Rumble (4 page)

I didn’t know we’d decided to go.”

I especially didn’t know we’d decided

to go as a threesome, but I don’t say so.

Well, I, uh . . . kind of figured I’d go,

with or without you. It’s a big game—

“I know, Hayden, I mean, my dad being

the coach and all. But Freak’s having a party

and I thought that would be a lot more fun.

I tried to find you at lunch to discuss it, but . . .”

The unfinished sentence dissolves in silence,

the accusation watery but easy enough

to discern.
I told you about the meeting,

Matthew. Not my fault you didn’t remember.

The shrew in her voice is a reaction to hurt,

of course. But I’m hurt, too. And more than

a little pissed off. “Don’t call me Matthew.”

Only Mom and my teachers do. “You’re right.

I did forget, and I’m sorry. But why would you

make plans with Jocelyn without asking me

first? I wouldn’t do that to you!” Petulant,

that’s how I sound, like a pissed little boy.

Come on, Matt.
Placating, that’s how she sounds.

What’s one night? We have three whole days

to spend together. Anyway, you’re welcome

to come. Your dad would like you to be there.

Right. Like he’d even notice. “Never mind.

You go to the game with your girlfriend.”

If I Wanted

To be really nasty, I could add,

“And I’ll go to the party with mine.”

But that would be such an incredible

lie she’d no doubt laugh at me.

She knows I’d never mess up

what we have, even if I do feel

coldcocked by her indifference

to my distress. I tuck my tail,

mostly wishing I had the cojones

to snarl instead. “If you change

your mind, call. If not, guess

I’ve got a date with Marshall.”

Behind Hayden, Jocelyn taps

idiotically long fingernails against

too-plump thighs, and her eyes roll

toward the ceiling. All things

considered, I have a hard time

understanding why Hayden

and she are still friends, and

if I wasn’t mostly a gentleman,

I’d be tempted to shake her. If

I thought it would do any good,

I might resort to a small shoulder

jab, but pretty sure that would

only make Hayden dig in deeper.

I give my girl one last pleading

glance, start to walk away. But

I change my mind, mostly to

impress Jocelyn (in a negative

way). I reach for Hayden, pull

her into my arms, kiss her with

every ounce of love I hold inside.

At first, she is stiff, aware we have

an audience, but she softens quickly,

slipping the tip of her spearmint

tongue between my lips. My own

tongue lifts in eager greeting.

And now the two dance like

a snake charmer and cobra—

a quick, sinuous pirhouetting.

My heart drums, staccato, and

I can feel hers stutter against

my chest. With my eyes closed,

I could get carried away, but I

keep them open, watching

Jocelyn tsk and mutter beneath

her breath, totally tweaked at

this waste of her time and,

I suspect, not a little jealous.

Now Come Catcalls

From random guys walking by,

so reluctantly I pull away. Hayden

smiles and I kiss my way up her neck

to whisper in her ear, “You’re pretty

hot for a Christian girl. Sure you won’t

come to the party? We could do something

biblical. Build an ark, or sacrifice a lamb.”

She wants to be offended, but can’t quite

bring herself to, and laughs instead.

You are completely incorrigible, you know

that? Not to mention sacrilegious and

most likely damned. I will pray for you,

and if God doesn’t strike you down between

now and then, I’ll call you tomorrow morning.

Great sense of humor for a Christian

girl. While she’s still laughing, I go

ahead and risk ruining her lighthearted

mood by asking Jocelyn, “How’s that

prick brother of yours? I hear his stats

aren’t exactly overwhelming. Tell him

I said to break a leg. Literally.”

Both Girls Sputter

And that’s fine with me. Hayden

needs to realize that her friendship

with Jocelyn makes me crazy, and

the idea of her driving anywhere

with that bitch’s brother just about

puts me over the edge. “Enjoy the game.”

I watch them walk stiffly to Jocelyn’s

way-too-sensible Prius. Not so sensibly,

they stand in the drizzle, waiting for

Cal Stanton, who occupies the top spot

on my “People Who Should Just Go

Ahead and Die Now” list. Not that

I’d dare admit I keep such a roster

in my head. If my therapist discovered

all those sessions we’ve shared haven’t

netted much in the way of my forgiving

the people on my hypothetical hit list,

she’d be downright concerned.

But My Lips Are Sealed

I make a dash through the rain

to my unsensible, but completely amazing

2013 Ford F-150, “Blue Flame” over gray.

It was an eighteenth-birthday gift

from my grandparents. The Portland

techies, not the Creswell Baptists.

Unfortunately, it’s the latter who live

closest to us, where they can keep

an eye on their daughter—my mother,

and their biggest disappointment. Well,

except for Luke. But the Portlanders,

hey, turns out they’re pretty cool.

(Hard to believe, considering they gave

birth to my dad.) I thought so even

before they gifted me with an awesome

ride “to celebrate my arriving.”

I wasn’t exactly sure where I’d arrived.

All I knew was from that day on, I was

going to arrive everywhere in style.

Best of All

This baby is loaded.

5.0 liter engine.

Supercab design.

4 x 4 drivetrain.

Satellite radio.

Bluetooth built into

the steering wheel for

hands-free calls while

I drive. I use it now

to let Marshall know

I’ll pick him up around

nine. Freak’s parties tend

to go really late. Get there

too early, and you risk

a DUI on the way home

or one hella hangover

the next day. Too bad

drinking comes with

so damn many intrinsic

reasons not to do it.

Hasn’t Stopped Me Yet

And it won’t stop me tonight, especially

without Hayden’s disapproving looks

to slow me down. But I’ll definitely

keep in mind I want to spend time

with her tomorrow, hangover-free.

At least I don’t have to shower now.

Who cares what I’ll smell like?

As I turn onto our street, I can see down

the block to our driveway, where Dad’s

car is parked. Odd. Why would he be here

now, with the JV game only a couple of

hours away? Usually he just stays at school.

Maybe he forgot something this morning.

I park in my usual spot against the curb.

Rain drizzles down the windshield, and

I watch it for a few minutes before going

inside. Rarely does the Turner family deviate

from the norm, and some small whisper

of foreboding stirs. But no, that’s stupid.

If someone had died, I would’ve gotten

a call. The thing about technology is,

surprises of a major sort are few and far

between. I stow the unease, go inside.

Where It Becomes Clear

In a half breath that I was correct in

my assumption that something is skewed

toward “holy crap.” I can hear Mom and

Dad talking in the kitchen. Talking. They

never do that. And it’s me they’re discussing.

Mom:
What are you going to do about him?

Dad:
What am
I
going to do? This is a joint

problem, Pam. Joint, meaning the two

of us, not that there’s much “us” left.

Ah, shit. What did I do now? Or, more

accurately, what did I do that they found

out about? Not to mention, care about.

I consider a quick exit, but whatever this

is won’t disappear in the next few hours.

Especially not if Dad loses one of the “big

games” tonight—basketball or blame.

Anyway, what’s the worst they can try

to do to me? Ground me? Right. It’s party

night, and I won’t be denied. So I’ll go

kiss a little ass, whatever their problem

might be. I whistle as I sashay toward

the nonproblem and its nonconsequence.

They’re at the Table

Backs to the door. When they hear me

coming, they spread a little before turning

in my direction, and I can see a small stack

of paper on the weathered wood. “What’s up?”

Dad’s face colors pink, as if I’ve busted

him doing something wrong.
What’s up

with
you,
Matt? I think that’s the question.

“You’ll have to be a little more specific,

Dad, I . . .” He picks up the sheaf with two

fingers, gingerly, as if it might be hot. “Oh.”

It’s a photocopy of my essay, at least that’s

what the top page looks like. “Don’t tell

me. Mr. Carpenter and Ms. Hannity think

I’m considering mayhem and thought you

should know before I went off. Right?”

Something like that.
He drops the papers

back on the table, then pierces my eyes

with his stare.
Are you considering mayhem?

I glance at a couple of pages, remembering

what I’d written on them. “It’s just a freaking

essay. Not a manifesto for murder. Jeez, Dad—”

Shut up!
screeches Mom.
Don’t take

the Lord’s name in vain on top of the rest.

What is wrong with you, Matthew?

“Uh, Mom? ‘Jeez’ isn’t short for Jesus.

It’s really a rather innocuous expression,

in fact. Don’t worry. God isn’t offended.”

I could say more. I could remind her that

she never said one word about God or church

or faith or religion to me until the day Luke died.

That her overbearing Baptist upbringing backfired

and, according to stories I’ve heard Dad tell

after a few too many, she was about as far

from a pure, little Christian girl as they came

when she was my age. I could insist that makes

her the worst kind of hypocrite—the kind

who takes, uses, and abuses until life bites her

in the ass. Then, rather than try to fix the damage

she’s caused, she dumps it all into God’s lap,

begging
him
for forgiveness. I could go

even further and ask her to please explain

what’s the point of deity worship, anyway?

No matter how low she genuflects or how

high she lifts all those prayers, she faces

an arduous climb up Misery Mountain.

Maybe, just maybe, if she could reach

the top she’d find the tiniest glimpse

of happiness, somewhere in the far

distance. But those peaks are steep

and treacherous, and all she does is keep

slipping backward toward the morass

below. And the real truth is, even if

she scaled the cliffs, stood tall atop

the summit, Luke wouldn’t be there,

and neither would any chance to rekindle

whatever love she and Dad ever had.

Both have vanished forever. But what’s

the point of saying any of that? Even if

she listened, she wouldn’t get it. So I’ll

go back to playing defense. “I’ll try to watch

my mouth, okay? As for the essay, I was just

blowing off steam. With words. Not my fists.

Not an assault weapon. Just words.”

Words Like

Let’s look at religious genocide. We could in theory go all the way back to Noah, of ark fame, whose God was so angry at human sin that he chose to wipe out every living thing except for Noah’s family, and two of each species on earth. Nice creator you’ve got there. The Old Testament is, in fact, rife with Jehovah-driven genocide. But since it’s fiction anyway, let’s move on.

Under early popes, we find the Crusades. Christians killing Christians who weren’t acceptable Christians—those pesky Protestants. Jews. Muslims. Nonbelievers. And what to do about the pagans? Behead them. Impale them. Chop them up. All in the name of a forgiving God.

Keep marching forward. Centuries of witch hunts. Burn those bitches at the stake. The Spanish Inquisition. Extermination of Native North and South Americans. Torture them, rape them, enslave them. Or just outright murder them. “God’s will,” their Christian killers said. The will of a peaceful God.