Don't Read in the Closet volume one (63 page)

We worked diligently, but silently, on our project for a day or
two. Both of us were smart enough that we’d managed to divide up the work and
somehow convince the teacher we were cooperating. We’d spread the books out on
our table so that she couldn’t see how we’d separated our bodies so the largest
amount of empty air possible was in between. She was oblivious to our glares,
or at least she pretended to be. I thought we had a pretty good scam going.

Oops.

“Can I please see Mister Thorn and Mister Thomason?”

We looked at each other. I was too worried about getting in
trouble to be bothered glaring at him. I stood, nearly knocking my books onto
the ground. Brooklyn followed me up to the teacher’s desk.

“What are you two doing?” She asked quietly.

“Working on our project, Ms. Geppart.”

The teacher took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t
see a lot of cooperation going on.”

“But—” I could see the injustice I was feeling written all over
Brooklyn’s face.

“No buts. This is a combined effort.”

“Ms. Geppart,” I tried to sound reasonable. “You know we don’t
get along.”

“There’s more to school than just learning facts,” She answered.

I gave her a blank stare. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I want to see you two working together. Starting
tomorrow after school. I want to see a new topic and I’m going to watch and see
that you actually work
together
. Your
project won’t get graded if you don’t.”

Of all the—

I was pissed. I’m sure he was too.

Pissed or not, Brooklyn Thorn and I reported for what amounted to
detention the next day right after class. He told me years later that he’d had
to explain to his soccer coach why he was missing practice, and got a
blistering lecture about getting along with other kids and being a role model.
I’m sure that made him love me even more.

I didn’t get in much trouble. My parents were too busy shouting
and calling each other names to really notice that I’d given them a slip to
sign saying I’d be held after school. Most of the time I tried really hard not
to hear what they were saying.

Our teacher lectured us that first day on how part of growing up
was learning to work with people you weren’t necessarily compatible with. That
probably would’ve worked perfectly if a pissed off and still smarting from his
soccer coach lecture Brooklyn hadn’t muttered something like:

“Yeah, just like my dad has to put up with your asshat father
every day.”

I didn’t have much love for my father either, he was always gone
at work and he was the reason I was stuck in this stupid ass town after all,
but I couldn’t have Brooklyn Thorn talking shit about my parents. Before I knew
it, my fist was connecting with his nose and we were rolling around on the
ground under desks trying our best to remove facial features from each other’s
heads—with knuckles, nails, anything we had. It was actually kind of brutal. I
don’t know if the fight was really about my dad, or his dad, or us, or how much
I needed to prove that I really wasn’t a fag boy who loved looking at guys and
I could stick up for my own—with my fists if necessary. What I do know is I
pounded him with every muscle I had, pure rage battling against someone who was
considerably bigger and stronger. And I know that every time he punched me it
hurt like hell.

We didn’t stop until the principal, who Ms. Geppart must’ve
frantically called, came in and hauled us apart. We ended up the same way we
had that day in third grade; with our asses parked in the principal’s office
while he tried to get a hold of our parents to come pick us up. We were
suspended. Both of us. Three days. At least my teacher learned her lesson. She
didn’t move us apart in class but we were each allowed to complete the project
on our own.

I didn’t say a word to him the rest of the year.

* * * *

“Dallas Thomason.”

It was kind of a shock when they called my name. I was
graduating.
Graduating
. It felt
really weird. In a few short months I had my one-way ticket (and it
was
going to be one way, damn it) out of
Sugarcreek, away from Brooklyn Thorn, away from my squalling
in-the-middle-of-a-divorce-parents. Just... away.
The folks
hadn’t gone for the idea of an out of state school, at least not if they were
paying, so I’d set my sights on Baylor and thank God I’d gotten in.
I’d
nearly cried with relief. The school was good, and even more important it was
at least a three hour drive from Sugarcreek; far enough that I wouldn’t be
required to visit often.

I stuck out my hand and took the diploma from our principal before
I shook his hand. “Congratulations,” he said perfunctorily. He didn’t know me.
Which was good.
He’d been the first principal I had in
Sugarcreek who wasn’t well aware of me and my continuing battle with effing
Brooklyn Thorn. And wouldn’t you know
,
that’s who was
next. The announcer called his name, and he met the same pleasant applause as I
did. It was decidedly less enthusiastic than it had been back at the beginning
of the alphabet. People were getting tired of listening. I wanted nothing more
than to get the hell out of there.

I had an interview the next morning, stocking and doing inventory
at the grocery store. I really, really wanted the job. It would get me some
cash for the fall and give myself something to do other than listen to my
mother bitch about not having enough money for her own place. Apparently, she’d
been out of the job market so long, no one would hire her. I wasn’t sure if she
was blatantly blaming my father for that or subtly blaming me. All I knew was I
needed a break from her rants before I went nuts. Hopefully stocking shelves at
Salvatore’s Market would be enough of a distraction.

The next day, freshly graduated and ready to take on the world,
or at least my very first job interview, I biked the two and a half miles from
our housing development to the little grocery store that was right downtown.
There was a big Tom Thumb down the highway a ways but most people would still
go to Salvatore’s for small things, fresh fruit, milk, bread, and then go to
the big store on the weekends to stock up. My mom did it herself. The store was
sleepy and quaint but Mister Salvatore’s back had been hurting and he couldn’t
do it himself much longer.

I was nervous when I walked in the store. Even more so when I saw
someone
else standing
there in khakis and a polo
shuffling from one foot to another.

Shit. He has another
applicant.
I was suddenly not guaranteed my summer of distraction and easy
cash.

The other guy turned when he heard me approach the manager’s
office where he was standing and I nearly groaned out loud. Should’ve effing
known. Brooklyn
Goddamned
Thorn. Was there no escape?
That jerk would probably get the job too since he’d been on the soccer team and
the football team with all the other town heroes and I was just a (scrappy)
little bookworm guy with floppy hair and glasses (at least until I’d gotten
contacts the year before). No one is ever recognized all over town for being
good at schoolwork.

I nearly turned around to leave when Mister Salvatore called us
both into his office at the same time. I had a flashback to elementary and
middle school, when we’d be ushered into some office, glaring at each other and
deciding silently who was going to throw the next punch the second they left us
alone. It wasn’t much different this time. Brooklyn didn’t exactly glare at me,
but he didn’t smile either. He let me go first (oddly polite) and then entered
the room himself.

Mister Salvatore asked us a series of questions; why did either
of us need a job? (college, both of us), could we work late nights or weekends
in the stock room?
Yes, please anything
to get me out of that house.
Brooklyn simply said yes just like I did but I
could see the same need to escape in his eye. The rest of the questions were
simple. We both answered, and both managed to keep our claws out of each
other’s skin for the first time. It had been nearly four years since our last
big blow out. Perhaps we’d grown up a bit. I still hated the bitch. Salvatore
said thank you to both of us for coming and that he’d call later when he’d made
his choice. I smiled winningly and tried to look like what I thought the best
candidate would look like while I shook his hand, then I turned and walked to
the front door where my bike was chained to the rack.

It was hot outside. God-awful hot, and heavy and humid and
everything that made me hate Texas in the summer. I unwound the chain from my
bike and went to swing my leg over the bar.

“You wanna lift? I can put your bike in the back of my truck.”

Brooklyn Thorn just offered
me a ride. What the hell?

I looked over at him, unable to mask my suspicion. I didn’t
think
he’d do anything irreversibly
violent toward me, but I couldn’t be sure. After all our entire relationship
had been conducted with fists so far.

“Dude, just get in. It’s brutal out here. You can worry about
stabbing me in my sleep another day.”

“You’re the violent one,” I grumbled. He didn’t answer. I chose
to take my chances with Brooklyn, though, and tossed my bike in the back of his
truck before I climbed into a cab that was on its way to being blissfully
air-conditioned. He was messing with the dials on his stereo. Soon, the
distinct guitar style of one of my favorite alternative bands was pouring
through the speakers.

“What? No Taylor Swift? Brooks and Dunn?”

Brooklyn shuddered. “Naw, man, I’m not into that stuff. Besides,
that Swift chick—she’s a Yankee.” I looked over at him. He was grinning.
Oh my God. Brooklyn Thorn is teasing me… not
torturing but honest to god teasing.

I smiled back hesitantly. “Can’t trust us Yanks, can ya?”

“Yeah, you’re all trouble.”

We rode in silence after that, but it wasn’t horrible and
awkward, neither one of us glared or plotted, just listened to the music until
he pulled up in front of my house. I didn’t ask how he knew where I lived. It
was a small town, and I was still the new kid even after all the years I’d been
there.

“Hey, you know… good luck next year, wherever you are.”

“Yeah, you too.”

It was weird as hell. He’d actually been
nice
and I’d been kinda nice back. I had no idea what alternate
world I’d entered where we could both be grown-ups with each other. It was a
bit disconcerting. I reached into his truck bed and pulled out my bike. I waved
goodbye as I wheeled it down the sidewalk and into the shed where I kept it.

Salvatore had hired both of us to work nights, stocking, pricing
and doing inventory. Wouldn’t you know?
Me
and
Brooklyn Thorn stuck together again. What a shock. Mister Salvatore said he
needed someone who was good at cataloguing and calculating inventory and
someone to be the brawn to lift boxes.

I shook my head as I hung up the phone, irritated by those
categories on both our behalves.

I wondered if Brooklyn ever got tired of being categorized as
brainless muscle outside of school. I knew I got sick of being cast in the
opposite role. I almost told the grocery store manager that Brooklyn was
actually pretty good at math—he’d gotten a better grade in calculus than I had,
which still kind of irritated me. But that might have been talking
myself
out of a job and my only excuse for getting out of
the house. There was no way I was going to do that, injustice or not.

All I could think about was the smile he’d given me as I shut the
door of his truck earlier. It changed his face completely. Maybe it
was
time we tried to get along with each
other. We’d kind of have to anyway. I could just picture the carnage if we got
up to our old stuff, rolling around and punching among jars of spaghetti sauce
and cartons of milk. It would be a disaster.

The next night I showed up for work a few hours after dinner. I’d
tried to take a nap in the afternoon, but my body was still wide-awake so I
made myself a giant pot of coffee and hoped that it would last until we got off
early in the morning. Brooklyn was waiting when I got there, sipping nervously
at his own iced coffee courtesy of the one coffee drive-through in town.

“Hey, Yank. Looks like it’s you and me again, huh?”

He didn’t seem to be hostile so I gave him a small smile. “As
usual,” I answered.

“Do you think we can manage to last the summer without hitting
each other?”

He looked kind of concerned so I laughed. “I think so.”

It felt kind of strange but for the first time since we’d met, I
didn’t look at Brooklyn and see the biggest asshole in the universe. I just saw
a regular guy and it was kind of a relief.

We waited in congenial silence for Mister Salvatore’s night
manager to come back and start our training for the first night. When he did
show, he had a long list of chores for us: lifting, hauling, stocking the
shelves, using the thrilling price sticker gun to put tags on all sorts of
items. It was exhausting and the coffee started to wear off after a few
hours—probably right around the same time as the exciting newness of the job
did.

We worked quietly that night, taking in everything that Jesus,
the night manager said. I didn’t have enough time, or energy, to worry about
whether or not Brooklyn and I could get along. I was definitely ready to go by
the time he handed us our schedules for the next two weeks and let us go.

The sun wasn’t quite up, but it would be soon. I was hoping to
get home before then so I’d have a decent chance of falling asleep. Of course I
was so tired that it might happen pretty easily anyway. Brooklyn simply took my
bike, after I unlocked it, and loaded it into the bed of his truck. I hadn’t
really wanted to peddle the whole way home anyway, even if the early morning
was the nicest part of the day, so I tiredly climbed into the cab of Brooklyn’s
truck and laid my head back against the seat.