Rooster (6 page)

“First of all, she's not my teacher, all right. She's that young counselor you don't like, Mrs. Nixon. Second, I'm in her office today and I have to start explaining what a democracy is to her because she doesn't know.”

“What counselor that I don't like?”

“The young one. She wears all those fancy clothes all the time? You were in to see her last semester about that book report I did, and you walked out saying she was too young to be a counselor. You didn't think she was old enough to know anything. You said that to her face, as a matter of fact.”

“It was her I was talking to today?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn't know it was her I was talking to.”

“See? She always makes everything sound ten times worse than it really is, remember? You said that yourself last year.”

“And she's got you involved with this bowling team?”

“That's her big idea. She thinks I have to prove myself. That I have to show I'm worth graduating.”

“Are there other kids involved in this?”

“No. I'm the only kid in the whole school who has to do it. But get this — the other two kids she was thinking of asking were Ainsley Miller and Mackenzie Ashcroff.”

“Who are they?”

“The two smartest kids in the school, by far. So does that not mean that she thinks I can do what they can do? She has me up there with, like, Einstein and whoever, but she tells you I'm flunking out. Why? Because she wanted you to say yes to making me do it.”

Eunice had to think for a moment. “Why is she so anxious to make you do this?”

Rooster gave an exaggerated shrug. “Ask her. I don't know. She doesn't like me, I know that for sure. Maybe she just wants to make things difficult. I mean, would it not be smarter to say, ‘Rooster, clear off everything from your schedule. You have to study hard every night from now until finals'? Does she do that? No. She gives me a new project to work on.”

“I remember her now,” said his mom, nodding.

“You know she doesn't like me. I'm not feeding you a line here. You know she doesn't like me.”

She continued to nod and to think.

“But don't worry about this bowling thing,” continued Rooster. “I'll take care of that. I'll be out of that in half an hour.”

“How?”

“They want me to go there today at four fifteen to interview for a job I don't want. So I'm just going to go there and say, ‘Hey listen. I don't have time for this, all right? I would like my marks to be better. Final exams are next month. Would it be a great idea for me to take this on right now? No. I'm sorry.'”

“You think that'll be enough?”

“I don't think I should have to do a job if I don't want to do it.”

“And are you actually going to study now that final exams are only a few weeks away?”

“Mom, this happens every year. Every year you have a panic attack about my grades, and every year I ace the finals and move on. Every year.”

“I wouldn't say you ace them.”

“I do well enough to pass. How's that?”

Eunice hesitated for a moment. She still had some thoughts to sort out. But for now she was satisfied and not nearly as anxious or upset as she had been after Mrs. Nixon's phone call. “Okay,” she said. “Come straight home afterward. You can start your studying tonight.” She looked at Irving. “I'll be back in a minute. I'm going to change out of my work clothes.” She left the kitchen.

Rooster said goodbye and opened the fridge again. He was in a hurry now, but he was also still hungry.

“So that's your plan, is it?” said Irving, still sitting by the window. “Get out of the bowling and hope like hell you can pass the finals?”

Rooster pulled the peanut butter and the jam from the fridge and shut the door with his foot. “Yeah, that's my plan,” he said, moving quickly.

Irving flipped another page. “Well, for your sake, I hope it works.”

“It has every year. There's no reason it should fail me now.” He smeared a thick layer of peanut butter on one piece of bread and a large plop of strawberry jam on the other.

“You know what your mother's big concern is, don't you?” Irving was looking at Rooster now instead of his paper.

“Uh, that I graduate from high school?” Rooster returned the jars to the fridge and scooped up his sandwich from the counter.

“No, it's not that.”

Rooster dug his feet into his shoes and prepared to leave. “What is it then?”

“It's that you don't end up like me.”

Rooster stopped at the back door. “What?” he said. “She doesn't say it quite like that, but that's what she's thinking. That you'll end up just like me if you don't get your act together. The thing is, you won't be just like me, 'cause at least I had a talent in something. I could pitch. I could throw a baseball, at least.”

“Not very well.”

“Twenty years as a professional baseball player? I'd say that's pretty well. Not well enough for the majors, unfortunately for me, but I'll take what I had. I did okay.”

Rooster turned toward the door. “If you say so.”

“You bet your life I say so. There's ten million people out there who'd drop everything in a second to experience for one month what I had for nearly two decades. You — you won't have that. You keep jacking around now, settling for doing ‘well enough to pass,' you'll be sitting here looking out the window just like I am, but you won't have twenty years' worth of memories to carry you through. You won't have anything.”

Rooster hesitated before leaving.

“You think about that as you carry out this plan of yours. Maybe that woman from your school is onto something with this group of people who want to go bowling. I don't know what it is, but maybe she knows something.”

“I doubt that very much.”

Irving shrugged and returned to his paper. “It's something to think about,” he said. “Just know that if your plan doesn't work, you won't be the only person in this kitchen right now to fail.”

Rooster did not respond. He let the screen door slam on his way out.

5

C
ommon House was a good twenty-minute walk, most of it uphill, from Rooster's home. He was tired and out of breath by the time he arrived. Mrs. Nixon was waiting for him.

“You're late,” she said, holding the door open. “You look pale,” she added as he stepped inside.

“I am pale. All the blood ran to my feet walking up that stupid hill.”

She immediately led him into an office where five people were seated around a circular table. One of them, a tall, middle-aged woman with dark, neatly combed hair and a pleasant smile, rose to meet him. “Rooster, I'm Mrs. Yuler. Pleased to meet you. These are the Strikers.” She waved her hand toward the others at the table. “Have a seat, please. We can get started.”

Rooster remained standing. “Actually, I was kinda hoping I could go for a quick smoke before meeting with everyone. I'm pretty nervous. I've never been in an interview like this before. I've never had a job, so … this is all pretty new to me. I wouldn't mind a minute to settle down.”

Mrs. Yuler looked at him in surprise. Behind him, sitting in a chair in the corner of the office so she was not a part of the interview but was still close enough to observe it, Mrs. Nixon shook her head.

“Well,” said Mrs. Yuler, looking at her watch, “we did say four fifteen, and it's actually four thirty already. Four thirty-three to be exact.”

“I know,” said Rooster, with a shrug but no apology. “I got hung up at home. The old man ate all my supper, so I had to scramble for something to eat. Drank all my beer too.”

“Didn't the walk here give you time to calm down and … have a smoke?”

He shook his head. “Way too strenuous. That goddamn hill out there almost killed me. I don't know how these guys get up and down that stupid thing all the time.” He motioned toward the Strikers. “I'm glad I'm not fat, that's all I can say.”

“We live here,” said one of the members of the team, a woman with a pile of brown hair and very thick glasses. “We don't have to go up and down it unless we're in the van.”

“The goddamn hill,” said the woman next to her. She was short and squat with greasy black hair. She also wore glasses, but they were so filthy that Rooster could barely see her eyes through them. “That's a good one. Heh, heh. I'm gonna remember that one. Heh, heh. Goddamn hill.”

“Roseann,” said Mrs. Yuler sternly.

“Sorry,” said the woman with the greasy hair. She immediately sank down in her chair and began licking her fingers. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”

“Just watch your language.”

“I'm sorry. He started it. He said goddamn hill before I did.”

“I know. I'll have to talk with him about that after.”

“He started it.” She continued to lick her fingers. Her voice was deep and hard, like a man's voice.

“I know who started it, Roseann.”

“It wasn't me.”

“You be the one to end it.”

“It wasn't me who started it. He said goddamn hill before I did. I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”

“That's good. I believe you.”

Rooster stared at Roseann in shock.

“You got her into trouble,” said the woman who had spoken first.

“It was an accident,” said Mrs. Yuler. “I'm sure that was a sign of the nervousness that Rooster spoke about. I doubt he talks like that all the time.”

“No, he doesn't,” said Mrs. Nixon, from the corner. “And if he knows what's good for him, he won't talk like that again. Now sit down, Rooster. The interview has started.”

Rooster reluctantly sat down. He had not meant to get anyone in trouble, but he was more determined than ever to stick with his plan.

“Okay then,” said Mrs. Yuler. “Let's start with introductions, shall we? Everyone, you already know this is Rooster. Rooster, this is Roseann, who you just met. Beside her is Dorothy-Jane-Anne. Next to her is Tim. Next to Tim is Percival. They are the Strikers.” She smiled. Rooster offered a small tight smile back. “They have questions for you, I know. Now who would like to go first? Tim? Maybe you'd like to begin?”

Tim was extremely thin and sat hunched in his chair like an old man in a wheelchair. When she mentioned his name, he quickly sat up straight. His big wide eyes sprang to life. His voice burst with energy and excitement. “Okay, okay. All right. I'll ask the first question. I'll get things started.” He rubbed his hands together and began to rock back and forth in his chair. “All right then. Rooster, I'm ready to fire away! Oh boy. I've been waiting a long time for this. I've been waiting for this for a long long time.”

“Tim,” said Mrs. Yuler patiently. “Just ask the question.”

“Okay, okay. All right then. Here we go, boy. Here we go. Rock 'n' roll. That's what I like to say. Okay. I would like to know, I would like to know if you like pizza.”

Rooster, anticipating something more challenging, hesitated before answering. How can I screw this up enough to get out of here? he thought to himself.

“Any kind,” said Tim, still rocking in his chair. “Pepperoni. Ham and pineapple. Super deluxe. Black olives. Tomatoes. Green peppers. You name it. Any kind. Any kind at all.”

“Cheese,” said Roseann, cutting in. “That's the best kind.”

“No it's not,” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne, staring at Rooster.

“Yes,” said Roseann.

“No.”

“It is so.”

“No it's not.”

“Ladies,” said Mrs. Yuler, “stay out of it. Let Rooster answer the question. You will all get a chance to talk.”

Rooster cleared his throat. “Uhm.” He still wasn't sure what to say. “What was the question again?”

“I would like to know if … do you like pizza?” said Tim. “Any kind. Any kind at all. Any kind they can make.”

In truth, pizza was Rooster's favorite food on earth, which is why he was so frustrated every time Irving ate all the leftovers. “I like leftover pizza,” he said suddenly. “I like cold pizza. I hate it when it's hot. It burns my mouth all the time.”

Tim frowned and stopped rocking in his chair. Roseann pulled her right index finger out of her mouth. Dorothy-Jane-Anne continued to stare at him.

“You don't like hot pizza?” said Tim.

“Hate it.”

“It burns your mouth?” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne.

“The pizza sauce. It's so hot sometimes. I don't know. It's messy too. When it's cold, the toppings don't slide around so much. They just sit there on top of the crust. It's way easier to eat it when it's cold. I don't know why people eat it hot all the time. That makes no sense to me. It's not half as good as when it's cold.” Happy with his answer and the looks he was getting because of it, Rooster relaxed in his chair and crossed his arms.