Unforgettable (17 page)

How Fun Becomes Part of My Vocabulary

“What do you think?” Mom puts her arms out. She's wearing a low-cut red dress that flares out at the bottom. I've never seen it before.

“Is that new?”

“I bought it yesterday. Wait, you have to get the full effect.” She turns around and her dress twirls up.

“Cool,” I say, thinking of her date and imagining a Minnesota version of Dink. He's laid off from the taconite plant, drives a pickup truck, drinks Grain Belt beer, and says “You bet” a lot.

Mom stops twirling and studies me. “I know you don't trust me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you weren't the only one who was in therapy these last three years, Baxter. I know I made a huge mistake with Dink. I picked a guy who turned out to be a jerk. I exposed you to danger.”

I don't say anything because it's true. Why rub her face in it?

Mom is wringing her hands. “I've had a hard time forgiving myself for everything Dink did to you and me and us as a family. I've had a hard time getting over him. He was kind of like a drug, I guess. And I'm still kicking the habit.”

I think of Dink more as a disease than a drug.

Mom sighs. “I haven't had a date in three years. But I think it's time to start fresh. Both of us. Is that okay?”

I let out a breath. “So … this is a date now?”

Mom shrugs. “Sort of. We're taking it slow. I mean, he's my boss. We work together, so we're mostly just friends right now.”

The doorbell rings.

“Are you sure you're okay with it?” Mom asks, even though she's walking toward the door as she asks. If I say no, will she cancel her date?

“I guess,” I say without much conviction.

“You look great,” a deep voice bellows through the open door.

“Dan, this is my son, Baxter.”

Mom puts her arm around me as though I'm ten instead of fifteen, as though I'm not two inches taller than her.

Dan Peterson is a big, broad man with fat fingers that grasp my hand in a firm grip like I'm a piece of meat to be inspected. Not thin and wiry like Dink. I imagine him in the kitchen of the Tin Cup, his large form filling up the space between the fryers and grills as he cooks.

“You got a good grip, Baxter. Ever think of playing football?”

“Not really.”

Mom puts her hands out. “See what I mean? New town, new opportunities.”

Yeah, I'd fit right in with the football team.

“Your mom tells me you're good at remembering details.”

I shoot her a look. Mom smiles in an awkward manner. Evidently I'm not the only one having trouble concealing things.

“If you ever need a job, let me know. We can always use a good worker.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“He's baling hay this fall,” Mom says in a prideful voice. “He's strong
and
smart.”

“Well, look me up when you're ready for a job in town.”

“I will, Mr. Peterson.”

I'm grateful that he doesn't say “call me Dan.” It would have been so Dink-like.

I ride in the backseat of the Chrysler van, an older model that somehow makes me feel better about the whole night. I'm not sure how I feel about Dan Peterson, but at least he's not a flashy guy.

Mom and Mr. Peterson talk about work, about the new club in town, about the Lutheran Church, which Mom claims affiliation to but has never attended as far as I know. I watch for Dink's Camaro.

As we pull into the parking lot of the school, Mom asks about my ride home. “We can pick you up afterward,” Mr. Peterson offers.

“That's okay. I'll catch a ride with friends.” I say it so naturally that I believe it myself. I don't want to ride home with Mom's date. I'm sure Eddie will give me a ride.

“Will you be warm enough?” Mom asks.

I'm wearing my winter coat, which is too big for me, but which Mom is afraid I'll grow out of since I shot up so much over the summer.

“I'm fine. Thanks for the ride.” I open the door and pause. “Mr. Peterson, have you ever been in a fight?”

He lets out a deep laugh. “Are you kidding? I grew up on the wrong side of Duluth. I learned to throw a punch. But I don't fight if I can avoid it.”

He's twice the size of Dink. It makes me feel better knowing he can take care of Mom if Dink does ever show up.

“Why did you ask that?” Mom's voice is tense.

“Don't worry, Mom. I'm not doing any fighting tonight.” I close the door and wave as they pull away. Mr. Peterson sounds like a marshmallow, a thought that consoles me as I turn to face the cold wind.

The stadium is already half-full, with orange-and-black colors on the right side and red on the left. The band is warming up, their instruments bellowing out spurts of cascading notes. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs drifts up from the concession stand. The lights of the stadium flood the night sky. Football is in the air.

Then I see Hunter and his friends near the bleachers. I move into the darkness, willing myself to become invisible.

“You're here!” Halle's exuberant voice floats out in a breath of white air. So much for beating her here. She gives me a quick hug, then pulls me behind the crowd. We stand alone in the dark, save for flashes of light that peek through openings in the bleachers. Her hair sticks out beneath a white knit cap and the cold air makes her eyelashes appear glittery.

She looks up at me and I'm overcome with that sensation again, the same one that makes me do irrational things before I can stop myself. But Halle reaches up and puts her lips on mine before I can even talk myself out of kissing her. Her soft lips send a wave of warmth through my whole body.

She pulls back and smiles. “This way you can concentrate on your task instead of thinking about kissing me all night.”

I don't know where my confidence comes from, but I bend down and kiss her again. “As if this will keep me from thinking about it?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “I'm getting a huge crush on you, Baxter.”

I want to tell her that I have the same crush on her, that it's karma or fate or whatever you want to call it. That we were meant to be together, that our moving here had as much to do with destiny as with my movement of the map. But that sounds cliché, and the moment passes too quickly. She opens her backpack and takes out a piece of paper.

“The halftime show tonight is a tribute to our dear old Wellington Mines. The band members are changing into flannel shirts and miner hats and playing the song ‘Coal Miner's Daughter' and ending with ‘We Will Rock You.' Between songs we thought it would be nice to make a tribute of our own. So we've written down the names of as many people as we could come up with who have died from mesothelioma.”

She hands me the sheet. There's a list of eighteen names, with dates next to them. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Halle lets out a short breath. “I have a friend in the announcer's booth. You'll have thirty seconds of airtime between songs while the band moves into position.”

“You want me to read these names?”

“The names and the dates of death.”

“He's okay with that?”

“Well, Ace doesn't exactly know that's what you're reading.”

“And how is this
not
going to get me expelled?”

“For what? For a tiny halftime prank? It's pretty harmless. They can't expel you for that. Besides, you're hidden from view up there. And Ace is a good guy. He won't narc on you afterward.”

Halle takes my hand. “You're the only one in our club who doesn't have someone working at the plant. Besides, it will be fun. And you'll be making a statement.”

Fun hasn't been in my vocabulary for a long time, if ever. And I can still taste Halle on my lips, making it difficult to think. But I know that no matter what she says, I could get in trouble. If not from the administration, then from the band and football team. Should I take such a risk just to impress her?

I fold the sheet of paper in half and stick it in my pocket. I smile at Halle, the smile of a guy drunk, not on alcohol, but on daffodils, thousands and thousands of them. She's the only reason that I smile every day. Hell yes, I'll do it.

The Problem of the List

The Mental Club has staked out a spot near the top of the bleachers. Blankets and seat cushions, a tub of buttered popcorn, and a thermos of hot chocolate are waiting for us. A hero's welcome, Halle says, and it makes sense because I feel as though I'm being sent into battle.

“My man,” Eddie says, bumping fists. “I've been working on another video, this one for the choir. I could use some help.”

“Sure. I'll go in early next week if you give me a ride.”

“It's a deal.”

The football team bursts onto the field amid cheers while the marching band plays the school song. Students clap their mittens and gloves together in muted applause.

Halle sits next to me, our legs touching. Her breath spreads up onto my neck as she huddles closer, trying to keep warm. Who'd have guessed that cold was so sexy?

“You've been working out,” she teases as she squeezes my upper arm.

“I owe it all to Brad and about eight hundred hay bales.”

Last night I thought my life was over. And tonight I'm sitting next to the girl of my dreams and she's looking at me like I'm her Prince Charming, the man she's waited for her entire life. Funny how fast things can change.

But beneath my happiness a feeling of dread gnaws at my insides. I've spent the last two months trying to blend in and be unrecognizable. A blur among the student population of Madison High. And it hasn't been easy. Now I'm about to do something that will make me stand out above the crowd and draw attention. My instincts fight against it.

I try to enjoy the game. The Madison High Tigers are getting clobbered. The other team runs through them like they're dominoes instead of one-hundred-eighty-pound linebackers. The guy who sounds like twice-baked potatoes fumbles the ball on the twenty yard line, giving the other team an easy shot at a touchdown.

We're in the second quarter, with two minutes left, when Halle tells me it's time to go. She leads me up the stairs to the announcer's booth. The marching band is already assembled on the track, ready to take the field.

“Just knock when halftime is here,” she says. “Ace knows you're coming. And don't be nervous. Do you have the list?”

I pull it out of my pocket.

Halle frowns. “Let me see it a moment.” She unfolds the paper and reads down. Her hands start to shake. “I wrote the date of his funeral instead of his death. How could I have done that?”

Her voice cracks and is replaced by a frantic tone. “Do you have a pencil or something to write with?”

“No. Sorry.”

“God, I'm such an idiot.”

I put my hands on her shoulders. “It's okay. Tell me the date. I can remember it.”

Her eyes are wet. “January 23, 2009. That's what it should read next to Henry Calvin Phillips.”

“January 23, 2009. Got it,” I say, and I flash a convincing smile.

She sniffs and gives me a hug. “Thank you, Baxter. You don't know what this means to me, to all of us. This prank is going to make you immortal. We'll be waiting behind the bleachers afterward. Eddie's taking us all out for victory pizza.”

She leaves at 8:30, just as the buzzer signals halftime. The Tigers are down seventeen to three and they look downcast as they walk off the field. If it weren't for pizza, I'd enjoy staying for the second half to see them get beat even worse.

The band marches out onto the field and gets into position. The lights go out and the crowd responds with “oohs” and “ahhs” and a few shrieks. Then the announcer's voice booms out from the speaker above my head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we present a special tribute to our town's heritage, the Wellington Miners. Please give a round of applause to the Madison High marching band.”

Each band member wears a helmet with a light above it, and now those lights come on, all one hundred eighty-six of them, and the band starts playing. They look like a field of marching fireflies as they move in unison.

I feel like I have as many fireflies in my stomach as I look at the list. I'm supposed to knock on the door, but I can't quite bring myself to do it. I put my hand out and stop. God, I'm such a wimp, a total failure. I don't want to be immortal. Why can't Halle understand that? I want to be like everyone else.

I'm a coward. I just can't do this. I start walking away when I bump into someone, causing me to drop the list.

“Mr. Green,” a familiar voice makes me catch my breath. Mr. Jackson waves a small flashlight in front of me.

“What have you got there?” he asks, picking up the paper before I have a chance to grab it.

“Nothing.”

He focuses the flashlight's beam on the list.

“It's for our club. The Environmental Club. It's personal,” I protest, but Mr. Jackson is already reading it out loud. “The following people have died from mesothelioma, a cancer caused by working in Wellington's mines? This isn't true.”

“We think it is.”

“Just what are you planning to do with this?” He looks at the announcer's booth and his mouth falls open.

Even though I wimped out, no way am I confessing my plans to Mr. Jackson. I shrug. “Nothing.”

“Nothing is right. I don't want to see this anarchist type of material on our campus ever again. Do you understand?”

I let out a laugh. “Anarchist? Just because Wellington Mines owns the whole town?”

Mr. Jackson folds up the sheet of paper until it's the size of a coaster. “This is what I think of your list.” He tears it in two, then tears those pieces in two.

The blood rises up inside me, letting loose an anger I haven't felt in years. “You have no right to do that,” I spit out.

Mr. Jackson nods. “Sorry, I just did.” He throws the pieces up into the wind, scattering them in the darkness. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Green.”

He leaves me in the darkness as the band plays the final segments of “Coal Miner's Daughter.” I'm supposed to be inside preparing to read the list.

I don't know what to do. Mr. Jackson can't do this to me, to our club. It's not fair, and I know all about being treated unfairly. Dink used me because I was a kid who didn't know any better. I may be a wimp, but I'm not going to let Mr. Jackson get away with this.

I don't bother to knock.

“Halle sent me,” I say to the guy in the booth, who looks to be in his mid-twenties. Ace is sitting in the cramped booth reading a Stephen King novel beneath a pea-sized light on the desk. “I'm making an announcement.”

Ace jumps. “I thought you were a zombie.” Then he laughs. “Just a sec.” He stands and has me sit in front of the microphone. “Flip this switch when you're ready. The band is almost done playing the song. They'll be moving into position for the next one. That's when you can talk, but you'll only have about thirty seconds, so make it quick.”

“Okay.” I try to steady my voice. I think of Mr. Jackson and the pieces of the list carried away by the wind, and the constant threat of Dink. The anger pushes me forward. The band finishes and the crowd applauds. I turn on the microphone and speak in a clear, deep voice.

“My fellow students, the Environmental Club wants to give tribute to those people who spent their lives working at Wellington Mines. The following is a list of people who died from mesothelioma, a cancer thought to be caused from exposure to taconite dust.”

I say each name and date, all eighteen of them. I'd locked the door when I entered in case Mr. Jackson tried to stop me. And then there's Ace. When I look over at him, he's clapping silently and nodding. After I announce all eighteen names I say, “Let's give them the recognition they deserve.” The crowd cheers until the band breaks into, “We Will Rock You.”

“Good going,” Ace says, and shakes my hand. “You can go out this door if you want.” He motions to a door on the other side of the booth. “It's closer.”

“Thanks.” I wonder if Ace knows that Mr. Jackson is waiting outside the other door.

I hurry out into the darkness and run down the darkened steps, almost tripping on the way down. I did it! And I feel so alive in doing it, so satisfied. As though I just jammed a fist in Mr. Jackson's paunch, or stuck a knife in Dink's gargoyle tattoo. It feels that good.

I dash behind the bleachers, searching for my friends.

“Baxter!” Eddie high-fives me in a sliver of light. “Unbelievable! You did it!”

Gina hugs me. “That was pure magic! Your voice in the darkness, reading the names of those miners while a field of band students marched around with miner hats, their little lights glowing.”

Roxie kisses my cheek. “I bawled the whole time. It was so awesome.”

“It felt good,” I say. “Where's Halle? It was her idea, you know.” Then I see her. She's not smiling, not jumping up and down like everyone else. She's standing in the darkness, and it's only when I'm right in front of her that I see the odd expression on her face.

“How?” she asks. “How did you do it? You only looked at the list once, for just a second.”

“What do you mean …?”

“I came back up when I saw Mr. Jackson shred the paper and throw it away,” she says, with more force in her voice. “So how did you memorize all those names? You even got my grandpa's death correct. How did you do it?”

“What does it matter? He did it!” Gina says behind me. “He was amazing.”

I stare at Halle. I want to explain what she's already figuring out on her own. I can see it in her expression. The expression that says she sees me differently now.

She looks at me, challenging me to deny it. Her eyes are slits. “Baxter. That strange boy who memorized movies. That was his name.”

My throat goes tight.

“It's you, isn't it?”

I stare at her. What can I say? “Surprise?”

She turns away.

“I meant to tell you,” I say.

She spins toward me. “You knew all this time?”

“What are you talking about?” Gina asks. “What boy?”

I look at Gina. What lie do I have up my sleeve this time? I've got nothing. “We knew each other.”

“When?”

“Years ago, back in kindergarten. Halle didn't remember me until now.”

Gina shrugs. “So you knew each other in kindergarden. Why is that a big deal?”

“It's not like I lied to you,” I say, turning back around, but it's too late. Halle has disappeared into the darkness.