Out of Nowhere (14 page)

“That’s why they need to learn it. Hey, my grandparents spoke French. It was their first language, and they didn’t get detention for speaking it in school. They got whacked with a ruler!”

“Wow. That’s enlightened. They should try that at Chamberlain,” Myla remarked.

I breathed out impatiently.

“I’m not saying it’s good. I’m saying it’s reality. You gotta speak English if you want to get ahead in this country. And you know, things are way easier for the African kids than they were for my
grandparents. At least Saeed and those guys can speak whatever they want in the hallways and the cafeteria.”

Myla didn’t answer me. We both returned to stacking cans in silence until she finally spoke again.

“I think, Tom, Samira assumes that if you date someone, you must be like them and share their views. And she doesn’t think much of your Cherisse.”

I couldn’t argue with her there. I also wasn’t about to explain my interest in Cherisse Ouellette, which had little to do with her views or opinions about anything.

“You know,” I replied, “enough about me. Where are you from?”

She looked surprised. “Minnesota.”

“Wow. Why?”

She paused for a moment.

“Huh?”

“Why did you come to Enniston, Maine, of all places, for college? Why didn’t you go to, like, Carleton or Macalester or Hamline or something?”

Myla burst out laughing.

“Ooh, somebody’s been reading
Fiske’s Guide to Colleges
! Tell you what, I’ll say the state and you name every college in it.”

“Sounds like fun, but I’d have to kill you if you did that,” I said shortly. Myla looked at me curiously.

“My parents teach at Carleton,” she finally answered. “So it would’ve practically been incest to go there. Besides, I needed to get away. And Mumford is awesome.”

“Yeah, but Enniston?” She grinned.

“What’s wrong, townie? You don’t love your city?” I shook my head.

“Not a relevant question. It’s like asking, ‘Do you love having skin?’ I mean, I guess. But sometimes I want to crawl right out of it. And I can’t imagine somebody else wanting to crawl in.” All of a sudden this conversation felt serious.

But Myla could hang with it.

“Sure,” she replied slowly. “Enniston is like a part of you. But you’re ready to move on. And it seems weird that this place you need to dust is someone else’s moving on.”

I was so surprised that she got me before I completely got myself that I didn’t even know what to say. So I just nodded, like a complete idiot, and unpacked more canned corn.

“So where do you want to go?” she continued.

I shrugged.

“Seriously,” she said.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

She gave me a look.

“It’s late September of your senior year and you don’t have a game plan for after you graduate?”

Ms. Myla didn’t realize she’d wandered into a minefield. Talking about the future was not my favorite topic.

“Who says I need a game plan?” I asked. Her eyes narrowed.

“What the hell is a game plan, anyway?” I continued. “What’s wrong with just finishing this year, graduating, then looking around to see what I want to do next? Maybe I’ll get a job, work with my uncle.” I reached the bottom of my paper bag and pulled out one last jar. Hot Chipotle Chili Cocoa Mix. It was in this artsy shape, and made in Santa Fe. I searched for an expiration date: three years old.

“Crap, right?” I said, holding it up for Myla to see. Before she
could reply I hook-shot it into the trash can. The glass shattered loudly against the aluminum. We both flinched at the sound.

“A job is a plan,” Myla said quietly. “What does your uncle do?”

“Fuck-all,” I said with a short laugh. “He has a big-ass plow on his pickup, so he clears driveways in the winter. He can build pretty much anything. Refinish wood floors. Install windows. Doesn’t make much money, but at the end of the day he’s actually accomplished something. His favorite thing to do, however, is fight with his sister—my aunt.”

“What’s she like?” Myla asked. With her foot she slid a packed cardboard box along the floor so that it rested between us. We unloaded the contents.

“Like you. Smart. Went to college. Into helping people. You might even know her. Maddie Thibeault?” Myla shook her head.

“And which one of them are you like? Your uncle?”

Even a blockhead like me could pick up on the irritation in her voice. I took a deep breath.

“I don’t know who I’m like. Nobody. All of them. Stuffed into the same body.”

“Like a big sausage casing,” Myla commented into the box.

“Listen,” I said. “All this college talk drives me nuts.
Way
too many people have an opinion about my future, and if I have to hear one more word about SATs and sports tips and applications, I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

Myla didn’t answer, but instead methodically placed food on the smooth metal counter. When the carton was empty, she pressed one foot against it and shoved it, hard, across the floor, so it skittered into a corner of the kitchen with other empty containers. She aimed those enormous blue eyes in my direction.

“Think of going to college as a privilege instead of a punishment that adults are inflicting on you and I’ll bet filling out applications won’t seem so bad,” she said evenly. I felt my face color.

“You know, Captain, outside of your family I doubt anyone much cares where or whether you go to college,” Myla continued. “But as a healthy, smart white male growing up in one of the safest, most prosperous countries in the world, you know what? You have a moral obligation to do something worthwhile with your life and
not
be an asshole. Just sayin’.”

Later that afternoon Donnie texted me. While I was driving home from K Street, and yeah, I know I shouldn’t drive and text at the same time but I only typed when I stopped at a light.

Got messed up last night. Woke @ noon. What happened @ the rock?

I texted back:
F U
.

I realized this was pretty cold. He could’ve been lying in a ditch for all anyone knew, and I didn’t even ask if he was all right. But it only takes five characters to text “sorry” and I thought I deserved that much.

My phone vibrated again.

Let me make it up to u
.

I replied at the next light:
In enough trouble already. Go f yourself
.

Next it rang. I considered turning it off. But I didn’t. Story of my life with Donnie …

“Dude,” I heard him say. “I propose G-rated, highly legal fun. It’s all my brain cells could handle at this point, anyway.”

“Why would I want to spend any time with you?” I asked.

I heard his short laugh.

“Because you love me. And because for once in your life I’m paying.”

“No way. What, you rob a bank?”

“Somethin’ like.”

“Seriously, Don.”

“Seriously, Tom-boy, you have five seconds to lighten up and let me take you out or I’m calling George and he gets to eat dinner with me at Michelangelo’s tonight.”

I paused. Donnie never has money. This couldn’t be good. But I really liked the barbecue chicken pizza at Michelangelo’s.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell, huh?” I said to him.

“You got that right. Pick me up at six.”

“Don … no. I’m grounded, remember? Unlike you, who continue to go out and get ruined. And have yet to do a single hour of community service.”

“Exactly. You’re suffering, man. And it’s my job to ease that suffering.
That’s
my service. My guidance counselor is going to give me hours for it.” He was trying not to laugh.

“I’m hangin’ up now, Plourde.”

Five minutes later I was a few blocks from home when my cell went off again. Mom.

“Hey, honey, where are you?”

“Pleasant Street. I’m really close.”

“Donnie just called here. He sounded like he could use a little family time. I told him we’d relax your grounding conditions so that he could join us for dinner.”

The guy is
epic
. He knew my mom had a soft spot where he was concerned.

“Let me guess: I should go pick him up.”

“And stop at Michelangelo’s on your way home. He wants to get you a pizza.”

Donnie lost his license within six months of getting his license. His first two tickets were for speeding in a school zone. The third, license-losing infraction was an OUI. The good news was that everyone in Enniston could breathe easier now that there was one less Plourde on the road (his father and uncle were both “experienced” drunk drivers). The bad news was that Donnie always needed a lift and could never manage to hold down any sort of job because he didn’t have reliable transportation.

Jake and I tried to help him out as much as we could, but during soccer season Donnie leaned on guys like George Morin. Greg Pepper, if he was really stuck. But even Donnie used Pepper, who was a couple years older than us, as a last resort. “Man, if we get pulled for a bad taillight or something, I don’t know
what
the cops would find in Pepper’s trunk!” he once commented to me.

You couldn’t talk sense into him. He knew he was screwing up. Felt bad about it, too. But Donnie Plourde was a walking Greek tragedy. Heading down some dark path the Fates had determined for him, and he was hell-bent to see it through to the fiery finish.

I said that to him once, and he laughed.

“See, that’s what I love about you, Tom. Everybody else falls asleep in school, but you put the classics in context. And make me out to be a Greek hero.”

“A tragic hero, dumbass,” I replied, which only made him laugh harder.

We didn’t get to Michelangelo’s until five-thirty, and on a Saturday evening people were already standing in line. We’d called ahead for the pizza, but they were backed up, so Donnie and I had
to hang out for a while. As we waited, my phone vibrated in my seat pocket. I pulled it out and read the incoming number on the screen: Cherisse.

“Hey,” I said when I flipped it open.

“What’s up, boyfriend?” I heard.

This greeting was a huge improvement over the previous forty-eight hours. Following workshop day she’d hung up on me five … no, six times. When she finally did take my call, she yelled at me for embarrassing her by asking Devon to apologize to Fatuma. From there, she’d moved on to weepy and accused me of secretly having a “thing” for Liz Painchaud. Unbelievable.

A little part of me was actually grateful to be grounded and forbidden to see her, but I’d be damned if I’d actually admit that to my mom.

“Not much,” I replied.

“Where are you?” she said.

“Michelangelo’s. Gonna pick up some pizza for dinner. Donnie’s with me.” I heard this whiny sound. Petulant. Displeased.

“Gee, thanks for inviting me!”

“I can’t invite you. I’m grounded.”

“Michelangelo’s with Donnie doesn’t sound very grounded.” I looked at Don.

“Help me out here,” I said to him. “Tell Cherisse my mother ordered me to pick you up and get pizzas.”

He took my phone.

“Don’t believe a word he says, Cherisse,” Donnie said. “We’re here with two other girls and his mother has no idea where he is.”

I grabbed the phone back.

“Cherisse?” I said.

“I hate that guy,” she said. “Tell him I hate him.”

“Hey, did you hear we beat Whittier yesterday?” I said instead.

“Whoop-dee-doo,” she replied.

“Hey, it’s a huge upset. The guys were losing it on the bus.”

“That’s great, Tom. I’m so happy for you. I’m gonna go wash my hair now. Because it’s not like I have anything else to do on a Saturday night, with my boyfriend supposedly grounded but still managing to eat out with his friends.” She signed off without even saying goodbye.

“She hates you,” I told Donnie as I snapped my phone shut.

“She’ll get over it,” he said contentedly.

Michelangelo’s is cool. It’s in one of the old mills downtown and it’s got these high ceilings and brick walls everywhere and the food is awesome. I like looking around and trying to imagine the place when it was a working mill. Imagine the din of giant looms and oily machines. Lint floating like snowflakes.

Mom tells me when it first opened, she wanted to take her grandmother,
Mémère
Louise, there for lunch, but the old lady refused. She’d already gone to a mill restaurant in Brunswick with a friend, and it upset her. Apparently when they renovated the place they kept the original floors. Sanded them down and waxed them to a high polish; everyone said they were beautiful. But
Mémère
knew those floors. Recognized the shape of the windows. The columns supporting cavernous ceilings and dredging up memories which no amount of framed local art or bistro-style furniture could hide. She couldn’t eat; they had to leave.

I have no problem eating in a former mill. To me, it’s like eating in a museum. Where someone has just baked an oven’s worth of garlic bread.

After a while we stood near the hostess station, in view of the dining room. It was packed; lots of families with their little kids coming to get an early dinner. I felt someone tug on my sleeve.

Myla. I didn’t recognize her at first. She wore eye makeup and these big hoop earrings. Instead of her usual handwoven, practically edible clothing, she was rockin’ the dressed-up-for-a-Mumford-student look: black tights and a long sweater. Boots, with spiky heels, that made her seem taller.

“Hey,” she said, a little hesitantly. “Thought I recognized you.”

We hadn’t parted well. After she’d made the asshole comment earlier that day, I’d stormed out. Think I kicked a box of groceries on my way. Heard something crack.

“Hey,” I said back. “Are you waiting for a table?”

She pointed into the dining room.

“I’m over there, with some friends. We’re taking my roommate out for her birthday.”

I glanced in the direction she pointed, to a long table packed with college girls. A few of them looked our way, and when they saw me staring they giggled and nudged each other. Myla frowned. Shook her head at them almost imperceptibly.

“We’re just getting takeout,” I said, turning away from the girls. “This is my friend Donnie.”