Where You Are (10 page)

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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Chapter 10
Robert
 
I don't kill them. I want to kill them, and they're lucky that we don't have band the same period, but I don't seek them out.
At lunch Andrew pulls up the fan page again and reads some of the comments out loud. He laughs so hard that tears stream down his cheeks. And then in sixth-period Calculus, he has to leave the room for a minute when he gets the giggles right in the middle of some practice problems. There's a bunch of tittering in the classroom as my classmates speculate on what's so funny all of a sudden.
He just stumbled across it,
I think as I head home later. Right. I didn't have to play around on Facebook long last night to know he totally searched my name. Somehow, that kind of makes up for the humiliation of having a fan page in the first place.
Aunt Whitney's and Aunt Olivia's SUVs are both parked in the driveway, so I park on the street. I feel a little spark of hope in my chest that maybe while I was at school, Dad checked out. What would Andrew say about that?
Mom shoves a tray of chicken tenders and Tater Tots in my hands when I come through the garage door. “Take these to your cousins, please. They're in your room.”
“Why are they in my room?”
“Because I had nowhere else to put them,” she says sharply. She looks frazzled and pissed.
“Where are Aunt Whitney and Aunt Olivia?”
“Holding court. Where else?” She dumps a pan in the sink and turns on the water, squirts too much soap in, then viciously starts scrubbing.
My room is dark and stuffy, the way it gets when there are too many bodies in there. One of my cousins—Franny probably—has found an old GameCube in my closet and the twins are sitting on the floor playing Super Smash Bros. Melee. Franny is at my computer, and Noah and Aunt Whitney's two kids—Jude, five, and Brian, eight—are doing God knows what on my bed. I flip on the lights. And that's when I see it—a black line circumscribing my room, cutting across framed certificates, the photos on my bulletin board, my closet doors, my band hoodie that's hanging from a doorknob, my bookshelf, my books.
I drop the food on my desk and storm back to the kitchen.
“They Sharpied my room!”
“What?” Mom says. She turns off the water.
“One of the kids took a Sharpie and ran it all around my room.”
I'm showing Mom the damage when Aunt Olivia appears in the doorway behind us. “Oh my goodness,” she says.
One of the four-year-old twins looks up guiltily. “I didn't do it.”
“You little—”
“Robert,” Aunt Olivia says sharply. “Mark would never do that. None of my kids would. I've raised them better than that. And watch your mouth.”
I stare at her like she's lost her mind. If not them, then who? Perhaps she's suggesting I did it myself, in my goddamn sleep?
Mom takes my hoodie from the doorknob. “I think I have some Ink-Out that might get this out, or at least fade it.” Her voice is tight, and it occurs to me at that moment that she is just as angry as I am, perhaps more angry. And then the smell hits me.
“Did one of you pee in here?”
The other twin, Matthew, looks up at me with these big pathetic eyes. “I had to go potty?”
“Where?” I demand.
Sharpie kid—perhaps happy to have the spotlight off him—points to the corner behind my papasan. I turn on Matthew. “Why didn't you go to the bathroom?”
“I did,” he says, big tears welling up in his eyes. “Right
there
.”
“Don't yell at him,” Aunt Olivia says harshly, picking up a Sharpie from the floor along with a half-eaten Ding Dong. “He's a little kid. And as I recall, you were still wetting the bed at twelve.”
I am speechless.
“Robert,” my mom says quietly. She grabs my arm, but I turn and go, fumbling for my keys as I slam the garage door behind me.
 
The doctor told my mom it was nothing to worry about.
But it was humiliating. I didn't do sleepovers. I didn't go to summer camps.
Every time Mom had to wash my sheets, she'd try to reassure me that I would grow out of it. I had a hard time believing her, but she'd have those sheets washed, dried, and back on the bed, smelling mountain fresh so fast that I didn't have much time to dwell on it.
Dad never said anything.
Then one evening my computer wouldn't boot up. I had some research to do, and Mom told me to use Dad's. He was sleeping in anticipation of whatever it was he did all night long. He was nocturnal even then.
I was just about to log Dad out of his e-mail account and log me in just for a quick check when it struck me that there were no e-mails in his in-box. None in his sent box either. He e-mailed all the time, and everybody had e-mails lying around in their boxes. And then I checked Trash. There were pages of e-mails to Aunt Olivia mostly, and some to Aunt Whitney and Grandma.
Out of curiosity, and with a sense of dread, I opened the first e-mail. He'd written it to Aunt Olivia just that night.
Whitney thinks he needs to see a psychiatrist, too, or maybe a psychologist at least, but Kathryn's dug in. She refuses to take him. It pisses me off that she won't listen to you guys. You're doctors, for Christ's sake. I'm starting to agree with Whitney—she's a lousy mother. I'd drive him myself if I could. I mean, he's twelve years old and still pissing his bed. I can hardly stand to be around him. His room stinks. He stinks. I can't help it. My own son disgusts me. I wish he was more like your kid, Liv. And then all that hip-hop dancing, or whatever it is he's doing in his room. I swear sometimes I think he's not mine.
My ears hear only screams.
I don't know that one.
I got ice in my veins, blood in my eyes.
Lil Wayne, right?
Chapter 11
Andrew
 
“You're welcome here anytime, Robert.”
“You sure you don't mind?” he asks.
He looks tired, defeated. I'm a little tired myself. I had Kiki last night. She couldn't sleep and ended up on the futon with me. When she finally did fall asleep, it was crossways with her little feet dug into my side. Every time I drifted off, she'd wake me up again with a kick to my ribs.
I reassure Robert with a smile. “I'm pretty sure I don't mind. I didn't mind yesterday, or Tuesday, or Monday, and I won't mind tomorrow. But I do have to get these plans written for next week. They're due at the end of the day. So if you don't mind watching me work, then . . .”
I gesture to the chair and he sits.
He's unusually quiet, I notice, and I decide the plans can wait a few minutes. “You didn't turn your homework in yesterday.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
He doesn't offer any more.
“Did you do last night's homework?”
“Some.”
“Robert, is there something you want to talk about? I hope you know by now I'm a pretty good listener.”
He shakes his head. “Can I finish my homework in here?”
“Sure.” I glance at the time on my computer screen. “You've got about twenty-two minutes before the next bell.”
He moves his tray to a desk, then takes a calculus book from the class set on a shelf. I'm left to wonder what's going on.
“Holy shit!” Jen says from the doorway. “You're not going to believe what just happened!”
She's hugging the door frame and leaning into my classroom. I tilt my head toward Robert.
She mouths an
oops
and then gives me a
come here
gesture. I set my plans aside and, with a brief glance at Robert—he doesn't look up—meet her in the hallway.
She talks in low, excited little bursts. “Oh my God. Philip and Liz just totally got busted! Some parents called to complain. Apparently the kids were noticing. It's like this huge scandal. Mr. Redmon called them in. Philip just got reassigned to a middle school. And Liz is outta here at the end of the year. Everybody,
every
body is talking about it.”
She barely pauses for a breath when her face switches from conspiratorial to confused, and she says, “Hey, does that kid eat lunch in here every day?” She hooks her thumb toward the open door.
“That's Robert Westfall.”
“I know who he is. Twinkle toes. Why's he been hanging out with you? Got a crush on teacher?”
“Yeah, right.” I feel heat creep up my neck. “He's losing his dad. Cancer.”
“Oh. I feel small.” Jen looks contrite for about two beats, and then she brightens. “Hey, if you ever get sick of playing nanny, send him over to me. He can cry on my shoulder while he eats his burrito.” She flashes me a wicked grin.
Robert doesn't eat burritos.
I don't say it, but I think it.
Robert is concentrating on his work when I reenter the classroom. I barely give another thought to Philip and Liz. What they do, who they sleep with, that's their business. Carrying on in front of students is pretty stupid, though.
We finish lunch and our work in companionable silence.
 
Robert
 
Mr. Gorman is weaving his way through the rush of kids in the math hallway Friday just before sixth period. He pulls up in front of me and stops me with a clap on the shoulder. “You're coming to the dance tonight, right?”
“Um, yeah, I think so.”
“Good. Hey, we can use a few more chaperones. Let me know if you think of anybody?”
“I can ask my mom?” I offer.
“Your mom's a sweetheart, but she's got enough on her plate right now.”
I see Mr. Mac step out of his room a few paces away. He's wearing a T-shirt that reads
I ACCIDENTALLY
DIVIDED BY ZERO
AND MY PAPER
BURST INTO
FLAMES
“Maybe Mr. McNelis can chaperone.”
“Chaperone what?” he says, joining our twosome.
“Andrew, right?” Mr. Gorman says, extending his hand.
“Right. Um, Mr. Gorman, band?”
“Richard. It's our annual spring semester kick-off band dance. Great music, great kids, and all the homemade cookies and chips you can choke down. Interested?”
I look back to Andrew and will him to say
Yes.
“Sure. When?”
“Tonight. Six thirty? We wrap up at nine. A lot of our kids are new drivers; we don't like to keep them out late, you know.”
“Okay. I'll be there.”
“All right,” Mr. Gorman says. He claps me on the shoulder again as he joins the fray.
Mr. Mac gestures to the open doorway, and I head into class. “Band dance, huh?” he says quietly as I slip past him, a note of amusement in his voice.
Chapter 12
Andrew
 
As it turns out, more parents than expected turn up to chaperone. Richard tells me I'm off the hook but welcome to hang around for the fun. I choose to accept his offer.
Here's what I expect:
1.
Loud music—rap, hip-hop, pop, alternative, dance, rock.
2.
Lots of flirting and some covert necking in the shadows.
3.
Line dances, a conga line, dance circles.
4.
The RW fan club ogling in the wings.
Here's what I don't expect—Robert, dancing like Usher and Justin Bieber rolled into one with a little Shakira thrown in for flavor. I'm, frankly, a little stunned.
I try not to be one of the oglers, but when he takes the center of the dance circle and goes
low low low low, low low low low
to the Flo Rida song, I can't help watching and thinking,
Damn, that kid's got some strong thighs.
“He's good, huh?” Richard shouts over my shoulder.
“Really good.”
“I swear every joint in that kid's body is a double. You know he was voted homecoming king, right?”
“Yeah, I heard that somewhere.”
“Well, there you go. He had the band vote hands down, and that's a block of kids that can sway any election.” He laughs. “I'm really glad to see him here tonight. He's been kind of withdrawn the last couple of months, and, well, I've been worried about him.”
“Yeah. Same here. Does he talk to you about what's going on?”
“He doesn't talk about his home life much. I think he's more concerned with disappointing me, if you can believe that. He never misses a rehearsal, never complains. I didn't even know his dad was sick until I got that e-mail. In fact, I wasn't even sure he had a dad; I've never seen him. I don't think he came to games or concerts. Makes sense now that I know about the cancer. I just never asked. I've got new twins at home, so I've been a little distracted.” He pulls out his phone and proudly shows me a photo of two tiny babies. I acknowledge the passion and trials of new fatherhood. He takes another long look at the twins and puts his phone away, then shrugs. “I assumed Robert's dad was out of the picture,” he says a little too loudly as “Low” fades out and “Cupid Shuffle” fades in. “Not unusual,” he continues. “His mom's a rock though. They'll get through this.”
“Come on, Mr. Gorman!” a pigtailed girl shouts, grabbing his arm. He tosses me a smile over his shoulder and joins the line dance. I wander over to the food table and get a cookie.
I'm enjoying watching Richard dance with the kids. It's always the same with older guys—the hunched shoulders that carry all the movement, the bent elbows and the fists that follow the shoulders. He's only in his thirties, I'm guessing, but hip-hop he is not. He's having fun though, and the kids clearly love him for trying.
I notice the RW fan club in the line behind Robert. When the dance turns him in their direction, he seems not to notice. I realize I'm marking out the song with my body, even though my feet stay firmly planted on the floor—
To the left, to the left, to the left, to the left.
After just one line dance, Richard begs off and allows himself to be sucked in by a group of moms manning the door prize table. Keeping one eye on the dance floor, I tour the band hall and take in this corner of Robert's world.
What strikes me is how the kids have made this space their own, and how the band directors have let them. It's a mess. In one corner I find an artificial Christmas tree still decorated with different-colored Post-its on which kids have written Dear Santa notes. There are requests for ponies and sophomoric stuff like this one:
Dear Santa, Please bring me some clam shell boobs like the Little Mermaid has.
And this one:
Dear Santa, I'd like a unicorn, and a rainbow, and the color purple. But don't leave them under the tree or Luke will wear my rainbow, eat my purple, and assault my unicorn. He's like that.
I look, but I don't find one from Robert. I guess wishing your Dad would die is uncool, even for these goofballs.
I'm standing near the Igloos sometime later when Robert takes a break. He's sweaty and flushed as he reaches into one of the coolers and grabs a soda.
“Hey, Mr. Mac,” he says, popping the tab on the can. He takes a long drink. “You don't dance?”
“I dance.”
He grins and waves at someone across the room, then turns back to me. “It's okay, Mr. Mac. I can teach you if you want. Me teacher, you student for a change. Ha.” He slaps me on the shoulder.
I can feel myself slipping into defensive mode. “I may be a teacher, but I'm not dead yet.” I immediately regret the Monty Python words, but Robert just laughs.
“Ah, don't feel bad. Maybe Mr. Gorman could give you some lessons. His dancing is probably more your style anyway.”
“That's low.”
He gives me a mischievous look. “Prove me wrong, then. Show me what you got.”
“Why do you just assume that anyone over eighteen can't dance?”
“Why would I assume they can?” He shrugs. “Seeing is believing. Put your money where your Nikes are.”
“Go dance,” I tell him with mock severity.
 
The dance is winding down, and I head out before I get roped into cleanup duty. A couple of the kids are heading out early, too, but otherwise the parking lot is quiet. Even though I hear the footfalls slapping the concrete behind me, I don't think anything of it until Robert calls out my name.
“Wait up!”
“Is the dance over?” I ask as he draws up in front of me.
“Nope. Well, almost.” He's got this impish grin on his face, and I know he's got something up his sleeve.
“What?” I ask.
“You didn't think I was just going to let you off the hook, did you?”
“Let me off the hook?”
“Yeah. Come on.” He gives my sleeve a tug, then jogs to his car, which is parked a little ways away under one of the parking lot lights. I follow more slowly, as I'm just a little wary about what he's up to. He unlocks the door, then climbs in and turns the ignition so just the power comes on. As I approach I see him plug in his iPod, then scroll through the songs until he finds what he's looking for. He hits Play, then turns up the volume and gets out.
“No,” I protest. “ ‘Stereo Hearts'? Not fair.”
He grins and leans against the car, folding his arms, then gestures for me to go.
I look around at the parking lot. There are still quite a few cars, but no people at the moment. “You're really going to make me do this, aren't you?”
“I'm sure going to try.”
I figure I have two choices—refuse and say good night, or dance.
Oh, what the hell
. “Okay.” As Adam Levine's hook segues into Travie McCoy's rap, I spin three-sixty, crack my knuckles, and then I show him what I got.
The look on his face is first one of surprise, but soon he's watching my footwork, moving his shoulders and head to the music.
“Woo-hoo. Dance party!” someone calls out. We're joined by three other kids leaving the party, attracted to the music like moths to a light. Among them is one of my former freshmen, Aneecia Moore. She's a big girl, maybe five-ten, but damn she can move. She dances with me, then grabs Robert's arm and pulls him away from the car. Two more join our group.
When the song is over, the kids move on as quickly as they arrived. Aneecia turns to walk backward and gives a hoot. “Mr. Mc-
Nel-
is can dance! You been holding out on us, Mr. Mac.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I respond and wave her on.
When I turn back to Robert, he's smiling broadly.
“Do I pass muster?”
“Hmm. I'll get back to you on that.”
“You'll get back to me on that,” I mutter, smiling. I take out my phone to check the time.
“Is that your daughter?” Robert asks, craning his neck to get a look at the background photo.
“That's my Kiki,” I answer, holding it out to him for a better look.
“She's very pretty.”
“That she is.”
“Do you have some more?”
He's going to wish he never asked that. I pull up my photo album and flip through the photos, explaining where each was taken and why. There's even a photo of Maya in a baseball cap and big sunglasses. Her hair is stuffed up in the cap and she's holding Kiki in the air. I snapped the photo just as she was turning away. You can't see her face, but her smile is mirrored in Kiki's. It's one of my favorite photos of them. When Robert asks about her, I say, “Long story. I'll tell you about it sometime.”
I slip my phone back in my pocket, and that's when I see the guard practice rifle on his backseat. I can't resist. “Can I?” I ask, opening the back door to get it out. It's white with a black bolt and a black strap, and scarred—the end pads scuffed and pitted from repeated drops on the concrete.

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