Creeps (4 page)

His father stares out the window.

“Mom says Uncle Philip used to be on TV,” Wayne says finally.

His dad turns to him.

“Was in a dog show then drove a truck or was it a taxi?”

His father goes to pick up his mug but then remembers it's not fit for drinking. “It was a van. Showbiz people, mostly. Picked them up at the airport and drove them to their hotels or to movie sets.”

A long silence.

Then Wayne says, “You've never mentioned it.”

His father coughs and wipes his mouth and goes back to staring out the window.

“How about getting that butter now?”

Wayne nods. Walks to the foyer and gets into his jacket.

 

Dear Marjorie,

I just got in from picking up butter and was going to write my dad a letter because he threw the soup but I figured he's always throwing something so why not write to you instead since I hardly ever get saved and that's what you did today, you saved me, so thanks a lot.

You probably already know that Pete's been giving me a hard time ever since he moved here almost three years ago and everyone's afraid of him but you stood up to him and no one's
EVER
done that.

You're very brave and perhaps you could show ME how to be. I'm sorry that Pete said what he did. Are you okay? It must be hard to have a father that's dead. Who changes the light bulbs and takes out the garbage at your place?

I don't believe all that wiener stuff by the way. But even if it were true, what odds. Everyone does stuff, right? I do. Not all the time but mostly all the time. Do you ever worry about getting one lost up there? Is that even possible? Anyway, like you said, it's your body, right?

I don't suppose you'd want to be my friend? If not, I can just like you from a
distince
distance. You'll never have to know.

Thanks again, I really appreciate what you did.

Your friend from a distance,

Wayne Pumphrey

SEVEN

It's been a week since the auditions and the cast list is posted just outside the cafeteria doors. Wayne's waiting for the lunchtime crowd to stampede in before taking a look. Mrs. Gambol, the home economics teacher—military stance and pulledback hair and husky eyes—is there, and she's holding a boy by the back of the shirt and warning him about running and then making another student pull up his jeans, saying: “You think we all need to see your boxers, Martin?” Treena Cobb, who sits behind Wayne in math and constantly looks at his answers, is made to pull down her own T-shirt to cover the belly button ring and butterfly tattoo.

After everyone has gone in Wayne goes over and runs his finger down the list of names and stops at Marjorie's. He moves in and looks more closely.
It's her all right … playing Bonita Saunders, the female lead. He continues down the list, then starts over. Does it three more times, then pulls open the cafeteria doors and goes inside.

At the counter he buys a hot dog, a carton of milk (which he opens and takes a sip from right away), and a bag of Crunchits, then makes his way to an empty table near the window.

A foot belonging to Pete The Meat juts out and trips him, but Wayne manages to stay upright, spilling only a little milk onto his hot dog.

Pete's voice then. “Whoa there, Pumphrey. Almost took a tumble, eh? Maybe keep your head up instead of staring at your dicky bird.”

Bobby laughs and says, “Surprised he can even see it, eh, Pete?”

“Good one, Bobby,” says The Meat.

“Hey, Pumphrey?” shouts Harvey.

Wayne turns.

Harvey holds up a French fry and says, “See this here fry? That's you.” Harvey tears the fry in two and then squishes each piece and Kenny—now getting the idea—grabs the ketchup bottle and squeezes and it shoots out and he says, “That's
your
blood, Pumphrey.”

Wayne keeps on walking.

Up ahead, Julie gives him a dirty look and points a macaroni-filled fork at him and says, “All that time
you spent in the audition and you
still
didn't get a part in the play.”

He continues on, letting her laughter fade behind him, towards the table where the volleyball players sit. No high-fives, or glances even. Past the rebellious table with the berets and dreadlocks, painted nails and combat boots. Lips and noses and corners of eyelids pierced. Past the overachievers' table with their erect backs and nice sweaters, open textbooks and laptops, too-neat haircuts and expensive glasses.

Finally Wayne arrives at the empty table. What to call it? he wonders. He sits and takes a napkin and soaks up the milk on his hot dog. Rips open his Crunchits and puts a few in his mouth.
The Going-It-Alone Table,
he thinks. He swallows and takes a sip of what milk there is left.
The Nobody Table.
He reaches inside his knapsack and takes out his notebook and a Razor Point extra-fine pen.

Dear Nobody Table,

Thanks for being free 'cause I don't know where else I would have sat. Nearly got tripped by Pete on the way over and now my hot dog is soaked but I don't mind 'cause I often dunk my toast in my milk anyway so what's the difference?

Julie's looking at me right now and she's sticking her index finger into her mouth and pretending to
throw up and everyone's laughing and I guess it is kinda funny because she's so committed to it.

Bobby's smirking at me and miming that he's masturbating and Kenny's pretending he's throwing a snowball and Pete's nodding and smoothing his almost-a-moustache and Harvey keeps tearing his French fries and I feel like standing up and throwing my tray and saying, All right, I get it, you can STOP NOW! I just won't look up at anyone from now on, although it's hard not to when you know you're being stared at. Oops, just looked up again. I'll start over. Okay, that's better.

So I didn't get a part in the play and I don't think I overlooked my name because I stared at the cast list for ages and how long does it take to find your name if it's written down somewhere? Les's is there of course 'cause how can it not be seeing as he did a monologue from that American play and he's been in drama forever and has already started looking into acting schools in Toronto and Montreal when he graduates next year. Paul Stool's on the list, which is surprising because he's always got an erection that he hides behind books and lockers and desks and sometimes he just lies there on his stomach and he says it's so he can rest his back but everyone knows that lying on your stomach does just the opposite. Sharon's on the list too and I don't know how she'll do it without a Snickers. If she's not eating one she's dreaming about one or asking for change
so she can buy one from the machine or here in the cafeteria. And she won't share either, just crams the whole thing in her mouth like it's
oxegen
oxygen. Julie's on the list but she's not playing the female lead which is another reason she looks so mad, I bet, and you'll never guess who is. You'll never be able to, not in a million years. Give up? All right, I'll tell you. MARJORIE POPE, that's who. Can you believe it? I didn't even know she liked drama and I'm pretty sure she's never been in anything before and it's not like she says a whole lot so how's she gonna stand up in front of everyone and say all those lines? Oops, I just looked up again and her ears must be burning because it's her—

“Since when do you sit here?” Marjorie says. She's holding a half-eaten apple.

“There was nowhere else.”

“This is my spot.”

“It is?”

“Yeah.
Today
.”

Wayne closes his notebook and thinks he's finally come up with a name:
The Nobody-Is-Allowed-To-Sit-Here-But-Marjorie Table.

“Tomorrow it might be over there,” Marjorie adds, “the next day … somewhere else. Slip in, slip out. That's how I prefer it.” She glares at him for a long time.

He starts gathering his things.

“Well … seeing as you're already here,” she says.

Wayne lays his tray back down. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

She sits opposite him and takes a bite of her apple.

“That all you're eating?” Wayne says.

She doesn't answer. Just chews.

“It's not very much. Want a Crunchit?”

“What, that processed shit?”

“They're only Crunchits.”

“Won't be ‘only Crunchits' when you've got colon cancer.”

Wayne pushes the bag aside. Grabs his hot dog. “Guess you don't want a bite of this then.”

“Rather eat rat shit.”

He lays the hot dog down. “Sometimes I'll sit with my sister, Wanda, but she skips most days lately. Hey, congratulations by the way.”

“For what?”

“The play; whaddya think?”

“What are you talking about, Wayne Pumphrey?”

“Didn't you see the cast list?”

Marjorie bites her apple. Shrugs.

“You're playing Bonita Saunders. Les is playing your husband.”

Marjorie can't seem to swallow what's in her mouth. She sucks in a breath and says, “Did it on a whim. Wasn't expecting to get anything.”

“More than ‘anything'—the
lead
.”

Marjorie looks at the ceiling.

Wayne says, “Didn't see you at the auditions.”

She stays quiet.

“I said I didn't see you at the auditions—”

“I heard you.”

Wayne waits.

Finally Marjorie says, “Waited till everyone was gone now, didn't I. Mr. Rollie was locking up.”

“How come?”

“I don't know. Wasn't sure I wanted to go through with it.”

“Why did you?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Wayne Pumphrey.”

“Sorry.”

They say nothing for a long time, the floor vibrating from the hum of hundreds of voices all trying to talk over one another and laughing and scheming about ways to acquire their weekend liquor.

Pete's looking over, Wayne notices, and he's grinning and pushing his index finger in and out of a hole he's made with the opposite hand.

Wayne turns away.

It's not until Marjorie's apple is a core that she speaks again, and what she says is: “It'll get me out of the house.”

Wayne stares at her. “Hmm?”

“You asked me why and I'm telling you it'll get me out of the house.”

“Oh.” Then, after a while, “You don't like your place?”

Marjorie doesn't say whether she does or doesn't.

He puts some Crunchits in his mouth and tries chewing while blocking out visions of colon tumours and chemotherapy and falling-out hair. Manages to swallow.

“Are
you
on the list?” she says.

Wayne shakes his head.

She puts her core on his tray. “Better off. Why walk through a hail of bullets if you don't have to, right?”

“Huh?”

“Pete. He'd never give you any peace then.”

Wayne stares in the direction of The Meat and his posse, then looks back at Marjorie and says, “Doesn't give me any
now
.”

“Yeah well, it'd be worse if you were in the play.”

“What, so I'm supposed to do nothing for the rest of high school because of Pete?”

Marjorie doesn't answer right away, then she says, “It'd be easier.”

“But
you're
doing the play.”

“Big difference between you and me.”

“And what's that?”

Marjorie straightens up in her chair and says, “I couldn't give a shit, that's what, but you … you take things to heart.”

“How would you know? You haven't so much as grunted at me in all the years you've lived up the street.”

“And you've gone out of your way to talk to
me
? Don't think I never noticed how you'd always speed up whenever I was walking behind you, or slow down whenever I was ahead.”

“And don't think
I
never noticed all those times you passed by while I was being put into a headlock or given a wedgie or whatever.”

Marjorie stares at her fingers.

Wayne fiddles with his Crunchit bag.

Then Mrs. Gambol reappears from across the room and goes over to Pete's table and points her finger at Bobby, and whatever she says makes the colour drain from Bobby's face. Harvey and Kenny try not to laugh.

Students begin leaving.

“I kept my distance because I was embarrassed,” Wayne says at last. “Why would you want to talk to the guy that eats yellow snow?”

Quiet for a moment, then Marjorie says, “I keep the meat department at Dominion in business, remember, so I could ask you the same question.”

Wayne looks towards a gang of girls in short skirts and long boots, one of whom is Julie, as they exit the cafeteria in a clump of twisting heads and whispers and finger pointing. Wayne also notices Pete The Meat and his posse getting to their feet. Pete punches Bobby in the shoulder, and when Bobby shrugs and gives The Meat a look as if to say
What was that for?
Pete punches him again.