Two fat girls are two steps down from us on the front stairs. “Which is better, an A or an A minus?” one goes.
“What’re you talking about?” the other one goes.
“I got this,” Hermie tells me. He shows me a knife inside his backpack. It’s one of those knives you use to clean fish.
“What are you doing?” I go. “Are you fucking nuts?” He puts the knife down at the bottom of his pack and pulls out one of his school folders. “Are you fucking nuts?” I ask him again. “Bringing that to school?”
He starts pulling papers out of the folder, looking for something, spreading everything out so he can see. Some slide down the steps.
I stop one that’s about to blow away. “You can’t just get a gun,” I tell him.
He keeps looking for whatever it is. He’s not making much progress.
“You hear me?” I ask him.
“Leave me alone,” he goes. He’s crying again. Then he slips and the whole folder dumps open. Assignments and worksheets slide down the cement. They’re filled with X’s and red marks. The homeroom bell rings. He’s scrambling around trying to get everything before the stampede reaches the stairs. I help with some papers right around me. A kid who’s running past doesn’t see him bending down and decks him. They both go flying. It’s a big hit with the kids who have a view of it.
I help him up and he shakes loose and gets the rest of his papers and carries them into the building in a mess under his arm.
He doesn’t show up the next day once I’m off the bus and hanging around. That night it occurs to me while I’m patrolling the house that we could be in real trouble if this nimrod takes out a gun and waves it around at school. That could be the end of our plan. Though I don’t even know if our plan is still on. This occurs to me while I’m sitting in the living room in the dark watching cars drive by down the street.
I get like one hour’s sleep. The next morning I circle the playground, but Hermie’s not there and neither is Flake.
In English we all have to sign a poster that covers a whole cabinet wall and says “English 8: In Our Own Words.” The last four sentences at the bottom are
I want to succeed in high school, but I know it will be a challenge.
I am not a loser. (Somebody’s already crossed out the not.)
I will be a nobody to most and a somebody to a few.
In 8th grade, I am a nervous student.
I find a clear spot and sign “F.U. Verymuch” so only I can read it. Bethany, the girl Flake was talking about, comes up to me after class in the hall and hands me a folded piece of pink paper. When she lifts her hand her wristwatch always slides down practically to her elbow. She’s carrying a zebra-skin pencil case.
“What’s this?” I go.
“It’s for you,” she says, and her friends watch and giggle.
I read it on the way to math.
I’m pissed that I was excited there for a minute because a girl was giving me a note. I almost ball the thing up and throw it away, but I don’t.
Bethany and her friends follow me while I’m reading. It makes me paranoid. I spend two periods thinking about what to do with it. Finally, since I’m alone again at lunch, I fill it out. I write “with” after “hot sex” and draw an arrow to “fruit.” I write “with” after “good talks” and draw an arrow to “big gloppy desserts.” I draw an arrow from “girls” to “$$$$$$$,” and just leave “boys” and “good friends” blank.
I give it back to her when I go to bus my tray. In line I can see her and her friends leaning over it like it’s a treasure map.
“You are so weird,” she says to me later in the hall.
In seventh period the teacher’s late and all the guys sitting around me are talking about hard-ons.
After school when I get home I call Flake again. This time he answers the phone.
“We got a problem,” I tell him after he says hello. He hangs up.
I look at the phone and beat on the cradle part of it with the receiver.
“What’s going on down there?” my mom wants to know. She’s up in Gus’s room getting him up from his nap.
I wait another day before calling again. “Don’t hang up, fuckhead,” I say when he says hello. I don’t hear anything after that. “Hello?” I go.
“I’m still here,” he says.
“We got a problem,” I tell him.
“So I hear,” he goes.
“You already know?” I ask.
“You just told me,” he goes.
I’m quiet, thinking about hanging up myself.
“So what’s the problem?” he asks.
I imagine pulling the phone off the wall and beating it flat with the mallet my dad keeps in the basement. Living by myself for the rest of my life, and having no friends. “Our pal Hermie says he’s getting a gun to go after that kid he hates,” I go.
Flake laughs.
“I don’t think he’s just bullshitting,” I tell him. It sounds like I just wanted an excuse to call, which pisses me off more than it should. “He had a knife in his pack on Thursday,” I add.
“What kind of knife?” Flake wants to know.
“A big one,” I go. “The kind you use on fish.”
“On fish?” he says.
“His dad does have a gun,” I tell him. “And Dipstick knows where it is. And he’s a crazy fuck.”
“Well, that’s true,” Flake admits.
“I’m thinking he’d screw it up for us,” I tell him.
Flake’s quiet, thinking about it.
“Hello?” I go.
“Maybe he would,” he goes. “That’s certainly the kind of shit that always happens to us,” he adds after a minute.
“So?” I go.
“So what’d you tell him?” he asks.
“I told him not to talk stupid,” I go.
He sneezes. “What else you tell him?” he asks. I hear him wiping his nose.
“I told him he couldn’t just get a gun,” I go.
My mom comes into my room and sits down. No knock, nothing. I wave her out. She shakes her head. “We have to talk,” she whispers, exaggerating her mouth movements, I guess so I can read her lips.
“What’d he say?” Flake wants to know.
“He didn’t say anything,” I tell him.
“Hmm,” he goes.
“Who’re you talking to?” my mom mouths.
“I think we gotta talk to him,” I go.
“I’ll talk with him, all right,” Flake goes.
“I gotta go,” I tell him.
“Think he’d really do it?” he asks.
“I gotta go,” I tell him again.
“What’s the matter?” he goes.
“Is that Flake?” my mom asks in a regular voice.
“Is that your mother?” Flake goes.
“Yeah,” I go, to both of them.
“She been listening this whole time?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him.
“Jesus Christ,” he goes, like there’s no end to my stupidity. “Call me back, asshole.” He hangs up.
It turns out my mom wants to talk about my dad. She’s worried about him because he’s worried about me.
I listen to her outline the problem for a while. The whole thing depresses me.
“You have anything to contribute?” she finally asks.
I shrug, which is not what she was looking for. She gives me a look and tells me more stuff about how sad he’s been. He hasn’t been sleeping either, or working on his book.
“I’m sorry about that,” I tell her. Because I am.
“I realize it feels like you have a lot to deal with right now,” she goes.
Feels like? I think: I shouldn’t get mad.
She says she has a proposal. The family should go somewhere for Thanksgiving, somewhere cool. Have Thanksgiving somewhere else, for once.