Here So Far Away(34)

Yes, revolting, and yes, heaven.

“Sounds like a Greek gyro. What type of meat?”

“Nobody knows,” Rupert said. “Nobody asks.”

When I got home, Dad was sitting in his recliner, the TV blaring. His fake foot was on the chesterfield, and he was still wearing a special sock thing with a pin on the bottom that connected his stump to the calf portion of the prosthetic. Nice to see him trying. For a guy who was so married to his job, he hadn’t seemed in a big hurry to get back to it, something I couldn’t square. At least people had stopped phoning the house instead of 911.

“Hey, Dad.”

He didn’t move.

“Dad?” I said a little louder.

“What? Oh. Hi, George.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Are you?” He looked at his wrist, but his watch wasn’t there. He felt around his bathrobe pockets, then gave up.

“Not very late,” I said. “I did call Mum to tell her I was staying at the farm for supper.”

He turned back to the TV. Sweat beaded his forehead.

“You look like you hurt.” He also looked like he hadn’t slept properly in a week. His skin was sallow and he had huge pouches under his eyes.

“I just . . . I hit the leg.”

“On what?”

“Uh, the wheelchair.”

The wheelchair was tucked into the corner by the vase filled with old peacock feathers, well away from the recliner and the sofa. “But it’s on the other side of the room.”

“Let it go, George!” He was staring at the seam between the wall and the ceiling, as though anchoring himself to it. “Must have rolled over there when I knocked it.”

No, it was neatly parked, as it would be if he had been walking around on his prosthetic.

“Dad, why don’t you take more painkillers?”

“Don’t want to.”

“Are you worried you’ll get addicted?”

“They make me irregular and stupid. Can’t think clearly.”

“So what? It’s not like you have to drive. You don’t need to think clearly to watch Coronation Street.”

Dad closed his eyes. “George, go get me my cigarettes. And then go to bed.”





Sixteen


Lisa kept the cafeteria, the mall, and basketball games. I kept the front steps of the school, where everyone hung out between classes, the movie theater, and the arena. For a few days Nat and Bill had switched between us like a couple of latchkey kids, but pretty soon Nat was only hanging out with me in the classes we had together, and then not at all. There was no big announcement that she was choosing sides, and thank god for that. Not being direct was Nat’s way of being kind.

Our group may have been divided, but by the grace of Bill, some cool people on the fringes, like Doug the stoner, and a few horny and hopeful jocks, I wasn’t so much exiled as hanging out on my own sweet island close to the mainland. The Grunt was still neutral territory, though it didn’t feel like it as I slid into the booth where Bill was plowing through a large basket of french fries. Nat, Lisa, and Keith were perched at the end of a table that was pulled up to another table that was packed with Elevens being Elevens. If I was being honest—and why would I do such a thing?—it still hurt seeing Lisa like that, so close but so far away, especially when she seemed to be making an effort not to see me.

I snuck a fry out of the basket, and Bill gave me a low warning growl.

“What’s with Nat’s eyebrows?” I asked. She had a pair of scorched half-moons where the bottom halves used to be.

“Deforestation with hot wax. Not just north of the border.”

“For Doug?”

“Why? Do you care?”

“I don’t care care.”

“Like with feelings.”

“Exactly.”

“Nah, she decided she doesn’t want to date a druggie.”

“It’s not like he’s messed up.”

“A little messed up. He’s not a bad guy, but if they were going out she’d be spending a lot of time helping him keep it together.”

Which reminded me: I took Bill’s biology binder out of my knapsack. “You left this on the floor in front of your locker.”

“Crap. Thanks.”

I decided it was Lisa’s job to tell him about the stain on the mock turtleneck she’d obviously talked him into.

“So, uh, you know what’s happening on Lisa’s birthday?” Bill said.

“Oh. Right. She must be dragging you out to the Old or Hard Inn for dinner.” I slipped another fry out of the basket.

The Old Orchard Inn. The C in the sign had been burnt-out for years.

“Actually, Christina invited us to her cottage for the weekend.”

The french fry felt like it was lodged in my throat. “Lisa doesn’t like the outdoors touching her.”

“Nat doesn’t even want air touching her. But I guess we’re going.”

I swallowed hard and peeked again at the Elevens’ table. Christina was sitting with Joshua in the middle; Lisa was barely hanging on to the edge. This wasn’t exactly her dream of the perfect senior year, and it opened that tiny chamber in my walnut heart where everything small and mean lived. Maybe if she’d been less eager to be done with me, we could have made up by now and she would be having the birthday she really wanted. Indoors, unwrapping the vintage Broadway poster I’d picked out of a catalog for her back in June.