The Queen of Everything (16 page)

We stood in a line, Markus and I and
Wes

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D'Angelo, points along one line, with me
between them. My father was off to the side now, talking to Mr. Wykowski, who
was arranging slick pink hot dogs in rows on his grill. Someone had turned up
the music so that you could feel the beat in your feet, pulsing under the
ground. Mr. Wykowski was pretending to listen to my father, but I could see his
foot tapping under the barbecue to the music.

Which was fine, because my father, too, was
only pretending to talk. I could see it in his face. His smile was frozen in Mr.
Wykowski's direction; his eyes darted away and came back only out of politeness.
I knew what would happen next. I knew it would happen and it did; his eyes
drifted and I followed them to where they stopped and connected with Gayle
D'Angelo's.

I held the cool, sweaty soda can to my
forehead. Shit, shit. It was hot outside, suddenly very hot, and my feet and
legs felt dirty and sticky from walking around the dusty park in bare legs and
sandals. I wanted to cut that glance, break it with my hands or slice it with a
pair of wicked-sharp scissors. I looked at Markus, who was still laughing and
talking, looked at Remington, who had picked up one of the badminton rackets and
was swinging it like a baseball bat as some girl pitched him birdies. I looked
at Wes D'Angelo. Mr. Chester stood in front of him, animatedly telling him a
story. But Wes D'Angelo's eyes

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were not on Mr. Chester, baseball coach and
proud leader of an honorable season of ten game wins. No, his eyes looked just
past Mr. Chester's shoulder. His eyes were on his wife.

Gayle D'Angelo gave my father a half smile. It
could have been a stranger's smile or a lover's smile. She drew her fingers
across the base of her throat; a secret gesture, or only surprise at attention
she didn't expect. She dropped my father's gaze, chatted again with Mrs.
Williams.

He was stupid, stupid, my father. Wes D'Angelo
looked back at Mr. Chester, laughed loudly at something he said. It was a laugh
that meant my father was no threat. He was wrong about that. But right then he
was making it clear. Gayle D'Angelo was his wife. His toy. And that's what she
was: a toy. My father never did see that.

"God, it's hot over here by these barbecues,"
Melissa said. She took a pinch of her T-shirt and waved it in and out. "Let's go
back. They're probably wondering where we went."

I heard Gayle D'Angelo's voice. "Oh, a little
bit of work. But it was my pleasure. Really." She seemed to practice sincerity
the way other people practiced the piano. That was easy to see when her
attention was not on you. I wondered what Wes D'Angelo's horoscope had been that
day. I wondered if it too had said,
What was hidden will be
uncovered.

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Chapter Eight

"Are you all right, Jordan?"

Melissa had her hand on my arm. It felt cool,
the one she had around her own soda can. I remembered why I liked her. I wished
we were alone in her room, sitting on her bed, and listening to Jimmie Dix on
her CD player. Just us doing little stuff.

"I'm okay."

"You look funny." She glanced over and spotted
my father. He'd given up Mr. Wykowski and was now standing and looking around
awkwardly like the dance was over and he'd just lost his partner. "Your dad's
here? Jeez, I told my mother I would kill her if she came."

"My dad drives his own ship," I
said.

"Oh, please. Where'd you get that
crap?"

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We started back to Kale's blanket. Past the
cement bathrooms, I could see Wendy Williams sitting with her yearbook open on
her crossed legs, probably reading aloud to Jason all the things other guys
wrote in there. I wished I was home. The funny thing was, at that moment I
wasn't quite sure where that was.

"Boo."

Kale leapt out at us from behind a tree.
Melissa gave a little scream and grabbed my arm.

"Shit, Kale," I said. "Don't do
that."

"Scare you?" He laughed. "Hey, thanks for
getting me one." He pointed to my Coke. "One per customer."

"They didn't say that," Melissa
volunteered.

Kale ignored her. "That is so lame. Wait here."
He pointed at us, trotted off, and came back a second later with four Dr Peppers
lined up inside the waist of his shorts. "Man, that was cold," he
said.

He looked so silly, rubbing his red stomach
after stealing something he didn't even need to, that for a second I forgot my
dad, who was stealing something else on the other side of the park. I tried not
to crack up. Melissa was shooting me a nasty look. "What is it with guys and Dr
Pepper?" I said. "Name one girl who likes it."

"I do," Melissa lied. She hated it
too.

"What the fuck does it matter?" Kale
said.

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"Here." He handed the extra cans to Melissa.
"Why don't you take these to everyone else?"

"Okay." I watched her go. I felt so sad for
that back, clothed in a flower shirt that tried too hard to be cheery. She was
worth a hundred Kales.

Kale put his own can in his pocket, making an
unseemly bulge. He backed me up against a tree and put his arms on either side
of my head. I looked smack into his eyes. A half-inch more and I'd have a clear
view of the top of his head. "Are you avoiding me?" he asked.

"Why would I do that?"

"That's what I didn't get." He pressed his hips
up against mine. I could feel the coldness of the soda can through his pants. "I
see your dad's here, checking up on us."

"My dad drives his own ship," I said
again.

"Fuck, you're weird sometimes." Kale kissed me,
and I let him. I didn't care who saw. Maybe my father would see Kale stick his
tongue in my mouth and be shocked at my alarming behavior. I thought about the
look that passed between my father and Gayle D'Angelo. I thought about the fact
that where we were kissing was two steps away from the spot where Big Mama's
husband, Clyde, made her a widow. I knew if I peeked, I could see the actual
rock that still had his blood on it, right over Kale's shoulder, next to the
lighthouse.

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Kale pulled away. He put his forehead against
mine and sighed with frustration. His hair smelled like someone else's cooking.
"Man, what is the matter? Where are you at?"

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Where's my cigarettes?" He had something in
every pocket, that Kale. He could have been a magician.

"You're going to smoke in front of all these
teachers?"

"Hey, I don't see a sign. They won't do
anything to me anyway." He shook the wrinkled pack of cigarettes, then gave up
and pinched one out with his fingers. "You got something on your mind, I wish
you could tell me."

He lit the cigarette with his lighter, and blew
smoke out his nostrils in two fierce streams. If his nose were a rocket, that
burst of exhaust would have shot it clear into space.

"I would," I said.

"You can tell me things," he said. He put his
chin down to his chest, gave me a look that tried hard to be full of feeling.
"That's what a boyfriend is for. So you chicks can spill your guts and we can
comfort you, right?" He punched my arm playfully. Smoke from his cigarette
zigzagged and made the outside air smell wrong.

"Right," I said.

"So spill."

"It's just... Not here, okay, Kale?"

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"Oh, sure, you want your privacy I understand
that. You want to be alone. Hey, I'll make sure we get
our privacy."
He
leaned in, licked my ear. I shivered.

"That's more like it," he said, happy again.
"Don't think I'm gonna forget, 'cause I won't. You know, your problem is my
problem."

"Okay," I said. "Thanks."

I guess the cigarette served its purpose. He
threw it to the ground and stepped on it. I thought of our dog Homer. I wondered
if Kale had an "oral thing" too.

Kale took my hand. "Let's get something to
eat." We took a couple of paper plates off the stack, and some napkins held down
by a rock even though no breeze was blowing. We stood in line for hot dogs in
squishy buns and decorated them with a couple of squirts of catsup. The dishes
that emerged from Remington's cooler had been lined up on the picnic table and
joined by others, all of these perfect, pretend foods with little folded cards
to identify them, mexicali roll-ups in calligraphy. I'm not kidding. The kind of
thing my mother would have hated. These were the people, Mom said, that donated
an espresso maker to a needy family at Christmastime. She read it in the
Parrish Island Journal.
I'd told her that even the poor deserve a good
cup of coffee, which didn't go over very well.

"Jordan." Ms. Cassaday stopped me at
the

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end of the food line. "Can I talk to you for a
minute?"

"Sure," I said. Kale was back at the drink
cooler, putting more Dr Pepper in his pants.

I carried my plate and followed Ms. Cassaday.
My father sat at one of the tables, with his own plate in front of him. Gayle
D'Angelo sat across from Dad, a can of diet soda in front of her. Women like
Gayle D'Angelo didn't eat.

Ms. Cassaday leaned against a tree, folded her
floppy arms, and gave me a good long look.

"Okay, this is none of my business, but what
the hell. You're a good student and I like you. You've got a brain in there, you
know." She tapped the side of her own head.

I smiled. "Thanks," I said. Ms. Cassaday stared
off, right where my father sat. For a second, I thought she was going to confess
to knowing about his affair.

"It's about Kale Kramer," she said.

"Oh," I said.

"I've seen you two around together. Just now.
At school ... I think you ought to be careful, Jordan. He seems cool and
smart-ass and funny and all, but he's not exactly what he appears. Smart enough
to be dangerous, but not smart enough to care what that means. I'd say that to
his face. And this is probably stepping way out of line, but if you haven't at
least heard the rumors about Kale, you're probably the only one."

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"I've heard them," I said.

"Well, I saw that cat. I saw what he did. He
twisted its neck."

She let this sink in. "Its
neck.
He
lured it to him first. With a piece of chicken." There was something
particularly ugly about that detail, this chicken. "Jordan, if someone is
capable of doing that to an animal..."

"I know what you're saying."

"It was in my neighbors' yard. Last summer.
They tried to press charges even, but no one would take them seriously. You
know, it was a cat, he's an
athlete.
Kale's parents paid some fine.
Anyway, I thought you should know. I wouldn't have told you unless I thought you
were someone who would care about this."

I looked at Kale strolling back to the blanket,
his pockets bulging with "stolen" soda. From here, he didn't look dangerous.
Just the kind of guy who harbored dreams of being a football player a little too
long, when he wasn't that good to begin with. Maybe you couldn't tell with
danger. Maybe it didn't walk around with a sign hung around its neck with a
strand of yarn. My plate warmed the bottom of my hand. Mrs. D'Angelo's Brie
Rounds and Miniature Spinach Quiche looked cold and make-believe. Less
nourishment than decoration; faux jewels. I didn't even want that food
anymore.

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"I don't mean to upset you or anything. I just
thought you ought to have all the facts."

I looked up at Ms. Cassaday. Her eyes were warm
and concerned. She had been indulging in the Mexicali Roll-ups. She had a piece
of olive between her teeth. "Thanks," I said.

"Well, I hope you have a good summer. A careful
summer, right?" She gave my shoulder a little shake.

"Right." I smiled.

"I'd better go watch over Mr. Wykowski. If I
don't remind him every two seconds to turn those hot dogs ..."

"Okay. Thanks," I said.

The whole way back to the blanket, I felt like
shame was creeping behind me, its hands arched just over my neck. Ms. Cassaday
was someone like Big Mama, someone who understands bullshit; someone who sees
things as they are. A person you couldn't stand to disappoint.

"That lesbo trying to get you on a date?" Kale
said. The middle of the blanket was piled now with a small mountain of Dr
Peppers. Jason Dale was hunched over Wendy Williams's yearbook, one arm covering
his writing like some paranoid kid who's sure he knows all the answers on a
test. Melissa knelt behind Wendy, French braiding her hair. If Melissa wasn't
careful, pretty soon she'd be bent over the lot of

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them, waving a fan made of peacock feathers and
feeding them grapes. When I looked again, I saw that Kale was
pouting.

"She was just wishing me a good summer," I
said.

"Lesbians. That's something I will never
understand," Wendy Williams said.