Dear Life, You Suck (18 page)

Unfuckingbelievable. Wynona Bidaban kissed me
.
I should sprint to the cliffs and skydive into the Briny Hereafter, because nothing in life can ever get any better than this. Nothing. Ever.

But it does get better.

“You wanna come in and have lunch with us?”

There are only two problems. One, I’m dressed like her dad’s lawn slave, and two, I’m completely sober. I don’t even have a mini nip in my pocket to take the edge off. And eating at the same table as the Bald Terminator is going to be an edgy situation at best. But what other option do I have? Run away again? Slice up the other cheek and head for the hills? Which makes me realize there could be three problems.

“What about, you know, your injury?” I raise my hand toward her cheek. “Do they know it was me who . . .”

She grabs my fingers and squeezes. Her hand is soft and warm. “I told my dad the truth. I ran into a tree branch.”

She smiles.

I smile. “By the way, how is it?”

“It’s fine. Just a scratch.”

“Sorry ’bout that, too.”

“No biggie. Just another flesh wound.” She’s staring at my face, and I watch her eyes drift to the left. Eyes always drift to the left, eventually. She raises her hand.

I back away before her fingers touch my face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I don’t answer.
What’s she got to be sorry about?

She slips on some phony bubbles. “So what do you say? Will you have lunch with us?”

I look down at my clothes. “I don’t know. I look like shit.”

“You look hard-working. My dad will respect that.”

How Wynona got me to enter that house, I’ll never know. That’s a lie. I do know. It was her eyes. Okay, that’s a lie too. It was her luscious tatas. Okay, that’s a lie too. It was her museum-quality ass. Okay, that’s a lie too.

It was her kiss. She could have asked me to do anything after that kiss. I would have jumped into a flaming friggin’ volcano to retrieve a rusty can of Spam for her after that kiss. It was that delicious. I don’t need booze to make it through one stupid lunch fiasco. I’m still high from that friggin’ kiss. Okay, that’s a lie too. A swig or two of happy juice would come in damn handy right about now.

Wynona’s house is unlike any I’ve ever seen. Right in the middle is a gigantic room that’s a combination kitchen, dining room, and family room. I duck when I enter because the ceilings are low. I raise one arm and press my palm against the plaster.

Wynona shrugs. “Built in 1784. People were a lot shorter back then.”

I raise my other hand and hold it next to her forehead. “Just back then?”

She slaps my hand. “Hah, hah, very funny.” She tickles my armpits and I drop both arms.

Everything in the room is made from dark wood. Trim, beams, floors, cabinets, furniture. The support columns are tree trunks. The rear wall has three enormous sliding glass doors that overlook an evergreen forest, while the front windows overlook the downtown. It’s weird, like the house is teetering on some invisible boundary line between two completely different worlds.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed to capacity line the side walls. They remind me of the Naskeag Public Library.

I search the room for a booze cabinet, hoping there’s one tucked away in a corner so I can nonchalantly stroll by for a stealthy swig. No such luck.

For a millisecond, I worry about getting in trouble for not returning the van immediately as Mother Mary Maharaja had ordered, but are you kidding me? Like I’m gonna pass up this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity ’cause it might cost me some extra pussy willow pruning or whip me up a saucy side of nun-tongue?
Phuuuuuuh, right.

Wynona loads me up with plates and bowls. She grabs glasses and silverware. We set the table together. I breathe in the heavy scent of her home—garlic, onion, lemon Pledge— and it drips from my nose to my toes. I feel grounded, like I live here or something.

Every time Wynona passes a certain place setting, her face tightens and she slams the dishes and utensils down. I’m guessing that’s her stepmom’s seat.

Mr. Bidaban comes in and ties a white apron with giant strawberries on it around his waist. He walks to the stove, jams his beak into a steaming black pot, and
mmmmm
s. He sprinkles some spices in and stirs it with a wooden spoon. Seeing this big-ass dude smile and hum in a girly apron as he stirs his stew makes me feel less fruity about the cooking I do at the Prison.

Wynona and I sit on one side of the table. She smiles. “Thanks for helping me set the table.”

“You’re welcome.” The nuns say thank you all the time at the Prison, but it’s a different kind of thank-you. My insides bubble, steamy and delicious, like the insides of that big black pot.

Mr. Bidaban carries the pot to the table and sets it on a big square piece of ceramic tile that looks like it fell off someone’s bathroom wall. He walks to the staircase on the opposite side of the room and hollers up. “Roxanne, lunch!”

Wynona leans over and her shoulder touches mine. “It’s almost noon. Time for Sleeping Beauty to get up.”

A few minutes later, a tall woman with short blond hair comes down the stairs. She’s wearing a long white skirt and a long orange T-shirt that goes halfway down her butt. She has big boobs, though maybe they just look big on account of her shirt being so tight. I look away when Wynona pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. I guess her stepmom gives her nasal congestion.

Mrs. Bidaban stops at a chair opposite us and stands beside it. For a moment, I think she’s deciding whether she wants to dine in my presence, but then Mr. Bidaban pulls out her chair and she sits.
Damn, I wonder if I was supposed to do that for Wynona
.

She folds her hands together and looks at Wynona. She tosses me a quick glance, then looks back at Wynona.

Wynona exhales loudly. “Roxanne, this is a friend of mine from school, Cricket Cherpin. Cricket, this is Roxanne.”

I stand and extend my hand like the nuns taught me.

Roxanne eyes my hand like I’m trying to pass her a hunk of moose shit. She finally shakes it, but only with her fingers, which is good because her hand is so soft and delicate, I’d probably crush it.

She pulls her hand away, tilts her head, and glares at Wynona. “Cricket Cherpin? Nice try, Wynona.”

“Roxanne!” Wynona snaps. “That’s his real name. Apologize right now!”

“Oh, please,” Roxanne grumbles.

“Dad!”

“Well, Wynona, it’s not like you haven’t done it before,” Mr. Bidaban says as he unties his apron and hangs it on a hook. He looks at me as he sits down. “Roxanne was calling Wynona’s friend Alison ‘Emma Royds’ for months.”

Wynona laughs.

“It’s not funny, Wynona,” Roxanne snaps.

Wynona turns to me. “We got caught when I told her Alison’s boyfriend’s name was Hugh Jass.”

I pretend to wipe my mouth with my napkin so Roxanne doesn’t see me laughing.

Mr. Bidaban picks up Roxanne’s bowl and starts ladling. She stops him after one ladle. He fills mine to the tippity top, which I’m happy about ’cause I’m starving. He reminds me of me serving the Little Ones at the Prison.

It’s seafood stew in a red sauce like marinara but thinner. There’s fish and scallops and mussels and a few other oceanographic crustaceans I don’t recognize. Wynona digs in, so I do too. I discover a few miniature octopuses backstroking in my briny porridge and they’re chewy as hell, but their taste isn’t bad. Actually, there’s no taste at all, except for the sauce the eight-legged wonders are swimming in.

It’s scrumptious. This rough-and-tumble Hulkamaniac can cook.

Every time Roxanne takes a spoonful or adjusts something on the table, Wynona winces and shakes her head.

“Where do you live, Cricket?” Mr. Bidaban asks.

Wynona stops chewing.

“At the Naskeag Home for Boys,” I say.

Roxanne snaps a glance at me, then surveys the table like she’s counting the silverware.

“That’s one prime cut of real estate,” Mr. Bidaban says without looking up from his bowl.

I’m not sure what he’s talking about, so I don’t say anything.

Roxanne slurps a spoonful. Wynona blows out a lungful of air.

“You lived there long?” he asks.

“Eight years.”

“Eight years? How long’s that place been open?”

“Eight years.”

“No kidding, huh? So you were one of the first boys there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t worry about the
sir
part, Cricket. I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not necessary. You can call me Roger.”

“Really?”
Shit, that came out squeaky and surprised
. I lower my voice and try again. “I mean, okay, Roger.”
Jeez Louise, that was weird
.

Mr. Bidaban is talking to me like I’m a real person, like I’m someone he invited over. Like the way Caretaker talks to me in the boathouse. Most adults are assholes when they talk to you. They’ll toss out a question to sound superior and sophisticated but never stick around for an answer. So Mr. Bidaban is either pretty cool or he’s the best phony-baloney actor I’ve ever seen. I mean, serve me up a Long Island Iced Tea Inside the Actors Studio, Mr. Lipton, ’cause this guy’s flipping talented.

As much as I like the way Mr. Bidaban’s talking to me, I wish it was just me and Wynona having lunch. Maybe she’d kiss me again if we were alone. When she sets her napkin on her lap, she squeezes my thigh and my crotch rocket jumps. I feel my face flush.

Roxanne picks up her empty glass and waves it in front of Mr. Bidaban’s face.

“Oh gosh, sorry.” He hustles to the counter and grabs a pitcher.

Roxanne just sits there like she’s at a restaurant.

“You need help, Dad?” Wynona asks, glaring at her step-bitch.

He kisses the top of her head when he returns. “No, thanks, sweetie. I got it.” He fills all the glasses with lemonade so pulpy it looks like there are seeds floating on top.

Mr. Bidaban digs a mussel out of his bowl with his hands. “Did you know it used to be a prison?” he asks me.

“Yes, I heard that.”

“The nuns do a good job with the boys there,” he says with a mouthful of mussel. “You’re evidence of that, Cricket. Polite, hard-working. Not like most of the teenage dipshits we have wandering these small-town streets.”

“Dad.”

“What? I didn’t name names.”

“Well, it’s kinda obvious.”

“I said teenage dipshits. Not football dipshits.”

“Dad, stop it.”

I chuckle.

“It’s no secret in the Bidaban household how I feel about Buster. I hope you’re not friends with that cretin, Cricket.”

“No, sir . . . I mean, Roger. Far from it.”

“Good, good. You ask me, that obnoxious ignoramus got what he deserved when he got the tar kicked out of him. Hopefully, whoever it was knocked some sense into his thick head, but I doubt it.”

“Dad, Cricket . . .”

I touch Wynona’s leg with my fingertips.

She turns to me, surprised. “. . . does the landscaping at the . . .” She hesitates, like she’s embarrassed to say the word
home
or
orphanage
in front of me. “. . . at the property,” she continues. “You should see the gardens. They’re magnificent.”

Roger Bidaban smiles big and sincere at his daughter. It’s obvious he loves her a shit-ton. “I’ve seen them many times, my dear. I try to bid that darn job every year, but the nuns have never subbed the work out as far as I know. Heck, why would they when they’ve got a pro like Cricket on staff?”

My insides warm. For the first time in my life I feel proud to be from the Home. I lean over my bowl, afraid my face is movie-reeling my feelings.

I spoon in more of the tasty subaquatic concoction, then reach for my flaky croissant. Just as I’m about to slap a wad of butter onto it, I spot Mr. Bidaban slopping his into his bowl to sop up the scrumptious juices, so I follow suit and use my doughy delight like a sponge.

Mr. Bidaban inhales his roll. “Apparently, a lot of folks in town were against the church opening that orphanage. Can you believe that? They figured kids from broken homes would be broken kids. I mean, Christ almighty, we’re talking about orphans, not juvenile delinquents. Well, those nuns sure taught the townspeople a thing or two. Every boy I’ve met from the Home is courteous and good-natured. And that’s saying a lot, considering the circumstances most of them come from. I’ve heard some of the backgrounds. Why, without a place like that, you’d have a lot more child criminals roaming the streets, and that’s a fact.” He points his licked-clean spoon at me. “Agree or disagree, Cricket?”

“Well, I . . .”

“It’s okay if you disagree. Go ahead, speak your mind.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to disagree. The nuns are strict. They run a tight ship. Ever since I was little I remember them preaching at us about how we should act in town. They used to say we were . . .” My throat constricts. I have a sudden case of brain freeze, except the frost is in my gut. I suddenly understand where the chills are coming from. I’m speaking about myself and my life to a complete stranger. My legs shake and my forehead sizzles.

Mr. Bidaban leans in. “Representatives? Ambassadors?”

“Something like that,” I choke out.

“Well, good for them. A lot more than most of the parents do around here. Kids today never stop to consider how their actions might bring shame and pain on other people. On their parents. Their brothers and sisters. Their family name. It’s a good moral to instill in kids. To teach them that their actions have consequences on others. Kids today are selfish. Hell, what am I saying, kids? Most of the adults around here aren’t much better.”

“Dad, please. I didn’t invite Cricket in so he could hear one of your famous ‘Kids of Today’ speeches.”

Mr. Bidaban’s words are bubbling a spicy bouillabaisse in my gut, and not ’cause I’m worried about bringing shame upon my crackhead parents or foster whore. But my options for life are full of nothing but shame and pain. Drug dealing, boxing, or that third option I don’t like to think about ’cause it makes me sick to my stomach. Checking out of Hotel Life would bring a boatload of shame. And pain. To me and others. One other in particular. And a bunch of Little Others. Jesus, how the hell would Mother Mary explain that to the Little Ones? And what would stop them from doing it themselves once they got old enough to realize how much life sucks?