Stick (29 page)

I was getting used to being called Stark, anyway.

Jerry worked behind a wire mesh cage. I don't know why they had to put wire up as a kind of window onto his towel-shower-stenciling office. Maybe the boys threw things, I thought.

I took off my shirt and slid it beneath the cage. I could smell the paint fumes as Jerry stenciled my name across the chest. It smelled like cocaine. Then he folded my T-shirt and slid it back to me. It said
MC CLELLAN
.

I don't think they used lowercase letters in the alphabet of gym class.

I put it on, and it made me feel like more of a regular kid here.

When I slipped my shorts off, I was half convinced that Ed Sage was going to force me outside and pin me against a wall in front of the girls' classes, so I was prepared to make him become the first guy I'd punch in California—if it came to that.

But I guess Ed was an okay guy.

He just shook his head and said, “That's         totally seventh grade.”

Jerry began painting my shorts.

“What?” I said.

“Wearing a      jock this late in the year,” Ed explained. “Get with it, Stark.                             In eighth grade, guys wear them maybe         on the first day. The first week, if they're pussies. Nobody checks after that. What are they going to        do? Put you in detention hall for    not wearing a jock?”

I didn't know what they would do. I never wondered about it in Mr. Lloyd's class. It was a rule, and Mr. Lloyd kept records.

Ed went on, “Coach Mo tells us        he doesn't care what we keep our nuts in       as long as we don't have         boxers hanging out of our shorts. Then he gets                                mad.       But wearing a jock in the middle of April? Total seventh-grade move.”

“Oh.”

Jerry slid my shorts back under his screen.

“Well, I don't have boxers,” I said.

“Then you should go         change. So the other guys    don't make fun of you.”

“Okay.”

I started to go back to the row where my locker was.

“And        hurry up, so we can play,” Ed said.

“Okay.”

“And throw that      fucking thing in the garbage.”

Miles Edward Sage was my first friend at Anacapa Junior High School.

*   *   *

“I like it here.”

I could see the worry wash clean off Aunt Dahlia's face when I sat down in the Dodge and shut the door. I slid across the seat and kissed her on the cheek. “I really like this school. A lot.”

“I've been so       worried for you, I thought I was going to be sick. You don't know     how happy I am to hear you say you like it here, Stark.”

“It was no big deal. No big deal at all.”

*   *   *

After school was surf time
for the kids on the Strand.

I was out in the water, floating between Evan and Kim, and everything felt healed. Perfect.

There weren't any waves. We just floated.

Evan bumped my arm. “Hey.   There's your       aunt.”

I turned around so I could see the shore.

In the afternoon, when you're out on the water and the sun is angled lower behind you, everything on the shore looks like a Technicolor movie—so clear, painted as bright as a carnival midway.

A blue dress with parrots and bamboo stood on the sand beside Aunt Dahlia.

Mom had come for me.

She was smoking a cigarette.

Even out there on the water, I could suddenly smell it.

I put my face down on the deck of the surfboard.

I wanted to float away.

“What's       up?” Kim said.

“That's my mom.”

“Oh.”

Evan and Kim both knew enough about how things had been for us back home. I'd told them about Mom and Dad, the Saint Fillan's room, and they knew Bosten left home after the last fight he'd had with Dad.

I didn't tell them the whole truth about why the fight happened or anything about Paul Buckley. It wasn't like I was ashamed of Bosten or anything. I could never be ashamed of my brother. I just felt something like that—Bosten being gay and everything—if anyone else needed to know about it, my brother would tell them himself when he decided it was the right time. Just like he did with Aunt Dahlia.

If he ever came back.

*   *   *

“You need a    haircut.”

Just like that. It was the first thing she said to me when I got out of the water.

Since the last time she pinned me steady in the freezing air and buzz-cut my scalp on the front porch that morning after Bosten, Paul, and I set off the UFO that attacked Seattle, my hair had grown so much that it covered the spot where there might be an ear.

*   *   *

I drive at night.

I blow things up.

I have anotia

and long hair.

Now go away,

*   *   *

Mother.

And what could I say to that, anyway?

“No,      he doesn't.” Dahlia answered for me.

I looked back one time. Evan and Kim were still in the water. I waved at them and pointed at the board I was carrying. I wanted Evan to know I was going to put it back in his yard.

“I need to give my friend his board back. I'll be home in a minute.”

I stabbed those words at her like lances,

friend

home.

Aunt Dahlia and Mom waited in the living room while I got dressed. Mom smoked. I could smell it crawling in under my door. Nobody ever smoked in Aunt Dahlia's house.

I wanted to break something.

It was the same as being stuck in that room on the houseboat. There was no way to escape. There was only silence, and smoke, on the other side of the bedroom door.

And I hated myself for doing it, but I was every bit as afraid here in California as I'd been on the river in Oregon; so I put on a white undershirt and tucked a collared shirt into my jeans.

Mom and Dad carried their rules around like invisible swords.

I saw how Dahlia looked at me when I finally came out. I could tell. She was disappointed because I'd been beaten. I sat on the end of the couch, so Aunt Dahlia was between us.

Mom lit another cigarette.

“How have you         been, Stick?”

“Good. Do you know where Bosten is?”

Aunt Dahlia kept her eyes on Mom.

“No.”

“Why are you here?”

“That's not very     nice. I thought you wanted me to come back.”

I looked down at my jeans. They were new and stiff. I should have taken them off right then and there and left them with Aunt Dahlia. I didn't deserve such things.

“I did.”

“I came       to see if you want to         go home now.”

“I don't know what that is.”

I saw Aunt Dahlia's eyes. They looked so heavy. I couldn't hurt her. I wouldn't let Mom treat her that way.

*   *   *

Like she didn't matter.

Like we were both empty suitcases,

and Mom was there to pick over

the unclaimed stuff that came

out of us.

*   *   *

There was nothing

holding me and

Mom

together.

I sat there

feeling the things that held me

together

my brother

Dahlia

together.

*   *   *

“I have a comfortable place.
In Seattle. In a big                           brick building.”

“I started school here today.”

I was not going to cry.

I was not going to cry.

I tried to not think about it.

I could feel it.

Mom put her cigarette out.

Then I stood up. I had to do something before I started wailing like a goddamned little kid. And for some reason, all I could think about was how Jerry had stenciled
MC CLELLAN
on my clothes, and didn't that mean that I couldn't just go away?

“This was my first fucking day at school here! My first fucking day!”

Mom got up.

Aunt Dahlia said, “Please.”

I looked out the window. Evan and Kim stood in the street beside Mom's blue rental car, dripping, in their wetsuits. They looked like they were waiting for something. Maybe smoke to come out of the house. I don't know.

And Mom was going to hit me for saying that, but I stood my ground. I did not shrink back, like I might have done some other time.

I raised my hand, and she froze. I saw how weak and withered she had made herself. I think it was the first time I noticed.

“You're not big enough anymore, Mom.”

She sat down.

Then I spun around and ran back into the room. I slammed my door.

I took off the clothes Aunt Dahlia had bought for me to wear to my new school. I folded them, following the creases pressed into them so they would fit in perfectly with the other things on the shelves of the store.

I realized my face was wet. I was a stupid, ugly little kid.

And I lay down on my bed and put my face in the pillow. I was not going to cry. I was not going to scream. I just stayed there and waited.

*   *   *

When Bosten was in grade seven,

I remember how he was taller than me

and I was in the normal kids' school,

but I didn't do anything very good,

and the kids called me retard.

*   *   *

Three bigger kids,

and one of them tripped me

outside of Mr. Lohman's store.

And Bosten said

nobody fucks with my brother

you piece of shit

but I should have told him

lots of people do.

Bosten got his nose busted

and kicked in the stomach.

*   *   *

I came to see

if you want to go home now.

*   *   *

Here are five bullets
for the boys on the boat.

Here is one more for the saint.

*   *   *

I fell asleep.

And I dreamed again that Bosten was dead. It was back in the house, and I was lying on my bed with my ear pressed up against the pipe so I could listen to Dad and Bosten fighting up above while I kept my eyes pinned to the little window, the golden rectangle of night. I saw Dad carrying Bosten outside, down the path to the well. He put Bosten inside the little pumphouse and shut him in there. And he closed the door on him and said here is one more for the saint.

And when I woke up, I was still crying. Aunt Dahlia sat on the bed next to me. It was very dark, and she pressed soft circles with her palm between my shoulder blades.

“Don't worry, baby.        Don't worry.    You're not going anywhere.”

Mom had taken her rental car and gone.

But the house still smelled like her.

THE ANGEL

“Maybe you should
            stay home from school today,” Dahlia said.

“I don't want to.”

*   *   *

That afternoon the waves
had come back to the Strand. I surfed with Evan and Kim, and I was getting pretty good at it. Sometimes, Evan and I would trade boards out past the breakers and I'd try his shorter one. He was teaching me how to turn and cut up and down the face of the wave.

Well, at least, he was watching me when I'd crash.

Short boards let you steal everything you could from a decent wave, like you were picking the pocket of a blind man.

But when we were out there, switching off for the last time, I saw Aunt Dahlia on the shore. She was actually up to her knees in the churning water, waving her arms and shouting at me. I couldn't really tell what she was trying to say, but I did hear one word clearly.

Bosten.

“Hey.” Evan shook my arm. “She's    saying something about       your brother.”

But I was already paddling frantically, on my way in to the shore.

Aunt Dahlia stepped backwards out of the whitewash foam.

Evan and Kim were right behind me when I got my feet planted stable enough where I could stand.

“He's     on the phone.”

I tore the leash from my ankle and dropped Evan's board. I couldn't think about anything else, except that it was Bosten.

Finally. He was alive.

I ran across the sand toward Dahlia's house, cursing, my feet slipping, the muscles in my legs aching with fire.

It seemed to take forever, like running through wet concrete.

I raced around the rotten fence to the front door. Tracking sand and dripping water, I half stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver that was lying atop the table.

“Bosten!”

“My man, Sticker.”

My chest began heaving, like I was having hiccups. I was so happy, thrilled, to hear my brother again. I couldn't even tell whether I was laughing or crying.

Bosten. Where the fuck were you?

Shit. Everywhere.

Where are you now? Are you okay?

I'm all right, Sticker. I'm in L.A.

We're going to come get you.

We're going to come get you right now, okay?

Hang on.

What do you mean?

I need to find another dime or something.

The operator's saying my time's up.

Where are you?

I don't know where this place is.

Somewhere by Hollywood, I think.

Where can we come get you?

I don't know.

Look. Tomorrow, I'll be in a place called Angel Street.

It's in downtown, by Broadway and Third, or maybe Sixth.

I know how to get there.

It's a place for kids.

Street kids.