Dear Life, You Suck (6 page)

I should do it. Tonight. Show her who’s boss. That would teach her cheeky ass a lesson. Suicide-bomb my abdullah oblongata right off this axis of evil.
Boom! Dead. Aha! What do you have to say for yourself now, Miss Smug-a-Dub-Dub-My-Bloody-Balls-in-a-Tub?

Moxie’s throaty bedroom growl interrupts my muddled musings. “As you can see, I’ve written comments on your letters. Today in class, I want you to rewrite your letters, incorporating responses to my remarks. You may start now.”

I read her comments over and over, hoping her hidden meaning will crack me in the forehead like a stiff jab, but nothing. Her words just shuffle around my head like Muhammad Ali in his prime.

The voice of an angel startles me. “Mind if I sit here?”

I look to my left. Wynona Bidaban slides into the seat beside me. I scratch my right cheek.

“It’s hard to concentrate next to the Distraction Twins,” she says.

I sneak a peek at her boobs.
Tell me about it
. Then I glance up the aisle. Two cheerleader bimbettes are waving cherry-red fingernails in the air and hooting like horny barn owls.

Wynona flashes me a cute smile. “What’d you write about?”

I’m so shocked Wynona Bidaban is speaking to me, my mind flushes all rational thought. I flip my letter over. “Nothing.”

Wynona turns back to her paper.

Shit! Why’d I say that? But what am I gonna say? I can’t tell her what I wrote
.

Wynona tosses me a lifeline. “I wrote about my dad.” Her voice is chirpy, but sadness seeps under the frothy bubbles. “Dear Dad: Why did you marry Roxanne?” She jerks a glimpse at me, then stares at her sneakers like she’s as surprised as I am that she’s talking to me. “I mean, why didn’t he at least ask my opinion about something so major? I wasn’t a kid when he did it. I was fifteen.” Her straight black hair is draped over her face like a veil.

I wonder why she’s telling me this. Not that I mind, but Wynona Bidaban has never said one word to me. No, I take that back. She did speak to me once. Last year, in detention. She asked me what time the late bus arrived, and I shrugged because I didn’t know, and she shook her head and sighed like I was a retard. That was our first and last encounter.

“Like, didn’t he care what I thought? Didn’t my opinion matter at all?”

No, Wynona, it didn’t. And I’ll tell you why. Because parents are all the same. They’re selfish, soulless slugs. They only care about one person. THEMSELVES!

“I would never do something like that without asking my daughter first,” she says. “I just don’t get it.”

I don’t get it either, Wynona. Why you’re talking to me, I mean
. She probably figures since I’m such a screwed-up social outcast, I’ll be able to relate to her family troubles. She’s not far off.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I don’t mean to unload this stupid stuff on you.” She turns back to her paper and starts taking out her rage on her notebook.

I spend the rest of the class trying to think of something clever or funny to say. A few things come to mind, but I pussy out and the bell rings. Wynona flashes me an uncomfortable smile and leaves. I stuff my letter in my pocket.

Goddamn it! Why didn’t I say something? Anything. I’m such a loser.

I ditch History and spend the period chillaxing with Professor Panama.

The lunch lady glares at me when I pile two cheeseburgers, two slices of pizza, two helpings of Tater Tots, two brownies, and two milks on my tray. She knows I don’t have a girlfriend. She’s probably wondering how a hat rack like me can pack away so much grub. I don’t know where it all goes, ’cause it sure as hell ain’t sticking to my bones. Good thing the Mainiacs feed their orphans for free.

K–12 share the cafeteria and gymnasium on account of the small student population. The high school building is on one side and the little kids’ building is on the other, like wings on a pigeon. I sit with my roomies from the Prison. It’s worse than sitting alone, but I can’t sit alone because that would hurt their feelings. Plus, the Little Ones catch less abuse when I’m with them. Well, usually. Right now, Buster Pitswaller is harassing Charlie Brittlebones at the dessert counter. Pitbull’s dangling a slice of pie over Charlie’s head, and Charlie’s doing the worst thing possible, which is reaching for it. His undersize sweater is hiking up, and his oversize boxers are hanging out. Charlie isn’t aware he’s center stage at the Laugh Factory. He just wants pie.

Goddamn it.
I haven’t had a single bite of burger. I tell the Little Ones to watch my eats.

Heads turn like paparazzi to a coked-up starlet as I walk over. My stomach knots like someone’s wringing out my intestines. I hate doing this when there’s a crowd. The lunch lady scurries into the kitchen. Probably to dial 911. Where are the lunch monitors when you need them?

Then I see her. At the table next to Pitbull. She’s the only one not watching the show. She’s picking at her salad like this is brunch at the Ritz.
What the hell? How come she doesn’t do anything? He’s her boyfriend
. Suddenly, she does something. She looks up. But not at him. At me. With an expression of . . . what? Contempt? Fear? Pity?

Fuck you, Wynona. Pity yourself. You’re the one sitting on your hands.

My thoughts must be seeping through my pores because her expression crinkles into pissed off, and she storms out of the cafeteria. Pitbull calls after her, but she ignores him.

I tap Brittlebones on the shoulder. “You need something, Charlie?”

“My pie.”

Laughter erupts.

“Why don’t you grab another slice?”

“’Cause this was the last slice of blueberry.”

More laughter.

I push my hood off and turn to Pitbull. He’s clenching the pie in one hand and a fist in the other. I never remember how massive he is until I’m right beside him. I’m five-eleven, and he towers over me. This gigantic dolt has the facial hair of a thirty-year-old and could play professional football. How many times has he been held back? “Why don’t you give him his pie,” I say.

“Sure, hero.” Pitbull flicks the slice at Charlie. It bounces off his chest and lands on the floor.

Louder laughter.

My first thought is
Shit, I just washed that shirt. And blueberry stains are a bitch to get out.

Charlie sniffles. I can tell he’s about to burst into tears.

Pitbull squares off and stares me down.

“I got an extra brownie on my tray, Charlie,” I say, without taking my eyes off Pitbull.

“But I w-want pie,” he stutters.

Kids start mimicking his high-pitched squeal.
I want pie. Gimme pie
.
Oh no, my blueberries
.

“Well, eat it off the floor then.”

No laughter.

Charlie looks at the pile of pie, slumps his shoulders, and walks off.

Pitbull kicks the heap of blue mush at me. “You gonna do something ’bout it, Scarface?”

A cacophony of
oooooh
s.

Just to set the record straight, I never start fights. Never. It’s a rule I live by. And I never fight for no reason. That’s another rule. There has to be a reason. A big reason. Like Pitbull. Truth is, if there wasn’t a reason, I’d probably get my ass whupped every time, so I reckon my fisticuffin’ commandments are more self-preservational than moralistical.

I consider breaking my fighting rule and hurling a right hook at Pitbull’s left temple. I could land it before the
oooooh
s end. But, we’re in the cafeteria. And I’m hungry. And it’s just pie.

I turn.

I hear scuffles and whispers behind me as I walk away.

“Didn’t think so, faggot.”

I don’t turn.

Something slams me hard in the back of the head. A bolt of pain slices my temples and my vision blurs. I drop to one knee. I think baseball bat, but that theory is debunked when I’m doused.

Laughter erupts like in a stadium.

It’s a Mountain Dew cocktail. A high school variation of the Molotov cocktail, except you get engulfed in soda instead of flames. It’s done by opening the can, covering the top with duct tape, shaking it like crazy, and throwing it.

I’m drenched and sticky, and my head is throbbing.

I stand and turn.

Pitbull lifts his arms to say
Bring it on
.

Teachers swarm. Nice of them to show up.

Mrs. Hershberger scurries to my side and touches my shoulder.

I shrug her off and walk away.

The Little Ones are terrified.

I plaster a smile over the pain. “Anyone want some Mountain Dew?”

They don’t laugh.

“No worries, guys. Just high school hijinks. Go on, get to class.”

They clean up and leave. Charlie Brittlebones is crying. He hasn’t taken one bite of brownie.

I kneel beside him. “Charlie, this ain’t your fault. Pitbull’s an asshole. You know that. If it wasn’t you, it’d be someone else. Now eat your brownie and get to class.”

He sniffles and takes a mousy nibble.

I wrap my food in a napkin and head to my Subterranean Day Spa and Smoke Shop.

My underground grotto is an abandoned locker room adjacent to an abandoned gymnasium in the basement. It was boarded up a few years back when the new physical fitness emporium was built, but I have my ways in.

The sink in my day spa has one of those faucets that runs for five seconds and then shuts off automatically, so I have to press it a thousand times to rinse my hair. A lump is already forming on the back of my head. I scarf down my cold lunch while I sit under the hand dryer.

Part of me wants to ditch for the rest of the day. My clothes are sticky and my head’s pounding. I can’t deal with teachers today. Or students. Or Little Ones. Or walking. Or talking. Or thinking. Or breathing. Maybe I should stay underground for the duration and chill with my good pal Podiddle. But our dickhead science teacher, Professor Pitstains, has already assigned a big-ass research project, and my partner, Green Day, is expecting me in study hall. I don’t wanna dump the entire assignment in his lap. Not that he’d mind.

I enter study hall through the back door and spot Wynona. She’s sitting front row center. I can only see the back of her head, but I’d recognize Wynona from any angle. Green Day’s sitting rear row right. The farthest seat from the preaching podium. The exact spot I would have chosen. It’s one of those lecture rooms where the rows are tiered so everyone has an unobstructed view of the performing monkey on stage.

Green Day’s real name is Reggie Tibbler, but I call him Green Day because he wears T-shirts with environmental messages and puts Save the Planet stickers all over his books and locker. He’s wicked smart and he reads like crazy. He’s a total geek, but I like him. He’s the only kid in school who’s ever asked me about my scar, and he’s the only person on the planet I’ve ever told how I got it. The football assholes used to bully him, and that’s why I partnered with him in science last year. They saw me hanging out with him and haven’t bothered him since.

“Hey, Green Day.” I slide into the chair next to his.

He blinks his big brown eyes from behind his goofy Buddy Holly glasses. “Good afternoon, Cricket.” He stares me up and down like he’s surprised I’d been walking. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“How come?”

“The cafeteria ruckus, of course.”

Green Day uses fancy, old-fashioned words when he talks, which cracks me up ’cause he’s being totally serious. Unlike me.

“Yes, it was one humdinger of a hootenanny,” I say, grinning.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “To be sure. How’s your head?”

“Sticky.”

We’ve been assigned the Yellowstone Caldera, a very inspiring topic, and Green Day is sketching the internal components of a volcano, which look disgustingly similar to the female reproductive organs.
Holy cow, I wouldn’t want to stick any part of me inside that molten mess
. There’s a giant poster in health class of Olivia Organs, so I know what those hazardous internals look like.

“Yes, Mountain Dew can be extremely difficult to extricate from hair follicles,” Green Day says as he shades a periwinkle fallopian tube. “Trust me, I know. But not as troublesome as bubblegum.” Green Day draws as he talks, which makes it seem like he’s talking to himself. “The cheerleaders gave me a baseball cap last year as I was entering the homecoming rally. They asked me to wear it to show my support for the football team. As you know, I’m not a hat person, but I complied, as I felt it a worthy display of school spirit. It turned out the interior of the cap had been laced with numerous pieces of already-chewed bubblegum. My mother had a frighteningly difficult time remedying that clotted conundrum.” His expression is flat, like he’s telling me how fertilized eggs attach to the uterine wall. “She had to cut the gum out with scissors, which, needless to say, resulted in numerous unsightly bald spots.”

“You wore a lot of hats last fall.”

“A season steeped in irony, to be sure.”

I look up and Wynona is suddenly standing above me. She’s biting her lower lip and tugging an earlobe. “I’m sorry about what happened in the lunchroom,” she says.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say flatly.

“Yes, I do. I don’t know why I just sat there. I wanted to say something, but then you started walking over, and I couldn’t say anything then because it would look like, well, you know, like I was taking your side or something. I am sorry. I hope your head’s okay. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe sometime . . .”

The double doors to the study hall crash open and Pitbull barrels in like a running back through two defensive tackles. His nickname is mostly on account of the way he plays football. Like a rabid dog. Turns out Buster’s a nickname too. His real name is Bartholomew. A sophomore called him Bartholomew once, and the kid missed a week of school, Pitbull pounded him so ugly.
Bartholomew
. What a joke. Like calling Freddy Krueger
Frederick
. Wishful thinking, Mom and Dad. Northern Maine’s butt-plugged to the borders with wishful thinking.

I turn to Wynona, but she’s already talking to a girl a few seats over.

Pitbull’s entourage marches in behind him. Pitbull peruses the room; when he sees me, he smiles big and wide, then flips me the bird. He sees Reggie and converts it to a double bird. Fortunately, Green Day doesn’t notice because he’s busy sketching a bloody discharge erupting out of the top of a volcano.