Wait Until Twilight (11 page)

“By the looks of your neck, he came close. I’ve given and received just as many headlocks as the next guy, but nothing like that. You say you know this kid?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“Next time, you get
him
in a headlock. Make him see stars for a little bit. He won’t be so likely to be doing that to other people then.”

“All right, Dad.”

With Dad driving me home, in his Members Only jacket and with the smell of Old Spice, I almost feel normal again…almost.

After church on Sunday I swing by the Grab Bag Store and sell a few comic books and get thirty-five dollars in return before heading home, where I watch television all day while Dad works on that project of his in the backyard. He’s taken those pipes back there and commenced sawing them to slightly different lengths. I notice the ends of the pipes are curved at the ends, kind of like those curvy straws you can get, but they’re all curved at different angles. He keeps taking out an old folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. I’ve never seen him so preoccupied, but he seems happy working on it. It was still difficult to believe he was making installation art. Maybe it’s that fence he always told Mom he was going to build. I guess it really doesn’t matter now.

A
NOTHER
M
ONDAY MEANS ONE OF TWO THINGS
: soy burgers or turkey wraps for lunch. All I can think about is food while I’m stuck in the faculty lounge having to borrow a copy of Huckleberry Finn from the teachers’ personal library, which covers an entire wall next to the copying machine opposite the sofa and coffee table. I lost mine, and the school library is all checked out. In return for this favor I’ve agreed to lug a gym bag full of brand-new sneakers to the physical education office. The sneakers are the result of a donation program for needy children in the area that had been set up by Central of Sugweepo High School in the winter.

“Thanks for taking those shoes, Samuel,” says Mrs. Bickerson. “Coach Calhoun really appreciates it. Isn’t that right, Coach Calhoun?”

“Sure do,” says Coach Calhoun, munching on a burger and flipping through a fitness magazine. He’s wearing those tight gray short-
shorts the coaches wear. And his bald head with its pigskin tone is extra shiny today. “Your service will be remembered,” he says, without looking up.

I throw on my faded black backpack emblazoned with the school crest of a white camel and then the gym bag of sneakers. The damn thing is heavier than it looks. I have to lean forward and put my back into it. I exit the faculty lounge into the main hallway, where Tim Cutter walks toward me with the satisfied appearance of a guy who has just eaten lunch.

“What’s for lunch?” I ask him as we pass each other.

“Burgers.”

“Damn, I knew it,” I say.

“They weren’t that bad.”

With my bag of sneakers in tow I bump into a like-minded crowd of hungry students heading toward the cafeteria, so I cut right and go up the north stairwell, where I cross over and go back down to the parallel hallway, which is always less busy. From there I leave the main building through the west exit and walk toward the gym.

The physical education office is locked. “Bastards,” I say to myself. I’m stuck with a bag of sneakers and I can’t stop thinking about a turkey wrap…actually what is on my mind is a gyro wrap. The only way I’m going to get a gyro wrap is to go off school grounds toting that thing. I go out to the front pickup curb, drop my bag, and call David on my cell phone.

There’s no answer, so I try his other number, which is saved as “David Control.” It’s his work number, he told me. Joe walks by and says, “What up?” I nod back to him. David doesn’t answer at all, so I pick up the bag to go it alone. Joe in the meantime stops and yells, “Hey, dude! Are those surfer shoes you’re wearing?” with a smile of mockery. At first I think he’s talking to me but I’ve never worn surfer shoes let alone know what they even look like. There’s
some chubby freckle-faced subfreshman up ahead of me. His face turns red and it looks like he’s just going to keep walking, but he stops and turns.

“Yeah, they’re surfing shoes,” the subfreshman yells defiantly, and keeps going. His shoes look like beige-colored Chuck Taylors, except without the sole.
So that’s what surfer shoes look like,
I think to myself.

“Who needs shoes to surf?” says David, coming toward me.

“I just tried to call you,” I say.

“Did you call my work line?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “What the hell’s wrong with this thing?”

“Did you do it? Did you ask about Mrs. Greenan?” I ask.

“Yeah, I said I would, didn’t I?”

“And you didn’t mention my name, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. What about lunch? You had lunch yet?”

“I was going to the gyro place.”

“Sounds good to me,” he says. “What’s with the sack?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” and I do. David is one of the few students who cares less than me about going off campus. He and I are generally well liked among the teachers but for completely different reasons: I’m a straight-A student and help out the teachers with odd jobs; David supports his mother while somehow maintaining a B average, which probably means he’s a genius, considering how much he skips class and doesn’t study. As long as we don’t make trouble and we’re not caught leaving campus, we know we’ll be okay. Being caught would just mean time in lockdown.

“So what’d you find out?” I ask.

“Mrs. Greenan went to Mobile for a couple of days.”

“What about those babies?”

“I don’t know—maybe she took them with her.”

“That’s impossible. I told you I heard them squawking from her house as I rode by on my bike.”

“Since when do you care? Last time you were around those things you hurled all over her backyard.”

“I just wasn’t ready for it.”

“Wasn’t ready?”

“Yeah, wasn’t ready. And now I just want to make sure they’re okay.”

“Whatever. Go ask her yourself.”

“She hates me.”

“No she doesn’t. She told her sister, who told my mom, she felt bad for kicking you out…” We walk through the east student parking lot, weaving through the myriad of cars. I toss the gym bag over the wooden fence demarcating the end of campus and climb over. We then jump the ravine before crossing the green field that serves as a shortcut to the highway. We take our time under the late spring sun, knowing we’ll probably be late for class and not caring one bit. The field rises slowly and then levels out onto Highway 67. We carefully cross over to the strip mall where the gyros await.

The first thing we do is stop by the Kroger store to get some cheap sodas. Then once in the gyro shop David and I get straight down to business. We each order two gyro wraps along with two large orders of fries. We eat methodically and slowly, with little conversation. Sometimes we laugh at ourselves with stuffed mouths, because of how silly we look and how happy we are eating. We eat until we’re almost sick. David finishes everything while I leave a little bit of my second wrap.

“So how’s the loan business going?” I ask him.

“Good. I’m prorating the loans. It hurts me in the short term, but it’s good long term.”

“I didn’t think you were in it for long.”

“If I’m lucky, this is gonna pay my college tuition. West Georgian, here I come.” He takes a drink of Dr Pepper.

“Just be careful. Don’t loan money to the wrong person.”

“They’re all the wrong people,” he says. “Why else would anyone go to a tenth-grade high school student for a loan?”

“Other students are okay. I’m just saying be careful of grown-ups.”

I sit for a moment looking around the restaurant and the sunny day outside. David looks at me and makes this crazy face. We have a good laugh.

“Have you taken your practice SAT yet?” he asks.

“I don’t even want to think about that. Let’s go, I still gotta drop these damn shoes off.”

We walk back to school the way we came.

D
AVID GOES INTO SCHOOL FROM
the east entrance while I walk back around to the front. I’m already late for history, but I have to carry out my shoe delivery. Those are the orders from up on high. A couple basketball games are just beginning when I get to the gym. Coach Calhoun is in his office talking to some senior football players. He has a big fat ball of chewing tobacco in his right cheek, which he doesn’t try to conceal from me or anyone else, for that matter.

“Where do you want ’em, Coach?” I ask.

“Over there.” He nods to the corner, where two other gym bags already lay. I toss them down and head out. “Trying out for varsity this year?” he asks me.

“I don’t think so, Coach. I’m just a benchwarmer on junior varsity. I’d be the same on varsity.”

“Just making the team would be good enough for most.”

I slowly turn the large globe that is sitting on his desk. My hand goes over Algeria and Libya. “Not for me.”

“Think about it,” he says. “Do it for your school, son.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I walk out into the gym. On one of the side courts there is a game of two-on-three.

“Samuel! Come on! We need one more!” It’s some guy from a grade ahead of me. Everyone is in there because it’s an eleventh-grade P.E. class. I recognize most of their faces but not their names.

“I’m already ten minutes late for history,” I say.

“Come on! One game! If you get to class late, it’s not going to be the end of the world.”

It seems like a good point, so I join in. The game begins, and I just hang back, passing and playing loose defense. The opposing team stays in control, but that isn’t because they’re any good. It’s because we are so bad. My team looks like a bunch of uncoordinated cartoon characters running around and throwing the ball at the basket.

“You’re getting spanked, man,” says one of the guys after he makes a layup on us. It’s a really big guy I know plays linebacker on the varsity football team. “It’s not the end of the world for being late to history class. But it’s going to feel like the end of the world after you lose this game.”

I start making shots then. The best I could do on the junior varsity team was sit on the bench, but that was against tall athletic black guys who play basketball all the time. Compared to them, these guys are a walk in the park. I make six shots in a row and even start passing the ball away on the game-winning shot of fifteen to make it a fair game, but the other team keeps missing their shots, so I just end it with a baby hook.

“I forgive you for trying to end the world,” I say to the big guy.

“What?” he asks.

“You said if my team lost it would feel like the end of the world, which meant you wanted to end the world because you wanted to win.”

“Huh?” he says, and walks up to me with his chest out. I have the urge to punch him in the face even though he’s a lot bigger than me. He’d probably kill me, so I just walk away.

I run to my history class hoping Mr. Garrett won’t be too angry about my being late. The thing is, he’s out in the hallway talking with Mr. Peck. I slow down to a fast walk.

“Samuel,” says Mr. Garrett. “Mr. Peck here was just telling me about your little video project. He says it all came from a dream. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“So you’re saying that’s exactly how you saw it in your dream.”

“Well, almost exactly.”

“Oh, you left something out?” asks Mr. Peck. “What was it?”

“I forgot.”

“Oh, one of those dreams?” Mr. Peck says.

“Yes, one of those dreams.” I’m not sure I know what he means, so I add, “I’m going to be late for class now,” and slip past them. I get to class and Mr. Garrett follows me in. Class goes like usual. I take my notes and try not to get too bored. When class is over, he tells us all that we will have an exam tomorrow. The old bastard must have had a bad day. He’s usually laid back, so I don’t get it. I even caught him picking his nose one time and didn’t say anything. Now I’ll have to study up. I plan on acing that exam.

W
HEN CLASSES FINISH AT THREE
, I take my history book to the school library and study at the tables beside the periodicals until it closes at
five. Not only did I use my textbook but two others I found on the history shelves.

I walk over to the bike rack out front, where my blue Schwinn is locked up, and check my phone messages. Among others, there’s one from Melody: “My daddy wants you to pick up that TV he fixed for you a month ago. You want to come and get it or what?” I call her right back. “Where you at?” she asks me.

“I’m still at school.”

“Did you get into some kind of trouble?”

“I was studying for an exam. But I’m finished now.”

“You want to come over and get your TV?” she asks. “If you don’t, it’s gonna get tossed.”

“I can’t. I rode my bike to school.”

“You and your silly bike. You want me to pick your sorry butt up, don’t you?”

“You don’t have to…”

“Give me a few minutes.”

I sit down on the curb and watch the occasional student walk by. There’re still plenty of them about, what with baseball and track and chess and all the rest of it. There’s a school activity for everyone these days, bug collectors to future problem solvers. What the hell would we do without them? Fifteen minutes later Melody pulls up in her dark blue Fiat. I leave my bike locked on the rack and get in. I like sitting in her car because it smells like incense. Melody looks at me and smiles through her coiled black hair. She smiles a long time, and it makes me want to jump out of the window.

“You shouldn’t be so nice to people,” I say.

“What?” She starts moving past the front pickup lane and out onto the main road.

“You’re nice to everyone.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“There’re folks who might see that as a way to take advantage of you.”

“Like who?”

“Those upperclassmen jock types I saw talking to you at lunch the other day.”

“Ha. Jocks? You play basketball, so aren’t you a jock?”

“I’m not going out this year,” I say.

“Why not?”

“I just sit on the bench, anyhow.”

“Get better then, dummy.”

“I need to start getting ready for college. SATs and all that crap. Anyway, you shouldn’t be so nice to those guys. They’ll get the wrong idea.”

“What? Are you jealous?”

“No, not at all. You just never know with guys like that. You can’t trust them.”

“Maybe if other guys were nice to me I wouldn’t even talk to them,” she says as we hit a stretch of bumpy road near the school that has been there forever. The wooden cross that hangs down from her rearview mirror taps against the windshield, and the awkward silence continues. There is a rubber band sitting on top of a pile of change in her ashtray. I take it and put it on my wrist where I pop it against my skin.

“Ouch,” I say.

“What’re you doin’?”

I pop my wrist again.

“Stop that.” She tries to grab the rubber band from me.

“Here, you want it? You can have it.” I place it on her wrist.

“You’re out of your mind, boy,” she says with a smile. She takes a deep breath and then becomes quiet again. It seems like she wants to
say something more, but instead she grows very calm. We soon get to her house. “Listen, just wait in the car. I’ll go in and get the TV.”