“Shut up, Yoda.”
I left my shirt hanging on the tree and went back to work.
The five-foot circumference of the hole I was supposed to dig was marked with pink spray paint. I just had to make a hole as deep as the circle was wide.
I used my boot to push the shovel blade into the dirt, bent my knees, put my back into it and lifted. Ten minutes into the work, I was sweating. Half an hour and I was dripping. After a while my cuts and bruises stopped hurting, and the whine of the edger and mowers faded away. It was just the slice of the shovel into the ground and the pounding of my heart as I muscled it out of the hole. An inch at a time, a foot at a time. I was good at digging holes. It was the rest of life I sucked at.
Then I hit rock—check that, rocks—and the dirt turned into dried cement. I had to use the pick to loosen it. The mowers swept by, blasting cut grass and exhaust. I kept digging, pick first, then shovel. Pick and shovel. Break, then dig. An inch, three inches, another foot down. The sun was roaring overhead, cooking everything. Sweat ran down my back and arms. Salt penetrated the bandages the doc had given me. The sting was sweet.
Days like this I thought maybe I should just blow off school, move to Minnesota or something, get a job that let me sweat, and never, ever think again. I swung the pick harder, putting my back into it until the sun and the stink and the buzz and the pain blurred together.
And then Yoda was standing above me with Mr. Pirelli next to him. Somehow the afternoon had vanished and it was time to go home. I handed up my tools. The two of them reached down to help me out of the crater I’d dug.
“Isn’t that a little deep?” Yoda asked.
“It’ll help the roots get established,” I explained.
“Established where? China?”
The truck stopped at our corner and we crawled out. Mr. Pirelli reminded me to call him about my schedule now that school was starting. He’d take as many hours as I could give, he said, especially if I wanted to dig holes. It might have been a compliment, but I was too tired to be sure.
I trudged next to Yoda, my boots clomping on the sidewalk like monster feet.
“You want to come?” Yoda asked.
“Where?”
“To my house, to take over the galaxy, duh. Or we could just hang out. Whatever. We have leftover lasagna.”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
We stood there for a second, gnats swarming in front of our faces.
He swatted at them. “I think you should come.”
“I’m okay, really,” I said. “I’m going to bed. But if I can’t sleep, I’ll come over.”
He nodded. “You riding with me Monday?”
“Nope. I’m taking the bus with Hannah.”
“Cool. May the Force be with you, my friend.”
“We’re seniors, Yoda. You gotta stop saying that.”
10.
My house was dark and quiet.
No dinner, no notes on the counter. Maybe my family had joined the witness-protection program in exchange for testifying about what a loser I was.
I stood in the shower until the water swirling around the drain wasn’t black. Two of the butterfly bandages on my left forearm peeled off. I poured peroxide on the gaping cuts until they went numb.
When I went back down to the kitchen, I saw the thin line of light under the closed door to the basement. I filled a mixing bowl with an entire box of Lucky Charms and ate it with a serving spoon. The goal was to finish the cereal before falling asleep facedown in the milk.
After I put the bowl in the dishwasher, I opened the basement door. Dad was down there typing on his computer and talking to himself. Opera was playing low in the background.
“Tyler?” Dad called. “Is someone there? Linda?”
There had actually been a time when Dad was cool. Like when I was in third grade, when he was an accountant at a tiny hole-in-the-wall company. If you were going to make a documentary about our family, that would have been the year. Nobody had a shrink. Mom worked part-time at the school library and took photos for fun. Hannah only bit me if I made her really, really mad. And Dad and me won first place in both the father/son knot-tying competition and the three-legged race at the Cub Scout Wilderness Weekend.
Those were the days, by golly.
Now he was a dragon hiding in the skin of a small man. In public, he’d act like a human being, all handshakes and “good to meet you” and grown-up BS about the stock market and going bald. In private, the skin slid off and all you saw were slime-colored scales and poisonous claws because a branch office was in trouble or new regulations were hurting the bottom line.
“Hello?” Dad demanded.
I closed the door.
Mom’s room was to the right at the top of the staircase. Dad’s was at the opposite end of the hall. Hannah and I were in the middle; her door closest to Mom’s, mine next to Dad’s.
I flopped on my stomach. My feet hung over the edge of the mattress.
It was the last Saturday night before my senior year of high school and I was alone in my room.
The curtains moved.
Kids were playing kickball in the street, yelling about fouls and do-overs and who was safe. Engines raced and tires peeled out a couple blocks away. Music came from open windows. The train whistle blew. If you took the train to Cleveland, you could pick up the Capitol Limited and ride it to Chicago, and from Chicago, transfer to anywhere.
I rolled over onto my back and prayed again to every god I had ever heard of to let me die. Quick and painless. Please.
Death is funny, when you think about it. Everybody does it, but nobody knows how, exactly how. My grandpa Miller just wouldn’t die, no matter how sick he got. Grandma Barnett dropped dead in front of the canned vegetables at the Safeway.
Did they like it? Was it a relief?
I wasn’t supposed to think about that, but it was like porn. The idea would sneak in and—boom—I was off. Like when they put me in the holding cell after they arrested me for the Foul Deed, and the guard came back and took the laces out of my sneakers. And then the door locked and my sneakers looked pathetic and I couldn’t walk in them. And I thought about it.
As soon as it started, I’d go: I’m not going to think about this. No matter what. I am thinking about something different now, thinking, thinking…
And the pictures would flash over and over in my mind like a demented video with no music, just bodies falling off bridges and planes flying into skyscrapers and fires and ropes and guns and driving very fast. Unbuckling my seat belt. Aiming for the cliff at the granite quarry. Stomping the accelerator. Passing ninety when I hit the edge. Flying, then plunging to the bottom, the car bouncing off the slabs of granite, spinning, crumpling. The explosion.
Thinking about death relaxed me, as usual.
My open cuts dripped on the sheets.
Gone.
11.
I stumbled downstairs for breakfast around noon. Six fried eggs and a quart of orange juice later, I noticed a vanilla-frosted layer cake, decorated with pink rosebuds, sitting on the counter.
I reached for a knife just as Mom came around the corner. She slapped my hand. “Don’t touch. It’s not for us.”
“Who’s it for?”
“The Milburys.”
“You made them a sucking-up cake?”
“This is not a ‘sucking-up cake.’ This is an apology cake, for Bethany’s accident. The last thing this family needs is to have your father fired. So you’re going to deliver it and apologize.”
“No way. I won’t. I can’t. You don’t understand, Mom—she’s Bethany—she’s the Bethany. She thinks I’m the biggest bag of sh—”
“Language!”
“—of manure in the whole state. I am not delivering that cake. You can’t force me. Besides, it’ll piss Dad off if I go over there.”
“This was your father’s idea, Tyler. If you don’t walk this over to the Milburys this second, you’ll have to deal with him.”
12.
I came up with a new apology every step of the way.
Bethany, I am an idiot.
Bethany, words fail to convey the depth of my sorrow…
I am really, really, really, really…
Bethany, beautiful Bethany, wherefore art thou…
The cake was beginning to sag in the heat. Hurry up, moron.
After I passed through the entrance gate to the Hampton Club and Estates, I froze. I lifted the cake above my head and sniffed my pits. I should have put on more deodorant before I left. Or cologne. Did my shorts smell, too? Did the Milburys have dogs? Would they send them out to attack me? The dogs would rip off my clothes and feast on my flesh and the cake would be a sticky stain on the driveway.
I took two steps and stopped again. The visual of having my clothes ripped off in front of Bethany Milbury…
A sprinkler system kicked on.
I sprinted. Only a few drops made it to the cake, but between the heat and the water, the rosebuds were dissolving. Running caused the frosting to lean dangerously, so I slowed to a power-walk, sticking to the shady side of the street, keeping my eyes open for out-of-control sprinklers and other dangers.
I hustled up to the Milburys’ door and rang the bell.
Mrs. Milbury answered. She blinked once when she saw me, but then remembered her lines. “Tyler.”
I held up the cake. “My mother sent this. For Bethany.”
She waited.
“Urn, I sent it, too—am sending it, I mean. I’m the one carrying it. Um, I’m here to, you know, to see how she is. After what happened. You know. I am truly sorry, Mrs. Milbury.”
She took the cake from me. “Nothing to apologize for, Tyler. Those waiters had no experience and should never have worked a party like ours. It’s not your fault they couldn’t hold on to a tray of glasses.”
Okay, I was confused, but she hadn’t killed me and that was all that counted. I could go home and tell Mom “mission accomplished.”
“Why don’t you come in and chat with Bethany?”
“Urn, no, I can’t. I have to be somewhere.”
“On a Sunday afternoon?”
“It’s, ah, Sunday school. Sunday afternoon school. Church stuff.”
Her mouth dropped open in surprise. “Why, Tyler Miller, handsome and spiritual, too. You’re much deeper than you look. But I’m sure the Lord won’t mind if you take a few minutes to make an injured girl feel better.” She narrowed her eyes until they reminded me of the business end of a rifle. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.”
She blinked and suddenly she was Mrs. Brice Milbury, society queen, again. “Follow me!”
Their front hall looked like a hotel lobby: white walls, gold-framed mirrors, a table with fake flowers stuck in a vase, and a giant staircase winding its way up to the second floor. Muzak was in the air.
She led me to the basement door and down the steps to the media room. You could have screened a movie for a dozen friends there and still had enough space for a poker tournament. The newest Sony flat screen was mounted on the wall. Actually, it took up the whole wall. The other walls were covered by framed NFL jerseys. Signed.
But I wasn’t there to drool.
I was there to grovel.
Bethany was half-buried in a yellow, overstuffed chair, watching lions sleep under a tree on the TV. She was wearing a Washington Warriors tennis T-shirt and gray sweatpants rolled up to her knees, and the peanut butter–colored cat was in her lap, its tail curled around her wrist like a bracelet. Her left foot, wrapped in bandages, rested on a pillow on the coffee table. Three crutches lay in pieces on the carpet.
“What’s he doing here?” she asked her mother.
“He came to cheer you up,” Mrs. Milbury said. “I’ll just put this in the fridge.”
“I don’t want cheering. Make him go. Leave the cake.”
Mrs. Milbury shook her head. “Don’t want to tempt you, sweetie. Not when you can’t exercise.”
“I said leave it,” Bethany said louder.
I glanced around for an emergency exit.
Mrs. Milbury set the tired cake on the coffee table and put her hands on her hips. “Maybe Tyler would like to sit with you while I run down to Teresa’s and look over their crutches. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Sure thing,” I said.
Bethany sighed dramatically.
Her mother wagged her finger back and forth. “Just don’t eat all that cake before I get back.”
I was alone with Bethany Milbury. In her basement. Was this a new pain level in Tophet or a dream? What was I supposed to do? Talk?
A male lion on the TV shook his mane and rolled on his back in the dust. The lionesses stretched and yawned as the sun set over the savanna. “They’re headed out for the hunt,” the voice-over explained.
Saysomethingsaysomethingsaysomethingsaysomething.
Bethany picked at the pale pink polish on her left thumbnail. Her cat sneered at me.
Say anything, you pathetic loser.
I picked up the center post of one of the broken crutches. It had a deep crack running down it and splinters of wood bristling from one side.
“What happened to this?” I asked.
Brilliant opening! Great job!
“Chip.”
“He was making firewood?”
“Fooling around with his stupid friends.”
“Huh?”
Careful. Don’t scare her off by grunting.
The lionesses circled a herd of gazelles at a watering hole. Bethany muted the TV. “Chip and his friends. They have a wrestling club. The crutches were props.”
“Chip’s on the wrestling team?”
“Club, not team. They pretend to be professional wrestlers. It’s ridiculous.” She held out her hand, checking her nails. The cat jumped off her lap and strutted over to me, sniffing my sneakers. “Chip’s an ass,” she said.
The words flew out before I could stop them. “Got that right.”
“He crumpled the hood of Mom’s Jag once,” Bethany said. “Accidentally dropped a twenty-pound weight on it. Told Mom it happened in the grocery-store parking lot. He almost got her to sue them for damages.”
“Some people get away with everything,” I said.
A lioness singled out a weak gazelle. She was on it in two strides, her mouth ripping out the neck, claws dug deep in the gazelle’s flesh.
Bethany watched the screen without reacting to the bloodshed. “He never gets caught.” She set the remote on the arm of the chair. “I saw him push you. I tried to tell Dad, but he didn’t believe me.”
“Oh, man.” The dam burst. “I am so sorry. I wish you knew even one-tenth of one percent of how sorry I am. It doesn’t matter that Chip pushed me. It was my fault. Can I kill myself here, or should I do it outside so the mess on the carpet doesn’t upset your mother?” Grovel time. I lay facedown on the floor in front of her chair. “Cafufowifmuh?”
“What did you say?”
I lifted my head and blew a piece of carpet fluff out of my mouth. “I said, can you forgive me? I am a moron, a loser—”
She covered her ears. “Enough! Stop! Apology accepted. The whole thing was stupid. The caterers told us to use plastic glasses, but Mom pitched a fit and insisted on the real thing. She grew up worshipping Dallas. Gag.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Get up, Tyler.”
She grabbed a handful of my T-shirt and pulled. I sat up on my knees in front of her chair. When she let go of my shirt, her hand brushed by my cheek. It smelled like soap and ice cream and girl: pure and perfect girl. Her touch set my face on fire. My face and everything else.
“Let’s eat cake,” she said.
The cat twitched its tail and left.
13.
Bethany sucked some frosting off her finger and moaned.
The moan woke up my trouser snake (Down, boy! Down, I say!) so I wandered
up to the kitchen to get some forks and paper towels and room to breathe. When the snake crawled back under a rock, I went downstairs.
Bethany had switched channels to a black-and-white movie. She kept the sound muted and we took turns making up dialogue for the action on the screen. She slowly worked her way through a hunk of cake.
I couldn’t eat.
This was very confusing.
I could always eat. Even when I had the flu I could eat. I’d puke, brush my teeth, and beg Mom for chips or a sandwich or French toast. But there I was in front of one of my mother’s cakes (my sainted, blessed mother) and a pretty girl, and my stomach had shut down.
I switched the channel to one of the Sunday-afternoon shout-fests with plastic politicians and did play-by-play as if it were a boxing match. Bethany laughed. My stomach relaxed as if that one sound, her laughter, was what I’d been secretly hungry for my whole life.
When a commercial came on, Bethany scootched forward in her seat and tried to stand. As soon as she put pressure on her bandaged foot, she winced and fell back into her chair.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You’re in pain. That’s bad. Can I help? What do you want me to do?” Oh, God, shut up right now. “I won’t fall on you, I swear.”
“Chill, Tyler. I just need to go to the bathroom.”
“Here,” I said, holding out my hand to her. “Let me help you.”
I pulled her to her feet. She teetered a moment and clutched my arms. Her left knee was bent so her foot wouldn’t touch the floor. I was six-three. She was five-six, five-seven maybe. There was no way for her to sling an arm over my shoulders.
“Put your arm around my waist and lean,” I said.
She did, then she tried to hop, but she stumbled. I quickly put both arms around her to keep her from falling.
Twisted Page 3
