Read Between the Lines (8 page)

At the sound of the journal touching the sidewalk, Ginny pokes her head out just a little and looks to see what I put down. She makes a displeased face and hides back in the bag.

Oliver sniffs the bag one more time, then yips, loud and demanding.

Slowly, a filthy hand reaches out of the opening of the bag. And gives me the finger.

No one has ever given me the finger before, and here I am getting it twice in one day. I don’t know what that says about me. But I feel like I’ve deserved it.

At least it makes walking away a bit easier.

Maybe Ginny knows that.

Oliver wags his tail stub and slowly follows, only stopping a few times to whimper and look back at the sleeping bag that is hiding Ginny — a life — completely from the outside world. She has started rocking again. And now, I fear, sobbing.

We stop at the corner one more time to turn back. The bag looks small from here. From here, you can’t tell a person is inside. It looks like a pile of garbage someone left on the street.

Oliver sniffs the air.

“You can go back,” I tell him.

But he stays.

“Well, then, we have a long walk, my friend, because I’m pretty sure they won’t let you on the city bus. Probably not even a taxi.”

He yips happily and walks on.

Oliver stops at each block to wait for the white man-shaped image to appear on the walk sign before crossing. Every so often, he brushes against my leg, and I bend down to give him a pat. My hands smell terrible from his stinky fur, but I don’t mind. When we pass a shop owner watering flowers in a window box, I ask if Oliver can have a drink. I look at the water longingly and also regrettably, as it is making me need to pee. I realize I had that stupid coffee drink and forgot to use the bathroom before I left the café. No way can I hold it until we get home.

We.

I smile.

When Oliver has his fill of water, we carry on. Finally, we come to a park where people walk their dogs, jog, and sit on benches to eat during their lunch breaks.

“Should we go in?” I ask.

Oliver shakes and yips. I remember there are porta-potties somewhere near here, so we wander around until we find them.

I hesitate. Will Oliver wait outside for me?

“I’ve gotta go in there for just a sec,” I tell him. I lean down and scratch behind an ear. “Then we’ll go home. OK, boy?”

He barks. It’s not a happy bark. It sounds more like a
Don’t leave me
one.

I step toward the unoccupied cube on the end. “I’ll be right out,” I say reassuringly.

Oliver tilts his head, then growls low.

I open the door and he trots over, frantically rubbing his side against my legs. Then he hops into the foul little room.

“Um,” I say.

He barks again.

I sigh and join him. It smells terrible inside and I pee as quickly as possible while Oliver waits, watching.

Hovering over the black toilet seat in front of a strange little dog in a disgusting city porta-potty, I start to giggle. When I decided to let the bus take me somewhere, this is the last place I thought I’d end up. Oliver pants and turns in a tight circle, poor thing. I quickly finish and we step outside into the glorious city air.

We walk through the park and are about to exit at the other end when someone with a huge long-haired dog on a leash comes toward us. The dog strains against its red leash and barks at Oliver, who gets low to the ground between me and the other dog and growls. His wire hair stands straight up all the way down his back. His mouth pulls away from his teeth viciously. I realize I should have him on a leash and quickly crouch down to hold him, but he doesn’t even have a collar and I don’t have anything to hold on to except his scrawny body. I wrap my arms around him protectively and feel how truly skinny he is. He’s trembling. I hold tighter.

The other owner struggles as his dog pulls against the leash, clearly intent on tearing Oliver to bits. I hold Oliver tight and wait until the man and his dog pass.

“That’s what leashes are for!” the man yells over his shoulder.

He stomps off angrily, and I give Oliver another reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t pay attention to him,” I say. I carry him a whole block before he finally stops trembling. We stop and I set him down and unwrap another Slim Jim for him.

I squint up toward the street. My house isn’t too far now. My parents won’t be home, though. I imagine bringing Oliver inside and feeding him something nutritious. Maybe I’ll make him a hamburger. Then I’ll fill the kitchen sink with warm sudsy water and give him a nice bath. Maybe I’ll find a big box in the basement and decorate the outside like a present to put Oliver in and surprise my parents. I know they’ll freak out at first, but I also know they’ll love him. Just like I already do. I’ll let him nap on the couch and get some rest, then I’ll take him for another walk and show him the neighborhood.

I can’t remember the last time I looked forward to the rest of the day. I’ve forgotten about the girls and the game I’m missing tonight. And the homework I forgot to bring home. And to feel bad about the usual messages I haven’t received since I lost my part-of-the-girls status.

For the first time, I don’t feel like everyone else.

I feel like me.

This is
me.

“Ready, boy?” I ask when Oliver finishes his Slim Jim.

He wags his bum happily.

As we walk toward home, I realize I also forgot about finding a new trendy café and whatever it was I dreamed of writing. I forgot all about the man with his finger, and how he made me feel. Like a fake. A fraud.

My café fantasy was just that. A dumb dream. But this moment, this walking home with a new friend, is real. Is true. Is what I was looking for. That something more to life I’ve always wanted.

Something to care about.

I walk faster. Oliver starts to run ahead, so I jog after him. He yips at me in a friendly way, like,
I don’t know where we’re going, but I can’t wait to get there!

“Faster!” I yell, and sprint past him.

He yips again, and we charge ahead.

EVERY MORNING AT APPROXIMATELY 7:25,
I pull out of my driveway and head to hell, also known as Little Cindy’s restaurant. I don’t like to talk about work. It’s temporary. My dad’s going to get me a real job at the Ford dealership he works at as soon as I turn twenty-one. Two years seems like forever. But this situation is temporary.

At approximately 7:33, I reach my first traffic light. I always gaze at the green house on the corner and remember the girl who used to live there. Her name was Marcie. She was hot. Long dark hair. Huge tits. Tight jeans. Leather boots. She never looked at me. I heard she went to New York and became a model.

Everyone I graduated with last year seems to have gone off somewhere to become something.

Except me.

At approximately 7:42, I drive past my old high school. I roll down my window, stick out my hand, and give it and everyone inside the finger. Sometimes there are still late arrivals rushing through the parking lot to get to school. I always hope they’ll see me, but they never do.

Sometimes when I stick out my finger, a car behind me honks. Sometimes with approval. Sometimes not. It makes no difference to me.

At approximately 7:53, I obey the
ENTER HERE
sign in the parking lot and park in the farthest corner. I sit in my car and breathe. A lot. I hate my job. My father always says beggars can’t be choosers. He says that someday I’ll be glad I had the experience. I’ll appreciate what I have more.

My dad is kind of like my dad and kind of like my best friend. We do a lot together. We lift weights at the gym. We wash his car and my car. We keep the yard up nice. We watch TV. It’s always been like that since my mother dumped us.

That’s another thing I don’t like to talk about.

I guess you could call what I do before I go inside “car meditation.” If I don’t do some serious controlled breathing and positive visualization (me, not at this job), I’ll lose it. I will do something I will regret.

I am not a patient person. I am not a
tolerant
person. That’s what they told me at school. In mediation every time I got in a fight.

You need to be more tolerant, Dewey. Do you know what that means?

I see myself sitting at a conference table being talked at. My arms are crossed. I’m wearing a black T-shirt. My hands are curled around my biceps. I flex them and feel the muscles tighten. Back then, I thought I was pretty strong. I had no idea what my full potential was. I like to imagine
that
me in the body of
this
me jumping across the table and punching the principal in the face.

Are you listening, Dewey? Do you have anything to say?

I did, but I never bothered to share. No one would believe me anyway.

Loser.
That’s what Mr. Weidenheff used to call me. I’d stare at the stupid motivational posters on the wall telling me to
BE A READER
because
IT WILL TAKE YOU ANYWHERE
and wonder who they were supposed to inspire. Not me, that’s for sure.

Why don’t you just quit school now? You’ll never amount to anything.

That’s what he liked to say to the non-college-track kids. It wasn’t just me. I think telling us we were losers made him feel tough. I showed him what tough is.

It’s wrong to punch your teacher. You could get expelled. So I ended up punching a lot of other poor assholes instead.

There was a lot of crap about breathing slowly. Counting backward. Removing yourself from the situation. Staying away from people who cause you to have strong feelings. Like I had a choice.

No one knew about the Heff’s secret messages to me and the other losers. Unless you count the janitor, who one time was cleaning in the hallway after the Heff kept me late. When I came out of the room, he muttered “asshole” under his breath. I choose to believe he was talking about the Heff and not me. But the janitor wasn’t going to help me. No one was.

The principal and the counselors didn’t know I couldn’t stay away from the person who caused me to have strong feelings because he was my teacher.

But then my teacher shot himself in the head.

Sometimes I wonder if it was the losers like me who pushed him over the edge. But then I force myself not to think about it.

Instead, I practice keeping my cool.

Remember to breathe.

Count backward.

Remove myself from the situation.

Stay away from people who cause me to have strong feelings.

For the most part, this is easy. Except when I get to work. And except when I see our dickhead next-door neighbor boy, who doesn’t lift a finger to do the yard work their house desperately needs. All the houses on our street are neat and tidy. All but the damned house next door. The mom works all the time, and the two kids don’t do crap to help out. I don’t know where their father is. Every Saturday, instead of going outside to mow their lawn or trim their hedges, the little bitch boy races out the door and jumps in his friend’s car to go waste time all day doing who knows what. Sometimes I want to kill him.

The sister is no better. She does the same thing. Always going off with her friends. At least she’s hot and likes to give me a show when she walks down their front steps. Shaking her ass when she sees me watching. Slut.