Storky (4 page)

Things went downhill after halftime. Hunk ran onto the field and Gina started jumping like crazy. Her bracelets clanged against each other, making a racket. Very first play the quarterback throws the ball into Hunk’s giant monster hands, and he runs with it 40 yards. Gina gave me a headache from screaming so much, and then the girls and Nate started chanting, “Hunk! Hunk! Hunk!” and everyone around us yelled it too.

I just sat slumped in my seat, with a jackhammer going off in my head and a blender in my stomach. Hunk’s run turned into the team’s only touchdown. It didn’t really help, since we lost 27-6. But it still made Hunk the big star of our lame team.

Gina tossed Nate his jacket and ran toward the field as soon as the game ended, with Heather following after her. Nate goes, “I’m in love.” And I said, “Gina’s mine.” She wasn’t, she isn’t, she never was. But a drunk guy can dream, right?

Then Nate said, “I mean Heather. She’s hot.” And I nodded, which powered up the jackhammer inside my head.

I kept stumbling as I made my way out of the bleachers. I fell once, onto what looked like 2 irate state wrestling champions or maybe 1 national champ. Everything was blurry. I think the only reason I didn’t get killed is because Nate told him/them I was about to blow chow. I owe him big.

The setting for my stomach blender had sped up to pulverize and the bathroom was like 100 people away. So I lurched through the parking lot to the nearest trash can and puked my guts out. Nate caught up with me, laughed, and called me a lightweight.

About 30 seconds after that, Sydney Holland appeared. She threw an empty Raisinets box into the trash can, then pinched her nostrils shut and waved off the stench. “That’s disgusting,” I said. “Who did that?” She either glared at me or winked at me—I was too blotto to tell—before walking away. I hope it was a wink. If Sydney Holland knew I ralphed, she’d definitely think I was a lowlife.

When we got into Mom’s car she was so excited that I had this new friend and was finally doing a school activity that at first she didn’t even get that I was drunk. Then she started asking her usual gazillion questions. What was the score, who was there, was it crowded? After a while, she said, “You don’t seem yourself tonight.” I said, “I feel sick.” She goes, “Tell me about it.” But it wasn’t her concerned parental voice. It was her lawyer-in-training voice, waiting for me to break down and admit I’m a drunk loser disappointment of a son.

I said something about the stomach flu, and she said, “Stomach flu, my ass,” which nearly sobered me up since she never talks like that. She must have been really pissed at me. Or maybe her date with Vermin tanked. Hopefully. At the next stoplight, she put her face up to mine, sniffed my breath, and goes, “You’re in big trouble, mister.”

My headache didn’t even go away until around noon today. Last night Mom said she’d think of a punishment and get back to me. Whatever.

Mom hid the TV! I can’t believe it! When she went to the law library today, I searched the garage, every closet, all over Mom’s bedroom. Maybe it’s in her car. I bet it’s there. I’ll look in the trunk first thing tomorrow.

Amanda wouldn’t even help me. I’m like, “Don’t you want the TV back? Tell Mom it’s not fair ’cause you didn’t do anything wrong.” And she goes all snobby, “I don’t have time for TV. I have a social life.” When I said I did too, she laughed in my face.

I have absolutely nothing to do tonight. Dad canceled on me again. Said he had to take care of an important client. The Thighmaster was giggling in the background.

I’m so bored. We’re not even hooked up to the Net anymore. Why did Dad get to take the good computer? It’s not fair. There’s only 1 of him and 3 of us. We had to take Aunt Marsha’s lame hand-me-down doorstop. All I can do on this lousy thing is play ancient computer games, do homework, and type this journal.

At least I read
To Kill a Mockingbird
today. Awesome book. Are there really fathers like that out there?

The TV’s not in the car. Mom won’t let me have it for 3 weeks. She says it’s not just a punishment for getting drunk. It’s supposed to make me a better person. That’s so wacked. I hate when people do nasty stuff to you and pretend it’s for your own benefit.

I could go to Nate’s. He says he has 4 TVs in his house—1 in his mom’s room, a big-screen TV in the living room, 1 in the den, and 1 in his bedroom. He’s also got a wireless hookup. And he didn’t even get in trouble for drinking last week. He says when he got home from the football game, his mom was passed out on the couch and didn’t even notice him come in.

Today Gina actually flagged me down in the hallway at school. She whispered that we should play Scrabble again soon, and then she asked me to summarize
A Farewell to Arms
. She’s like, “You’re so good in English, and I didn’t get the chance to read it in depth.”

Michael A. Pomerantz, alias Captain Sensitive, saves the day! I told her all about the book. It was a pretty decent read. Especially the war stuff. Gina made me late to history class, but she’s definitely worth it.

Maybe I’d get along better with Dad if I didn’t think about the Divorce so much. About them arguing, or him moving out, or any of that stuff. Maybe he’d talk to me more if I wasn’t walking around mad at him all the time.

I should be happy Dad let me hang out at his apartment tonight. Of course, that was only after he found out Le Quiche was closed for a private party. I should be happy we got to watch the Chargers game on TiVo and have leftover pizza, even if it was topped with pineapple and artichoke hearts. I should be happy he let me eat on his black leather couch. Though he was all paranoid about the crumbs.

Which made me remember this fight I started between him and Mom a few months before he moved out. Dad grounded me for eating on the couch, and Mom called him anal-retentive, and he called her a slob, and Mom said Dad was never home to sit on the couch anyway, and Dad said that was because Mom always nagged at him. Me and Amanda sat on the couch, me still with the plate of cold mac and cheese on my lap, both of us staring at the TV, not looking at Mom and Dad. I know I hate them being divorced, but maybe I hated them being married even more.

No I didn’t. Or else I wouldn’t have tried to get sick. That time I took a shower and then ran into my bedroom without drying off, standing totally bare-assed against the open window in a grand plot to catch pneumonia and reunite my parents in the hospital. Picturing them on each side of the bed, holding hands over me, looking all concerned. And me finally getting well, knowing that Mom and Dad fell back in love, just like in the movies.

I never did catch pneumonia though. It’s not like it gets that cold in San Diego, even in the winter. Anyway, Mom and Dad would probably just yell at each other in the hospital, or maybe Dad would visit me there on Sunday nights and Mom would get the rest of the week. All that happened from standing butt-naked against the window was that Mom got a call from Mrs. Ridsdale next door saying I flashed her.

Tonight Dad hardly saw any of the football game with me. After finishing his pizza, he left me on the couch and moved to the little table off the kitchen, paying bills and then talking to The Thighmaster on the phone, begging her to come over.

He probably hates that I’m such a slug. Especially compared to how he was in high school, the big football star/basketball team captain/homecoming king. I need to try out for a sport. Something cool, to make Dad proud.

Aced my first history quiz
and
my first Spanish essay. When she handed the papers back, Ms. Padilla said I showed a lot of sensitivity.

A jerk in the back row goes, “Dorky Storky,” which made at least half the class laugh. Until Sydney Holland turned around and said she was sick of immature boys who are jealous of sensitive men like me. Some other girls went, “Yeah” and “You big idiots.”

It would be excellent if the guys actually were jealous of me. Like if they all wanted to be Captain Sensitive too. Me and the other sensitive guys would be in the A-list group, and everyone would be dying to sit at our lunch table. Of course, being so sensitive, we’d hate to exclude anyone. So we’d just declare every table in the crapeteria A-list, even though mine would be known as genuinely A-list.

If only. After class I walked Gina to her locker and sensitively mentioned my volunteer trip to Golden Village with Mom. She looked at me like I was Nerdzilla. She goes, “Are you already worried about your extra-curriculars for college?” When I told her it’s just to be nice, her little nose wrinkled up. Then she called out, “Hunk! Hunk!” and ran after him, flicking me a wave.

Today Mom gave me the choice of washing all the windows or going to Golden Village.

That Duke dude kicked my skinny butt again at Scrabble. I can’t believe
dhootie
and
atlatl
are words. He said I didn’t look so glum today, so I told him about getting my first A’s in high school.

He said, “I bet you made your mother proud.” We both looked at her, reading this Jackie Collins book to a group of ladies smacking their lips and twirling their hair. When she caught our stares, she beamed at me like I was Gandhi. If only Gina was impressed. I told Duke, “Mom’s happy about the grades. A lot of girls in my Spanish class think it’s cool.”

He shook his head. At first I thought it was like Parkinson’s or some old-guy thing. But then he goes, “High school girls don’t think good grades are cool. Trust me.”

I’m already getting the rep for brains, 38 days into the school year. Today Sydney Holland copied my notes from Spanish class.

I wonder who has it worse in high school: me, a smart guy who’s skinny and doesn’t do sports, or Sydney, a smart girl with braces who doesn’t wear makeup?

She does have excellent breasts though. Today she leaned over to squint at the handwriting in my notebook, and the left one plopped on top of the desk like a baby seal on the rocks at La Jolla Cove. Very playful. Her gazongas more than compensate for the braces and lack of makeup.

And actually, you can see girls’ eyes better when they don’t have gunk on them. What do you call the color of Sydney’s eyes? Not kelly green. Definitely not lime. Army green, I guess.

After she copied my notes, she goes, “Hope you didn’t mind I said that stuff Monday about being sensitive.”

Mind? Is she crazy? I told her it was okay, not letting on how she totally made my day. Heather green? Is that even a color? Moss green? Maybe ivy green. I don’t know. Nice-looking green. Very.

Tried out for the wrestling team today. Figured that’s a macho enough sport to impress Dad. Last night I even pictured him and the rest of the school rooting for me as I kept pinning down helpless-looking guys on the mat.

What actually happened is a series of smelly ogres kept twisting my limbs like I was Gumby and lying on top of me while Coach Maxwell laughed and shook his head until I half crawled out of the gym.

My neck hurts and I think one of those sweatmonsters gave me a rash.

I don’t like being lied to, but I can understand it in Nate’s case. I’ve bugged him for weeks to let me come over and watch TV, and he kept putting me off. Finally, today, he said I could come. I figured out right off why he stalled before. He doesn’t have 4 TVs. He doesn’t have a big-screen TV. He doesn’t even have a den. He lives in this little one-story house across the street from 7-Eleven, with one medium-sized TV. I didn’t say anything about it and neither did he.

We watched MTV for a while, plus this
Elimidate
episode where the guy got to play beach volleyball with 4 girls in bikinis. Nate liked the tall blonde, but my vote went to the one with the biggest boobs.

Nate’s mom smokes and the whole house reeks. When she drove me home in this old Ford Escort, she smoked with the windows barely open. She hardly said anything the whole way.

It’s so different with Mom. She’s such a griller. As soon as I got in the door, she asked all these questions about Nate and his house and school and stuff. She even asked if I’d been smoking. Ever since she caught me drinking, she’s all paranoid. I bet Nate’s just kicking back in front of the computer by himself now. No one bugging him.

I bowled a 205 tonight! A new record for me! I should thank The Thighmaster. Though it was my idea. She wanted to go to some raw-food restaurant. Gross. So I said, “Did you know 3 games of bowling burn off 500 calories?” I made that up. Really I was thinking this is the one sport I’m decent at, and maybe Dad will think I’m cool for a change. I told The Thighmaster, “They serve salad at the bowling alley, so you can burn calories
and
eat raw foods.” And I could eat a cheeseburger and fries instead of carrot sticks and wheat germ. After I told her and Dad that bowling’s supposed to be the newest trend, they finally said okay.

I owe my 205 score to The Thighmaster breaking her nail and getting all bent out of shape early in the second game. She sat on the bench, took off one of the rental shoes, and flung it at Dad. She goes, “I refuse to do this. You drag me to these horrid places on Sundays and I can’t take it anymore.”

I figured Dad would tell her to grow up, or call a cab for her. But he sat next to her patting her knee and told me, “Let’s go.” He said, “I’ll take you to my apartment and you can watch TV.” The Thighmaster held out her hand and stared at her broken nail as if her finger had been chopped off. Dad leaned over and kissed it.

I wanted to say, I refuse to do this too. I refuse to listen to your bimbo delight whine about wearing geeky shoes. I refuse to wait while you get all those different balls for her before she finds one she likes. I refuse to watch you grope each other every time you pick up a spare or whenever she doesn’t get a gutter ball.