More Than Good Enough(43)

Dad sat up and gave me one of those looks. The Nazgul stare. He was sick in spirit. If he wanted to get better, he’d do it himself.

“A damn shame you gave up,” he said. “If you’d kept at it … who knows? You might’ve turned out better than me.”

It was pretty obvious that he saw the gun. Only one thing mattered. I wasn’t scared anymore. I slipped a finger inside my pocket. The tooth was still there.

“I didn’t give up, Dad. You did.”

He nodded. “That could be true, boy. You’ve got a lot of panther blood. I knew it the minute you were born. That’s why I got those papers.”

“What papers?” He wasn’t making any sense.

“The tribal papers. Got them signed by the elders.”

I still wasn’t getting it. “You mean, like, adoption?”

“That’s right. I got you into the tribe, right when you were born.” He leaned back against the pillow. It sounded like he was bragging. Of course, when it comes to Dad, the subject always revolves around him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He reached for the plate. Took a big bite and wiped the grease off his chin. “You never asked.”

The “heat” inside me was ready to burst. I’m talking a supernova-style explosion, bright enough to eclipse the galaxy.

“How could I ask you, Dad? You weren’t around. I used to tell people that you were rocking out on tour. And you know what? I almost believed it. How sad is that?”

“You can believe whatever you want,” he said.

If I wanted lame advice, I’d read Mom’s books about how “energy flows where your attention goes.”

Well, I knew where I was going.

As I turned to leave, Dad started his guilt trip. “You think it’s been easy for me, trying to get back in the swing of things here?”

“I never said that.”

“Trenton … ” He kept whining. A magic spell to make me listen. But I was done listening.

I wanted a new name.





fifteen



I’ve never been an early morning hater. The start of the day is a blank page. Anything could happen—maybe the earth’s magnetic poles would flip and deep-freeze the school, just in time for the morning announcements. Or maybe a secret volcano, bubbling under the football field, would scorch the bleachers into a Kentucky fried crisp. Of course, there’s always a chance of a UFO invasion, though I doubted it for one reason: If aliens were so highly evolved, why would they come here?

On Friday morning, I was trapped in the guidance counselor’s office watching my friend, Mr. Velcro, peel the skin off his thumb.

“Gators do the same thing.” I pretended to read the magical permission slip that allowed me back in school.

Mr. Velcro peeled another clump of dead skin. “Gators do what?”

“Molt,” I said.

He dug inside the file cabinet. “I just spoke with Mr. Bonette. He says you’ve been doing pretty well in his class. In fact, he’s quite impressed with your analysis paper … ”

Unbelievable. Mr. Bones actually liked my film essay.

“He has a lot of faith in you, Trent. Now if only you’d channel that energy to your Language Arts class … ” He signed the permission slip and shoved it across his desk. “Can I share my honest opinion?”

Whenever I hear that question, my answer is always no.

“I wish you had faith in yourself,” he said.

We moved into the front office, and I glanced up at the TV. It was showing the pre-recorded ads for Coffee Corner. (Don’t ask why we needed commercials for something we couldn’t buy. The coffee fundraisers were only for teachers.) A little freshman kid dressed like Zeus or Merlin or some old guy with a beard was chanting, “Try our heavenly hazelnut.”

“You can always talk to me if you need someone to listen,” Mr. Velcro was saying.

Nobody wanted to hear about my dad passing out on the lawn.

Mr. Velcro was still waiting for me to talk. “What do you think?”

“I think I should probably go.”

But I had to wait again, for the principal, and I heard Pippa’s sweet voice on TV. Another week of band practice and Chess Club field trips (does that sound like an oxymoron?). I thought about her ex, the hit-and-run guy. Did this idiot spread rumors about her? I remembered what she told me. The crank calls, the stares in the hall.

Was it hard to stand in front of that camera and face the entire school?

I took out my cell. Now was the time to send a very important text message:

Talk about the zombies

Pippa squirmed in her chair, but she wouldn’t look away from the camera. So I sent it again. And again. Finally, her eyes flicked down to her lap. No doubt checking my text. Then she raised her head and smiled.

“Have you taken precautions for the zombie apocalypse?” she asked the school.

In the guidance office, a herd of freshmen girls were falling asleep in their chairs. At least, until now.

“Oh my god,” one of them whispered.

“If zombies attack Miami, we should try to quarantine ourselves,” Pippa continued. “You’ll want to stock up on non-perishable foods. And maybe a couple gallons of bleach. The Florida water supply isn’t what it used to be. Not after somebody had this great idea about draining the Everglades.”