Storky (6 page)

Where was I? So when this whole thing started, I thought it was my lucky day. Gina wore my favorite red shorts, and I had a 7-letter word,
quivers
, with room for it to go up to the triple word square. The
q
alone was worth 30 points. You can’t ask for more.

I had to wait for Gina to take her turn. She took a real long time. Even for her. And it’s hard sitting with a 7-letter word like that and waiting your turn. So I go, “I hope you’re not as slow with the Hunk as you are with me.”

She got all offended. She goes, “What do you mean by that?” in a way that would have sounded bitchy if her voice wasn’t so high and squeaky. I told her it was just a stupid joke, but she said it’s not funny. I go, “I just wanted you to hurry.” Then she said, really angry, “Everyone’s trying to hurry me all the time. Can’t I just sit in a truck or think about my Scrabble game? Why can’t anyone wait anymore?”

We’ve played about 100 games of Scrabble at least, and I’ve asked her to hurry up only about 10 times. And she always plays slow. I thought I was very patient. So then I said in a very patient way, “I’m sorry. Take as much time as you want.”

That’s when she started crying. Not like loud crying. I could just see these tears dripping down her cheeks and her little hands trying to wipe them away really fast, like if she could only get them off her face quick enough, I wouldn’t notice.

Before I could figure out whether to turn my head away or hug her or what, she stood up and said, “I have to go home.” I sat there, nodding. It was just so weird. One minute she’s fine, joking about school, and the next second she’s crying because I asked her to hurry up.

I never even got to show her I had
quivers
over a triple word spot. Now she probably won’t believe I really had it. Although I doubt I’ll ever bring this up. It’s too weird.

I’m so sick of Dad. He and The Thighmaster are on this big health kick together, so we had to go to Veggie Heaven, which tastes even worse than its name. I don’t know if there’s a heaven, but I’m positive there aren’t any veggies in it.

The whole time I had to listen to The Thighmaster lecture about the calories in everything. Which actually was pretty impressive in a wacked way. She knew the exact calorie count of every food.

At home afterward, as I polished off the leftover spaghetti and meatballs, I told Amanda that The Thighmaster was just like a strand of spaghetti, except skinnier and with less brains. Amanda goes, “It really bothers you, doesn’t it? Dad always bringing someone along.” “Yeah,” I said. “It bugs.” She goes, “Tell him.” I explained how I couldn’t, because his bimbo delight’s always there with her hand attached to Dad’s thigh, and it would just start a huge fight. Amanda goes, “Call him up.”

Mom didn’t say anything. She just sat at the kitchen table biting her nails and looking at the Tax Code. One of those psychological books she’s always reading must say to stay out of stuff between your kids and your ex. I’m sure she was just dying. It has to be torture for her to stay quiet for so long. I appreciate it, I guess.

I think I will phone him. Tell him how I feel. In a mature way. I’ll be Captain Sensitive, all polite and calm, and just say I’d like some one-on-one with you.

Maybe I should call Gina too. But what would I tell her? I’m sorry for making you cry by telling a joke? I promise to never kid around again? I should just concentrate my microscopic ability to communicate on the Dad call.

 

 

Yeah, that sounds good. I think I’ll use the word
bond
. He’s into that psyche stuff. I remember him talking about Bonding as a New Kind of Family when he said he was moving out. Even then, when I was 12, I thought it sounded like bull. I’ll definitely call him tomorrow.

I have to call Dad. By tomorrow afternoon. As soon as I get home from school. I have to get this off my chest. Besides, if I can get the Dad situation cleared up, maybe I won’t be such a wuss about apologizing to Gina.

Went to Nate’s house tonight. He asked if I wanted to smoke pot. That’s all I need—something that turns me all quiet and makes me want to eat a lot. I’m already quiet and I already eat a lot. He was cool about it when I said no.

If I was stoned now, I wouldn’t be so pissed at myself for not calling Dad.

I admit it. I’m too much of a wimp to call Dad. So I wouldn’t be a total wuss, I called Gina. She was out. Of course. It’s Friday night. Everyone’s out except me.

I wonder what it’s like to have sex. Not necessarily with Gina, but just to have sex with a girl. Preferably Gina though. I don’t really understand how you’re supposed to go all in and out of a girl unless you’re an acrobat or something. Plus, doesn’t it hurt the girl to have some guy bouncing around on top of her? Especially Gina, with her little bones.

Maybe not someone like Sydney Holland, who’s on the swim team. Sydney’s arms look really solid. Her legs are probably strong too. I bet she has great legs. Maybe sex is like doing the butterfly stroke without water. I never learned that one though. I can barely do the crawl. Sydney could go on top.

I’m a perv. Mom better not be reading this journal.

Gina called back. I apologized for making that joke last Saturday, and then she finally apologized to me. She said she was all stressed, but wouldn’t tell me why.

She would have told me a few years ago. She even used to read me parts of her journal over the phone. She said I was a great listener. Even as a kid, I was a budding Captain Sensitive. That’s when we were good, true friends.

I’m sitting at the computer practically shaking. I don’t know who I’m more mad at, Dad or Amanda. Or myself. I should have called Dad last week instead of putting it off. I hope Amanda gets into one of those faraway colleges she applied to. I can’t handle living with her one more year.

First, Dad picked me up 23 minutes late. He honks the horn and there’s The Thighmaster, sitting in the front seat of his Lexus, waving like a Rose Bowl queen. Why does she always get the front? I can’t wait until Dad teaches me to drive and the bimbo delights get the backseat.

She clamped her hand on his thigh the whole time. She has these really long fake nails. Everything about her is fake. Dyed hair, phony personality, probably little plastic boobs too.

Dad tried to start a conversation. “How’s school? You still friends with Gina? You ever hear from that friend of yours who moved away?” He couldn’t even remember Brian’s name. We only hung out together like every weekend for 4 years. When we hit the usual long pause, Dad turned on the radio to a football wrap-up show. The whole time I was thinking, Why am I here?

He goes, “We decided to eat at this seafood restaurant Mercedes Bonnafeux recommended on the radio yesterday.” We? I thought, Who’s we? Dad and The Thighmaster are the we. Not Dad and me.

I said, “I went out for seafood for lunch.” Which isn’t a lie. I had a tuna sandwich at Nate’s house. We also ate the whole bag of miniature Snickers that was supposed to be for the trick-or-treat kids tonight. Nate’s mom will be pissed off.

Dad says, “Oh, where did you eat?” I go, “A place called Nathan’s.” The Thighmaster says, “I never heard of it,” like accusing me of lying. I said, “It’s really small and it’s in a bad area.” Which is true too.

When I suggested going to the Jim Carrey movie instead, he had to look over at The Thighmaster before he said okay. I don’t remember him ever looking at Mom that way.

The Thighmaster started whining about how hungry she was, and how she couldn’t eat in the theater because hot dogs had all these nitrates in them and the popcorn wasn’t air popped, and on and on until she made Dad stop at Sub-marina. Then we had to hear how fattening subs were if you used mayonnaise and cheese. The whole time I kept saying over and over to myself, Why am I here?

The fight started at the new 14-plex at the mall, but I was pretty pissed off before then. By the time we got there, the Jim Carrey movie had sold out. If we could have just bought hot dogs in the theater, or eaten afterward, we’d have gotten in and everything would have been okay. Or sort of okay.

I suggested the James Bond movie. But The Thighmaster wanted to see this stupid movie I never heard of. The poster called it the most passionate film of the year. Dad goes, “His mom doesn’t want him seeing R-rated movies.” Then The Thighmaster goes, “Screw his mom.” That’s what she said, Screw his mom. What a bitch!

I didn’t say anything, because I thought Dad would yell at her. Instead he broke into this big explanation of how he and Mom are trying to respect each other, blah blah blah. He went on so long, pretending to be so understanding, we had to step out of the ticket line.

Then he suggests, like it’s this brilliant idea, that I could see the James Bond movie and he and The Thighmaster could watch the passionate film and we could meet in the lobby afterward.

That did it. I walked away. Dad started walking after me, so I ran. He called, “Mike, Mike,” and I kept running. Out of the theater. Through the mall. I just ran. I tried to think what to do—go back, call someone, yell at Dad—but really I couldn’t think at all. I just kept running. I ran and ran, until it dawned on me that most of the stores were closed and nobody was around, and I got kind of spooked.

I stopped. I was almost to the end of the mall. There was a McDonald’s at the very end so I went in there. I ordered 2 Big Macs, then realized I only had $2. Does anything ever go right for me? I got a Sprite instead.

I sat in a booth in the back, sipping my Sprite, thinking about Dad calling, “Mike, Mike” as I ran away, and I started to smile. I was thinking, I hope he looks all over for me. I hope he leaves The Thighmaster in front of the theater while he goes to every store in the mall. I hope he has to call Mom and explain what happened.

Then I realized Mom wasn’t home. She was at Dr. Vermin’s supposedly studying. Then I wondered how I’d get home.

I tried to think who I knew that drove besides Mom. Aunt Marsha, but I knew she’d tell Mom everything. There was Grandma, but she’s such a Dad fan, she’d probably haul me back to the movie theater. I couldn’t think of anyone else but Amanda, so that’s who I called. When I told her, all she said was, “That bastard! I’ll be right there.”

She must have left the house as soon as we hung up. It only took her 8 minutes to get to the McDonald’s. Right after Amanda came in, Dad showed up. He didn’t seem out of breath or anything. It was like he’d been strolling around the mall, thinking, Wouldn’t it be nice if he should happen to bump into me? When Dad saw me, he gave me this tiny smile, but then he saw Amanda and looked totally thrilled.

It didn’t even seem to faze her. She just laid into him. She goes, “You can’t even sit next to him at the movies one day a week. He just wanted one-on-one time with you, Dad, that’s all.” She says, “He can’t talk to you because one of your girlfriends is always around. He had to write down what he wanted to say, he wrote it all out, and then he couldn’t even face calling you.”

Dad didn’t say much. Just that it was no excuse to make him chase me through the mall and make everyone miss the movie. Amanda went off on him so much, maybe he couldn’t say everything he wanted to. Though he could have said he was sorry. He could have fit that in.

I didn’t like Amanda butting in. It was my problem. She has plenty of her own problems with Dad. People at Mc-Donald’s were staring at us. Even this homeless guy who probably sees plenty of strange stuff stared at us.

Then I realized Amanda must have read my journal. It’s the only place I wrote down what I wanted to tell Dad. All this time I worried Mom was reading it. I never thought Amanda cared what her geeky little brother was writing.

I couldn’t yell at her at McDonald’s. I was too weirded out to talk. My head was pounding like a gong had gotten stuck inside it. I could barely think. So I said, “Just take me home, Amanda,” and she did.

In the car she went on and on about what a pig he is. At first she yelled about it and then she started crying. She brought up the assistant gymnastics coach, how she used to spot Amanda during the day and screw Dad at night, how she made small talk with Mom when she picked Amanda up from practices, all the time doing it with Dad behind everyone’s back.

I was mad about her reading my journal, but also sorry for her with her crying and everything, and grateful that she came to get me and said she wouldn’t tell Mom. With Gina crying last week, and now Amanda, I see even popular people have problems—not as many as us dweebs have, I’m sure, but they have problems too.

I can’t write about this anymore. I’m tired. My hands hurt from typing all this. I feel too crappy to go all over it again. I’ll finish tomorrow.

I’m still so pissed at Amanda. How dare she read my journal? I deleted all the entries today. I only have the hard copies now, hidden in the middle of my box of comic books.

She must have read about me crossing out that graffiti about her. Oh, crap, and now she knows I like Gina, and all my perverted secrets.

So I have to figure out what to do not only about Dad, but also about Amanda sneaking into my journal. Plus I have to give an oral report next Monday in Honors English. Ms. Dore is making each person stand up in front of the class and recite a poem and explain it. Like she figured out everyone’s worst nightmare. I never get poetry. Like that one about the rose that everybody else in the class knew was about sex, except me. I thought it was just about a rose. Plus this Friday there’s those geometry and history midterms I haven’t studied for.