Anything You Want (6 page)

The Corrigans didn't send Maggie away to an insane asylum. They sent her to the suite. Seriously!

Mr. Corrigan himself called around 9:00 p.m. that night. I lumbered down the hall. (I needed a good night's rest to recover after all that walking.) Then I grabbed the bleating phone.

“I'd like to drop off Maggie, Taco,” Mr. Corrigan said.

“Tonight?”

“Now,” Mr. Corrigan said. “We're at our wits' end over here. She and her mother need space, and I don't know what else to do. So…now?”

“That's a surprise, Reggie, but you got it. Bring her over,” I said. “I can be the responsible party.”

He cleared his throat. “Maggie says your father knows about the pregnancy and supports her staying with you while we sort all this out. Is that true?”

I bit my lip on that one. I figured Dad wouldn't be very supportive, but that wasn't really the point at the moment. Maggie clearly needed to get out of the house or Reggie wouldn't be yammering on the horn at me, so I bluffed, which I'm not proud of. “My father believes Maggie and I should be together, yes.”

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Corrigan said. “Is there a number where he can be reached?”

“No. He's on the open road. Trucking,” I explained.

“And he doesn't carry a cell phone?” Mr. Corrigan asked.

“No, sir. He thinks cell phones cause blindness and brain cancer.” This wasn't true, but my mom believed that, so it seemed plausible.

“Fine. When you next speak with him, please ask him to call me to discuss our situation. In the meantime, I'd like to drop off Maggie,” Mr. Corrigan said.

“Sweet ass,” I said after I hung up.

Ten minutes later Maggie knocked on the front door. She was carrying an overnight bag. I let her in without a word. Mr. Corrigan waited in front of the house to see that she got in safely. I gave him a smile and a big wave. He nodded and then eased the car away from the curb and disappeared into the Bluffton night.

Was this helpful? Was I helping? Mr. Corrigan wanted help. This is the kind of thing he was talking about, right? I help Maggie, and I help him at the same time.

Maggie went directly back to my room. There, she removed her jacket, her shirt, her pants, her bra, and her panties. I watched all this action from just inside the door because I wanted her to have privacy if Darius came upstairs. She turned around slowly to face me. The blood was pumping all over my monkey body at that point, of course.

Everything changes so damn fast that you're lucky your head doesn't get twisted right off from all the spinning. Six months earlier I hadn't ever kissed a girl, much less had a naked one in my suite—a naked one who was pregnant with my miracle baby. And therein lay the rub. The babe.

“Make love to me, Taco,” Maggie said.

Well, that hadn't been on the table since I found out about the baby, you know? “Uh. Is that a legit move?”

“Legit? What do you mean? Like legal?”

“Well, I don't mean legal. I mean, the cops never occurred to me, but we should google that too. Is it legal to have sex when you're pregnant in Wisconsin?”

“Jesus. I'm sure it is,” Maggie said. She paused. “I'm pretty sure.”

“Awesome,” I said. “But we don't want to traumatize the baby with our bumping.”

“The baby is like the size of a strawberry,” Maggie said.

“With tiny little hands,” I said. “I've done the research.”

“The baby won't know about why it's bumping, and I need you.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” I said.

And so, pal, it happened. But holy balloons, I did not enjoy it, which again is something I could never have imagined even a few days earlier.

Afterward, Maggie cried and cried. I held her in my arms and comforted her, and she made the suite sheets soggy. Turns out Maggie's mom had said some pretty horrible things to her that I can't even repeat. Maggie's mom had slapped her too.

I would never slap the person I love. I'd keep her safe forever and ever. I'd fight off any invaders with every ounce of my strength for her! That's how it should be, right?

My mom would never have slapped me either. This is what I don't understand: Can a mom even call herself a mom if she's slapping her own pregnant daughter? My mom loved me and Darius no matter what, even when we made it hard.

And we did.

Take Darius. He never did well in school, and he used to have what Dad called
a smart mouth
, meaning he'd back-talk and say crappy things to Mom and Dad when they got on his case about school or whatnot. Dad would sometimes shout or growl at Darius—but not my mom. My mom would say, “I'm sorry you're struggling, sweet boy. I'm sorry you're at odds with the world. Go down to your room and be quiet. I promise if you stop fighting, the situation will get better.”

Darius might shout, “I don't fight! Mrs. Wilson (or Faherty or Treine or Mr. Bachman) is just stupid!”

But Mom would say, “Shh, sweet boy. Shhhh. Go be quiet now.”

And she was right. By dinnertime, Darius was always calmer. Then she and Darius would talk about what happened and make a plan to make everything better. Mom was great at that. I sort of wish my mom was Maggie's mom because Maggie could use a little quiet time and care, but then maybe Maggie wouldn't be who she is. Also Maggie would be my sister, which would be pretty weird. And probably illegal.

Anyway, slapping the person you love is wrong.

Before I went to sleep, I set an alarm. (Maggie had already passed out.) I usually don't need one, given how my excitement for the coming day wakes me up. But after our tardiness that morning, I also set the clock on the stove.

Darius got home from his night shift at Captain Stabby's while I was in the kitchen.

“That clock has never been right,” he said. “Not since we moved in.”

“Yeah, man,” I said. “I just noticed! I reset the time before I set the timer.”

“It's bothered me for like a year,” he said.

“Really? Why didn't you fix the bugger?” I asked.

He stared at me for a moment as if I had two heads. “I take care of you, not me,” he said and went downstairs.

“Oh,” I said to the place where Darius had been standing.

I stumbled down the hall into the suite, fell into bed, and fell asleep. Like totally fell, dingus. Like off a cliff. Morning came like hitting the damn canyon floor.

Maggie went out of her mind when the stove buzzer fired up in the kitchen.

She shot out of bed. “What time is it?”

“Seven, baby doll,” I whispered. “We got a full hour and ten to get to first period.”

“Jesus, Taco! Why didn't you wake me up? I can't go to school like a dirt ball again. I have to shower and blow-dry my hair. I hate it when my hair's wet. Everybody looks at you like you're a skeez if your hair's wet!”

“A what?” I asked, still groggy.

Maggie ran into the suite's throne room. “Where the hell's the shower? Didn't I see a shower in here before?” she screamed. “You don't have a shower?”

“It's in the bathroom in the hall. You might want to turn it down a couple decibels because Darius worked late and he can't find the sandman too easy after slinging fish for eight straight. Know what I mean?”

Maggie charged past me into the hall. I slid out of bed and followed. She stood in the middle of the bathroom, staring down at the toilet and the bathtub. She acted appalled.

And I was a little pissed! As if having a private throne room inside your own bedroom isn't fancy enough. Like there should by definition be a shower in every bathroom. As if the shared shower in the hall (only shared with Darius!) was like having to take a shower at the damn zoo.

“Do you even have clean towels?” Maggie cried.

“Whoa, lady. Hold on. I do laundry twice a week,” I said. “Of course there are clean towels.” I pride myself on my fresh spring breeze fragrance, pal.

“Well, show me how the shower works. Show me where the soap is. Give me a clean towel. I don't have any time!”

Man, did my sweet Maggie blow her top when she found out I don't own a hair dryer. “I would've brought Mary's if I thought you didn't have one!” She was
en fuego
! (I learned that in Spanish class.)

We did finally get to school though. I did some birdie-whacking in gym to work out my anguish. And by English, Maggie had chilled out too. I guess her hair was finally dry, which helped. In the doorway to the classroom, she kissed me and whispered, “Thanks for taking care of me.”

Yes! That's Taco, taking care of business.

In English, I couldn't concentrate, so I started writing lists. When Mom was super sick, she made lists that she'd give Darius (and sometimes me). She told us that writing out her responsibilities and then fulfilling her responsibilities was how she acted like an adult, how she took care of her kids and her business, and because she couldn't be the adult because of her pain and exhaustion and lack of ability to breathe, we had to do it for her (mostly Darius). So I wrote out a list because I wanted to be an adult, wanted to take care of my wife. (Well, really girlfriend, but weren't we acting married with her living in my house?)

1. Buy hair dryer.

2. Wake Maggie early as hell.

3. Install shower in suite. (Build an addition to house?)

4. Get job to earn money to buy hair dryer, alarm clock, and build addition to house.

I felt pretty good. Like I knew what I was up against and I had a plan to get the job done. When the bell rang, Maggie kissed me hard.

I was so caught up in my adult thoughts that I walked smack into Mr. Lecroy, the choir director, while I was switching classes.

“Taco. Taco Keller!”

I'm a big fan of choir. I'm not the best singer, but I love it! Anyway, I've always liked to perform, always played super minor parts in plays and musicals. (My mom loved going to the high school musical every year.) And I've always really liked Mr. Lecroy. “Hey, hey, Mr. L.,” I said back.

“I didn't see your name on the musical chorus audition sign-up,” he said. “I assume you ran out of time yesterday.”

Whoa. With so much going on, I completely forgot about the musical. “I guess I forgot,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Don't forget.”

I thought about Maggie and the baby and our lack of a hair dryer over at the suite. “I'm crazy busy right now,” I said.

“Not too busy, I hope.”

“Maybe?” I said.

“Fine. You need enticement? Keep it under your hat.” Mr. Lecroy looked around at the flow of students passing us by and then leaned in to whisper. “We're doing
Wizard of Oz
!”

“Rock on,” I said. “Those flying monkeys scare the shit out of me!”

“Me too!” Mr. Lecroy said. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“I have my eye on you.”

“You do?” I asked.

“Mayor of Munchkinland?”

“Oh yeah?” Oh, that hurt. Mayor of Munchkinland is a kick-ass part.

“But you have to play to win, my friend. I'll be scheduling auditions the week after Thanksgiving. I won't be putting together a dream team from kids who aren't ready to make the commitment. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Understood, Captain,” I said.
Crap
, I thought.

Mr. Lecroy winked, smiled. “Good.”

I sprinted off to my next class but stopped after about ten steps. I had to bend over and catch my breath. For a moment I thought I might lose my beans right there in the Bluffton High hallway. The musical is one of my favorite times of the year. It's all snowy and elfin and magical. And my friends and I all sing for hours and hours every day. Oh no, I didn't want to miss out, dingus. But…

Maggie Corrigan is having our baby, and I need to buy her a hair dryer
, I thought.

Then the bell rang, and I had to get to class.

Calc was a total disaster. First, I was late, which made Mr. Edwards grimace. Second, I'd left my butt pillow in English. Third, Mr. Edwards gave a pop quiz.

Even though I'd struggled to understand calc, I'd never bombed the shiz. In fact, all through high school, I always did pretty well on tests. But I only got, like, halfway done by the time Mr. Edwards picked up my paper. Felt like I got kicked in the salad by a wild donkey. At the same time, my unwell backside throbbed from its bone-to-plastic situation without a doughnut.

I felt really defeated and in need of love. And Mr. Lecroy was all in my business again during choir that afternoon, so I couldn't help it. After choir, I slid out into the hall like a ninja and put my name on the audition sheet for
The
Wizard of Oz
, even though I knew in my guts I should be thinking about cash flow and diaper budgets, not being Mayor of Munchkinland.

Oh, I didn't feel good about myself, dingus.

Maggie and I met up right after the last bell. She looked at me, concerned. “Are you tired? Do I make you tired?”

“No way,” I said. “You're the sunshine.” But clearly I didn't act like she was the sunshine because I could barely pick up my feet. I was so damn tired.

“Hey, now,” she said. “We need to put a little pep in your cucumber!”

That made me smile. We walked home, hand in hand, making jokes the whole way. And yeah, dingus, she was sunshine because my energy really did grow back like a dandelion in the sun!

At the suite we picked up the money I had stowed in the grocery kitty and walked over to the Piggly Wiggly, still making jokes and kissing every block or two. At the Pig, we bought her a very cheap hair dryer and a frozen pizza for our dinner. Back home we watched TV in the living room and ate pizza and held hands like a happy old married couple.

At one point Maggie, whose head was resting on my shoulder, looked up at me and said, “Would you ever want to live by the ocean, Taco?”