The Music of What Happens(44)

Can I convince Max? Is it possible if I tell him this will be the thing that puts him over the edge and makes him vow never to hang out with me again?

That sort of thinking has not been useful today, on this best of all days. So I just tell him.

“I’ve always wanted to be a hooligan do-gooder.”

“A wha?”

I swallow. “Hooligan do-gooder. We combine the chaotic energy of hooligan culture with do-goodery — acts of kindness. We see what is wrong with the world and we aim to make it better. Through hooliganism.”

Max is smiling that wide smile again, and he’s shaking his head.

“Okay then,” he says as the waitress comes over and asks if we want yet more sugar water. We definitely do, so she takes our glasses.

“You’re going to leave me here,” I say.

He laughs, and there’s something about his laugh that makes me laugh too.

“If I left you here, who the hell would translate into normal and understandable what the hell a hooligan whatever is?”

I take another bite of chicken and try to formulate this somewhat amorphous idea from last year and put it into understandable words.

“Hooligan do-gooder,” I say. “So what if, instead of stealing pets from people, which would be actual hooliganism, we stole lonely people and gave them to pets? Maybe not steal, but like if we found a lonely person, we could do a home invasion, kidnap them, and drive them to the local shelter? They’d be afraid for their lives, sure, but then we’d take off the blindfold and they’d be around all these adorable dogs. We’d say, ‘Adopt one of these, or we’ll kill you.’ ”

He pours a whole river of syrup on his waffles, which are covered in chicken crumbs. “That would be, um, creepy.”

“Well, yeah. And they’d be super disoriented, but in the end, they’d realize we’d given them a reason to wake up in the morning. Through hooliganism.”

Max takes a bite of waffle, licks his lips, and rolls his eyes. “You are so weird.”

“True,” I say, starting in on my wing, which is harder to eat as there is far less meat on it.

“So like is there a real-world, eleven p.m. example of hooligan do-gooderism? ’Cause I’m not down for kidnapping.”

“Do-goodery,” I correct, taking a bite of crust that is so salty and perfect that I almost ask him if we can skip the hooligan do-goodery, which will never come close to topping this moment, but the waitress comes by with our drinks in to-go cups — hint hint — and tells us they’re closing up for the night. “And yeah. I have an idea.”

I blot my mouth with a napkin and try to come up with something actually doable on the fly that would be fun. I have nothing immediately, and then I get a vision. I giggle. It’s random, for sure, but so am I. I’m not sure exactly how we’d do it. But we could do it.

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

He grins. “At this moment? About this?”

I nod. Max studies my face. I wipe it with the back of my hand, fearful it’s crummy.

“What the hell, dude. Sure. I’m down for whatever.”

“Famous last words,” I say.





I’m not a real mystery activity sort of dude. But it’s nearly Tuesday morning, Jordan and I are having weird fun, and I’m not ready to go home. Some of that may be about how damn sweet Jordan looks when he’s holding a chicken wing in his skinny hands, how his light green eyes get big like he’s doing a science experiment, like he’s never eaten a piece of actual fried chicken before, which of course he hasn’t. Also I never know what the guy is going to say next.

“Next stop, Walmart,” he says.

See what I mean?

I turn on the ignition and the AC whirs to life outside Lo-Lo’s.

“Walmart, eh?” I ask, and he nods. “And can you promise me there’s nothing illegal that’s about to happen? I’m not down with Tent City.”

“Tent City doesn’t exist anymore,” Jordan says. Yeah, duh. This is not the encouragement I was looking for. I glance sideways, waiting for a little more information. “I don’t think so, but no promises. If it’s illegal, it’s more You kids go on home now illegal than We’re hauling you into jail illegal.”

My chest tightens, like after he suggested we trespass into people’s yards to pick prickly pears. But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to ruin the mood.

“Okay,” I say, becoming concerned that maybe we should have quit after fried chicken. “Are we, like, doing good hooligans at Walmart?”

He laughs. “Hooligan do-goodery. And no. We need supplies.”

“Then supplies we shall have,” I say, trying to sound a bit like Jordan, but the voices in my head are doing cartwheels and I’m having second, third, and even fourth thoughts.



The artificially cheerful fluorescent lights greet us and momentarily disorient me. The store is nearly empty, except for a woman wearing what appears to be a flower pillowcase as shorts, and a creepy-looking guy with perv sunglasses, the kind that are too big for his face.

“We need as many stuffed animals as we can carry,” Jordan says as he leads us down the aisle to the right.

“Okay,” I say, and I slow my pace as my brain tries to come up with an excuse in case I need to abort this mission. Because the stuffed animals thing? Sounds a little weird to me. What the hell are we gonna do with “as many stuffed animals as we can carry” at just after midnight on a Tuesday morning?