Wolves, Boys and Other Things That Might Kill Me (17 page)

She winks again. “Good work. I can’t even see the tape.”

“That’s probably because you wink too much.”

She gives me a stiff good-bye hug. She stands back and looks at me. “Merry Christmas, KJ.”

“How come we weren’t friends until this year?” I say. “You’re so nice.”

“I don’t know. I never really noticed you that much, I guess.”

I close the door. In a few years, I’ll probably think about what Sondra just told me about myself. Right now, I focus on her present. It’s in a shirt-size box but it could be anything. She’s wrapped it in a paper grocery bag that’s been cut to fit perfectly. I didn’t know Sondra was so domestic. I shake it. It feels heavy like a book. I don’t want to open it right off. I love not knowing what it is. But I want to know what it is. But I don’t. Geez.

I walk past Dad into my room and look at my box. Sondra is full of surprises. Finally I can’t stand it. When I take off the lid I am very glad I am being surprised in my room.

The first thing I realize about my present is that it’s not from Sondra. The second thing I realize is that I’m not breathing. I let some air out manually and sit down on my bed. In the box is a framed picture of me lying on a rock, writing in my journal. The light of the Lamar Valley shimmers behind me, illuminating the tall grass. The robin’s-egg sky is layered with clouds. There is a halo around the rock. Even with me in the picture, it’s beautiful.

There is a note taped to the glass. It says, “For Wolf Girl. Love, Virgil.”

I read the words over and over and over.

INVERSIONS

IT’S THE FIRST day back at school since the shooting. We’re watching a feature film on sexually transmitted diseases in Health. Virgil is sitting next to me, reading under his desk. Kenner is sitting two seats in front of us, yucking it up as if nothing has happened.

Virgil’s face is still red but the swelling is gone. Everybody’s been talking about the shooting, like it happened last night, not two weeks ago. Virgil is a celebrity. In typical Virgil fashion, he seems oblivious to all of it.

Me—not so oblivious. I am trying to keep from punching Kenner in the mouth.

Kenner leans over to Road Work and says, “Hey, what do you get when you cross a tree hugger with a wolf?”

Road Work says, “What?”

Kenner says, “The big bad faggot.”

Road Work laughs like he gets it.

Virgil keeps reading.

I lean forward and say, “What do you get when you cross a rancher with a sheep?”

Kenner and company glare.

“Two flocking idiots.”

“KJ the Retard,” says Kenner, “gettin’ fierce.”

Cue laughter by mental midgets.

Coach Henderson, the health teacher says, “Quiet.” Quiet is important to Coach Henderson. In addition to being a teacher, he’s also the football coach and a fireman. He needs this class to catch up on his sleep.

Kenner whispers cheerfully at Virgil, “Hey, wolf faggot. Your girlfriend’s sticking up for you.”

I say, “At least he doesn’t double-date with his brother—the same girl.”

Kenner stands up. Virgil stands up, too, but he walks out of the room without a word.

“Do you men have a problem?” says Mr. Henderson to Virgil’s back. The door swings shut.

I say, “Posttraumatic stress.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Henderson.

Kenner flips me off and turns around. I’m so mad I nearly miss the romantic moment where the girl tells the boy she has an STD.

On the way out of class Road Work gets up slower than the rest of the mob and bumps into to me with his wall of a body. He says, “Besides, Addie’s not dating William anymore. She was only doing it to make Kenner mad.” He says this like it somehow proves something.

I say, “Well, shoot. She should have asked me. I’m good at that.”

 

I see Virgil in the hall on his way to English. I don’t know what to say.

He says, “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine,” I say.

“Fine,” he says.

I walk away, fine as a switchblade.

 

Virgil walks into the lunch room with Dennis. Dennis is grinning. “Anybody here want my autograph? I just wrote on a third-grader’s lunch box.”

Virgil says, “It’s going to his head.”

“As opposed to your face?” says Stewie, laughing.

“Hey,” says Virgil, touching his new scar.

“It’s totally cool—you’re like a war veteran, only younger,” says Clint. “Do you score pain meds for that?”

“Please!” wails Addie, slapping her mashed potatoes with her spoon.

“Please what?” I say. Anybody but Addie can tell Virgil and Dennis not to make a big deal of this.

She glares at me. “Look, KJ, I wish it wouldn’t have happened as much as you do. I just wish everyone would stop talking about it.”

“I thought we’re supposed to tell people our true feelings. Don’t you love that?”

“Relax, KJ. It’s okay,” says Virgil.

“How is it okay?” I say.

“Because Addie’s right.”

The table is silent except for the sound of Virgil pulling his precious homemade salad out of his recycled bag. I dump my tray and head for the library.

In math I get zero out of five on my quiz. Mandy grades my paper. She writes me a note in her fat curly handwriting. “Nice job!” She puts a frowny face inside my zero. It’s exactly how I feel.

 

I try to jog home, but the sidewalk is icy. The town is swallowed in a winter inversion. The trapped air is dirty and bitter. I hope Dad hasn’t been busy today. Lifting things up and down is misery for him. And we both know whose fault it is he’s miserable. I speed up, but the faster I run, the more I slip.

The store is empty. The register is unattended. I call hello and get no answer. I walk to the office in the back and find Dad lying on the camp cot in the corner, sound asleep. His face is the color of his sheets and there is blood on the pillow.

“Dad?”

Nothing. I push on his shoulder and he opens his eyes. “Hey, are you okay?” When he finally sits up he clears his throat but doesn’t answer.

“Is your ear hurting you?” My BDG is in overdrive.

“I want you to close tonight.”

“You’re bleeding again.”

Dad lies back in the bed and looks up at the ceiling. It scares me.

“How’s school?”

“Great.”

We sit in silence. Finally he says, “You’ll have to do your homework in the shop. I don’t want you to use me as an excuse for getting behind in school.”

“No problem.” What I love about Dad is that he never takes a day off criticizing me. He’s committed.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Tough like your mom.”

I hate it when he compares me to her. Luckily it doesn’t happen very often. “Why don’t you go home, Dad? Sleep on a real bed.”

“I’m serious about this,” he says, sitting up awkwardly. “College admission boards don’t care what your reasons are. They want results.”

“Got it,” I say.

“I look at results, too,” he says, and hobbles out the door.

 

By six it’s actually busy. People have to wait for help. One man leaves before I can finish answering his questions about pack trips. If Dad were here, he’d be furious.

By seven, the crowd starts to thin and I get my bearings again. I can make eye contact and small talk. Then I look over and see a man lifting a T-shirt. Mid-twenties, raggedy beard, thick arms, and a big puffy coat. I watch him put the shirt inside his coat and keep looking around the store. He circles the store looking at flies and camping gear for a few minutes. It’s going to be bad either way but I know what I have to do. He starts for the door. I step from behind the counter. He’s a foot taller than I am. The old me would just let it go. Too embarrassing. Too many ways I can screw this up.
Wolf stare
, I think,
come on.

The store has an audience of fifteen or so people. The red blotches on my neck start before I can even get over to talk to him. I say quietly, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“About what?” he says in a tight voice.

I look him in the chest and say, “The shirt in your coat.”

“What?” he says loudly.

I look up at his face, “You need to pay for that shirt.”

“What shirt?”

Everyone looks.

I say, “Under your coat.”

He opens up his jacket with his hands still inside the pockets. He has big padded pockets, but the shirt isn’t visible. He says, “What shirt?”

I look up at his face. His mouth is puckered. I know he still has it but I don’t dare ask to look in his pockets. I flinch. “My mistake.”

“It sure is,” he says, and walks out of the store with righteous indignation and my dad’s shirt.

“My mistake,” I say to everyone staring at me.

A gray-haired woman standing close to me leans forward and whispers, “Don’t you worry about it, dear.”

The shoppers go back to their grazing. I go back to my register.

When work is over, I lock up and run home. My lungs ache from the cold, but I run anyway. I tell myself it’s not my fault that creep stole a shirt. Dad is fine and Virgil doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m just running because I’m cold.

REPERCUSSIONS

WHEN I WALK into the police station, Officer Farley is sitting at his paper-strewn desk rubbing a cigarette into his full ashtray. His face is red and slightly bulging. I was hoping to talk to Officer Smith.

“Hi, Officer Farley. Could I ask you some questions for the school paper?”

“You supposed to be in school, KJ.”

“On my way. Do you have a minute?”

“Make it quick.”

“I wondered if you had any leads on the shooting.” I try to keep my voice respectful and my chin down. I pull my pad of paper and pen and hold it conspicuously in front of me. Officer Smith is nowhere to be seen.

“That is a police matter, young lady, and you are late for school.”

“It’s for school, for the newspaper. I’m the editor. We’re doing a follow-up story on the shooting at the parade.”

Officer Farley glares at me. “Well, Miss Editor, I have work to do and it’s against the law to miss class.”

“No leads on the shooter then?”

“Shooter?”

Farley’s eyeball-popping disgust is interrupted by the phone ringing. After a few introductions Officer Farley’s eyeballs start popping out again. Oddly enough he looks right at me as he’s talking.

“No foolin’. Right out of the ground?” he says into the receiver.

“How many do you have out?”

He pauses, then continues, “I certainly will. I have her right here in fact.”

I look around. I’m the only “her” in the room. He scribbles words on paper and hangs up the phone.

I say, “Is something wrong?”

He grinds the cigarette in the tray like a sore. “It seems that someone tore down a fence at Martin’s ranch last night. Bunch of their cattle got loose. One got all the way to the highway. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

“I was at home last night.”

“How ’bout your boyfriend?”

The welts on my neck are erupting. Curse my skin. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Fine . . . the hippie?”