A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (19 page)

“
So?
”

“
That
’
s what you were doing!
”

“
I was not.
”

“
You were too.
”

“
I was not.
”

“
You were!
”

“
Let
’
s just play.
”

“
You gotta learn this—
“

“
Fine, I learned it.
”

“
Jerk.
”

“
Pussy.
”

The game invariably ends with this:

“
What
’
s the big deal?
”

“
You get so emotional when we play.
”

“
C
’
mon. Talk. Say something.
”

“
I have a right to tell you how to do stuff.
”

“
Don
’
t be such a sullen little dork.
”

“
What
’
s your problem? You have to walk ten feet behind me? You look like an idiot.
”

“
Here, you carry this. I
’
m going to the store.
”

“
Is the door open? I don
’
t have a key.
”
“
Here.
”

5:30 p.m.

“
I
’
m taking a nap.
”
“
So?
”

“
I need you to wake me up in an hour.
”

“
What time?
”

“
Six-twenty.
”

“
Fine.
”

“
Really. You have to wake me up.
”

“
Fine.
”

“
I
’
ll be incredibly upset if I don
’
t get up.
”

“
Fine.
”

7:40 p.m.

“
Jesus!
”

“
What?
”

“
Why didn
’
t you wake me up?
”

“
What time is it?
”

“
Seven-forty!
”

“
Oh!
”
he says, actually putting his hand over his mouth.

“
We
’
re late!
”

“
For what?
”

“
Goddamn it! For your open house, idiot!
”

“
Oh!
”
he says, again actually putting his hand over his mouth.

We have twenty minutes to make it. We are firemen and there is a fire. I run this way, he the other. Toph goes up to his room to change. In a few minutes I knock on his door.

“
Don
’
t come in!
”

“
We have to go.
”

“
Hold on.
”

I wait by the door and the door opens. He is dressed.

“
What is that? You can
’
t wear that.
”

“
What?
”

“
No way.
”

“
What?
”

“
Don
’
t mess with me. Just change, retard.
”

The door closes. Drawers are opened and there is stomping.

The door reopens.

“
Are you kidding?
”

“
What?
”

“
That
’
s worse than the last thing you had on.
”

“
What
’
s wrong with it?
”

“
Look at it. There
’
re permanent grease stains all over it. And it
’
s too big. And it
’
s a sweatshirt. You can
’
t wear a sweatshirt. And don
’
t you have any other shoes?
”

“
No. Someone didn
’
t get me any.
”

“
I didn
’
t what?
”

“
Nothing.
”

“
No, tell me—what didn
’
t I do for you?
”

“
Nothing.
”

“
Screw you.
”

“
No, screw you.
”

“
Change!
”

The door closes. A minute, then the door opens.

“
That
’
s bet— What the— Can
’
t you tuck in the shirt? I mean, didn
’
t anyone ever teach you how to tuck in your shirt? You look like a moron.
”

“
Why?
”

“
You
’
re nine years old and I
’
m going to have to come over there and help you tuck in your shirt.
”

“
I can do it.
”

“
I
’
m doing it. We
’
ve got five minutes left to
get
there. Jesus, we
’
re always late. I
’
m always waiting for you. Don
’
t move. And where
’
s your belt? God, you
’
re a mess.
”

7:40-7:50 p.m.

“
Goddamn it. We
’
re always late. Why the hell can
’
t you
get
dressed yourself? Roll down your window. It
’
s too hot in here. How come you refuse to open your window when it
’
s boiling in here? And your buttons are off. Look at your buttons. Look at your
collar, up around your ear. Oh my God. Now I
’
ll have to dress you every day. At least help with your buttons. Man are they off. You missed about ten, retard.
”

“
Retard.
”

“
Retard.
”

“
Retard
”

We are flying down San Pablo, in the left lane, then the right lane, passing Beetles and Volvos, their pleading bumper stickers.

“
I was dressed fine.
”

“
Dressed fine? Goddamn it, you were so not dressed fine. Open the window more. You looked like a retard. A little more. That
’
s good. You cannot dress like that to an open house. This is what people wear. This is special occasion rules, my man. This is like, give me a break, you know? This is obvious stuff. This is just common sense. I mean, give me a goddamn break, okay? You have got to help me out every once in a while, little man. I
’
m exhausted, overworked, dead half the time, and I just can
’
t be dressing someone who
’
s nine years old and should be perfectly capable of dressing himself. I mean, Jesus Christ, Toph, give me a goddamn break every once in a while, please? Can I have a break every once in a while? A little break? A little cooperation? Jesus Christ—
“

“
You just passed the school.
”

7:52 p.m.

The open house is still full—it goes until nine, not eight, as I had thought—and we are both overdressed. We walk in. Toph immediately untucks his shirt.

The walls are covered with corrected papers about slavery, and the first-graders
’
unsettling self-portraits.

Heads turn. This is our first open house, and people are not sure what to make of us. I am surprised, having expected that everyone would have been briefed about our arrival. Kids look at Toph and say hi.

“
Hi, Chris.
”

And then they look at me and squint.

They are scared. They are jealous.

We are pathetic. We are stars.

We are either sad and sickly or we are glamorous and new. We walk in and the choices race through my head. Sad and sickly? Or glamorous and new? Sad/sickly or glamorous/new? Sad/sickly? Glamorous/new ?

We are unusual and tragic and alive.

We walk into the throng of parents and children.

We are disadvantaged but young and virile. We walk the halls and the playground, and we are taller, we radiate. We are orphans. As orphans, we are celebrities. We are foreign exchange people, from a place where there are still orphans. Russia? Romania? Somewhere raw and exotic. We are the bright new stars born of a screaming black hole, the nascent suns burst from the darkness, from the grasping void of space that folds and swallows—a darkness that would devour anyone not as strong as we. We are oddities, sideshows, talk show subjects. We capture everyone
’
s imagination. That
’
s why Matthew wants Beth and me dead in a plane crash. His parents are old, bald, square, wear glasses, are wooden and gray, are cardboard boxes, folded, closeted, dead to the world— We ate at their house actually, not long ago, accepting a neighborly invitation sometime before Matthew
’
s plane crash comment. And we were bored to tears in their stillborn house, its wooden floors and bare walls—the daughter even played the piano for us, the father so haughtily proud of her, the poor bald guy. They owned no TV, there were no toys anywhere, the place was airless, a coffin—

But we!—we are great-looking! We have a style, which is messy, rakish, yet intriguingly so, singular. We are new and everyone else is old. We are the chosen ones, obviously, the queens to their drones—the rest of those gathered at this open house are
aging, past their prime, sad, hopeless. They are crinkly and no longer have random sex, as only I among them am still capable of. They are done with such things; even thinking about them having sex is unappealing. They cannot run without looking silly. They cannot coach the soccer team without making a mockery of themselves and the sport. Oh, they are over. They are walking corpses, especially that imbecile smoking out in the courtyard. Toph and I are the future, a terrifyingly bright future, a future that has come from Chicago, two terrible boys from far away, cast away and left for dead, shipwrecked, forgotten, but yet, but yet, here, resurfaced, bolder and more fearless, bruised and unshaven, sure, their pant legs frayed, their stomachs full of salt water, but now unstoppable, insurmountable, ready to kick the saggy asses of the gray-haired, thickly bespectacled, slump-shouldered of Berkeley
’
s glowering parentiscenti!

Can you see this?

We walk around the classrooms. In his homeroom, on the walls, there are papers about Africa. His paper is not on the wall.

“
Where
’
s your paper?
”

“
I don
’
t know. Ms. Richardson didn
’
t like it, I guess.
”

“
Hmmph.
”

Who is this Ms. Richardson? She must be a moron. I want this
“
Ms. Richardson
”
brought out and driven before me!

The school is full of nice children but eccentric children, delicate and oddly shaped. They are what my friends and I, growing up in public schools, always envisioned private school kids were like— a little too precious, their innate peculiarities amplified, not muted, for better and worse. Kids who think that they are pirates, and are encouraged to dress the part, in school. Kids who program computers and collect military magazines. Chubby boys with big heads and very long hair. Skinny girls who wear sandals and carry flowers.