Dear Life, You Suck (20 page)

Unless I get a surprise hero’s welcome like in the Prison commissary. Doubtful, though. Pitbull’s popular, and as much as kids detest him behind his back, they’d never cross him to his face. Spineless pussies. No, it will be a zero’s welcome for sure.

Stress factor number one is Pitbull. Although I pummeled him into a blood-gushing pile, there’s always the revenge factor. I may not have completely beaten that impulse out of him. And now since he knows he can’t whup me on his own, he won’t come at me alone.

That’s why I have an enormous carving knife stuffed down my pants. You think I’m kidding? I ain’t. Don’t worry. I have it professionally situated so it won’t fillet me a transgendering mischief. I actually created a rather clever concealer. I sewed the mighty scabbard’s leather holder inside my pant leg. See, knowing how to sew comes in handy for numerous manly situations. I cut a hole in my front pocket for the handle to poke through. It’s a pretty sweet setup. I can get the knife out lickety-split, and it’s not noticeable ’cause my 1990s cargo pants are extra baggy.

Stress noose number two is Foxy Moxie. During my suspension, the teachers emailed me homework assignments, and Moxie superhighwayed me numerous reminders to complete my written responses to her comments on my letter. I emailed her Reasons One and Two over the weekend, and I’m nervous about how she’s going to react. Not that I care what she thinks or what grade I get, but the last thing I need is more mind-mashing sessions with the school shrinkadink, Dr. Merewether.

Stress tab number three is Principal LaChance. He’s just looking for an excuse to give me the permanent boot. And if I get booted from here, the Diocese will kick me out of the Prison even before I turn eighteen.

Thinking about getting booted from the Prison gets me thinking about the deepest stress mess of all. It’s not school-related, but it’s haunting me worse than any of this Drama Club claptrap. What the hell am I gonna do on the morning of my eighteenth birthday? The tragic day is only eight months away. I can’t stay at the Prison, and I’m not sure I wanna be promoted from collecting money for drugs to dealing them. I got no problem screwing up my own life, but I ain’t interested in helping other kids screw up theirs. And I definitely don’t want to fight for a living.

Option three trickles down my spine like icicle ice-melt. Skipping out on paying my bill at Life’s Front Desk is a nerve-racking consideration, to say the least. I mean, it’d be nice to make all my problems disappear in one fell swoop, but the thought of actually performing that fell swoop freaks me out. I ain’t afraid of swallowing pain from a dude’s fists, but I ain’t real keen on feeling that final mind-bashing blow on account of I might actually feel it.

And then there’s the risk factor. Every exit method I’ve read about carries a
frying pan into the fire
consequence if you fail. I mean, shit, I complain about how bad things are now, but I’d be super-duper double pissed if I screwed up my exit and wound up in a wheelchair sucking SpaghettiO’s through a straw and struggling to remember the words to “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”

Of course, if I skydive off life’s skyscraper now, I’ll never get to kiss Wynona again. Those luscious lips are worth a lifetime of torment.

I haven’t seen or spoken to Wynona since last Sunday. Not like it’s been ages or anything, but a week feels like a year after a heart-thundering kiss. I thought about going to see her a million times and even started walking to her house a few hundred times, but my brain always did a U-turn before getting too far. During my Prison chores, I couldn’t go more than five minutes without glancing toward the driveway in the hopes of seeing her bike.

The reason my mind keeps about-facing my body is because I’m Nostradamus. I’m serious. I can see into the future. And standing directly in front of me is a heart-shattering earthquake that’s gonna register a 9.9 on the Rectum Scale. Wynona doesn’t know me. She said it herself. She’s only seen me in Kibbles-n-Bits. Once she gets a glimpse of the whole enchilada, she’ll lose her appetite. I’m like an eclipse. Not safe to stare directly into.

None of it matters anyway. It’s all fairy-tale tomfoolery. Wynona got all hot and bothered on account of I pounded Pitbull, or she I-Spied a few things we have in common, or her father thinks I’m a thinker, or some other nonsense, but none of it’s more than a thirty-second sound bite that suckered her into the Newfangled Dude Store for a new wave Cricket doll. But that purchase will get stuffed to the back of the closet once she gets bored playing in Cricket’s Dysfunctional Dreamhouse.

Things look pretty normal at school. The Prison van drops us curbside, so we have to cross the crowded courtyard to get to the entrance. The Little Ones huddle tight around me, a gang of homeless midget Crips.

A whirligig spins inside my head as I wonder who will be confrontation number one. Pitbull and his buddies? LaChance? Foxy Moxie? Doc Merewether? Wynona? I stuff my hand in my pocket to make sure the knife’s still there, which of course it is, but that doesn’t stop me from checking every five seconds.

Okay, here we go. I have my answer. Stress factor number one is barreling straight at me with a grizzly bear glare. He’s alone, which means either he wants to make up, or he has a weapon.
Hmm
,
which could it be?
Shit. The Little Ones.

I start shoving them toward the doors. “Go on, get to class.” They don’t move until they see Pitbull, then they scram.

Crowds of kids have spotted Pitbull heading for me and are pointing, nudging, and whispering.

The Little Ones clump together near the front door of the Lower School.

“Inside. Now!” I yell, but they don’t move.

Pitbull’s coming strong. I can see the cuts and bruises on his face from here. If he has a gun, I’m screwed.

Then a funny thing happens. A gooey warmth flushes me. Similar to my post-whup-ass fuzzies. Every particle of stress and fear dissolves. Pitbull’s gonna solve my problems for me. I stuff my hands in my pockets and savor my final breaths.

This won’t be a bad way to go. I’ll die a hero. Clint Eastwood–style. I hope Wynona’s watching. It’ll be a full-blown
Romeo and Juliet
murder-in-the-courtyard love scene. If she kneels beside me while I’m dying, I’m gonna say it. My final three words.
Sweet
.

I glance back at the Little Ones. They look terrified. Oh, if they only knew my happy truth.

Pitbull’s ten feet away now. His hands are in his pockets.
Where’s the gun? Why hasn’t he drawn?
He’s closer, closer, closer.
Jesus, he’s massive
.

Five, four, three, two, one. He slams into me with his shoulder. Hard. So hard it knocks me to the ground.

And then . . . he’s gone.

What the fuck?

The Little Ones sprint to my side.

“You okay, Crick?”

“How come you let him shove ya?”

“How come ya just stood there?”

“Are you gonna go after him?”

“Are you gonna pound his face again?”

My warm fuzzies evaporate, leaving my insides dry and brittle.

I yell louder than I should. “How many friggin’ times do I gotta tell you idiots I don’t fight unless it’s self-defense? He fucking bumped into me. Big deal.”

Before I walk away, I glimpse their twisted faces.
But we gave you a standing ovation in the dining room and you didn’t yell at us then
.

At the high school entrance, I turn. They haven’t moved. I yell to them. “Go on, guys. The bell’s gonna ring.”

They head inside. That’s when I see her. She’s been there all along. Watching. Waiting. Thinking. Probably rehearsing her escape speech. I can’t tell which Wynona it is. The pissed-off one or the kissing one.

My legs calcify as she approaches.

“You really care about them, huh?”

The inside of my head is Niagara Failing, so I crank down hard on the shut-off valve. “I’m a bad example.”

“Not from where I’m standing.” She stares into my eyes, and the two sides of her melt together like a grilled cheese sandwich. “I guess my dad was right about you. You are a thinker.”

Jesus, she’s pretty
. I hope every asshole in the courtyard is staring at us. I feel guilty for letting her think I’m something I’m not. “I’m nothing, Wynona.”

Her gaze tears me apart.
Why can’t I see what she sees?

“I don’t think you’re nothing,” she says softly.

In the hallway, the bell rings for class. Wynona slides her hand around my waist. I feel lifted. Like my feet aren’t touching the ground.

At the end of English class, Moxie Lord saunters to my desk in a sky-blue dress swimming with tropical fish. She looks like an aquarium. I’m surprised she’s not wearing tortoiseshell sandals. This lady is one singed-crust banana nut pie.

I’m still here because before class Foxy slipped me a note asking me to stay after, which means either she’s gonna tear me a new one about my Dear Life Reasons or we’re gonna play a nice game of Statutory Hide the Salami. I hope there’s a lock on the door. Or maybe we’ll go back to her place. She probably lives in a 1960s Volks- wagen van. She’ll be thrilled to know I have a freshly rolled herb wand in my wallet.

She swings a chair around and cowboy straddles it, which is frightening on account of she’s wearing a dress. She leans in and our shoulders touch. Her breath tickles my forearm. She smells like pineapples. A tingle scrubwiggles my nutsack.

I pretend to look at the papers she’s dropped on the desk as I stare down the front of her dress. Her bra is papaya green, and she has wrinkly folds between her boobs like Shar-Pei puppy skin. Wrinkles and freckles.
Eebyjeebyville
.

She yanks my hood down. “Explain yourself.”

At first I think she’s bagged me for ogling her suck sacks, but then I realize she’s talking about my Dear Life Reasons. “What?”

“Where has the author of Reasons One and Two been residing for the past three years?”

“What are you talking about? I wrote those.”

“I know you wrote them.”

“So what’s the beef?”

“The beef is, why have you been feeding me frozen cowpie since freshman year when you’re obviously capable of grilling up filet mignon?”

She’s not looking at my papers. She’s looking at me, right at my face. But I can tell she’s not looking at my scar. I can always tell when someone’s staring at it. Like I have dead skin sensors or something.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.”

I tilt my head and look at her. She’s got her granny glasses perched on the tip of her nose like a pigeon on a ledge. She’s not as easy to stare at as Wynona, but easier than usual on account of her saying “bullshit” like a regular person instead of being a tight-ass teacher. It dawns on me that she’s giving me a compliment.

Foxy Moxie pinches the bridge of her nose and speaks with her eyes closed. “I watched an interesting documentary Saturday night on bird migration. Did you happen to catch it?”

“No, I missed it. Hopefully you recorded it.”

She harrumphs a laugh and opens her eyes. “Scientists have discovered traces of a mineral called magnetite in the brains of migratory birds. Near the upper beak. It’s an iron oxide that is apparently extremely magnetic. The deposits give birds the power to sense the earth’s magnetic field, and they can navigate by it during migration. Birds can actually sync themselves with the earth’s magnetic field to find their way for thousands of miles even when they’re young and making the trip for the first time.”

“Cool.” It actually does sound cool.

“Yes, my sentiments exactly.” She looks in my eyes with an expression like she’s about to tell me I’m her adopted alien son or something. “Cricket, if a creative writing mineral exists on earth, you have a large deposit of it in your young brain.”

A warm stickiness slithers from my ears to my hips. I thought my writing would piss her off. Or at least offend her, since she’s an adult. Instead, she’s giving me a big slippy-slap on the back for being a dickhead with words. Damn-o-damn, where the hell’s that upside-down cake factory when you need it? I think I’ll go there after school and apply for a job in the assumption-flipping department.

She leans in. “Writing the way you do can’t be taught. It’s spontaneous, original, and honest. It doesn’t just flow—it overflows. And you let it follow its own course. You’re a natural, kid.”

Her words overflow me. Caretaker used to say I was a natural when I first started working out with him in the boathouse. When he taught me the basics of boxing. He was the first person in my life to ever tell me I was a natural at something. The first and last. Until today. Eight years later.
Jesus, eight years
.

I can’t think of anything to say on account of I don’t have much experience in the compliments department. Maybe I should stab her in the face with a tree branch and run away. I rub my fingers over some boobies a perverted predecessor carved into the desk. I can’t get my eyes to move, so I don’t know if she’s looking at me. I’m scared to see her expression. What if it’s cream-corny? What if she’s expecting a thank-you or a hug? What if it’s smug like she thinks she just saved my friggin’ life or something?

She rolls the papers up and raps them on the desk. “What are you doing after you graduate?”

I picture myself in a Bar Harbor alley in a knit cap and sunglasses, slipping a bag of powder to a teenage crackhead. “I don’t know.”

“Have you applied to college?”

“Naaah.”

“Why not?”

“What, are you kidding me?”

She scrunches her face.
“Naaah.”

Hmm. Slightly humorous
. “Why the hell would I go to college? There ain’t nothing I’m good at except cracking numbskull skulls.”

“Apparently, you didn’t comprehend the metaphorical depths of my bird migration analogy?”

“What the hell am I gonna do with fruity writing? Whip up dead granny cards for Hallmark?”

Mademoiselle Lord leans back and pops me an open-mouthed glare like I just shit on her sandals. “Are you joking, Cricket? You read novels, don’t you? You watch movies. Who do you think makes up all those fabulous tales? The story fairy? Haven’t you ever thought about creating a story all on your own? Completely original. Completely from scratch.” Foxy has a wicked gleam in her eyes.