Chicken (17 page)

The first movie I saw here was Titanic, back in April when it was re-released for the one hundredth anniversary of the real ship’s sinking. I am never allowed to tell my father. When I asked, he flatly said no, there were things in that movie I didn’t need to see, and I certainly didn’t need to see them with my girlfriend sitting next to me. Mama disagreed. She said it was rated PG-13 for a reason and that reason was for teenagers to go on dates. She said Daddy’s suggestion that we watch it on DVD and skip over the dirty parts was ludicrous and hypocritical, and that passing up a chance to see the greatest love story ever told on the big screen would haunt me all of my days. But Daddy wouldn’t budge, and so Mama told me that, just this once, a little white lie would be okay. 

Me and Hannah had been dating since Christmas but hadn’t gone on many dates due to my lack of wheels and money. She was perfectly fine with driving and paying, of course, but it didn’t sit right with me, and also I never really wanted to be trapped in a dark theater for hours with no escape from her wandering lips. Her lips didn’t wander during Titanic though. She held my hand, but her eyes never left the screen. Afterwards, while the credits rolled and Celine Dion sang, Hannah told me she’d never need a man to save her, but she wouldn’t mind a Jack Dawson-style kiss now and then. I thought, neither would , but I knew what she meant, so I tried my best but didn’t succeed because you’ve really got to love someone to kiss them like that. 

Now, waiting in the lobby, gagging on the smell of burnt popcorn and pickles-on-sticks, I can’t believe my mother gave me a free lie and I used it up on that. I was already scheduled for a world of hurt when I get home tonight. Apparently, I’m supposed to ask permission before I borrow Sister Bonnie’s horse and take it on a ten-mile trail ride. And apparently, I’m not supposed to go places when my mother told me she wanted me to stay home with my sister. When I called to ask if I could ride to church with Brant, she said, “Fine, but if you’re lucky, he’ll run off the road and kill you before I can flay you alive.” Somehow, I don’t think that was code for, “I give you permission to leave church and go see The Amazing Spider-man.”

But that’s exactly what I’m doing. As soon as Brant and Lauren finished singing their hopeful, upbeat choruses, we bolted for the parking lot, piled into Brant’s silver pick-up, and wound up in the Hickory Ditch Cinema 2’s gravel parking lot.. Brant backed his truck into the farthest spot so the weeds would hide his license plates, buying us some time in case anyone’s parents put out an APB. 

As the combined box office and concession stand looms closer and closer, my back right pocket feels emptier and emptier. I scuff my boots on the scratched and peeling blue linoleum, trying to find a discreet time to let Hannah know I’m broke, but Lauren keeps looking back to list reasons why Andrew Garfield would make the perfect Finnick O’Dair in the next Hunger Games movie. 

Brant shifts so his back is to the girls and whispers right between my eyes, “Seems to me it’s mighty rude to get so riled up over another man when the one who brung you is standing right here.”

He turns right back around, so I have to lean forward and put my lips right under his ear. “Reckon we could carry on about Emma Stone and see how they feel.”

“We could.” He turns his head just enough so I can see him wrinkle his nose. “But she ain’t really my type.”

The people ahead of us move to the right to pick up their snacks, and Brant steps up to the counter. There’s a teenage girl selling tickets, and two teenage boys scurrying to dispense popcorn and sodas. I think I had a class with one of the boys, but I don’t know his name, and it’s weird—isn’t it?—that my social life revolves entirely around church. 

Brant props an elbow on the counter, holds up four fingers. “All of us for Amazing Spider-man, please.”

Hannah reaches for her purse. “Brant, no—”

He pulls out his wallet, flashes its crisp, green contents. “Yes. Snacks too.”

She digs through her purse. “No, I can’t let you—”

“I have an astrological compulsion to show off, so yes, you can.” 

Brant flattens his brow at her and darts his eyes at me. Her mouth forms a little O of understanding. I get really interested in a poster for The Dark Knight Rises across the lobby.

Once we’ve got our tickets and snacks, and Brant has snatched a handful of straws from the dispenser, he holds open the door to the larger of the two theaters and says, “Don’t worry, I believe in feminism so neither of you ladies are obligated to put out tonight, but Casper here is another story,” and then, as I walk past him, he throws his arm around my shoulders and plants a loud, wet kiss on the side of my head. 

The girls shriek with laughter. Brant grips my shoulder like he’s expecting me to squirm away, but there is a new voice inside me, and it says to take whatever I can get. I slip my arms around his waist and squeeze until he gasps for air, until I’ve lifted him an inch off the ground. Popcorn tumbles from the bag in the crook of his arm, and water sloshes from his bottle, sprinkles my shoulder. 

Hannah and Lauren cackle all the way down the aisle, and when we finally find four seats in a row, they insist Brant and I sit in the middle now that we’re on a date. Brant even folds my chair down and dusts the crumbs off. The yellow foam cushions peeking through the rough burgundy upholstery are so flattened out that we might as well be sitting on the plain wooden seats in the high school auditorium. All through the previews, Lauren and Hannah giggle and whisper Cosmo tips on how to please my man. 

“Bat at his turgid member like a sexy little cat.”

 “Surprise him by dunking his balls in a half-eaten carton of ice cream. Lick it off.”

 “Tickle his feet with your nipples.”

Brant grimaces and squirms. “Please don’t ever do that.”

Once the movie starts, I’m happy that half the story is pretty much the same as in the old Tobey Maguire version because I’m having difficulties paying attention. The seats are narrow, the plastic arm rests hard and thin. Brant’s arm presses against mine, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, our hands hanging in our laps.

Eventually, Hannah gets bored with the me-on-a-date-with-Brant ruse and pulls my other hand over to rest on her knee. The curve between her temple and cheekbone fits perfectly on the arch of my shoulder. I lean my cheek into her short, feathery hair and try to keep my eyes on the flashing screen, but they keep glancing over at the armrest between Lauren and Brant, anxious to know if this really is a double date. They’re not holding hands. That makes me feel good, but also weird about being so cuddly with Hannah in front of them. I lift my head. She tightens her grip on my hand.

Brant pushes his arm against me, shoves his popcorn bag under my nose. I grab a handful. Of course, the bag makes more noise than any popcorn bag has ever made in the history of motion pictures. Sometimes, when Brant smiles, he blows air out his nose like he really means to laugh but for whatever reason can’t. He does that now. I know because I feel the warm air hit the back of my hand.

I cut my eyes at him. The corner of his smile moves farther up his cheek, and there’s the dark spot of his dimple on his glowing white face, like a negative image of a single star against the infinite backdrop of space. His lips part and his chin drops like he’s got something to say. I raise my eyebrows.

He scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. Looks back at the screen where Spider-man swings from the rafters of a warehouse, not trying to save anyone, just having fun, just being what he is. I lean my whole arm on the armrest. 

Two scenes later, Brant does the same. 

Shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, wrist to wrist.

SATURDAY, JULY 7, 2012

“Casper! Get up. We’re going to Walmarts.” 

Daddy throws my bedroom door open, and the wall crackles as the knob sinks into the hole made when someone else’s annoying parent threw the door open long before we got here. It startles me out of my dream before I can make another mess, but my briefs are too tight and my sheets are too thin, and Daddy smirks and averts his eyes to the hallway. I scramble for my cowboy quilt, pull it up to my neck.

“Why do I have to go to Walmart?” I stress the fact that there is no s involved in that word.

“Because I said so. Up you go.” He bites his cheek, tugging that smirk away from the inside. “And don’t stop to … dawdle.”

He closes the door, and I throw my covers off. Briefs fit just fine after all that. Jesus. Once, when we still had a real house, I made the mistake of telling Daddy to knock before he threw my door open like he owned the place. He very firmly pointed out that he did, in fact, own the place, and therefore the subject was not up for discussion. But now that we rent, I think the case might ought to be reopened. Unlike my door. Jesus.

I cross the room and hit the stop button on my stereo, cutting off the Dixie Chicks mid-chorus. I pull on my last clean pair of yard-sale jeans. My knee pokes out the huge hole that came with ’em free of charge. Whenever I take a step, I hear the denim ripping farther up my thigh. I throw on a shirt that’s two sizes too big because Mama seems to think I’m fat. I hate wearing it, but like the jeans, it happens to be all that’s clean. My boots are on the back porch, still drying out, so I slip on my Sunday shoes. I check out my reflection—the second-hand clothes, the bright red rooster tail in my hair, the half-alive look in my eyes—and reckon I’ll fit right in at Walmarts.

Daddy raps his knuckles on my door. “Stop touching yourself and come out.”

I tug my ratty, old Longhorns cap over my hair and open the door, glaring. Daddy thumps the cap’s visor with his knocking fist and takes off down the hall, ducking his head, but still, his thick dark hair gets sprinkled with ceiling popcorn as he goes. I follow him into the living room where the TV is quiet and the couch is empty, which means it’s either late enough that Mama’s taken Laramie somewhere, or so early they ain’t out of bed yet. 

We go out the front door and down the tilting metal steps into the yard, which is half dead grass and half bare dirt. The sun over the eastern tree line tells me it’s mid-morning, although I sure as heck don’t feel like I got that much sleep. Mama’s car is gone so she must have taken Laramie somewhere. They don’t leave her home alone. 

I climb into the passenger side of Daddy’s truck and roll the window down by hand because that’s the only option this truck gives me. Daddy hops in and coaxes the engine to life, cranks his window down too. Pretty soon we’re rumbling over the dirt road toward town, wind rushing in on us, ruffling our hair and billowing our shirts. I watch two miles of pine trees and junk houses flash by. The left wheels bump over a busted-up armadillo, and Daddy clears his throat.

“You wanna talk about what happened yesterday?”

I shrug. “I just wanted to go on a trail ride.”

He lifts his left arm out his window and hangs onto the roof of the truck. “And the only place you could ride to was the place your Mama said you couldn’t go, huh? Ten miles away?”

I sigh out my nose. “All she said was she didn’t have gas to drive me.”

We turn onto the paved highway that leads to town. A log truck blows past, filling the cab with dust that tastes like pine needles and hot asphalt. We both cough. Daddy grabs the wheel with his left hand, reaches his right hand back to hold his side, the sewed-up hole where that bull stuck him. He grabs it every time he coughs or sneezes, like he’s still afraid his guts might squirt out, and maybe they could, I don’t know.

Once he catches his breath, he takes the wheel in his right hand again, cocks his left elbow out the window. Ahead of us, there’s the red-railed wooden bridge and a little green sign that tells visitors the empty ravine they’re passing over is called Hickory Ditch. Our truck bounces across the wooden planks, and Daddy grits his teeth. I lean my head out the window and get a quick glimpse of Shetan’s hoof prints in the dried mud below. 

“I think you know your mama well enough to know exactly what she meant. She wanted you home with your sister.” 

I pull my head back into the truck. “Why? So she could go to the beauty shop? The nail salon? Zumba class?”

Daddy smacks my arm so fast his hand is back on the wheel before the truck even swerves. I scoot closer to the door in case he decides to do it again.

“Your mama deserves nice things.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She works just as hard as I do to feed you kids.”

“Yes, sir.”

Daddy blows air out like a horse and pushes his fingers through his hair. “But maybe it’s been too hard. Maybe I’ve been leaving you too much to your own devices. Your mama seemed to think you might feel that way. Like maybe we don’t talk enough?”

“I don’t care how much we talk.” 

Daddy winces, and I know it’s not from the road.

“I mean, I know it’s not your thing. And it’s not really my thing either. So it’s cool.” I play with the frayed edges of the hole in my jeans. “But we used to have stuff we could do together. Silently.”

We ride down the road—silently—for a good long while, until the road turns into Main Street and we reach the intersection with the highway that runs east-to-west through town. The Pizza Arcade sits on the northeast corner, and the owner’s chubby wife is drawing today’s special on the chalkboard by the door. She’s not a great artist, but I think she’s drawn a winged buffalo. When I was little, Daddy convinced me buffaloes really do have wings and we really do eat them, so I refused for months because I had learned in school that buffaloes are an endangered species. Hannah loves that story.

“I’m not going to punish you, Casper. I should because that was reckless and stupid and now I have no choice but to let you do it all over again tomorrow to get Sister Bonnie’s horse back to her. But I’m not going to punish you because I can see how it was partly my fault.”

I try to focus on the important part of his words—the lack of punishment—and not my disappointment that I have to wait until tomorrow to retrieve Shetan. “It won’t happen again, sir.”