Cruise Control (3 page)

I wonder if anybody else at our school ever had a shooting run at shoot-around like the one I had today? I wonder if—

“Hey, buddy!”

Damnit! It's my dad. I forgot to lock the door.

I snap back at him, “Do you mind!”

He hesitates and says, “Sorry … I just wanted to say good-bye. I'm taking off. I wanted to—”

“Later,” I say, interrupting him. I think, Good riddance, but resist saying it out loud.

“You doin' all right?” he asks.

“Yeah, great,” I say. Then I quickly add, “At least I
will
be once you close that door and stop letting all the warm air out of here.”

“Sure … sorry,” Dad says, ignoring my smart-ass tone.

Suddenly Dad's cell phone, hanging on this little hook jobby on his belt, rings its dumb-ass chiming-music ring. He should have this phone surgically implanted onto the side of his head, he uses it so much. As he grabs his phone, he says to me, “Okay, I'll see you later.”

“Yeah,” I answer, thinking, Not if I see you first.

Dad starts yakking on his cell before he even closes the door.

I put my head back into the shower, turn the hot up, and feel it steaming, almost scalding my neck and scalp—it's like I want to burn him off me. It's like talking to him is so gross that I'd be willing to dive into boiling water to miss it.

I just can't stand the phoniness: “Good-bye, Pauly-boy,” “Good-bye, Da-da.”

God, I hate him.

I
'm at school, sitting in second period, my Current World Problems class, when who should come waltzing past the window but my favorite jerk wad in the world—Daddy! Wonderful.

Mom warned me this might happen. And now I'm sitting in a classroom where there's this clear view of the main entrance to the school and Papa Butt Munch is making his typical
grand entry
right where I have to look at him. Of course, as he walks, he's talking on his cell phone—what an idiot.

Some of the kids in class glance out and see him too. Because of his Pulitzer Prize, Dad's on TV pretty often, so a lot of people recognize him. Right now he also happens to have some guy carrying a big metal suitcase in one hand and a huge TV camera in the other trailing along right behind him. Way to go, Dad—now everyone is sure to realize what a truly big,
big
, BIG-time celebrity you are—a legend in your own mind.

A soft murmur starts swirling around the room. I keep my eyes glued to the copy of
Time
magazine that Mr. Jenkins gave us. About half the class watches this ridiculous Sydney-McDaniel-Famous-Prima-Donna routine. Even Mr. Jenkins is looking.

I swear to God, if anybody mentions that he's my dad, I'll nail 'em.

“Hey, Paul, there's your father.”

Eddie Farr. Perfect.

Of course now
everybody
in class looks at me and then out the window.

Maybe I
can
beat Eddie up—maybe just this one time I can kick the living crap out of him....

“Looks like he's going to be on TV again,” Eddie observes.

“You think?” I ask sarcastically.

“Well, he's got that cameraman guy with him and—”

“Eddie, shut the hell up,” I say in a low voice.

Nobody sitting close to us goes “uuuuuu” or “ohhhhhh” or makes any joking sounds; a lot of kids in school have seen my temper before.

Eddie quickly says, “Sorry.”

I remember now what Mom said, something about Dad doing some kind of PBS thing, “sometime this week.” I think it's about Shawn and kids with handicaps. I don't know, really. I didn't listen much after she said, “Your dad might be dropping by your school.” But it doesn't surprise me that the old man is trying to figure yet another angle about how to make himself famous off my brother—that's the meat and potatoes of Dad's career, being a tragic, famous retard-dad. For him to come to our school, though, might be a new low.

The whole school thing is pretty weird for me, anyway. I've never liked school, all the rules and childishness, but I've always been good at my classes and loved playing sports. I skipped fourth grade, and by taking summer school classes, I'm finishing high school early. I'll be done this January instead of in June, when my sister, Cindy, gets done. I'll qualify for jock scholarships before any of my competition. Of course, all of this assumes that I could actually go away to college; my old man pretty much ruined that when he ran out on us.

Speaking of Dickhead Dad, he and the cameraman just went into the administration building and are finally out of sight, thank God. Mr. Jenkins glances over at me, and it actually looks like he's going to say something about Dad. I quickly look away from him. He doesn't say anything after all.

I don't know if Mr. Jenkins has ever read Dad's writing about Shawn or not. I don't know if Mr. Jenkins even knows I have a brother here at school. Luckily, it's a huge school, so I see Shawn only once in a while. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of him as he's being rolled along in his wheelchair down the hall. Seeing him drooling and so out of it always kills me. Also, the special-ed kids deliver coffee to the teachers first period, and once in a while, Shawn is hauled along on these trips with some of his retarded classmates and a teacher's aide.

I've been sitting in class when this crew comes in, and it's totally weird. Some kids know that Shawn and I are related—kids like Eddie Farr, who've known us for a long time. But whenever I see Shawn, like by instinct, I always look around to see who's staring at him … staring at
me
! Shawn will be in his wheelchair drooling and going “ahhhhhh.” And some kids will glance at me, and then look away real fast. Some of the other kids, ones who don't know Shawn and I are brothers, might stare at him, nudging each other and laughing at the retard. I always feel pissed at those kids, and sometimes, later, away from school so I won't get in trouble, I'll kick their asses.

But one thing I
never
do is to acknowledge Shawn in any way, and I feel like the weakest, most cowardly wimp in the world for that. In my heart, I want to go over and pat his head and say something to him; I want to stand with him and hug him and let the whole world know he's my brother, but I can't ever bring myself to do it. I just can't. I don't have the guts any more than my old man does. Which makes us
both
chickens. Like father, like son, right?

T
he rest of the day of Dad's visit to the school passes without my seeing him again. Sometimes you just catch a break.

I'm back home now, shooting hoops with Tim-bo, who's the best player on our basketball team next to me. He's also a guard, and he's nearly as good a shot as I am, although he's never, not
once
, beaten me at any of our one-on-one games.

Tim spends a lot of time over at my house shooting hoops and hanging out. He doesn't get along too well with his stepdad, who's an even bigger moron than my old man. I mean, at least my dad isn't a drunk and, for the most part, isn't around. Tim and I never talk much about our families but we don't need to; it's pretty obvious that Tim doesn't like being at his place very much. Also, Tim and my sister have some kind of thing going on—nothing that's any of my business, but they're pretty tight. Cindy thinks I don't know, but why would I care? Tim's no Eddie Farr, so if he likes Cindy, it's cool, although what he sees in her is a mystery to me.

This afternoon, like most afternoons, Tim-bo and I are working out at the hoop in my driveway. I once asked him why he kept playing with me since he
never
won.

He laughed and answered, “Well, someday I'm gonna beat your ass.”

I laughed back. “Not in this lifetime.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but I'm a better player when I practice with you.”

I didn't push it because, in the first place, it was kind of a crummy thing to remind him that I always beat him, and also because Tim's the only guy around who can give me any kind of a workout. He's a good athlete; in addition to hoops, he plays football and baseball like I do. The truth is nobody my age, high-school age, is really much competition for me anymore—that's why college would be so cool, but of course thanks to my old man … whatever.

I ask Tim, “So you want first outs?”

“Sure.”

“Make it take it?”

Tim shakes his head. “Not with the shooting touch you've had lately. Let's go alternate possessions.”

I shrug. “Whatever, Tim-bo. Pick yer poison. I'm feelin' pretty strong.”

He laughs. “That's your breath, Paul—or maybe your feet.”

I say, “Oh Tim-bo, bad move—now you've insulted me—now all my greatness will be cast before you.”

Tim smiles. “Shut up and play.”

He takes the ball out and I check it to him. As we start to go at it, we launch into the rhyming rap song from that Tom Hanks movie
Big
, the song the two kids always rap out together; Tim and I always start every workout like this.

Tim dribbles the ball at the top of the key as we rap.

He tries to shoot, but I block his shot and grab the ball.

I laugh and say, “You owe me … awwwwwe!”

I make a couple moves, then square up and shoot. Nothing but net.

Tim takes the ball again and says, “My turn, bro, watch and learn.”

That day when John-Boy Reich called me bro, it really bugged me, but Tim-bo and I
are
like brothers, and have been since we were ten years old: playing sports together, sleeping over, and watching every movie known to man. We never run out of stuff to slam each other about. There's no reason to feel bad about Tim calling me bro, so I try not to, and on we go.

We had our team practice earlier at school. It's late afternoon now and we're both pretty tired, but that's how I like it best. When it starts to hurt, you have to concentrate harder. Sweat pours down the sides of my face and my chest and back. My thighs burn and my calves feel tight. I love this. It gets pretty intense as we bang away under the rim for rebounds.

Shawn is on the front porch in his wheelchair “watching” us. Right, like he gets what's going on. Why Mom thinks this is some kind of wonderful stimulation for Shawn is beyond me. To be totally honest, it's embarrassing to have him out here. It's embarrassing when Shawn starts yelling “ahhhhh” for no reason; it's embarrassing when he drops a load into his diapers and you can smell him from twenty feet away; it's embarrassing when his drool slides out of his mouth and makes a huge wet spot all down his front. And then I always feel embarrassed to feel embarrassed, guilty and bad that I feel so ashamed of Shawn—somehow all these crappy feelings make me work even harder.

While I'm thinking about Shawn, Tim, who has quick hands, jabs the ball away, stealing it from me. He takes it back to the top of the key and tries to put some moves on me. I jab the ball back, catching a little of Tim's hand, actually his little finger—I can tell I got him because my fingernail dug in and I took a little hunk of his skin with the ball. In a real game I might get called for a foul. I glance at his finger and see the little bloody spot where I gouged him.

As I dribble the ball, I ask, “You wanna foul on that?”

“Just play,” Tim says. He's cool: No medevac—no infraction.

I begin to circle around the top of the key, dribbling left-handed, right-handed, back and forth, between my legs and behind my back. I start talking trash: “You can't stop me … you know you can't …”

“Just play!” Tim snaps. He's breathing pretty hard.

“You tired? You feeling tired, Tim-bo? You need to go take a little nappy-poo?”

Tim really hates trash talk, so that's how I usually mess with him, but today he doesn't bite, he concentrates on the ball, and in spite of being tired, he's moving well. I try to go inside, but he blocks me off great. I fake going in again, get a little separation, and take my jumper.

For some reason, Tim just stops. He doesn't even try to block my shot. From the corner of my eye I see him standing flat-footed, staring over at the front porch of the house.

When I let my shot go, it feels a little off so I follow it, and sure enough it rims out. I grab the board easy, too easy, because Tim doesn't even follow me to the hoop.

“Is Shawn okay?” I hear Tim ask. He's still not looking at me as I put back my rebound for an easy layin.

“What?” I holler.

“Your brother—is he supposed to be like that?”

I look over at the porch and see that Shawn is in the middle of a monster seizure. It's a huge, bad one, saliva pouring out of his mouth, his body shaking all over; he looks terrible. In fact, he's slipped down in his wheelchair, and I can't tell if the purple color of his face is the seizure or his chest strap, which is not around his chest anymore, but around his neck.

He's going to choke to death!