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by Ron Koertge

  The last class of the day is English. I walk in to find this substitute teacher right out of Central Casting — ponytail, cords, sandals — writing on the board:

  the goldfish held the cats hostage

  He asks, “Keeping in mind the whole poem in your text, but concentrating on just this one line, what do you think the poet is trying to say?”

  He’s the opposite of Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but he sounds just like him. “Anybody?” he asks. “Anybody?”

  Oliver Atkins looks at me, then falls facedown on his desk in a pretend faint. Three or four girls giggle. They’re too pretty for poetry, anyway. Boots are all the rage, and they have theirs out in the aisles, where everybody can see who has the shiniest, the highest heeled, the most expensive.

  The sub moves a plastic bag of baby carrots to one side and consults his seating chart. He hasn’t shaved, and I wonder if the office called him at 7:05 this morning and he shot out of bed. Under that Gap shirt, I’ll bet he’s got a pale, bony chest like John Keats.

  He asks, “Mr. Atkins?”

  Oliver looks up, bright-eyed, then gets to his feet. “Yes, sir?”

  “You don’t have to stand up.”

  “But we always stand, sir. As a gesture of respect.”

  That’s a lie, but everybody likes it.

  “Whatever,” says the sub. (I know he has a name, and I know he wrote it on the board, but I can’t remember it.) Right now he looks like he’s heartily sorry he’s a vegetarian and what he really wants is a burger and a whip. “What do you think the poet is getting at?”

  “I’m not sure,” Oliver says, “that he’s getting at anything. Our regular teacher says that poems should be, not mean.” He points. “That line on the board is interesting, though. It turns the usual power structure on its head. The slaves turn on the plantation owner, the UPS man on the Amazon-addicted customer, the abused on the abuser, the students on their teacher.”

  Now the sub looks up like this unexpected turbulence will cause the oxygen mask to drop down. He tells us to talk among ourselves. He puts another poem on the board. Finally, the bell rings and he collapses into the chair.

  Oliver grins at me. On the way out, the jocks who regularly torment Oliver and call him faggot cuff him around harmlessly. Attaboy. The done unto becomes the doer.

  As I pass the teacher, he looks at his watch, which is a Little Mermaid model, the one where she’s wearing the blue bra top and her hair is bougainvillea red.

  When I see that watch, I wonder if he isn’t an interesting guy, after all. His girlfriend gave him that. Or his kid. Or, even better, he bought it for himself.

  So there’s a possible documentary: The Secret World of Substitute Teachers. Maybe I wouldn’t be exploiting anybody if I talked to them. Maybe they want their story told.

  I tell him, “See you tomorrow, maybe.”

  He looks up and offers me one of the tiny carrots from his stash. “Yeah, maybe. I hope so. I could use the money.”

  “You don’t know ahead of time? They just call you?”

  “There are long-term gigs. Some old guy dies or something. But usually I just wait by the phone like a pudgy virgin with acne.”

  That makes me laugh, and that makes him grimace.

  “Sorry,” he says, “that wasn’t very PC of me.”

  “That’s cool. I’m not very PC myself.” I take a step toward the door. “See you.”

  “Yeah. Tomorrow, I hope. Thanks, man.”

  Thanks, man. What is he — ten years older than me? Eight? A few months ago — Before Colleen — I was the pudgy virgin with acne waiting by the phone. Well, not pudgy. I never had acne, and the phone was a DVD. But the virgin part for sure.

  When Colleen pulls up, I tumble into the car.

  “Lean over here and kiss me passionately,” she says. “It’ll ramp your street cred to new heights.”

  I do, and she puts her heart into it. Then zips away from the red zone. A couple of kids I know from English glance up and nod in that I’m-too-cool-to-wave way, but I know they saw.

  We pass a huge McDonald’s on the corner just a block from the on-ramp to the 210. I like the primary colors. Kids wiping their hands on their good clothes. Kids in what look like pajamas, but it’s almost four. One little boy trying to push his backpack up the longest slide, like a kiddie version of Sisyphus. I point and Colleen gets it. Then she laughs when the kid almost makes the top, reaches for a handhold, just misses, and slides all the way back down.

  She’s in pants with extra loops and side pockets, a black sweater, and blue Vans. I wonder if Marcie took her shopping.

  Colleen likes to weave in and out of traffic, make all the lights, then zoom onto the freeway. We’re zipping along just past the speed limit — and most things are just past the speed limit with her — when she says, “I heard from Ed. He’s so crazy to see me, he’s going AWOL. And then we’ll probably go on a little crime spree — rob banks, jack a few cars.”

  “Keep books out of the library way past their due dates.”

  “Me and Ed forever. That’s about your worst fear, isn’t it?”

  “That and big dogs charging at me.”

  “You’d be fine without me. You and that icy bitch A.J.”

  “A.J.’s history. She got all mad because I wouldn’t shove a camera in my mother’s face and make her cry.”

  “What’d I just say? Another cold-blooded opportunist.”

  “She’s way more hard-core than I thought.”

  “I guess you know she doesn’t wear underpants.”

  “It’s the first thing she told me. That and where the gold in her backyard is buried.”

  “You jest, but it’s true. Have you seen those low-rise jeans of hers? No panty line.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Where is your little camera, anyway? You used to point that thing at me twenty-four seven.”

  “I’m giving it a rest. I’m not sure I want to make any more documentaries. They’re kind of nosy.”

  “That’s why they’re interesting. You should meet these aliens who work at the co-op with me. This one guy is obsessed with Ping-Pong. It’s all he talks about: backhand slams, punch serves, you name it.”

  “Have you seen him play?”

  “On his iPod, yeah. He’s got, like, matches of the century on there. Featuring him.”

  “And he’s good?”

  “Scary good.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Walter, but he wants me to call him the Demolisher.”

  “Christopher Walken was already in a movie about Ping-Pong: Balls of Fury.”

  “That was stupid. You’d never make anything stupid. That thing you did about those kids at school? That was really tasty. And if you meet the Ping-Pong guy and don’t like him, how about some alcoholic sisters who work produce? They play Monopoly twelve hours a day.”

  “If there’s anything that’ll keep an audience riveted, it’s seeing a top hat hop around a board.”

  “Except these girls are crazy. They play this really caffeinated version, so one of them wins about every half hour. Three or four wins makes one of them an angel. Three or four more and she’s an archangel. A few more and she’s Super Queen of Heaven. It’s not about Monopoly or table tennis. It’s about obsession, right?”

  I sit up straighter. “And they’re grown-ups. They’d know what they were getting into.”

  “They’re grown-up fruitcakes, and they’re dying for attention.”

  “You might be onto something.”

  She looks over at me. “So, I’m the one, aren’t I?”

  “With grammar like that, who could resist.”

  She pretends to scowl. “You know what, Tiny Tim? What say we find a little park and play a little catch? Maybe do some wind sprints.”

  I take her right hand off the wheel, kiss it, and let it rest on my semi-useless leg. She leaves it there, too, the rest of the way to Azusa.

  A person can ge
t used to anything. I got used to limping all the time. I got used to being alone. All I really mean, I guess, is that I’m used to Target. Used to my mother being there, bending over to pick up a dress that somebody in flip-flops tossed on the floor.

  Except she’s not in her section.

  “What now?” I ask Colleen.

  “Give it a minute. She could be in the bathroom.”

  One of the racks looks junky, with dresses crammed against each other, so I straighten those out a little.

  “Did you ever buy stuff from Target?” I ask.

  Colleen shakes her head. “I was raised by wolves.” She reaches for my hand. “C’mon, let’s check the dining room, with its chandeliers and liveried footmen.”

  Sure enough, my mother is in the snack bar, sipping at her favorite soft drink. The one she likes and that likes her back.

  “Mom,” I say. “It’s me. Ben. And Colleen.”

  “Oh, dear. Where did you come from?”

  I point. “Okay if we sit down?”

  She nods. She has deep, dark half circles under both eyes.

  “We’re not going to keep you,” Colleen says, “but we just wanted to check — you’re still good for dinner sometime soon, right?”

  She leans back in the plastic chair. “I know what I said, but I’m just so tired.”

  Colleen reaches for my mother’s hand and holds it. “Man, tell me about it. I’ve got the register to worry about; I work the loading dock; I stock shelves. My back hurts; my legs are sore. And it’s like that from three in the afternoon to ten o’clock at night.”

  “Oh,” my mother says. “That’s a terrible shift. I’ve worked it, but I don’t like it.” She looks at me then. “You don’t understand, Ben. You can’t.”

  I start to protest. Colleen cuts me off.

  “Forget about him. He’s a freaking brainiac.” She points to her forehead. “It’s all up here with him. A’s all the time, honor society, the whole nine yards.”

  “You’re that bright?” she asks.

  Colleen answers for me. “Bright? Are you kidding? You need sunglasses just to be around him. But he doesn’t work, Delia. He’s not like us.”

  Her other hand covers Colleen’s. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

  “You can say that again.” She nods my way. “You know what this one does? Makes movies. Sits on his butt in his little canvas chair with his name on it and says, ‘Roll ’em!’ How hard can that be? I mean, he’s talented, and, okay, he shows in Hollywood and places like that, but he doesn’t get his hands dirty like we do.”

  Delia looks at me. “You’re in Hollywood?”

  “At a gallery,” I say. “No big deal.”

  “Hollywood.” My mother says the three magic syllables.

  “When you come to dinner,” Colleen says, “you can see his latest. Okay?”

  Delia takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I’m exhausted all the time.”

  I tell her, “We’ll come get you. You won’t have to drive.”

  “I can drive, Benjamin. I’m a perfectly good driver. I drove from Seattle, Washington.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t a good driver. I just meant —”

  Colleen leans toward my mother and half whispers, “Let’s go to the bathroom.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “I want to go to the bathroom. Come with me. Girls always go to the bathroom together.”

  That seems to light my mother up a little. “All right.” And she gets to her feet.

  Colleen peers down at me. “You stay here, and if the handsome waiter comes, order for me, okay? I’ll have the escargot.”

  I watch them walk away, Colleen’s arm linked in my mother’s. Colleen’s tall and thin as a reed; my mom’s a little thick and stooped over. She’s looking up at Colleen and nodding. That’s a picture I’d like to have in a frame.

  I listen to the hubbub around me, mostly kids begging for more of everything. A couple of guys who work there sit across from each other with tub-size drinks, both of them plugged into separate iPods. Maybe that’s why they work — to buy stuff like that. They probably live at home.

  Those people from the food co-op Colleen told me about sound interesting. They actually do stuff. High School Confidential was just talking heads. The editing made it as good as it was, and Marcie helped me with that.

  A few minutes later, Colleen comes back by herself. I ask, “Where’s my mom?”

  Colleen points. “Waiting for us in the men’s section.”

  “What’s she doing —?”

  “She’s really sorry about what happened twelve years ago. She’s kind of ashamed of herself and hopes that you’ll just forgive her and be patient with her.”

  “She actually said that?”

  Colleen squirms a little. “Not in so many words.”

  “What exact words did she say?”

  “Um, that there are some sale items you might be interested in. But you just have to read between the lines.”

  “And that’s what you were doing in the bathroom? Reading between the lines?”

  “She loves you, Ben. She’s just . . . I don’t know. Shell-shocked or something.” Colleen tugs at me. “Now, c’mon. She wants to buy you a T-shirt. It’s important to her.”

  “Is she ever coming to dinner?”

  “Next week. If she can.”

  “BENJAMIN?”

  “I’m ready, Grandma.”

  “It’s seven.”

  “We’re just going across the street.”

  Grandma has always been super-prompt, and while I’m on my way to the door, where she’s waiting, I wonder if it’s because she took me to so many appointments when I was little. Endless doctors’ appointments and physical therapy appointments. What in the world would I have done without her?

  She’s holding the door open, but I let her go first. When I’m right beside her, I put my arm through hers.

  “I’m perfectly steady on my feet, Benjamin.”

  “It’s not that. I just like you.”

  “Well, of all the things to say.”

  But she doesn’t pull away.

  It’s dusk or evening or not-quite-night or one of those. It’s usually really clear in Los Angeles. But it’s hazy tonight, and that reflects headlights and streetlights and millions of TVs.

  I know the stars are up there, though. Right now we’re studying constellations. In English, no less. We have to memorize a whole list of them — not just the marquee ones, like the Big Dipper or Orion, but Canis Major and Boötes the Herdsman, too. And then we write about them.

  They’ve all got stories. Myths about how they got to be who they are and where they are. Some of the kids in my class are really creative. They make up new constellations like Redbrick Silo or Korean Grocer, then tell how they got their names. Which gods they cheesed off or, maybe, were kind to when they came down here in disguise, which is what the gods like to do.

  We’ll make a little constellation tonight — Colleen and me, Marcie and Grandma and my mother. A constellation that’s too unstable to have a name yet. I don’t ring Marcie’s doorbell with trepidation, exactly, but I do wonder how this evening is going to play out.

  Grandma whispers, “I enjoy seeing Colleen working in the yard.”

  “She’s clerking at that natural-foods market on Arroyo.”

  “I never thought I’d say this, but you make an interesting couple.”

  “Wow, I never thought you’d say that, either.”

  Almost every night now, Colleen and I watch a movie together. Except she’s in her room at Marcie’s and I’m in my room across the street. Sometimes we don’t say ten words for an hour and a half. But we know the other person is there. I hear a little clink when her glass touches a saucer. I hear the toilet flush and then the rustle of covers when she settles down in bed again. Every now and then she’ll say, “Ben?” and I say, “I’m right here.” In a weird way it’s more — and I guess the word I want is intimate — it’s more intimate tha
n anything Colleen and I do. And I mean anything.

  Just then Colleen opens the door. She’s in a tangerine-colored crewneck, blue pants (but not jeans), and old Doc Martens with the laces undone.

  I tell her, “No mother yet.”

  “Give her time.” She looks me up and down. “You are too cute in that shirt.”

  But Colleen keeps the PDAs to a minimum around my grandmother, and maybe that explains the long-sleeved sweater: if there’s a tattoo in the forest and nobody sees it, is it really there?

  “C’mon in, you guys,” she says.

  There’s a drop cloth crumpled up at the foot of one wall, some spackle, and two or three cans of paint. One of the first things Marcie told me when we got to be friends was that she was almost always discontented. I remember we were talking about the camera she was going to loan me so I could make High School Confidential, and she just said it. How restless she was. I liked her right away.

  Marcie comes charging out of the kitchen. Big smile. Arms open. She likes to wear caftans, and tonight’s is green with a bamboo print. She hugs everybody. Even Colleen, who she saw about two minutes ago. Marcie is just that way.

  “Sit down,” she says.

  I hold Grandma’s chair like a good boy. Colleen watches and then says, “Unfuckingbelievable.”

  “No one ever did that for you?” Grandma asks.

  “Get serious. My mother threw a chair at me once.”

  I’m around the table before Colleen can say anything else. I pull the chair out a little and wait. Colleen just stares at it, then sits down carefully.

  “So weird,” she says.

  Marcie arrives then, putting a big wooden bowl in the middle of the table. Marcie’s a good cook. I can see avocado and tomato, two kinds of lettuce, and arugula. And candied walnuts on the side.

  “Mrs. B.,” Marcie says, “I’ve got some chardonnay.”

  “If you’re having some.”

  Marcie shakes her head. “I’ve been going to AA again.”

  That makes me look up from coveting all the walnuts.

  She says, “I convinced myself I could have a drink or two. A spritzer after I’ve been working in the garden. A nice cabernet with dinner. Then two or three days ago, I’m at the store and I pick up a bottle of gin. I love gin. A couple of martinis, and there they are again — songs from the underworld.”