Swim the Fly (16 page)

When I finally make it around the corner, Sean and Coop are standing there laughing at me.

“I hate you both,” I say.

This only makes Sean and Coop break up even more.

“I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

Coop pretends to look hurt. “Can you believe this guy?” He smacks Sean’s arm. “Talk about ungrateful. Did I or did I not cover for your screwup?”

“Yeah,” I say. “By making me look like a jackass in front of that guy. Not to mention the two hot chicks behind us in line.”

I try to storm off, but all I can do is my stiff-legged totter, which kind of dampens the desired effect.

Coop and Sean easily catch up with me, but I don’t even look at them.

“Screw off.”

“You’re never going to see those people again,” Sean says. “Why do you even care?”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if it was you.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Coop says. “Jeez. You’d think you’d be happy. At least now we can get into the party.”

“Not me,” I say. “I’m not going.”

“Oh, yes you are.” Coop points a finger at me. “Don’t make me have to poke you.”

“Don’t even think about it.” I waddle faster.

Coop picks up his step. Sean is right behind him.

“Are you going to the party?” Coop’s finger hovers in the air.

“No.”

Coop jabs his finger into my chest.

“Ow! Crap!” The pain sends a shock wave through my whole body.

“Are you going to the party?” Coop asks.

“Can’t you see how —”

Coop stabs me in the shoulder.

“Goddamn it!” I wince and cough. I’d punch Coop in the face, but the bones in my arms have turned into Twizzlers.

“Leave him alone,” Sean says.

“No.” Coop glares at Sean. “I’m being a good friend here.” He turns back to me and sticks out his forefinger again. “Do you need more tough love?”

“Please,” I say. It hurts so bad I start to laugh. “I’ll go. I’ll go. Just stop poking me.”

Coop nods and smiles. “You’ll thank me someday.”

I’d like to thank him right now. By tackling him and feeding him some grass. But I have to conserve the limited energy I’ve got left for what is sure to be a long, excruciating traipse home.

SEAN AND I ARE HAVING DINNER
at Cooper’s house tonight. Coop’s sister, Angela, is going to drive us to Ronnie Hull’s party, but she said she wasn’t picking anyone up, so Coop invited us over. Mom’s waived the we-eat-dinner-as-a-family rule because Pete’s away.

So here we are, sitting around Coop’s kitchen table with his family. My overtaxed muscles are still screaming at me, but I’ve muffled their cries with a handful of Advil.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to Kelly when I see her tonight, but nothing’s coming to mind. Part of me thinks I’ll just improvise, but most of me knows that won’t work; I’ll just end up all tongue-tied and stuck in my head. The more I roll it around, the more nervous I get. I need to find something to distract myself with.

I let my eyes wander around Coop’s kitchen. It’s way darker than mine. Everything painted olive green.
The walls, the cabinets. Even the fridge. His house smells like a mixture of sweaty socks and rubber and hard-boiled eggs.

Mr. Redmond is at one end of the table, with his elbows propped up on either side of his empty plate. There’s something Ichabod Crane about him. If Ichabod Crane were a forty-five-year-old machinist with thick greasy hair and dirty calloused hands.

“. . . and then I had to reach down into this vat of filthy old oil to try and find the goddamn ratchet that Al had dropped,” Mr. Redmond says, chewing openmouthed on a piece of nicotine gum. “Right up to my friggin’ armpit.” He gives a little karate chop at his shoulder to show how far. “I shit you not.”

“Walter.” Mrs. Redmond shuffles her Winnie-the-Pooh body over to the table and places a platter of fish sticks down in front of us. “Language.”

Mr. Redmond laughs. “These kids hear worse at school every day, I’m sure.”

“He’s right, Mom,” Angela says, reaching her wiry arm out and forking one fish stick onto her plate. She’s sort of pretty, I guess. Tanned, smooth skin. Long dark hair. But she acts like she’s already an adult. A really old adult. And she bosses Coop around like he’s a dog. So it doesn’t make you like her very much. Or even want to imagine her naked. At least not on a regular basis. “If Lower Rockville High School were a movie, it’d be rated R for sure.”

“Well, I’d like to have a G-rated dinner, thank you very much.” Mrs. Redmond carries three bowls over from the oven. Creamed spinach, canned corn, and Tater Tots. “We have guests.” She puts the bowls down, takes her seat, and blows a phantom string of hair from her face.

Mr. Redmond and Coop grab at the food like if they don’t get theirs right away, there won’t be any left. Mrs. Redmond takes her time placing her paper napkin in her lap, and Angela seems satisfied chopping up her single piece of fish into a dozen pieces.

Sean and I wait until everyone serves themselves before filling our plates.

“Anyway,” Mr. Redmond says, “my point is . . .” He blinks hard, then opens his eyes wide. “I don’t remember what my point was. I’m losing my mind.” He pops some corn into his mouth and chews it right along with his nicotine gum.

“How’s swim team going?” Mrs. Redmond asks, smiling.

“Pretty good,” I say.

Coop laughs. “Matt volunteered to do the hundred-yard butterfly.”

I narrow my eyes at Coop and send him a wave of hate.

Mr. Redmond turns toward me and tilts his head. The thin waddle of skin that’s strung from his chin to his neck sways. “The butterfly? Are you out of your nut? Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “They needed someone.”

“They’re looking for people to give vasectomies to elephants,” Mr. Redmond says. “You gonna volunteer for that, too?”

“No,” I say.

Sean smiles. “He’s doing it to try and impress a girl.”

I spin my head and shoot him an I-want-to-stab-you-with-my-fork look.

“Ahhh.” Mr. Redmond nods. “Now we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty.”

“That’s pretty stupid.” Angela trains her dark judgmental eyes on me.

Mrs. Redmond picks at some corn that’s stuck in her teeth. “I think it’s romantic.”

“Mom, please, that’s ’cause you’re a hundred years old,” Angela says. “Nobody’s going to get all worked up over some guy doing the butterfly. Trust me.”

“You don’t know this particular girl, obviously,” Coop says.

“That’s not why I’m doing it, anyway.” I feel my cheeks prickle. “I just wanted to challenge myself.” This is great. It’s not like I wasn’t nervous enough about the party tonight. The last thing I need is this conversation swirling around me when I’m trying to talk to Kelly.

“Listen.” Mr. Redmond gestures with a fork-speared Tater Tot. “We’ve all done stupid shit to impress a girl at some time or other. I could tell you stories.”

“Please don’t,” Angela says.

“Come on, Dad.” Coop sits up tall.

“Remember. We’re eating, dear,” Mrs. Redmond says.

Mr. Redmond puts down his utensils and rubs his hands together. “Okay.” He leans forward. “This one girl. I won’t name names. Your mother. She was working the counter at a delicatessen. You know, slicing meats, doling out the salads. That kind of crap.”

“Not that story, Walter. Please.” Mrs. Redmond’s neck flushes.

“As I was saying,” Mr. Redmond continues. “This unnamed girl. Your mother. She was a little ball of fire back then. A real alley cat. And the mouth on her. She pretends to be all Mother Teresa now, but let me tell you something. The words that were flying from her lips could have wilted lettuce.”

Mrs. Redmond shakes her head. “That’s just not true.”

I look over to see if Coop is embarrassed by any of this, but he’s just smiling big, watching his dad. Angela, on the other hand, looks disgusted.

“So I went in to order a hot pastrami one afternoon and I see this anonymous girl. Who looked remarkably similar to the woman sitting across the table from me right now. Only twenty years younger. And I say to myself, now here’s some hot pastrami that I could
really
sink my teeth into.”

Angela cringes. “Gross, Dad. I don’t need to hear
this.” She pushes her chair back and stands. “May I please be excused?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Redmond says.

Mr. Redmond waits for Angela to leave before going on. “Anyway. The deli is packed with customers, and when my turn comes, I just keep ordering thing after friggin’ thing because I want to keep talking to this little spitfire. A pound of turkey breast. An entire two-foot salami. Three pounds of macaroni salad. Like that. Nothing I wanted. Nothing I could actually afford. But once I got started, I couldn’t stop. And I figured that she must think I’m loaded if I can be ordering so much crap. I had her laughing and smiling and it was like we were the only two people on the planet.”

Mrs. Redmond shakes her head. “It sounds all sweet and charming, but wait.”

“Okay, well, then, this prick behind me pokes me in the shoulder blade with his umbrella and he’s all, ‘Hey, I’d like to order sometime this century.’ So I said, ‘Well, buddy, you better take a seat, because I’m just getting started.’”

“The poor man was in his seventies,” Mrs. Redmond says.

Mr. Redmond waves this away. “I don’t remember that. All I remember is this cocky bastard mumbles something under his breath and other people start laughing. So really, I don’t have any other choice but to give him a
little smack upside the head with my salami. I mean, he was making me look like an ass.”

“You were doing a pretty good job of that yourself, Walter,” Mrs. Redmond says.

“Whatever. Anyway, the guy screams and grabs his nose like I broke it or something.”

“You
did
break it,” Mrs. Redmond adds.

“
Fractured
it. Hey, is it my fault the guy had weak cartilage? It was a salami for Christ’s sake. Of course, I realize now, hindsight being what it is, that maybe I shouldn’t have whacked him with the salami.” Mr. Redmond smirks. “Instead, I probably should have used the block of Parmesan.”

Coop and Sean laugh.

Mrs. Redmond gives Coop’s dad a disapproving stare. “That’s not funny, Walter.”

“The point is,” Mr. Redmond fixes his eyes on me. “I lost myself because I was transfixed by a female of the opposite sex. So I know from whence you come.” He grabs my aching forearm, pinning it to the table. His hand feels like burlap. “Little advice from the worldly wise. Women have no idea what’s going on in a guy’s mind. If they did, they’d run screaming. So keep up a good front. Never let them know the real you. My motto is, why tell the truth when a lie will do just as well?”

“Just ignore him, Matthew,” Mrs. Redmond says. “Walter doesn’t mean any of that. He likes to tease people.”

I spread the creamed spinach around my plate with my fork. Mr. Redmond’s right about the things that fly through my head sometimes. I’m sure most of the good-looking girls I meet wouldn’t be too pleased to know that I’m usually picturing them in various states of undress. Of course, I don’t need Coop’s dad telling me not to go confessing this; I’ve done some dumb things in my life so far, but nothing quite
that
stupid.

I lightly knock the wooden underside of the table, hoping I haven’t just jinxed myself for the party tonight.

ANGELA IS DRIVING US
to Ronnie Hull’s house in her new-to-her two-thousand-one impulse-red Toyota Corolla. Angela is in love with her car. She talks about it like it’s her genius child. It gets the best gas mileage; it has the best stereo; it has the most comfortable seats. She keeps the car in showroom condition. You are not allowed to eat in it; you are not allowed to wear your shoes in it; and she would prefer you didn’t breathe too much while you were sitting in it. She won’t let you lower the windows, because she doesn’t want the outside air contaminating the interior. She keeps the inside temperature a perfect, noncorrosive sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

Angela pulls the car up to the curb. “Out, brat,” she says.

“Thanks.” Coop hands over fifteen dollars and grabs the green plastic bag with the “beer.” We throw open the doors and I slowly unfold myself from the backseat. I seem to be stiffening up with each passing hour.