Teenage Waistland (23 page)

I’m scanning codes into the computer, part of testing this new software program I convinced Dad to try at the store—they’ve been tracking inventory (or not tracking it) the same way since my great-grandfather’s days—when I spot yet another exposed rear end as a contractor crouches in an aisle examining pipe fittings. I almost laugh out loud.
Okay, Pencildick, you’re dead wrong about hairy butt cracks being the only ass I’ll be scoping this summer
, I mentally type on MT’s wall for like one second. But then I think about the size of Char’s and all the abuse the guys would give me if they came face to face with it—especially MT. It’s not that I’m a prize, but meeting her would make the guys think I’m even more of a loser with girls, or desperate. Or both. Thank God Char hasn’t brought up the opening game to me—I want so much for her to see that I’m not this totally insecure pansy. I want her to see the “local hero” part too. But the guys …

While I’m working on this computerization project—Dad gave in and spent big bucks on the hardware and software
for it despite knowing dick about technology—I have to try hard to push Char—this whole dilemma—out of my mind. It’s fine that she’s totally there when I’m running, because the thought of her and me together, both seriously buff and all over each other in front of everyone, is part of my motivation to keep going. I’m up to almost eight miles a day, dragging myself out at six a.m. every morning, rain or shine, so that I make it to the store by nine. I’m so into the running, how tight and agile and just
good
it makes me feel. And my weight is like falling off—fifteen pounds already!

The other part of the motivation is harder to think about. Even though my incisions probably won’t be an issue for me with brilliant Char’s stomach shield, I’m nowhere near as ready for the upcoming season as I usually am this time of year. The whole thing gives me the same horrible friggin’ feeling as the thought of the guys finding out about my summer. The pussyband and the
not
hot babes. And my hypothetical V-card, which I should laminate since I’ll probably have it forever.
Refrigerator
. Just saying the word in my head makes me want to put on my running shoes and bolt. From this store, from this town. From my life.

I shake it off, scan the last inventory code into the system, and am finally set to test it when hairy-butt-crack pipe-fittings guy strides up to the counter. Without even looking up, I motion to the right and say, “Paul is on the cash register this morning, sir. He can help you.”

“Little Bobby Konopka! You’ve gotten so much taller—and leaner—since last season!” I lift my head and give the guy my full attention now. He’s no contractor. It’s Mr. Dawson, as in Dawson Depot—Konopka & Son’s biggest competitor next to Home Depot, which thankfully, according to Dad,
doesn’t carry most of the higher-end wood products that we do. Dawson Depot has expanded, with two other stores in neighboring towns, while Konopka & Son Lumber is as it’s always been, just this one location.

“Good to see you, Mr. Dawson,” I say as enthusiastically as I can fake, and put out my hand. Dawson Depot is also our team’s biggest sponsor and Mr. Dawson comes out to most of the games.

He pumps my hand. “So when’s the big preseason opener, my man?”

“Saturday, August twenty-ninth,” I say, nodding, with my idiot smile plastered on. I have no idea what he’s doing here.

“Practice must be starting pretty soon,” he says, squeezing my bicep. “I guess you’ll be hitting the iron hard until then—they’ve still got you on the first string, yeah? You look great, kid, really, but not quite as big as the Refrigerator we all know and love.” He chuckles.

I half nod and half shrug. “I’ve gotten into running lately.”

Dawson raises his eyebrows. “I got word there’ll be a few Division One college scouts at the opener, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Mr. Daw—” I start, but change my mind halfway through his name.

“Go on, kid? I don’t have any pull with the scouts, if that’s where you’re going.”

I shake my head.

“Well, just a hypothetical question. What would happen if, say, Notre Dame signed a big lineman, but then the guy got, like, mono his senior year and lost a ton of weight. I mean, I know he couldn’t play that position, but do you
think they’d look at him for, say, running back? I mean, if he was super lean and fast?”

Dawson looks at me weird and then, as if to change the subject, he peers around the counter and checks out the computer screen. “You guys are finally coming into this century—good for you! We’ve been using that system for, I don’t know, eight years now?”

“Well,
this
is the RFID version—released just two weeks ago,” I say, all smug. “It doesn’t just track inventory in the store—it can track any product through the entire supply chain. When a customer asks when we expect an item in, we just punch in the code and we’re able to tell them that it’s on a truck sitting at a light two blocks away.”

Dawson cocks his head and nods thoughtfully. “Impressive, kid. Very impressive. You’re quite an asset to your old man. I hope he doesn’t have you hauling boxes in the stockroom. Would be a waste of your talent.” Dawson shifts to his other leg and pivots to survey the store. “Where is the big guy, anyway? We’ve got a lunch appointment.” He checks his watch and grins. “Oops. Guess I’m a little early. I like your expansion into plumbing supplies, by the way. Not enough room for a big selection, I see, but the bestselling items are all here.”

I’m kind of turning
impressive, kid
and
asset to your old man
over in my head, so it takes about a minute for the rest to hit me. They have a cordial relationship, being football stars on rival teams back in the day and all, but what’s Dad doing having lunch with this guy?

“Uh, Mr. Dawson. The running back thing was totally hypothetical, so—” I stop when the front-door bells chime, and Dad’s flying in toward us, hand outstretched.

“Good to see you, Harry! Pumping my kid for trade secrets, I see?” They laugh and shake hands and then turn and head for the door. “Be back in about an hour,” Dad says with a wave.

Mr. Dawson turns back toward me and winks, like he got my meaning and won’t mention anything to Dad. Then he puts his hand on Dad’s shoulder. “He’s no kid anymore, Rob. A man now. With a good head on his shoulders,” I overhear him saying as they leave. And then I get that same high happy feeling like when I’m running.

I’m back at the basement door, this time standing behind Char and clenching a paper lunch bag in my hand; as it shakes, it sounds like kites flapping in the wind. Like the last family vacation we ever took, when the four of us were running on a white Bermuda beach flying kites.

“I’m not sure this is such a great idea,” I say to Char.

“Are you kidding? It’s brilliant. Breathe into the bag through your mouth and you won’t gag.”
I’m not talking about the moldy smell
. But Char’s full speed ahead with digging out old pictures from when we were thin so we can finally be on Facebook. She says she wants Bobby to get a “taste” of what he can look forward to, but I’m thinking she also fears that, even if she can keep up with her crazy starvation diet and all the miles she’s putting on Crystal’s treadmill, she won’t lose as much weight as the rest of us. And, though I don’t say this to Char, it wouldn’t be so terrible for Bobby—or anyone in Teenage Waistland—to know that I used to be something to look at too.

My father was heavily into photography and always taking pictures. And Char’s in practically all of them—we were always together. When she said her parents can’t even find baby pictures of her, and I told her ours were all boxed up somewhere in my basement, instead of saying, “Okay, just forget it,” like I hoped, Char said, “Excellent. They’re all in one place—much easier to find!”

“Ready?” she asks as she flings the door open.

I’m looking at the wooden stairs in front of me—I shove my face deeper into the bag. My dad’s life finished in this stinky unfinished basement—I don’t see how I can get even as far as the first step. “Why don’t we wait until Tuesday when Elsa is here and I can have her dust off the boxes and bring them up? I’ll just bring the pictures to your house and we can pick through and scan them in then,” I say, pulling on Char’s sleeve. She yanks it free.

“No. C’mon!” And we’re in tandem on yet another exploration, Char in the lead, dragging yours truly behind her. “Over here,” she calls when she reaches the bottom of the staircase and spots the boxes marked
PHOTO
and
VIDEO
in my mother’s handwriting. I’m proud of myself for not even looking to the right as I make my way over to where Char is.

“Stepladder, Shroud. We so need one,” she orders, before spotting it behind her.

“You know she removed like that whole wall of pictures after? And almost every other photo we had displayed around the house?” I say, but Char’s busy wiping off cobwebs and sending clouds of dust in my direction. “This is my first time down here,” I mumble, more to myself than Char. But this time, she freezes, clamps her cobwebby hand over her mouth, and gets right down off the stepladder.

“Shroud! Oh my God. East!” she cries out as I struggle to contain my tears. She stammers, “You—you’re doing this for me when—and here I—” And then she stops talking and throws her arms around me. I want to pull away and tell her I’m fine, but I just stand with my face against her neck and sob uncontrollably.

“Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay.”

I want to say I’m sorry for being such a basket case, but I’m shaking too hard to form any words.

“Shhh. This is good. Let it out,” Char murmurs, gently rocking me side to side.

“I’m—I’m okay,” I finally sputter, and pull away. Char offers me her sleeve to blow my nose, and I sob-laugh and use the neck of my T-shirt.

“You go upstairs,” Char says once I’m calm again. “I’ll bring the boxes to your room and we’ll open them there. You shouldn’t be lifting stuff anyway.”

I move one of the dusty cartons over to my desk and peel the tape off fast, like a Band-Aid, but it doesn’t lessen the pain: my parents’ wedding album is on top. There’s a maroon chamois cloth covering it, but I recognize the brown leather peeking out immediately—it used to sit on the family-room coffee table.

Beneath the album is a file folder filled with loose photos. There’s my mom in a hospital bed with a newborn baby. I think it’s me, but there’s no date on the back. Her hair is pulled in a tight ponytail, all pretty and shiny, and her eyes are shimmering. She’s
happy
. Then there are some of
Julius and my old-fashioned wooden rocking horse. He’s standing on it like it’s a surfboard. Next are pictures of me, around two years old, on the horse. I’m in a yellow and kelly green plaid jumper and my arms are wrapped tightly around the horse’s neck like I’m on some terrifying bucking-bronco ride. I put the folder aside—I’ll come back to those early ones later. I dust off the album below it—an older one covered in rice paper—and place it in my lap. The first photo is yellow and faded and when I realize what it is—a huge extended Japanese family—tears start flooding my eyes.

“All done,” Char suddenly says. I hadn’t heard her come back with the final box. She sits next to me and examines the photo over my shoulder.

“I saw some of these people once,” I say, staring into the picture. “The day my dad died.”

“Is the little boy standing next to that woman in the flowered dress your dad?” Char whispers. “That
must
be your grandmother—you look exactly like her.”

I nod slowly. “It could be. She looks like she could be the younger version of the lady Dad took me to meet,” I say, studying the woman with the cold eyes holding my dad’s wrist.

“I never knew you met anyone on your dad’s side of the family. Actually, you told me you didn’t—that time that lawyer called the house and spoke to you about your grandmother’s inheritance because your mom wouldn’t get on the phone,” Char says, still peering over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I say, remembering. “I couldn’t say I met them in front of her—my mom would have been furious about Dad taking me to see his family. His parents were children in a Japanese internment camp in California during the Second
World War, and they never forgave America. They refused to accept my mother, without ever even meeting her.”

“So messed up,” Char whispers.

“Anyway, Dad had read about his father’s death in the paper, and we drove to the house where he grew up in Queens, just the two of us. I remember how thrilled I was to be on a secret mission alone with him—Mom thought we’d gone out for a pre-birthday father-daughter dinner—and Dad was excited too. He was sure that with his father gone, his mother would soften, especially when she saw me. Then, he said, he’d fix things between everyone.”

“And?” Char whispers even more softly. Now it’s like she’s the one afraid that I’ll clam up.

“Well, he was all chatty about his childhood on the drive, but when we pulled up to the house, he became really quiet. After we sat in the car for what felt like a long time, he slapped my leg and said, ‘Okay. Ready?’ Then he came around to my side and opened my door with this big smile. ‘It’s time for you to charm your Japanese family, Annie.’ ”