Twisted (9 page)

The concussion turned out to be minor. The only damage was that Hannah’s team lost and she had to sit out the next four games. She sat them out on Yoda’s lap. He claimed that her black eye was cute. If aliens had crawled out of my sister’s forehead and nested in her nose hair, he would have called it cute.

The day after Hannah’s accident, Dad had to leave for some mysterious meeting in Omaha or Topeka or God Knows Where. He and Mom had a screaming match in the kitchen before he left. The postal look on his face when he stalked out to the taxi made me think I should steal the gun hidden in his bottom drawer and toss it in the river.

Mom kept busy photographing dogs in Santa hats and antlers for other people’s Christmas cards. I helped her by combing the real-estate listings for better studio space. She said it was impossible to find a landlord who wouldn’t mind that most of her clients had four legs and unpredictable bathroom needs. I suggested again that she should take pictures of people, who were generally better at using a toilet. That made her laugh.

We didn’t talk about Dad or Omaha.

Bethany was able to ditch her crutches a couple days after Hannah got creamed. I was afraid this meant the end of our relationship. Not that it was exactly a relationship, not quite. But she would sit next to me at lunch a couple times a week and she grabbed or punched my arm an average of 1.2 times a day and she waved to me in the halls and she hadn’t blocked my screen name, so there was hope. I did push-ups every night until my arms shook.

Chip and I had reached a standoff. He didn’t like me talking to Bethany, standing near Bethany, or kissing the ground that Bethany walked on—that much was obvious—but he just stared at me like a gorilla and cracked his knuckles whenever I was around. The knuckle-cracking was supposed to intimidate me. Maybe if I was a walnut or a pecan. And the staring? He had miles to go before he came close to competing with my father.

Dad came home after four days spent in God Knows Where. He didn’t say anything when he walked in, just set his suitcase in the laundry room and went straight downstairs.

Two weeks into October, I finally figured out how to get Gormley across the Tophet sulfur pits. All he had to do was to lash himself to a Nightmare.
Duh.
I leveled up (down, actually) to Thirty-Six, the Frozen Plains of Despair. The time I dedicated to crossing the Pit contributed to a failed Calc quiz and the plunging of my Government grade from a solid C to a whiny D, but you have to make sacrifices if you’re going to get anywhere in Hell.

Our homecoming football game had always been held on Friday of Columbus Day weekend to give everyone an extra day to recover from the hangovers.

No, not really.

It was on Friday of Columbus Day weekend because our archrivals, the Forestdale Bulldogs, needed that extra day for hangover recovery. We Washington Warriors prided ourselves on intelligent drinking. That’s what people said, anyway.

Since our football team was 0 and 7, there was not much interest in the game itself. There was a lot of talk about parties that I was not invited to, but nobody bothered about our chances.

That all changed when we got to school on Friday.

Instead of the normal crowd hanging in front of the building, streams of chattering people—looking strangely awake—were hurrying towards Warrior Stadium. There the police had cordoned off the gate with yellow crime-scene tape. We ran around behind the bleachers to stare through the chain-link fence.

“Those bastards,” my little sister muttered.

Someone, some deviant Forestdale Bulldog, had burned WARIORS SUCK! into our sacred football sod with weed killer.

My fellow students swore vengeance and punched the fence until it jangled. Members of the football team were told to kill the opposition so that we could regain our lost pride. This wasn’t just a prank; it was a declaration of war.

I stood very still. Were people staring at me? Did they think this was my handiwork? Did they think I would stoop so low?

Of course they did. I was the moron who specialized in misspelled defacings of school property. Maybe I should curse loudly. Or hawk up a loogie and spit on the ground, just to prove that I was not a traitor.

I twisted my head around, looking for Chip and the Chipettes, half expecting them to drag me on the field, tear me limb from limb, and set my corpse on fire. I didn’t do this, did I?

“Hannah, where was I last night?” I whispered.

“What are you talking about, you idiot?”

“Just help me out. What was I doing last night?”

“You tried to pay me to IM Bethany and convince her to go out with you. And then you took a shower that was so long you emptied the hot-water tank.”

Oh. That.

“Thank you,” I said.

I couldn’t have done it. It wasn’t me. Good. Sometimes I scared myself, because once you’ve thought long and hard enough about doing something that is colossally stupid, you feel like you’ve actually done it, and then you’re never quite sure what your limits are.

Principal Hughes went on the loudspeaker during homeroom to assure us all that the police were investigating the crime and that the criminals would be found. No retaliation of any kind would be allowed, but we were supposed to encourage our football team to do their best.

Bethany said something to me right after the announcement, but with all the whooping and hollering and the ringing of the bell, I couldn’t hear her.

I leaned closer. “Say that again?” She smelled like cinnamon, and her lips were wet.

She smiled and pushed her hair back. “I said, are you going to the game tonight?”

“What game?”

She laughed as if I had just made a joke and gave my shoulder a little shove. “The football game, duh.”

“Urn, I could be. Should I be?”

Do not touch her, I warned myself. Do not touch her, kiss her, bury your face in her hair, or throw her over your shoulder and head for the nearest cave. Those would all be bad choices, and they would have immediate, negative consequences. No touching.

“Well, yeah, Tyler. That would be nice.” She picked up her books and settled them on her hip. “It would be nice if you came to the game. It would be nicer if you sat next to me. And it would be nicest if you brought me a cup of hot chocolate because it’s going to be cold tonight. Got to go. We’re late.”

Don’t ask what happened for the next eight hours. I’m pretty sure I was unconscious.

Yoda stayed after school to watch Hannah’s game. I walked home. It was finally sinking in—Bethany wanted me,
ME!
—to sit next to her. That was extremely close to a date, which was a half step away from permission to make out and touch her glorious private bits and so on and et cetera.

A car almost ran me over a block away from the school. I growled at it and bared my teeth. My testosterone was peaking at world-record levels. I had new hair sprouting on my chest and stomach. I was turning into a wolfman with a life-threatening hard-on, all because a cinnamon-smelling girl wanted me to sit next to her.

I took another shower as soon as I got home. I also took some personal time to think things over. (Not going into details, thank you very much.) Then I set my alarm clock and fell asleep for a couple hours. Being wanted by the woman of your dreams is exhausting work.

I slept through the alarm. I had thirty minutes to become confident, manly, shaved, dressed, relaxed, and sitting on a metal bleacher armed with several gallons of hot chocolate.

Crapcrapcrapcrap.

I took another shower, a quick one, because I was already beginning to stink of panic. I cut my chin shaving. I dressed in boxers and socks (all clean), one of my new shirts, a sweatshirt, jeans (clean, too), sneakers, then ran downstairs. Yoda had just arrived. Hannah was all ready to go out.

I was just about to ask Mom if I should make the hot chocolate or buy some at Starbucks when Dad’s car pulled in the driveway.

Hannah’s eyes widened. “Why is he so early?”

“This is early?” Yoda asked.

“Way early,” she said.

I was thinking we should sneak out and run for the hills, but Dad stormed in before I could say anything. We watched him walk into the kitchen and put his briefcase on the table. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He loosened his tie, then stopped, as if he had just noticed the four of us standing there.

“What are you doing home?” I blurted out.

“I live here,” he explained. “And it’s dinnertime. It’s been a while since we sat down together, and—”

“We can’t eat dinner,” Hannah said. “It’s Homecoming tonight. We have to leave or we’ll be late.”

Dad put his hands up like a traffic cop. “Whoa right there, young lady. Who are you going with?”

Yoda raised his hand like he was in a class. “I’m taking her, Mr. Miller.”

Dad tilted his head to one side, confused. “Calvin?”

“Yes, Calvin.” Hannah grabbed Yoda’s hand and started for the door. “I’ll be home by eleven.”

Dad’s voice turned icy. “You do not have permission to leave.”

Hannah froze. Yoda swallowed hard.

“I’m going out, too,” I said, in an unfortunately high voice. I cleared my throat. “They’re going with me. We’re all going together. To the game.”

“Like hell you are.”

“Dad, I have plans,” I said, visions of every straight guy in school on their knees offering hot chocolate to the Goddess Bethany.

Mom stepped between us and picked up Dad’s jacket. “Look, Bill. I’ll cook a nice dinner tomorrow.” She folded the jacket neatly over her arm. “Why don’t you and I go someplace quiet, catch up with each other?”

“I want dinner. With my family. In my house. Tonight,” Dad announced. “End of discussion.”

“I’ll make some quick sandwiches and heat up some soup,” Mom said. “And we have leftover chicken. Extra crispy.”

Dad smacked the counter with his hand so hard that the bowl of apples jumped. He waited until the echoes died away before he spoke quietly.

“We have a freezer packed with food,” he said. “Please make me a decent dinner.” He picked up his briefcase. “Calvin is going home. Hannah can stay in her room until it’s time to eat. And Tyler? Mow that goddamn lawn.”

I weighed my options.

Was the chance to sit next to Bethany for a couple hours worth the guaranteed wrath of my father, which would include a night of bellowing rage, the total annihilation of my self-esteem, broken dishes, and possibly getting tossed out of the house?

Well, yeah, of course it was.

But it was not worth the nastiness that he would also inflict on my sister, who already had a tear slipping over the faded bruise from her black eye, and my mother, who was pouring herself the first tonic-free gin and tonic she’d had in weeks.

Yoda left.

Hannah slammed her door.

I stayed and mowed the lawn as badly as I could, as the streetlights flickered on, dreaming up one thousand and one ways to hurt the man who spawned me.

Mom did it. She cooked a sit-down dinner for four: pork roast, baked potatoes, steamed carrots, and a side salad with your choice of dressing. Sure, it was nine
P.M.
by the time we got to eat, but you couldn’t rush perfection.

“Pass the pork, please,” Dad said.

Mom had decided to pass on dinner. She was passed out on her bed. The cover story was that she had a migraine. What she really had was enough gin to put down a horse, and a desire to shove that roast up Dad’s—

But no, honest, her migraines were always the worst when the seasons were changing. It had to do with barometric pressure.

Hannah passed the meat platter to Dad.

“Another piece, Tyler?” Dad asked.

Throw a potato in his face. Smash the platter over his head. Pick up the table, throw it through the sliding-glass door, then heave him out, too. Find a grenade…

“Butter, please,” I said.

Hannah passed me the butter.

I divided a half stick between two baked potatoes. Hannah had scooped out the inside of her potato and was mashing it on her plate. Dad cut his slice of pork. The knife squealed on the plate. Dad did not flinch. He cut and chewed, cut and chewed.

“How was school?” he asked.

Hannah spooned cold, overcooked carrots onto the potatoes. “Fascist.”

“You don’t even know what that means,” Dad said. “Heh.” (That was supposed to sound like laughter.)

“Yes,” Hannah said carefully, “I do. We’re studying it.”

Dad grunted.

Coming home at a decent hour, forcing Mom to cook, making jokes at the table: something was desperately wrong with my father. I studied him whenever he looked at Hannah. It wasn’t the bloodshot eyes, or the stain on his tie, or the twitch in his left cheek. It was what I got when I put those things together.

Ever smell the milk jug when you open it and you don’t think you smell anything funky, so you pour a big glass and you take a giant gulp and as soon as it hits your mouth you know it has gone bad and you spit it in the sink and race upstairs to gargle? And when you finally stop needing to heave, you realize that you did smell something funny at first, but you didn’t know what to call it?

That’s what I thought of when I looked at my father.

“What else are you studying?” he asked my sister. “How’s algebra?”

Hannah obliterated the carrots with the tines of her fork. “Algebra is fine.” She blended the carrots and potatoes together. “Not that you care,” she added under her breath.

“What did you say?” Dad asked. “Stop playing with your food. Is there a problem?”

Hannah pushed her chair away from the table. She stood up and let her napkin float to the ground.

“May I please be excused?” Her voice shook a little.

“You haven’t finished,” Dad said.

“I’m not hungry and I still have homework. Algebra homework.”

Dad made her stand there a full minute before he answered. “Fine.”

Hannah couldn’t hold it in any longer. As she bolted from the room, she said, “And I’ll check on Mom.” She started sobbing halfway up the stairs.

We looked at the empty doorway and listened until a door slammed overhead.

Dad carried his empty glass into the kitchen, dropped a couple ice cubes into it, and unscrewed a bottle. He came back carrying a full glass of scotch, his third. That was weird, too. He never drank more than one a night.

I reached for the pepper. “How’s work?”

“Pass that over here, will you?” he asked.

I handed him the shaker. “You’ve seemed, um, busy.”

He shook the pepper on his carrots. “That’s one word for it.” He put down the shaker, picked up his glass, and took a long, slow sip.

I waited, but he just sat there, elbow leaning on the table, glass in his hand, looking down at the spot where Mom wasn’t sitting. He turned the glass so the light from the chandelier caught and reflected off it. “Some of the branch offices aren’t playing by the rules.” He looked at me over the rim. “Playing by the rules cuts into commissions.”

“Why is this your problem?”

“Because I’m Compliance, and the feds are investigating….” He took a big slug of scotch and set the glass down heavily. “Enough of that. I’ve almost got it under control. Your last probation meeting is coming up, isn’t it?”

I shook my head. “Two more. One in a couple weeks, one in November.”

“I told you it would go fast.” He speared a piece of meat and put it in his mouth. “Another couple months and no one will remember it ever happened.”

Except the entire student body, police force, and anyone within a fifty-mile radius of my school.

“I’ll go with you,” he added.

“What? Where?”

He talked while he chewed. “To your probation meeting. The last one. I’ll make sure all the loose ends are tied up.” He cut the fat off the next bite of meat and pushed it to the edge of the plate. Dad hated the feel of fat in his mouth.

“You don’t have to. It’ll waste a whole afternoon. Maybe Mom could go.”

“Your mother and I have already discussed this. She said she told you.”

“I bet it slipped her mind—”

Out of nowhere he smacked the table with his left hand. “Dammit! She promised!” The veins running up the sides of his neck beat like writhing snakes.

“Whoa, hold on—Mom must have forgot. Her migraines. Dad? Are you okay?”

He took a deep breath and blinked. Then he stuck another piece of meat in his mouth. “Of course I am, what a ridiculous question. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

I looked at my plate so I wouldn’t have to watch him chew. “Is there any chance they won’t expel my record?”

“
Expunge.
The word is
expunge
. You keep your nose clean and you pull your grades out of the toilet, it will be like it never happened. This pork is tasty, don’t you think?”

Like it never happened.

Like my mother was lying down because of a migraine.