Darius the Great Is Not Okay(3)

“Thank you for visiting Tea Haven,” I said. “Come again soon.”

The Corporate Mandated Farewell.

“Did he just call you tea bag?” Mr. Apatan asked.

“No.”

“Did you tell him about our mesh baskets?”

I nodded.

“Hmm.” He slurped his sample. “Well, this is right. Good job, Darius.”

“Thanks.”

I had done nothing worthy of praise. Anyone could brew Orange Blossom Awesome.

That was the whole point and purpose of Tea Haven.

“Was that a friend of yours from school?”

Clearly the nuances of my interaction with Fatty Bolger, the World’s Most Boring Hobbit, were lost on Charles Apatan.

“Next time, have him try the Blueberry Bliss.”

“Okay.”





TRUCK NUTS



The bike rack for the Shoppes at Fairview Court was located at the far end of the shopping center, right outside one of those clothing stores that catered to Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy like Fatty Bolger and Chip Cusumano. The kind that had pictures of shirtless guys with abdomens that could only be expressed in integers.

Five different kinds of overpowering cologne waged war in my sinuses as I passed the store. When I made it out into the parking lot, the sun was still up, barely, but the mercury lights had come on. The air smelled dry and vacant after weeks of rain.

I had been riding my bike from Chapel Hill High School to the Tea Haven at the Shoppes at Fairview Court ever since I got the job. It was easier than getting a ride from either of my parents.

But when I got to the bike rack, my bicycle was gone.

Upon closer inspection, that was not technically true—only part of my bike was gone. The frame was there, but the wheels were missing. The bike slumped against the post, held on by my lock.

The seat was missing too, and whoever had taken it had left some sort of blue blob in its place.

Well, it was not a blue blob. It was a pair of blue rubber testicles.

I had never seen blue rubber testicles before, but I knew right away where they had come from.

Like I said, there was no Zero Tolerance Policy toward bullying at the Shoppes at Fairview Court. There was one toward stealing, but apparently that didn’t cover bicycle seats.

My backpack sagged on my shoulders.

I had to call my dad.

“Darius? Is everything okay?”

Dad always said that. Not Hi, Darius, but Is everything okay?

“Hey. Can you come pick me up from work?”

“Did something happen?”

It was humiliating, telling my father about the blue rubber testicles, especially because I knew he would laugh.

“Really? You mean like truck nuts?”

“What are truck nuts?”

“People hook them on the hitch of their truck, so it looks like the truck has testicles.”

The back of my neck prickled.

In the course of our phone call, my father and I had used the word testicles more than was healthy for any father-son relationship.

“All right, I’ll be there in a bit. Did you get the goldfish?”

“Um.”

Dad breathed a Level Five Disappointed Sigh.

My ears burned. “I’ll go grab them now.”



* * *





“Hey, son.”

Dad got out of his car and helped me load my wheel-less, seat-less bike into the trunk of his Audi.

Stephen Kellner loved his Audi.

“Hi, Dad.”

“What happened to the truck nuts?”

“I threw them away.”

I did not need the reminder.

Dad pressed the button to close the trunk and got back in. I tossed my backpack onto the backseat and then slumped in the passenger seat with the goldfish suspended in their plastic prison between my legs.

“I almost didn’t believe you.”

“I know.”

It had taken him thirty minutes to come get me.

We only lived a ten-minute drive away.

“Sorry about your bike. Does security know who did it?”

I buckled my seat belt. “No. But I’m sure it was Trent Bolger.”

Dad put the Audi in drive and took off down the parking lot.

Stephen Kellner liked to drive much too fast, because his Audi had lots of horsepower and he could do that kind of thing: Accelerate to escape velocity, slam the brakes when he had to (in order to avoid running over a toddler holding his brand-new Build-a-Bear), and then accelerate again.

Thankfully, the Audi had all sorts of flashing lights and sensors, so it could sound Red Alert when a collision was imminent.

Dad kept his eyes on the road. “What makes you think it was Trent?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell my father the entire humiliating saga.

“Darius?”

Stephen Kellner never took no for an answer.

I told him about Trent and Chip, but only in the broadest strokes. I avoided mentioning Trent’s references to tea-bagging.

I did not want to talk to Stephen Kellner about testicles ever again.

“That’s it?” Dad shook his head. “How do you know it was them, then?”

I knew, but that never mattered to Stephen Kellner, Devil’s Advocate.

“Never mind, Dad.”