The Less-Dead (6 page)

Carson and I grab our mikes and amps from the closet and carry them into the living room. I’m still feeling a little weird about a guy having a crush on me, so I avoid eye contact with Will, wondering why I didn’t pick up on the clues—the ones that were obvious to Carson. Or maybe I did? I just don’t know. The whole thing is confusing.

Carson hands me my guitar. “Okay, let’s do it,” he says. “No covers. We’re gonna play our original songs. Will, you’re the judge. Let us know if we suck or if we’re ready for the Austin music scene.”

“All right,” Will says. “And just so you know, I’m a tough critic. I won’t kiss your asses if I think you suck.”

“Fair enough,” Carson says.

Carson cranks up his amp and begins with his political masterpiece, “Flesh-Eating Zombies,” which is supposed to be a satire about American imperialism. The song makes absolutely no sense, but I figure if I play my guitar loudly enough, Will won’t be able to hear the god-awful lyrics. It seems to work. After that, we harmonize on some bluesy folk tunes, and last I perform my favorite—an acoustic piece called “Devil Inside My Head.” It’s got a long harmonica solo. While I play and sing and blow on my harp, I begin to feel fairly normal again. I guess it’s the music, which always seems to calm me down. When I’m finished, I look at Will. He smiles appreciatively. Carson’s right. Everything’s cool. At least, I hope so.

“So, what do you think?” Carson asks Will.

“Honestly, I think you guys are ready for a downtown gig. Have you ever been to the Red Room?”

“Never heard of it,” Carson says.

“Oh, we’ve got to go, then. It’s this really cool underground club on Seventh and Neches. All ages. It caters to a gay crowd, but there are plenty of straight people who go too. Are you guys… okay with that?”

“Oh, yeah,” Carson says. “No problem.”

Will looks at me. “How about you, Noah?”

“Um, sure, that’s fine.” My voice cracks a little. I imagined hot
girls
falling all over me and Carson at our first gig. Not hot
guys
. But I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.

Will smiles. “Great. I’ve done some poetry slams there, and I’ve written a few songs for Kevin Watson. He’s a guitarist who plays there most Friday nights.”

“Cool. Will we get to hear him play?” Carson says.

Will shifts in his chair. “If it’s all right with you guys, I’d rather not book the gig on the same night Kevin’s playing. We were, well … seeing each other and things didn’t work out.”

So there it is. Will was seeing a guy. Carson gives me an I-told-you-so look. “We understand, Will,” Carson says. “No problem.”

“Thanks. Anyway, Rob Ramirez is the owner. He’s always looking for new bands. I’ll talk to him, introduce you guys. In the meantime, record a few songs this week and he’ll listen to the CD. I’m sure he’ll invite you to play.”

Carson flashes me a goofy grin, and I can’t help breaking out into a smile. “Yeah! We’re doing it, baby!” Carson yells. “Austin! Here we come!” He falls down on his knees and bows before Will. “We’re not worthy, O great one!”

We’re all cracking up now—that is, until Carson’s father walks through the front door. “What the
hell
is going on?”

Carson looks up. “Dad? Why are
you
home?” A legitimate question. The DPCP’s a big-time workaholic and never gets home before eight.

Carson’s mom follows right behind. I can tell she’s been drinking martinis with her tennis friends, but unfortunately the DPCP is stone-cold sober. “Hi, honey.” She waves to Carson and smiles at Will and me. “The car broke down and your father had to pick me up. How’d the interview at Kinkos go?”

The color drains from Carson’s face. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He tries to stand but can’t get off his knees.

The DPCP’s eyes narrow into tiny slits. “You didn’t go to the interview, did you? After I set the whole thing up? Talked to the supervisor and vouched for you?”

“Uh, well, you see, I kind of … forgot.”

“Forgot! I don’t believe this.” The DPCP’s eyes scan the rest of the room. He points to Will. “Who the hell are
you?
And why are you wearing my robe?”

“Dear, don’t be rude,” Carson’s mom says.

Will stands up. “Um, sir, I can explain everything. This isn’t your son’s fault. You see, I—”

“He’s our
friend
, Dad,” Carson says. “His name’s Will. He needs a place to stay and—”

“Wait a minute. A place to
stay
?” Now the DPCP turns his wrath on me. Until now I’ve seriously doubted Satan’s existence, but looking into Carson’s dad’s eyes, I’m a true believer. “Okay, now I get it!” he screams. “Those
church
people put you up to this, didn’t they? I should have known.” He points an accusing finger at Carson. “What’d you do, tell
them I’ve got money? Tell them it’s no problem for me to take
strangers
into my own home, who, for all I know, want to rip me off blind? Sorry, no, uh-uh, this is
not
happening!”

This is really getting scary. Carson’s dad looks like he’s about to have a massive stroke. The vein on his forehead is throbbing.

“No!” I blurt out. “That’s not it at all! And besides, Will’s staying with me. At my house. We were just about to leave.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever stood up to the DPCP, and let me tell you, it feels good. He glances at me, then at Will, and surprisingly looks a little embarrassed about his tirade. For a second, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. He takes a seat on the sofa and puts his head in his hands. Carson’s mom sits beside him and whispers something in his ear.

“I’m sorry about the robe, sir,” Will says. “And I didn’t take anything from your house. I swear. You can check.”

Carson’s father sighs deeply. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Keep the goddamn robe. Just … get on your way.”

Carson, Will, and I exchange glances. We head to the kitchen and stuff Will’s clothes from the dryer back into the grocery bags. Will goes to the bathroom and puts on clean jeans and a T-shirt, and as we’re about to walk out the back door, the DPCP pipes up. “Oh, no! Not you, Carson. You’re staying right here. You’re going to call Kinkos and explain to the supervisor why you didn’t show up today. And then you’re going to
beg
for another interview.”

Carson’s about to mouth off to his father, but I stop him. “Dude,
don’t
. Just do what he tells you. I’ve got everything under control. I’ll call you later, okay?”

Will puts a hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Noah’s right,” he says. “Listen to your dad. And thanks for everything. Really. I had a great time.”

Carson looks up. His eyes are glassy. He’s holding back tears. “I hate the son of a bitch.”

“Nah,” Will says. “You don’t hate him. You just think you do. Anyway, remember, the three of us are going to the Red Room real soon. You guys are gonna
rock.”

“LOOK, DADDY
, it’s Noah! And he brought a friend! Now we can play a
real
game!”

Will and I just stepped into my backyard. On the small field of grass, right beyond the patio, a baseball game is in session, with Melanie up at bat and my dad on the pitcher’s mound. When my father sees us, he races to the shed, tosses us each a glove, and says, “Spread out, boys. She’s hitting solid today. There’s a man on first and third. No outs.” Like I said before, baseball’s my father’s other religion. And let me tell you, he’s a fanatic.

“Cool.” Will slips on the glove and gives it a firm punch. He doesn’t even question the invisible men on base or the fact that my dad didn’t bother to say hello. He runs out to center field and I take first. Meanwhile Melanie swings her bat hard, warming up for a homer. I’ve got to hand it to the kid. Most girls her age play softball, but not my sister. For
her, it’s baseball or nothing. And not only is she the best hitter on her team, she’s one fearless catcher.

Right now she’s a little wound up and misses the first pitch. “Take it easy, Mel,” my dad says. “Concentrate. Wait for the ball. Remember? The secret is
patience
and
self-control.”

Two fruits of the Holy Spirit
. It’s amazing how my dad’s been brainwashing Melanie and me with Bible verses since birth. Like just the other day, when I was weed-whacking, he made a joke, saying, “Cursed is the ground … by the sweat of your brow you will eat your food.” Hilarious, right? I’m on the road to recovery, but I’m still in need of a serious deprogramming.

On the next pitch, Melanie connects and sends the ball flying over Will’s head. “Whoa, would you look at that!” Will yells. He scrambles to get it, but by the time he does, she’s home.

“Yay! That’s three runs in!” Melanie grabs the bat and gives home plate a whack. The kid is a major show-off, but since she’s cute, no one really minds. Including me. She follows up with a single and a triple, and after she delivers another big hit to the outfield, my dad says, “Okay, Melanie, remember our deal?” He taps his watch. “It’s six o’clock. Time to go inside and do your homework.”

“Aw, already?”

“Yes, you know the rules.”

Will jogs toward us and tosses the ball to my father. “Hey, Melanie, those were some hits! And what do you know?” He points to her hat. “You’re an Angels fan!”

She beams. “Yeah! Are you?”

“Definitely. That’s my home team. I moved to Austin when I was about your age, but I’m originally from L.A.”

“Really? Hey, I’ve got a ball signed by Orlando Cabrera. You want to see it?”

“Sure.”

“Is that okay, Daddy? Can I show Noah’s friend the ball, and then do my homework?”

“Um, okay, honey.” My father smiles and holds out his hand to Will. “Sorry, I guess I got carried away with the game and didn’t introduce myself. I’m John Nordstrom, Noah’s dad.”

“I know,” Will says as they shake. “I’ve heard your radio show many times. And I have a friend who’s a huge fan. I’d recognize your voice anywhere. My name’s Will.”

My dad is flattered, but since humility is one of his favorite virtues, he just nods. “Nice to meet you, Will.”

I want to say,
Congratulations, Dad. You officially met a gay person
. But I don’t think that’ll go over too well.

“Come on!” Melanie grabs Will’s hand and pulls him toward the house. “I’ve got all the Angels trading cards too!”

Suddenly my father and I are alone. It’s weird being here in the backyard with him. Before I got sent to the Rock, when I was playing for McCallum High, he’d always drag me back here to practice my pitching. I hate to admit it, but my father taught me how to throw my infamous curveball—the one no one could hit last season.

“So …,” my dad says, “is Will a new friend from church?”

It takes a lot of willpower, but I somehow manage
not
to roll my eyes. I swear, if I had a redneck gunslinger for a friend, as long as he went to King of Glory Christian Center, well,
that would be just fine. “No, Dad. Will’s not from church. I met him on the Drag Saturday. It turns out he goes to my school. In fact, I was going to ask you a favor. You see—”

“Your school? You mean he goes to the
Rock
?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

He shakes his head. “Noah, you know how I feel about your choice of friends lately, and if this boy goes to the Rock, well, I can only imagine what kind of trouble—”

“Dad,” I say, “Will needs a place to stay. He’s a foster kid, and right now he’s got nowhere to go.”

My father’s quiet for a while. “Nowhere at all? Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah. His social worker’s been looking, but she can’t find him a home. I’m pretty sure he’s been sleeping out in the woods.”

“The woods?” He sighs. “Well, we can’t have that. I’ll talk to your mother. If she says it’s all right, he can stay with us this evening. I’ll get in touch with some people tomorrow. We’ll figure something out.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

It’s a done deal. My mother would never turn Will away. In fact, she’s probably already invited him to stay for dinner. I hand my father my glove, the one he bought me for Christmas last year, right before baseball season. He’d broken it in for me, oiled it and everything. He runs his fingers over the leather and sighs again. “Come on, let’s see if Mom needs help in the kitchen.”

Inside, my mom is slicing mushrooms. “Noah, your friend Will is having dinner with us. Why don’t you set the table?” She hands me a stack of dishes, and my father a hunk
of cheese. “John, you can grate the Parmesan. And remember, use a delicate touch.”

My dad shakes his head and smiles. My mom’s the only person who can get away with bossing him around. As he slides the hunk of cheese over the grater, he says, “Laura, it turns out Will needs a place to sleep tonight. He’s in foster care, and apparently has nowhere to stay. I’ll see what I can do about the situation tomorrow. Anyway, is that okay with you? If it’s not, I can—”

“Of course it’s okay.” She turns to me. “Noah? Is Will completely alone? No family at all?”

“Well, his parents died when he was ten. They were killed in a car wreck. Since then, he’s been in different foster homes, and bounced around a lot.”

“Oh.” She dumps the mushrooms into a pan of sizzling butter and frowns. “How sad. He seems like such a nice boy. John, when you’re done grating the cheese, you can put clean sheets on the guest bed. And don’t forget the pillowcases. They’re in the linen closet.”

“Yes, dear.”

When we’re all seated at the dinner table, my dad bows his head. “Lord, we thank you for this wonderful meal, and for our guest, Will. Please bless our fellowship tonight, and our conversation around the dinner table. In Jesus’s name we pray, Amen.”

Short and sweet. Glory, hallelujah.

“Amen,” Will says. He opens his eyes and looks around. “Thank you so much for inviting me, Mr. and Mrs. Nordstrom. The food smells delicious.”

Will sounds like he’s kissing up to my parents, but the
truth is he’s totally sincere. And starving. My mom passes him the basket of French bread and he rips off a huge piece.

“We’re glad you’re here,” she says. “And you’re more than welcome to spend the night. John’s going to look into a few possibilities for you tomorrow. He’ll try and get you settled.”