Читать книгу Not If I See You First - Eric Lindstrom, Eric Lindstrom - Страница 8

ey, Dad.

School was okay. Better than it could have been. Even though half the people didn’t know the other half, everyone knew enough people so it wasn’t too awkward. It’ll take time to get all the noobs up to speed on The Rules, but I have plenty of help.

Some people I don’t know very well were helping me with the noobs. Maybe just to be nice, or maybe it makes them feel important telling other people what to do. Or maybe they were protecting me like I’m the school mascot. That would really suck. I’m nobody’s poster child.

The ride home was quiet, just how I like it now. I don’t know what cars are like when I’m not in them but I get the idea people talk at me more because they think I’m bored sitting there without any scenery. My view never changes, but other than different people and cars on the street every day, I don’t think their view changes much either.

I told Aunt Celia a couple months ago she didn’t need to entertain me while driving; now she doesn’t talk in the car at all. She’s black or white about everything. I said it nicely—I wasn’t telling her to shut up or anything—but she clammed up anyway. Maybe her feelings got hurt but it’s not my fault if people don’t like the truth.

“Hi, Big P,” my cousin Petey calls down from the landing.

“Hey, Little P. How was school?”

He trots down and sits on the third-from-the-bottom step next to me.

“Boring.”

“You’re too young to be bored at school. You’re not supposed to get bored until the fourth grade.”

“I was bored in the second grade, too,” he says proudly.

“So was I,” I whisper.

“Why are you sitting here?” he whispers back, probably just because I whispered first.

This truth I don’t want to tell, not to Petey anyway. It’s a tough enough situation as it is, my house filled with relatives—who I used to only cross paths with every couple years—now sleeping in my dead dad’s room and home office. I don’t want to tell him how I miss talking with Dad on the ride home from school, or how we wouldn’t be done when we got home so we’d sit at the kitchen table and talk some more, drinking iced tea, until he finally had to get back to work. I don’t want to tell Petey how I didn’t think about this until I climbed into Aunt Celia’s car today, when the silence—which I created and now can’t break—sucked all the air out of the car until I thought I’d pass out. How I want to sit at the kitchen table and talk to Dad now, but if I do everyone will think it’s weird, me sitting alone in the kitchen doing nothing. I don’t care if people think I’m weird, but they would bug me with questions.

Like Petey’s doing now, because sitting on the stairs doing nothing is weirder than sitting at the kitchen table. But I don’t want to tell him that instead of sitting in my room having a one-sided conversation with my dad where no one can see, I want to do it in a place where I feel him: in the kitchen, in his office (off-limits, since it’s my cousin Sheila’s room now), or at the base of the stairs, where I never sat with him in life but sometimes do in my dreams.

“I’m just resting. It’s been a long day.”

“Wanna play Go Fish?”

Not particularly. But I can’t do what I really want to do either. “Sure thing, Little P. How about Sheila?”

“Her door’s closed.”

We both know what this means. Do Not Disturb.

“All right, you get the cards, I’ll pour the drinks. Last one done has to deal.”

He pounds up the stairs. I sit a moment longer. Aunt Celia makes Petey pick up his room every night before bed but he just throws everything on shelves and never puts anything in the same place twice. He has a few decks of cards but only one braille set he got from me, so it’ll take him a few minutes to find it.

I don’t know if they’re going to let me just sit quietly to talk to you every day, Dad, but I’m sure as hell going to try. I might need to go into my room and close the door like Sheila, because you’re right, everyone has secrets, and that includes me.

*

Dinner is pork chops—too dry like always—mashed potatoes, applesauce, and canned peas. All of Aunt Celia’s meals are cartoons, like something you might get if you were a captive in an alien zoo and they fed you what they thought people ate from watching TV.

I didn’t offer to help because Aunt Celia always says no thank you. Which would be fine except she only says it to me. She tries to be nice about it with different reasons, sometimes hinting that she’s cutting me a break since I’m “having such a hard time.” It’s really because the best way to help is chopping and she can’t stand seeing a blind girl holding a knife. Whatever. Everything we’re eating tonight is stuff I can prepare in my sleep. I’m glad to have less work if that’s what makes her happy.

“Parker, did you and Sheila see each other much at school today?” Uncle Sam asks.

“Dad!” Petey says, mortified. “Not cool.”

“What?”

I know what my junior protector means. “It’s okay, Little P. The word see can mean a lot of things, like bumping into someone, or dating them, or understanding them. So no, I didn’t see Sheila today. Maybe she did see me, though, if you see what I mean.”

Petey laughs. No one else does.

“We don’t have any of the same classes,” Sheila says in her why-do-we-have-to-talk-about-this voice. “And our lockers are nowhere near each other.”

Uncle Sam doesn’t point out the small size of the school or the possibility of sitting together at lunch or ask how she knows where my locker is if she didn’t see me. I’m glad. He usually knows when to stop.

“How’s Molly working out?” he asks.

“It always takes a while to break in a new buddy, but she seems promising. She has a lot of Rules to learn.”

Sheila snorts. Well, a burst of expelled air, definitely the eye-rolling kind. I let it go.

“Little P has a good story to tell,” I say.

“Yeah—” he begins, but Aunt Celia interrupts.

“Please don’t call him that, Parker. I’ve asked you before.”

“He likes it, don’t you, Little P?”

“It was my idea! Right, Big P?”

“He won’t like it later, and by then it’ll be stuck.”

“The day he asks me to stop calling him Little P, I will, that’s a promise. I only call him that at home so if anyone else hears it, it won’t be from me.”

“It’s just … it just doesn’t sound … It’s not appropriate.”

“Your concerns have been heard,” I say lightly. “Go on, Little P, tell your story.”

I expect a pause for everyone to have an eyebrow conversation about my defiance but Petey can’t hold back and jumps right in describing how a fishbowl in his class got knocked over. The fact he’s excited doesn’t necessarily mean the fish survived—it could have gone the other way and he’d have told the story in pretty much the same tone.

While Petey describes the drama of saving the tetras in chaotic detail, I map out my pork chop with short stabs of my fork and dull knife and then saw the meat away from the bone. I’d caused a minor uproar when they first moved in because after I cut my food I don’t switch my fork to my right hand for each bite. This is a concept that (1) had never occurred to me, (2) is common etiquette supposedly, at least among people who still obsess about things like this, and (3) is something I find utterly bizarre. Even stranger was how Aunt Celia not only disapproved of this, and my dad for letting me do it, but also had some half-baked notion of stopping it. Uncle Sam saved us from the most ridiculous argument imaginable by saying the way I eat is how they eat “across the pond.” While this didn’t make it optimal to Aunt Celia, it somehow made it legitimate enough for her to let it go and save face. It was my first glimpse of what it would be like living with Aunt Celia under my roof.

*

I’m on my bed with my laptop, reading with the help of Stephen Hawking’s voice. I rarely read actual braille books and only occasionally use a braille terminal. A lot of the time I listen to audiobooks or browse the web with text-to-speech software, and what better way to learn stuff than hearing it from the smartest guy in the world?

I’m on my nightly Wikipedia crawl, enjoying the irony of reading about cuckoo birds. They lay their eggs in other birds’ nests and then those birds raise the cuckoo chicks as their own, like nothing odd is happening. In my house it’s the other way around.

My phone rings with Sarah’s ringtone: quack quack quack …

I disconnect my earbuds from the computer and plug them into my phone. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says. “Any fires tonight?”

“Nope. Just a few sparks when Aunt Celia told me again to stop calling Petey Little P.”

“It’s a terrible nickname.”

“Not appropriate, she said.”

“You know that’s Celia-speak for she thinks it’s perverted, and it is. He’ll hate it later when he figures it out.”

“Jesus, Sarah, he’s eight. And if you think Little P means his dick, then Big P—wait, never mind. Should have thought that through.”

She chuckles and it warms me. Sarah hardly ever laughs.

“Sheila still not talking to you?”

“No change there. None expected.”

“My theory’s holding; I figured she’d steer clear.”

“I’m not the best one to show her around anyway. I can’t point out much and I doubt she’s interested in how many paces it is from the cafeteria to the nearest bathroom.”

“True. How’s Molly?”

“Not sure yet. I’m hopeful. Probably won’t be a disaster. Ask again later.”

“Sure thing, Magic 8 Ball.”

“Okay, tell me what you know.”

It begins, our nightly recitation of what was observed and inferred throughout the day. My list is always much shorter than Sarah’s of course, since she’s the eyes of this operation and I’m the mouth, but no one can deny that when I shoot it off, it’s very well informed.

We used to be systematic, working through the day class by class, hallway by hallway; now we jump around without missing anything. She describes what people and things look like and I list times and places and describe voices and sometimes sounds and odors so she can zero in on who I’m talking about to get a visual and other info later. I tell her about D.B. from Trig because I suspect he’ll be a pain and I might need more tools to deal with him. I mention the calm voice that shut down D.B.’s heavy jock voice and how it sounded familiar yet still not anyone I knew, like how listening to someone with an accent sounds like the other person you know with that accent even though they have different voices.

During a pause where I expect Sarah to jump in, she doesn’t. I let the silence go to see how long it lasts. After a few more seconds I know something’s up.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That voice? You don’t know who it was?”

“Do you? You weren’t even there.”

“Kay was. She said she was ready to hold up her math book like a shield but you were smooth as glass.”

“Kay said that? Smooth as glass?”

“Of course not—it was Kay. She had verbal diarrhea for five minutes. Do you want to hear all that instead of my perfect three-word summary?”

“Jesus, Sarah—”

“It was Scott.”

“Scott? Scott? It didn’t sound …”

The floor vanishes. My stomach twists and I’m falling and I slap both hands on the bed and push my spine into the headboard.

“His voice changed,” she says. “Last time you heard him was in the eighth grade. He was only thirteen.”

We’d talked about how we’d know some of the immigrants from Jefferson—quirks of geography had us going to the same elementary and middle schools but different high schools. Some of them had been on my shit list before but my list is so long I wasn’t worried about a few old names reactivating. Somehow all this didn’t include realizing Scott Kilpatrick would be one of them.

“Parker?”

I grab my phone. “Gotta go.”

“Wait! Don’t hang—”

I hang up and yank the cord to pull the buds out of my ears, too fast and at a bad angle and it hurts.

Scott Kilpatrick. Biggest asshole on the planet. Absolute top of my shit list. Exclamation points. ALL CAPS.

Quack quack quack—

I switch off the ringer. My throat is closing, aching like I have a cold, and my face is getting hot.

Scott Kilpatrick. Breaker of Rule Number One. Forever subject to Rule Number Infinity.

Bzzz bzzz bzzz …

I bury the phone under my pillow.

Scott Kilpatrick. Parker Enemy Number One.