I'm with Stupid (19 page)

Saving Ryan Bennett

After school, I biked in a cold rain. Hard. I shot around town, in between cars that honked (I flipped them off), up big hills. I didn't want to go home and sit there. (I might drink the kerosene Jerri kept for our camp stove, because kerosene smells sort of like alcohol.) I didn't want to go to Abby's and not tell her I'd been kicked off track.
She
doesn't understand.

Part of my brain was saying,
It didn't happen. That meeting with Knautz was a bad dream. You're still on track. Everyone
would know!
The other half of my brain said,
You're such a crazy Hamlet loser. Of course it happened. Crazy.

After biking several circles around all of rainy Bluffton, I just needed some confirmation that all the pain from the day before was real. I biked like dying lightning over to the neighborhood where I knew Ryan Bennett lived.

The cul de sac where I'd seen dudes from Andrew's grade and the grade below playing hoops last summer was on the south end of town, behind the combination KFC–Taco Bell. When I'd biked past back then, one of the dudes had shouted, “Rein Stone, play some ball with us!” I'd waved but hadn't pulled in. One of those little jock kids was Ryan. I knew that.

It took me ten minutes to get there and get up the hill to the new developments that stretch out into former farm fields toward Cuba City. My brain fried and sizzled the whole time. I kept repeating
Ryan Bennett will tell me if I bashed his head for real.

On the street I thought might be his, the mailboxes are lined up together so the mailman doesn't have to go up to each of the houses individually. I scanned the mailboxes. Sure enough, 115 Adams Court had the name “Bennett” on it. I rolled four houses down, and it was the same white box of a house with the basketball hoop I'd seen from biking before.

When I got in front of it, my heart almost gave out.
What
the
hell
are
you
doing? You're going to ask Ryan if you actually hurt him? You're going to turn yourself in to his parents? “Sorry, sir, I should be punished. I tried murdering your son.”
I took a couple of breaths. Then thought
Yes.

I set down my bike on the wet ground. Rain had soaked my jacket. My jeans were heavy and sopping blue. My homeless dude hair hung on my forehead. My backpack weighed a ton. I knocked on the door. Carly Bennett, his sophomore sister, answered.

“Uh, hi?” she said. Her face turned red. She sort of stuttered. “What are you doing here?”

“I know. I know,” I said. “I shouldn't be here.”

“Well, I don't mean…I don't mean that. I just don't know why you're here,” Carly said.

“Get Ryan.”

“You're not going to hurt him, are you?” she gulped. “Nolan said you…He already has stitches, okay?”

“He does? Okay. Just get him, okay? I don't want to hurt him. I didn't want to.”

“Didn't want to what?”

“Hurt his head.”

“He fell down. You didn't hurt his head.”

“
Just
get
him!
” I shouted.

She looked like I'd slapped her. “Ryan,” she called.

“What?” he shouted back from deep in the house.

“Felton Reinstein is here.”

“Ohhh…” I heard him moan.

Carly kept standing there. Staring at me.

Ryan slinked up behind her. Yes, he looked like a jock (wore a Badgers hoops T-shirt). Yes, he still looked like a little kid (tiny shoulders, hairless face). And most important, yes, he had a bandage on his head where it had bounced off the back of the bleachers the day before.

“I did that to your head,” I said.

“What? Why didn't you tell Dad?” Carly asked.

“Because,” Ryan said.

“You can tell,” I said. “You should tell your dad,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“It's okay,” I said. “Your dad should know.”

“No…” he gulped for air. “No.”

“What is going on?” Carly whispered.

“I had it coming,” Ryan wheezed.

“Had it coming?” I said. “Not from me.”

“Tommy Bode,” Ryan wheezed. “I waited for Tommy when I saw him. I wanted to say sorry.”

“Tommy hunted you down.”

“No,” Ryan said. “I had to tell him…”

“What?” Carly said, swallowing.

“Oh Jesus. Jesus Christ. I pushed Curtis Bode into the bushes outside the middle school right before he…he…” Ryan's eyes filled. His mouth trembled. Snot began to pour out his nose.

“Jesus, Ryan,” Carly said. “You pushed Curtis Bode?”

Ryan gulped for air. “I jammed him in this…this stupid bush.”

“Dude,” I whispered. “Oh man…”

“Why would you shoot yourself?” Ryan cried. “Why would someone? We were just messing around. Why would you…”

“What the hell's going on down there?” A man's voice came from upstairs. “Goddamn it. I told you kids to be quiet until five. Third goddamn shift. Do you understand what…”

A large dude with a big gut came walking down the stairs.

“Sorry, Dad,” Carly said.

“Holy…Felton Reinstein? What are you doing here?” the man said.

Ryan looked at me. Tears poured down his face. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Hey,” I said. I saw his hand reach out. I thought about what Gus told me about handshakes. I shook hands with that big dad standing next to his son who was totally bawling. That dad didn't even notice.

“Looking forward to track? We sure enjoyed watching you play ball last fall, didn't we, Ryan?”

“Thanks,” I breathed. “I…I just wanted to tell Ryan that…that there's nothing better than playing football at Bluffton. He's going to have the time of his life next year.”

“Even a klutz like Ryan, huh? He busted his head open walking home yesterday.”

“I hear he's great,” I said. “He's a player.”

“Hear that, buddy?” Ryan's dad said. He still didn't look at Ryan, only at me. “All that work we put in is giving you a name, son.”

“I have to go,” I said. Ryan was completely losing it while his dad stood there all psyched to see me. Ryan blinked. His face burned. I turned to go. Then stopped. “Wait.”

“What?” the dad asked.

I pulled my backpack off and opened it up. I reached in and pulled out the Stanford jersey. I handed it to Ryan.

“Take care of this. Take good care of this,” I said. “It's going to be okay.”

“Wow!” the dad shouted. “Look at that!”

I pulled my bag back on and moved.

I rode up the street. At the corner, I looked back. Mr. Bennett was still standing in his rainy yard, a shit-eating grin on his face. Ryan stood in the door holding my jersey.

Can't Pardon Me, Governor

Messed-up world.

When I got home, Jerri stood in the living room staring at a letter she'd just opened. She looked up at me. “You're totally soaked.”

“I'm cold,” I said.

“Uh-huh. This came for you this afternoon,” she said. She held up the letter and scrunched her eyebrows.

It was a letter from the Governor of Wisconsin. She handed it to me.

The letter was printed on official Wisconsin letterhead with a big seal of the state on it. It was dated February 13—the day before.

It said:

On behalf of the State of Wisconsin, on this date, February 13, I, Scott K. Thompson, the Honorable Governor of the State of Wisconsin, hereby accept your apology to the people of the state.

All is forgiven, Mr. Reinstein. Best of luck at Stanford. We hope you will return to play for the Packers someday!

“What the hell, Jerri?” I asked.

“Why do people care so much about you?” she asked.

“Do you understand I won the genetic lottery?”

“Those aren't my genes.”

“No shit,” I said.

Jerri glared.

Then my phone buzzed. A call. I pulled it out of my pocket. A Madison number. “What's this?” I asked Jerri.

“I don't know,” Jerri said. “Who?”

I answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, Felton, this is Megan Hansen from WISC-TV. We talked the other day.”

“Yeah?”

“Hope you don't mind me reaching out to your cell number. I figured you were out of school by now and we'd like a comment for the 10 o'clock news.”

“How'd you get this number?” I mumbled.

“Jay Haas, the sports guy.”

I'd talked to him a few times in the fall. “Okay…”

“We received a press release from the governor's office with the text of a letter officially accepting your apology to the state. Did you get it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Pretty cute!” laughed Megan. “We taped a short interview with the governor's spokesman—it's a hoot—and thought it would be fun to get a quick response from you. Just audio. Do you mind?”

“I don't know. I don't think…”

“Nothing complicated. Just a quote.”

“Okay. Okay. Fine,” I said.

“I'm recording.”

Here's what I wanted to say: I banged this dude's walnut against a metal bleacher yesterday. He bled. I shouldn't say “dude.” He's a little kid. Scrappy little shit hole of a kid with a fat dad. I did it because my friend's little brother shot himself in the heart with a handgun. That's real. That happened. But you're interested in my response to a joke letter from the freaking governor? That's what you care about?

“What did you think when you got that letter, Felton?”

I took a breath. Concentrated. And here's what I actually said: “Pretty cool. Made me feel good. Thanks, Wisconsin. I hope I play for the Packers too.”

“That's all we need. The spot will run tonight. Great talking to you again, Felton. Take care!”

“Bye,” I said.

I hung up.

“What the hell?” Jerri asked. “Are you a political asset?”

“I don't know.”

“So many people care about you…” Jerri's voice trailed off. Her ears turned red, which is a sign she's pretty fired up. “Call that woman back. You call her back and tell her you will not be pushed around. You will not be made to look like a…a…supporter of some politician. Even if you did support that man, no one should listen to you. No one! Because you're good at a sport, this is…this is…I'm really pissed!” she shouted.

“I don't care about this. Pig Boy wouldn't be forgiven.”

“What?” Jerri shouted.

“I don't care about the governor.” I stared out the picture window at the darkening sky. Escape. That's what I wanted. Shuffle off the mortal coil. Run farther than I can run. Fast. Instantaneously.

Jerri looked at the ceiling and shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“No,” I said.

“Oh shit,” she sighed. “I used to get so pissed at reality, you know? So pissed about how things are.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm pissed, Jerri.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” Jerri asked. “Who are we going to fight?” She inflated her cheeks and blew out slow.

“I don't know. Who?”
Tell
me, Jerri. Who should we fight?

“Never mind, right? Never mind. Who really cares, right?” she asked.

“I do,” I said.

“Good for you,” she said. “Somebody has to.” The red bled from her ears. They turned the normal color again. She turned to walk into the kitchen. “You hungry?” she asked.

Help, Jerri.

She disappeared.

“Can I borrow your car?” I called after her.

“Oh, honey,” Jerri said. “I've got an economics study group tonight…”

“It's Valentine's Day,” I said.

“Terry might come over after,” she said.

“Yeah. Good. That's perfect.”

The Bully Takes a Shower

I had to shower. The freezing February rain had soaked into my skin and I shivered. I peeled off my pants and shirt, which wasn't easy. They felt glued to my body. The cold reached deep into my muscles. I practically cramped up doing the job.

While in the shower, steam rising, I thought: You need to shuffle off the mortal coil. Just a couple of beers. Just fast and easy. Just have to get this shit out of your body. Forget track. Forget Cody and Karpinski. Forget Ryan. Forget Megan Hansen and the governor. Forget Pig Boy, who wants to be a bully, who needs to be a bully…

Wait.

You're the bully, right? Just for the geeks instead of the jocks. Drunk bully scaring Carl Yang…

You're one of them. Throwing weak kids against the bleachers, pinning necks against lockers. You're a dude at a party shoving people, spilling beer. Brutal by nature. Brutal people make for good football players…and bullies and…and…members of the CIA? Death squad commanders? Flat-out murderers? Favorite sons of the State of Wisconsin. Deadly Hamlet, Prince of Bluffton.

Oh shit…Oh no…There's something wrong with the world.

Don't want this world.

I stood there in the water freaking out. Naked as a baby, eyeballs darting around.

Run
from
this
shit. Run. You don't want this.

I turned off the shower.
There's no place to run. Then what?

Oh God. Oh shit. No. Please stop.

My brain saw that rope. Saw the mortal coil.
Stop. You have to stop. Please!

But I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop.

Shuffle
off
this
mortal
coil…

To Drink or Not to Drink, That Is the Question

Out of the shower, I called Abby. “Can you come get me?” I asked.

“Can you borrow Jerri's car? The Buick is dead, remember?”

“Oh right. Shit,” I said. “We need a car. Jerri's got a study group. What about your mom?”

“She left the house. Can you believe it? She went to Nolan's JV game.”

“Awesome timing.”

“I'm glad she left. Do you want to call Gus?” Abby asked.

“Maybe. I don't know. No.” Gus would stop me. He knows me so well he'd see my crazy and stop me. Couldn't have that. I couldn't see a path out, and Gus would torture me.

“You're a serious train wreck, aren't you?” Abby whispered.

“Total and complete.”

“Oh…” Abby paused. “Maybe I can borrow Dad's car,” Abby said.

“You think?” I asked.
Fat
chance.

“Maybe,” Abby said. “He probably feels guilty for screaming at me about the beer and…and for ignoring us. Mom asked him to go to a counselor with us and I…I…” Abby slowed down. Then she whispered, “I bet I can borrow his car.”

“Okay,” I said. “Try.”

“Call you soon,” Abby said.

Can
you
bike
there? You can bike. It's raining. You'll wear rain gear. It's dark. Where's your flashlight?

I had a plan. Friday night bar plan. I couldn't see any other path to that beer. I had to go out to Maddie's brother's country shit-house, where I knew I could relax with music and that Love Sac, and the mortal coil could stop tightening around my freaking neck for a few hours. I needed to know those angels were still there.

Abby called me back five minutes later. She sounded somber, but she said, “I just have to pick it up. We have an extra set of keys over here still. Dad said okay.”

“What? Are you kidding? He did?”

“Terry would be delighted to let us use the car for the night,” Abby said.

Thank
God.

***

Ten minutes later, Jerri came through the basement, where I sat on the couch staring at the wall.

“Sorry about the car, Felton. Maybe I should get a new car so you can use the Hyundai this summer?” she said.

“That'd be great,” I said.
Fat
freaking
chance.
I stared at the wall across the basement, which was just chipped beige plaster. “We haven't painted this wall,” I said.

Jerri stopped. “No?”

“Isn't it weird that it's the same surface as when Dad lived in here?”

“We can paint it.”

“Doesn't matter,” I said.

“Felton…Do you want to go for a walk in the morning?” she asked. “It's supposed to be wet but still warm. Remember we'd take those hikes when you were a kid? I thought maybe we could…”

“Sure. Talk to you in the morning. Go to your study group.”

“Great.” She smiled. “I won't be late,” she said.

When Jerri left, I climbed the stairs and took forty dollars out of the cash drawer in her bedroom.
I
will
pay
Cal. He won't be mad.

After I stuffed the money in my pocket, I felt terrible for a second, then I felt mad as hell.
You
should
be
a
better
mother
and
then
I
wouldn't take your money.