Maybe sometimes it’s okay to think about myself.
29
DAD IS WAITING for me in the living room with the light on. It’s 1:50 by the time I walk in the door because I took the long way home from Register #1 Girl’s house. Dad is probably drunk.
“I thought you weren’t coming home,” he says.
“I wasn’t.”
“Shit. I was all ready to rent out your room, too,” he says. Definitely drunk. “Can I fix you one?” He holds up his glass.
“Nah,” I say. “I’m beat. Long night.”
“Hockey game?”
“Circus, remember?” I say.
“Ah yes! The circus. No animals, I hope. Nothing sadder than poor circus animals, as your mother would say.” Wasn’t she the one in charge of making our whole family circus animals? I want to ask that, but I don’t.
“No animals,” I say.
He shuffles the ice in his empty glass around and then sighs. “Shit, Ger. What do I say to you?”
“Don’t know, Dad. I don’t know.”
“I can’t kick Tasha out,” he says. “But I don’t want her living here, either.”
“Why can’t you kick her out?”
He sighs again.
“If she stays, I can’t stay,” I say.
He laughs. “You know, I saw that place today—the one with the pool and the decks? It’d make a perfect bachelor pad for us.”
I stare at him. What the hell is he talking about now? Leaving Mom? Us moving out? Just drunk banter? “Are you serious?” I ask.
“About which part?”
“All of it. Any of it,” I say.
“I don’t know, kid,” he says. “Lisi is gone. You’re about to go. The only reasons I stayed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Tasha and she’s my firstborn daughter and all, but she f**ked up my marriage, man. I mean—completely f**ked up my marriage.” He sits there trying to remember what he was going to say, but he’s so drunk he can’t grasp it.
“I can’t stay here if she stays here. That’s all I know,” I say.
“Well, Ger, then we’re in the same creek on the same boat with the same shitty paddle. Because there’s no way your mom will let us sell this place and she’s not going to make Tasha move out.”
“We could rent,” I say.
He makes an index-finger cross. “Jesus Christ! I’m a real estate agent! Are you trying to kill me?”
“Well, can you buy the place with the pool? Can you afford it?”
He shakes his head.
“What about with my money from the PEC?”
“You’re a kid,” he says.
“Who cares? I make money.”
“Can’t do it,” he slurs.
“Well, unless you want me to run away and never come back, it’s time to have a talk about this with Mom. And maybe Roger… because he agrees that Tasha is a problem.”
“Who the hell is Roger?”
“The anger management coach you pay every other week,” I say.
On cue, the banging in the basement starts. Dad looks at me and I raise my eyebrows. Good luck rowing your way out of this creek with that shitty paddle.
I look at Dad and I know he’s resigned. He’s almost fifty, I guess. Maybe that’s when you resign. He disappoints me. It’s like he’s willingly staying in jail after he found the key to his cell.
When I go to bed, I stop thinking about Tasha the trigger rodent. I think about Register #1 Girl and how big her eyes are and how they seem to be saying something to me, but it’s like I don’t speak big-eye language. I look forward to tomorrow’s hockey game, even though it’s Boy Scout Day and the place will be insanely busy.
And then I think about how close I came to running away tonight with Joe Jr. and the circus. The $%#*ing circus. If I’d done it, I’d be halfway to Philly by now. Wheels ditched. Talking to Register #1 Girl in a bus full of strangers. Ready to set up a circus before tomorrow’s matinee. Ready for a new life, crazy as it might have been.
But what’s crazy and what’s sane when everything is possible and yet nothing ever happens?
30
WHEN I GET into Fletcher’s SPED room on Monday, war paint applied, Deirdre is telling a story about her new heated wheelchair cushion.
“I didn’t mean to make them mad. It was a nice gift,” she says. “But it makes my ass sweat.”
Kelly boy and Karen are cracking up. So is Mr. Fletcher. I take my seat and look at Deirdre. She’s got this delicate skin that’s really soft. You can tell just by looking at it. Her head is always cocked a bit to the left and her hair sticks up in spots no matter how much her aide brushes it. She’s smarter than all of us. Maybe even Fletcher. Thing is, her body doesn’t work so great, so she’s here, stuck with us.
I still have the tribal drumming in my head from my drive to school. It feels silly today. I’m no chief. If I was a chief, I’d have gone to Philly with the circus on Saturday night. If I was a chief, I’d kiss Register #1 Girl. I’d get out of SPED class. I’d kick Tasha out myself. This morning she was up early and she said, “Have a nice day, loser,” as I walked out the door. Mom was standing right there. What amount of war paint can cover that up? How loud do the buffalo drums have to be to drown out the sound of that?
After second block, the SPED room splits up. Some go to other classes, some go to early lunch. I pack up my backpack and head toward the locker room for gym. Nothing stupid happens in the locker room, and gym is bearable because Nichols has started ignoring me on account of having a new kid to talk to. The new kid just moved here from New Mexico, I heard. He’s really good at indoor soccer.
We play with what looks like an oversize tennis ball. It’s fun because the ball moves fast on the smooth, varnished wood floor. I take defense. I always take defense because offense is too much like trying to pick a fight. If I was up there by the goal right now, I’d probably put the ball in the net, but I’d probably accidentally punch someone to do it. And then jail. And then teen-jail TV. Young Jailbirds. Boys Behind Bars.
So I play fullback. Luckily, my job is easy because the teams are unevenly matched and our offense keeps scoring and there’s barely any action back here by the net.
When gym’s over, we go back to the locker room and New Kid says, “Hey, Crapper. I remember you from TV.”
Nichols laughs.
“You were one sick motherfucker, man,” New Kid says.