Twisted (5 page)

My plan for the first day of school was to roll out of bed, roll into my clothes, roll down the stairs, and roll out the door to the bus stop. One day riding the bus wasn’t going to kill me. I had promised Hannah.

She started pounding on my door a full thirteen minutes before my alarm went off.

“Tyler John Miller! You get out of that bed right now! Mom said!”

It sounded like she was going to punch through the door. All those middle-school girl-power sports had made my little sister a lot stronger than she looked.

“Get up!”
Thumpwhumpthumpwhump.
“Mom said! I don’t want to miss the bus.”

It was going to take a week for her to figure out that high school was school, plus seven levels of social hell (especially for freshman girls), with too much homework and rules dreamed up by psychopaths.

Then we’d see who was eager to get out the door.

I pulled on a shirt, boxers, and shorts—all clean in honor of the first day—and trudged downstairs hoping Mom had remembered to go to the store.

Hannah took one look at me and let out a bloodcurdling scream. “You can’t go to school like that!”

“Morning to you, too. Any milk, Mom?”

Mom shook a nearly empty milk jug. “You might get half a bowl. I’ll go to the grocery store after work, I promise.”

Hannah grabbed my wrist in a death grip. “No food until you change. You are not going to school like that.”

I wanted to blow her off, but she was halfway to a meltdown. I let her drag me back upstairs, where she handed me a brand-new shirt and shorts and shoved me into the bathroom to change.

Hannah opened the door as I was zipping up the shorts.

“Do you mind?” I asked.

“I don’t want to be late.” She sat on the edge of the sink. “Turn around. And don’t tuck the shirt in. It makes you look like a dork.”

“You think?”

“You’re going to be late!” Mom called from downstairs.

I untucked the shirt. Hannah tugged at the shorts so they rode lower on my hips.

“Better,” she said. She rolled up the sleeves a little to show off my guns. “Much better. Now one more thing.” She grabbed a tube of something from the sink and made me bend over so she could rub gunk in my hair. When she was done, she stepped back.

“Take a look,” she said.

The mirror showed some guy—a not-too-shabby guy–I’d never seen before: tall, tan, beefy biceps, the hair thing going on, and maybe a little danger in the eyes. I squinted to look even more dangerous, but it made me look nearsighted.

“See? You are officially an asset.” Hannah stood on her tiptoes and pecked me on the cheek. “Thanks, Ty. Now hurry up or I’ll miss everything.”

The bus let us out in front of the building. Hannah was about to burst with excitement, which would have been disgusting because she would have sprayed blood, guts, and glitter in every direction. She was an innocent, a freshman, one of the sad believers who thought high school was where they would be popular and smart and happy—above all, happy.

My sister had watched too many movies.

The enlightened ones—the wounded sophomores, jaded juniors, and wise seniors—we trudged to the door, a prison gang so beaten down we didn’t need ankle shackles.

A pearl-white Jaguar XK8 convertible was parked in the primo visitor’s spot at the front. Bethany Milbury and her mom were parked inside it, arguing like cats in a bag.

Knock on the window. Offer to carry Bethany inside. Offer to wash the car with your tongue.

Mrs. Milbury was screaming and waving her long, bony mom-finger back and forth in front of her daughter’s face. Bethany crossed her arms over her chest and slumped against the seat.

Maybe later.

We trudged some more. As we got closer to the front door, Hannah poked me.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Why are people staring at us?”

They weren’t staring, exactly. They were…watching. All the social radar systems were on alert.

Hannah faked a little smile to a total stranger. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

She was right, of course. People had ignored me when I was Nerd Boy, but that changed after I was arrested. A third of my fellow students kept their distance, like I might be wearing a bomb strapped to my waist. Another third looked down their noses at me because I had to work with the
(gasp)
custodial staff. The third third was all thumbs-up and “Yo, Tyler!” because spray-painting a couple thousand dollars worth of damage to the school and getting my very own probation officer made me their hero.

A lot of kids would tell you that being taken away in a squad car was the coolest thing I had ever done.

“You’re hallucinating,” I told my sister.

Mr. Hughes stood in the middle of the lobby with a bullhorn in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. He stopped mid-bellow to give me the evil eye.

“Mr. Miller,” he growled.

“Mr. Hughes,” I tried to growl back.

He tapped the corner of his eye with a finger. “Remember,” he warned.

I was supposed to remember the little talk we’d had in his office a couple weeks earlier. Except it wasn’t so little. Hughes lectured me so long about consequences and responsibilities that my butt fell asleep.

I was supposed to remember that this was a privilege: I was back in school because so many people—my parents, my probation officer, a couple teachers—had gone out on a limb for me.

I was supposed to remember that I was on thin ice.

I was supposed to remember that I was on a short leash.

(Quite a vision, all those folks standing on a quivering tree branch, with me at the end in a dog collar, skating on a thin layer of frozen pond.)

While he lectured, I had shifted back and forth from one butt cheek to the other, trying to get the blood flow back.

Mr. Hughes had pointed out that I wasn’t listening. My father agreed with him, nodding energetically. Dad’s head bounced up and down so much during the one-hour little talk I thought for sure he’d get a concussion. After we left Hughes’s office, Dad yelled at me for being disrespectful. Then he made me remow the lawn.

Mr. Hughes stopped tapping the corner of his eye. “Have a good day,” he said.

I was overcome by the urge to do something profoundly stupid, like pee on the flagpole or throw myself under a bus, just to see the look on his face.

But my little sister, wide-eyed and fourteen, tugged at my elbow.

“That was the principal, right?” she asked as soon as we were out of earshot.

“The one and only,” I sighed.

She dragged me out of the flow of traffic and into an alcove. “Here, hold these.” She handed me her books and purse, and rolled up the bottom of her shirt, exposing a new belly-button piercing that looked infected.

“When did you get that?” I asked. “Mom will kill you.”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She folded down the top of her miniskirt, showing way too much skin. “I never realized that you had a reputation, Ty. I am so proud of you.”

“It’s not a good reputation,” I pointed out.

“Are you kidding me? The principal hates you. That rocks. How do I look?”

“Like a mistake.”

“Shut up.” She took her books back and tucked her arm through mine. “It’s the attitude, Tyler, all about the attitude. If you act like ‘Tyler Miller, emo nerd who is always screwing up,’ your life—and mine—is going to suck. You have to be Tyler, the Danger Guy. Gangsta Miller.”

“They don’t let gangstas on the debate team,” I pointed out.

“They should. They might win for a change.”

She turned her smile back on, and we rejoined the crowd streaming towards the cafeteria, the worst place in the world for a freshman girl. Which was, of course, why she wanted to go there. A pack of dogs was prowling at the doors, senior guys looking for virgin or semi-virgin freshmen to devour.

“Fix your shirt,” I said through my teeth.

“Get over yourself,” she said. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”

School was back in session. Let the mind control begin.

Homeroom sucked, because Bethany wasn’t there. I figured she was still fighting with her mom.

On the bright side, Chip wasn’t there, either.

I had forgotten to look for my schedule before we left the house, so as soon as the Pledge was over, I asked Mr. Irwin if he had an extra copy. He rolled his eyes, but he had been a homeroom teacher for one hundred and twenty years, so he was prepared.

He pulled a piece of paper from a pile on his desk. “Here you go, Miller,” he said. “Enjoy.”

I looked at it once.

Twice. My head hurt.

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

(
AKA MY SCHEDULE
)

Calculus

Gym

AP English

Lunch

French IV

Study Hall

AP Art History

AP US Government & Politics

Yes, I had agreed to this. But in my defense, we put my schedule together after my first week working at Pirelli’s and the blisters on my hands had all popped open and I was so tired I couldn’t remember my name. Mom and Dad were both happy with the schedule. I do remember that part. Signing me up for indentured servitude made their eyes sparkle.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

So Calc baffled me within ten minutes. First period = waste.

In Gym, they lectured us about not leaving valuables in the locker room and lectured us about personal safety and lectured us about proper footwear and lectured us and lectured us and lectured us….

After class, I plowed my way down the hall, feeling the eyes, trying to play Hannah’s game of Hey, I Don’t Give a Rat’s Ass About Any of This, and You Should Be a Little Afraid of Me, Just to Be Safe. It was harder than it sounded, walking like a tough guy and keeping my arms flexed and pretending this was natural.

I tripped over a lot of freshmen.

And then I walked into my AP English class.

Oh, the humanity.

On the board, Mr. Salvatore had listed the books and the play I was supposed to have read over the summer. I looked around at my classmates, who had, of course, done the readings, highlighted their favorite lines, and written essays about characters and motivation. For fun.

I picked up one of the books and flipped through it. Don’t get me wrong, I like reading. But some books should come with warning labels:
Caution: contains characters and plots guaranteed to induce sleepiness. Do not attempt to drive or operate heavy machinery after ingesting more than one chapter. Has been known to cause blindness, seizures, and a terminal loathing of literature. Should only be taken under the supervision of a highly trained English teacher. Preferably one who grades on the curve.

I talked to Mr. Salvatore after class and explained a few things about my summer. He gave me a week to catch up, in light of my special circumstances, then nodded seriously and said it was time for me to “buckle down.”

I almost asked him if I was on thin ice yet, but I didn’t want to be put on the short leash the first day.

French was kind of a blur—fifty ways to ask for a stick of bread. My study hall was filled with sophomores who reeked of lip gloss and body wash. Art History, well, at least we’d get to look at breasts.

AP US Gov & Pol was a different story. The teacher went into gory detail about battlefield conditions during the Revolutionary War and explained the best way to kill an opponent with a bayonet. It was cool right up to the moment when he assigned an essay (using three primary sources) due the next day.

On the bus home, I borrowed Hannah’s calculator. I had a minimum of six hours of homework, and it was only the first day of class. Six hours of homework a day x 180 days until finals = way too much work.

Welcome to senior year. Bam—face through windshield.

I didn’t have a choice. I would have to face the dragon.

I’d do it after dinner, when he was bloated on double pepperoni with onions.

Dad liked to call his lair “the study,” but it was just a basement, with spiders and damp patches on the ceiling tiles. His office stuff—desk, computer, file drawers, and bookshelves—filled one corner. A burgundy leather recliner was positioned next to the high-end Bose stereo. His model-train set stretched on a long, custom table in the middle of the room. Framed accounting certificates hung on the walls.

He had retreated down there after dinner. I gave him half an hour, then followed.

He was hunched over his desk, face in the computer screen, wearing a faded maroon University of Chicago sweatshirt and the best headphones money could buy. In the bluish light, it looked like his eyes had disappeared into their sockets.

“Dad,” I said.

He didn’t move.

“Dad?”

The headphones were plugged into the stereo. A CD case was sitting on top of it. Wagner. Wagner was a head-banger composer of the 1800s.

I tapped his shoulder. “Dad!”

He gasped and spun around in the chair. Papers scattered on the floor. As soon as he saw it was me, he glared. He pulled off the headphones and dropped them around his neck. The opera voices coming through them were loud, but tinny.

“I knocked,” I said.

“I didn’t hear you.” He bent down to pick up the fallen papers. “Do you need something?”

“I, urn.”
Deep breath, deep breath.
“Mom says there’s more pizza.”

He tapped the papers on the desk to straighten them. “Tell your mother I had enough to eat.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else? I have to finish this report.”

The air-conditioning kicked in and blew cold, clammy air through the basement. Dad’s nose wrinkled. He flung the headphones on the desk, strode across the room, and shouted up the stairs. “Linda? Turn off the damn air-conditioning! It’s only seventy-five outside!”

There was something in his voice that made me want to ram his head into the concrete foundation.

“You don’t have to say it like that,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like Mom’s an idiot. I asked her to turn it on,” I lied. “I was hot.”

“So why don’t you go up and turn it off?”

“So I will, in a minute.” I walked over to the model-train layout. He’d spent years building it. Santa drove the engine. The freight cars were loaded down with elves and presents. The track wound through a village, by a lake, and into a mountain tunnel. The mountain was covered by fake snow. Mom’s touch.

I rocked the engine back and forth on the track.

“Don’t touch that,” he said. “You know how fragile it is. Was there something else?”

I wiped my hands on the front of my shorts. “Yeah, um…I need to change my schedule.”

“At school? Why? Is there a conflict?”

“Three APs plus Calc is insane. I’m not that smart, Dad.”

“Your grades from last year were good enough to get you in.”

“Just barely and only because you and Mom made a big stink about it. I’m not asking to drop all of them—just one of the APs, or let me switch out of Calc.”

“No. You’re not changing anything.” He sat down and leaned towards the screen. “I have work to do.”

That was Dad code for “go away.” I was supposed to say, “Okay,” and trudge upstairs, grateful he hadn’t yelled at me.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. I stepped closer. “I can’t do that level of work, sir. Not in every class. I’ll flunk.”

The muscles tightened along his jaw and up the side of his skull. He inhaled deeply through his nose and rolled his neck from side to side.

“You want me to take care of your problems again.” His voice was low.

“You guys forced me into these classes. I’m just telling you it’s not going to work.”

“When are you going to grow up, Tyler?”

One punch, a long slo-mo shot to the soft underbelly of the beast to make him double over, just one punch, my fist so far inside him that the knuckles scrape on his spine…

I tried not to clench my fists.

“I’m so sick of this,” he continued. “You expect me to wave a magic wand and make everything all better. Dad will talk to the teacher. Dad will pay for the lawyer. Daddy fix.” He spat the words out.

Step closer, two steps, get in his face and remind him that I have him by six inches and probably forty pounds. Pick up the monitor and bring it down on his head, shove the keyboard down his mouth, cram his skinny butt into the trash can…

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rolled his neck again. “This discussion is over.” He rolled his chair closer to the desk. “You’re staying in your classes. And you will quit working for that Pierogi fellow.”

“Pirelli. Mr. Pirelli. I like working for him.”

He looked over his shoulder. “This is not about what you like.”

The air conditioner shut down and the room fell silent, sour air suspended between us.

“I’ll be eighteen in November,” I reminded him.

He put the headphones on and turned up the volume.