Cheated (7 page)

“You lock it?” I heard Aaron shout to get my attention. It was odd to hear Aaron's voice at that volume. While Brody almost always yelled, I'd never known Aaron to, unless he was drunk.

“Sorry,” I said, then turned around to reenter the locker combination.

“No problem,” Aaron replied. I was amazed that Aaron, who had been so angry, so loud, and so drunk the night before could be so calm, so soft-spoken, and so far from hung-over.

“What time? The bus leaves at seven,” I said, using finger quotes around the word
bus
.

“Wanna meet up around six forty-five?” Aaron replied. “I gotta spend stepdad time before.”

My eyes bounced back a strange mix of envy and sympathy. “You going home now?”

“No, gonna go study,” Aaron said as he loaded up his backpack. That's what hard classes and high expectations get you: strong arms and a surefire way to disappointment.

“Gotta run,” I said, then sprinted off toward the bus. I joyously pulled down crepe paper and stomped on balloons as I left the building, trampling on a little of that Dragon false pride.

Outside, I hung back by the flagpole as other riders gathered for the bus. Rusty and Bob were absent, probably in some pregame team meeting. While I felt bad about Brody getting kicked off that team and all, I liked having him around to hang with at school and after.

“You catching this ride?” I pointed to the bus as Brody slouched toward me.

“Nah, I'm hitting the weight room,” Brody said, then slapped the muscle on his left arm with his right hand. “Be my last chance to move some iron after school for a while.”

“How bad?” I asked, but didn't want to look Brody in the eye about this topic.

“I got a week's detention, plus I've got to rewrite the paper,” Brody said.

“Sorry, man, you know it's my fault. If I would have told you I wouldn't write it for you, then none of this—” I started, but Brody was having none of it.

“Damn Kirby's fault, not yours or mine. She needs to get a life. So I cheated. If she wants to catch cheaters, she should spend time there.” Brody pointed at the football field.

“I guess,” I said. I knew I wasn't to blame, but I was drowning in guilt anyway.

“See you tonight,” Brody said, then started to walk away.

“Six forty-five, right?” I reminded Brody, knowing I'd end up waiting for him regardless.

“No, Mick, 151!” Brody's laugh was almost as loud as the crowd boarding the bus.

I waited until the Whitney World got on before I entered the bus. I kept my eyes on the floor, looking past gum wrappers and lost pencils, toward the seat behind Whitney. I slipped in easily, like I belonged. Whitney never blinked; she was busy talking with Shelby. I put my headphones on, so it looked like I was listening to music rather than listening in on them.

When I heard Whitney mention math, I treated it like Brody used to treat a fumble.

“When's the next test in math?” I asked her.

“Next week, I think.” She sounded unsure of herself, or maybe she was unsure of me.

“Do you study a lot for that class?” I said, then leaned forward. I was making a big show of removing the headphones.

“I guess.” Whitney's tone sounded more annoyed than embarrassed. I wanted to say,
Look, I just don't know how to talk to girls, but I'm really a nice guy
. But then I imagined her response:
From what I heard, you know very little about girls, and have little to do it with
.

“It helps if you look at the board in class sometimes,” Shelby said, then giggled. And I knew I was busted. I didn't say anything but my blushing face acted as my confession.

“Maybe,” I mumbled, then stood up and rambled toward the back of the bus feeling like everyone was staring at me: my humiliation seemed total as Shelby whispered something to Whitney, who laughed and then turned to the girl next to her. It was a tidal wave of embarrassment washing over me. The bus lurched forward as I walked against inertia to seek out Dave Wilson. Wilson was back in the same place I'd left him this morning, face against the glass. I kicked his seat gently.

“What?” Dave said, eyes still closed, obviously aware of my presence, no doubt because of the smell. I wondered if it was the stink from not showering after gym or from the shit that Shelby dumped on me. My odor was mysterious; Dave Wilson's was obvious stoner.

“You got a smoke?” I asked, trying to retain some sense of cool self.

“Sure, dude,” Dave said as he opened his eyes.

“I owe you.”

“I'll put it in my book,” Dave said, then laughed. A stoner laugh. Wilson reached into his long trench coat and pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels. He handed me a single stick.

“Thanks.” I put the smoke behind my ear, then moved back up near the front of the bus. I didn't even stop to look at Whitney—shouldn't I be looking at the board?—and waited for the next stop, which happened to be at WindGate. I
breathed a smoke-free sigh of relief that Roxanne wasn't on the bus as I exited with a few others. I watched the trailer parkers head toward their tiny homes, then watched the bus with the Whitney World pull away toward my neighborhood's nice houses. Standing alone by the side of the road, I waited until the bus was out of sight before I pulled out my white lighter, a gift from Brody for my birthday. I knew Brody loved the lighter, so it really was about the thought, not the thing itself. Ex-Dad gave me a bunch of stuff, including tickets to a Lion's football game next weekend, but Brody's beat-up lighter meant the most.

I cupped my hand against the wind, then lit the smoke. I wasn't scared of being caught by anyone. What was Mom going to say? Smoking is wrong. I knew ex-Dad was at work. He was always at work or pretending to be when he lived with us. I pulled the smoke deep into my lungs and started the long, lonely mile-plus walk toward my deserted house.

Then I saw him by the side of the road: the Scarecrow.

He had his
HUNGRY VET, PLEASE HELP, GOD BLESS
sign out, but few cars stopped. No doubt the ones that did were like ex-Dad, hurling insults rather than pitching pennies.

The cigarette dangled from my lips as I reached into my pockets looking for change. My wallet was free of pictures, love notes from Nicole, phone numbers, or even unused condoms. Those were stored with the
First Times
DVD deep in my closet. I found a couple of quarters, then walked toward the Scarecrow.

With each step, my make-believe dialogue built. I wanted
to say,
Man, how did you get like this? What happened to you?
I had no idea what to do with my life, but I was figuring out pretty fast what I didn't want to be. I didn't want to be some nine-to-five GM jerk like ex-Dad; I didn't want to work at some clothing store like Mom where the world orbited around appearance. I didn't know what kind of job I wanted, and sometimes I wondered if I'd even get a job. Last year in social studies class with Mr. Daunt, rather than reading about the dead civilizations of Greece and Rome, we read about current events. Mr. Daunt would bring in the
Flint Journal
and open my eyes to what was around me. Flint was becoming a modern city of ruins.

I threw my coins in the Scarecrow's mostly empty can. The echo of a metallic clank rang in my ears, while my eyes focused on him. He looked back at me, and I felt the urge to flee.

With each slap of my shoes against the pavement, the anger within me raced. I ran past Whitney's house, where she was no doubt still laughing at Shelby's smackdown of me. I ran past Brody's house; no doubt he was still at school pumping iron and building up a thirst. I ran down our vacant driveway and didn't stop running until I was inside. I was out of breath, and drowning in rage. I slammed the door behind me loud enough to rattle the windows.

As I charged through the kitchen, I saw money on the table, a message on the machine, and felt the crushing feelings of disappointment, embarrassment, and humiliation closing in from all four walls. Everyone needed a place to be, but I was still shopping for a place to put my anger. It
was backing up inside me, deeper and darker. I'd put my hand into the Bunsen burner this morning, but that only provided a temporary release for this fiery fury running through my veins. I took off the bandage and looked at my burned skin; the pain felt right as I reached for the phone to dial Nicole. I needed her acceptance to save me from my terrible day, or her humiliating rejection to push me over the edge.

What's the most humiliated you've ever felt?

It was the first and last summer I played little league baseball. I was eight, and it was a strangely cold day with a light drizzle on a late June afternoon. I was waiting to hit, or rather to take three swings then sit down, when I noticed my parents in the stands. I felt stupid—both of them taking the time to watch me fail at sports. Dad looked bored; I could almost hear sighs from where I stood in the on-deck circle. Mom looked worried, like something other than rain-filled dark clouds was bothering her. I tried to focus on taking my swings, which didn't seem to kill the butterflies in my stomach, it just sent them fluttering throughout my body. When the guy in front of me hit a double, I felt even more pressure. It was the last inning, the score was tied, and there were two outs; a hit would win the game. If there was anyone left to pinch-hit, I'm sure the coach would have put him in, but I was the last one in the game. I was almost crying I was so nervous, and I didn't see Mom come onto the field until she was in the on-deck circle with me. In front of all the guys on the team and the other team, she handed me this bright yellow windbreaker to put on, to protect me from the cold. I tried to tell her to go away, but she was having none of it. Later, I told her how embarrassing it had been, to do that in front of my friends, but she'd told me something then that she's repeated more than once so I'd always remember it: Mick, your friends will come and go, but you've only got one mother, who will protect you no matter what
.

As the phone rang, I stared at my raw, damaged skin. When Nicole's machine picked up—You've reached the Sniders. Please leave us a message and we'll get back with you. Have a blessed day—I panicked. I didn't know what I wanted to say, so I left a message of ten seconds of heavy silence. I was lucky that Nicole didn't answer, I knew I wasn't ready. Examining my hand, I felt fortunate. Lucky the burn wasn't worse, but luckier that Mr. Gates sent me to the school nurse instead of to the school counselor. The counselors live to pick at scabs and open wounds.

I remembered right after my parent's broke up, Mom took me to a counselor to help me, in her words, “begin healing.” I did my mute act, the one Mom knew all too well, and never said anything. What I should have said was,
Doctor, I know my parents are splitting up. I know it's not my fault, but I know they'll both always blame me anyway. I know it's Dad's fault, but he won't ever say those words, and Mom won't ever really be okay until he does. So, I betrayed my father; served him right for cheating on Mom and betraying her. You see, the truth didn't set me free at all. Maybe once everything is even, once my mom betrays me, then we'll all be healed
.

I put down the phone and went into the dining room to retrieve my allowance on the table. In addition to two ten-dollar bills—my pay for doing chores that I would have done
for free just to help Mom out around the house—there was a white envelope with my name on it. Unlike ex-Dad, Mom didn't make me count the change or account for every penny misspent. I laughed when I saw my name on the envelope: who else did she think the envelope could be for? I laughed harder, trying to guess what Mom was thinking most of the time. I ripped the envelope open and saw three crisp twenty-dollar bills and a note that read,

Mick, I'm sorry about this morning. I called the school and they told me how much homecoming tickets cost. We'll go shopping tomorrow for a handsome new suit for you to wear that will make us both proud. Love you, Mom
.

I grabbed some cold pizza leftovers and a Coke from the fridge, then sat at the table, feeling lonely and sorry for myself, thinking about Mom. I wished I could tell her,
Mom, thanks for the cash, but I don't think I'm going to homecoming. You see, Nicole and I broke up. Wait, that's not true, let me tell you the whole truth for once: She dumped me. I cheated on her, just like Dad cheated on you. I still don't know why I did it. I so don't want to be like Dad
.

I slurped down the Coke and finished off the pizza. I took a deep breath, then dialed Nicole's number again. As the phone rang, the words formed.
Nicole, I know you don't want to talk to me and I don't blame you. Just give me a second chance. Just let me
—but the machine picked up again and cut off my thoughts. This time I left a simple
message, “Hey, Nicole, it's Mick. Can you call me? It's kinda important,” and hung up, doubting every word. Should I have said my last name? Does she even remember my number?

A few minutes passed, then I dialed the number again. This one counted.
Listen, it's my turn to pledge to you. I'll never betray you again
. But the machine picked up again. My message, “It's Mick, gimme a call,” was shorter while my rage grew deeper. I dialed every five minutes and alternated between leaving short messages and hanging up, between feeling angry and sad; between love and hate. It might be a thin line between those two, so I had to steer myself back on the right path.

I was just about to give up, when the phone rang, shaking me like thunder. I caught my breath on the first ring, thought of what to say on the second and third—
Nicole, we need to talk, I have so much to say to you
—took a final deep breath on the fourth, and picked up on the fifth.

“Hey,” I answered the best I could with my heart and head weighing down my tongue.