Rumble (3 page)

of that in my life. So if

she wants to believe

the source of our love

(and, indeed, all love)

is some all-powerful

wizard with wings or

whatever, hey, what’s

the point of arguing?

As long as she lets me

sleep in late on Sundays

while she wastes time

in church. As long as

she lets me kiss her how

I like, warm and steaming

and barely breathing and . . .

A Sudden Uncomfortable Tug

Just south of my belt buckle reminds

me that a locker-heavy hallway is so not

the place to think about such things.

Glad I wore Jockeys today. Still, I feel

like everyone is staring at my groinage.

I glance up at the clock on the wall. Damn

it. Lunch is half over. If I leave now, I’ll be

late to American Culture, a class I actually like.

Skip lunch? My gut growls in answer.

The deli cart beckons, and I’m halfway

there when someone taps my shoulder.

Okay, more like semi-punches it. I spin,

ready to defend myself if I must. But it’s

just Marshall. “What the fuck, dude?”

His goofy smile reveals way too many

teeth in need of straightening.
Hey, man.

Don’t get all defensive. Just wondered

if you’re going to Freak’s party. My car died.

“Again? Jesus, why don’t you bury

the goddamn thing already?” He winces

slightly. “What? Did I offend you

somehow? You don’t think that car

should be junked?” He just shrugs and

now the clock says I’ve got less than ten

minutes until the bell. They’re probably

packing up the cart, but I start walking

that way. Maybe I’ll get lucky. “Come

on. I need food. Anyway, let me talk

to Hayden about the party. I planned on

going, but I should probably check in

with her before I agree to play chauffeur.

I’ll text you.” He makes a one-eighty,

heads the other way, and I’m pretty

sure I hear him mutter,
Pussywhipped.

A soft haze of anger lifts, mushrooms

when I reach the empty deli cart. Shit!

Great

All I can think about now is how hollow

my belly feels. In Culture, Mr. Wells

gives a great lecture about how modern

American eras can be defined by their music.

Normally, I’d be totally engaged. Instead

I keep thinking about foods that start with

p
. Why
p
? I seriously have no idea.

Pastrami.

Pancakes.

Plums.

Pinto beans.

Pretzels

Provolone.

Prosciutto.

And a slight variation—Pesto on sPaghetti.

Great. Now I’ve got that going on.

sPinach.

sPam.

sPaetzle.

sPring rolls.

sProuts.

sPumoni.

sPumante.

Yeah, I realize spumante isn’t a food,

but it seemed like a reasonable segue.

It’s how my brain works when I go obsessive

and, yes, I understand that’s exactly what it is.

If I let myself wander into compulsiveness,

too, I’ll have to go back and alphabetize.

Hmmm. No, better not. Mr. Wells

is already giving me a quizzical look.

Quizzical. Cool word. I like
q
words.

Quiche.

Quinoa.

Quince.

eQuus.

Okay, I wouldn’t actually eat horse,

but a giant cheeseburger would sure

go down well right now. . . .

Matt? Am I boring you or what?

I spent a lot of time preparing this talk,

and I thought it was pretty good.

The Tips of My Ears

Feel like someone just blowtorched

them. “Sorry, Mr. Wells. My mind

must be somewhere else right now.”

Obviously. Do you think you can return

it to this location, at least until the bell

rings?
He’s smiling, anyway. Good thing

he and I have a decent teacher-student

relationship. “I’ll do my best.” I do, and

actually get caught up in the whole

Vietnam/Bob Dylan/Buffalo Springfield

thing. Not to mention Richard Nixon

and J. Edgar Hoover vs. John Lennon.

Damn. If I had any ambition, I think

I’d try to be a cult hero. Are there college

courses for that? Can you get a degree

in cult heroship? Never mind. Pretty

sure that wouldn’t satisfy my parents.

Not that what I’m planning to do after

graduation will. Oh my God. There goes

my brain again, wandering elsewhere.

I think I’ve got a serious case of ADHD.

Toward the End

Of class we have (by design, I’m sure)

circled back to the late 1960s and MLK

Jr. Beyond Vietnam protests, the civil

rights movement was also making

headlines. Snickers in the back of the room

underline the fact that not everyone here

is what you might call enlightened.

So what kind of music defines that?

sneers ever-the-dick Doug Wendt.

Hip-hop? Rap? Gospel? Or maybe

back then it was spirituals?

Mr. Wells quiets the ludicrous back-row

giggling with a single look.
In a way, yes.

Spirituals informed the music that would

come to be called “the blues.” Sort of like

how Moses’s exodus story informed MLK’s

“Promised Land” speech. He’d figuratively

climbed to the mountaintop, viewed the place

where his people belonged, and believed

God wanted them to get there. . . .

“Yeah. And how did that work out

for him?” The question slips past my lips

without my even thinking about it.

And So Does

Mr. Wells’s answer.
He knew he wouldn’t

reach it, Matt. He knew with absolute certainty

that his death was more than possible. It was

probable. But he didn’t back down, didn’t

back away from his plea for nonviolent

protest. Without his unshakable faith in God,

and the creator’s determination that all men

truly are created equal, Dr. King might very

well have retreated to the safety of his pulpit.

“And he’d probably be alive today,

sitting in a rocking chair somewhere,

enjoying his grandchildren. If there really

was a God, one who wanted Martin Luther

King Jr. to lead his people toward equal

rights, why would that God allow him to die

before the task was accomplished? It makes

no sense. His people continued to suffer,

and he was just dead. Martyrdom is stupid.”

That came out stronger than I meant

it to, but I’m not going to take it back.

Wells frowns.
I’m sorry you feel that

way, and I’m pretty sure most of Dr. King’s

followers would disagree with you. His voice

gave them strength and shone a spotlight

on their cause, one the world couldn’t ignore.

Sheep

I make the mistake

of saying it out loud.

“Sheep.” And, of course,

that jerkwad Wendt has

to expound,
Yeah. Black

sheep.
And the room erupts.

Idiot.

Right on.

Dick.

Shut up.

Word.

Oh my God.

Until, finally, Mr. Wells

yells,
Enough! Settle down.

Look, we’re about finished

here. Enjoy your weekend.

As everyone gathers their

stuff, he adds,
Hey, Matt.

Can I see you for a minute?

Shit. Shit. Shit. What now?

I’d Try the Ol’

“I’ll be late to my next class” excuse,

except for a couple of things. One,

the bell didn’t even ring yet, and two,

I’ve got a study hall prior to Wood Shop.

In a way, I’m surprised they let me

around saws. “What is it, Mr. Wells?”

I saw your God essay. . . .

Jesus. Teachers actually
share
these

things? “My English essay? Really?”

Come on, Matt. We both know there

were some, uh, concerns. But I wanted

you to know that while I don’t agree

with everything you wrote, your thoughts

on religion are remarkable. I’m impressed.

I have to smile. “Glad someone’s

impressed. Thanks, Mr. Wells.”

You might consider taking comparative

religion in college. I think you’d find

it fascinating, especially since you already

have an obvious interest in the subject.

Maintain, Matt, Maintain

I try, really I do, but a big burst of laughter

kind of explodes from my mouth. “Interest?

Not really. Dearth of interest is more accurate.

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure I’m going to

college.” Damn. That slipped out, too. He

and Dad are friends, and I haven’t confessed

my lack of ambition to my parents yet.

His grin dissolves.
Wow. That surprises

me, and it would be a spectacularly amazing

waste of talent, in my opinion. You’re one of

the brightest young men I know. I hope

you reconsider. You’ve got a lot to offer.

Backpaddle. Quick! “I haven’t decided

for sure yet. I mean, I’m already accepted

at UOregon.” I never considered anywhere

else, and only applied there because Dad

insisted. Mom figures I’m a lost cause,

anyway. If she even remembers I’m alive.

“Well, thanks for your concern, and I’ll

definitely think about that religion class.”

He looks downright sad, like he knows

I’m flat BSing him.
I hope you do, Matt.

One thing I hate is watching a special kid

fall through the cracks. Have a great weekend.

Dismissed

Booyah! I can finally get something to eat.

But not before I track down Hayden. The halls

are jammed, everyone buzzing about the long

weekend ahead. I thread through the throng,

heading for my locker. There. There’s my girl,

waiting for me. Only thing is, she’s not alone.

Standing beside her is Jocelyn Stanton. One look

at her and irritation shimmers, but before it can

fan into anger, Hayden flashes perfect

pearl-white teeth and I kind of melt. I reach

for her, and she slips into my arms like

satin.
Hi, baby.
Her soft, full lips seek

mine, and this kiss, like every kiss, is all

I could ever ask for. Well, maybe not all,

but it’s more than enough for right now.

We unlock our mouths, but I keep her close,

inhaling the orange-ginger scent of her hair.

“Missed you at lunch.” I think a second, add,

“Actually, I missed lunch, too. But I missed

you more.” Behind us, Jocelyn tsks impatience,

lifting a froth of annoyance. “What’s her problem?”

Before she says a word, I know I’ll hate her answer.

Didn’t Realize

I had ESP, but apparently I’ve acquired

it somewhere along the way. Hayden

gives me a quick kiss to mute the blow.

She has to drive her little brother home.

My turn for impatience. “And . . . just

what does that have to do with you?”

I’m going, too. After we drop him off,

we’re going to change before the game.

“You mean the basketball game?