Swing State (17 page)

32.

T
ODAY WAS WORSE.

At school I saw Mary.

I wanted to tell her about everything that's been going on. The work thing sucked, but I knew she'd think it was funny. Or that she'd be happy I get to go to the game this weekend, like they said I would. When Steve said he'd see me next week I didn't believe it because I thought I could handle Gary. But they were right. I couldn't.

She was weird. Like she didn't want to talk to me.

I wanted to tell her about Ross and Don fighting. And Ding. I still don't know what that cop thing last night was about.

I saw her and said hey but she kept walking. I said hey again and she kept walking. I said hey and grabbed her. She spun around all mad and said keep your hands off me. I almost said something, like you never said that before, but I didn't. I thought about it first.

Then I said what's wrong?

She said you lied to me.

I was like what are you talking about? She said the knife. I asked if you always had it and you said yes.

I told her I never said that. I didn't tell her where I got it. Then I was like what's up with the knife, anyway? She said my cousin lost one that looked just like it. Ruby handle with a picture of an old car on it. He left it in his truck and when he got back from the store it was gone. And then it shows up on you. You're a liar and a thief and I never want to see you again.

I was like but I showed you the iPad! And I told you I got it from a car! And that wasn't a big deal, so the knife shouldn't be, either. It was a mistake. I'll give it to you so you can give it back. I took it out of my pocket and held it out and said here, take it. Take it! Give it back! I don't want you to be mad at me. I wanna hang out. I have so much to tell you.

But she was like I don't hang out with liars. Goodbye.

I was standing there holding the knife, thinking maybe I could give it back to her cousin myself and apologize and make everything okay, but I don't know who her cousin is. I thought maybe I could go to the same parking lot and find the truck and wait for him there.

Of course Trombley walked by. Right when I got to class I got called to the office.

Dr. Delacroix asked for the knife. I put it on his desk. He said no knives are allowed at school. Given your past, and the recent developments with your family, I think this is a good opportunity for you to go home and think about this rule for a week.

When he said that I was like oh fuck, suspension. I don't wanna stay home with Don. If I still had the job I could pick up extra shifts and say that I've been at school all day, or trade day for night or something. Instead I'm stuck at home. Don's gonna be wasted on the couch and get mean and hit me. And Mom's gonna be pissed. First Ross, then me in the same week.

And it sucks because I like the book. Today in class Merrill was talking about stuff and I didn't finish the reading last night because it was hard to concentrate, but I still understood what he was saying. Isn't that crazy? I followed along. So I guess I can finish it at home, but then I'll be done with it, and then what?

I saw Kelly later. She said how's work? I said I quit.

She said you quit?

I told her about the guys making fun of me, and about Gary.

She was like you probably don't want to think about football, right? Because of your brother? And I said I need to get out of the house.

I don't wanna go because of Mary, though. It'd be weird to see her and have her ignore me. Unless she shit talked me to everyone else.

Then she said will the quarry be okay? Because of Ding?

I told her about seeing him and the cop car. She told me he got busted.

Then she said Steve and Earl got hauled in, too.

I felt sick when she told me that. I tried to be cool, though, and ask what for. She said Ding is a major dealer. They were trying to get those guys to talk. But they didn't say anything.

What about me?

Would he rat me out? I never bought from him. But still. All the iPads and stuff.

And Ross!

He was in some deep shit even before Ding got busted.

But Ross would never rat out Ding. Would he?

Kelly kept talking for a while. I'm gonna meet her at the quarry. Hopefully Mary will be there. If not, I'll get wasted.

* * *

When I went back to the rack after school my bike was trashed. All the cords are cut and the wheels looked like someone jumped on them. Tires slashed.

* * *

It started raining when I walked home. Fucking figures. A shitty day, then I get rained on.

Don was sober when I got back.

He said sit your ass down right now. We need to talk.

I wanted to run. Or at least change into dry clothes. But I sat.

What the fuck is this about you getting fired?

I started to be like what are you talking about? But there was no way. So instead I said how did you find out?

He said the cops came by. You broke some kid's nose?

I said yeah.

And got fired?

Gary's a fucking perv.

He said you watch your mouth. Maybe if you had some manners none of this woulda happened. You ever think of that?

I started to say whatever, but I didn't want to get hit. So I said no.

He's pressing charges, you know. Assault. You're gonna get sent to juvie.

I was like am not and he said Dixon, they have video of you doing it.

There was nothing to say.

He said they're coming back soon. They want to talk to both of you. Your brother about some punk that got busted dealing grass, and you for breaking a kid's nose.

I sat there on the couch, dripping wet.

My bike getting fucked up really sucks. I'm gonna have to
hitch. I should be able to get rides. I know how to do it. And I know how to get money.

I wish I still had the knife. I might need it.

I'm gonna take all of Ross's weed with me. I can sell it.

It took me a while to find it. He had some good hiding places. Not as good as mine, though.

I'll leave him a note.

No, two.

33.

Z
ACHARIAH KEPT A RECIPE WINDOW FOR
Beef Wellington open as he searched.

He tried to imagine a beef tenderloin. A long, round slab of beef cooked in the oven was a far cry from steak tips or hamburgers.

He'd looked up the recipe after seeing the dish time and again on Pierre Lefevre's cooking show: beef covered in mustard and mushrooms, wrapped in pastry, and roasted in the oven. The technique mystified him. In his video, Pierre used plastic wrap—which he called “cling film”—to roll the ingredients into shape. Plastic wrap! He didn't know chefs used it to make dishes. For wrapping bowls or saving leftovers, sure. There had to be thousands of tricks like that he didn't know. How did people learn them? It wasn't the invention of the tricks, he thought, so much as how they were used. Once he knew the techniques behind his ideas, he could use them over and over again. Improve on them, even, in the way he did with bread. Improvise a little, maybe.

In the recipe on-screen he recognized the pattern.

His mom had taught him the chocolate sauce recipe before she left. His memories of her were largely based more on impressions
than events—he had a feeling when he thought about his mother, but not a wide bank of experiences he could visualize.

He did remember being in the kitchen with her, though. She had two of those triangle candy bars. He'd never seen them before that. Zachariah asked if he could eat one.

We're going to use this for sauce, Zachie, she said.

Sauce?

For these brownies I'm making.

What was the occasion? He didn't think his mom and dad had a lot of money for sweets, even when they were still together. Still, he distinctly remembered her warming cream in a pot, then pouring it hot onto the triangular blocks of chocolate at the bottom of the bowl (save two segments, which he and his mom ate). And he remembered also whipping the mix, then pouring it onto the tray of brownies. Together they had spread it on with a rubber spatula.

Shortly afterward she was gone.

For years, Zachariah wondered why she hadn't taken him along. He was stuck with his dad, who forced him to wear paint to football games, made him do all the cooking (which he liked) and cleaning (which he didn't, despite his familiarity with all the cleaning products under the kitchen sink), and beat him with tennis balls—or worse—as punishment for tiny transgressions.

He hadn't spent much time thinking about why she left. He didn't remember his father hitting her. But he must have.

Zachariah wondered what it would be like to see her again. She'd drop by his mansion in California and call him Zachie the way she used to. He'd cook her lunch in his giant gleaming kitchen and ask her why she hadn't taken him along. He'd tell her how Paul had broken his arm over a bottle of barbecue sauce and
made him lie about falling down the basement stairs. And she'd feel horrible and beg for forgiveness.

Ms. Petrie walked by. She stopped and looked at the screen.

“What's that?”

He had been thinking so intently of his mother coming to visit his mansion that he hadn't had time to think about the computer. But he'd been safe about it. Even if he hadn't been, he could've said something about chores, maybe. Cleaning.

He pointed to the bigger window. “Beef Wellington.”

“Are you watching Julia Child?”

“Pierre Lefevre,” he said. “
Chef Wars
.”

“I've heard of him,” she said. “The French chef.”

Zachariah nodded.

“Do you like to cook?”

“Baking is my favorite,” he said. “But I like cooking, too.”

“Is that what you want to do? When you grow up?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I like cooking a lot. Especially baking. But I'd like to write game shows. I know it's hard to make it in Hollywood, so having a bakery will be my fallback.”

“That's very sensible,” she said. “A lot of times students get so wrapped up in thoughts of fame that they don't have fallbacks.”

* * *

He mixed on the workbench, letting his mind wander. It was a lot like taking a shower—he always had great ideas when his body was focused on a task that didn't take up much space in his head.

On the floor was his backpack, embroidered with his initials. He hadn't thought anything of them for the longest time—L.L.Bean always monogrammed—but they had become the focal point of taunts after he had been kicked in the nuts. The “ZT” stitched in white, previously ignored, became the root of jokes
about zits—Zit Tietz, Piss Zits. He knew the bag was an expensive one, so removing them was not an option, unless coupled with a beating from his father.

There was no mistaking it. He was the only student in school whose first name began with a Z.

34.

L
OVED IT.

Couldn't believe it.

Everything was going right.

Armbrister High. Hated it the first time.

Should've gone voc. Would've changed everything. Never would've gone over. Gotten training. Learned cars for real. Gotten a job. Instead of going overseas and getting fucked up and coming back and dropping a Hummer off a lift and hustling pool and getting stomped and pissed on.

Straight to a garage. A job. No basic. No heads that were clouds. Could still listen to music. Sox games with Artie. No shitty apartment. Live with Auntie Blake. Save money. Get an apartment. A car. Everything easier. No pool. No pins.

Scared since then. Stupid. Knew how to fight. Knew how to take care of himself. Had been shot. Lived through it. Killed guys. Never scared since he got back. Not once. Not counting after dreams. But now all the time. Couldn't help it. Held a knife to him. Made him go outside Patterson's. To piss on him. Couldn't move right hand. In cast. Doctor said it might not recover. The good one. Had to fill out paperwork with his left. Looked like a little kid wrote it.

Wasn't sleeping. Heard noises. Weren't there before. Or didn't notice them. Maybe there before. But kept waking up. Sitting up in bed. Yelling. WHO'S THERE? Falling back asleep. Basic dream. Over and over. Standing with everyone. Heads into clouds. One after the other. Always woke up before it was his turn. But had to watch. Came back. Could sleep again. Never could over there. Barracks, maybe. But that was it. Slept lots at the hospital when he got back. And looking for work.

Still kept the hours. Mostly. Bed after the Sox during the season, up at five thirty. After cloud head dreams. Or basic. Or both.

But the job.

Stood by the door. Said hello. Kids liked him.

First day some kids came up. Tuesday. Tough. Remembered it: gotta give the new guy shit. Shut them up quick. They said take your gun out. He said no. They said ever kill anyone with it? He said no, not with this one. Since then every day they came by and said wassup, Roy?

Easy job. Stand by the door. Say hello. Break up fights. Teachers too scared to. Used to be shop teachers. Where were they? Happy about the work. Just wondering.

Broke one up. Two girls. Down in voc. Bitch fight, they called it. In the stairwell. One girl kicking another. Walked down there. Got in the middle. Didn't touch either. Not supposed to. Put his hands on his hips. Yelled STOP IT RIGHT NOW. Everyone looked at him.

They stopped.

They listened to him.

It was great. Walked halls a lot. Got paid. Made sure everything was okay. Didn't keep the same times or routes. Didn't want them to figure it out. Because they would. Like deer in the woods. Sometimes cafeteria, sometimes door. No pattern.

Funny. Most of his teachers gone. Only been a few years. New staff. Didn't know any students. Wasn't much difference between them and him. But they looked young. Like really. Smart kids especially. Didn't have to worry. Clean hands. Oh no, I might not get into my first choice. No jobs. No worries. Couldn't believe how little they looked. Even shop kids. Tough. But they'd get jobs. Smart kids, they'd go to college, not find anything. Worry. Get old fast. Maybe go fight. Hoped not, but still. The voc kids, jobs. Pay up front: have a hard time, then go to a garage or something.

Did he used to look that little? Went home one day. Got out his yearbook. Looked at his picture. Couldn't believe it. Just a few years ago. A lot since then. The garage, looking for a job. The hospital. Getting shot. Basic. Looked at himself in the mirror. So many lines on his face. Standing in the desert. Felt older than he looked. And thought how he looked old. Especially every day at school.

Saw the fat kid. The one with the body paint. And from the ice cream store. Of course he saw a fat kid eating ice cream. Voc kid. Couldn't believe it. Fat kids never did voc. Got eaten alive there. But the fat kid did voc. Cooking. Chef coat, apron. Covered with flour or something. Made sense. Kid like that, he liked eating. Huge backpack full of books, every day. Kept an eye on him. Liked the kid. Reminded Roy of himself.

Looked good. Not like fat. Like happy. Didn't seem to mind. Kids gave him shit. Said shit. Roy couldn't say anything. Wanted to. Knew that would make it worse. Like the cop likes you. Get called a fag and shit. Didn't want to make it worse. But shit rolled off him. Like it was no big deal. Big backpack full of books, kids talking shit, just smiled and walked by. Wondered what he was thinking about. Cake, probably. Laughed when he thought that. Cracked himself up. Kids walking by just looked at him.
Whatever. Didn't matter. Thought it was great. Funny joke. Seriously, though. What was it? Wasn't like he just discovered cake. If that's what it was. Something changed since the game. Got more confidence. Maybe threw it to some girl. Probably not. But hoped that he did. He'd had to wait. Until basic. Thought about high school. Would things have been different? Maybe. Or not. Everyone gave him shit for other stuff. Mom, mostly. Never that virgin shit. But he was scared they would. Wouldn't be able to say anything back. Fat kid? So much shit. Someone would say something. Be like hey, fat kid. Ever kiss a girl? So maybe he pulled it off. Made out with some fat chick. Hoped so. Go, fat kid. Might ask someone his name. Hank the janitor. Delacroix. Someone. Be like hey, who's the happy fat kid?