This choice: What a laugh--Stay with Keith • Go Back...Chapter #9Distractions by: Seuzz   You flush and turn your back on them. The bell jingles and the door closes, and even then you don't look back.
But it still chews on you, and you bump hard against the table with the used comics as you slouch over to a shelf. They've always been such a lot of supercilious jerks, ever since you first met them at Westside your freshman year. Good little students taking AP classes and getting good grades and going out for all the intellectual extra-curricular activities that'll get them into good schools; collecting fat allowances from rich parents and driving nice cars; and all hanging around with each other and sneering at anyone who doesn't measure up their excruciating and totally opaque standards. It's bad enough that you have to share the halls with the bully-jocks like Lester "The Molester" Pozniak and Gordon Black and Seth Javits, and the bully-losers like Gary Chen and David Kirkham; but to have to sit in the classrooms with bully-brainiacs like Geoff Mansfield and Martin Gardinhire and Anthony Kirk and Kelsey Blankenship and Amanda Ferguson and--
You have to stop yourself before you hit Lisa's name.
Too late. She hangs out with them too, and if you thought she was different just because she hung out with you over the summer and let you put your arm around her and nestle with her and talk carelessly about things that were sweet but unimportant, like how nice of a day it was, and why that rom-com was totally awesome (when it wasn't)--
Well, you bet Gillian Kiefer would have been a lot more fun, and she wouldn't have stomped all over your heart in a brutal way by telling you that you hadn't even been "dating" all those times you went over to her house and found her smiling so happily to see you.
No, she'd just tease you hard and flirt with you hard for about five minutes, until--
Oh, Jesus, didn't you come here to forget about things?
You look around. No, you came here because you couldn't forget about that afternoon two Fridays ago, and why are you so stupid, stupid, STUPID?
The room swims a little, and when it clears you find Keith staring slack-jawed at you as he clutches an issue of Deathclock--
Where does he find these bizarre titles?
--in a nerveless hand. "Dude, are you having an episode or something?" he asks.
"Yeah, of-- Oh, pflbght!" You snatch up a glossy rag that shows two balloon-sized breasts and two balloon-sized buttocks sheathed in a yellow fabric that's sketched and inked and colored in a febrile manner suggesting garments in imminent danger of bursting asunder.
The interior doesn't make for relaxing reading, exactly, but it does distract you, and under Keith's prodding and guidance you find a half-dozen titles that, collectively, are two parts strong adventure, five parts pretentious story-telling, and fifty-nine parts illustrations that leave just enough to the imagination that they won't pall as quickly as straight porn. "Yeah," Tilley drawls when you mention it. "That stuff Johansson found for Walberg? Kills your retinas." He clenches his eyes shut and lets a small smile play on his lips. "I like undressing them up here." He taps his temple. "That way they're different every time."
"You're a pervert."
He jerks his chin at you and saunters over to the counter with the strut of a rooster on his way from his third satisfying assignation of the day and on his way to a fourth. But you hold back, for you've just realized you're going to be short on cash.
You dig through your front pocket, and are only able to come up with a five. It's been through the wash, too, by the looks of it. You dig a little deeper, but only come up with loose paper. You're about to put back most of your purchases with a sigh when you recognize one of the scraps. It's that IOU from Christian Knouse.
On an impulse you pull out your phone and call him. If he's coming over here anyway--for which there might be a chance--maybe he could bring you that seven bucks the IOU is for. You still wouldn't have enough for what you're holding, so as the phone rings you put back enough to bring you under your twelve-dollar budget. But he doesn't answer.
"Aw, and I was hopin' I could make this month's rent off you," Eric chuckles as you set your diminished purchases in front of him. "Those were some nice titles you put back."
"I'll probably have to put these back too," you sigh. "Unless--" You show him the IOU. "Will you take this? That's Christian's signature at the bottom."
Eric makes a face. "What is he, secretary of the Treasury all of a sudden?"
"Well, it's that or--"
"Okay, but let's make it legal. Sign the back while I--" He picks up his own phone.
"I just tried calling, and--"
"Hey Christian, this is Eric, over at King Kong," he's now saying, and you blink. "I got this IOU for seven bucks from--" He asks you your name. "From Will Prescott. You remember giving it to him? Uh huh. So if I give it to you, will you give me seven dollars American? Dude, I threw it out yesterday," he says after a pause. "It had so much green fuzz it looked like a lotta little round billiard tables." He laughs and hangs up. "Well, the IOU will get you-- Excellent," he says as you slap the five down on the counter. "This the money from that book you sold Christian? Shit, I shoulda bid higher and taken it myself. Then you could've afforded those books you put back!"
You just smile wanly and collect your purchases. "I don't know how that guy stays in business," you say to Keith on your way out. "He has absolutely no head for money."
* * * * *
So, you're mostly happy, at least until suppertime, when your dad asks how things are going at school. You mumble something noncommittal, but apparently he's in the mood for details, for he asks about "that time capsule project." "That's all done with," you mutter. He asks what you put in, and has to ask you again when you swallow the words along with a generous helping of potatoes.
"A hair dryer?" he explodes. "What were you thinking?" He just stares incredulously as you stammer out a totally non-responsive reply.
"Harris, honey," your mom says quietly. "Maybe it was a good choice. Why don't you ask him what grade he got?"
"Well, I had to write a paper about it," you say.
"What grade did you get?"
"I think we're getting them back tomorrow," you lie.
"I wanna see it," says your dad, and there's a fell light in his eye. Even if Walberg had given you a passing grade, you're sure, your dad would flunk your effort.
* * * * *
Next day, just before third period starts: Christian isn't in that class, but he plops down in front of you anyway. "So I hear you gave that IOU to Eric. Cool. He'll forget all about it, you know."
"You're gonna try stiffing him?"
He cocks that well-exercised eyebrow in a shrug. "We'll see, won't we? We're going over there after school, you know, me and the-- Why don't you meet us over there? We're starting a new campaign." He rolls his eyes and pumps a lightly clenched fist in the universal "jack off" gesture. "Sent Howie and his epic tedium packing. Hugh's running the new one, and we're already in a nice fight in a haunted forest. You can roll up a new character, come charging in to help."
The distraction sounds nice, but it still isn't your thing, so you just say you'll think about it. Again, he stares at you hard from under a lifted brow, then shrugs and scuttles away before Jeff Spencer--one of those bullies who thank God! never pays any attention to you--can come in to claim his usual spot.
* * * * *
But you run into someone else first after school: Dane Matthias, in the parking lot, looking around like he's never seen an automobile before, let alone his own. "Hey! Prescott!" he gasps as you come up to him.
"Aren't you supposed to be in detention?"
"Yeah!" he drawls, and his eyes pop. "How about that! I'm out here instead!"
"Maybe you should be in there instead, you know, before--" You jerk your head back at the building. You like Dane, and don't want to see him get in any more trouble, though you doubt the Danester would himself mind, or even notice.
He draws a sharp breath, as though you've just suggested a brilliant and obvious solution to an age-old paradox. "Whoa! Yeah!" He blinks and stares, but then sighs. "Oh, fuck me, Will. Ol' walrus butt'd probably rather do it without me. I'd get just in his way."
"Do what without you?"
"Whatever I'm supposed to be in there for."
"Detention?"
"Yeah." He looks extremely vexed, and dips his hand into his jacket pocket to pull out a joint. He's on the point of putting it in his mouth when he drops his arm and looks furtively around. "Hey, come on," he says, and grasps you by the arm.
Well, this is another delay and distraction, but you want those before heading home toward a paternal explosion and a grounding, so you let him guide you back across the parking lot and past the tennis courts all the way over to the portables. He hunts around for a bit until he pulls a loose board at the foundations of one. From the dark depths he pulls out a dirty fabric satchel. "What's that?" you ask.
"I ain't so dumb," he giggles. "Well, sometimes I forget where it is. But after four years hiding it here--" He jogs his temple with the heel of his hand. "It wears a groove." He grins slyly. "This is the good stuff. Want some?"   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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