Little Chicago (7 page)

Jonas says, Hey, Blacky, and looks down at his plate. He has a cowlick and big bulging eyes.

Can I sit with you guys? I say.

Eric Duggan says, We're sort of having a meeting, right, Jonas?

Yes, Jonas says, still looking down at his plate.

A meeting about what? I say.

Eric Duggan says, Just a meeting, and wipes his spork with a napkin.

They are both eating pizza rolls with assorted vegetables.

I want to ask Eric Duggan for money so I can get a pizza roll too, but there's something about the way he's not looking at me.

What's wrong? I say to Eric Duggan.

What? he says. What?

But he still won't look at me, so I walk over to the other side of the cafeteria.

The tables are all completely full except for Mary Jane Paddington's, so I go over by her.

Mary Jane Paddington is an unusual person who likes to eat alone. She hardly ever speaks and I don't think she has a single friend.

This might be cause she wears the same clothes a lot. Or cause she dyed her pants red after she ran out of Language Arts with her menstrual blood leaking through her crotch.

Before that happened her pants were white and everyone knows they're the same pants.

Those are the same pants, I heard Tonya Ellis telling Lynnette Collins under her breath. They were in the hallway during a passing period.

Mary Jane Paddington walked right by them and they watched her like she was part animal.

Lynnette Collins said, Who's she trying to fool?

Mary Jane Paddington's glasses are a little crooked sometimes. And she doesn't comb her hair much either. Eric Duggan told me she has a pet rat and feeds it fingernails. Evan Keefler calls her Wolf Girl cause she's got these eyes. They are so yellow they look like science fiction.

Some people say she's got scabies.

Others say she's got a nest of spiders in her hair.

These are obviously false rumors spread by all those girls in the eighth grade who have identical haircuts. There's about ten in this group and once they came to school wearing the exact same thing. Light blue shirts and black pants. Everyone said it was a miracle.

They got so excited that they went into the Student Council room and had the photo editor of the yearbook take a picture.

Some of those same girls refer to each other by their email addresses.

Hey, Toasty Tina.

Hey, Jenny two twenty-four.

What's up, T-Bone Salad?

Blue Babe, where were you last night? We were chatting up a storm!

It can go on and on.

Across the cafeteria Eric Duggan is looking at me like I'm a shark or a monkey. He even points at me and says something to Jonas Kelser.

Mary Jane Paddington is eating Fritos and a tuna sandwich. She eats so slow it's like she's got frostbite.

Hey, I say.

Hey, she says without looking up.

I can tell she's not impressed by much. Her hair is black with streaks of red. I imagine it's this way on purpose.

Can I sit here? I ask.

Sure, she says, still looking down.

I can see that one of her lenses is scratched. This is unfortunate and it makes her left eye look diseased.

At the edge of the cafeteria there's a rectangle of tiles that don't match the rest of the floor. These tiles are gray and the others are white with specks. Everyone calls this rectangle of gray tiles the Paddington Pit and when people leave the cafeteria they jump over it like it's infested with AIDS.

I must admit that I did this once.

While in the air I didn't feel any safer. I actually felt like I might get hurt.

Why are you sitting here? Mary Jane Paddington asks, finally looking up.

There's nowhere else to sit, I say.

You could sit over by Eric Duggan and Jonas Kelser, she says.

No, I can't, I say.

She says, But you always sit with Eric Duggan.

I say, I can't today.

How come?

Cause he's having an important meeting, I say.

She is wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with a picture of a duck on it. The duck is saying
QUACK OFF, MOTHERQUACKER!

The noise in the cafeteria is like computers running. It's funny how voices can sound like machines.

I stare at her tuna sandwich. The crusts have been cut off and there are bits of celery mixed in with the tuna.

So sit, Mary Jane Paddington says. You're only making everyone look at you more.

I stand there for another second. I can feel eyes on my neck like bugs.

Sit, I command myself with the voice in my head. Sit, Blacky.

I sit down across from her.

Mary Jane Paddington is eating each Frito one corner at a time. I note that this is a very peculiar way to eat Fritos. Her mouth looks like it hurts when she chews.

Did you do your Social Studies homework? she asks.

No, I say. I wasn't in school yesterday.

I noticed, she says. Where were you?

I was sick, I say. What was the assignment?

We were supposed to write a one-page essay about our thoughts on capital punishment.

Oh.

I wrote two. You can have one of mine if you'd like.

I say, Thanks. Why'd you write two?

I had a lot to say about it, she says. Then she eats another Frito.

Look, I say, and put the tongue on the table.

What is that? she asks.

It's Dave the See-Through Fake Human's tongue. I stole it from Life Science when Mr. Prisby wasn't looking.

What are you gonna do with it? she asks.

I don't know, I say. Carry it around, I guess.

You should put it in a Ziploc bag and send it to him in the mail.

Oh, I say. Why?

Keep him on his toes, she says. Teachers gotta learn stuff, too.

Huh, I say.

I wonder if she and Cheedle have been spending time together.

We eat our lunch and we are quiet.

I look over at Eric Duggan again. He's got his arm around Jonas Kelser like there's valuable information to know about his side of the cafeteria.

When Mary Jane Paddington is finished eating her lunch she opens her backpack and removes the essay about capital punishment. She slides it across the table to me.

Make sure to copy it over, she says. Miss Cosgrove knows my handwriting.

Thanks, I say. Can I fold it up?

She says, You can do whatever you want with it. Just don't put it in a Ziploc bag and send it to me in the mail.

I know this is supposed to be a joke but I don't get it.

Cheedle would get it.

Shay would probably get it, too.

I smile anyway. My face feels heavy and tired.

It's raining so hard it looks like the window is melting.

I am in Social Studies for sixth period. They give you four extra passing minutes between fifth and sixth period so you can exchange books at your locker. According to the Student Handbook this is the first year they've instituted this rule.

I usually walk around with Eric Duggan and discuss pertinent subjects that he's read about or seen on various cable television shows.

Like the effects of overpopulation in the ghettos.

Or blind kids in Malaysia who get paid ten cents an hour to make expensive American basketball shoes.

But he has Jonas Kelser now.

So I didn't go to my locker and came straight to Social Studies instead.

Miss Cosgrove is organizing her desk. She likes things nice and neat. Her hair is pulled back and twisted into a bun. She often wears clothes that look like they've been ordered out of a catalog. I enjoy smelling her cause she always wears a particular perfume.

Hello, Blacky, she says.

Hello, I say.

You're a bit early, aren't you?

Yes, I say.

No locker time?

Didn't need it, I say.

We missed you yesterday, she says, smoothing the front of her shirt. I can see her nipples and this makes my face hotter than usual.

Is everything okay? she asks.

Yes, I say. My voice cracks a little. This must have something to do with her nipples.

You sure?

Yes.

Are you feeling all right?

I'm not falling, I say.

She says, I didn't say you were.

We don't talk for a second. For some reason I imagine the kinds of things she keeps in the drawers of her desk.

Stuff like aspirin and little tissues. A secret bottle of perfume. A tube of lipstick.

Miss Cosgrove leans forward and says, I asked if you're
feel
ing all right, Blacky.
Feel
ing.

Oh, I say.

It's just that you seem so far away.

But I'm not.

She stops leaning so much and paperclips some forms. She says, How's your mom doing these days?

I say, She's okay.

Is she still working at St. Joe's?

Yes.

Well, please tell her I say hello and give her my regards.

Okay.

Miss Cosgrove always wants to give her regards to people.

Like regards are little chocolates wrapped in foil.

She says, I look forward to seeing her at parent-teacher conferences.

I don't reply cause I know there will be lots of concern at this particular conference. Miss Cosgrove is always trying to recommend adjustments to my study habits. For state capitals she suggested that I use flash cards. I got only thirty-five of the state capitals correct, so she let me retake the test. I used the flash cards to study with, but I got only thirty-two correct the second time.

I worked hard on it, too.

The problem was I kept imagining myself getting lost in all those cities.

Like Montpelier, Vermont.

And Tallahassee, Florida.

Albany was a tough one, too. I couldn't ever seem to get out of Albany.

Miss Cosgrove has gone back to arranging her desk.

There are three polished stones on three stacks of papers.

I imagine her house. I see things stacked everywhere. Plates and mail and stuff like that. Neat stacks with little polished stones on top. I picture her married to a mailman. He never takes off his uniform and when they have sex he just undoes his fly and they moan at each other like they're sad.

I take out Mary Jane Paddington's homework assignment about capital punishment. I begin copying it into my own notebook.

It reads:

Capital punishment is horrendous. People make mistakes and they should be punished, but putting others to death is animalistic behavior. Another's death is not for us to decide. It's up to God to settle such matters of the mortal soul.

I don't believe capital punishment solves anything. There's a guy named Mumia who is on Death Row in Philadelphia for killing a policeman in a race-related shootout. There is fishy evidence regarding this case. I wish they would free Mumia and go after the real evidence.

As I am copying Mary Jane Paddington's assignment, Evan Keefler and Steve Degerald pass by the doorway.

They see me and stop.

Steve Degerald points at me and gives me a thumbs-up.

Then Evan Keefler does the same.

They are grinning so hard it's like their teeth hurt.

I look away.

In the window the rain is coming harder. It's like someone is controlling it with a dial.

When I look back to the doorway Steve Degerald and Evan Keefler are gone.

In the bus line Jared Collins points at me and shoots me a thumbs-up.

Then Kevin Buhle and Richard Falcon do it too.

Richard Falcon's thumb has a black nail. In Language Arts I've seen him color it with a permanent marker. He calls it his Evil Thumb. He tells people he has tattoos but it's a lie. I know this cause I saw him in the Student Council room with all of his clothes off. I don't know why he was naked. He was all alone and sitting really still in one of the homeroom delegate chairs. I had missed my bus cause of a bathroom emergency. I walked into the Student Council room and there he was.

He didn't have a single tattoo.

It's funny how we create stories about our bodies.

For instance, the other day I heard Sean Maloney tell Coach Corcoran that he can't wear a jock cause he's got three testicles. In a few weeks the old woman with the lunchmeat face who works in the Health Office is going to come into the locker room and check all the sixth-grade boys for hernias. Rumor has it that she fondles you and makes you turn your head and cough. I'll be sure to listen for how many times Sean Maloney coughs.

When the bus leaders come around everyone files out to the parking lot and starts boarding their buses. The rain is coming down in a way that makes you want to ball up and get muscular.

The windshield wipers sound like dogs crying.

When it's my turn to board I hesitate.

Let's go, Blacky! the bus driver says.

Her eyes are small like a lizard's.

You're holding up the line, she yells. Let's go!

My tongue feels like it's shrinking.

I forgot something, I say.

Then I turn around and walk away from the line.

Janice Caulkoven and Ben Jansen are sharing an umbrella. It's so big it's even stopping the rain that's going sideways.

It's funny how never having an umbrella can make you feel left out.

I stop at the school doors and turn.

When buses start to move it's like they got their own imaginations.

For some reason I feel the need to wave goodbye to my bus, so I do.

I wave so hard my hand goes floppy.

As it pulls away I can see four thumbs framed in four different windows.

I walk home on Caton Farm Road cause the buses don't use it. There's a new subdivision going up and the rain makes the houses look like they were dropped out of the sky.

Nobody lives here yet. It's all piles of bricks and skeleton wood.

There is a yellow bulldozer parked in mud. The door is open so I go inside. This feels highly illegal but it is thrilling to be a smalltime criminal.

I imagine it takes special skill to operate a bulldozer cause the controls are all sticks and levers.