It Looks Like This (4 page)

Everything is still wet the next morning.

It stormed for a long time, into the night. I woke up twice from the thunder, the last time at four thirteen in the morning. I could even hear the thunder in my dreams.

When I have to get up for school, it’s over, but the whole world is soggy.

Toby and I walk up the road toward school, past houses and houses that all look like mine.

Whenever we pass a block, I slow down and kind of look left and right down the side streets.

After a while Toby says, What are you looking for?

I say, Nothing, Toby.

But my face flushes a bit and I think she notices because she says, Then why do you keep looking down every block?

She always notices things.

I say, I’m just looking to see how much water’s backed up. Or if any trees fell down in the storm.

Toby doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at me as we walk. I try not to look at her but I can tell she’s staring, so finally I turn my head a bit and say, What?

She looks away and shrugs.

She says, Your face is all red, that’s all.

I don’t say anything. But I keep looking down the streets.

Toby stops bothering me about it, though.

A couple blocks before the one with all the rich people, I look down one of the streets and see an old, faded blue Ford Bronco parked in the driveway of a house.

The house is a two-story, like ours. White trim, red bricks, two trees turning orange with the fall. Like ours.

I stare at it for a bit, actually stopping this time. Right above me is the street sign: Hyacinth Court. I read over the white letters of the sign a couple times.

Then Toby and I go on.

I don’t look down any more streets after that.

Mom drives me to the mall.

I don’t want to go but it’s getting late and I know I have to at some point, and I figure I might as well just do it.

Toby comes along and she and Mom go off to look at new school clothes even though school started last month. But a week ago Toby tore her pink pants and got mud on her good shirt while she was at school.

She says it was because she slipped on the wet ground when she went outside during lunch and landed right on the curb and tore her overalls and smeared her shirt.

But she looked a bit funny when she told Mom about it and I wondered.

They go off to look at clothes and leave me alone, and I walk over to the Grand Slam store.

On the way I pass by a lot of teenagers, kids a couple years older than me, boys and girls holding hands or friends in groups just wandering around.

I don’t know why anyone would go to the mall for fun.

I walk into the Grand Slam store and stop at the entrance. It is big and packed with stuff, sports things like jerseys and baseballs and running shoes and tennis rackets. Stuff all over the place, on tables and displays and on shelves that go all the way up to the ceilings. It’s ugly and it kind of overwhelms me, and I just stand there.

Someone says, Can I help you?

I look at him. It’s a kid a few years older, a senior or maybe just out of high school. He has on khakis and a purple polo shirt with a small yellow logo in the corner. The ends of the shirt hang untucked over his belt. His hair is a bit greasy and he’s thin, thinner than me.

I say, Yeah.

He says, Well, come on in, then.

I walk in.

I make sure to watch Dad’s face when he opens my present.

I hand it to him in the morning, before work. I have to get up earlier than usual to catch him before he leaves.

He takes it in his hands and looks at it, a box Mom helped me wrap in colorful blue and yellow paper. Here and there it says
GETTING OLD
in cartoony letters.

Dad smiles just a bit and says, What’s this?

I say, Happy birthday.

And smile back a little.

He opens it and I look up from the box and watch his face. The creases around his eyes and forehead look heavier than normal because it’s so early. Some steam from his coffee drifts up and brushes against his cheek, puffing out when he breathes through his nose.

The corners of his mouth turn up just a hair when he sees what it is. I watch the creases near his eyes shift and grow. It looks like his eyes are smiling.

Dad says, Super Bowl Thirty-One.

He is reading the side of the ball, reading it through the box.

Dad says, The Packers won that one.

I say, Yeah.

I knew he’d know. Dad opens the box and very carefully takes the ball out, holding it with two hands like it is made of glass.

He turns it over in his hands. Very slowly, he brushes his fingers over the label.

He says, This is great, Mike.

I just sort of smile a little more.

He looks at it for a long time with that small smile, not saying anything. Then he looks up.

He says, Do you want to throw it around a bit with me sometime?

I look down. I can feel my smile getting wider but thinner, lips pressed together like I do in photos sometimes, and hope he doesn’t notice.

I say, Yeah.

Sometimes I get to French class early.

It’s because I have Algebra right before. Algebra’s supposed to be in the Math Wing, which is really just a bunch of classrooms all in the same corner of the building. That’s where most of the math classes are.

They do the same thing with other subjects. There’s a Science Wing and a History Wing and an Elective Wing.

But then when the school got too big a while back, they had to build a whole new section that they still call the New Wing even though it’s about twenty years old. And some of the classes are in there.

Both Algebra and French are in the New Wing.

So sometimes I go to my locker in between, but usually I just bring my stuff for both classes and go straight from Algebra to French.

I do this two days after my dad’s birthday.

It’s cool because normally no one’s there yet so I have the whole place to myself, except Madame Girard. But she’s always at her desk not paying attention anyway so it’s like I’m there alone.

Sometimes I get there before the last person in the class before mine leaves. So I watch them go, and then a minute later the next person in my class shows up and it’s like I saw the transition between periods that usually only teachers see, and it’s a little weird.

This day Sean is already there.

Madame Girard isn’t even in the room. She’s talking to Mr. Pietre, who is a senior English teacher. I pass her in the hall.

Sean looks up when I walk in, and I sort of stop for a second because I’m not expecting to see anyone and it’s just a bit off-putting.

We look at each other. There is a moment where we just look at each other and it’s like everything else pauses.

And then I walk in and take my seat, one in front and to the right of his.

He says, Hey.

He says it right as I’m sitting down, so I’m just barely hovering over the seat, staring at my hand flat on my desk supporting my weight.

There’s another pause and for just a second I know I can make this pause go on forever if I want.

And then I sit down and turn and say,

Hey.

My voice is hoarse from not speaking in a while so it comes out rough.

He says, I’m not really new.

I look at him.

I say, Huh?

He says, To the school. I’m not a new kid or anything.

I say, Okay.

Neither of us says anything for a while.

Then I say, Why’d you start this class so late?

I watch his face relax a bit, like he’s waiting for me to ask this.

He says, I was supposed to be in this period, but they put me in another one and it conflicted with Basketball. So it took them a long time to sort it out.

I say, Oh.

He says, I’m supposed to be in Basketball fourth period, but they put me in English in fourth period. So I had to get the counselor to change it around. It kind of messed up my whole schedule.

While he is talking he looks less and less relaxed, like he doesn’t like what he is saying but he can’t help it. I don’t understand why. He is drumming his fingers on his desk, a steady
brrrum brrrum brrrum.

I say, Oh.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks down.

His fingers go
brrrum brrrum brrrum.

I say, That must’ve been annoying.

Brrrum.

He looks up. His eyes fix straight on me like he’s trying to look through me, and the longer he does the more I start to feel like he can, like he is seeing the dusty chalkboard and the poster of conjugations and Madame Girard’s desk, all of it right through me.

I stare back because I don’t know what else to do, and all I can think about is how green those eyes are.

Then the corner of his mouth turns up, just barely.

He says, I’m Sean.

I say, Yeah. Mike.

And then people start coming inside the classroom.

Me and Ronald and Jared go to Ronald’s house after school. I don’t have to walk Toby home because Mom’s picking her up today.

We meet up just outside the main entrance after seventh period and get on Ronald’s bus with him.

The school has a rule that you can only take your own bus. You have to fill out an ID form at the beginning of the year and give it to the driver, so he knows all the kids on his bus. He’s not supposed to let other kids on.

But Ronald’s driver is this old guy who doesn’t care.

So we get on and ride over to Ronald’s neighborhood, which is right next to mine. It’s an older neighborhood, though, and Ronald’s house is only one floor. But it’s pretty cool.

We go in and Ronald dumps his backpack right near the door and walks straight to the kitchen. He grabs three Coke cans and puts two of them on the kitchen table.

He cracks open the third can and starts guzzling, his Adam’s apple moving up and down with each gulp, staring at Jared and me the whole time.

Then he tilts his head back dramatically and lifts the can a couple inches above his mouth, letting the last drops fall in.

He crushes the can in his hand and lets out a long, roaring belch.

Then he says, Halo?

Jared grabs his can from the table and says, Sure, dude.

I’m not great at Halo.

I mean I’m not that bad, but definitely not as good as Ronald. Mom doesn’t like violent video games, so we don’t have it at home, so I don’t get to practice as much.

But I’m all right, I guess.

We’re all on the blue team, playing against other kids online. Ronald and Jared are out killing the other team and trying to get their flag. I have the sniper rifle, so I’m perched on top of some high building or something, looking out for red team people to shoot.

Ronald says, So I found out that chick’s name.

I blink and say, What chick?

Ronald says, That hot girl who took our chair from lunch.

The game erupts in a bunch of explosions. Jared’s character jumps in a little ship and starts flying around in random directions.

Jared says, That was like three weeks ago.

Ronald says, Yeah, and she didn’t get any less hot in three weeks.

Jared holds down the fire button, and his ship starts shooting at whatever he’s facing.

Ronald says, Dude, watch out, you almost got another blue guy.

Jared tries to turn the ship around, but it careens out of control. He crashes into a cliff wall and blows up.

He leans back and says, So what’s her name?

Ronald says, Leah.

I see a little movement of red through my rifle scope. I hold still for a second, and then it comes back and I shoot.

The game says, Head shot!

Ronald says, Nice, Mike.

I say, She’s older. Like a junior at least.

Ronald shrugs.

He says, What can I say, I like older women.

The front door opens. None of us turn to look at it. It’s just Ronald’s mom.

She walks into the living room a minute later and says, Hey, boys.

I say, Hey, Mrs. Pilsner.

She says, Mike, come on, it’s Jeri.

I don’t say anything. It’s kind of weird to call adults by their first names.

She says, Ronald, you need to move your backpack.

Ronald groans but doesn’t take his eyes off the game.

His mom says, Ronald.

Ronald says, Mom, I’m like a second away from getting the flag.

His mom says, I don’t even know what that means.

Ronald says, Mom, okay, I’ll move it in just a second. I gotta kill these kids.

More explosions come from the TV, and Ronald’s character suddenly does a flip into the air and lands hard, dead.

Ronald grabs the headset and shouts into the microphone:

Fag fag fag fag fag fag fag —

Ronald’s mom says, Ronald! Jesus!

Some laughter comes from the other team through the TV speakers.

Ronald says, Mom, they’re totally ganging up on me.

His mom says, I don’t care, I don’t want to hear that from you! Besides, they’re like twelve years old.

Jared says, Some of them are probably thirty.

Ronald’s mom rolls her eyes and walks over and picks up the headset from the carpet. She says,

Sorry, friends! My Ronnie needs his din-din.