Changing Michael (6 page)

“I'd say she gets to you,” I said.

“Different,” Wanda said dismissively, eyes back on her device.

I raised my eyebrows but didn't press.

Not yet.

I cleared my throat and lowered my eyes just as hers lifted. I ran my palm across the fabric of the cushion. I frowned and brought my hand closer, staring at the palm. I shook my head—not much, but just enough.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” I said, rubbing my palm against the leg of my pants.

“There's nothing on that couch,” she said.

“Of course not,” I said.

“Then why are you rubbing your leg?”

I didn't answer, but tried to look as if I might in just a moment. I gazed at the pottery, opened my mouth slightly, then closed it.

“Matthew?”

“Hey, what do you think of Michael?” I asked, nonchalantly.

“Michael?” she said.

“Yes, Michael.”

“Michael who?”

I told her.

She lifted an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Don't know him.”

I had to be careful. Too much push and she'd start asking questions. I feigned a renewed interest in the horrible painting.

“Why're you interested in Michael?” she asked.

I held up a finger, making her wait.

“Hey,” she said, giving her cushion a
thump
.

Not yet.

“Better put that finger away,” she said.

I complied, but did so slowly.

“Well?” she said.

“Well, what? Oh, right . . . Why am I interested in Michael?”

She nodded.

“Don't know. I was thinking about him the other day . . . thinking maybe there's some potential there.”

“Potential?”

I nodded.

“For?”

“Not sure, yet . . . I mean, he's not a
bad
guy, right?”

Wanda shrugged.

“Seems to get more shit than he deserves,” I said.

“And that's
your
battle?” she asked.

“
Battle
?” I said. “What are you talking about? What's in that drink, anyway?”

“You know what I mean,” she said, voice low. I watched her poke the device with a little more force than was required.

“
Battle
,” I repeated, as if I hadn't quite heard her right.

“Quit being such a pain in the ass,” she said without looking up.

I gave myself a point. It's like the game I play with Mom. Getting Wanda to complain about my behavior is worth a point.

“Don't you think he could use a little help?” I asked.

“From you?”

Although it wasn't a bad comeback, it was easy, and the delivery was overdone. I chose not to award her a point.

“Yes, from me. I'm quite helpful.”

Wanda stopped fiddling with her tablet. We stared at each other.

It was a draw, so I awarded myself another point.

“Good luck with that,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She didn't answer. Instead, she touched the screen in a few key places and put it to sleep. She set the tablet on the end table and stood up from the couch.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” she said, stretching her arms toward the ceiling again.

“And?”

“And I'm not going to answer. You know what I mean.”

“Not fair.”

“Neither are you. I got to get ready, honey,” she said, looking down at her drink.

“Are we going out to eat?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Oh . . . you're making something?”

“You need a ride home?” she asked.

“I just got here,” I said.

“Should have called first.”

“I'm supposed to stay for dinner.”

“No, you're
allowed
to stay for dinner,” she said. “I'm not going to be here for dinner.”

“Where are we going?”

“I'm going to do some shopping.”

“Okay,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows. “You want to hang out while I try on clothes?”

“Sometimes it's important to get a second opinion,” I said, giving her a meaningful look.

Based on Wanda's face, I awarded myself another point.

“Doing anything tonight?” I asked.

“Got a poker game.”

“Can I come?”

“You know how to play poker?”

“Yes.”

“I don't think so.”

“You don't know everything about me,” I said.

She smiled. “I know one thing: You're going to get yourself in trouble if you start fooling with Michael and messing in his business.”

“Michael?” I said. “Michael who?”

“I got to get going,” she said again but didn't leave. “You want anything to eat?”

“Yes.”

“You know where the kitchen is.”

She turned and walked down the hall. I gave her a point for not looking back.

I sat on the hover couch and reviewed my performance while I waited. Although the start had been a bit shaky, I'd made a nice recovery. In fact, it was such a nice recovery, I decided to give myself the win.

As I gazed at a corner of the room, Michael floated back into my head. Trailing along after him like a banner was Wanda's comment about getting involved in his “battles.”

I shook my head.

If I could score a win over Wanda on her home field, winning a few battles for Michael was nothing. I might even put in my second-stringers.

They could use the playing time.

The rest of Saturday and all of Sunday were so boring I was almost glad to get to school Monday morning. I decided to look for Michael, but he wasn't in the cafeteria. Instead, he was standing by my locker, looking all flushed and out of breath.

“You're not going to tell me about some computer game, are you?” I said.

“What? No . . . I was going to tell you about the weekend.”

“Oh, good,” I said. “What's up?”

He hesitated, looking confused.

“I wanted to . . .”

“Did you get lucky?” I asked.

“I . . . no . . .
What
?”

“Nothing. Sorry, go ahead.”

Michael cleared his throat, paused, and said, “I did that thing we talked about. Remember?”

“The racing thing?” I asked, a little surprised.

He nodded, regaining some of the geek flush he'd lost. He let his backpack slide off his shoulder and onto the floor. He squatted down beside it and began to rummage through. It took him a while, but he finally closed it up and slung it back into place.

“What's that?” I asked.

Michael held a spiral notebook in one hand.

“My research,” he said, handing me the book.

My jaw dropped as I flipped through. There must have been fifteen pages of notes. There were diagrams—little clouds with names inside floating around the page and different-colored lines linking one cloud to another.

“What
is
this?” I asked, pointing to the clouds.

“Oh, that's just something to help me remember different teams and owners.”

“
Just something
, huh?”

Michael looked pleased. “Actually, it's kind of interesting the way some drivers—”

I held up a hand. “That's okay. I appreciate the thought, but no thank you.”

I skimmed through a few more pages and handed the notebook back.

“Excellent,” I said. “So now you know everything in the world about racing.”

“Is it too much?”

“It's fine. Don't worry about it.”

He looked uncomfortable.

“What?” I asked.

“I told him.”

“Told who?”

“My stepfather. I told him about the rumor.”

I closed my eyes. “Michael, this isn't going to work if you don't follow my instructions.”

“I know. I'm sorry. But he was watching racing last night and I thought—”

“You
thought
. . .?”

“I wanted to . . . It seemed like a good opportunity.”

“Fine,” I said. “Just tell me what happened.”

Michael smiled. He really wasn't such a strange looking kid when he smiled.

“So I told him there was this rumor—”

I held up a hand. “Why are you starting at the end?” I said.

His face began to fall.

“And you can't get upset when I give you constructive criticism, Michael. It's just a part of the lesson plan.”

Michael nodded.

“Where'd we leave off?” I asked.

“Leave off?”

“Where were we last time I saw you?” I said.

“I was . . .”

“Oh, yeah. At the bookstore, right? I left you at Jimmy Flap's . . . Friday? Friday. That's where you should start.”

“Okay, well, I did some research at Jimmy's—”

“Was he happy to see you?” I said.

“I guess.”

I sighed. “It's the details that make a good story, Michael. So you walk back into Flap's and he's beside himself, of course.”

“He's what?”

“Probably started fussing over you the minute you walked through the door,” I said. “‘Michael, thank God! Where have you been? Was Woodrow mean to you?'”

It took Michael a second.

“I'm not sure I . . . Why did your voice—?”

“I was pretending to be Flap,” I said. “Pretty good, huh? Uncanny, even.”

“Uh . . .”

“Never mind. Sense of humor comes later,” I said. “So you walk into Flap's, he's hysterical for a while. Then what?”

“I did some research,” he said, still a little uncertain.

“That?” I asked, pointing to the notebook.

He nodded.

“At Flap's? He's got a section on racing?”

“No. I used his computer.”

“Oh.”

“Actually, it was hard to concentrate,” he said. “Jimmy kept asking me where we'd been and when I was going to call his doctor.”

“Did he wonder what you were doing?” I asked.

“He couldn't figure out why I was looking at racing stuff.”

“What did you tell him?”

“School project.”

“Not bad,” I said. “So you did your research Friday. When did you drop the rumor on Gut?”

“Last night.”

“That's right. You said that . . . Wait.”

“What?” he asked.

“I thought you didn't know who his favorite driver was.”

“I asked my mom.”

I didn't say anything for a second, then nodded slowly. “Not bad,” I said, giving him a little pat on the shoulder. He winced at first, but accepted the pat with a weak smile.

“So where were you guys?” I asked.

“Watching TV.”

“Excellent. What was he wearing?”

“Huh?”

“What was he wearing? Details, Michael!”

“A t-shirt, I think . . . and pants,” he said.

“Did the t-shirt have sleeves?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it.”

“But he was watching racing,” Michael said. “Well, actually, it wasn't a race. It was a weekly wrap-up thing. The next big race isn't until—”

I held up my hand. “Did you sit down and watch with him?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Confused him, didn't you?”

Michael smiled. “Yeah . . . He said, ‘I'm not turning it.'”

I waited. Then, finally: “And?!”

“Oh . . . and I said, ‘Good. I want to see the highlights.'”

“Well-played, sir!” I said, clapping him on the shoulder.

This time he grinned.

“Continue,” I said.

“Well, he stared at me, but I pretended like I was interested in the show . . .”

Michael kept talking. I got the story out of him, but wasn't impressed with the presentation, so I've decided to recreate the scene myself.

After all, I tell a
much
better story.

Michael slumped down on the filthy couch next to his stepfather.

“I ain't changin' it,” Gut growled from behind his lit cigarette.

“Good,” Michael fired back. “I want to see the racing.”

Gut's head whipped around. He turned his icy stare on Michael. Michael kept his eyes locked on the dusty, flickering television screen.

“What did you say?” Gut asked dangerously.

“I said I want to watch the racing,” Michael said.

“Since when do you like racing?” Gut demanded.

“Always have.”

“You know there's no elves or dragons in racin', right?” Gut said with a sneer.

“I've been watching for a long time,” said Michael, ignoring Gut's humorous but nasty remark.

Gut grunted like a pig. “Like hell you have,” he said. “Who's your favorite driver?”

“Don James,” said Michael without missing a beat.

Gut shifted positions to get a better look at his hated stepson.

“You like Don James?” he said, incredulously.

Michael nodded, his eyes locked on the unholy glow of the television. “He's consistent.”

“What's his number?” Gut said.

“Four.”

Gut continued to stare in speechless amazement.

“You like Ricky Earl, don't you?” Michael ventured casually.

“Yeah. So what?”

“He's gay, you know.”

Gut's cigarette dropped from his bottom lip to the couch below. He jumped up, cursing, plucked the cigarette from between the couch cushions, and angrily stabbed it out in a nearby ashtray.

“What did you just say?” he said, menacingly.

“Maybe he's not,” Michael said, “but if you're leaving Killers at two in the morning with a ‘friend' you just met . . .”

Gut swore.

“Maybe he's not,” Michael said. “I'm just surprised you hadn't heard yet.”

“That's a bunch of shit.”

“I heard he might pull out of the SteelWheel 500,” Michael said, turning back to the TV.

“He's not racing 'cause he's got a bad leg,” Gut said.

“Well, that's what
his
people are saying,” Michael said quietly.

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?!”

“It just seems strange that, all of a sudden, his leg's giving him trouble again,” said Michael. “It's been almost a year since the crash.”

Gut was speechless. Michael stood.

“Hey, let me know if they say anything about Ricky Earl,” Michael said over his shoulder, leaving Gut on the couch to stew in a haze of cigarette smoke and armpit funk.

“So wait a minute,” I said. “Is this guy really pulling out of the Steel . . .
this Steel thingy?”

“Excuse me.” A small, owlish kid was staring up at me.

“Yes?” I demanded.

“My . . . I need to . . .” he stammered, pointing at something behind me.

“His locker,” Michael said.

“Oh.” I grudgingly stepped to one side. “Anyway,” I said, shaking my head, “is this guy really pulling out of the Steel—”

“SteelWheel 500,” Michael said. “It's the next big race.”

“And he's pulling out because of his leg?”

“He injured it in a crash about a year ago, but he re-injured it, so he's going to have another procedure.”

“But he's really pulling out?”

Michael nodded.

“Do you know how incredible this is?” I asked.

Michael smiled.

“It's unbelievable,” I said. “So he's really pulling out? And it was on the news?”

Michael nodded.

I shook my head in disbelief and turned to the owlish kid next to me who was trying to open his locker.

“Can you believe this shit?” I said.

“What?” he asked, looking frightened.

I turned back to Michael. “I'm a genius, Michael. Do you know that?”

“Yeah . . . I guess.”

“No, there's no guessing involved, Michael. I am,” I said. “This is perfect. I mean, just planting the rumor would have worked, but this guy pulling out is such a bonus. It sounds completely believable now.”