Where I Live

by Brenda Rufener

  I stomp down on a piece of paper and slide it underfoot toward the trash can. No one picks up around here. No one throws trash into the can, where it belongs. No one cares what this place looks like, except me. Of course, no one calls school their home, either.

  Ham lags behind, his tail wagging, tongue flapping, smile wrapping his face like holiday paper. He dawdles at a window and sneak peeks through the glass. When he reaches the limit his five-foot frame allows, he pushes onto his tiptoes.

  “No time for peeping,” I whisper-yell, tapping the nonexistent watch on my wrist.

  Ham grins and fast walks the hall. When he reaches me, he says, “Have you noticed everyone looks different this year? More, I don’t know, grown up.”

  “Nope.” I crimp my bangs between my fingers and stretch them over my eyebrows. That trim I gave myself a few weeks ago is finally taking shape. “Haven’t noticed.”

  “Come on, Linden. Don’t even tell me you haven’t eyeballed Reed Clemmings, or his new ride.” Ham smiles out of the side of his mouth he doesn’t normally smile out of. “You can’t ignore his sudden disregard for the jock jacket and affection for man scarves on shearling. And the man bun and beard? Nice touch.”

  I roll my eyes. “Jock jacket?”

  “Letterman jacket, Linden. If they still call them that. Do they call them that?” Ham’s arms wave like crab’s legs. He’s a hand talker, in the best way.

  “You don’t look different this year, Ham. Your dimples are still dimpling and your smile remains contagious. You might be a bit more squeezable than last year, but to me that’s a good thing.” I prop Ham’s knit hat into a cone, and he whips it off and throws it at me. His hair shoots in all directions and changes the shape of his face. Less round, more texture. Let’s face it: Ham’s adorable.

  “I don’t know what you see in that guy,” Ham says, slicing the air with his hand. “You can’t change an asshole, with or without a trip to the city for a wardrobe upgrade.”

  I stop walking, grab Ham’s shoulders, and look him straight in the eyes. “Listen when I say I see nothing in Reed Clemmings, and believe me when I tell you he is incapable of seeing anything in me.” I whip around and head down the hall, shouting, “What about his ex, though? You’re the one suffering from the Bea sting. Better watch out for her boyfriend, Ham. Toby Patters has always had a problem with you. With everyone. Besides, Bea’s much more an asshole than Reed.”

  I turn back around and watch Ham’s face drop. “Bea can’t be an asshole, Linden. She’s a girl.”

  “Girls are assholes, too!” I shout. “Equal rights!”

  Ham squishes his lips together and winks. “Point noted, Linden, as you are clearly the most adorable asshole I know.”

  I laugh, shaking my head, and sprint down the hall until I reach Mr. Dique’s door. I wait for Ham to catch up. There’s that fast walk again.

  Ham. Maple sweet with a smoke flavor all his own.

  Not his real name, though. I mean, who names their kid Ham, right? But it’s the only name I’ve ever called him. A name that rose to fame after Reed Clemmings, and his buddy Toby Patters (a.k.a. T.P., a.a.k.a. Asswipe), pushed him off the monkey bars. The fall busted Ham’s tailbone. Only in second grade the tailbone’s called the butt bone. Any second grader knows that. And in second grade, Ham wore forty pounds of baby fat around his waist like an inner tube. Weight that dripped and spilled down his butt like two scoops of ice cream in mid-July. When Ham’s seven-year-old ass hit the pavement, in theory, it should have bounced. Any theorist knows that. But theories aren’t always as rational as they claim to be. Ham dropped like a bowling ball hitting turf. He squealed, classmates circled, and the teacher rushed in to help. “Franklin,” the teacher said. “Are you okay?”

  As Ham tells it, he answered his teacher like a real second-grade man. “Hell no, I’m not okay. My ham hurts.” The class laughed, Ham’s chest puffed, the teacher’s cheeks pinked, and the name stuck through elementary and middle school, along with a grudge toward Reed and Toby. Ham’s name made its way into the halls of Hinderwood High and became his pride and joy. It will be on his college application, résumé, and marriage license.

  “Damn, Linden. What’s the hurry?”

  I slap his back. Hurriedness is as much a part of me as my friends. The rush, head checks, constant motion ensure I won’t get caught. If I pause even for a moment to catch my breath, my secret’s out—my charade over.

  “Just protecting us from the assholes in this school.”

  Ham smiles. “Thanks, Mama.”

  I wince and tap my finger on Ham’s chest. “Don’t call me mama. Ever.”

  Ham shoos my hand away and points at the door. “The usual?”

  I nod, thinking about Ham’s word choice, remembering Bea and her beat-up face, nostril stuffed with tissue. The boomerang of hurt barrels my way. My eyes sting and I blink five million times to fan away any moisture. “Yeah, Ham,” I whisper, drawing a deep breath. “The usual.”

  Mr. Dique catches us waiting at the door and waves. My prediction is correct. Mood up, interview on. One must avoid Mr. Dique when he’s in a bad mood. Students with him last year during the breakup of his marriage paid the price with pop quizzes three days per week. Mr. Dique holds up a palm, signaling we remain in the back of the class, near the door.

  “Hey, buddy!” Ham shouts with little regard for the quiet classroom.

  Seung, sitting at the back table, quick-nods at Ham. I smile and Seung smiles back. My face warms—well, maybe just my cheeks. I lock my grin into place while Mr. Dique continues his one-sided discussion of meiosis. Seung teeters back in his chair, closes his eyes, and pretends to fall asleep. He snores and I giggle.

  Papers rustle and a chair squeaks. Seung opens his eyes, smirks at me again, then drifts into pretend slumber. Mr. Dique is now speaking at the whiteboard, his back to the class. Toby stumbles out of his back-row seat, zigzags forward, and kicks the leg on Seung’s chair. Before Mr. Dique can turn around and shoot questions, Seung’s on his back, cradling his desk chair in his arms, and Toby’s groaning about having to piss.

  “Seung Rhee?” Mr. Dique asks. “What happened?”

  Ham rushes the door, shouting, “T.P., you shitwipe—” but I grab his shoulder and shake my head.

  “Seung can handle it,” I whisper, not wanting Ham to worsen the situation by drawing unwanted attention in any of our directions.

  Seung untwists his limbs from his chair, slowly climbing to his feet. “Guess I slipped.” Seung glances back at me and winks.

  “I hate that guy,” Ham mumbles, and shudders. “And hate’s not a familiar emotion to me.”

  A throat clears behind us.

  It’s Bea, back from the office, waiting for best friend Beth and boyfriend Toby. He’s had it in for Seung since Bea realized Seung’s cute and charming and always there for his friends. Bea’s had it in for me since I stumbled upon her secret.

  Bea’s famous at Hinderwood High. Famous for stirring up mixed feelings I don’t want to feel. I lean in to Ham, ready to engage in make-believe conversation, but he’s too busy smiling at Bea and mouthing, “Did you come to help?” and “Are you okay?” to notice. The buzzer rings and the class scrambles for the door.

  I rush for the front of the room, passing Seung, who’s now limping. “You okay?”

  He shrugs. I know not to push. I don’t want to embarrass him even more.

  “Meet us at lunch,” I say, grabbing his elbow.

  Seung smiles. “Usual place?”

  I glance back at Ham, then at Seung. We nod, in unison. Our equilateral triangle, Me-Ham-Seung, always in agreement.

  Seung shoots a thumbs-up (normal response) and squeezes a second wink (abnormal response). And just when I’m about to ask Ham if Seung started lifting weights, Bea shoves in front of me and says, “Tell Mr. George I won’t be working in the newsroom today. Something came up.”

  Ham slides in front of me. “We saw you with Principal Falsetto. Are you okay?”


  Bea narrows her eyes and snaps, “Why wouldn’t I be?” She tosses something sticky and it hits my hair, then plops onto my foot.

  I stare straight ahead and pretend the trash isn’t meant for me. Bea doesn’t have to say it, but of course she does, because she never shuts her mouth, even after an asshole slapped it. “Trash for Trash,” she hisses with her eyes as much as her lips.

  I fixate on the bubble smoldering on her lip while she aims spit at my shoe. As gorgeous as this girl is, every time she spits at me, her beauty chokes, shrivels, dies.

  “Kids. Over here.” Saved by Mr. Dique, waving his pointer in the air and signaling us to the front of the room like he’s directing air traffic. “I suppose you want to discuss the drone?” he says when we reach the front of the room.

  I refuse to glance back at Bea, but I feel her acid eyes sizzle my skin. More poison-dipped darts. I slide the pen from my ear, then proceed with a professional salutation reserved exclusively for Mr. Dique.

  “Hey, Mr. D.” Because I can’t bring myself to speak his last name in his presence. “Sir, can you tell us what happened from the beginning?”

  I scratch down Mr. Dique’s recollection of events on paper. My notes splatter with complaints, few facts. Ham, always trigger-happy, snaps photos from all angles of the drone dripping with condoms—they dangle from the tail and landing skids. Ham flicks the tip of a rubber with his finger and I cringe. Mr. Dique doesn’t seem to mind Ham taking photos; in fact, he looks pleased, so I don’t stop him.

  Mr. Dique rants more about the interruption than about what he actually saw. I detail important stuff. A buzz. A laugh. More buzzing. More laughing. Mr. Dique comes nose to face with the drone as it hovers into class, condoms swinging. It lands on a desk and Mr. Dique, as usual, charges the door, shouting, “I’ve got you! You’re mine!”—only to find an empty hallway.

  Same stuff, new month. If I pull up last year’s blog, I could almost plagiarize this. Mr. Dique continues animating his tirade and I start checking to-do boxes in my head.

  This morning was strategy hell.

  I stashed my sleeping bag in the vacant music room behind the in-need-of-repair kettledrums. In walked a band kid with raised eyebrows and a grimacing side eye. I pointed and yelled, “You’re late for practice and the teacher’s downright pissed!” because I’ve learned to move fast on my feet. It worked. The guy tore into his trumpet case and flew through the gym toward the football field. I heard his warm-up routine go from allegro to presto on my way to the theater, where I stuffed my toiletries in a garbage bag in the back of the room. As I left, Drama Jarrell, who happens to be cool because he plays football, volunteers in the newsroom, and has balls enough to be in drama at this rural school where football reigns, walked in. I acted like I had business being in the theater room, but I don’t think my explanation was necessary. Drama Jarrell said, “Hey,” and because his pecs practically pushed the words THERE WILL BE DRAMA from his T-shirt into my face, I said, “Hey,” back, and smiled. He asked something about Ham, but I was already out the door and marching to my locker to stuff it with a spare set of clothes.

  With football practice in full swing, I juggle dressers and bathrooms to avoid locker-room traffic during the morning hours. Later in the year, I’ll relocate my belongings to the library because stage equipment will be in use in the theater. With thousands of hours of practice living in my high school, I should be an expert by now, but hiding stuff never gets easy and always grows old. I anticipate the moves of everyone around me. Shit impacts my sleep.

  We thank Mr. Dique for his time and assure him we will work hard to find who is behind the prank, although I don’t believe a word we promise. Pranking Mr. Dique is legendary. It always happens twice a year, near the beginning and at the end. Freshman year, balloons in the shape of wiener dogs decorated a helicopter. Then a phallic hot dog rode into class atop a remote-control car. Mode of transportation varies between cars and helicopters and drones. The most theatrical hit was last year’s pink animatronic dildo. Thankfully, I never saw it in person. I was crashing at Seung’s, sick with a cold. His mother doting over me, like my own used to do. Though I missed the actual event, Ham later supplied me with eighty-five pictures, because he’s thorough at his job.

  My gut tells me the mystery pilot is one of Mr. Dique’s colleagues trying to loosen up his tightly wound demeanor, but he refuses to believe that anyone other than a student is behind the prank.

  On the way back to the newsroom, Ham and I reroute through the math corridor, just in case Coach Jenkins is still making rounds and whistle-blows and ordering every student, with or without a valid excuse, to class. We pass Mr. Ryckman, the janitor, unjamming his mop from a metal bucket. His lips dance, but his mouth makes no sound. We’re hit with a horrific smell of lemon-zest-meets-beer.

  “What the hell happened here?” Ham asks.

  The janitor whips his head around and glares. “Somebody yacked, smart-ass.”

  Ham grumbles various names reserved exclusively for male anatomy as Mr. Ryckman shakes his mop handle at us. “Out!” he shouts.

  And only because the guy creeps me out do I hike my shirt over my nose, grab Ham’s arm, and pull him down the hall.

  Outside the newsroom, Toby, Reed, and Coach Jenkins pow-wow. Ham tenses, so I slip my arm around his shoulder and squeeze. Coach Jenkins stands between the guys, hands pressed flat against their chests like he’s pushing them apart. T.P. grapples for a shirtsleeve but ends up tangling his hand up in Coach’s whistle. Coach’s neck jerks forward and he yells, “That’s enough, you two!”

  It’s obvious the only sober one is pretzled in the arms of his two best players, getting choked out. “T.P. must have been drunk in class,” I say. “When he kicked Seung’s chair.”

  Ham scoffs. “Don’t make excuses for him. He’s been messing with Seung and me for a decade.”

  Coach Jenkins unwinds the noose from his neck, and one of Toby’s brick feet steps on the other. He buckles and drops to his knees, sending Ham and me into a fit of laughter.

  Coach whips his head around and shouts, “Scram! No business of yours.”

  Toby glares with eyes glazed and blurt-belches a deep and thought-provoking “Fuck you.”

  He points. So naturally, Ham and I point back.

  “Did you hear me?” Coach Jenkins shouts. “Scram!”

  Ham raises his fists and yells, “I really do detest all of you people!”

  Chapter Three

  THREE FIFTEEN ON A WEEKDAY and I have a choice to make. Go to work or go to work.

  Which job I choose matters most. I have three, but only two pay. My nonpaying job lets me stay unnoticed in the newsroom until 5:30, sometimes 5:45, or until Mr. George chases me out. One of my paying gigs, the one I’d quit if food and tampons didn’t cost money, places me at Bea’s house every other Saturday. I scrub Bea’s toilet, dust her mom’s collection of glass owls, and tidy up the basement. While my job is to clean Bea’s home in four hours, I race to finish in three so I’m out the door before Bea and her boyfriend arrive. I can handle picking up after Bea, especially since I don’t have to clean her room (mom’s orders), but I can’t stomach hearing Bea fight with her boyfriend.

  My regular job, which only pays sometimes, sends me over the hill to read with the residents of Nowhere Near Like Home nursing facility. I renamed the place because Just Like Home was a lie and I don’t like it when people lie to the elderly.

  Employment choice is contingent on fatigue. The walk to the nursing home only works if I’ve slept the night before. Today I’m tired and my muscles ache.

  Nowhere Near Like Home is a sweet gig on nights I’m not hanging with Seung and Ham, or when I need a couple of bucks for peanut butter crackers or peanut butter cups or peanut butter cookies from the school’s vending machine. Peanut butter’s packed with protein, and protein packs my stomach for more than eight hours.

  The nursing home splits into two wings that house residents with faculties on one side and
those without on the other. I used to spend a lot of time in the dementia units, but there’s no reason to now.

  I’ve grown to love my rounds at Nowhere Near Like Home. The old lady who only wants me to read the newspaper—obituary section—with highlighter in hand, those who want to know what the Kardashians are up to these days, and the few who drop a Bible on my lap. It’s bizarre how every room in the nursing home houses a Bible, yet few can read the fine print. I’d much rather stick to the newspaper or grab the dinner menu from the nurse’s desk, because the Bible instigates arguments. In order to keep the peace, I read stuff the old folks really want to hear. Call it hope. Call it prayer. Call it reader protection. I try to tell my elders things that push smiles onto their shriveled faces. Things like their childhood dog is waiting for them with tail swinging. Just take a left at the gate of pearls. I tell them their loved ones who refuse to visit are on God’s shit list. The smirks on the old women’s faces are worth more than their quarters.

  On a good night I leave Nowhere Near Like Home with a few extra bucks in my pocket. Old people tip well, and I’ve got that face, you know, the one any great-great-grandparent with smudged trifocals would love.

  I vacate the school grounds near sundown when the janitor checks every room for warm bodies before locking doors. In the winter, when daylight shrinks or the weather’s too frigid to walk to the nursing home, I juggle between Seung’s house and Ham’s. When I beat out Bea and a book-smart girl named Kristen for the lead reporter position of our school’s blog, I gained widespread access to Mr. George’s newsroom. I needed the nonpaying job more than they did. Kristen wanted it for her college transcript. Bea just wanted it to mess with me.