Stuff We All Get
Stuff We All Get
K.L. Denman
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2011 K.L. Denman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Denman, K. L., 1957-
Stuff we all get [electronic resource] / K.L. Denman.
(Orca currents)
Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-822-6
I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)
PS8607.E64S78 2011A Â Â Â Â Â Â JC813'.6 Â Â Â Â Â Â C2011-903347-X
First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number:
2011929249
Summary:
Fifteen-year-old Zack, a sound-color synesthete, is on a mission to find a musician he relates to.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has
printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council
®
.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by Getty Images
Author photo by Jasmine Kovac
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Contents
The office is a windowless gray cell. The vice-principal across the desk from me says, “A one-week suspension is automatic.” He jabs a skinny finger into the air. “And if this offense is ever repeated, you'll be expelled from this school. Permanently.”
He levels the finger at me, and his nostrils flare. “Do you understand, Zack?”
I nod.
“You'd better. Your conduct has placed you in a terrible position.” He tells me to think about that. It doesn't matter what provoked me, he says. I shouldn't have acted as I did. Then he tells me to wait outside his office until he speaks to my mother.
When Mom shows up, she's still in uniform. The stink eye she gives me lets me know I'll be hearing plenty from her too.
As I sit on the hard chair outside the vice-principal's door, I can't help but think about my “terrible position.” It sucks.
I've been in this town for less than a month. My cop Mom said we'd like it better than the last place.
“It'll be different this time,” she said. I've heard that before. “I know you can make it work for you.”
I've been trying to make it work. I wanted to play on the basketball team, but it was too late in the season for new players. I joined the lunch league instead. Yesterday I also joined them in wearing thong underwear. All the guys were wearing them, like NBA players, and when I tried them, I got it. They're perfect for basketball.
Play during yesterday's game was intense. People were watching and yelling from the stands. We were in the final seconds and ahead by only one point. The other team was on the offensive, and I was playing D. When one of them went up for a shot, I blocked him. I stopped the shot all right. But when he came back down, he took my shorts down with him. I don't know if it was on purpose or what, but my bare butt was out there.
When I reached for my shorts to yank them back up, I stumbled. I ended up hopping around trying to regain my balance. Everyone laughed, and someone snapped a picture. And the other team scored, so we lost the game.
The jerk who took the picture, Pete, probably had it online before we left the change room. By this morning, everyone at school had seen it. I didn't think many people knew my name, but they do now. And they've had a lot to say about my anatomy.
Even Charo, a girl who's been friendly, was giggling about what great pictures I take. One of the girls in her group asked if I wanted the photo to be in the school yearbook. Someone else asked if I'd pose for the flip-side photo. I got comments about cracks and cheeks. More than a few times, people called out, “Hey, Buns!”
It was all immature and annoying, and at first I tried to laugh along. I think the best I did was bare my teeth and go, “Heh, heh.”
As the day wore on, it started to get old. I was gritting my teeth and grunting. It was around then that Pete found me in the hall. He was smirking as he walked up to me and said, “You owe me, Buns.”
I looked at him and said, “Huh?”
He curled his lip. “You're a somebody now, aren't you? Thanks to
moi
. You either owe me for the picture, or you can give me something to make it go away. Your choice.”
I chose to give him something. Bare knuckles to the sneer.
Punching him felt pretty good, but the teacher who was in the hall at the time wasn't impressed.
When we get home from our meeting with the vice-principal, I head into my room. Mom follows me, saying, “I can't believe you lost control like that. You're grounded for the next week. And I've got plenty of chores lined up to keep you busy.”
Update on my position: the butt of butt jokes, friendless and now stuck at home too.
Painting the kitchen walls isn't so bad, at first. I almost enjoy cutting in the edges with a brush. But when it comes to the rolling part, the work gets boring. Up and down, up and down. Flecks of orange paint fly off the roller and speckle my face, arms and hair. Yawning while rolling paint is a bad idea too. The paint tastes terrible. After a while, my arm gets tired and the orange starts to look ugly. There's way too much of it.
I'd like to put on some music, but that could be a problem. I have sound-color synesthesia, which is a fancy way of saying that I see colors when I hear music. Some synesthetes see colors for all sounds. They might hear a siren and see red, or hear a dog bark and see brown. Other synesthetes with their senses cross-wired see color-coded numbers. Some taste words, which I think would be bad. Imagine meeting a hot girl, then hearing her name and tasting dirt.
I see colors in brilliant flashes or in transparent clouds streaming through the air. They don't block out everything else, but they could interfere with getting the paint even. I do
not
want to get stuck redoing this job.
When Mom shows up after her shift, she's startled. She doesn't need to be a synesthete to feel the color. If the color orange had a sound, our kitchen walls would be vibrating with noise.
“Phew,” she says. “It didn't look
that
orange on the sample.”
“That was a dinky little square,” I tell her. “Not a whole room.”
“Good point,” she sighs. “I think we have to do at least one wall over. In white.”
“We?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I'll buy the paint.”
“Thanks a lot,” I mutter.
“Would you rather dig up the garden?” she asks.
“Oh, yeah.”
“All right,” she says. “It's a deal. Tomorrow you work on the garden, and I'll paint.”
I think this is a good deal for me, until the next morning. I figured I would pull a few weeds out of the little plot in the backyard, but no. That's not it.
Mom stands in the yard rubbing her hands together. “Anything grows in this climate. It's going to be great. Lettuce, peas, onions. Tomatoes and potatoes.”
“In February?” I ask.
“No, but we need to prepare the soil now. What else can we grow?” She answers her own question. “Carrots. Maybe some corn too?”
I stare at the puny garden and shake my head. “There's no way you can fit all that in here.”
She waves her arm. “Not all in this little spot. We need to expand. See the markers I've put in?” She points across the lawn to where she's marked the corners of the new plot with rocks. “There are stakes in the garage you can use. Tie string between the stakes and that's the area you need to dig.”
She's marked out half the backyard. “You're kidding, right?” I say.
“Do I look like I'm kidding?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
She doesn't look like she's kidding.
“Maybe I'll do over the paint after all,” I say.
“Maybe not. We had a deal, remember?”
“Some deal,” I mutter. “Not like you told me what was involved.”
“Not like you asked,” she says. “Details are important. Haven't I always told you to get
all
the facts before you make a decision?”
“I never get to
make
any decisions. Why should I bother?”
She folds her arms across her chest and eyes me. “What's with the attitude, Zack?”
“You didn't ask me about moving here. I have no friends. And no driver's license. I had my learner's license in Alberta, Mom. Remember that little detail?”
She sighs. “I told you I was sorry about that. I am. But I had an opportunity, and I had to take it. Some day when you're older⦔
“Almost a year older! Now I have to wait until I'm sixteen.”
“Yes,” she says. “You do. I know that might seem like a long time, but it will go by faster than you think. Especially if you keep busy. And you'll make friends in no time, Zack. You always do.”
“Like that's going to happen while I'm stuck at home
.
With you.” I stomp away into the garage. I find stakes and a hammer. I like the idea of pounding on something.
When I get back outside, Mom's gone. Her and her facts, she's big on those. Me, I'm not exactly against getting all the facts. But I definitely find other stuff more interesting.
I pound in the stakes, tie the string and start digging. As I dig, I consider what stuff I find interesting. I decide digging isn't among my interests. Girls, they're interesting. One of these days, I'll find one that thinks I'm interesting too. I'm pretty sure Charo likes me, but I don't think she's my type. She's nice enough, and she's average-looking. That would be okay if she didn't act so average too. She's always with her little group. She's got that pack mentality.
