anyway. ’Cause Liam is laughing real hard, like whatever he said is hysterical.
But then something awful happens. Amelia’s eyes get this really horrible hurt look, and start to well up. I hope she won’t but she does. She bursts into tears. She runs away, down the hall.
This real bad sick feeling takes hold in my stomach. Like I’m gonna puke. Liam’s still laughing. He even holds up his hand for a high-five. Real slow, I high-five him. I don’t know why.
“Dude, that was hilarious,” he says.
“I guess.” But I didn’t know Amelia was gonna cry. I didn’t know it’d upset her so much, us laughing at her. People have done worse stuff to me, and I didn’t cry. But Amelia and I aren’t the same. I don’t know her life. I hate that I hurt this girl I don’t even know.
Especially ’cause I know how it feels, to have people laugh at you.
It sucks.
Then I see the principal barreling toward us. Everyone knows him ca
use he’s the tallest person in the school by like six inches. Usually he’s always smiling, but this time he looks real mad, his hands balled into fists. We’ve never met but somehow he knows our names. “Liam! Rex! Did you say something obscene to a young lady just now?”
“No,” Liam says.
I shake my head.
“Did you say her costume looked like a condom?” the principal asks.
Liam shrugs. “Well, it does!”
“You owe that girl an apology,” the principal says. I’m ready to apologize immediately. I feel horrible, the sick feeling still rolling around in my gut like ocean water. With other students gathering around us, whispering, my stomach tightens, a little puke comes up, burning my throat. I swallow it back down.
“I’m not apologizing,” Liam says. “It was just a joke.”
“Do you want detention?” the principal asks.
Liam groans. “No! God! Chill, man.” The principal walks us around the corner to where Amelia is crying.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Liam is about to apologize until he sees his football friends watching. Instead of apologizing, he says, “I’m not.”
The principal grabs Liam’s arm. “Apologize this instant.”
“Fine! I’m sorry, Amelia—” Liam starts. “Sorry your costume’s so ugly.”
The principal loses it, dragging Liam toward his office. Liam’s laughing the whole way, even high-fiving some of his football buddies.
There’s a crowd now, and they’re all left staring at me and Amelia.
“I really am sorry,” I say. I mean it. I honestly do. I hate when people get hurt. No one should hurt. My voice is really low when I add, “It’s a good costume. It is.”
A few fresh tears run down Amelia’s wet cheeks. She chokes out, “It’s all my nana could afford.” Some of the football players are snickering and pointing at her. She breaks through the crowd and disappears into the girls’ bathroom.
Not the football players, but everyone else is looking at me, like I really am a killer, not just dressed like one. They whisper and point and glare at me. I deserve it.
No wonder God hates me. I am awful. Other kids at school are dressed like werewolves and Frankensteins and stuff, but those’re just costumes.
I really am a monster.
WEIRD KID
“Rex Ogle,” I repeat.
The cafeteria cashier is trying to find my name in the red folder. She licks her finger, then turns the pages one by one. She is squinting at the list of names. It annoys me that she still has no idea who I am—even after two months of going through this Monday through Friday. I don’t understand how people can be so stupid.
“Rex Fogle?” she asks.
“Rex Ogle,” I moan, “like it is every day.”
Her wrinkles tighten around her old eyes, her squint shifting into a glare. “You are very rude.”
Then I feel all bad. She’s not Mexican, but she’s still old, and that reminds me of my abuela or my other grandma. Part of me wants to apologize. The other part of me just doesn’t understand why she can’t remember my name.
Finally she finds my name on the Free Lunch list. She makes the checkmark next to my name. I say, “Look, I’m sorry—”
Curtly, she says, “Next.”
Now I’m kinda annoyed and mad. I was trying to apologize. I wasn’t even that rude to begin with. The things I could have said, the things rolling around in my head? It probably would give her a heart attack if I said them. But I don’t say any of it. Even though it’s on the tip of my tongue, like it’s trying to get out.
I hate the things in my head.
The stuff I think sometimes? It’s real awful and dark. It’s evil.
It’s almost like the stuff that happens at home, it gets in my head like an infection. Like when one kid gets chicken pox, everyone around them gets it. Except instead of little itchy red dots, I hear Mom and Sam in my head. The stuff they scream at each other. She says these cruel things. Then he says real horrible stuff back. And it just gets worse. Escalates till the hitting.
Sam calls me and Mom names, like, every day. Me? I’m a sissy. Or a queer. Or runt. Or pussy. Or wetback. The stuff he calls Mom? I don’t wanna repeat it.
So when a person—especially a woman—is rude or mean to me, it’s like some part of me wants to call them those names too.
I don’t. But it takes all this effort not to. ’Cause I don’t want to be like Sam. Though I think part of me already is. Otherwise, why would I think that sorta terrible stuff?
I’m eating my lunch at a table by myself, thinking about all these things, wishing I were anyone else. I’m kinda picking at my food, cause I feel stomach-sick, even though I’m really hungry. And I’m all in my head, so I almost don’t notice someone sit down across from me without asking.
I look up. I don’t even know this guy. He’s short and white, and has a funny bowl-shaped haircut with brown hair. I check up and down the table to see if he’s made a mistake or is lost or something.
He says, “The system sucks.”
I ask, “What system?”
“The social setup where students are hustled into lines like cattle, then forced to find seats that make them feel insecure and unwanted. It’s as though the principals and teachers want us to fight for social standing, or choose to be placed in a box that defines us.” He forks a bit of peas and mashed potatoes into his mouth. He chews slowly, swallows, then continues. “Band geeks. Theatre students. Eighth-grade jocks. Seventh-grade jocks. Cheerleaders. Goth kids. Heavy-metal wannabes—”
I wonder if he’s one of the church kids. Maybe Luke Dodson sent him to try and get me to go to church again.
“Which are you?” I ask.
“I don’t have a label,” he says. “I’m just me.”
“Oh.” That’s all I say.
We both eat a little.
Then he starts again, “I bet there are cameras hidden all over this cafeteria. They’re recording us, and we’re all part of some big social experiment, conducted by the government. Psychiatrists are probably watching us right now, trying to decipher the riddle of today’s youth.”
I say, “You’re kinda weird, huh?”
“Weird is just a label people put on people who are brilliant.”
People say I’m weird sometimes. I wonder if that makes me brilliant too. But I don’t think really smart people grow up in trailer parks and crappy apartments. Or if they do, no one ever finds out they’re smart, ’cause they’re too busy trying to find their next meal and pay their bills and stuff.
The weird kid and I both eat for a while. Then I ask, “You really think they’re watching us?”
He shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the strangest thing the government’s ever done. During the Vietnam War, they tested chemical warfare on their own soldiers. It was called Agent Orange. This band R.E.M. made it into a song. Look it up.”
“Why would they do that?”
“R.E.M. makes all kinds of political songs.”
“No, I mean the government. Why would they hurt their own people?”
“Easier to monitor them, I guess. It’s always easier to hurt the ones you’re closest to, the ones you love,” he says.
Makes me think of Mom and Sam. But if they love me, they don’t say it.
“I’m Ethan.”
“Rex.”
He nods. “Cool name. It has an x in it. Like X-Men.”
“What’s that?”
“Awww, man! You don’t know? It’s only like the coolest comic book out there.” Ethan starts digging through his backpack. He pulls out a bunch of comics, each in a plastic sleeve with a piece of cardboard behind it, to protect it I guess. The covers have all these folks in bright-colored Spandex fighting one another. Liam and Zach always said comic books are for nerds. So I never read them. But looking at these, I like the colors. The art’s pretty cool too.
“What are those about?”
“The X-Men are sworn to protect a world that
fears and hates them,” Ethan says. “They’re mutants. That means they have special powers, like controlling the weather or shooting blasts out of their eyes or having healing factors and adamantium claws. Well, actually, technically, Wolverine’s adamantium isn’t part of his mutant ability. The government added that later, against his will.”
“You don’t like the government, do you?”
“I don’t trust them,” Ethan says. “Distrust is healthy.”
I don’t know what that even means. This kid’s super weird. But he does seem smart, and he knows a bunch of stuff.
“If you could have a mutant superpower, what would it be?” Ethan asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. I think about it. “I think it’d be cool to move stuff without touching it. I saw that in a movie once. This chick was making stuff fly all over the room with her mind.”
“That’s telekinesis,” Ethan says. “Good choice. I’m glad you didn’t say you’d want to fly. Everyone says that. That’s such an easy one.”
“But if I had telekinesis, I could just move myself around. Then I could fly too,” I say.
“Excellent point!” Ethan says, getting all excited.
“What superpower would you have?”
Ethan rubs his hands together. “I’m glad you asked. My favorite character is Iceman. He can freeze stuff, and make ice slides. But I don’t know if that’s the power I’d want. There’re so many things you have to consider first. Do you want powers to fight villains, or make the world a better place or simply to impress girls—” Ethan talks for a long time. I’m not sure if he actually answers the question.
While he’s talking, I think how cool it’d be if I did have superpowers. If I turned invisible, I could take my free lunch without having to deal with the cashier. (It’s not stealing if it’s free, right?) Or if I could teleport, I could just grab my lunch and vanish off to some other place to eat it. I wonder if being super rich is a superpower. I’d take that too.
“You can borrow one of my comics,” Ethan says. “But you have to promise to take care of it.”
For a minute, I get weirded out. Why’s he being so nice to me? Why’d he sit here? What’s he want? Point-blank, I ask, “Are you one of those church kids? Coming over here to get me to go to church?”
Free Lunch Page 7
