Citrus County (16 page)

Toby kept quiet. He felt each of his uncle’s fingertips digging into the bones of his shoulder. Uncle Neal hadn’t laid a hand on him in years—hadn’t pushed him around or even mussed his hair, hadn’t dug Toby in the ribs after making a joke, hadn’t slapped him on the back when he was coughing. Uncle Neal looked at his hand and flexed his fingers. He inhaled greedily.

“And I gave you a fucking allowance. That was
my
choice. That was my own poor rearing.”

Uncle Neal hit Toby then, a kind of open-handed punch. He rushed it and it didn’t land squarely. He hit Toby a second time. Toby wilted, but not out of pain. Uncle Neal seemed surprised that his blows were having an impact.

“I want it to hurt me more than it hurts you,” Uncle Neal said. “It doesn’t, though. It doesn’t hurt me.”

“It doesn’t really hurt me, either,” Toby said. He didn’t look up, but he had the feeling his uncle was staring at his own hand.

“I can’t be hurt anymore,” Uncle Neal said. “I’m that low.”

“You’re tough, is all,” Toby told him.

“I’m not even ashamed.”

Toby kept crouching there, still. He couldn’t tell exactly where Uncle Neal’s blows had landed because his whole head felt hot. Somewhere inside, he was glad Uncle Neal had hit him. It was a relief. Uncle Neal backed away, his shadow lifting. He walked out the front door and Toby got himself standing. He heard Uncle Neal’s footfalls across the porch and then his truck starting up with the wail of an old frail dog. Toby went to the bathroom and took a look. He was going to have a bruise on his neck and a mark on his forehead, but they wouldn’t last. He shook his shoulder out. That was probably the last time his uncle was going to touch him. The man was desperate. Something in him was rancid and weak. He and Toby had to put up with each other. Kaley and Toby had to put up with each other. Shelby had to put up with the whole world. How did
anyone
keep from going rancid? How come everyone wasn’t like Uncle Neal?

Toby’s nose was running but his eyes were dry. He ran the hot water and got out a washcloth. He let the water turn steamy and then he let it run and run until he could no longer see himself.

Toby and Shelby had agreed to meet on Sunday, and Shelby decided they should go for a ride on the old folks’ trolley, a stout yet aerodynamic-looking bus that, three times a day, drove a big loop that included a pharmacy, a supermarket, the movie theater, the county offices, and a cafeteria-style restaurant. Shelby gave the driver two crisp dollar bills and she and Toby took the back row. There were only two other passengers, a frail old woman adorned with jewelry and a younger guy with a box of T-shirts on his lap. They sat in the middle of the bus, across the aisle from one another. The woman was hugging herself, shivering. The driver, a lanky black man, had the trolley’s air conditioner pumping.

At the first stop, the pharmacy, no one got on or off. Same thing at the supermarket.

Shelby elbowed Toby and he looked away from the window. She got a good look at his face. She could tell he was dreading being asked about it, so she decided she wouldn’t. She didn’t like people in
her
business. She knew how he felt. If his dings had been the result of a fistfight with another kid or a pole-vaulting injury, he would’ve said so. Something had happened with Uncle Neal.

“When’s the last time you let someone be your friend?” Shelby asked.

Toby thought. “Last year.”

“What happened?”

“He transferred to a middle school in Gainesville so he could play basketball there.”

“Still friends with him?”

Toby shook his head.

“Why, because you guys don’t have a phone?” Shelby draped her arm across Toby’s lap.

“Even if we did, probably wouldn’t still be friends.”

Toby fidgeted into a straighter posture. Shelby’s hand was resting flat against his thigh. He didn’t notice, or else he was acting like he didn’t notice. The mark on his neck almost looked like a paw print. Shelby was going to make him forget about his uncle, for a while at least.

They pulled up near the movie theater. There were a few people standing outside, but none of them made a move toward the trolley. It was a two-screen theater, showing a horror flick and a kids’ movie. A poster of a bald guy hanging upside-down, one of his eyes bulging out, hung next to a poster of cartoon automobiles.

The old woman turned in her seat. She cleared her throat, and this action sent a chill through her.

“Excuse me, sir,” she chimed.

The guy with the box on his lap looked at her.

“I’d like one of those T-shirts, one of the long-sleeve ones. Would you entertain a trade?”

“I might
make
a trade.”

“A bracelet?” The old woman hoisted her arm. “They’re real.” With her finger, she separated one bracelet from the others. “This one’s worth sixty bucks.”

The guy looked in his box. “A small, I guess.”

The two of them exchanged their goods. The guy dropped his new jewelry into his shirt pocket and the woman slipped the T-shirt on over her head. She tugged it this way and that, getting it straight, a faint smile on her face.

The trolley jogged into motion.

“I had lunchtime friends last semester,” Toby said. “Dina and Tom.”

“Who are they?” asked Shelby.

“They’re that couple. I wasn’t really
friends
with them.”

“What couple?”

“Dina and skinny Tom. The two that say they’re going to get married when they turn sixteen?”

Shelby was at a loss.

“I used to sit at one of those four-person tables with them. We’d pile our stuff in the fourth chair.”

Shelby pressed her palm against the inside of Toby’s leg, squashing the notion that it was resting where it was resting on accident. Toby talked more quickly.

“I’ve never seen much reward to friendship,” he said. “Starts as an interview and ends as a job.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“It’s part of a toast.”

Shelby moved her hand until it rested against a lump that could’ve been what she was looking for or could’ve just been a fold of Toby’s bunched-up shorts. The trolley pulled up to a cluster of two-story glass buildings. There were spindly oak trees everywhere, newly planted. It was the government offices. They were closed today. The old woman and the guy with the T-shirts exited the trolley and went their own ways. Shelby had no idea where they might be going. The driver got off for a moment and spoke on his cell phone. When he got back in, he adjusted his rearview mirror and put drops in his eyes. He held his hand in front of a vent, making sure it was blowing cold air.

As soon as they were back on the road, Shelby unbuttoned Toby’s shorts and burrowed her hand. Toby made a deft adjustment of his hips, making it easier for Shelby, and then he stilled, eyes forward, back arched off the seatback. Shelby’s hand was hemmed in so she took short strokes, trying not to squeeze, trying not to hurt Toby. He was motionless. Shelby ceased her stroking. Toby’s legs were shaking. She didn’t want him to finish already. She resumed, slower, working her hand luxuriantly. Toby was holding his eyes open. The next stop was in sight. Shelby executed some rough jerks and a small sound escaped Toby. He fumbled with his shorts, yanking them down, exposing himself to the air and the light. Shelby watched Toby’s face, on which still rested a bland expression, and felt cheated. She wanted to see some exaltation. She wanted to see him reel into another, better state. Toby put his hand on Shelby’s, aiming himself toward the seat in front of them. The stuff ran most of the way down the seat and then lost its liquidity. It was unmistakable. Anyone who saw it would know what it was.

Shelby looked at Toby. His hair was growing spiky from when he’d buzzed it. Shelby couldn’t tell if anything had happened, if their souls had scrubbed against one another. The trolley stopped and Shelby tugged Toby out of the seat and guided him to the front. Shelby’s eyes met the driver’s and he winked at her, but not in a knowing way. The driver didn’t know a damn thing. Winking at young people was something he always did, part of his procedure.

Shelby and Toby ventured inside JB’s Cafeteria and filled trays with meatloaf and sweet potatoes. As Shelby sat across from Toby, both their mouths full, she was struck by a fresh and potent curiosity. She wanted to know, now, not only Toby’s darkness but where he slept and what he ate and what his favorite type of weather was and what made him sneeze. She wanted to know what he dreamed of at night, what was going on in his mind when he stared at the wall during class. Shelby was fascinated with the efficiency of her hormones. She had engaged in a sex act and now, what, she was in love? She had caused a male of the species to blow his load and now, what, she wanted to be his little girlfriend? Astonishing. Shelby tried to enjoy the feeling. She felt lush.

Before basketball practice, Mr. Hibma rushed over to the common area in the main building of the school and approached the carnation booth. It was manned by a younger girl, not an eighth-grader, a tiny thing wearing a suit. Her pumps were like a doll’s shoes. She was probably a replica of her mother. Her mother had dressed her this way and pulled her hair back like that because her daughter was going to be in the public eye, a saleswoman. Or the girl’s mother was a slob and the girl was rebelling.

“Where is the money going?” Mr. Hibma asked her.

“A field trip,” she said. “Washington D.C.”

“That’s a lot of carnations.”

The girl’s back was straight and her hands rested on the tabletop. “I’ve already got Publix to match our funds, and we’re going to get a big discount from Amtrak. We have a quarter of what we need. We project to hit our mark by the end of the semester, then go on the trip this summer.”

“Do you want to be a politician one day?” Mr. Hibma asked.

“No, I want to work for a politician.”

One of the girl’s eyes was off, aimed slightly to the side. It made the rest of her look that much more put-together.

“My name is Gina Lampley,” she said. “You’re Mr. Hibma.” She shot her hand out toward him. “I can’t wait to take your class. I’ve heard you get to do a lot of presentations. I don’t get nervous talking in front of people.”

“I look forward to having you.” Mr. Hibma had to grow comfortable with the kissing of his ass. It was one of his problems, he knew. The other teachers enjoyed kiss-asses and he didn’t. He had to start valuing each student for what they were. Some kids were just kiss-asses and they couldn’t help it, no more than one can help being Samoan or allergic to celery.

“I like your shoes,” the girl said. “An
old
teacher would never wear those shoes.”

Mr. Hibma looked at the girl, kindly he hoped. He knew she had completed all the necessary paperwork allowing her to be out of class this period. She’d chosen this spot for her booth because of the heavy foot traffic. She’d stenciled a flower on each order form, stacks of them. She was going to grow up and thrive in the world of red tape, fine print, licenses, sales, arts and crafts—the world everyone was forced to live in.

“Can I specify which color?” Mr. Hibma asked.

The girl nodded pertly. “Red or white.”

“Better go with white.”

“How many should I put you down for?”

“One will do the job.”

The girl got an order form and started filling it out herself. She asked if the tag on the flower should say who it was from, and Mr. Hibma said it should. The carnation was to go to Mrs. Conner, room 142. Mr. Hibma reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He gave the girl three of them.

“Oh,” she said, like an honest mistake had been made. She held the limp, gray money in her fingers. “Do you have any crisper ones? I like them to lay flat in the envelopes, then I can fit the same amount in each.”

“Crisper bills?”

“If you don’t, that’s okay.”

Mr. Hibma looked around the common room. This girl was only being herself, like everyone had a right to.

During a pop quiz in American History, Toby was called to guidance. He left his quiz paper face-down on his desk and walked to the office, where he presented himself to the kiss-ass who manned the reception desk. He was directed down a hallway, to the sixth door on the left. Toby had never been called to guidance. He knew this was not supposed to mean one was in trouble. Maybe the counselor was curious about Toby’s plans for the summer, or which classes he wanted to take next year in high school.

The door was open. The counselor, behind her desk, looked up at Toby, almost smiling. Toby recognized her. She used to be the resource officer, the school cop. She nodded at the chair in front of Toby and he sat. The counselor looked odd wearing a blouse with a scarf around the collar instead of her blue uniform.

“The old counselor wrote a book,” she said.

Toby felt like he was wearing a blown disguise. He didn’t know why. No one was going to find out about Kaley. Those FBI agents had never contacted Toby after that day in the parking lot. If they couldn’t sniff anything on him, this lady sure couldn’t.

“I have to call you kids out of class,” the counselor said. “You never come down on your own.”

Toby had to piss. He’d had to piss during his pop quiz and had forgotten to stop at the bathroom on his way to guidance.

“I take the files home on weekends and browse—see who might could use a nudge in the right direction.”

“You think I could?” Toby said.

“You were on a watch list coming out of grammar school.” The counselor leaned forward, pressing her shapeless front against her desk.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” Toby asked.

“Do you happen to know how many detentions you’ve compiled here at Citrus Middle?”

“None,” Toby said. “My record is clean.”

The counselor chuckled archly. “You’ve had twenty-nine. And that’s without all the undocumented detentions from Mr. Hibma.”

“How do you know about those?”

“I believe you met Cara, the receptionist. This place is full of spies.”

“I’ve never been expelled,” Toby said. “That’s something to hang my hat on.”

“Why don’t
you
tell
me
why you’re here?”