Bad Kid (2 page)

W
hat in God's name is that?” asked my grandma Oggy, tucking a used Kleenex into the cuff of her shirt. It was the summer before eighth grade and my dad had just taken us downtown for a birthday barbecue. At a red light in front of the Alamo she'd seen something shocking.

“Well, I'll be,” said my dad, turning down his Merle Haggard cassette as he peered through the windshield.

I peeked around the driver's seat and saw them in the crosswalk: three teenagers wearing layers of black clothes and heavy eyeliner. My grandmother fluffed up her snow-white perm with a hair-pick and leaned forward. “Look at the mop on that poor girl's head!” she said, chomping on a piece of Juicy Fruit. “Looks like she stuck a fork in a light socket.”

There's really nothing sadder than goth kids in a warm-weather climate. The day's record-breaking heat made them look
like smeared watercolors, a moist wad of painted pleather rolling in slow motion across the pavement. It was the
Abbey Road
cover that time ignored, the one Edvard Munch would have painted.

The girl leading the group wore a heavy velveteen gown marked with sweat circles around her neck and armpits. The hem of it dragged against the cement, collecting bits of garbage and cigarette butts as she morosely Swiffered her way across the street. Manic Panic hair dye dripped from her hairline, turning her forehead violet.

The little guy behind her had a Mohawk that collapsed over the front of his face, making him look like a depressed rooster. His floor-length cape blew out like a sail as it caught a gust of hot wind, lightly noosing him with its drawstring.

In the back of the group was a tall, ghost-white boy with bleached bangs, wearing a purple sateen jacket. He walked regally in blue eye shadow and wore a single shell earring. He was a neon dream in matte finish with shiny peach lips.

My dad lowered his sunglasses, his eyes dancing with wonder. “Well, I'll be,” he sighed. “They look like superheroes going to a funeral.”

“I guess the circus is in town,” drawled my grandma, peering at them suspiciously as she locked the car door. “Hide your children.”

I watched them from the back window as we pulled away, black and purple dots getting smaller and smaller against the bright, beige South Texas terrain. As they floated into a sea of cowboy hats and tamale vendors, I felt like I'd seen something exotic and rare, like a unicorn—an extremely sad, very sexy, fishnet-bound unicorn.

They were the most amazing creatures I'd ever seen.

A good boy

T
owards the end of middle school I had what you might call a very “Christian missionary” fashion sense; pressed khaki slacks, a starched blue button-down, and lightly moussed hair parted on the side. I looked like a tiny, chubby cheeked, lesbian employee of Blockbuster Video. This was how I dressed during the last few months of eighth grade, after “the incident.” Before “the incident” you would've seen me in a pastel Hypercolor shirt and Vision Street Wear high-tops. I'd be wearing neon-green, knee-length shorts, and my long, Sun-In'd bangs would hang down to the top of my Panama Jack sunglasses.

That all changed one day near the end of eighth grade. I was spending my lunch the usual way, French braiding my girlfriend Amber's hair. I'd been Amber's boyfriend for almost a month
and
loved
spending lunches with her and the other girls from our theater arts class. Amber had beautiful strawberry-blond hair and smelled like SweeTARTS. She loved Taylor Dayne almost as much as I did and made me mixtapes adorned with hearts and stars drawn in hot-pink, watermelon-scented marker. Best of all, when we'd slow-danced at the chaperoned spring dance, she hadn't gotten handsy with me. Amber took it slow, and I appreciated that. What wasn't to love?

“Perfect,” I said, tying a small pink ribbon to the end of Amber's hair.

“How is it?” she asked, flopping the ginger braid over her shoulder as she turned to me.

“You look so pretty,” I gushed.

“You're the one who braided it,” she beamed, popping a cherry jelly bean into my mouth.

“What about my hair?” I grinned.

“It looks so cool,” she answered, reaching up to touch my newly bleached bangs. “Like those guys who skate in the parking lot after school.”

“Thanks! My mom let me get it done in the mall last weekend. I think they're—”

“Chris Wolfe,” she interrupted, grimacing at something over my head. “Don't you even think about it.”

I turned to look at Chris, the tall, blond football player who gave me the same funny feeling I got watching Patrick Swayze in
Dirty Dancing
. But before I could lay my eyes on his tall, broad frame, my skull reverberated with a booming thud. Chris's deep voice was the last thing I heard before I blacked out.

I woke up on the tiled cafeteria floor with a pounding headache. As my vision cleared, I could make out Amber and the
choir teacher, Ms. Mason, a heavyset woman with a tight black perm wearing a chili-pepper necklace and matching earrings. The room was slowly tilting and I couldn't get the sound of ringing out of my ears. I stood up with the help of my theater arts lunch-mates, a dozen teenage Florence Nightingales with glittering fingernails.

“Oh my gawd!” they cried, immediately swept up in the drama of it all.

“Chris Wolfe bashed your head between two big encyclopedias!” Amber sobbed as we walked to the office with Ms. Mason. “I couldn't stop him in time!” she continued, hugging her hot-pink Trapper Keeper, which bore the image of Pegasus leaping through a crystal heart. The theater arts girls surrounded Amber in a vanilla-scented cloud as she cried. The drama was suddenly all about her. “Chris called you . . . He called you a . . . a . . .”

Amber leaned in and whispered the name of the thing I'd been trying to convince myself I wasn't. For most of eighth grade I'd been telling myself that the warm fuzzies I felt watching
Silver Spoons
were simply about Ricky Schroder's awesome clothes. When Kirk Cameron made a funny joke on
Growing Pains
and my pants suddenly tightened in the crotch, I told myself that it wasn't about kissing him. I just wanted to hug him really,
really
hard. But as I left Amber and walked into the school office, my doubts were stronger than ever.

After getting an aspirin from the nurse, I sat outside the school reception area, waiting to be picked up by my mom. Directly across from me sat Chris Wolfe. He stared at the floor, his body trembling so rapidly that the movement was almost indiscernible, like a flickering fluorescent tube light right before it burns
out. He was also waiting to go home, but presumably not to be pampered by his mother with cocoa while watching a four-hour marathon of
Saved by the Bell
like I was.

“Leonard Crabb?” called the boy working office duty.

I'd forgotten my dad was in town. I assumed my mom had called him, unable to leave her job. My small, stocky father charged to the front desk, moving with the force and purpose of a linebacker. He was wearing tight Wrangler jeans, snakeskin cowboy boots, and a trucker hat. Passing by, he noticed me, and all that anger switched to sadness and concern. He didn't say a word, but his eyes said it all.

Are you okay?

Does it hurt?

I love you son
.

Now show me where that little fucker is
.

I wanted to point across the room and say,
There he is, Dad. He's the one. Go nuts
.

But he would have. And as pleasing as it would have been to watch him eviscerate Chris Wolfe, I preferred visiting with my father at Mexican restaurants, not prisons. As my father's gaze slipped away from me, his face hardened. He leaned on the counter and slammed down his wallet, like a gunslinger saying, “Let's go hand-to-hand, you son of a bitch.”

“Who would you like to see, sir?” asked the nervous student attendant.

In a slow, measured baritone, my father growled, “Whoever's in charge.”

“Um. Yes, sir,” the boy's voice cracked. “Um . . . I'll get you the assistant principal.”

“You go ahead and
do that
.”

I was happy to have a protective dad, but I felt bad for the administrators who were about to deal with his wrath. I'd seen that face on other occasions: when a bad report card came in, when I forgot to weed-whack the yard, and many times during my regrettable two-month stint playing right field. It wasn't pleasant.

I looked at the bully across from me and hoped he knew how lucky he was that my dad hadn't realized who he was. But as I watched Chris apprehensively wringing his hands, I felt strangely sympathetic toward him. He was right in assuming I was “different,” which somehow made him seem less guilty. A part of me wanted to tell him it was okay, that he was just perceptive to my flaws and defects. If I could understand exactly how Chris perceived me, maybe I could change all my suspect behaviors.

“Chris?” I said.

When Chris lifted his head, I saw that he wasn't scared at all. He was angry. I could hear the rhythmic jingling of change in his pocket as his Reebok sneaker maniacally tapped the linoleum tiles. He popped the knuckles of one hand and slid it into a fist in the other. As he stared at me, his lips made the silent shape of that word I'd been emotionally dodging.

“Come on, David,” called my dad as he came out of the office.

I looked over my shoulder as we left to see Chris still glaring at me, mouthing that word again and again. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to punch him really,
really
hard.

In the car on the way home my dad asked me twenty questions about my girlfriend, trying to raise my spirits after what had happened. I wasn't sure if he knew what Chris had called me. But I didn't want to know if he did. I didn't want to talk at all. I just wanted the summer to come so the two of us could go on our annual road trip in his Winnebago. For two weeks we'd
drive through the country to different sites for my dad's work as a fiber-optic technician. In two months I'd be in new places surrounded by new people who had no idea who I was. I couldn't wait.

That Saturday morning I awoke to my mother knocking at my bedroom door. My mom, Teri, was a tiny, red-haired woman from Newfoundland, Canada. Her bizarre accent, Dolly Parton–like figure, and fire-orange hair made her stick out in San Antonio like a busy, busty leprechaun.

“Honey,” she sweetly warned, covering her eyes as the door opened. “Are you decent?”

“Mom,” I said, rubbing my eyes, “I was only sleeping. What could I be doing at 7:30 in the morning?”

“Well, sweetie,” she sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed, “you're becoming a young man and I want to respect not only your privacy but also your changing body.”

“Oh God, Mom. We're not having a ‘talk' now, are we? It's so early.”

“I just wanted to make sure you felt okay,” she said, reaching out to feel the small lump Chris Wolfe had left on my temple. “Do you want to come into work with me today?”

“Which work?” I asked, wondering which of my single mom's three jobs she was going to that day. “The maternity store, the arcade, or the rape crisis center?”

Saying yes would mean spending the day with pregnant women, abused women, or Frogger.

“Where do you think?” she smiled.

Thirty minutes later we were at the mall, opening the giant metal gate of the Genie's Castle arcade with Teri's coworker Annie,
a nineteen-year-old heavy-metal chick with a blond buzz cut and purple eye shadow. Annie was tall, thin, and covered in leather, like a young Brigitte Nielsen costumed for a
Blade Runner
sequel. In the half hour before the mall opened, as Annie chain-smoked and wiped down the machines, my mom gave me as many credits as I wanted on the music-video jukebox, which controlled the arcade's sound track. I pulled out the crumpled list of songs I'd heard on the radio that week and proceeded to load up the machine with so many music videos that no one would be hearing their requests until well after lunchtime.

At 10 a.m. the mall rats started pouring in: heavy-metal kids and punk weirdos with dirty mullets and filthy denim vests. As they moped around in their Dokken shirts playing Centipede and Donkey Kong, I could sense their slow-building rage at my music-video selections—Taylor Dayne, Rick Astley, Lisa Lisa, and Cult Jam. This was my music, a brand of song completely free of guitar, piano, or any organic instrumentation whatsoever—dance pop by single-named artists like Madonna, Martika, and Pebbles. Songs with high-energy choruses and backup singers who commanded the listener to “sweat,” “dance,” and “FEEL IT!” These were the tracks played during mid-'80s movie montages in which a ragtag group of inner-city youths in fingerless gloves completely renovated a roller-skating rink while break-dancing.

In the arcade I felt alive, exuberant, and invincible. I could have stayed there for hours, shuffling my feet to the frenetic beat of Janet Jackson or Bananarama. I had endless lives and endless credits, thanks to my mom, the queen of Genie's Castle. And I was its prince.

By noon I was two hours into a marathon game of Joust when
a zit-covered fifteen-year-old in a Guns N' Roses cap walked up to me. I was in the zone, midreverie to Belinda Carlisle's “Heaven Is a Place on Earth,” when he interrupted.

“So . . . you fuckin' LIKE this music?”

“Why?” I asked, wondering how he knew it was my request.

“Fucking look at you,” he hissed, eyeing my clothes. I looked down at what I was wearing, wondering what was so wrong with it. My electric-blue cargo shorts were clean and unwrinkled. My sneakers were a bit dirty, but the laces were tied. And my hair was—not to brag—perfect. My lightly bleached bangs fell, slightly obscuring the outside of my left eye, just as I'd requested during my last hair appointment at Fantastic Sams.

“We can all see you wiggling over here like a fairy,” he smirked, gesturing to a group of three older boys watching us from across the arcade. “You know what you are?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, swallowing nervously at the thought of what was coming.

“You're a faggot.”

I froze.

“You don't even like pussy,” he whispered in my face, so close I could smell the Fritos on his breath. He puckered his lips into a wrinkled kissy mouth and made wet slurping sounds as Joust alerted me that my player had died. “Are you gonna say anything, faggot?”

I wanted to defend myself, because I wasn't a faggot. A faggot was a guy who lisped and giggled and walked everywhere with a limp wrist. A faggot was a grown man who acted like a lady and loved flowers and dancing. Faggots were on the news at night—older men with mustaches who lived in New York and San Francisco and were getting sick.

I wasn't a faggot. I was a fourteen-year-old boy who had never kissed anyone, let alone a man. Maybe I'd thought about it, but I didn't
do
anything about it. And if I didn't
do
gay things, how could I
be
a gay person?

I put my head down and slunk away as the kid yelled one last thing.

“Your hair makes you look like a fuckin' gaywad!”

His friends laughed as I stormed into the office and sat down next to Annie, who was complaining about her boyfriend while cleaning one of the dozen tiny hoop earrings in her left ear.

“Honey, what's wrong?” my mother asked.

“Nothing,” I snipped, noticing Annie's snacks laid out on the office desk. “I just want some Goldfish.”

I started to eat handfuls of the little orange crackers, as if the mass of them in my mouth would help soak up the tears in my eyes. It seemed to work. This was when I realized how hard it is to cry while you're eating.

“Mom, I wanna go home.”

“Well, honey, I don't get off for a few hours. Don't you want to play more games?”

My mom reached into her saggy blue uniform vest and pulled out a handful of tokens. They looked so shiny and tempting in her hand. I could listen to so many Kylie Minogue songs with those tokens.

“I feel sick,” I pouted, unwilling to share Kylie's “Locomotion” with the jerks out on the arcade floor. “I want to go home.”

“I can drop him off,” Annie offered. “I get outta here at one o'clock. Right, Teri?”

“Sure,” my mom shrugged, pushing back my bleach-blond bangs to kiss my forehead. “I sure wish you'd tell me what's wrong.”