He smiled at me and blew smoke in my face. “Let’s hope so.”
At lunch, Johnny wandered through the yard on his own, kids giving him a wide berth in case getting hurled across a classroom was contagious. Me and KC were smoking behind the wall. KC was a year older than me. His real name was Kevin Chester, but he called himself KC because he thought his real name sounded gay. He was fucking right.
Wasn’t just his name, either. When he got drunk, KC was always dancing and taking his clothes off, even when there weren’t any girls around. But if you reminded him of it when he was sober, he punched you on the fucking arm. KC switched schools and had to start the eighth grade all over because he wasn’t achieving his full potential. His grades were so bad his parents were afraid he’d grow up to be President of the USA.
“Maybe we should talk to the new kid,” said KC.
“And say what?”
“I dunno. Anything. Tell him you’re sorry about his family blowing up.”
“You fuckin’ idiot. He was making all that shit up about his family. That’s why Griff threw him out.”
“Oh. Really? I thought he was just lying about the dog.”
Kevin’s dad drove a limo, and I don’t mean he was no chauffeur. He worked for some big chemical corporation and smoked cigars and wore a smoking jacket in the home. When I first saw this smoking jacket I thought it was some kind of comedy robe. If I visited Kevin’s house, his dad always shook me by the hand like I was an old friend and asked about my parents. Kevin’s dad wouldn’t have known my mom and dad if he’d driven over them in his fucking limo.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” says Kevin. “Switching to a new school is the worst fuckin’ feelin.”
“Worse than what? Worse than having boiling oil poured in your ears?”
“Fuck you.”
“Anyway, you did know somebody. You already knew me when you came to this school.”
“Exactly, Newton.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Whatever the fuck you want it to mean.”
“You already done the eighth grade once. You’re familiar with all the fuckin’ subjects. You said so yourself. What’s so tough about that?”
Kevin punched me on the shoulder.
The last school KC went to was this Catholic place run by a bunch of real monks. Except instead of being all peaceful and holy, these were the kind of monks that stank of sweat and twisted guy’s nipples when they stepped out of line. I told KC that twisting nipples was illegal. KC said that if it was in the Bible, it’s okay for monks to do it.
Kevin got a lot of shit from his mom and dad, about how he had to work real hard to fulfill his dream. What dream? Far as I know, he didn’t have a dream, apart from wanting to own a Harley someday. Kevin was a big tough kid with real muscles but when his dad told him he was letting down his family, he cried like a baby. I saw him do it once.
“You comin’ round Maya’s house tonight?”
Maya was allegedly Kevin’s girlfriend. She was twelve years old, with no tits whatsoever. That kind of thing might go down well in Mississippi, but it looks pretty sick in New Jersey.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Her cousin’s comin round. Mirabeth. Did you ever hear such a stupid name?”
“How old is she? Seven?”
This time, he tried to kick me. It was a pretty half-assed attempt, though. For an athlete, Kevin was getting a little porky. Every day, his lunchbox has about two million cookies in it. Kevin says this is because his mom used to be trailer trash and never had enough to eat as a kid. But her dad, KC’s grandpa, worked real hard until one day, he became the trailer trash that owned the trailer park. Suddenly Kevin’s mom found she could eat all the cookies she wanted. And now she made sure her little boy always had his fill of cookies too, so he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd of Americans.
“You scared?” said KC.
“What of?”
“I dunno,” said KC. “I just feel something bad is going to happen.”
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s called the rest of your fucking life.”
That night, KC called for me. We were going to hang out at the mall, spitting off of the balcony before going over to Maya’s. On the way, we saw old Johnny Seven sitting on his bike outside a house with paint peeling off the front door. There was an old fucked-up pickup truck parked in the drive.
“Yo,” I said. “What’re you doing here?”
“I live here,” he said.
A big freight train rattled by. The railroad ran past the back of Johnny’s house. We had to wait until the train had passed before we could hear ourselves talk.
“Your name’s really Johnny Seven?” said Kevin, with a big smile. “That’s one cool fuckin’ name.”
“But it’s not seven like the number,” said Johnny. “It’s got an ‘r’ in it.” He spelled it out for us. “S-e-v-e-r-n.”
“Oh. I prefer Seven,” said Kevin.
“My uncle says Johnny Seven was the name of a toy you could buy when he was a kid. It was a plastic rifle with toy grenades that you could actually fire.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“So your mom and dad named you after a toy? That’s cool,” said Kevin, who never listens.
“I ain’t got a mom,” said Johnny. “My dad raised me by himself.”
We didn’t know what the fuck to say to that. Then Johnny said: “That Griffiths is a real grade-A cunt, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“One of these days someone’s going to shoot that guy in the head while he’s begging for mercy,” said Johnny.
It was a weird thing to say, all right. Kevin kind of stared. “Yeah. Like you’d fuckin’ do it.”
“I fuckin’ would,” said Johnny. “I’d do it just like that.”
“You’d shoot a teacher? Yeah. Fuckin’ right.”
“Certainly wouldn’t shoot a kid,” said Johnny Seven.
“You’re full of shit,” said Kevin.
“The rights of children are sacred,” said Johnny, not like a preacher would say it, but in the voice of a real person. “Any adult who violates those rights shall die.”
We didn’t know what to say to that neither.
So me and Kevin said goodbye to the new kid and cycled away real fast so it looked like we were on some kind of secret mission for the government. On the corner of Chatsworth, we spotted Wheelchair outside his house. It was like he was lying in wait. Except he was sitting, not lying.
“Oh, fuck, no,” said KC.
We were so depressed we almost turned right round and went home again. Wheelchair was the same age as me. Shelton’s his real name, but one day my mom accidentally renamed him by telling me I should see the person, not the wheelchair. I took a real good look at the person and guess what? I preferred the wheelchair.
All year long, Wheelchair sits at the end of his drive and accuses kids of all kinds of crazy crimes he’s imagined. My mom says it’s not Wheelchair’s fault, the poor bastard can’t tell the difference between dreams and reality. She may be right, I don’t give a fuck. It’s upsetting to be heckled by a cripple.
Tonight, Wheelchair gave us one of his old favorites.
“You’re the kid who stole my boomerang!” he shouted, pointing right at me.
We stopped to look at him. Wheelchair wore glasses that magnified his eyes, so he always looked angry and sad. Maybe he was. Guess he had every fuckin’ right to be. Thing is, some people in wheelchairs wish they could walk. I swear this kid wished everyone else was in wheelchairs.
“He never touched your stupid boomerang,” said KC.
“I saw the bastard do it!” yelled Wheelchair.
“I think you’re mistaken, pal,” said KC in a reasonable kind of voice.
“Liar!”
“Anyway, when’d you ever even have a boomerang?” I said. “Bet you never even seen a boomerang.”