Dusty holds up his hand and shakes his head, which tells me no, we won’t speak of details. “Why would being afraid make someone act shitty?”
“Because maybe someone doesn’t like who he is, but then here’s this other kid who knows exactly who he is and seems pretty damn fearless.” I glance at the purse. “Well, that can be intimidating and even though it shouldn’t, it can make that first kid feel even worse about himself.”
“Even if the other kid isn’t trying to make anyone feel worse, he’s just being himself?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s shitty.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You just don’t be shitty.”
“I can’t promise anything except that I’ll never be shitty to you, little brother.”
We drink like two old comrades, and after a while I say, “You know, I bet I could fix that bag for you. Or even build you a new one. One that’s indestructible.”
He shrugs. “I’m better off without it.”
And the way he says it makes me want to buy him every goddamn purse in the world and start carrying one myself out of solidarity.
“What if I build you something else, then? What’s one thing you’ve always wanted? Sky’s the limit. Heart’s desire.”
“A Lego robot.”
“One that can do your homework for you?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve got that covered.”
I lean back in my chair and rub my jaw like I’m deep in thought. “Okay, you probably want one that can do your chores.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Maybe a drone, then?”
“I want one that can be my friend.”
It’s like a kick to the gut. I almost lose it right there, but instead I nod, rub my jaw, empty my glass. “Consider it done.”
After dinner, Dad and I sit on the couch and I show him the most recent Damsels video, filmed two weeks ago at a festival over in Indianapolis. Sequins flashing, stadium lights blaring, crowd cheering. All that color. All that life. I’m not sure anyone else on earth appreciates it as much as I do.
He says, “Are you sure about this?”
“No. But I’m auditioning anyway. You can’t protect me from everything. If I fall on my face, I fall on my face, but at least I’ve done it.”
I hand him the application, which he flips through. He reaches for the pen that lies on the coffee table and signs his name. As he hands it back, he says, “You know, having you out in the world again is harder than I thought.”
I’m in the basement, which is like a warped version of Santa’s workshop, cluttered with cars and dump trucks, Mr. Potato Heads, walkie-talkies, and all things Fisher-Price. Discarded toys, but other stuff too—car parts, motorcycle parts, motors, fragments of lawn mowers and appliances. Anything I can turn into something else. Some projects are finished, but most are works in progress, the guts pulled out, pieces everywhere. This is where I take things apart and put them back together in new and stupefying ways. The way I wish I could do with myself.
The phone buzzes and it’s Kam. “I ran all the way to Centerville, man.”
I laugh the laugh of someone brave and manly. “Did the mean girl scare you?”
“Shut up. She was so fucking fast.”
“Are you okay? Do you need to talk about it?” I use the voice Kam’s mom uses when she’s speaking to his little sister, the one who’s always crying and slamming doors.
“That’s it, dude. The golden ring.”
“What?”
“Her. She’s the prize. Or at least, the goal. Whoever can hold on to that one, wins.”
“Wins what?”
But I already know what he’s going to say.
“Fat Girl Rodeo.”
The walls of the workshop start to close in around me.
“Mass?”
“Maybe I’m not so into this game.”
“What do you mean you’re not into it?”
I mean I don’t want to have this conversation because I don’t like where this is going.
“It just seems kind of lame. I mean, dude, Seth came up with it.” When in doubt, always, always throw Seth under the bus.
“He didn’t come up with it. He told us about it. A different animal altogether. Besides, it’s fucking hilarious. What’s wrong with you? She almost ran me over.”
“Seth’s a moron.” More bus throwing as I try to think of a way to stop this before it ends in the humiliation of every heavy girl in school. They don’t deserve it. The girl who hurdled that fence like a gazelle and chased Kam down the street doesn’t deserve it. I say, “She doesn’t deserve it.”
“Jesus, you mad fucker. It’s like you want to take her to prom. Should I order the limo now?”
“I’m just saying we can make better use of our free time senior year. Have you seen the freshmen girls?” When in doubt, mention girls.
“Since when are you such a pussy?”
I stop talking. My heart pounds like a drum. Say something, douchebag.
“We’re doing this with or without you, Mass.”
Finally I go, “Whatever, man. Do what you want.”
“Thanks so much, I will. As long as we have your approval.”
“Dick.”
“Douche.” Our pet names for each other. The ground between us feels a little more solid, but the rest of the world shakes, like it’s built on a high wire miles above the earth.
What I Stand to Lose if I Tell My Friends to Fuck Off