Changing Michael (10 page)

“Go to your room!” he said.

She stumbled down the hall, and I decided to head for the hallway.

“I'll be back,” I said, although I don't know why. I'm sure at that point no one wanted me back, except maybe the girl.

Out in the hall, it took me a full minute to stop, and even when I did, I was still having little spasms of giggles here and there. I couldn't forget her face—both the dead-fish look and the farm-girl grin.

I tried to worry about being out in the hall by myself, but couldn't. Probably because I'd left the door open just a little, in case anyone came after me with an ice pick.

Eventually, I settled against the wall next to the door and listened.

“So, how'd you get here?” I heard his father ask.

“Matthew drove me,” Michael said.

“He a friend of yours?”

“Yeah.”

Well, it's about time.

There was an uncomfortable silence. It happened a lot during their conversation, so I'm not going to try and find different ways to describe it. When it happens, you'll just see the words, “Uncomfortable Silence.”

“How'd you find me?” his father asked.

“Internet.”

“Computers. Of course,” his father grumbled.

Uncomfortable Silence.

“Is that your girlfriend?” Michael asked.

“Who, Chrissy? God, no. She's my daughter. She's . . .”

He stopped.

Uncomfortable Silence.

“Why'd you come up here?” his father asked.

“It was Matthew's idea,” Michael said.

I decided to punch him when we were alone.

“He thought Mom might be lying,” Michael continued.

“Lying? About what?”

“About you being . . . about you drinking a lot.”

Uncomfortable Silence.

“I used to,” his father said. “I've been trying to clean myself up a little.”

There was a pause not long enough to qualify as an uncomfortable silence.

“It's been about two years now,” his father said.

“That's good,” Michael said.

“You don't drink, do you?” his father asked.

I almost started laughing again.

“Me? No—not at all,” Michael said.

“That's good,” his father said, seriously. “It's something you never want to get into. Our family can't handle it. Your grandfather was a drunk. I'm a drunk.”

“But you stopped, right?” Michael asked.

“So? I'm still a drunk.”

“You are?”

He nodded. “I could go back to it in a heartbeat. I want to at least once a day.”

“What happens?”

“What do you mean?” his father said.

“When you're dr—when you're drinking. Is it that bad?”

Uncomfortable Silence.

“The first few drinks are okay,” he said. “But after that, something just goes wrong inside my head.”

Shorter Uncomfortable Silence.

“What does Chrissy . . .?” Michael asked in a small voice.

“She knows when to disappear.”

Michael must have looked worried.

“I'm not saying I get violent. I don't hit my daughter,” his father said firmly. “But I get to a place where I don't want anyone else around. And if there is someone around, I can get mean. Chrissy used to know when it was time to clear out and go to her room.”

Pause
.

“But that hasn't happened in years,” he finished, quietly.

Uncomfortable Silence.

I was over my silliness now and wanted to see what was going on, but didn't feel like I could just stroll back in and watch, so I repositioned myself until I could just see both of them through the crack in the door.

I was surprised. Michael's father was bending down beside a stack of records. Michael was standing a few feet away, looking out a window. I guess I had imagined them facing each other.

“Mom said you left us,” Michael told the window.

“She told me to sober up or leave,” his father said. “And back then I couldn't let it go, so I had to leave.”

It took Michael a while to get the next question out: “Didn't you want to see me?”

“Of course I did. A couple of times I got in the car to come down there.”

Pause.

“I just couldn't do it, though. It seemed impossible,” he said.

“Why?”

“Seeing the old house, knocking on the door, asking to see you. Then having to explain to my own son who I was . . .”

The last few words sounded weird, as if a bug had suddenly zipped into his throat.

“So you never came down?” said Michael.

“Look,” his father said angrily, “I'm telling you the truth, okay? I'm not trying to make excuses. I've imagined this day a hundred times, and I told myself, as hard as it might be, I was going to be honest. And that's what I'm doing. I'm sorry if you don't like it.”

“I didn't say—”

“Besides, I had Chrissy to worry about. She wouldn't stay with a babysitter when she was young, and I wasn't going to bring her with me to meet you.”

His father slammed a record down and stood up. The atmosphere suddenly changed. There was a special feeling to this emerging quiet, like the doors we'd passed in the hall.

“Is something wrong with Chrissy?” Michael asked.

“Yeah . . . but they don't know what. The schools tried to tell me she was retarded, but that's not it. The doctors said that wasn't it.”

I felt kind of bad about laughing at her now, but how was I supposed to know? I visualized her face—the goofy one—and almost started up again. I'm sorry, okay? I guess I'm just a bad person.

“Is she my sister?” Michael asked.

“Half-sister.”

Pause.

“Look, I've got to get ready for work,” said Michael's father. “You guys kind of surprised me.”

I could see the disappointment on Michael's face from across the room.

“Why don't you come back again sometime when we can sit down and talk?” his father said.

Michael nodded.

His father disappeared around the corner. It was a good time for me to slip back in.

Michael turned to stare at me.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

But Michael, too, was suddenly caught up in the five-second delay.

“Michael?” I tried.

Eventually, he nodded. A door opened somewhere out of sight and we heard light footsteps. Chrissy wandered back into the living room and up to us.

“Where's Dad?” she asked.

“I think he went back there,” I said, pointing.

She looked at me instead of following my finger.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“Are you coming back?”

“I don't know. Maybe . . . Do you know who he is?” I asked, pointing at Michael.

He tried to smile.

“Are you my brother?” she asked.

“I think so,” said Michael. “I mean, I'm your half-brother.”

She stared. I counted: one, two, three, four.

“Half-
what
?”

“He's related,” I clarified. “Cute, isn't he?”

She looked at me and laughed.

“Uh-oh, we'd better not start that again,” I said, which made her laugh harder.

“Chrissy,” her father said, coming down the hall, “don't start.”

She put a hand over her mouth and tried to shove the laughter back in. Michael's father handed him a scrap of paper.

“Next time, give me a call first,” he said. “I mean, you're always welcome, but call next time and we'll make some plans.”

“You're going to work
now
?” I asked.

“I work better in the evenings and weekends . . . Keeps me out of trouble,” he said.

“What do you do?” Michael asked.

“I'm a colorist,” he said.

“A what?”

“I work on comic books—on the illustrations.”

“You draw comic books?” I said.

“Not exactly. I work on the look. On the colors.”

“You're a professional colorer?” I said.

“Kind of,” he said, with a half-smile.

“Cool.”

“Where'd you park?” he asked.

“Out in front,” I said, hooking my thumb over my shoulder.

His eyebrows lifted. “Really? Hope it's still there.”

It wasn't what I wanted to hear.

“Next time, park on one of the side streets,” he said.

I started to pull Michael toward the door.

“So, I'll call you sometime,” Michael said, holding the scrap of paper like it was a winning lottery ticket.

His father nodded.

“Thanks for having us,” I said, dragging Michael away. “Nice meeting you. Bye-bye, Chrissy.”

Chrissy stared for a few seconds, then started giggling.

“Well, goodbye,” Michael said.

“You'll come see me again?” his father asked.

Michael nodded as I pulled him out the door. I kept him moving down the hall and toward the stairs. Looking out from the top-floor window, I could just see the back of the car.

Well, it's still there.

“Matthew . . .”

“Not now. Car first.”

We hurried down the stairs, through the double doors, and out onto the sidewalk.

The car looked okay—all the wheels were there, and no windows broken.

Wait a minute.

“What the hell is that?” I said, darting across the street.

“What?”

“The windshield, Michael. What the . . .?”

I stopped. It was a huge glob of bird shit.

“Oh,” I said.

“Wow, that's big,” Michael said, impressed.

“Get in,” I said, scowling.

I started the car and tried to run the windshield wipers. If you ever have a really big glob of bird shit on your windshield, don't just run the wipers through it. Big mess.

I used about a gallon of wiper fluid trying to make it disappear. Michael's side got nice and clean, but mine was one big smear. There were a couple breaks right around eye level, though, and that was enough for me. I took a quick look over my shoulder and whipped the car around.

A car horn blared and I almost soiled myself bracing for the impact, but we made it.

“Must have been a car,” I said as we headed back toward the highway.

I glanced at Michael. He looked like he was a couple blocks away, still talking to his father. I let him stay there most of the way home. I didn't ask, but I had a feeling Michael wasn't interested in finding that Baltimore bookstore anymore.

Before dropping Michael off at Flap's, I started to ask him if he'd officially moved in, but realized Michael might not be in the mood to hang out with Gut after seeing his real father.

Back at home and in my room, the phone rang. I looked at it, saw Jack's number, and silenced it. I guess I wasn't in the mood for company either. Jack didn't leave a message. He called me again later from a party and left a very un-nice message. It was typical Jack, and the main reason I enjoyed his company. The message said: “Hi. This message is for Matthew. Eat it.”

I stayed put the rest of the night, watching TV in bed until I passed out.

Wanda called Sunday, but I didn't pick up. Guess I still needed some time to process things, which was kind of strange. Why the hell would
I
need to process anything? It wasn't
my
dad. And why did my thoughts keep drifting to Chrissy instead of Michael and his father?

That one bothered me more than a little, so I shoved it toward the back of my head and locked it in a little bathroom I constructed years ago for bothersome thoughts and memories just like it.

On Monday, I didn't go out of my way to find Michael. I figured he would want some time to overanalyze everything. Besides, if he really needed to find me, he would. So we passed each other in the halls Monday and Tuesday and nodded or smiled but didn't really talk much, which was fine.

For some reason, I couldn't stop Chrissy from popping up in my head. Even though I had relegated her to the back bathroom, somehow, she'd found a key and kept sneaking up on me. So instead of repeatedly hauling her back to the smelly bathroom, I started thinking about Michael again.

Despite the rumor I'd spread, Michael was still getting hassled a bit during the school day. Traditions are hard to break, I suppose, but it wasn't so much everybody picking on him now—just a few of the hardcore guys like Leonard. So while things weren't perfect, they had certainly improved.

On Wednesday, I did some Michael-work during Astronomy. Maybe he needed a new look. Or an exciting new hairdo.

And Gut. I needed to ask Michael if he'd initiated the Classic Rock Assault. Even if he hadn't, it was almost time to launch a new offensive. Gut was wobbly, but Michael's sudden interest in Aerosmith wouldn't be the crowbar that sent him over.

So what next?

When the bell rang, I shoved my stuff into my backpack and trudged out the door.

And that's when Wanda walked past.

She turned her head, gave me a haughty look, and kept going.

Wanda!

“I love you,” I said, catching up with her.

“Uh-huh,” she said with a sniff.

“I tried to call you last night,” I lied.

“Please,” she said, stopping at her locker.

“It's just been crazy lately,” I said.

“Demanding having a new friend, isn't it?”

“You wouldn't believe,” I said, sagging against an adjacent locker.

“Better be careful who you hang out with,” she said. “I hear Michael beat up a bunch of gangstas outside the Crossbow?”

“He sure did,” I said, smiling.

“Mm-hmm . . .”

“Hey, how'd the poker thing go?” I asked.

She smiled.

“That good, huh?”

“Maybe. What'd you want?” she asked.

“I got an acting job for you.”

Wanda was big into drama. It was an interest that baffled me.

“What's the job?” she said, casually.

I smiled. “Michael's girlfriend.”

She didn't answer. Instead, she resumed her rummaging. I was trying to think of
something
that might persuade her when she said, “Could be fun.”

We were between classes, but I gave her as much background as I could (which wasn't a lot, considering the idea had just occurred to me).

“So what's he like?” she said.

“Smells a little musty sometimes, but not bad, really.”

She narrowed her eyebrows. “Did I ask how he smelled?”

I tried again: “Nice—too nice, actually . . . Likes to look at old men in diapers . . . Doesn't listen very well.”

“Sounds like you.”

“I don't like old people,” I said.

“How should I play it?” she wondered.

“You'll do it?”

“
If
I do it. How should I play it
if
I decide to do you a big favor.”

I tried to stifle my excitement. “I don't know. What do you think?”

She bent forward to shove some books into her backpack.

“I could do Angry Black Girl.”

“What's Angry—?”

She straightened and sent an impossibly long index finger toward my face.

“No you di'ant!” she yelled, head moving from side to side like a cobra. She held the pose a moment, winked, then let the finger drop.

“Nice!”

“Or Brooding Black Girl,” she said. “Brooding Black Girl doesn't say much. She just looks really pissed off about everything.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“She's easy,” Wanda said, throwing her backpack over one shoulder. “I use her when I'm tired. Hmm . . . maybe Super Smart Girl,” she said, closing her locker.

“What's
she
like?”

“Talks a lot. Very into school. Does a lot of community projects and after-school activities.”

I nodded.

Wanda started walking. I followed.

“And then there's Bad Girl. Bad Girl doesn't give a shit. Doesn't come to school much. Likes her drugs. Very slutty. Fun, but she can be a pain in the ass.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's a little hard to control,” Wanda said. “I never know what she's going to do, you know?”

I didn't but nodded anyway. We were headed toward the front of the school, and away from my next class, but if being late meant I got Wanda for the part, I'd take it.

“I've got a few others,” she said, “but most are just variations on the four.”

Confused, I tilted my head to one side.

“Sometimes it's good to mix a little of each,” she explained. “Makes it more believable.”

“For example?” I said.

“Well, there's a version of Super Smart Girl who's really slutty.”

Like I said, Wanda was brilliant.

“When do you want to do it?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “Soon?”

“Can't do it Thursday.”

“Okay, not Thursday. Friday, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“We'll probably need a car,” I said.

Mom had been overly generous with her vehicle lately and I was expecting a correction at any moment.

She ignored the question, stopping outside the auditorium.

“Assembly?” I said, hopefully.

She shook her head.

“Oh, right,” I said.

Drama.

“Coming to
Death
?” she asked, brightening.

“What?”

“
Death of a Salesman
,” she said, tapping a poster on the wall.

“Oh, right. I was going to, but I think I have something that night.”

“What night?”

“All of them.”

Someone called her name. She looked into the auditorium but didn't respond.

“I might be able to help,” she said, still looking over her shoulder. “Just not tomorrow.”

“What's going on tomorrow?”

“Poker night.”

“Why Thursday?” I said. “Why not play on the weekends?”

“Please,” she said, turning back to me. “Weekend poker's for amateurs.”

“You guys play for real money?” I asked, backing away toward my next class.

“Candy,” she said.

I looked at her.

“How do you think I got a car, Beautiful?”

I stopped and watched her move toward the stage and into the darkness.

I was almost in love.

I caught Michael later that day. We were between classes. I was walking toward his locker and he was digging for something.

He was less than enthusiastic when I told him about Wanda.

“Wanda?” was all he could manage.

I closed my eyes and sighed. “Yes, Wanda. She's perfect.”

“Am I going to . . . I mean, are we—”

“Are you going to have to touch her?” I asked. “Yes, Michael, you're going to have to touch her. You're going to have to touch a girl. It's got to be believable, just like the racing stuff.”

“I've made out with girls before,” Michael said, not bothering to look at me.

The phrase “made out” sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth.

“When?” I asked.

He mumbled something.

“When?!”

“Fifth grade,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean? Was it some kind of orgy?”

“What?!”

“Well, you just said you ‘made out with girls' in fifth grade.”

“Not at the same time.”

“Uh-huh. Any women since your fifth-grade days?”

“Not really,” he mumbled.

“Not really?”

“None, okay?”

“Don't get all cramped-up, Michael. I'm like a doctor,” I said. “I need to know these things in order to treat you.”

He stared at the floor, clenched his teeth, and nodded grimly.

“Now, when was the last time you had a good bowel movement?”

“What?”

“Kidding,” I said. “Look, someone has to ask the hard questions. I can't have you turning bright red and giggling when Wanda grabs your hand.”

“I'm not going to giggle,” he snapped.

I thought for a moment. “You want to practice?” I said.

“What?”

“Should we practice holding hands?”

“No!”

“Fine,” I replied. “But if you mess it up, I'm
really
gonna be pissed.”

“I'm not going to mess it up.”

“We're going to try Friday,” I said. “And before you say, ‘This Friday?!,' yes, this Friday.”

He nodded.

“Oh, wait . . . Will Gut be there after school?”

“He's between jobs,” Michael said, sourly.

“What about Mom?”

He shook his head.

“Too bad,” I said. “But it'll have to do. We'll meet you in the parking lot after school, okay?”

Michael nodded. I left him standing by his locker.

Looking back, I can't understand why I didn't insist on a dress rehearsal. I don't know what I was thinking, letting Michael get away without one. I do remember hoping Gut would be mad enough to throw us all out of the house. Then again, I kept hoping he'd wear one of those sleeveless t-shirts, too.

I never get what I want.