“I don’t want you adjusting your junk and then handling my Pop Tart,” Mora snaps.
“Hey Mora, can you smell what I’m thinking?” Ten is so helpful.
“Bite me.”
“Why is Mora’s nose sad?” asks Hem. “Because it didn’t get picked!”
“Oh, you two little rodents are so dead!” she snaps as she lunges at the twins.
“I hear it.” Theo holds up his phone, cocks his head to the side and we all listen. My ringtone gets louder, softer and louder. Theo and I chase after it, circling the table, then crawling under it. I really needed to do a better job with the mop.
At that moment, the front door swings open, slams shut and heavy footsteps drag in. My oldest brother is almost unrecognizable. Always dressed like a homeless vagrant, he’s lost weight, added dark circles under his eyes, and yet we celebrate his rare homecomings like midnight on New Year’s Eve. Even the dog jumps, wags and throws confetti around. OK, Sam doesn’t actually throw confetti, but we all get excited, hoping we can somehow set our world upright again.
Tully rushes up to him, bouncing. “Did you bring me any?”
“Ah, um, no.” Terek pats her head, ignoring her reach to be picked up. “I ate them all. Next time, OK?”
I follow after my Baby Sis, but I’m lost. “What?”
Tully points to her big brother’s blood crusted knuckles and tells me, “Terek picks strawberries. Just like Tummy.”
Now it’s Terek’s turn to say, “What?”
And my turn to change the subject. “You’re getting worse.” I gesture at his face. Terek is big into kickboxing, but lately there’s way more black eyes, fat lips, cuts and bruises. I’m worried. “I thought practice makes perfect. You look like a battered wife.”
“She only beats me when I don’t line up the towels.”
“Lemme fix it,” says Tully. He squats down and she kisses the swollen lip and cut on his forehead. “All better?”
“All better.” God he sounds tired. And defeated.
My oldest brother used to be my best friend. He is loud and foul and more fun than playing tag at midnight with squirt guns. At least he was, up until two and a half months ago. Now he’s sad, a little mean and a cross between a giant aggravation and a huge disappointment. I understand and yet I don’t.
Instead of starting college this fall, like he planned, Terek took two jobs, grabs part time work anywhere he can, and I don’t know what else he does besides getting his face pounded at the gym, because he’s never home and doesn’t answer his phone, even when I really, really need him. And I really, really need him.
Theo moves up next to me, hands stuffed into his pockets, and says, “Nasty Horny Leprechauns.” It’s his way of bringing us back to normal.
“NHL?” I clarify. “Naughty Hamster Licking.”
“Nerds Humping Loudly,” announces Hem.
“Nutsack Hanging Left,” adds Ten.
“Naked Hopscotch Lessons,” Terek throws out, and it’s a let down. He’s typically the master of disgusting, king of crude and should come with a warning label. But the game fizzles when he turns to me, missing the look of disappointment on his brothers’ faces. “You sick or something? You look like shit.”
“Why thank you Pot. Have we met? I’m Kettle.”
“I wanna play,” Tully jumps in. “Fairy Princess Pony!”
“Good one,” Mora tells her, and I’m suspicious she’s acting extra nice so I don’t tattle to Terek about last night. I won’t. I can handle it without adding more onto his shoulders.
“C’mon Baby Sis,” Mora says. “Let’s pack up for school.”
“Have you taken care of the bills?” Terek wants to know.
I moved them from the kitchen table to my mom’s desk. Does that count?
“You’re paying them, right?” he checks.
“Of course.” It’s true. When I can, I pay them. No need to mention how high the past due stack has grown.
I can’t admit the truth to my mom either. I should be able to make the money go further, manage everything without blatting like a baby for help, and my brother’s already struggling.
See, when my dad had his accident, Terek was in the car with him. At 4:30 in the morning. None of us knows why. My dad can’t talk, and Terek won’t talk, and while we are all sitting in this sinking ship together, my brother refuses to even put on a life vest. I sometimes feel like the only one bailing, and there’s a hole in the bucket, sharks in the water and no land in sight.
Deep breath and happy thoughts, because at least I find my phone. It’s strapped to Booger the cat.
CHAPTER 16
TAZ:
There are two kinds of people. Those who get fucked and those who do the fucking. Since I’m always in the first group, I’m in a bad mood. All the time. It’s worse today.
I got my ass chewed by Step-douche the Super Tool first thing this morning for not rolling up the garden hose the way he wants. When I showed up at school, V for Vivian was waiting to stomp my shit. The counsellor told her I’m uncooperative. By the time she’s done, I’m so worked up I’ve chewed my own tongue bloody.
Now I stand at my locker and get uglier by the second. Kids flood the halls, avoiding me like a pile of maggots. I watch Asshat gather his friends, including at least one of the Balls, and prep payback for his black eyes, busted lip and overall thumping I gave him. There’s four of them, and they keep glancing my way. I should make myself scarce, but I don’t. I consider punching Asshat so hard my knuckles will bruise on his spine, because I’m an idiot.
Then Princess Barbie shows up in the hallway, and every dick within a five mile radius twitches at the sight of her. Her ass sets a tempo we all want to chase, and her pony tail begs to be wrapped around a hand. Every time I see her, I’m surprised by how pretty she is. It’s annoying. She is a scab I can’t stop picking, so it’s never going to heal. Her every goddamn smile is lemon juice poured right on me, and just looking at her stings like a mother.
I watch Barbie march straight up to Asshat. For about half a second, he thinks he won the lottery. He starts to smirk. I start to step forward. She gets right up in his face, jabbing him in the chest and says, “What kind of pathetic loser puts the moves on a fifteen-year-old little girl? Are you really that desperate? That insecure? Are your balls the size of marbles? You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”
By the time she’s done peeling strips off him, Asshat is flashing his palms and blubbering apologies. He is a perfect example of a pussy. I need to learn from him.
I duck away before Barbie spots me, but she finds me in homeroom. I do my best to ignore the smile sweet enough to cause cavities, little finger wave and smell of her. She’s done something different with her hair, something to her eyes, little things but they pull at me. There’s no stain on her tit today, but my eyes rest there while she leans over my desk and tells me something. I have no idea what she’s saying. I missed the beginning of her story, got lost in the middle, and her shirt is just tight enough to promise lace on her bra. Which reminds me of braless Barbie from last night. Fuck.
I go through my classes with no pen or paper or book and sit in the back corners. The teachers think it’s me being a dick, and I piss them off. They’re wrong. This is how it is for me. I don’t have money for friggin notebooks and shit. I’m paying attention. This is me trying and failing.
By fourth period my fingers ache from the struggle. I know what’s coming, and it’s wrecking me. The goddamn counselor isn’t gonna let me off the hook. If I don’t give in, she’ll rat me out to V for Vivian and get me sent back. My only hope is to string her along, offer her just enough to stay off my ass, but as the guy who couldn’t manage his lunch code, I wouldn’t bet on myself for the win.
I crawl into my seat in English Lit, sit on my hands and lock it down. Barbie takes the spot next to mine and slides a piece of blank notebook paper onto my desk. Not blank. In the upper left corner, in small sloppy handwriting is the word “Hi.” There’s
a weird smiley face drawn next to it. I bet this girl tap dances every time the sun comes up. I’m tempted to rip off the corner and swallow it. That would back her off and be my breakfast. Two birds, one stone.
She then offers me a pencil with her warmth attached to it and somehow manages to brush her fingers against mine. The physical contact shines a light into my darkest corners and wakes up little snakes of want and loneliness that should have died of starvation by this point. As they twist and hiss in my gut, as the English Lit teacher blathers on and on about inspired prose and integrated themes, Barbie scoots her chair right against mine and I struggle to breathe.
“Mr. Tazmerek, would you please explain your current inaction?” The teacher has somehow ended up right in front of me. He rests his fingertips on my desk and smells like a tuna fish sandwich. Spit puddles at the corners of his mouth, and his words are wet. “I assume you’re lost in the dilemma of how to best incorporate your virtues, vices and behaviors into a figurative narrative with personal insight and significance?”
He waits, wearing a smirk I’ve seen before on the faces of cops, foster dads and correction officers. They step on me and feel important. What a dick. I’m here, aren’t I? I showed up. But it’s not enough. Never enough, so I stare back without really looking at him. I’m just letting time pass. Humiliation is painless. Bring it on.
“Mr. Tazmerek?” Tuna leans in and raises his voice so everybody gets interested. “Please share your progress on today’s portion of the project.”
My fingers still, my temper amps up and I glare at him. I don’t like being the center of attention.
Barbie raises her hand. “I’ve got it right here. We’ve chosen a theme and have our outline done. I’ll read it for you.”
“No, Miss West. I’d like to hear from your partner.”
Silence takes over the classroom. I count it down. Ten, nine, eight ...
“Um.” Barbie’s hand punches into the air again. She should wear a cape and mask. “Taz handled most of the research and organization. We agreed I’d take care of the oral presentation, and I could use the practice.”
Sign me up to practice her oral presentation.
“You will cease this fabrication, Miss West, or it will affect your grade,” Tuna warns her. “Mr Tazmerek, I’m asking for the point and potential of your existence. Your lack of articulation suggests you have neither.”
Sticks. Stones. Whatever.
“No? Nothing to say?”
This might come as a surprise, but I don’t answer.
“If you’re unable to comprehend simple assignments, you don’t belong in this class.”
Someone snickers. Next to me, Barbie whispers, “Take it easy Taz,” and then adds on, “Prove him wrong.”
I can’t. I know how everyone sees me, what I am, and even getting left alone, to do no more than exist, is too much to ask. A familiar poison spreads across my chest, muddies my thoughts and turns them toxic. I clench my teeth to keep them inside.
Tuna moves around behind me. “You know your way to the office, I’m sure.”
With my eyes closed. But I don’t move. Can’t move. He’s standing where I can’t see him.
“Do I need to have you removed?” he barks.
My shoulders squeeze, brain buzzing like an egg timer, and I’m begging for a little bit of space here. I’ll gladly get the hell out, head to the office and hope V for Vivian lectures me right through fifth period. Just don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me, cuz feeling him back there, where I don’t know what’s coming has me compressed into panic and teetering on the brink of rage. Then Tuna grabs hold of my arm.
CHAPTER 17
TAZ:
Because a whole classroom of students watched me spaz out and launch myself ass backward over a desk, without ever laying a hand on Tuna, I got laughed at and detention. I didn’t get shipped back to juvie. I didn’t get out of counselling and I’m not talking about that, so back the fuck off already.
Detention makes me half an hour late for work. No wheels, thank you Barbie, pushes me to nearly an hour late. I show up sweaty and panting.
“You’re late.” Boss Man points this out like I don’t know. Like I sprinted to get here for the fun of it. He scowls when I slip sandals onto my dirty feet. “I told you to get yourself some work boots.”
Yup. He did. No money and no ride doesn’t add up to new shoes.
“A job is a responsibility. You show up on time. Do your share. Earn your wage. Take pride in the accomplishment.”
I bet he’s got that tattooed on his ass. I am so fucken proud of picking up cigarette butts, decapitating dandelions with a weed whacker, scraping up old gum and fresh dog shit. Whatever. I need this job. It’s mandatory, so he can do whatever he wants to me.
I shift my weight from toes to heels and wait for him to quit bitchin’ so I can get to it.
“You’ll be making up the hour.” He takes off his ball cap, wipes sweaty hair off his forehead and puts it back with an extra tug on the brim. “You get paid for a full day, so that’s what you’re giving me. You’re staying late, and if this happens again, I’ll have no choice. I’ll be forced to call your mother.”
Did I just hear him right? My teeth snap together, chests muscles swell, and I swear my eyes bulge from the pressure.
“Take it easy, kid. Nothing we need to worry about just now.” Boss Man takes a step back and spreads his hands at his sides. “Just, ah, go see Russ and he’ll set you up with a shovel. You’ll be digging holes, planting trees today.”
I work as part of the school district’s prestigious ground crew, with two dudes who are perpetually stoned, a guy I call Toothless Wonder and a fourth who has three fingers on his left hand and can’t read. I am low man on the team. That means I’m not allowed on any of the riding equipment.
The job isn’t so bad. Compared to the rest of my shitastic life, it’s almost a highlight. I nod when Boss Man tells me what to do and that’s usually the end of our interaction. I’ve been at it for over a month and have yet to see a paycheck. I need to ask. I need money. I’m hungry.
The sun’s starting to set by the time he says, “All right, kid. Good enough. Let’s call it quits.”
Drenched in sweat, filthy, muscles burning, I crawl out of the final hole I’ve dug, stand in front of Boss Man and struggle. I clear my throat more than once, rub the side of my face and make us both uncomfortable. Since he wants to go home and I’m taking too long, he finally says, “Well,” and swats his hat against his leg.
My fingers go through the motions. Boss Man glances at my hand. I wedge it into my back pocket and switch to staring at my grimy toes. My sandals aren’t gonna go much further and my empty gut is starting to cramp. “Can I get paid?”
The silence brings my eyes up to his. He looks confused, then maybe a little embarrassed. For me? “Ah well, I figured you knew. It’s all arranged. Your paycheck is on direct deposit. Your mom took care of it.”
Boss Man says something else, but I miss it. I’m already walking away and there’s too much noise in my head. I count my steps home. I add them up to one hundred, subtract backward to zero and repeat the process over and over. I’ve been told to use counting as a calming process. My rage grows faster than a wildfire in the wind, and guess what? I’m not done.
Meet Step-douche the Super Tool. Albert. He’s not an Al or a Bert. He’s an Albert, a bigshot lawyer who drives a BMW, wears an apron when he barbecues and is waiting for me in the driveway. He makes a point of glancing at his watch, a Breitling with a price tag of over five thousand dollars. I know this because he told me.
“Why are you late?” He taps the watch.
I don’t even try to answer. He’s the alpha. Got it. Can we be done now?
“I hear there’s been some problems at school.” Feet braced wide apart, he crosses his arms over his chest and presses his lips together, waiting for who the hell knows what. “You’re on thin ice as it is. You can’t afford trouble. When are you g
oing to take responsibility, Gib? You expect the world to cater to you.”
He calls me Gib. Like we’re buddies. But he knows better. This is more of a lion tamer situation. He’s got the chair and whip. He’s the master. But if I ever get ahold of him, this dumb animal will eat him alive.
“Phone.” He holds out his hand. I slap the tracking device in his palm and he scrolls through it, face all crinkled up and not happy. I have no clue what Super Tool wants, but it’s plenty obvious I’m not it. He inhales, exhales, and leaves me standing there, gnawing on my anger. He finally gestures at my eyes. “You’ve been fighting?”
It’s the same black eye I had this morning. He was too preoccupied by the kinks in the hose to notice.
“Anything I need to know?”
He might like to know how close he is to the end of a seventeen-year-old fuse. I’ve had a fucking nough of this day, of this life, and maybe it shows on my face, because he eases back another step. “Jamie and I are going to play catch, so if you …”
So I need to make myself scarce. Got it. Wouldn’t want to mess up Super Tool’s bonding time with the prodigal son. No problem. I’ve never played catch. Wouldn’t know how and don’t see the point. If I’m throwing something at somebody, they better duck.
I turn and walk away. I leave my clothes on, refusing to strip down in front of the Super Tool, and use the hose to wash away the sweat and grime. I start to waste my time rolling up the hose but screw it. Once I’m inside the garage, I peel down to my boxers and ease around the shiny BMW. I’ve been warned not to touch it, not even breathe on it. It’s freshly washed and waxed, smells better than I do. I climb the stairs and hang my stuff over one of the rafters to dry. The drips land on the roof of the car. He won’t see it. But I will.
Flopping down on my mattress, I drag a blanket around my shoulders to slow the shivers and pull my guitar into my lap. My body curves to it, fingers finding the strings, nerves settling into a familiar groove. I pluck a single note and remember Princess Barbie saying, “Prove him wrong.” I picture the way she looks at me.
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 7
