“Shit,” he says. He wrestles with it for five minutes, with me holding the light on it. Then he kicks the side of the furnace and sits on the floor.
“How about we pour some of it in the baggie and just leave the baggie open in there?” I ask him.
He doesn’t say anything. He’s probably wondering if you could get enough stuff in the baggie to do any good.
“God damn it,” he finally says.
The furnace clicks on. The open pipe makes it sound louder than it probably normally would.
“Lemme think,” Flake goes. He stands up and walks over to the furnace. I zigzag the light around while he’s thinking. “Shit,” he goes. He slides the pipe back where it was, then drops his pants and pisses on the side of the furnace.
Walking home he’s mad because his piss ended up splashing around and got on his shoes.
“What’re you looking at?” he wants to know.
“Absolutely nothing,” I go.
He squishes along. My feet are wetter than his, but his probably feel wetter. “Somebody’s going to pay for this,” he finally says.
“Your mom, when she washes your socks?” I go.
An old guy in an SUV trails us all the way home. He has to go about a mile an hour to keep from getting ahead of us. We stay on the road anyway. It’s a long walk and the guy never speeds up. It must be four in the morning by this point. We don’t see a single other car on the road. When we get to Flake’s street, he turns to the SUV and puts his hands on both sides of his crotch and moves them up and down his thighs and belly. “Oh, baby,” he says. “C’mon, baby.” Then he turns and heads down to his house.
3
There’s this sixth-grader who’s decided he can’t leave us alone. He always wears the same black t-shirt that says SCREW THE SYSTEM under whatever other shirt he’s got on. Flake gets a kick out of it when he first sees it.
“Your mother lets you wear that?” he asks the kid. We’re standing in the lunch line and the kid has six chocolate milks and nothing else on his tray.
“Your mother,” the kid says back.
“He’s not cracking on your mother,” I tell him. “He’s asking you a question.”
“Your mother,” the kid goes to me.
“Oh my God,” Flake goes. “This little shit’s crazier than I am.”
You can see it’s made the kid’s day. “I’ll kick your ass,” the kid says. He’s like three feet two. His hair sticks straight up.
Flake asks him his name.
“Herman,” the kid says.
“Hermie,” Flake says. “I like that.”
“Herman,” the kid says.
“Hermie,” Flake says.
“Herman,” the kid says.
“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” I go.
“Up yours,” the kid says.
Flake gives me a look. We both crack up.
“So can I sit with you?” the kid says, when we finally get through the line.
“No,” Flake goes.
We have combination locks for our lockers. Every day I get worried I’m not going to be able to open it. That’s what kind of hopeless feeboid pussy I am—I worry about being able to open my locker. The lock’s no good. You have like two seconds to open it between classes, and everybody else is opening theirs. Three straight days I can’t do it. The first day I try it twelve different ways, getting sweatier and sweatier, while everybody else gets their stuff and slams their doors and takes off. I stand there, looking at my little slip of paper like I can’t read three numbers. During study period I ask for another locker. The janitor comes over to check it out, opens it no problem, and walks away. The second day I bang the thing around, kick it. Knee it. Some of the kids around me cheer. The third day I try to pretend I’ve already gotten what I need.
“Where’s your text, young man?” my English teacher wants to know.
“In my locker,” I tell her.
“What good is it doing you there?” she asks.
“Sometimes I wonder,” I tell her.
“Did you hear me?” she goes. “What’s it doing in your locker?”
I just sit there. The kid across from me holds up his book, to show me what it looks like.
“Why is it in your locker?” she goes.
The second hand makes its little jerks around the clock on the wall. Under the clock there’s a construction-paper sign that says WHO OR WHOM???
“Do you want to explain why to the principal?” she asks me.
“He can’t get his locker open,” some kid finally says from the back of the room. Everybody laughs.
“Is that really true?” the teacher goes.
“Oh, fuck me,” I say under my breath.
When I look up she’s got the kind of expression you get when somebody drops something huge on your foot.
Nobody says anything for a minute. A boy in the back coughs. There’s a plant on her desk, and a picture of Paris. You can tell because of the Eiffel Tower. There’s a carved wood sign like businessmen have that stands up facing us. The sign says YES. AND . . . ?
I have a headache that goes from one ear to the other and over the top and down my neck. I wipe and wipe and wipe my eyes. “I guess you heard that, huh?” I finally go.
“Ms. Meier says you’re not to come back to her room until you’re ready to act like a human being,” the vice principal tells me. He’s a young guy and his jacket’s too short for his arms. His shirtsleeves stick out like half a foot. I’ve got nothing against him.
I’m in his chair. He took the one that’s supposed to be for the kids.
“When do you think that might be?” he wants to know.
I tilt my head and lift my shoulders.
“Can you use words?” he asks.
“I’m ready now,” I tell him.
He leans forward and looks sideways, like the room goes on a long way in that direction. Then he looks back at me. “Anything you want to tell me?” he goes. “You having trouble at home?”
I think about it. “Yeah, I guess,” I go.
“You want to talk to me about it?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I go.
He starts looking sideways again. He’s got Extreme Sports photos like parasurfing and heliskiing over his bookcase. “I have to tell you, a lot of us are starting to worry about you,” he tells me.
“A lot of us?” I go.
“Ms. Meier, myself, Mrs. Pruitt . . .” he goes. He makes it clear he could keep going. “So what happened today?” he asks.
“I can’t get my locker open,” I tell him.
The period bell rings and there’s the usual thunder in the hall. Kids are yelling and laughing and locker doors are banging and crashing. No other kid in the school has a problem with his locker.
He’s holding up his thumb and scraping away at the top of it. “You can’t get your locker open,” he finally says.
“Why does everyone repeat what I say?” I go.
“Is that what’s supposed to’ve happened today?” he says.
“It’s not supposed to’ve happened,” I tell him. “It did happen. I couldn’t get my locker open.”
He keeps looking at me.
“I worry about it all the time. Getting up, getting on the bus, coming down the hall, I’m worried,” I tell him. “I don’t sleep, thinking about it.”
“Why don’t you get a new locker?” His voice is quiet, like I’m shitting him.
“The janitor wouldn’t give me one,” I tell him.
He puts his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand.
“It’s embarrassing,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he goes.
“Kids my age hate being embarrassed,” I tell him.
The noise in the hall is pretty much gone by this point. Everybody’s at their next class. He’s got a framed list on the table next to me. It says, Group Needs: Cooperation, Creativity, Sensitivity, Respect, Passion, Freedom of Speech, Change of Pace, Group Work, Clear Explanations, Fun.
“Am I gonna get a note for next period?” I ask him.
He puts his fingers together under his nose like he’s praying.
“Because I’m gonna need a note,” I go.
He gets up from the kid’s chair and comes around behind his desk. He picks up a framed picture of his dog. The frame has little plastic bones around the outside. All right, he finally says. Detention for a week. Starting today.
“I’m telling the truth, here,” I go.
“Yeah. Our interview’s over, Edwin,” he goes.
“Whatever,” I tell him.
“Tell your parents I’ll be in touch,” he goes.
My eyes feel like marbles they’re so tired. I put my hands under my glasses and cover them up. My fingers feel cool on my eye sockets.
“You hear me?” he says.
“I may keep it a surprise,” I go.
He laughs and shakes his head. “God,” he says. “Kids like you used to get their butt kicked when I was a kid.”
“They still do,” I tell him.