Bluefish (7 page)

He sat down across from Velveeta, and she slammed a thick book shut.

"Whew! Nick of time, Travicus. You saved me from this crazy book. McQueen said I have to get up to page one hundred by Monday or he'll flunk me. I think that's blackmail, or maybe it's extortion. Either way I'm sure it's not legal, and besides, this is sicko - it's all about death.

Hey, what's with Whistle- Stop?"

Bradley Whistler stood about ten steps away, staring at them.

"Whistle-Stop, what are you looking at?" yelled Velveeta.

Bradley scuttled over and stood behind Travis.

"Can I eat lunch with you?"

"Why for, Mr. Whistler?" asked Velveeta. "You doing some kind of study on the lower classes?"

"Never mind."

"Nonononono, wait!" Velveeta waved her hands.

"Relax. Sit down. You're just worried about Travis there, aren't you? He thinks you're cute - he told me so - but don't worry, I'll keep him off you."

"Lying," said Travis out of the side of his mouth as Bradley sat next to him.

"I know," said Bradley.

"Open that pretty purple lunch box," said Velveeta.

"Let's see what you've got to share."

Bradley tore loose the Velcro on his purple soft- sided box and pulled out a Tupperware container.

"What's that?" asked Velveeta.

He popped the lid and showed them a mix of pasta, dark- green leaves and orange chunks.

"It's something my mom makes. It's got spinach and squash and pine nuts. It's good. You want some?"

"Are you kidding?" said Velveeta, holding out her plate. "Of course I do."

Bradley turned to Travis, who shook his head. He'd rather stick with his safe mashed potatoes and chicken.

"My God, Bradley," said Velveeta after her first bite.

"Do they feed you like this every day? No wonder you always look so healthy and bright- eyed. Why are you sitting with us? Are you here to tutor us in math?"

"No, I just thought I'd, you know, sit by you."

"I never told you this, Bradley, but you know who you remind me of? Haley Joel Osment, the 'I see dead people' kid from The Sixth Sense. Have either of you seen it?"

Travis and Bradley both shook their heads.

"Wasteland," said Velveeta to the ceiling. "I could have been born anywhere in the world, and I live someplace where nobody knows Shyamalan."

"Who's that?" asked Bradley.

"M. Night Shyamalan. He's a writer and director. He's done a bunch of movies.

Sixth Sense is my favorite, but I also like Wide Awake because you can see how he was trying out ideas in that and then he tweaked them around for popular appeal, and bingo, Sixth Sense, a blockbuster!"

"How do you know all that?" asked Travis.

"I don't know - it's what I know. We all have something we know. Except for Bradley there. He's Smarty McSmarty- Pants - he knows everything we know and everything else, too."

"No, I don't," said Bradley. "I don't know anything about M. Night Shyama-whatever- you- said. I watch plenty of movies, but I don't pay attention to who wrote or directed them. Someone must have taught you about that." Velveeta raised her eyebrows as high as they'd go.

"Wow, Bradley. That is very insightful. Maybe you should be a therrrrrrr-apist."

The bell rang, and Bradley scooped up the last of his lunch.

"Sit with us again, Bradley," said Velveeta. "Bring us more of your fancy food.

It'll be fun."

Bradley looked at Travis like he was in charge.

Travis shrugged and said, "Sure, why not?"

on MONDAY

Okay, so Bradley and I have been in school together since kindergarten, and that's the first time he's ever talked to me on purpose. I had to show off and bring up Shyamalan. I wanted him to know I'm not a total idiot. Why do I care?

I guess because I think he's kinda fascinating. Besides being off - the- charts smart, he's (a) the only black kid in our class, (b) an unbelievable dork, (c) the shortest of the shorties, (d) really bad at sports, and (e) still alive.

Not only still alive, but not squished. Last year Chad and Mike sat him on the water fountain. If anyone did that to me, I'd leave for the day, but Bradley walked around with wet pants and explained over and over that it was drinking fountain water, not pee. Honestly, I don't know how he survives.

Must be the spinach and pine nuts.

Maybe if I got fed that kind of food every day, I'd be more like Bradley. Maybe I'd do my homework and get smart instead of using my science notebook to write to a dead guy.

Travis sat at the card table in his bedroom and circled words. Grandpa had banged out the door for his AA meeting at six thirty, so the house was quiet and the TV off . Travis wanted to have the whole first chapter circled by the time he met with McQueen on Wednesday. He worked at it until his eyes blurred and he accidentally circled words he knew.

Finally, he closed the book, flopped on the couch, and clicked the remote. The truck pulled into the drive. Footsteps tromped on the porch, and the front door opened.

"Look what I got," Grandpa said. "It's to celebrate my thirty days."

Travis twisted to see. Grandpa held up a chunk of sheet cake with white frosting and blue writing. Travis turned back to the TV. He was sick of sweets.

Grandpa brought day- olds home from the bakery every day. How much of that stuff could a person eat?

"I thought that was last week," he said.

He glanced up and ran into the squinty- eyeball stare.

"What?"

Grandpa set the cake on the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and turned off the TV.

"Hey, I was watching that!"

"Yeah, that Viagra ad is just full of information you need. Listen, boy, I think you need to start talking. In AA they say if you don't talk about what's chewing on you, it'll eat your guts out."

"I'm not in AA."

"Keep this up and you might be. If your dad would' ve - "

"Would've what?" Travis sat up.

Grandpa stared at the smoke coming off the end of his cigarette.

"Said something. Maybe he'd be here now, and you could hate him instead of me."

"Said something about what?"

"Travis, he was drunk when he drove into that tree."

"Duh." Even a stupid bluefish had that one figured out a long time ago.

"I'm just saying. Maybe if you talked up, you won't have to be like him or me."

"Nobody likes a chatterbox, remember?" Travis fired the words hard.

Grandpa looked down and ran a hand over his mouth.

Loose skin sagged around his Adam's apple. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Not the crusty- cheery "now that I'm sober" voice.

"I said that a time or two, huh?"

"Try a million."

"Okay, so you're right." Grandpa stubbed out his cigarette. "I'm a shitty bad parent. Was then, am now. Does that help?"

He got up slowly, as if it hurt, and took the cake back to the kitchen. He washed the dishes, opened and closed drawers. Every sound scraped on Travis's nerves.

He turned the TV back on. Does that help? kept circling around his head. No, it didn't help. The only thing that would help was Rosco. He'd put his warm, heavy head on Travis's lap, and slobber on his leg, and Travis could bury his nose in those silky ears.

Grandpa took the trash out and was gone awhile.

When he came back, he closed the door gently behind him.

"You know what we could use?" he said. "A bonfire out in the swamp.

Remember how we used to do that when you were a little guy?"

"There's no swamp here." Travis meant to spit the words hard, but his voice shook.

Grandpa came back over and looked behind the recliner. He creaked down onto his hands and knees and peered under the couch. He put his hands on the coffee table and pushed himself back up, falling onto the couch beside Travis.

"Nope, you're right. I've looked everywhere. No swamp. What are we going to do about that?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Travis got up quickly.

As he closed his bedroom door behind him, he barely heard Grandpa's voice.

"Me too, buddy boy," he said. "Me too."

The next morning in social studies, Ms. Gordon called on Velveeta first. She taped a big red P and a big blue N on the board and performed a conversation between the Paleolithic guy and the Neolithic guy, standing first under the P

and then under the N.

She compared and contrasted, she rattled off facts about the people from each period, and she had everyone rolling in the aisles. No possible way Travis could have been part of that. He would have ruined it, even if he could have learned the lines.

Velveeta nodded to a standing ovation. She bowed in every direction and waved the end of her blue- on- light-blue scarf. The rest of the presentations were worse than the ones the day before. Travis would have fallen asleep if Velveeta hadn't kept popping bits of commentary in his ear.

When the bell finally rang, they walked out together.

"See, Travail?" she said. "You could've been part of Team Velveeta and shared the glory. You wouldn't even have had to say anything. I would have made you a sign to hold up. You would've been adorable, especially if you would've costumed up in caveman fur."

Chad Cormick jostled hard on the other side of Travis, knocking his books to the floor.

"So, Roberts, is this why you're not hoopin'? Too busy getting some Velveeta on the side?"

The bump and the words lit Travis up before he could douse the flame. He shoved Cormick hard against the lockers.

"Whoa, whoa, easy," said Chad, holding up both hands. "Sorry, sorry, dude, back down. Just a joke."

Travis dropped his hands and stepped back, breathing hard. Reeling it in, clamping down. Motion in the hallway stopped, and a circle of staring eyes surrounded him. Travis stepped backward, out of the center.

"Joke, man, just a joke." Cormick waved his hand back and forth, erasing the whole thing.

"Sorry," said Travis.

He bent down to pick up the books he'd dropped, eyes locked to the floor. In fourth grade on the bus he'd turned on Clay Rosen like that when Clay flashed him and put gum in his hair. One minute Travis was sitting there, ignoring it all. The next, Clay was holding his nose and crying while blood puddled on the floor of the bus and a whole ring of kids stared at Travis.

Velveeta's dirty black and white checkered sneakers appeared next to his pencil. Travis reached for it and tucked it into the spiral of his notebook. When he finally stood up, everyone but

Velveeta was gone.

"That was very Fight Clubby of you," she said. "Beating little Chaddy up right here in the school hallway."

"I didn't beat him up."

"It was so manly, defending my honor and all. If I give you a list, will you beat up everyone on it?"

She grinned, big joke. She didn't know about the puddle of blood, or Joey Nizmanski's concussion, or Grandpa in the gravel.

"No." The bell rang for second period.

"Oooh, late for class. What other excitement can happen today?" Velveeta backed away. "See you at lunch."

Travis walked the empty hall to science, still thinking about that fourth- grade day on the bus. Clay's big brother, Marshall, had grabbed Travis by the collar to pull him off , and Travis tore into Marsh so hard that he let go with a shove.

"This kid's gone crazy back here," he'd yelled to the bus driver.

After that day, kids still fssh- hissed at him, but mostly they did it from a distance.

When Travis walked into science, he felt eyes on him as he took his seat on the far side of the classroom. He wished Velveeta's eyes were there. Somehow, she saw him differently from everyone else.

on a Stupid TUESDAY

The madre made real food again, and this time the butt showed and brought fancy beer from the brewery and they drank their dinner while I ate mine. All he has to do is show up with a bottle and her whole "I'm going to get my head straight and do things right" is gone out the window again.

Ha, ha, have a beer, Velveeta. No, thank you, Mother, but gee, thanks for including me, because I can't wait to grow up and be like my big brother.

I can't understand how Jimmy can be so ugly. He seriously has the ugliest face in the world, and when I look in the mirror and try to see how him and me are related, I can see it just around the edges of my ugliness. Calvin, nobody but you understands exactly how much I hate him to hellfire. I wish he'd explode into ashes and never poke his butt face into my life again.

What if Travis really could beat him up? I can see that fight scene on the big screen. Travis would step out from the alley next to the bar and say,

"Hey, aren't you Jimmy the butt?" Th en, kablow, kablam, slam in the street.

Oh my God, can you just see it? Beautiful.

But that would mean mixing Travis withTrailer World.

No. That can never happen. Never never. Every time I put on a scarf and walk to the end of Pauly Road, I turn into Velveeta, and she might not be much, but she's better than Vida Wojciehowski. And you know what? You brought this Velveeta version to life. Without you, I'd have a flask of bourbon in my school locker, and I'd be selling drugs and jacking cars and mugging little old ladies and other things I don't even want to think about.

What would I do if I didn't have this place? Right now, I would be wandering around outside in the dark. Instead, I'm tucked away safe here in your electricity- working trailer with the double- bolted door, wrapped up in scarves and watching Labyrinth.

Maybe I can move in here. Do you think the madre would even notice?

Wednesday morning, Travis arrived at McQueen's doorway at 7:45 and sat in the hall outside. He opened the fox book and looked over his hundreds of circled words.

Maybe McQueen had no idea how bad it was - maybe he'd thought it would just be ten words a page or so. Anyone could learn that. But this - nobody could learn this many.

"Something wrong, Mr. Roberts?"

McQueen jingled keys out of his pocket and opened the door.

"I circled a lot of words," said Travis.

"Perfect," said McQueen, waving him in. "Let's see what we've got."