*When I started writing this chapter, I planned for it to be a series of
four vignettes. I did two, and even that was a stretch. I'll try again for
the next chapter, but no promises. Before you start, I gotta warn you that
I know nothing about soccer. Zip. Never watched it, never played it, never
liked it. Nothing but hellish PE memories. Anyway, that means forgive my
lack of terminology and stuff; I don't think the correct term is "I shot
the ball into the net," but I'm a Canadian hockey nut, and hockey is all I
know. And baseball, but I'm saving that for another story.
For those of you who were wondering if I am ever going to give the non-Bash Ducks some screen time, I assure you that it's coming. A hockey showdown is on the horizon, and I got plans to cover a lot of Ducks when I get to that part, so hold on!
Notes! anne918: Glad you enjoy! Keep up the good work on your own stories!
Star: "When I met you, I was but the learner, now I am the master." Star Wars quotes aside, see how the tables have turned: I'll email you soon, I promise! Expect it after Monday, since I've got a midterm, but I have Lemche, Stahl AND Katherine Isabelle news to document!
RockAndRoll: Yes, thank you! I've long been thinking we're rather twin- like, or at least have a lot in common. I'm a Jim Morrison obsessive (posters, poems, biographies and a box set of CD's)! And I find your cowardly sensibilities perfectly endearing...
QteCuttlfish: Thanks for the terminology, I need all the help I can get! By the way, feel free to ignore this, but I've always wondered what on earth your name refers to.
Cake-Eater: Dearest good luck charm! If I was to amass all your reviews, I could probably compile a War and Peace-like epic! Hey, it's called a "firing barrel?" I always thought they were saying "fire in a barrel" really quickly... Yeah, I've totally shared the run-away graffiti artist dream, ever seen Basquiat? Amazing. I keep seeing ads for Holes, and I think of you. I've already picked up my copy, and I assume you've done the same (hello, understatement). Tim Burton is beyond fabulous, and Johnny Depp is my non-Elden acting god. Can you believe he's never even been nominated for an Oscar? Well, between Pirates of the Carribean and Once Upon a Time In Mexico, if there was ever a year he might pull it off, this is it. Fingers crossed!
Grasshopper: I was so happy to get your review for chapter seven; that line you liked was one of my very favourites from all my fics, so it felt good to know that someone else felt the same. Thank you!
Kelly: I'm sorry to say that while I've heard dim mention of "Fraggle Rock" (was it a Muppet cartoon, or something?), I'm pretty sure it never aired up here. I agree that makeup is one of mankind's sillier inventions, especially all the emphasis placed upon it by the media and consumers and whatnot. Ug. Ha, you think that was Portman cooking? Wait till you see what I've got planned; like in my BB series, Portman had serious gifts in the culinary arts, spurned on by his relationship with Johnny, of course! I'm glad you like my descriptions; they're always some of the most enjoyable passages to write. As for "There is no gravity, the Earth just sucks" line, I've been writing it on walls and desks and t-shirts since I was nine, but I have no idea where it came from. I'm beginning to think I might have made it up, but it seems awfully young. If anyone has seen it before, let me know, okay? I'd like to credit the guy. By the way, what the hell are cookies?
Schizzie the Artist: Since seeing the lovely pictures you sent me, that's going to join your list of names, okay? Or maybe you'd prefer Love Muffin...
Fulton's POV:
I was in a bad mood.
I was leaning against one of the wimpy little trees that separated the school's back parking lot from the gravel field behind it, and would you believe it? The damn thing started bending over under my weight. It was freezing outside; my arms were crossed tightly across my chest to keep myself from shivering, and my jaw was clenched so my teeth wouldn't chatter, but all the hairs on my arms and legs were standing up, the flesh raised into tiny little goosebumps. All the other kids on the sidelines were hopping up and down, rubbing their arms to keep warm, but I refused. I didn't want to give Morrison the satisfaction. As if being forced to play soccer and other retarded reindeer games with a bunch of teenaged hormonal piss-bags wasn't bad enough, now I was supposed to do it in sub-zero temperatures, likely contracting hypothermia in the bargain, or at least a raging case of frostbite. And don't even get me started on the shit they made me wear.
Morrison blew his whistle. "Alright, switch it up! Paulson, Germaine, Goldberg, O'Donnell, Mackey, Karp, Banks! You guys are taking over blue team, and the rest of you are red. Let's move it!"
The kids who had been playing came in, and the others started to jog out onto the field. Three of four girls who'd just come off were huddled together on my left, whispering loudly to each other.
"I heard it was two years for assault. He stabbed a teacher with a pair of scissors."
"Are you serious? And they let him come back?" I pretended not to notice while they stared at me, clucking excitedly amongst themselves. Did they really think I couldn't hear them?
"I don't think they had a choice, since he was only twelve."
"What a psycho! Did you hear he beat up Tracy McGillis for no reason at all? Just jumped him when he was coming home from a hockey game."
"I'm not surprised. And have you seen how out of it he always is? I bet he's on drugs right now."
God, I only wished that were true. Morrison suddenly appeared in front of me, his trademark scowl on his face. "You deaf as well as dumb, Reed? I said get out there!"
I bared my teeth, and he backed off a couple of steps. I was making my way onto the field when he called my name, and as I turned around, he tossed me a bright red jersey with no sleeves.
"Don't forget your tunic, Reed."
"You can take your tunic and--"
But I never got to tell him what he could do with his tunic, because at that moment, Guy grabbed my arm and hauled me out onto the field.
"What?" I demanded, angry that he'd interrupted my tirade.
"You mouth off to Morrison again, and he'll get you suspended. Remember what he said after you hit him with that Frisbee?"
I chuckled. "Yeah. Man, that fun."
"I'm sure it was. But you do want to graduate, don't you? Just put on your tunic, and try not to kill anyone."
I snorted derisively. "Forget it, I'm not putting that thing on. It's bad enough having to wear shorts."
"Come on, Fulton, what if I... wait! You know that presentation on STD's we have to do for sex-ed? You don't have a partner, right? You can work with me and Charlie. We'll do all the research, and talking and stuff; all you have to do is work the slide projector."
He was sharp. No way in hell I'd be caught dead giving a report on the dangers of syphilis and gonorrhea. I'd planned on skipping that day, but Ms. Nelson would probably try to track me down. She saw me as a high risk for AIDS, drug dependency, and unplanned pregnancies. I couldn't believe this kid, going out of his way to keep me, of all people, out of trouble. His idealism bordered on the foolhardy. He'd probably be one of those saps who goes into politics actually hoping to make a difference in the world.
I should have laughed in his face. Instead, I picked up the jersey, and pulled it over my head. It was way too small, stretching tight across my chest and ending well above my belly button. I looked at Guy, who was clearly trying to keep a straight face.
"You laugh, you die."
"Got it," he grinned, and ran to join his team at the other end of the field.
I was offered the position of goalie, which I accepted gratefully; running around after Banks and his hotshot pals did not appeal to me. Minneapolis was a hockey town; the only kids who played for soccer teams were the rich little pricks with stay-at-home moms who could ferry them to and from games- -the field was on the other end of town--in the family Volvo. Volvo-driving soccer moms, like in that Everclear song.
"You know I used to be a bad girl, I got busy in the bathroom at my high school prom. You know I used to be a dancer at the local strip club, but now I know my right wing from my wrong."
I was humming the opening bars to myself, when I spotted Portman waving at me from the cover of the scraggly trees. I waved back, and was about to head over, when Banks finally broke up the game of keep-away that Connie Moreau and Jesse Hall had been playing, and came charging up the field towards me.
If he played soccer like he did hockey, from the way he was moving, he'd probably deke left and go high right, so when he closed in like he was about to make a shot, I ignored my instincts and moved right. That set me up perfectly to catch the kick he made a few moments later; anyone else, and it would have gone way overhead, but I just reached up and plucked the ball from the air. I threw it to Connie--too hard, it hit her in the stomach and she doubled over, but Jesse got the rebound and started back upfield, Connie a little behind the others, since I'd knocked the wind out of her.
"Take that, you preppy little shit," I muttered, though in Banks' defense, he seemed neither shocked nor angry to have been robbed of a goal by Fulton Reed, and instead got right back into it, not even pausing to laugh at me with his friends.
When I saw Morrison's attention was focused on the action around the other goal, I jogged over to Portman. He was grinning wickedly.
"Nice save, Reed."
"Shut up," I muttered, knowing full well what was coming next.
"No, really, and you know, that jersey looks great on you, I really think red is your colour."
"Blow me."
He ignored me, and pointed at my bare legs with delight. "I don't think those things have ever seen the light of day before. You're as white as fuckin' Wonder Bread, man."
"So much for my dream of dancing in a J-Lo video. Tell me you're here to rescue me."
"Yup. I'm supposed to be in Math, but I just couldn't handle looking at another quadratic equation. Told Jeffries I had to take a piss, and never came back."
"That won't work with Morrison. The guy's a fucking Nazi."
"Show me a gym teacher who isn't. Don't worry, I got a plan. I was gonna pull the fire alarm, then I remembered you had gym this period. I bet he'd just have you play right through the drill. I'll distract him, and I'll meet you in the locker room after, okay?"
"Yeah, but what are you going to--"
But Portman was already off. Screaming like a banshee, he tore across the field, stole the ball from Sean Paulson, and, zigzagging past the rest of the defense, shot it right past the befuddled goalie. Everyone, including Morrsion and myself, stood slack-jawed while Portman threw his off his leather jacket, then his shirt, and started to dance around, flashing his muscles with gleeful abandon. He shimmied up one of the goalposts and out onto the crossbar, still whooping like a madman. Then he flipped over backwards so he was hanging by his arms, and started swinging back and forth, like a gymnast doing a bar routine.
I finally broke from my Portman-stupor (he was simply amazing), and struggled out of the hateful red jersey. I tossed it to the ground in disgust, unable to resist trodding it into the mud before I snuck off the field toward the locker rooms. I could hear Morrison yelling, trying to regain control of his students, who were all gathered around the goal, thoroughly enthralled by Portman's craziness. They weren't alone.
A little while later, I was dressed, and the two of us were making our way towards one of the school's side exits, so we wouldn't have to go by the field or the front office. I was still macking on Portman's "distraction."
"Seriously, dude, that was beautiful."
Portman put his hand over his heart and batted his eyelashes. "I'm touched. You know I only did it for you, right, sugar?"
"Hang on a sec, man, I gotta pee."
I ducked into the bathroom while Portman waited outside, which turned out to be a mistake, because when I emerged, he was talking to Ms. Wong, who looked decidedly suspicious.
"You're coming with me until I find out what class you're supposed to be in, Mr. Portman."
"Look, lady, I already told you--"
"ENOUGH."
"It's alright, he's with me." Ms. Wong spun around, and her eyes widened in that old, familiar way when she saw me.
"It's a family emergency. I'm sure you understand." I reached past her to take Portman's arm, and she squeaked and leapt backwards, then scurried away down the hall.
"What's the deal?" Portman asked when we were finally outside. "How come she's scared of you, but not me?"
I laughed. He actually seemed insulted by the fact that it didn't make Ms. Wong cringe to look at him. He shot me a glare, and continued. "I mean, I know you've got that brooding giant thing going on, but what am I, chopped liver?"
"She was my homeroom teacher last year; she probably saw my file."
"What file?" he asked sullenly, kicking a pine cone.
"You know, my school file. They've got records of all my suspensions and stuff."
Oops. Wrong thing to say. Portman rounded on me. "*I've* been suspended! TONS of times!" When I said nothing, only smiled at him, he went back to kicking pine cones. "Been suspended more times than you, I bet," he muttered.
"I heard that."
"So? It's true." He jabbed me in the arm with his finger. "Come on, man, quit dicking me around!"
"Okay, okay. It's just that I leave quite a paper trail, you know, with juvie and stuff."
"You been in lockdown?" he asked, clearly impressed. "When? How come? For how long?"
"Eight months when I was twelve for possession of stolen property and assault."
Portman gave a low whistle. "Damn, that's a long time for a first offense. You weren't even a teenager!"
I nodded. "Yeah, but I got some months added on for bad behaviour."
Portman's eyes were twinkling. He punched me in the shoulder. "Dude, I can't believe you never told me that! Well, actually, I can, but anyway, I want details, so 'fess up, you secretive little imp." Now he was poking me in the ribs. I was ticklish there, and had to pull away fast so I wouldn't laugh.
"Okay, but not now. It's kind of a long story, and I know you'll have a million questions. Later, alright?" He looked incredulous. "I promise."
"Fine, but then at least tell me if that's the only secret you got tucked away in your file, cause I think it'd take more than that to freak Ms. Wong out like that. You've done the psych thing, haven't you?"
"Yeah." I looked at him curiously. "How'd you know?"
He laughed. "Come on, man, you're so weird, if you ever ended up in the system, you'd have all those Nazi fucks pushing the panic button as soon as they met you. I'm just surprised they let you go."
"They didn't let me go, exactly."
He flashed me another dazzlingly toothy smile. "I figured."
He's your friend, and that's all, I reminded myself firmly.
All this talk about me was making me nervous. "How about you?"
"What, you mean my file? Nothing serious, but I been arrested a few times. For regular shit, drugs, fighting, vandalism, you know. Never been to juvie, though. Got the charge overturned the first time, got probation for the second and community service for that last one. Had to pull some kiddie rehab once, though. That place really blew."
"Tell me about it. I fucking hate shrinks."
"What do you call a hundred shrinks chained together at the bottom of the sea?"
"A good start. And isn't that supposed to be with lawyers?"
"Yeah. I hate them, too."
"Me too."
"Hey, did you hear they started replacing lab rats with lawyers? You know why? Cause the scientists get less attached to the lawyers, and cause--"
"--there are some things even rats won't do," I finished.
"Damn, Fult! Stop *doing* that!" he cried. "I don't even know where you hear these jokes," he muttered. "It's not like you have any other friends."
"I prefer my own company to those kids you used to hand around with, thank you," I said primly.
He grinned, and swung his arm over my shoulder. "Yeah. Me too."
***
I was in a bad mood. I was also in a rather substantial amount of pain.
I was lying on my front on my mattress, listening to water drops plip-plop into the paint can beside the door. I'd have to empty it soon, or it would overflow. But not now. Now all I could do was lie here and dream of a time when getting up to empty the paint can wouldn't have been a torturous activity. It felt like I'd been lying here for hours, which probably meant that about fifteen minutes had elapsed since my dad had gone ballistic on me, and for no logical reason either, or at least none that I could fathom.
After ditching school, Portman and I ended up taking mushrooms and sneaking into the aquarium to trip out on all the beautiful fish and marine life. Portman asked me questions the whole time, and for some reason, I didn't feel the need to hide my knowledge from him, and he was delighted by all the information I could provide about turtles and sharks and poisonous fish. I'd been going nuts about marine biology lately, reading everything the library carried on the subject. Ever seen some of the crazy shit that lives in the oceans? Lungfish and giant squid and cookie-cutter sharks... trippy.
Anyway, after I came home that night, my dad was watching a Vikings game with a couple of his drinking buddies, and my mom was passed out in the bathtub. He told me to fry up some eggs for him and his friends. After they were through, I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes, when he stormed in, dragged me into the bedroom, and proceeded to beat the shit out of me.
He didn't talk much about what I'd done wrong, except to cuss me out a lot and say that the eggs were too greasy, but the last time I cooked he nearly knocked half my teeth out for them not being greasy enough, so I figured he was just pissed. I mean, even if I did mess up the eggs a bit, no way did it warrant that big of a punishment; he'd used the buckle end of his belt and everything.
Things between my father and I had really been escalating lately. This past year or so, he'd begun to hit more and more often, but the real problem was how erratic he was becoming. Like today, with the eggs. When I was younger, he'd have cuffed me a bit for it, and that'd be it, but now, it was hard to divine how he'd react in any situation, and that was dangerous. It was always one of my best defences that I could predict with good accuracy the amount of pain he'd dispense for each infraction, so I could avoid landmines and minimise damage. Lately, however, it seemed that all I could count on was that spending any degree of time in the same vicinity as the man practically guaranteed me an ass-kicking.
The door to my room opened, and I looked up quickly. It was my mother. So far, the basement still provided me with a sanctuary from my father, but I wondered how long that would last.
My mom had a glass of water in one hand. She walked over on unsteady legs, and half-fell, half-lowered herself onto the stool beside my desk. She leant over, and handed me the water, and a couple of pills, which I swallowed eagerly.
"How did you fare, my little Lancelot?" she asked in that sad, whispery voice of hers.
"I ran into Morgan Le Fey up there. Where're Gawain and Galahad when you need them, huh?"
She giggled, but the noise deteriorated into something like a sob. She sat down beside me on the mattress, brushing the hair from my sweaty face and smiling crookedly. "Where indeed? I've often wondered that same thing myself."
Her voice dropped an octave, and I saw her hands were trembling none-too- slightly. "What happened?"
What happened? My mother never asked me that. She was so far removed from reality, that sometimes I wondered about her ability to connect cause and effect. She never questioned or discussed the bad things that happened in life, never tried to do anything to prevent them. I don't think she felt she had the power. Instead she took her pills, and rode out the storm with a smile. This must have been one of her rare periods of straight time; it explained the trembling, too.
"Greasy eggs," I muttered.
"Are you all right?"
I'll be a hell of a lot better once those pills take hold. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine, Fulton. You're pale and sweaty, and you look sick. Is there anything I can do?"
I considered. "I could use a little food."
She frowned. "Oh, dear, that'll be difficult for a while. Do you think you can wait a few hours until your father's gone to bed?" I nodded. "Good boy. Just hang on till then, and I'll make you some spaghetti."
She bent to adjust the old grey Army blanket I'd draped over myself, pulling it back from my shoulders in the process. "Oh, my," she said softly.
"I'm fine," I repeated, pulling the blanket back overtop of me.
The door opened again, and my stomach dropped into my feet. But it wasn't my father. It was a friend of his, Lenny Tawler. Lenny was in his late thirties, pale and balding, with long, bony fingers and bleary red eyes that swam behind thick glasses.
"Lila?" he asked tentatively, stepping inside. "Clayton wants to see you upstairs."
My mom looked at me. "He's bleeding, Lenny."
"He is? Well, don't worry, I'll take care of that."
She got up and put her hand on Lenny's shoulder, staring at him until he looked away uneasily. "Thank you, Lenny. You've always been good to me. And my boy."
When she left, Lenny relaxed visibly, and took a seat on the stool. "How's it goin', kid?"
"Peachy."
He looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, that was kinda crazy, wasn't it? Me and Pete were sitting with your dad, and then he just stands up and... what'd you do to piss him off so much, anyway?"
"Who knows?"
He sighed. "Yeah. How bad is it?"
"Could be worse, but I'll need stitches."
"Well, that's what I'm here for. Where's the kit?"
"In the box. The other one." I pointed, and he dug around, finally coming up with an old metal box with a dented lid; the white paint had flaked off in places, but the red cross was still clearly visible.
Lenny was a doctor, or had been until he lost his licence. He just couldn't lay off the booze; he got busted for practicing while drunk. He was drunk now, for that matter, but I didn't mind; when he was sober, his hands trembled constantly, and I'd rather have a drunk guy stitching me up than a sober one with the shakes.
He'd been a friend of my father's since I was a little kid, and since then, he'd also taken on the role of my personal physician. My dad had never hurt me bad enough to require hospitalisation, thank god, but there had been plenty of stitches over the years, as well as some other stuff, and if it wasn't something I could take care of myself, then Lenny was the man. I was lucky he'd been over tonight, or I might have had to wait until tomorrow.
I used to see him a lot when I was younger, but now, it was a rare injury that I couldn't take care of myself. I remembered the first time my dad beat me unconscious. He must have got freaked and called Lenny, because when I came to, I was on the couch, and Lenny and my mom were looking down on me while my father sat in his chair, watching TV.
Lenny put on a pair of latex gloves, and started to string up a needle. "You don't look so hot, kid. Did Clayton really do a number on your back?"
I shrugged. "I'm fine."
"I bet you are. But why don't you have a toke before we get started?"
It was a good idea. It drove away the worst of the pain that the pills had left behind, and I didn't feel so woozy and sweaty anymore.
When I was sufficiently stoned, Lenny helped me take off my shirt. It was weird, but I'd really come to trust him over the years, more than any other adult, probably, except my mom. That wasn't saying much, I know, but I wouldn't have let anyone else help me like that. Probably because I'd known him for so long. I was lucky he'd never tried to molest me when I was younger; he seemed like the type of guy who might go for that. Wordlessly, he began cleaning my cuts, and stitching up the worst of them. All in all, it took less than twenty stitches. Lenny was good; I hardly felt a thing.
I knew Lenny had a thing for my mother; it had been going on since I'd known him, and I wondered idly if he'd ever made a move on her. Probably not; he was a sad, ineffectual little man, and I'm sure he was scared to death of my father finding out. My mother? It was hard to say where her heart lay. I knew my dad really loved my mom, and sometimes I could swear she loved him too, but other days, he was just another storm to wait out. I couldn't really imagine her having an affair with Lenny, but that didn't mean anything. She did a lot of things I couldn't imagine.
Lenny finished up, and returned the kit to its cardboard box. "You should take it easy for a day or two so you don't pop the stitches, but I imagine you'll feel like doing that anyway. Can I get you some pain killers?"
"Nah, mom's loaded."
"Oh, I almost forgot. I swiped this for you." He reached into his pocket and tossed me a Snickers bar. I gobbled it up instantly. Squashed nougat had never tasted so good. I burped loudly, having eaten far too fast. "Thanks."
Lenny was looking at me bemusedly. "My pleasure. You know, you're a good kid, Fulton."
He rubbed my hair in a paternal way. It was enough to make me want to vomit. Don't get me wrong, I liked Lenny well enough, but come on, how after-school special could you get? "Yeah, right. Don't you have to get back to poisoning your liver, or something?"
He smiled ruefully. "I suppose so. I'll see you next time, Fulton."
"I can't wait."
For those of you who were wondering if I am ever going to give the non-Bash Ducks some screen time, I assure you that it's coming. A hockey showdown is on the horizon, and I got plans to cover a lot of Ducks when I get to that part, so hold on!
Notes! anne918: Glad you enjoy! Keep up the good work on your own stories!
Star: "When I met you, I was but the learner, now I am the master." Star Wars quotes aside, see how the tables have turned: I'll email you soon, I promise! Expect it after Monday, since I've got a midterm, but I have Lemche, Stahl AND Katherine Isabelle news to document!
RockAndRoll: Yes, thank you! I've long been thinking we're rather twin- like, or at least have a lot in common. I'm a Jim Morrison obsessive (posters, poems, biographies and a box set of CD's)! And I find your cowardly sensibilities perfectly endearing...
QteCuttlfish: Thanks for the terminology, I need all the help I can get! By the way, feel free to ignore this, but I've always wondered what on earth your name refers to.
Cake-Eater: Dearest good luck charm! If I was to amass all your reviews, I could probably compile a War and Peace-like epic! Hey, it's called a "firing barrel?" I always thought they were saying "fire in a barrel" really quickly... Yeah, I've totally shared the run-away graffiti artist dream, ever seen Basquiat? Amazing. I keep seeing ads for Holes, and I think of you. I've already picked up my copy, and I assume you've done the same (hello, understatement). Tim Burton is beyond fabulous, and Johnny Depp is my non-Elden acting god. Can you believe he's never even been nominated for an Oscar? Well, between Pirates of the Carribean and Once Upon a Time In Mexico, if there was ever a year he might pull it off, this is it. Fingers crossed!
Grasshopper: I was so happy to get your review for chapter seven; that line you liked was one of my very favourites from all my fics, so it felt good to know that someone else felt the same. Thank you!
Kelly: I'm sorry to say that while I've heard dim mention of "Fraggle Rock" (was it a Muppet cartoon, or something?), I'm pretty sure it never aired up here. I agree that makeup is one of mankind's sillier inventions, especially all the emphasis placed upon it by the media and consumers and whatnot. Ug. Ha, you think that was Portman cooking? Wait till you see what I've got planned; like in my BB series, Portman had serious gifts in the culinary arts, spurned on by his relationship with Johnny, of course! I'm glad you like my descriptions; they're always some of the most enjoyable passages to write. As for "There is no gravity, the Earth just sucks" line, I've been writing it on walls and desks and t-shirts since I was nine, but I have no idea where it came from. I'm beginning to think I might have made it up, but it seems awfully young. If anyone has seen it before, let me know, okay? I'd like to credit the guy. By the way, what the hell are cookies?
Schizzie the Artist: Since seeing the lovely pictures you sent me, that's going to join your list of names, okay? Or maybe you'd prefer Love Muffin...
Fulton's POV:
I was in a bad mood.
I was leaning against one of the wimpy little trees that separated the school's back parking lot from the gravel field behind it, and would you believe it? The damn thing started bending over under my weight. It was freezing outside; my arms were crossed tightly across my chest to keep myself from shivering, and my jaw was clenched so my teeth wouldn't chatter, but all the hairs on my arms and legs were standing up, the flesh raised into tiny little goosebumps. All the other kids on the sidelines were hopping up and down, rubbing their arms to keep warm, but I refused. I didn't want to give Morrison the satisfaction. As if being forced to play soccer and other retarded reindeer games with a bunch of teenaged hormonal piss-bags wasn't bad enough, now I was supposed to do it in sub-zero temperatures, likely contracting hypothermia in the bargain, or at least a raging case of frostbite. And don't even get me started on the shit they made me wear.
Morrison blew his whistle. "Alright, switch it up! Paulson, Germaine, Goldberg, O'Donnell, Mackey, Karp, Banks! You guys are taking over blue team, and the rest of you are red. Let's move it!"
The kids who had been playing came in, and the others started to jog out onto the field. Three of four girls who'd just come off were huddled together on my left, whispering loudly to each other.
"I heard it was two years for assault. He stabbed a teacher with a pair of scissors."
"Are you serious? And they let him come back?" I pretended not to notice while they stared at me, clucking excitedly amongst themselves. Did they really think I couldn't hear them?
"I don't think they had a choice, since he was only twelve."
"What a psycho! Did you hear he beat up Tracy McGillis for no reason at all? Just jumped him when he was coming home from a hockey game."
"I'm not surprised. And have you seen how out of it he always is? I bet he's on drugs right now."
God, I only wished that were true. Morrison suddenly appeared in front of me, his trademark scowl on his face. "You deaf as well as dumb, Reed? I said get out there!"
I bared my teeth, and he backed off a couple of steps. I was making my way onto the field when he called my name, and as I turned around, he tossed me a bright red jersey with no sleeves.
"Don't forget your tunic, Reed."
"You can take your tunic and--"
But I never got to tell him what he could do with his tunic, because at that moment, Guy grabbed my arm and hauled me out onto the field.
"What?" I demanded, angry that he'd interrupted my tirade.
"You mouth off to Morrison again, and he'll get you suspended. Remember what he said after you hit him with that Frisbee?"
I chuckled. "Yeah. Man, that fun."
"I'm sure it was. But you do want to graduate, don't you? Just put on your tunic, and try not to kill anyone."
I snorted derisively. "Forget it, I'm not putting that thing on. It's bad enough having to wear shorts."
"Come on, Fulton, what if I... wait! You know that presentation on STD's we have to do for sex-ed? You don't have a partner, right? You can work with me and Charlie. We'll do all the research, and talking and stuff; all you have to do is work the slide projector."
He was sharp. No way in hell I'd be caught dead giving a report on the dangers of syphilis and gonorrhea. I'd planned on skipping that day, but Ms. Nelson would probably try to track me down. She saw me as a high risk for AIDS, drug dependency, and unplanned pregnancies. I couldn't believe this kid, going out of his way to keep me, of all people, out of trouble. His idealism bordered on the foolhardy. He'd probably be one of those saps who goes into politics actually hoping to make a difference in the world.
I should have laughed in his face. Instead, I picked up the jersey, and pulled it over my head. It was way too small, stretching tight across my chest and ending well above my belly button. I looked at Guy, who was clearly trying to keep a straight face.
"You laugh, you die."
"Got it," he grinned, and ran to join his team at the other end of the field.
I was offered the position of goalie, which I accepted gratefully; running around after Banks and his hotshot pals did not appeal to me. Minneapolis was a hockey town; the only kids who played for soccer teams were the rich little pricks with stay-at-home moms who could ferry them to and from games- -the field was on the other end of town--in the family Volvo. Volvo-driving soccer moms, like in that Everclear song.
"You know I used to be a bad girl, I got busy in the bathroom at my high school prom. You know I used to be a dancer at the local strip club, but now I know my right wing from my wrong."
I was humming the opening bars to myself, when I spotted Portman waving at me from the cover of the scraggly trees. I waved back, and was about to head over, when Banks finally broke up the game of keep-away that Connie Moreau and Jesse Hall had been playing, and came charging up the field towards me.
If he played soccer like he did hockey, from the way he was moving, he'd probably deke left and go high right, so when he closed in like he was about to make a shot, I ignored my instincts and moved right. That set me up perfectly to catch the kick he made a few moments later; anyone else, and it would have gone way overhead, but I just reached up and plucked the ball from the air. I threw it to Connie--too hard, it hit her in the stomach and she doubled over, but Jesse got the rebound and started back upfield, Connie a little behind the others, since I'd knocked the wind out of her.
"Take that, you preppy little shit," I muttered, though in Banks' defense, he seemed neither shocked nor angry to have been robbed of a goal by Fulton Reed, and instead got right back into it, not even pausing to laugh at me with his friends.
When I saw Morrison's attention was focused on the action around the other goal, I jogged over to Portman. He was grinning wickedly.
"Nice save, Reed."
"Shut up," I muttered, knowing full well what was coming next.
"No, really, and you know, that jersey looks great on you, I really think red is your colour."
"Blow me."
He ignored me, and pointed at my bare legs with delight. "I don't think those things have ever seen the light of day before. You're as white as fuckin' Wonder Bread, man."
"So much for my dream of dancing in a J-Lo video. Tell me you're here to rescue me."
"Yup. I'm supposed to be in Math, but I just couldn't handle looking at another quadratic equation. Told Jeffries I had to take a piss, and never came back."
"That won't work with Morrison. The guy's a fucking Nazi."
"Show me a gym teacher who isn't. Don't worry, I got a plan. I was gonna pull the fire alarm, then I remembered you had gym this period. I bet he'd just have you play right through the drill. I'll distract him, and I'll meet you in the locker room after, okay?"
"Yeah, but what are you going to--"
But Portman was already off. Screaming like a banshee, he tore across the field, stole the ball from Sean Paulson, and, zigzagging past the rest of the defense, shot it right past the befuddled goalie. Everyone, including Morrsion and myself, stood slack-jawed while Portman threw his off his leather jacket, then his shirt, and started to dance around, flashing his muscles with gleeful abandon. He shimmied up one of the goalposts and out onto the crossbar, still whooping like a madman. Then he flipped over backwards so he was hanging by his arms, and started swinging back and forth, like a gymnast doing a bar routine.
I finally broke from my Portman-stupor (he was simply amazing), and struggled out of the hateful red jersey. I tossed it to the ground in disgust, unable to resist trodding it into the mud before I snuck off the field toward the locker rooms. I could hear Morrison yelling, trying to regain control of his students, who were all gathered around the goal, thoroughly enthralled by Portman's craziness. They weren't alone.
A little while later, I was dressed, and the two of us were making our way towards one of the school's side exits, so we wouldn't have to go by the field or the front office. I was still macking on Portman's "distraction."
"Seriously, dude, that was beautiful."
Portman put his hand over his heart and batted his eyelashes. "I'm touched. You know I only did it for you, right, sugar?"
"Hang on a sec, man, I gotta pee."
I ducked into the bathroom while Portman waited outside, which turned out to be a mistake, because when I emerged, he was talking to Ms. Wong, who looked decidedly suspicious.
"You're coming with me until I find out what class you're supposed to be in, Mr. Portman."
"Look, lady, I already told you--"
"ENOUGH."
"It's alright, he's with me." Ms. Wong spun around, and her eyes widened in that old, familiar way when she saw me.
"It's a family emergency. I'm sure you understand." I reached past her to take Portman's arm, and she squeaked and leapt backwards, then scurried away down the hall.
"What's the deal?" Portman asked when we were finally outside. "How come she's scared of you, but not me?"
I laughed. He actually seemed insulted by the fact that it didn't make Ms. Wong cringe to look at him. He shot me a glare, and continued. "I mean, I know you've got that brooding giant thing going on, but what am I, chopped liver?"
"She was my homeroom teacher last year; she probably saw my file."
"What file?" he asked sullenly, kicking a pine cone.
"You know, my school file. They've got records of all my suspensions and stuff."
Oops. Wrong thing to say. Portman rounded on me. "*I've* been suspended! TONS of times!" When I said nothing, only smiled at him, he went back to kicking pine cones. "Been suspended more times than you, I bet," he muttered.
"I heard that."
"So? It's true." He jabbed me in the arm with his finger. "Come on, man, quit dicking me around!"
"Okay, okay. It's just that I leave quite a paper trail, you know, with juvie and stuff."
"You been in lockdown?" he asked, clearly impressed. "When? How come? For how long?"
"Eight months when I was twelve for possession of stolen property and assault."
Portman gave a low whistle. "Damn, that's a long time for a first offense. You weren't even a teenager!"
I nodded. "Yeah, but I got some months added on for bad behaviour."
Portman's eyes were twinkling. He punched me in the shoulder. "Dude, I can't believe you never told me that! Well, actually, I can, but anyway, I want details, so 'fess up, you secretive little imp." Now he was poking me in the ribs. I was ticklish there, and had to pull away fast so I wouldn't laugh.
"Okay, but not now. It's kind of a long story, and I know you'll have a million questions. Later, alright?" He looked incredulous. "I promise."
"Fine, but then at least tell me if that's the only secret you got tucked away in your file, cause I think it'd take more than that to freak Ms. Wong out like that. You've done the psych thing, haven't you?"
"Yeah." I looked at him curiously. "How'd you know?"
He laughed. "Come on, man, you're so weird, if you ever ended up in the system, you'd have all those Nazi fucks pushing the panic button as soon as they met you. I'm just surprised they let you go."
"They didn't let me go, exactly."
He flashed me another dazzlingly toothy smile. "I figured."
He's your friend, and that's all, I reminded myself firmly.
All this talk about me was making me nervous. "How about you?"
"What, you mean my file? Nothing serious, but I been arrested a few times. For regular shit, drugs, fighting, vandalism, you know. Never been to juvie, though. Got the charge overturned the first time, got probation for the second and community service for that last one. Had to pull some kiddie rehab once, though. That place really blew."
"Tell me about it. I fucking hate shrinks."
"What do you call a hundred shrinks chained together at the bottom of the sea?"
"A good start. And isn't that supposed to be with lawyers?"
"Yeah. I hate them, too."
"Me too."
"Hey, did you hear they started replacing lab rats with lawyers? You know why? Cause the scientists get less attached to the lawyers, and cause--"
"--there are some things even rats won't do," I finished.
"Damn, Fult! Stop *doing* that!" he cried. "I don't even know where you hear these jokes," he muttered. "It's not like you have any other friends."
"I prefer my own company to those kids you used to hand around with, thank you," I said primly.
He grinned, and swung his arm over my shoulder. "Yeah. Me too."
***
I was in a bad mood. I was also in a rather substantial amount of pain.
I was lying on my front on my mattress, listening to water drops plip-plop into the paint can beside the door. I'd have to empty it soon, or it would overflow. But not now. Now all I could do was lie here and dream of a time when getting up to empty the paint can wouldn't have been a torturous activity. It felt like I'd been lying here for hours, which probably meant that about fifteen minutes had elapsed since my dad had gone ballistic on me, and for no logical reason either, or at least none that I could fathom.
After ditching school, Portman and I ended up taking mushrooms and sneaking into the aquarium to trip out on all the beautiful fish and marine life. Portman asked me questions the whole time, and for some reason, I didn't feel the need to hide my knowledge from him, and he was delighted by all the information I could provide about turtles and sharks and poisonous fish. I'd been going nuts about marine biology lately, reading everything the library carried on the subject. Ever seen some of the crazy shit that lives in the oceans? Lungfish and giant squid and cookie-cutter sharks... trippy.
Anyway, after I came home that night, my dad was watching a Vikings game with a couple of his drinking buddies, and my mom was passed out in the bathtub. He told me to fry up some eggs for him and his friends. After they were through, I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes, when he stormed in, dragged me into the bedroom, and proceeded to beat the shit out of me.
He didn't talk much about what I'd done wrong, except to cuss me out a lot and say that the eggs were too greasy, but the last time I cooked he nearly knocked half my teeth out for them not being greasy enough, so I figured he was just pissed. I mean, even if I did mess up the eggs a bit, no way did it warrant that big of a punishment; he'd used the buckle end of his belt and everything.
Things between my father and I had really been escalating lately. This past year or so, he'd begun to hit more and more often, but the real problem was how erratic he was becoming. Like today, with the eggs. When I was younger, he'd have cuffed me a bit for it, and that'd be it, but now, it was hard to divine how he'd react in any situation, and that was dangerous. It was always one of my best defences that I could predict with good accuracy the amount of pain he'd dispense for each infraction, so I could avoid landmines and minimise damage. Lately, however, it seemed that all I could count on was that spending any degree of time in the same vicinity as the man practically guaranteed me an ass-kicking.
The door to my room opened, and I looked up quickly. It was my mother. So far, the basement still provided me with a sanctuary from my father, but I wondered how long that would last.
My mom had a glass of water in one hand. She walked over on unsteady legs, and half-fell, half-lowered herself onto the stool beside my desk. She leant over, and handed me the water, and a couple of pills, which I swallowed eagerly.
"How did you fare, my little Lancelot?" she asked in that sad, whispery voice of hers.
"I ran into Morgan Le Fey up there. Where're Gawain and Galahad when you need them, huh?"
She giggled, but the noise deteriorated into something like a sob. She sat down beside me on the mattress, brushing the hair from my sweaty face and smiling crookedly. "Where indeed? I've often wondered that same thing myself."
Her voice dropped an octave, and I saw her hands were trembling none-too- slightly. "What happened?"
What happened? My mother never asked me that. She was so far removed from reality, that sometimes I wondered about her ability to connect cause and effect. She never questioned or discussed the bad things that happened in life, never tried to do anything to prevent them. I don't think she felt she had the power. Instead she took her pills, and rode out the storm with a smile. This must have been one of her rare periods of straight time; it explained the trembling, too.
"Greasy eggs," I muttered.
"Are you all right?"
I'll be a hell of a lot better once those pills take hold. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine, Fulton. You're pale and sweaty, and you look sick. Is there anything I can do?"
I considered. "I could use a little food."
She frowned. "Oh, dear, that'll be difficult for a while. Do you think you can wait a few hours until your father's gone to bed?" I nodded. "Good boy. Just hang on till then, and I'll make you some spaghetti."
She bent to adjust the old grey Army blanket I'd draped over myself, pulling it back from my shoulders in the process. "Oh, my," she said softly.
"I'm fine," I repeated, pulling the blanket back overtop of me.
The door opened again, and my stomach dropped into my feet. But it wasn't my father. It was a friend of his, Lenny Tawler. Lenny was in his late thirties, pale and balding, with long, bony fingers and bleary red eyes that swam behind thick glasses.
"Lila?" he asked tentatively, stepping inside. "Clayton wants to see you upstairs."
My mom looked at me. "He's bleeding, Lenny."
"He is? Well, don't worry, I'll take care of that."
She got up and put her hand on Lenny's shoulder, staring at him until he looked away uneasily. "Thank you, Lenny. You've always been good to me. And my boy."
When she left, Lenny relaxed visibly, and took a seat on the stool. "How's it goin', kid?"
"Peachy."
He looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, that was kinda crazy, wasn't it? Me and Pete were sitting with your dad, and then he just stands up and... what'd you do to piss him off so much, anyway?"
"Who knows?"
He sighed. "Yeah. How bad is it?"
"Could be worse, but I'll need stitches."
"Well, that's what I'm here for. Where's the kit?"
"In the box. The other one." I pointed, and he dug around, finally coming up with an old metal box with a dented lid; the white paint had flaked off in places, but the red cross was still clearly visible.
Lenny was a doctor, or had been until he lost his licence. He just couldn't lay off the booze; he got busted for practicing while drunk. He was drunk now, for that matter, but I didn't mind; when he was sober, his hands trembled constantly, and I'd rather have a drunk guy stitching me up than a sober one with the shakes.
He'd been a friend of my father's since I was a little kid, and since then, he'd also taken on the role of my personal physician. My dad had never hurt me bad enough to require hospitalisation, thank god, but there had been plenty of stitches over the years, as well as some other stuff, and if it wasn't something I could take care of myself, then Lenny was the man. I was lucky he'd been over tonight, or I might have had to wait until tomorrow.
I used to see him a lot when I was younger, but now, it was a rare injury that I couldn't take care of myself. I remembered the first time my dad beat me unconscious. He must have got freaked and called Lenny, because when I came to, I was on the couch, and Lenny and my mom were looking down on me while my father sat in his chair, watching TV.
Lenny put on a pair of latex gloves, and started to string up a needle. "You don't look so hot, kid. Did Clayton really do a number on your back?"
I shrugged. "I'm fine."
"I bet you are. But why don't you have a toke before we get started?"
It was a good idea. It drove away the worst of the pain that the pills had left behind, and I didn't feel so woozy and sweaty anymore.
When I was sufficiently stoned, Lenny helped me take off my shirt. It was weird, but I'd really come to trust him over the years, more than any other adult, probably, except my mom. That wasn't saying much, I know, but I wouldn't have let anyone else help me like that. Probably because I'd known him for so long. I was lucky he'd never tried to molest me when I was younger; he seemed like the type of guy who might go for that. Wordlessly, he began cleaning my cuts, and stitching up the worst of them. All in all, it took less than twenty stitches. Lenny was good; I hardly felt a thing.
I knew Lenny had a thing for my mother; it had been going on since I'd known him, and I wondered idly if he'd ever made a move on her. Probably not; he was a sad, ineffectual little man, and I'm sure he was scared to death of my father finding out. My mother? It was hard to say where her heart lay. I knew my dad really loved my mom, and sometimes I could swear she loved him too, but other days, he was just another storm to wait out. I couldn't really imagine her having an affair with Lenny, but that didn't mean anything. She did a lot of things I couldn't imagine.
Lenny finished up, and returned the kit to its cardboard box. "You should take it easy for a day or two so you don't pop the stitches, but I imagine you'll feel like doing that anyway. Can I get you some pain killers?"
"Nah, mom's loaded."
"Oh, I almost forgot. I swiped this for you." He reached into his pocket and tossed me a Snickers bar. I gobbled it up instantly. Squashed nougat had never tasted so good. I burped loudly, having eaten far too fast. "Thanks."
Lenny was looking at me bemusedly. "My pleasure. You know, you're a good kid, Fulton."
He rubbed my hair in a paternal way. It was enough to make me want to vomit. Don't get me wrong, I liked Lenny well enough, but come on, how after-school special could you get? "Yeah, right. Don't you have to get back to poisoning your liver, or something?"
He smiled ruefully. "I suppose so. I'll see you next time, Fulton."
"I can't wait."