Saturday Boy (12 page)

“HI, PIGGY. HOW'D YOU
sleep?” Mom said without looking up from the bowl of batter.

“Are we having pancakes?”

“How'd you know?”

“You're using the green bowl,” I said. “You always use the green bowl to make pancakes.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.”

The ingredients were spread out over the counter. The flour canister was open. The milk was still out. So was the butter tub. There were eggshells in the measuring cup. I went to the fridge and got the orange juice out and poured a glass and sat at the table and watched her stir the pancake batter. I couldn't remember the last time she'd made pancakes from scratch. She usually got the just-add-water kind.

“Why do you have to stir it so much?” I asked.

“So it doesn't get lumpy.”

“Can I flip them?”

“When it's time,” she said. “Do me a favor and get the griddle set up?”

I got the griddle from the cabinet and cleared off a spot on the counter, plugged it in, and turned it on. Mom looked over at me. At some point she must have rubbed her nose because there was flour on the end of it. Her face had new lines on it and when she smiled it seemed fake—like it was trying to trick the world into thinking everything was okay.

We ate breakfast and then I went and got my stuff for school and hugged Mom good-bye and went to the bus stop. Budgie was there. He was wearing a red-and-black plaid hat with earflaps. One of the flaps was pulled up and he had a cell phone pressed against his ear. I couldn't believe it. Where'd he get a cell phone from? And who was he talking to this early in the morning? Pizza Jungle wasn't even open yet.

“Hey.”

“I'm on the phone.”

“Sorry.”

“Dude, I'm on the phone!”

He turned a little bit away from me and covered his mouth with his hand so I couldn't hear him. I bet there wasn't even anybody on the other end. I bet he was fake-talking just so I would see he had a cell phone and think he was cool for having one. I didn't, though, and it would take a lot more than just a cell phone for me to change my mind. He took the phone from his ear and pressed a button and put the phone in the pocket of his coat.

“Where'd you get the phone?”

“My mom and dad got it for me,” said Budgie. He had this expression on his face like he thought he was cool but the earflap of his hat was still up so it didn't really work.

“It's got apps on it and everything.”

“What're apps?”

“They're things that do stuff,” said Budgie. “Jeez, don't you know anything?”

“I know things.”

“No you don't.”

“I do. I know lotsa things.”

“Name one.”

“I know the rubber sheets on your bed aren't so it'll be more comfortable like you said.”

Budgie suddenly stopped trying to seem cool. Now he looked kinda nervous.

“Who told you that?”

“I asked my mom for some and she told me.”

“Why? Why? Why would you ask for some?”

“My bed's uncomfortable sometimes,” I said. “I also thought if I had rubber sheets it'd be more like a trampoline.”

Budgie swallowed. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something but then he closed it, digging into his pocket instead. He brought out his cell phone, stood next to me, and held it so I could see it. Then he showed me what apps it had and what they did. They were mostly games. There was a race car one and one where you shot chickens from a cannon. There were others, too. We played them on the bus all the way to school.

* * *

That morning was good. Me and Budgie played together at recess and we sat at the same table during lunch. We were even on the same dodgeball team during gym class. It was good to be on Budgie's team. He might not have been the best player but he threw the ball harder than anyone else. He even told me that one time he threw the ball so hard it knocked a kid out. I wasn't sure I believed that part but I was glad I was on his team so I wouldn't have to find out the hard way. Our team won three games to none and for a while everything was awesome.

It was after school at rehearsal when things started to be not so awesome. Mr. Putnam had Missy Sprout and Budgie and the rest of the helpers sit onstage while he did the roll call, and me, Violet, and the rest of the cast sat in the audience. Budgie'd lent me his cell phone and I was playing a game with the sound off and even though I was only listening to Mr. Putnam with half an ear I heard him call Budgie's name. Then Mr. Putnam asked Budgie something from so far out of left field it made me stop playing and look up. In fact it made everyone stop and look up.

“So Budgie,” he said. “Were you named after the Duke?”

“Who's the Duke?”

“You've never heard of the Duke? John Wayne?”

“My name's not John.”

“John wasn't his real name either,” said Mr. Putnam. “It was Marion. Like yours.”

I felt the color drop out of my face and I could see Budgie swallow from where I was sitting in the third row. Some of the kids onstage started to whisper to each other and giggle. Budgie licked his lips nervously.

“How did you—?”

Then his eyes fell on me and suddenly he didn't seem so nervous anymore. I'll say one thing about Budgie—for an idiot he could be awfully smart sometimes. This was big. And I didn't think he would care that I didn't really do it or that I had tried to fix it. Even though it was his parents who'd named him Marion, the way
he
would
see it, I was the one who who'd let the cat out of the bag.

He sat onstage and stared at me like I was the only one in the room. His face had gone red and if he were a cartoon there would be smoke shooting from his ears. I sank down into my seat. How was I supposed to know Mr. Putnam knew of the only other guy in the world named Marion? It wasn't fair that my day was being ruined by somebody I'd never heard of.

For the rest of the afternoon I kept expecting Budgie to do something for revenge but he didn't. Mr. Putnam had him looking through the script and copying stuff onto a big piece of paper with a Magic Marker. I felt bad. I'd already heard a few whispered Marions, a couple of Mary Annes and even one Marilyn. I could have made a big scene and told everyone to cut it out but I was afraid that might make things worse. After rehearsal Budgie grabbed all his stuff and left quickly. Phoebe must have been right there waiting for him because by the time I'd gotten out to the turnaround in front he was gone.

* * *

I HAD TROUBLE SLEEPING
again that night. I still felt bad that Budgie had been embarrassed and that the next few weeks probably weren't going to go so great for him. I was pretty sure that by now the entire town knew what had happened and everybody, maybe even the grown-ups, were going to start calling him Marion.

Mom said if I felt bad, then I should say I was sorry and then it would be up to Budgie to forgive my mistake. I told her I didn't think he would. I told her that now he probably thought I was a bigger archenemy than before. She hadn't really known what to say about that, so I lay in bed for a long time wondering what was going to happen tomorrow—how Budgie would get his revenge and how many times he would get it.

But Budgie didn't do anything. Not in the morning at the bus stop. Not during recess or lunch or rehearsal or anything. I couldn't figure it out. I mean, I'm sure he hadn't forgotten about it and even if he had, people were sure doing their best to remind him. They called him Marion on the bus. They called him Marion at recess and lunch. It seemed like me and the teachers were the only ones calling him Budgie. Even Barely O'Donahue was getting in on it until he came back from recess with a fat lip.

Me and Budgie didn't walk to rehearsal together. We didn't sit together onstage while Mr. Putnam gave notes and made announcements. All day I'd been hoping for a chance to apologize to Budgie but there wasn't a time when he didn't seem like a jack-in-the-box half a crank from popping open.

It was the final dress rehearsal and everyone was in costume. Marley's ghost got to wear chains while I had buckles made of silver foil taped to my shoes. Chains were way cooler than fake buckles. Plus I was wearing knickers. Nobody said anything though. They were too busy making fun of Scrooge's nightshirt and cap.

Today's run-through was the last one in an empty auditorium. Tomorrow there would be people in the seats. Mom was going to be there. I wondered if she'd be in the front row. I wondered if I'd be able to see her. Mr. Putnam said he didn't want us looking for our parents and friends while we were onstage but I figured I could get away with one or two little peeks if I was sneaky enough.

Final dress rehearsal also meant full performance conditions with lights and props and no talking backstage or in the wings. It meant if you weren't in the scene or about to be in a scene you had to wait in the classroom across the hall until one of the backstage helpers came to get you.

I didn't think I'd need the backstage helpers, though. I knew exactly when I needed to be onstage. Also, Mom had switched her shift with someone at the hospital so she could be here so there was no way I'd miss my entrance.

* * *

“You're still coming to the play, right?”

“Of course I'm still coming,” Mom said.

It was dinnertime. People had been stopping by the house since Saturday with food, and the fridge was full of stuff I'd never even heard of. Mom was heating a bowl full of something in the microwave.

“What's that stuff? It looks like brains.”

“That's because it
is
brains.”

“No way, really?”

“Not really,” she said. “It's beef Stroganoff.”

The microwave started beeping. Mom opened it and took out a Tupperware container full of noodles and brown stuff. Steam rose from it and I got the feeling it was trying to escape what was inside.

“What's that?”

“Y'know Hamburger Helper?” Mom asked.

“Yeah.”

“Beef Stroganoff is Hamburger Helper's rich uncle.”

I thought about that for a minute and decided I'd try it. After all, I liked Hamburger Helper and even though I wasn't rich I definitely liked the idea of it. And as far as I could tell from TV, money made everything better. I ate a plate of the beef Stroganoff. It tasted all right but I still didn't ask for seconds. I wanted to make sure to leave room for dessert because someone had dropped off a chocolate cake.

After dinner I went to my room and sat at my desk and did my homework. Then I packed up my book bag and got ready for bed. I washed my face. I brushed my teeth. I rinsed with that fluoride stuff that was supposed to taste like grapes but wouldn't no matter how many they drew on the bottle.

Then I got in bed and pulled the covers up and looked up at the space where the Apache helicopter had been. After a little while, I got out of bed and went to look for my mom. I heard the shower going in the bathroom so I stood in the hallway and waited for her to be done. The shower turned off a few minutes later. A minute after that the door opened and she came out.

“Where's my helicopter?”

“Jesus, Derek! Don't do that!” she said. “You scared me half to death!”

She had her bathrobe on and her hair was wrapped in a towel. I could smell her soap.

“Why did you take my helicopter down?”

“I need a minute here, Derek. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“What did you do with it? Did you throw it away?”

“It's in the attic.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn't think you'd want to be reminded of—of what happened to your father.”

“But it's mine! You can't just go into my room and take stuff!”

“You're right. You're absolutely right, Derek, and I'm sorry. That was wrong of me.”

“Go get it!”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It won't give you bad dreams?”

“Why would it do that?” I said. “I'm not scared of Dad.”

“Sad dreams, then. I think it would give me sad dreams.”

“I'm not you.”

Mom looked hurt all of a sudden. Her face scrunched up as if she might cry and she pulled her bathrobe tight like she hoped it was armor or something, like my words would bounce off but they didn't. They stuck in her like arrows.

“Let me just—give me a minute to change.”

Mom went into her bedroom and closed the door. I stayed in the hallway. I felt bad that I'd hurt Mom's feelings but I also felt kinda powerful. Maybe that's why Budgie did what he did and said the things he said—because he liked how it made him feel. I wanted to feel powerful, too, but not this way. I didn't want to be like Budgie. I could hear my mom crying in her room and I even took a step toward her room before turning around and going back to mine.

MY EYES FLEW OPEN
at five-sixteen in the morning. I felt electric. I
thrummed.
My fingernails were even glowing, I swear. And it wasn't because Christmas was less than a week away, it was because tonight was opening night. Instead of dancing sugar plums, my head was filled with visions of red carpets and
paparazzi.
Violet was with me, on my arm, smiling and laughing. Her dress was a candy apple red.

I thought about how I'd bow during the curtain call. How low should I go? And should I include a dramatic arm sweep? And with those things on my mind—how was I going to catch all the flowers I knew would be thrown my way?—I also thought about the very real possibility that the audience might demand a speech so I started to put together a list of people to thank.

I went through the day with my head in the clouds and before I knew it there were only ten minutes until curtain and I was in costume. I looked around the room at everybody, at Scrooge and Cratchit, the ghosts and Violet and Tiny Tim. They seemed calm. I wondered if I seemed calm to them. I hoped I did but the butterflies that were once in my stomach had been eaten by things that were bigger and much more ferocious and I was pretty sure that if everybody was quiet they'd be able to hear them chewing.

When there were five minutes until curtain Scrooge and Cratchit left the green room to take their places onstage. I wondered again why Mr. Putnam called it the green room. It wasn't green. It was just a regular old classroom that happened to be across from the backstage door to the auditorium.

I wanted to sneak in and peek through the curtains to look for Mom. We hadn't said much to each other this morning and the little we did say had nothing to do with what had happened last night and I felt bad. I wondered if she felt bad, too. She probably did. My stomach flipped. The butterfly-eating beasts dug their claws in and hung on. What if she was still upset? What if she was so upset that she decided not to come?

Suddenly I had to know if she was out in the auditorium but the play had already started and there was nothing I could do. The house lights were down and the stage lights were up and if I tried to peek now I'd be seen by the entire audience. I'd simply have to wait. I chewed my fingernails. I tapped my foot. I kept picturing a completely full house except for an empty seat in the front row with a little white sign on it that said “Reserved for Annie Lamb” in fancy writing. It was driving me crazy.

It had to be my turn to go on now. It just had to be.

I crossed the hallway and slowly opened the backstage door. Budgie was standing just inside.

“Close the door, Lamb,” he whispered loudly. “You're not on yet!”

“Are you sure?”

He pushed me back into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him. I looked at him. He was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt and dark pants, which made his sneakers seem awfully white.

“Aren't you supposed to be wearing dark shoes?”

“Aren't you supposed to wait in the green room?”

“Yeah, but nobody came and I was getting nervous,” I said. “I thought maybe you forgot.”

“I didn't forget! It's not even the second scene, moron!”

“But—”

He gave me a shove and turned around and went backstage again. I didn't go back in the green room like I was supposed to. I paced the hallway instead. Back and forth. Waiting. Budgie didn't come back out. Maybe he forgot. Then I started to think that maybe he was doing it on purpose—that this was his revenge for telling everyone his real name.

My heart didn't just drop. It
plummeted.

That was it. That had to be it. It wouldn't matter if I forgot to let Violet lead me off or I didn't project enough because Budgie was going to make sure I missed my entrance altogether. I'd be humiliated. Mr. Putnam would be furious. It'd be the perfect revenge if it weren't about to happen to me.

I had to do something. I couldn't just stand there and let Budgie do this to me. I would have preferred anything to this—a wedgie, an Indian rope burn, or even the dreaded French cuff, but no. Leave it to Budgie to figure out a way to cause maximum embarrassment with the least amount of work. I went to the backstage door, cracked it, and peeked in. I expected somebody to be there but the wings were empty. If I was going to do something I had to do it now. Without stopping to think about it I slipped inside and carefully closed the door behind me.

I moved to a dark corner in the wings and stood like a statue. My heart slowly climbed up out of my shoes and I found that now that I was backstage I wasn't worried about missing my entrance anymore. I'd just stay here, listen to the play, and when it was time for me to go on I'd just go out and do my scene. I'd embrace Violet and remember to project. I'd let her lead me offstage into the wings and presto!—Budgie's plot would have been thwarted. It was actually kind of perfect.

I smiled in the dark, picturing Budgie gnashing his teeth, stomping his feet, and shaking his fists in frustration. In fact, I was so busy imagining that I almost didn't notice when he came back. He was standing at least as still as I was and if he hadn't moved I was pretty sure I wouldn't have seen him at all.

But Budgie wasn't gnashing his teeth or stomping his feet or even shaking his fists. What he
was
doing, and doing gloriously, was picking his nose. He was two knuckles in at least, digging with his finger so far up one nostril I was surprised it wasn't coming down the other side.

I blocked the laugh as it was coming out, clamping my hands over my mouth as hard as I could. My shoulders shook. I tried swallowing the laugh but that only made me have to burp. It literally felt like something was going to burst.

“You're not on yet!” Budgie hissed. “Get out of here!”

I wanted to answer him but was afraid of what sounds would escape if I put my hands down so I shook my head instead.

“You idiot! You're going to wreck everything! Go back and wait in the green room!”

Budgie came at me like he was going to grab me but I didn't want to be grabbed. I didn't want to go back to the green room. I didn't even want to wait in the hallway. I tried to duck out of the way but there wasn't a whole lot of room and he got a handful of my shirt.

“Get off me!” I whispered as loud as I could.

“Shut up!”

“Let go!”

“Dork!”

“Moose!”

I made a fist, swung, and punched Budgie right in the eye. It was the first punch I'd ever thrown at an actual person. Budgie stumbled back a few steps, then stopped and looked at me. Something had changed. The world around us suddenly felt smaller. I looked at my hand still clenched into a fist at the end of my arm—this part of me, this
weapon
that I never knew I had had done something I never thought I was capable of. Budgie had made fists of his hands as well. Both of them.

“Wait, Budgie! I'm sorry! Budgie, wait—”

But he didn't.

His first punch hit me in the ear and my head sang with pain. Budgie just hit me, I thought. This is a fight. Holy crap, I'm in a fight! I threw up my hands in time to block the second punch but the third landed square in my gut and pushed all my air out. Then our legs tangled up and we toppled over backward and my head hit the floor so hard I saw stars. We rolled and I ended up on top of him. He wiggled underneath me, grabbing at my shirt, trying to throw me off. I held his wrists so he'd stop but he yanked one loose and punched me in the mouth.

“
Stop! Hitting! Me!
”

I struck him with each word. Then the dam burst and I couldn't have stopped even if I wanted to. At some point the cracks just became too wide and too numerous and I ran out of stuff to fill them with. Besides, in a strange, horrible way it felt good to let go. So I let go. And from my head to my heart to my hands it all came out.

My confusion and frustration about Budgie and why we weren't friends anymore caught him on the forehead. The trouble I couldn't seem to stay out of connected with his jaw. Everything I'd been keeping bottled up for so long—every cheek I'd turned and every time I'd held my tongue were a flurry of punches about his head. And finally, all of my anger and sadness, all of the unfairness that I'd been feeling, and all of the complete and total
suckiness
over what happened to my father, became a single blow—a hammer fist that found its way past Budgie's flailing hands and straight onto his nose
.

There was a
crunch
and beneath my hand I could feel Budgie's nose shift.

I stopped. My breath whooped in and out and I could feel hot tears on my cheeks. It was suddenly very quiet. I slowly turned, shading my eyes from the spotlight that Budgie and I seemed to be in the middle of. I swallowed and lowered my hand. The auditorium was quiet. The spotlight was bright and hot and Budgie squirmed underneath me. I waved. Just a little.

“Hi, Mom.”

That's when Budgie flipped me over and it started raining knuckles.

* * *

Teachers seemed to swarm in from everywhere. They came up from the audience. They seemed to spill from the wings. I think I even saw Señora Cruz drop from the ceiling on a rope like a commando. Budgie got pulled off of me. He was still kicking and thrashing, yelling words I don't think even grown-ups were supposed to know. I sat up and the room swam around me.

“Derek? Derek, are you okay?”

Mom. There suddenly. Holding me.

“Derek, honey? Oh, your poor face! Are you all right? Derek, say something.”

“Ow.”

Mom helped me stand and we walked offstage into the wings and through the backstage door. I leaned on her. My head hurt. I must have bitten my tongue when my head hit the floor because it was bleeding and now my mouth tasted like pennies. Also one of my teeth was loose. I wiggled it with my tongue.

“We're leaving. Where are your things?”

“We can't just—wait, why are
you
crying?”

“You were right about him, Derek. I'm sorry I ever—sorry I ever doubted you,” she said, her voice catching a little. She took in a deep breath and let it out shakily. Her face was bright with tears and I could feel her arm trembling where it lay around my shoulders. She was holding it together. Barely. “Are your things in here?”

“What about the play? I didn't do my scene yet.”

“You're hurt.”

“But Mr. Putnam always says the show must go on.”

“I hate to tell you this, honey, but I think it's going to have to go on without you.”

“No!”

I stopped walking and ducked out from under her arm. I couldn't believe it. How could she do this? She knew how important this was to me. She'd even helped me put my costume together by turning an old pair of my pants into the knickers I was wearing. The silver foil buckles on my shoes had been her idea also. Now that I thought about it, she'd actually done more for the play than I had. I mean, all I did was memorize five words.

“Derek.”

“No! I wanna go on! I wanna do it!”

“Come stand in the light. I need to check your pupils.”

“Stop it!”

“But you're hurt.”

“No I'm not!”

“Sweetheart, you're bleeding.”

“So?”

“I'm just trying to protect you.”

“From what? My life?”

“Yes. No. I don't know,” said Mom. Tears ran down her face, slipping out each time she blinked. She tried to wipe them away with her hands but there were just too many. “All I know is that seeing you and Budgie up there fighting like that . . . it was awful. I was horrified. If I was any kind of mother I'd have done something so that it never would've happened in the first place.”

“You couldn't have done that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because nobody can see into the future.”

“You're right. You can't see the future. That's why the world is a monster, Derek. It gets its teeth in you and just . . . shakes until—until there's nothing left. And a lot of times you don't even see it coming. Is it so wrong that I want to protect you from that—even a little?”

“I don't even know what you're talking about,” I said. “What teeth?”

“Think of it this way,” she said. “If you find a baby bear in the wild what should you not
do?”

“Mess with it.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the mama bear is probably close by.”

“And?”

“Mama bears are very protective of their babies.”

“Exactly,” Mom said. She was crouched down in front of me and looking in my one good eye. The other one was pretty much closed from all the punching. “And right now the world is messing with my baby bear. So if I'm the mama bear, what am I going to do?”

“Rip the world's face off?”

“Yes, I—no. But what I
am
going to do is roar. This mama bear is going to roar so long and so loud the world will think twice before messing with you again. And I'm going to stand up and roar every time I think you're in danger no matter what it is or how old you are. The world makes us all grow up so fast and I just want . . . I want you to be a baby bear—
my
baby bear—for as long as you can, okay?”