Rumble, Page 3

  it fascinating, especially since you already

  have an obvious interest in the subject.

  Maintain, Matt, Maintain

  I try, really I do, but a big burst of laughter

  kind of explodes from my mouth. “Interest?

  Not really. Dearth of interest is more accurate.

  Anyway, I’m not exactly sure I’m going to

  college.” Damn. That slipped out, too. He

  and Dad are friends, and I haven’t confessed

  my lack of ambition to my parents yet.

  His grin dissolves. Wow. That surprises

  me, and it would be a spectacularly amazing

  waste of talent, in my opinion. You’re one of

  the brightest young men I know. I hope

  you reconsider. You’ve got a lot to offer.

  Backpaddle. Quick! “I haven’t decided

  for sure yet. I mean, I’m already accepted

  at UOregon.” I never considered anywhere

  else, and only applied there because Dad

  insisted. Mom figures I’m a lost cause,

  anyway. If she even remembers I’m alive.

  “Well, thanks for your concern, and I’ll

  definitely think about that religion class.”

  He looks downright sad, like he knows

  I’m flat BSing him. I hope you do, Matt.

  One thing I hate is watching a special kid

  fall through the cracks. Have a great weekend.

  Dismissed

  Booyah! I can finally get something to eat.

  But not before I track down Hayden. The halls

  are jammed, everyone buzzing about the long

  weekend ahead. I thread through the throng,

  heading for my locker. There. There’s my girl,

  waiting for me. Only thing is, she’s not alone.

  Standing beside her is Jocelyn Stanton. One look

  at her and irritation shimmers, but before it can

  fan into anger, Hayden flashes perfect

  pearl-white teeth and I kind of melt. I reach

  for her, and she slips into my arms like

  satin. Hi, baby. Her soft, full lips seek

  mine, and this kiss, like every kiss, is all

  I could ever ask for. Well, maybe not all,

  but it’s more than enough for right now.

  We unlock our mouths, but I keep her close,

  inhaling the orange-ginger scent of her hair.

  “Missed you at lunch.” I think a second, add,

  “Actually, I missed lunch, too. But I missed

  you more.” Behind us, Jocelyn tsks impatience,

  lifting a froth of annoyance. “What’s her problem?”

  Before she says a word, I know I’ll hate her answer.

  Didn’t Realize

  I had ESP, but apparently I’ve acquired

  it somewhere along the way. Hayden

  gives me a quick kiss to mute the blow.

  She has to drive her little brother home.

  My turn for impatience. “And . . . just

  what does that have to do with you?”

  I’m going, too. After we drop him off,

  we’re going to change before the game.

  “You mean the basketball game?

  I didn’t know we’d decided to go.”

  I especially didn’t know we’d decided

  to go as a threesome, but I don’t say so.

  Well, I, uh . . . kind of figured I’d go,

  with or without you. It’s a big game—

  “I know, Hayden, I mean, my dad being

  the coach and all. But Freak’s having a party

  and I thought that would be a lot more fun.

  I tried to find you at lunch to discuss it, but . . .”

  The unfinished sentence dissolves in silence,

  the accusation watery but easy enough

  to discern. I told you about the meeting,

  Matthew. Not my fault you didn’t remember.

  The shrew in her voice is a reaction to hurt,

  of course. But I’m hurt, too. And more than

  a little pissed off. “Don’t call me Matthew.”

  Only Mom and my teachers do. “You’re right.

  I did forget, and I’m sorry. But why would you

  make plans with Jocelyn without asking me

  first? I wouldn’t do that to you!” Petulant,

  that’s how I sound, like a pissed little boy.

  Come on, Matt. Placating, that’s how she sounds.

  What’s one night? We have three whole days

  to spend together. Anyway, you’re welcome

  to come. Your dad would like you to be there.

  Right. Like he’d even notice. “Never mind.

  You go to the game with your girlfriend.”

  If I Wanted

  To be really nasty, I could add,

  “And I’ll go to the party with mine.”

  But that would be such an incredible

  lie she’d no doubt laugh at me.

  She knows I’d never mess up

  what we have, even if I do feel

  coldcocked by her indifference

  to my distress. I tuck my tail,

  mostly wishing I had the cojones

  to snarl instead. “If you change

  your mind, call. If not, guess

  I’ve got a date with Marshall.”

  Behind Hayden, Jocelyn taps

  idiotically long fingernails against

  too-plump thighs, and her eyes roll

  toward the ceiling. All things

  considered, I have a hard time

  understanding why Hayden

  and she are still friends, and

  if I wasn’t mostly a gentleman,

  I’d be tempted to shake her. If

  I thought it would do any good,

  I might resort to a small shoulder

  jab, but pretty sure that would

  only make Hayden dig in deeper.

  I give my girl one last pleading

  glance, start to walk away. But

  I change my mind, mostly to

  impress Jocelyn (in a negative

  way). I reach for Hayden, pull

  her into my arms, kiss her with

  every ounce of love I hold inside.

  At first, she is stiff, aware we have

  an audience, but she softens quickly,

  slipping the tip of her spearmint

  tongue between my lips. My own

  tongue lifts in eager greeting.

  And now the two dance like

  a snake charmer and cobra—

  a quick, sinuous pirhouetting.

  My heart drums, staccato, and

  I can feel hers stutter against

  my chest. With my eyes closed,

  I could get carried away, but I

  keep them open, watching

  Jocelyn tsk and mutter beneath

  her breath, totally tweaked at

  this waste of her time and,

  I suspect, not a little jealous.

  Now Come Catcalls

  From random guys walking by,

  so reluctantly I pull away. Hayden

  smiles and I kiss my way up her neck

  to whisper in her ear, “You’re pretty

  hot for a Christian girl. Sure you won’t

  come to the party? We could do something

  biblical. Build an ark, or sacrifice a lamb.”

  She wants to be offended, but can’t quite

  bring herself to, and laughs instead.

  You are completely incorrigible, you know

  that? Not to mention sacrilegious and

  most likely damned. I will pray for you,

  and if God doesn’t strike you down between

  now and then, I’ll call you tomorrow morning.

  Great sense of humor for a Christian

  girl. While she’s still laughing, I go

&
nbsp; ahead and risk ruining her lighthearted

  mood by asking Jocelyn, “How’s that

  prick brother of yours? I hear his stats

  aren’t exactly overwhelming. Tell him

  I said to break a leg. Literally.”

  Both Girls Sputter

  And that’s fine with me. Hayden

  needs to realize that her friendship

  with Jocelyn makes me crazy, and

  the idea of her driving anywhere

  with that bitch’s brother just about

  puts me over the edge. “Enjoy the game.”

  I watch them walk stiffly to Jocelyn’s

  way-too-sensible Prius. Not so sensibly,

  they stand in the drizzle, waiting for

  Cal Stanton, who occupies the top spot

  on my “People Who Should Just Go

  Ahead and Die Now” list. Not that

  I’d dare admit I keep such a roster

  in my head. If my therapist discovered

  all those sessions we’ve shared haven’t

  netted much in the way of my forgiving

  the people on my hypothetical hit list,

  she’d be downright concerned.

  But My Lips Are Sealed

  I make a dash through the rain

  to my unsensible, but completely amazing

  2013 Ford F-150, “Blue Flame” over gray.

  It was an eighteenth-birthday gift

  from my grandparents. The Portland

  techies, not the Creswell Baptists.

  Unfortunately, it’s the latter who live

  closest to us, where they can keep

  an eye on their daughter—my mother,

  and their biggest disappointment. Well,

  except for Luke. But the Portlanders,

  hey, turns out they’re pretty cool.

  (Hard to believe, considering they gave

  birth to my dad.) I thought so even

  before they gifted me with an awesome

  ride “to celebrate my arriving.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure where I’d arrived.

  All I knew was from that day on, I was

  going to arrive everywhere in style.

  Best of All

  This baby is loaded.

  5.0 liter engine.

  Supercab design.

  4 x 4 drivetrain.

  Satellite radio.

  Bluetooth built into

  the steering wheel for

  hands-free calls while

  I drive. I use it now

  to let Marshall know

  I’ll pick him up around

  nine. Freak’s parties tend

  to go really late. Get there

  too early, and you risk

  a DUI on the way home

  or one hella hangover

  the next day. Too bad

  drinking comes with

  so damn many intrinsic

  reasons not to do it.

  Hasn’t Stopped Me Yet

  And it won’t stop me tonight, especially

  without Hayden’s disapproving looks

  to slow me down. But I’ll definitely

  keep in mind I want to spend time

  with her tomorrow, hangover-free.

  At least I don’t have to shower now.

  Who cares what I’ll smell like?

  As I turn onto our street, I can see down

  the block to our driveway, where Dad’s

  car is parked. Odd. Why would he be here

  now, with the JV game only a couple of

  hours away? Usually he just stays at school.

  Maybe he forgot something this morning.

  I park in my usual spot against the curb.

  Rain drizzles down the windshield, and

  I watch it for a few minutes before going

  inside. Rarely does the Turner family deviate

  from the norm, and some small whisper

  of foreboding stirs. But no, that’s stupid.

  If someone had died, I would’ve gotten

  a call. The thing about technology is,

  surprises of a major sort are few and far

  between. I stow the unease, go inside.

  Where It Becomes Clear

  In a half breath that I was correct in

  my assumption that something is skewed

  toward “holy crap.” I can hear Mom and

  Dad talking in the kitchen. Talking. They

  never do that. And it’s me they’re discussing.

  Mom: What are you going to do about him?

  Dad: What am I going to do? This is a joint

  problem, Pam. Joint, meaning the two

  of us, not that there’s much “us” left.

  Ah, shit. What did I do now? Or, more

  accurately, what did I do that they found

  out about? Not to mention, care about.

  I consider a quick exit, but whatever this

  is won’t disappear in the next few hours.

  Especially not if Dad loses one of the “big

  games” tonight—basketball or blame.

  Anyway, what’s the worst they can try

  to do to me? Ground me? Right. It’s party

  night, and I won’t be denied. So I’ll go

  kiss a little ass, whatever their problem

  might be. I whistle as I sashay toward

  the nonproblem and its nonconsequence.

  They’re at the Table

  Backs to the door. When they hear me

  coming, they spread a little before turning

  in my direction, and I can see a small stack

  of paper on the weathered wood. “What’s up?”

  Dad’s face colors pink, as if I’ve busted

  him doing something wrong. What’s up

  with you, Matt? I think that’s the question.

  “You’ll have to be a little more specific,

  Dad, I . . .” He picks up the sheaf with two

  fingers, gingerly, as if it might be hot. “Oh.”

  It’s a photocopy of my essay, at least that’s

  what the top page looks like. “Don’t tell

  me. Mr. Carpenter and Ms. Hannity think

  I’m considering mayhem and thought you

  should know before I went off. Right?”

  Something like that. He drops the papers

  back on the table, then pierces my eyes

  with his stare. Are you considering mayhem?

  I glance at a couple of pages, remembering

  what I’d written on them. “It’s just a freaking

  essay. Not a manifesto for murder. Jeez, Dad—”

  Shut up! screeches Mom. Don’t take

  the Lord’s name in vain on top of the rest.

  What is wrong with you, Matthew?

  “Uh, Mom? ‘Jeez’ isn’t short for Jesus.

  It’s really a rather innocuous expression,

  in fact. Don’t worry. God isn’t offended.”

  I could say more. I could remind her that

  she never said one word about God or church

  or faith or religion to me until the day Luke died.

  That her overbearing Baptist upbringing backfired

  and, according to stories I’ve heard Dad tell

  after a few too many, she was about as far

  from a pure, little Christian girl as they came

  when she was my age. I could insist that makes

  her the worst kind of hypocrite—the kind

  who takes, uses, and abuses until life bites her

  in the ass. Then, rather than try to fix the damage

  she’s caused, she dumps it all into God’s lap,

  begging him for forgiveness. I could go

  even further and ask her to please explain

  what’s the point of deity worship, anyway?

  No matter how low she genuflects or how

  high she lifts all those prayers, she faces

  an arduo
us climb up Misery Mountain.

  Maybe, just maybe, if she could reach

  the top she’d find the tiniest glimpse

  of happiness, somewhere in the far

  distance. But those peaks are steep

  and treacherous, and all she does is keep

  slipping backward toward the morass

  below. And the real truth is, even if

  she scaled the cliffs, stood tall atop

  the summit, Luke wouldn’t be there,

  and neither would any chance to rekindle

  whatever love she and Dad ever had.

  Both have vanished forever. But what’s

  the point of saying any of that? Even if

  she listened, she wouldn’t get it. So I’ll

  go back to playing defense. “I’ll try to watch

  my mouth, okay? As for the essay, I was just

  blowing off steam. With words. Not my fists.

  Not an assault weapon. Just words.”

  Words Like

  Let’s look at religious genocide. We could in theory go all the way back to Noah, of ark fame, whose God was so angry at human sin that he chose to wipe out every living thing except for Noah’s family, and two of each species on earth. Nice creator you’ve got there. The Old Testament is, in fact, rife with Jehovah-driven genocide. But since it’s fiction anyway, let’s move on.

  Under early popes, we find the Crusades. Christians killing Christians who weren’t acceptable Christians—those pesky Protestants. Jews. Muslims. Nonbelievers. And what to do about the pagans? Behead them. Impale them. Chop them up. All in the name of a forgiving God.

  Keep marching forward. Centuries of witch hunts. Burn those bitches at the stake. The Spanish Inquisition. Extermination of Native North and South Americans. Torture them, rape them, enslave them. Or just outright murder them. “God’s will,” their Christian killers said. The will of a peaceful God.

  You might think religion would get more civilized, approaching the twentieth century. But no. We’ve all heard about the Nazi population cleansing. But few realize that Catholic priests and Muslim clerics were, at the same time, willing accomplices to the extermination of eight hundred thousand Yugoslav citizens—orthodox Serbians, Jews, and Roma, many torched alive in kilns. The ovens of a loving God.

  Buddhist monks in Vietnam. The Tutsis in Rwanda. Bosnian Muslims. The list of those killed with the aid of so-called Christians goes on and on. Figure in the flipside—Muslims killing Christians in Indonesia and the Sudan, Khmer Rouge and Soviet Communist wipe-outs, the Turk massacre of Armenian Christians, not to mention the whole war-without-end in the Middle East—and what you come up with is one seriously bloodthirsty God, not a loving creator who urges forgiveness and peace.