Perfectly Good White Boy (14 page)

But tonight, nothing. The whole house was still. I could hear the water heater shrieking down the hall from me.

Hallie, putting her clothes back on. Me, tying the condom in a knot over the utility sink, then wrapping it in the dryer sheet she gave me. Hallie, slipping the whole white ball into my hoodie pocket. Like it was a souvenir. A present. Like it was Tupperware I'd brought to a party and she wanted to make sure it went home with me.

Then she handed me my hoodie.

“Thanks for coming over.”

I stared at her. A bit of hair was caught in the neck of her T-shirt. I wanted to pick it out, but I couldn't move. Because I hated her so much. Loved her so much. Wished I had her naked boob pictures, so I could send them to everyone I knew in the world. But she'd been too smart for that, which made me hate her more. Loved how she smelled, how she felt. Hated the little white ball of cum in my pocket.

“My parents could be back any minute now,” she said. “They don't even know I'm home yet. You should probably go.”

Dumb as a dog, I walked back through the dark house, following her as she turned on a few lights here and there. Then I slid open the glass door, not even saying good-bye, and stepped into my own footprints in the snow on the deck, half full of more snow now, since it was snowing again, thin streams of flakes as I reversed the trip, cutting through the same backyards, the same little park, the duck ditch covered in snow. Before I got in my car, I chucked the dryer sheet condom into a snowbank. It didn't even make a sound, and the little dimple where it landed filled up soon enough. Little condom-print, vanished.

Pushing Otis away, I went into the bathroom. Brushed my teeth, looked myself over in the mirror. Same old self. You couldn't tell I'd just gotten laid. You couldn't tell I'd broken my best friend's nose. Couldn't tell that my father was a fuck-up. You couldn't tell one thing about me. I looked like any other boy, a little zitty, a little skinny, farmer tan fading, just like any other white guy in Oak Prairie. In America.

I took off the rest of my clothes and got in bed. Shoved Otis to the side, curled toward the wall. I wondered if Hallie was asleep, now. If her parents had come home and found her in her old bed, her stuff all unpacked on the floor.

Thanks for coming.

Don't stop.

We can talk about that later.

That's good.

God, I love you so much.

I listened to Otis harrumphing and snoring down by my feet and felt like the only person left on earth still awake, the only person who knew the secret that not a single thing in this world was worth a damn.

Chapter Nine

I was at the Marine recruiter's office, the next day. My birthday. All my crap in my backpack. Paperwork scrounged up on the sly, while avoiding my mom, who was upstairs cooking and getting ready for Thanksgiving.

I'd had to go through about ten boxes she hadn't unpacked to find it all. There'd been a stack of them by the furnace, a ton of stuff Brad had packed. My mom had been methodical about packing; even when I'd caught her crying while she was doing it, she still wrapped things in newspaper, still organized things by room and type.

But the boxes Brad packed were full of a little bit of everything. Old mail, legal shit from the bank and the lawyers, bills from the hospital and the detox unit, an old collar of Otis's that was missing the tags, a box of macaroni and cheese, a pile of catalogs and magazines, the knobs from an old dresser my mom ended up throwing out, the glass pitcher for our blender, but not the rest of the blender. Random shit, all tossed in with zero thought. At least, in the hospital crap, there were other medical bills, so I found my doctor's name and clinic, which would at least give me something to go on.

Finally, in a box that had nail polish, paperclips, and a tin of nasty old caramel corn from Christmas, I found my school files and folders. Crummy faded pictures I'd made in grade school, my name in all caps: SEAN N. Report cards that repeated the same things: “seems distracted” and “often doesn't finish his work” and “talks out of turn.” There, next to a half-filled-in baby book of my photos, was my vaccination record and my Social Security card, my birth certificate, and a little thing with my blood type.

Sergeant Kendall was meeting with someone when I got there, and I was impatient. He wasn't expecting me, so it was all my fault. But I couldn't get it out of my head, Hallie's laundry room. It just replayed, over and over, the good parts and the bad parts. Mainly the words I'd said.

I studied the list of things my mom texted me to pick up from the store. Krista was bringing food too. Grandpa Chuck had venison. My mom had bought a cake from the store this time; it had been sitting on the counter when I'd walked through the kitchen on my way out. It would have been better if she had forgotten this year, though. I felt guilty. For a whole bunch of things.

I love you so much.

Fuck.

“Sean?” Sergeant Kendall in front of me. “What can I do for you?”

I stood up. We shook hands.

“Got that paperwork,” I said.

“Great,” he said. “Step back to my office and let's get started.”

I normally loved Thanksgiving, and not just because it was my birthday. I loved it even when my birthday got lost in it, because it was all about food and there was no church service involved or gifts you had to remember to buy and then you could take a long nap or watch football or both. But this year, I just sat there, feeling tense. Feeling like it was everywhere, all over my face. Filling out the forms and Sergeant Kendall making copies of my birth certificate and driver's license and Social Security card and Hallie and me in the laundry room and all of it. Brad especially wouldn't stop staring at me, asking me to pass this or that dish.

Plus everything everyone said reminded me of the Marines thing.

Steven-Not-Steve talked about credit cards; I thought about the credit check Sergeant Kendall explained they needed to do. To see if I owed money or defaulted on loans or hadn't paid child support. I laughed at that, but he didn't blink.

Krista mentioned that one of her servers was filing a workers' comp claim and it was getting pretty ugly; I thought about how the whole “any falsifications or omissions on medical history” was grounds for instant dismissal.

Grandpa Chuck tossing some turkey to Otis and Krista acting all freaky about eating, asking what was in everything, like she didn't want to blow out her wedding dress or something—all of that brought up BMI and running and whether I'd be able to hack it in boot camp. I was barely able to finish my birthday cake, which, of course, made my mom ask what my deal was.

The next day, I went in early for my Black Friday shift at the Thrift Bin. Still feeling like the secret, the lie, was all over me. Hallie and the Marines, both. But as I walked around, doing all the opening jobs, I also felt a little proud. Smug. Like I was getting away with something.

And that was dangerous, because I was dying to say something. Do my blurting thing. But damned if I'd ever tell Kerry one thing, even if it did involve getting laid. So Neecie it was. And it felt easy, to tell her about Hallie. To explain why I jumped up and left her house like I had. To write it off like a booty call. Which it had been. Only I hadn't known it, I guess. God.

“Oh, Sean,” Neecie said. “I can't believe you did that.”

I looked at her. “It wasn't just
me
.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know, but, god! Have you learned NOTHING?” She kind of yelled this, and Wendy, from over in the collectibles processing area, looked up at us.

Neecie was tagging Christmas-y stuff, sweaters with Frosty the Snowman on them and aprons covered in poinsettias and tiny red velvet dresses for little girls to wear to church and fuzzy Santa hats and crap like that. I was leaning against the clothing table with a box cutter, breaking down cardboard boxes.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She looked down, her skin going all red. She wasn't wearing her Thrift Bin apron now, just a little thermal with a low neck under a red hoodie that she'd found in the pile of Christmas clothing. The hoodie had little jingling bells along the sleeves and green ribbons all over it, some amateur crafter's attempt at Christmas-ing up a boring hoodie. It was horrible, but she and Wendy got into moods like that sometimes. Wendy wore giant angel earrings made out of tinsel and a sweater covered in reindeer.

Then she said, out of the side of her mouth, “Me and Tristan,” and went back to being really absorbed in the workings of her tagging gun. As if Tristan had spies hiding out in the back room of the Thrift Bin.

“Oh.”

“Be careful. Might become a bad habit.”

I shook my head. Neecie had no idea; I'd gone and made the future happen with the Marines. I couldn't be a habit with anyone. “I won't be that lucky. I can't believe it even happened
once
.”

Neecie looked doubtful, but she didn't say anything.

“Christ, Sean, do you ever do anything but sexually harass people around here?” Kerry, coming up from behind me.

I pictured, not for the first time, stabbing him with my box cutter. But then Kerry did something totally weird.

“So, Neecie,” he said. “You guys should come out tonight. I'm having people over.”

Neecie turned super red. But she just said, “Really?”

“Yep,” Kerry said, smiling now that he had her attention. “Real festive gathering. Homemade hot chocolate and everything.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I said. Blurted. “You're so full of shit.”

Kerry was staring at Neecie like she was something delicious he wanted to eat, but he just said, “Oh, yeah? You weren't here last year, so you don't know the whole tradition. Just ask her! Wendy always comes to my Black Friday thing. Hey, Wendy!”

Wendy looked up from the pile of pottery she was squirting with Windex.

“Sean here doesn't believe me about the Black Friday party,” Kerry said, all snotty. “Tell him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Wendy said. “Kerry and I always do that on Black Friday. He makes homemade hot chocolate and everything.”

“Hot chocolate?” Neecie said. Now she was smiling. “Seriously?”

Kerry said yes and smiled at her again. He looked like a shark. A shark with a black and ginger beard.

“It's my secret recipe,” he said. “You can add a little Hot 100 to it, just for flavor, if you want, too . . .”

“Okay,” Neecie said. Before I could say anything. “But I still don't have my car. I'll need a ride.”

“I can give you a ride, no problem,” Kerry said, looking very satisfied with himself and walking off. Like he'd just totally rooked the dumb girl into some joke. Or worse. I was thinking worse, given the Hot 100 comment. Though he couldn't think he'd get her loaded and try shit with her. Not with Wendy there. Or me.

“I'll take you,” I said.

“Whatever,” she said.

“Since when do you want to hang out with Kerry?”

She shook her head, and then the donation door rang and Kerry yelled for me, and I spent the rest of the night dealing with this stupid donor who had three carloads of crap from her dead uncle's house and who told me and Kerry about the tragedy and the coincidence of someone dying right around the holidays, when all these bags and boxes of shit could be given to “those in need.” Most of it was garbage, I could just tell, looking at the woman, who looked like the kind of lady who saved yogurt containers and the foil that butter got wrapped in and whatever. She was wearing a Christmas sweater too. Which appeared to be contagious, because by the time we were closing, even Kerry was wearing a Santa hat.

And Neecie wouldn't even drive over to his house with me, because Eddie texted me a bunch, wanting to hang out, but when I told her we needed to stop and get him, Neecie, putting her own Santa hat on, said that she'd go straight to the party with Wendy, who was getting a ride from Kerry too.