Rotten (9780545495899) Page 5

  “HAARRFF!”

  We spend a couple of hours on the PlayStation. I’m really out of practice, and Rudy pretty much kills me continuously. One of the few times I win is because he gets a text message at exactly the wrong moment, and I perforate him with the nail gun while he’s checking it.

  Turns out, the text is from Aaron. They’re going to Wendy’s. Rudy texts back, saying to pick us up here, but I can’t help noticing that I never get a text. Twenty minutes later, the car pulls up. Rudy and Mars both live within walking distance, and sometimes they’ll just show up, but Aaron always arrives this way. He never pulls into the driveway, just rolls to a stop along the side of the road, like it’s a bank heist. That’s fine because he almost never gets out of the car. Except today, he and Mars both do. I see both front doors open as Rudy and I are heading toward the car.

  “What’s up?” I call out.

  “Wanna see the dog,” calls Mars. He waits for Aaron to come around the front of the car, and then they start across the yard together.

  “Nah,” I start. I look over to Rudy to back me up, but he’s kind of poker faced, and I wonder if he mentioned something about it in his message. “I don’t think you should.”

  “What the hell,” says Mars. “Why not?”

  He stops six feet in front of me. I stop, too.

  “He’s new,” I say. “Kind of weird around people.”

  Mars points to Rudy and me with his right hand, palm up, meaning: You’re people, aren’t you? Mars and Aaron are in front of me and Rudy is a few steps behind. I feel a little boxed in.

  “Maybe, like, Thursday,” I say. I don’t really mean that. I’m just trying to put him off because I think one new dude is enough for today. And Aaron is always under control, but I don’t really trust Mars to be cool around the dog.

  Mars says something under his breath. I can’t make it out, but Aaron laughs and shakes his head. It’s some inside joke, possibly about me. They turn and head back to the car, and I wonder if I just made a big mistake.

  Wendy’s is out by the interstate, and the ride over is pretty quiet. But once we all have our food spread out on one of the two outside tables, they start interrogating me about where I was over the summer. I know immediately that I’m not going to have the energy to do this right, and I wonder if they know that too, like this was all planned out. I feel tired and grungy. I should’ve showered; at least it would’ve woken me up some.

  “Dude, man, seriously,” says Aaron. “Where were you?”

  “You mean what town?” I say, because I’ve told them four dozen times that I was at my aunt’s place.

  “I mean, what center?” says Aaron.

  “Yeah,” says Mars. “Was it the big one up in Milford? I hear it’s rough.”

  “It wasn’t any of them, and it wasn’t rough,” I say. “Just really boring.”

  “Seriously,” says Aaron. “I think you need to give that a rest. I don’t even know why you started it. Or, OK, maybe you were embarrassed or whatever, and you said that to some other people and you felt like you had to keep your story straight. I understand that. But it’s us, dude. You need to drop it.”

  “Seriously,” repeats Mars. “It’s not like it’s not kind of cool anyway. And what? We’re gonna judge you or something? Look at us!”

  I can’t help but look around. Mars is wearing an orange T-shirt with a jack-o’-lantern face on the front and a faded brown stain running from eye to mouth. It’s a Halloween shirt he probably got for Christmas, 60 percent off by then. Aaron is wearing his Avenged Sevenfold concert T-shirt, which probably cost a fortune. And Rudy is still wearing the skeleton shirt from yesterday, purchased online with an M&S Realty credit card. M&S stands for Mark and Sandy, his parents, and he keeps the charges small and scattered. File under miscellaneous expenses.

  Rudy hasn’t said anything yet, and I’m thinking that he’s on my side. And so of course he catches me completely off guard.

  “What’s her name?” he says. “Your aunt.”

  “It’s, uh, it’s Judy,” I say, but that little hesitation goes off like thunder. The table is quiet for a second. I can’t believe I did that.

  “What a load of crap!” says Mars.

  “What?” I say. “Her name is Judy.”

  No one’s buying it, and I look over at Rudy. I wonder why he did it.

  I usually go to bed around midnight, and sometimes much later, but I barely make it to eleven on Tuesday. I’m completely wiped out. Plus, I take some Benadryl because I’m “suffering” from “allergies,” and that stuff always knocks me out. I sleep like a rock. I wake up early and decide I might as well get an early start on doing nothing. It’s good practice anyway, since I’ll have to start getting up for school again in like five days. Not looking forward to that.

  Mom is running late and surprised to see me before she leaves. She’s standing in the kitchen, dressed super sharp and carrying an enormous travel mug of coffee, even though she travels less than a mile to the office.

  “You look like a politician,” I say, grabbing the cereal box and getting started on breakfast.

  “That’s me,” she says. “You look like a sleepy, rumpled teenager.”

  “That’s me,” I say. I guess we’ve got each other figured out.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asks.

  “Gotta milk the chickens and feed the cows,” I say.

  “Well, how about walking the dog while you’re at it?”

  I have to admit, it fits right in on my list of imaginary farm chores, but I don’t think so. “Nah,” I say. “Kind of hoping to get through the day without getting mauled.”

  “I’ll put the leash on for you,” she says.

  “He’ll let you?” I say.

  “Sure, I’ve done it before.”

  “Dude,” I call over my shoulder into the living room. I want to say, “Bros before hos,” but it’s my mom, so that’s pretty much out of the question. I think about it for a second. “Brothas before mothas!” I shout.

  We both laugh at that, and then I can’t figure out how to get back to no from there. Mom barely waits for my response anyway. She puts down her travel mug, picks up the leash, and heads into the living room. I listen for a growl or anything like that, but all I hear is the sound of metal clicking on metal and then both of them heading back to the kitchen.

  “Out!” Mom announces once they arrive.

  “I’m not done,” I say, pointing to my cereal.

  “It will be there when you get back,” she says.

  It will be milk paste when I get back, but she’s made up her mind, and I guess I’m curious to see if this will actually work.

  “Out!” she repeats, except this time she’s talking to the dog. He’s walking more or less normally on the end of a blue nylon leash. She opens the door in front of her, and they both head out into the yard. I follow after them, bringing her travel mug and closing the door behind me. It’s not as hot today, and the sun is half hidden behind some low clouds.

  I hand Mom the mug and she hands me the leash. JR’s body language changes immediately. His head shoots back and forth between us, registering the bait and switch. His shoulders slump and his brown legs fold halfway to the ground. His eyes flash with confusion and something worse, maybe betrayal.

  “Geez,” I say. It’s hard not to take it personally.

  “He’ll be fine once you get going,” says Mom, already walking toward the car.

  “Was he like this the first time you walked him?” I say.

  “Not exactly,” she calls back. “But then, I’d showered.”

  The car pulls out and it’s just the two of us: an unwashed dude and a slouching dog. I don’t trust him, and he doesn’t trust me, but we can’t stay there forever. “Come on, man,” I say. “You were walking fine for her. What, ’cause she has a suit?”

  He’s not listening to me as much as watching me talk. His ears are back in a way that looks hostile. “Come on, man,” I repeat. A car goes by, an
d then another. Finally, I give the leash a little tug. It feels like pulling the pin out of a grenade. I’m thinking, Yep, this is the part where he jumps up and bites my neck off.

  Instead, he takes a step. It’s a small one, but it’s not toward my neck. I give the leash another little tug, and he takes another little step. He’s still crouched down, and his legs are still bent halfway between sitting and standing, but those were definitely steps. I give the leash another tug.

  “I can do this for as long as my throat remains in my body,” I say. “So you’re going to have to go ahead and bite my head off now or get moving.”

  His ears come forward. I think that means he’s listening.

  “Big Dog,” I say.

  I start walking, just little steps.

  He does, too.

  I lengthen out my strides.

  He straightens out his legs.

  Holy crap, we’re walking.

  He’s at the absolute maximum distance from me that the leash will allow, but he’s no longer even looking at me. He’s looking around. Our neighbors’ door opens and closes and he checks it out. A bird lands on the grass ten yards away and he watches it. It takes off again and he follows it the whole way, his head tracking it up and back.

  “That’s right,” I say to the bird. “You better run!”

  He watches me say that too, but I’m just another sight now, and a second later he’s looking at something else. He loves this stuff, and by the time we reach the edge of the backyard, it’s like he’s almost forgotten that I’m there.

  Once we reach the bike path, his head is all over the place, sniffing the ground one moment and peering into the bushes the next. I’d never spent enough time around a dog before to realize this, but they have a lot of the same expressions as people. Before, when I saw one on TV or whatever, I used to think: That’s funny, it almost looks like he’s sad or happy or whatever. Now I’m looking down at JR, and I realize he really is smiling, a big, drooly dog smile. He’s happy just to be outside and moving. I guess after years of being chained to a tree and covered in ticks you can’t quite reach, that’s about as good as it gets.

  “This isn’t so bad, huh, boy?” I say.

  He looks back at me. I sort of expect the smile to drop off his face, but it doesn’t. I know he’s not smiling at me — that he’s probably doing it despite me — but I’m glad he keeps doing it. The bent tree is coming up, and I start to angle us over toward that side of the trail so I can give it my standard slap. “This is my tree, JR,” I say.

  He looks back at me, sniffs the tree once, and lifts his leg.

  “That is just wrong!” I say, but I’m laughing.

  We take our time and make it almost all the way to the bridge before turning around. Afterward, I manage to get the leash off him without too much trouble, but he definitely gets weird again once we’re back inside, and he heads straight to his corner in the living room. So it’s not like all of a sudden we completely understand each other, but it was a good walk. I think we’re both surprised.

  I spot my phone on the kitchen table, next to my liquefied cereal. No calls, no texts, nothing. As I’m checking, I realize something stinks in here. I take a few deep whiffs and, sure enough, it’s me. I’m rank. I get some clean clothes and head to the bathroom to shower. Might as well do this right. I’ve got something to do later, and I don’t want to show up looking like the Swamp Thing.

  Hey, Johnny didn’t bite my head off today. Maybe Janie won’t, either.

  I end up waiting around for Mom to get home, hoping she’ll let me take the car. She doesn’t. I mean, she does get home, but she doesn’t let me take the car.

  “Baby bird,” she says, deepening the wound, “you don’t have your license yet.”

  Like I could possibly forget that.

  “I’ve got my permit!”

  “Yes, but you need a licensed driver with you,” she says.

  I hate that part.

  “And I’m tired,” she adds.

  I literally, physically cringe. Showing up at Janie’s for the first time in months with my mom in the passenger seat … It’s almost too horrible to imagine. She does look tired, though. This morning, her suit looked pressed. Now it looks de-pressed.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll take my bike.”

  “Be back before dark,” she says, like I hoped she would.

  “Nope, going to get hit in the dark,” I say. “Pretty dangerous out there on the side of the road at night.”

  Now I’m thinking that she’s fallen into my trap and she will let me take the car after all.

  “Well, then, you can’t go at all,” she says.

  D’oh!

  Now I can resort to pleading or call her bluff.

  “Fine,” I say, and head for the door.

  “Be back before dark,” she says to my back.

  I don’t argue anymore. The truth is, I’ll probably be back in about half an hour. It’s like a fifteen-minute ride, and there’s a pretty good chance Janie won’t want anything to do with me. I start to imagine worst-case scenarios: the door slammed in my face and things like that.

  I get going and power up the first big hill of the ride without too much trouble. I reach the top and shift gears for the coast down. I’m sweating now, but the wind on the ride down cools me off a little. I shift gears again for the straightaway and try to flatten out my wind-tunnel hair as I ride. I’m not wearing a bike helmet because that is precisely the sort of midlevel semibadass I am.

  I barely make it up the third hill. Three hills will do that to you, but worse than the cramp in my side is that fact that it feels really lame to be biking to her house. It wasn’t as bad last year, when I was still a sophomore and it seemed like I’d have my license any day. We used to joke about it: “In like Schwinn!” Now I’m a few days away from being a junior, and no closer to that license. Just watch: I’m going to get there, lean my bike against the tree out front, and there’s going to be a frickin’ Porsche in the driveway, owned by her new boyfriend, Dale Earnhardt Jr.

  I try to shake the thought out of my head. It is so two hills ago. And who knows, she could be happy to see me. Maybe she missed me…. Maybe her parents are out…. Maybe it will be just like it was before…. Now I’m pedaling faster again, faster and faster. It’s been a lonely summer.

  By the time I arrive, I’m back to looking like the Swamp Thing. On the plus side, no Porsche. There are two cars in the driveway: her parents’ SUV and the little hybrid that I realize is probably hers now. I let my bike drop in the grass, like the non–helmet wearer I am, and start toward the door before I can change my mind.

  I walk slowly, not because I’m nervous, or at least not entirely. It’s turned into a fairly cool evening, there’s a nice breeze, and now that I’m off the bike, I need to, well, I need to dry. As it turns out, I have plenty of time. I reach the door, take a deep breath, and knock twice.

  Nothing.

  Twice more.

  Nothing.

  Come on, people. Your lights are on. Your cars are in the driveway. I’m wondering if they saw me pull up, if they know it’s me. I go to push my hand through my hair, and I can feel it crunch. It’s the hair gel. I found a year-old sample tube of L.A. Looks in the back of the medicine cabinet today and used the whole thing. The sweat must have reactivated it, and now my hair has dried in the upright-and-locked position.

  The door opens. It’s Janie’s father, Adrian. That may sound like a girl’s name, but it’s a guy’s name in Romania, where all six-feet-four of him is from. He’s terrifying, and I’m pretty sure he has always hated me. It was during one rare thaw that he cracked a smile and said, “Call me Adrian.” Now I’m standing there, my hand stuck halfway through my hair, and I’m not sure what to call him.

  “Hi, Mr. Pera,” I say, playing it safe and pulling my hand free.

  “Hello,” he says in his Count Dracula accent.

  “Is, uh, Janie home?” My voice comes out smaller than I want, but at least it’s a
coherent sentence.

  “No,” he says.

  He hesitates, trying to think of something to add. He’s not a talkative guy at all, but even for him, a one-word dismissal of a guy who looks like he just ran 26.2 miles to get here is a little harsh.

  “Your hair,” he says. “It has a problem.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. I’m pretty sure it’s standing straight up. This is not the “absolute styling performance” I was promised.

  “Well, she is not here,” he says, finding his rhythm. “I will tell her you stopped by. Good night.”

  He closes the door in my face. I’m not sure that’s his intention, but that’s where my face is, so that’s the effect closing the door has. I stand there for a few seconds, kind of reeling. It’s like, Nice to see you, too, Adrian. Then I walk back to my stupid bike. I resist the urge to look in every window as I pass, but I allow myself a quick look up at her bedroom.

  The light is on, but the blinds are closed. Don’t jump to conclusions, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean she’s home. She might just have forgotten to turn the light off when Junior picked her up in the Porsche.

  I sleep in Thursday morning, because why not? It’s an overcast gray day and it took me forever to get to sleep again. I kept thinking the same thing, over and over again: Why didn’t I just call? I thought biking over made sense yesterday. It seemed like the kind of industrial-strength relationship repair work that needed to be done in person. Plus, I tried to call a few times this summer and nothing. But if she knew I was back, she’d probably answer. She’s going to see me at school in a few days. Anyway, I don’t think I got to sleep before three or four.

  Mom is gone by the time I get up, but I’m pretty sure JR will let me put the leash on him now. I’m actually looking forward to it — another mile or so of scaring the crap out of this town’s squirrels — but I don’t see him downstairs. It’s not until I go to get the milk out of the fridge that I see the note: Let dog in. I get the marker and write Who let the dog out? underneath. I figure I’ll do it after I eat, but midway through the bowl, I hear something going on out back.