Burn, p.11
Burn, page 11
“I can handle that all day, and then some.”
“I just hope they’re not getting warmed up.” I tug his arm to get him moving again.
“Ah, whatever.”
I’m late for first period—and then second and third too. Instead of looking after Steven, I scan the halls for Mandy. No luck, though. So I give up and actually make it to fourth period on time.
Fourth has to be the worst period of the day because usually the only thought in my head is, “I hope I don’t fall over dead before I can get to lunch.” This helps keep me awake while Ms. Ayers drones on until we’re all nearly comatose.
Somebody knocks on the door. Ms. Ayers stops to take a breath long enough to go over and open it. And in comes one of the office aids toting a massive collection of balloons—all colors with a big silver one in the middle with #1 on it.
“Mr. Tucker,” Ms. Ayers says, “somebody is really liking you today.” She gives me this little what-have-you-been-up-to smirk. “I’ll just keep these over here so everybody can still see the board.”
But I couldn’t care less about the notes on the board. My eyes are zoned in on the envelope the balloons are tied to. That pink rectangle makes it pure damn agony waiting for the bell to ring.
“So, who’s the admirer?” Ms. Ayers asks when I take out the card.
You’re the Best, Dipshit! Samantha
I have to chuckle, even if it’s wrapped in slight disappointment. “Just a friend of mine,” I say to Ms. Ayers.
“That looks like more than a friend to me,” she says.
“Nah, nothing else. We’d probably kill each other otherwise.”
“Well, make sure you return the favor. Good friends are sometimes hard to hang on to.”
“Will do, Ms. Ayers.”
I have to say I feel like a complete jackass walking to the cafeteria with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade–sized bundle trailing behind me. Only a blind person wouldn’t notice. Most just smile at me and say stuff like “Wow” and “Whoa.” But some say, “Happy Birthday,” and “Congratulations.” They’re clueless.
Samantha’s face nearly splits in half, she’s grinning so big when I walk up to the table. “What do you think? Crazy, huh?” she says.
“Yep, I think crazy is the perfect word for you.”
“I meant the size of that thing, but I guess crazy works for both.”
I sit down. “You mind explaining this exercise in embarrassment?”
“Are you embarrassed? Sorry, not my intention at all.”
“Which was … ”
Her grin diminishes by half. “I saw your face the other night at the dance. You know, during the applause. Like I said, faces don’t lie. I figured that since you’re all the time doing things for others, somebody should do something for you.”
“Samantha, I’ve just been doing my job. You wouldn’t buy balloons for a farmer just because he grows good tomatoes.”
“I guess. Still doesn’t change the look on your face, though.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Will. Don’t even try it. You were jealous. Maybe not green with it, but enough.”
“Ridiculous. On your way home today, run by the doctor and get your eyes checked.”
“Okay, Will, I’m not going to argue.”
“That’ll be a first.”
“Anyway, so you were surprised, though, right?”
“Definitely. For a second I thought they might have been from Mandy. You know, from yesterday.”
“You really have a thing for her, don’t you?”
“Look at my face and you tell me.”
Samantha stares like she’s reading words written across my forehead. “Well, I think you’d be disappointed if she did go for you.”
I pick up something in the tone of her voice. “Now who’s jealous?”
“Anyway. Let’s get out of here. Second part of the surprise.”
“What?”
“Lunch. My treat. Come on.” She gets up.
“You mean leave?”
“Uh, yeah. What? You want to hang around just so you can do physics problems out of the book? Can’t wait for Mr. Simmons to get back? Plus, not like I’m eating this stuff.” She starts to walk away. “Will, you know it’s easier to leave if you actually stand up.”
“Are you kidding? I’m a parade float with this thing. Not very inconspicuous.”
“Leave them.”
“But I don’t want to.” I feel like a six-year-old admitting it. “And I don’t want to get suspended. On top of that, I have to take Steven home.”
“Uhg, you’re making this so much harder than it has to be. All right, give the balloons to me. I’ll tell the office I’m putting them in my car so they don’t get popped. Steven can drive, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, get one of the office aids to take Steven your key. Satisfied?”
“But … ”
“You know, for someone who puts out fires and saves people and shit, you sure are a scaredy cat.”
The balloons fill the whole back of Samantha’s car. “My God, I can’t even see to back up.” She swats a balloon out of her face. “What a couple of clowns.” She laughs and puts the car in reverse. Her laugh disappears like she punched a button. All serious, she says, “Let us pray,” before she hits the gas.
“Where are we going anyway?”
“Only the best for you, Will. The Waffle Hut.”
The Waffle Hut used to be a Pizza Hut before the owners shut it down to build a new one out by the Walmart.
“High class.”
“Going to be quite an experience.” Samantha whacks the balloons back again. “If we make it.”
There’s a table open in the corner so me and Samantha slide in and grab menus. Rachel Rhodes, who used to go to school with us before she got pregnant, comes over.
“So what are we having to drink today?” She smiles, even though she’s a little out of breath from scorching back and forth across the restaurant keeping up with tables.
“Coke for me.”
“Coffee,” Samantha says.
Rachel is too busy to write it down or even notice that we should be at school. She bolts away without giving us a second glance.
“Coffee drinker, huh?”
“Yeah. I blame my dad. He used to give me half coffee and half milk on below-freezing mornings in Iowa. I’m hooked now. No milk or sugar.”
“Well, there are worse things to be addicted to.”
“I guess.”
We both peruse the menus in silence. I knew what I wanted before I walked in, so I put the menu down on the table and fidget with the aluminum ashtray that hasn’t been used, at least not today. A book of matches with the Waffle Hut logo on it lies in the middle of the ashtray, and I can’t help but strike one. It feels nice to hold the lit match until the flame barely grazes my fingertips, and I blow it out.
Samantha looks around her menu. “I’m sure your mother taught you not to play with matches, young man.”
“Nope,” I say, and strike another one. By the time it burns down, Rachel comes back with our drinks so I blow out the match and shove the matchbook in my pocket. She sets them down on the table and stops for a few seconds. “So, Wee Wee, some reason you’re not at school?”
“We just decided to take a temporary leave of absence,” Samantha answers for me.
“Don’t I know the feeling. But it’s going okay over at the school?” She says it like she misses an old friend.
“Just fine.”
“That’s good. I went ahead and got my GED before Chase was born, so I’m all done.”
“That must be nice.”
“Yeah.” Rachel drops her eyes and grabs her order pad. “I guess that’s what I get.” She looks back at me and forces a smile.
I don’t know what to say to that.
“So, ya’ll ready to order?”
I turn my head back to the menu. “Looks like that patty melt plate is calling my name.”
Rachel jots it down. “And for you?”
Samantha stares at the menu, still trying to decide.
“I love your shirt, by the way,” Rachel says.
Samantha smiles bigger than I’ve ever seen. “Thank you.” She looks back down and says, “I’ll have two eggs over medium with toast and bacon.”
“Grits or hash browns?”
“I’m in Alabama so I better have the grits. Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m a Yankee or anything.”
Rachel takes the menus, raises her eyebrows, and says, “I hear you, honey.”
We pick up our drinks and take sips.
“Not a straw person, I see,” Samantha says to me.
“Not since I was a kid. My parents would take us here on Friday nights, when it was a Pizza Hut, and the straws just made it so we would knock over our drinks. So Mom put an end to the straws.”
I take another sip of Coke. As I’m mid-swallow, Samantha says, “So, how are your parents handling the whole our-son-is-gay thing?”
I choke down the mouthful of liquid, trying to look like the question doesn’t bother me. “They’re not.”
“Steven’s told them, right?”
“Nope. But I think they know anyway. Well, at least they’ve probably heard. Impossible that they haven’t.”
Samantha nods and takes a sip of coffee. “So how do you think they’ll take it?”
This is so weird to be talking about, but it’s also kind of a relief. “Hard to say. I mean, my dad is a minister, so he’ll probably freak out and start quoting Leviticus. You know, ‘abomination’ and all that.”
Samantha nods like she knows exactly what I’m talking about. “My dad’s sister is gay.”
She seems almost proud of it, so I tell her that.
“I guess I kind of am,” she agrees. “Like I’m proud of Steven. It takes guts. I like guts.”
“Really? I never would have figured.”
My sarcasm makes her give me the finger while she takes a gulp of coffee.
“Your grandparents are okay with it?” I ask.
“Well, they’re farmers in Iowa whose only son married a black lady, and their daughter is a lesbian and gay rights advocate. The holidays are a blast, let me tell you.”
I have to laugh.
“Yeah, definitely not the crop my grandparents thought they were raising.”
“I bet.”
“My mom says it was pretty bad at first, but they eventually got over it. Just like your parents will.” She seems so casual and sure about it.
“It’s not really my parents I’m worried about.” I look out the window. “Some of those guys at school scare me. They’ve always messed with Steven some when they weren’t sure, but now that they are, they probably see it as a green light.”
I keep looking out the window watching cars go by and start to worry about leaving school. At least Rachel brings our plates to distract me.
“Here you go.” She sets down the plates. “Anything else right now?”
“No, Rachel, this looks fine.”
“Well, ya’ll just holler if you need anything.”
I pick up half the sandwich to take a bite when I hear the door open. Leroy Toupes comes staggering into the restaurant.
He moves from table to table with his hand out, no doubt telling everyone it’s his birthday. No one reaches back or goes for their wallets. They just shake their heads without looking up at him, and he moves on to the next table. One guy even slaps Leroy’s hand away.
When this happens, the manager yells, “You old coot, get out of here.”
Samantha drops her fork on the table. “I’ll be right back.”
She walks across the restaurant, and as the heels of her ropers bang against the floor, she tells the manager Leroy is with us. He holds up both hands. “Suit yourself. Just keep him under control.”
That’s almost funny. One thing I’m quite aware of is controlling a drunk is a near impossibility.
Samantha comes up behind Leroy, puts her hand on his shoulder, and turns him around. She says something I can’t hear and then hooks her arm around his elbow to lead him over. Nobody even glances up at them. They’re probably just glad someone is getting Leroy out of their way.
When the two of them get back to the table, Samantha motions for Leroy to sit down first, then she gets in next to him. She pushes her plate in front of him and says, “Here, Happy Birthday.”
“I remember you, pretty lady.”
I’m surprised Leroy can even remember his name.
“Yeah, that’s right.” She pushes the plate a little closer to him. “Go ahead.”
He picks up the fork, but pauses. He glances around the restaurant like this is some trick he’s been roped into. He takes one bite and looks at Samantha. She smiles. “So how is it?”
He just nods with his mouth full.
You’d expect a homeless alcoholic like Leroy to carry a fairly dense cloud of stench with him, but the smell that blankets the table is surprisingly refreshing. As Leroy attacks the plate, I struggle to put my finger on it. He’s halfway finished with the eggs and bacon before it hits me—mouthwash. He reeks of it.
We don’t say a word the whole time Leroy eats. I don’t even touch my patty melt because I can hear my dad quoting from the pulpit: “ ‘I was hungry and you gave me meat; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you took me in; naked and you clothed me.’ ” So when Leroy finishes Samantha’s plate in record time, I slide mine over to him. “Don’t slow down now.”
Rachel even comes over and brings Leroy a glass of water. “Thought you might need this.”
Leroy doesn’t even look up so I tell her thank you.
Some people have left by the time Leroy finishes my plate. He picks up a napkin, wipes his mouth, and takes a deep breath and lets it out.
In his slightly slurred speech, Leroy says, “I think that there might have saved me. I almost feel human again.” He says it like it’s a joke, but I have to wonder how far from the truth it might actually be.
I raise my hand to signal Rachel to bring the check.
After dropping some cash on the table, leaving a pretty hefty tip, the three of us make our way to the parking lot. Samantha asks Leroy, “Do you need a ride anywhere?”
“No ma’am. I feel good enough to walk all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his ratty coat and heads for the highway. I hate to say I’m relieved.
“So, is Leroy your project or something?” I ask Samantha while we both watch Leroy walk up to the road.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I just can’t help it.”
I know the feeling.
nineteen
Samantha gets me home in time to change for work, and Steven got my truck back unharmed. Can’t say the same for him, though.
“Please tell me you got that at the batting cages.” His left eye has a small cut. It’s bruised and swollen.
“At least that’s what Mom thinks,” Steven says, picking through a pile of potato chips at the kitchen table.
I look behind me into the living room.
“She’s taking a nap,” he adds. “Dad’s doing his usual, finding things to do at the church so he doesn’t have to come here.” It’s a truth we rarely voice into the open air. When we’re angry or resentful about anything in the universe, we tend to come back to the realities that grate our insides the most.
I pull out a chair and sit down. “So what happened?”
“Don’t be stupid, Wee Wee. What does it look like?” Steven never uses my nickname unless I’ve done something wrong.
“Sorry, I mean, who?”
“Doug Sullivan.”
“Just him?”
“Fortunately.”
“So … ?”
“So he’s a dickhead. Jesus, I really don’t want to give the play-by-play. My head feels like somebody is sitting on it.”
“Man, I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry unless you want one of these to match,” he says, pointing to his eye. “And where were you, by the way?”
“With Samantha. We went to the Waffle Hut.”
“You’re skipping class now? Mr. Hero can just do what he wants when he wants?”
“My bad.” I know he’s not really mad at me so I let him give it to me. This is what brothers do.
“Yeah, well, nothing you could have done. I didn’t even see it coming. Barely even saw who it was.”
“So, what? He just walked up and punched you?”
“I guess it doesn’t matter I said I don’t want to talk about it, huh?”
“You’re my brother.”
“All right, look, I was putting my stuff in my locker after school. I’m standing there tossing books in and BAM, the locker door slams into the side of my face. After my brain took a trip around a constellation or two, I focused enough to see Doug Sullivan walking backwards down the hall, laughing. ‘Watch out there, faggot,’ he said.”
“And of course, you didn’t tell anybody.”
“Wouldn’t have made my eye feel any better. Plus, I can’t be some punk who runs and tells the teacher. That’ll just make it worse.”
“Maybe.” I get up from the table. “So what now?”
“Nothing. Keep doing what I always do. I’m not hiding. Done enough of that.” He finally picks up a chip and pops it in his mouth.
“Well, I got to get to work. Put some ice on that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I never thought I could feel such affection for cans of Chef Boyardee, but I’m loving these things. I lose my head in stacking cans like a robot—pick up, turn, place, pick up, turn, place. Almost downright hypnotic. The wall of red and green labels block every thought except how cool the Chef’s hat is. Hey, anything is better than Why haven’t I heard from Mandy? Am I going to get suspended for skipping class? What is going to happen to Mr. Simmons? Would I feel guilty if I ran over Doug Sullivan with my truck? If I let them, these questions that simmer somewhere down in the core of me are going to turn to a boil and cook me alive.
