Also Known as Elvis (15 page)

“That all you got, Sherlock Holmes? Big deal. It's Gerri's. What's hers is mine; what's mine is hers.”

“That go for the Beast, too?”

Now he's the one studying his tray, then the parking lot outside his window.

“I sold it. So?”

“So, what? You lied to me.”

He turns his face to me. “Yeah, I said I still had
it. I wanted you to think that. That's the worst lie I ever tell, sue me. I sold it about a year ago, all right? I was strapped for cash. Gerri and me, we were already together then. She had the Ranger and this Honda Civic with some miles on it. That was enough cars for the two of us. And like I said, I needed the money.”

This hits me hard. My dad's bike was always a part of who he was. A big part. Trying to imagine him without it, it's just one more way I don't get who he's become.

“So what's up with the tie?” I ask. “You throw out all your jackets when you sold the Beast?”

“You kidding me? I didn't throw out my jackets. Someday I'm going to have a bike again. The only reason I was wearing that stupid tie is because my lawyer said to. He said I should show up looking respectable so your mom would go along with the divorce. You want to know how long it took me to remember how to tie one of those things?”

“Not really.”

“That's good,” he says, “because talking about
it would be even more boring than trying to tie it.” That gets a smile out of both of us.

And this is when he goes into his top ten reasons I should come live with him and Gerri. They're good reasons, even if number three (“You won't have to work”) feels like he's laying a guilt trip, and number five (“We'll get you your own electric guitar”) is a bribe. But it's the last three that really get to me:

“A boy needs his dad, especially when he's a teenager.”

“If anybody busts your chops, I've got your back.”

“I miss my son.”

For over two years now, I've blamed my dad for everything from making my mom and me have to work so hard to global warming. I've cursed him out and wished him dead. I've taken some of the photos my mom took off the wall and burned them in the bathroom sink. And the whole time I kept wearing his jacket and slicking back my hair so I could look like him. Because guess what? Dr. Leslie was right. I wanted to bring him back.

And here he is, sitting across from me at BK, telling me he wants to bring
me
back, and what am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say?

“How come you want me and not the girls?” I ask.

That throws him. “It's not that I don't want the girls,” he says. “I love the girls as much as I love you. But Gerri and me, we're just getting started. I can't throw a whole big family at her all at once. And I wouldn't do that to your mom. And anyway, you were always my special guy. You know that, right?”

I nod, even though being his “special guy” is news to me.

“I want my boy back, my buddy, okay? That's all it is.”

I keep nodding my head, like I get it when what I'm really thinking is,
I wish my friends were here to help me figure this out.

“Can I have the weekend to think about it?” I go. “I need time to—”

“I know. You need time to sort it out. Look, I should have said something earlier in the week,
but I had to run it by your mom first. The thing is, I've got to leave tomorrow. I want you to come with me. I wish I didn't have to go, but I've got work on Monday and there's this thing with Gerri's family on Sunday and . . . hey, you want to talk to her?”

“What do you mean? Now?”

“Yeah.” My dad's reaching for his phone. “Talk to her, Skeezo. You guys are going to be best buds, I'm telling you.”

“No, I don't think so, not now . . . I . . .”

Too late. The phone is ringing and it's in my hands.

“Hey, babe,” says this sexy voice on the other end. My face goes redder than all ten letters in “Burger King.”

“Um,” I go.

“Whoa! Is this Skeezie?” She must be a genius, to have recognized me from one
um.

“Yeah,” I say. “So this must be, like, Gerri.”

She lets out this big whoop of a laugh and right away I like her, this woman I'm picturing in a hot-
pink sweater and big hoop earrings on the other end of the phone.

“I am
so
happy to meet you, Skeezie!” she goes. “I hope you're going to come live with us . . . oops, did your dad say something yet? Did I just screw this up?”

“No, it's okay. He said something.”

“Well, good. Because if he hadn't, I
would.
Skeezie, you have
got
to come live with us, because I don't know how I'm going to get him to shut up talking about you all the time, if you don't.”

I glance over at my dad, who's sitting there looking as happy as he does in that photo. He's grinning like an idiot, nodding his head at me, like,
See, isn't she great?
And I'm listening to Gerri go on about how great my dad says
I
am.

“You're his special guy,” she says to me. “That's what he calls you.” She keeps on talking—about being in the band and teaching me guitar, about how she's been cleaning out the spare room but waiting for me to get there to pick out the furniture, about all the fun stuff we're going to do together,
about how much she loves to cook and how she hopes I like lasagna. I happen to love lasagna, but everything she's saying is just background noise to what I keep hearing in my head:
You're his special guy. That's what he calls you.

I look over at my dad, with his eyes practically glowing and that idiot grin stuck on his face, and the answer is clear. I'm going.

There's just one question I have to ask him first. All I need is the nerve to ask it.

By the time my mom gets home from work, I'm all packed. I started the minute I got home because I don't want time to change my mind. Jessie and Megan are parked in front of the TV where I stuck them a couple of hours ago with
Mulan II
and a bowl of popcorn. Glasses of water are set out on the table and supper's sitting on the stove: Skeezie's Super-Duper Franks 'n' Beans.

My mom's got an hour between jobs. There's part of me that's looking forward to telling her I'm going.
You wanted to kick me out? Well, you got your wish! Who's going to make supper now, huh? Who's going to be here when Jessie gets sick and Megan steals your makeup? Who you going to cry to every time you feel sorry for yourself?

But there's another part of me that just wants to get out of here without anybody noticing, because
as much as I hate saying it, I'm going to miss my mom. I'm going to miss Jessie's hugs around my legs. I might even miss Megan.

I know I still have to ask my dad the Big Question, but I already figure that whatever the answer is, I'm going to say okay, I forgive you, because that's how good this new life is already tasting to me. A lot better than franks 'n' beans or spaghetti with store-brand tomato sauce. Better than Becca making me feel like a loser. And Kevin humiliating me every chance he gets and me not having the guts to stand up to him. Better than feeling like a sap for falling in love with a dog I couldn't have even if she was still at the shelter. Even if she showed up on my doorstep with a big
I'M YOURS
sign around her neck.

Yeah, I know I'll miss my mom and my sisters and this dump of a house. I'll miss Steffi and the Candy Kitchen. And I'm seriously going to miss my friends. But hey, they still have each other. And they have families they do stuff with. Families that don't yell or cry or make them feel like all they're
good for is the money they bring in and the supper they put on the table. But then there's the Forum and being Joe's earring brother and hanging out with Bobby and putting up with Addie.

Okay, I've got to stop thinking about this because I don't want to convince myself I'm making a mistake. I'm not. This is the best thing I've ever done. Someday I'm going to be in a band. Maybe we'll play Elvis covers. We could call ourselves Also Known as Elvis. That would be cool. It's like Joe always comes up with these other names for himself. JoDan. Scorpio. He's always, what do you call it,
reinventing
himself. Maybe that's me, too. I was Schuyler when I was born. My parents thought my nickname would be Sky, which would have been awesome. But somehow, nobody remembers how, I got tagged with Skeezie. And it stuck. And I've been Skeezie up until Steffi started calling me Elvis. And now who am I going to be? I'm going to be this kid who lives in Rochester, New York, with his dad and a stepmom who plays electric guitar and laughs like she's making music. As for the rest of it, who knows?
Maybe I'll be a guy that girls like and other guys respect. Anything's possible when you're reinventing yourself.

I hear my mom shout at Megan and Jessie to turn off the TV and come eat.

The TV clicks off midsong, but Jessie keeps singing, “ ‘I wanna be like other girls' ” at the top of her lungs, which makes Mom cry, “Jessie! You're on my last nerve!”

I shut my bedroom door behind me, not wanting anybody to see my packed bags yet, and go into the kitchen, expecting to find my mom in some kind of rage. But instead she's standing there putting a bunch of daisies in the middle of the table. She looks up at me when I come in and smiles. Actually smiles.

“I picked up this vase at a porch sale on the way home,” she goes. “I thought it would be nice to have flowers for a change. Remember how we used to put flowers on the table every Friday night?” Meaning,
she
used to put flowers on the table.

I do remember. “I liked that,” I tell her.

“Me, too,” she says, then calls out, “Girls! Wash your hands and come to the table. I've got to leave in thirty minutes!”

She starts to tell me to wash my hands, too, then stops herself when I hold them up and she sees they're already clean. That's something else that's changed this summer. I used to be a total slob. But working at the Candy Kitchen, I had to clean up my act. I guess my friends were right. OMG, I'm wholesome!

While my sisters fight over the soap in the bathroom just feet away from where we're standing, my mom gets all misty-eyed and says in a soft voice so they won't hear, “I'm going to miss you, Skeezie.”

“How do you know I'm goin' anywhere?”

“I just know,” she says.

“Well, it's what you want, right? You're kicking me out, right?”

The mist turns to light rain, and she tears off a square of paper towel to wipe her eyes. “How can you say that?” she goes. “I just want what's best
for you. You should be with your dad. It's selfish of me . . .”

She stops when the girls arrive at the table.

“What?” Megan says. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” says my mom. “I'm just tired.”

“You're always tired,” Megan says, and I tell her, “Leave her alone. She works hard.”

And we sit down at the table, nobody talking for the longest time, just Jessie humming “I Wanna Be Like Other Girls,” between forkfuls of Skeezie's Super-Duper Franks 'n' Beans.

Friday night I hardly sleep.

Saturday is going to be the longest day I've ever had to get through. First, I have to mow Addie's lawn. It hits me that I'm going to have to tell her dad that I can't do it anymore. I don't think he'll care; he'll be glad to get his favorite form of meditation back.

Then I have a five-hour shift at the Candy Kitchen, although I figure what's the point, since I'm going to quit. Who knows, maybe Donny will kick me out and tell me he doesn't ever want to see my face in there again. And Steffi might say I'm letting her down when she was counting on me and she doesn't want to be my friend anymore. The thought of that makes me sick to my stomach, and one time during the night I have to run to the bathroom because of it.

And
then
I think how I have to tell my friends.
That's going to be the hardest part of the whole day. They all texted me—even Bobby, who said he and his dad were at a museum or something and he had two bars of power—to say they'd be getting home in the afternoon, and we came up with this plan to meet at four at the Candy Kitchen when I get off work. My dad's picking me up at the house at six, so I have less than
two hours
to say to my friends, “Welcome home! And by the way, I'm leaving forever.”

Every once in a while I drift off to sleep. When I do, I have this same dream in which Addie and Joe and Bobby come home. They get all excited to see each other and act like I'm completely invisible.