Everything You Want Me to Be(80)
When Portia pulled into my driveway, I was surprised to see Tommy parked next to the house. He had his hands shoved in his pockets and was leaning on the hood of his pickup while talking to Dad. They both looked over when I jumped out of the car.
“Thanks, Porsche!”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and started backing her car up before I’d even slammed the door. It was strange, knowing she was angry and not trying to deflect or spin it the way I usually did, but the real Hattie Hoffman had just stood up, in a big way, and I wasn’t about to sit back down anymore.
I took a deep breath and walked over to Tommy and Dad.
“Where’s your truck?” was Dad’s first question.
“Broken,” I replied, grinning. I told them what happened and maybe I snuck in a few innocent lies about the specific chain of events, but that part wasn’t important. They both grilled me on the exact noises and symptoms of the truck and decided the alternator might be the problem.
“I just replaced mine, same time I changed out the rims.” Tommy kicked his tire affectionately. “I could help you tow it back and take a look at it.”
“Sounds good,” Dad started to say until I cut him off.
“No, don’t worry about it, Tommy. I’m sure you’ve got plans.”
He looked at me like I was mental. “I thought we were going to watch the UFC fight at Derek’s house. Everyone’s going, remember?”
“Right.” I’d completely forgotten. We’d talked about it on Tuesday, which seemed like a lifetime ago. “I don’t think I can go. I’m still not ready for the play and I’m kind of freaking out about it. After Dad and I bring the truck back, I’m going to run lines.”
Tommy started to look like he was going to argue, so I gave him an awkward hug. “You should totally go. Tell Derek I’m sorry to miss it.”
After Tommy stuttered around a little, he eventually climbed into his truck and gunned it out of the driveway. Dad just kind of looked at me and I shrugged and said, “UFC sucks,” which wasn’t a lie at all.
He laughed, one of those big belly laughs that I’ve always loved, and we went to pick up my dead truck.
“Haven’t seen you much lately, kid,” Dad said as we pulled on to the highway.
“There’s been way too much going on.” Again, not lying.
“Tommy bugging you?”
I shrugged. “He’s a high school boy. I don’t think he can help it.”
He laughed again and we fought over the radio station for a while, a loud, bickering tradition we both loved. I told him where the truck was and when we got there we worked together to hook it up. If I’d been born in the city like Peter, I probably wouldn’t know how to connect a tow rope, or put boards down to haul a tractor out of the mud, or anything like that. They weren’t things I could brag about when I got to New York, but it made me happy right now, knowing I could do my share, that Dad didn’t need Greg or Tommy to help him. I’d made this mess and I was helping clean it up.
When we got back home I stayed out in the garage with Dad, handing him tools and pointing the light. I loved my father. I loved how he said everything with a joke lurking right behind the words, how he liked to be argued with, how he seemed so solid and good. He would stick out like a sore thumb in New York City, but maybe I could bring a piece of him with me. Maybe I would be half him after all.
As March turned into April, school became harder. That conquer-the-world feeling wore off after a few days and I had to work not to slip into old habits. Portia gradually started talking to me again, although she still acted put out every time I didn’t instantly agree with her about something. I admitted to my teachers when I hadn’t done the assigned readings and even got a detention when I freely confessed to skipping class because I thought math was not worth my time.
When I got pulled into the guidance counselor’s office, her desperate last attempt to get me to consider college, I told her I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, that I was almost as scared as I was excited to move to New York, and that I was going to give myself a year to figure it out or start thinking about East Coast schools. She looked at me, sighed, and said, “That’s the most sensible thing you’ve ever said.”
At night I recorded everything on Gerald’s camcorder. I told it the story of my life, pathetic as it was, every stupid, crazy, awful thing I had done and it felt good—being honest at last—even if it was only with myself.
But the worst part of my new life was forcing myself to sit in Peter’s class every day, trying not to cry every time he glanced in my direction. I couldn’t help noticing, though, that he looked terrible. His color was pale. His usually clean-shaven jaw carried a shadow of beard most days, and then razor marks where he’d been careless when he did shave. His clothes looked wrinkled and his lectures were fumbling and depressed.
Portia noticed my bleak stare and mistook it for boredom.
“He’s really off his game,” she commented as we left class on the day of the dress rehearsal. “It’s the curse. It’s catching up with him.”
I glanced back to see Peter staring sadly out the window. “You know what, Porsche? You’re probably right.”
We sat together in physics, neither of us bothering to take notes. Portia doodled a series of drunk cows on her notebook—her witty nod to her parents’ customers at the liquor store. I looked at my own blank notebook page for half an hour, wondering stupid things like why they punched three holes in it and not four, what Peter’s kid would be like, and if they’d still use notebooks by the time he or she went to school.