Boy Minus Girl (17 page)

“Now excuse me while I prep,” he says, and struts away as Charity, looking very sexy in a black and red sequined leotard, white bow tie, and bright red lipstick, rushes up to me.

“Wow! You look great,” I say, then pull her into a corner and give her the lowdown about Uncle Ray.

Twenty minutes later the talent show is under way. While the Thornbury triplets, Angie, Alice, and Andrea, play “Three Coins in the Fountain” on their flutes, I peer out from behind the side curtain. Uncle Ray, still seated beside a snoozing Sheriff Bottoms, casts a nervous eye at the door, which Leo and his brother flank like burly sentries.

“Thank you, girls,” Principal Cheavers says into the microphone. “Next up we have . . .” He squints at the paper he’s holding. “Spike Bachbaugh!”

Charity and I watch from the wings as the stage goes dark. Moments later a spotlight comes on to reveal Howard posing in the center of the stage, hands in the air, legs spread. A boom box sits behind him. Fast-paced rap music kicks in, and Howard starts break-dancing, spinning and thrusting across the stage like a human funnel cloud. Although he lacks any gymnastic agility or sense of rhythm, Howard’s clearly putting everything he has into this high-energy routine. I glance out at the audience: some people look confused, others horrified, many are snickering. Then Howard moonwalks fluidly across the stage—not Michael Jackson, but not bad, either. I can’t believe this is Howard, who spends a minimum of four hours a day on the sofa watching TV. With one leg straightened low to the ground, he whips it in circles around his body like a helicopter blade. Who knew?

The spotlight goes out. The music switches to the electrofunk of Styx’s “Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto” and a strobe light flashes. Howard, his posture stiff, his joints bent in unnatural positions, keeps pace with the beat and dances like a robot, his angular movements starting and finishing with exaggerated jerks. He has amazing control of his body, a perfect humanoid robot. As the song crescendos, theatrical confusion crosses his face, as if he is malfunctioning. He slowly, mechanically falls to the ground. The song ends with Howard—Spike!facedown on the stage, his batteries dead.

When the regular stage lights come up, there is silence. I clap loudly and whistle, and suddenly everyone is applauding wildly.

Howard lifts his head, looks out at his newfound fans, and grins.

“Yeah, Spike!” I yell.

From behind the curtain I hear Principal Cheavers say, “Next up we have the Great Linguini and his lovely assistant, Miss Lulu.”

Applause. I check to make sure that our phone-booth-like plywood Chinese vanishing box is in place and my top hat is on just right. “Miss Lulu” takes my hand in hers, squeezes it, and smiles reassuringly. God, she’s pretty. I inhale deeply as the curtains split and the spotlight blinds us.

With my good arm and Charity’s help I perform some standard audience warm-ups: now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t card tricks and pulling scarves from the air while telling corny jokes, establishing banter. The applause is generous but not overwhelming—just as I had planned. Then I notice that Sheriff Bottoms is standing up and walking out of the auditorium. Uncle Ray looks at me with pleading eyes.

“And now, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” I say quickly. “Our final number, our
pièce de résistance,
our
coup de grâce.
I’m going to make someone from this audience completely disappear right before your very eyes! May I have a volunteer, please? Someone who does not fear the unknown.”

About fifty hands shoot up.

“Miss Lulu, will you please select our volunteer.”

Charity steps off the stage and into the audience. Placing her hand on her chin, as if having to make a very tough decision, she scans the crowd. Finally she points to Uncle Ray. “I have our volunteer, Great Linguini!”

I glimpse furtively at Leo and his brother, who are halfway down the aisle and exchanging “what the hell is going on?” looks.

Uncle Ray follows Charity onto the stage.

“Sir,” I say as I place my right hand on Uncle Ray’s shoulder. “Have you ever disappeared before?”

Uncle Ray shakes his head.

“You’re a brave soul, a brave soul. Are you prepared to disappear from the world as we know it?”

“Yes, Great Linguini, I am.”

“Very well, then.”

I pull open the curtain. “Sir, would you please step inside.”

The drumroll starts as Uncle Ray gets into the box.

“Good luck in the land of the unknown,” I say.

He looks me in the eye and whispers, “Thanks for everything, kid.”

A knot rises in my throat. Swallowing hard, I pull the curtain shut and wave my wand. The drumroll swells. Charity spins the box around three times as I watch Leo and his brother creep down the aisle toward the stage.

“Miss Lulu” stops the box, leaving the curtain side facing the audience. The drumroll crescendos. Then, a rapt silence. I pull back the curtain: Uncle Ray is gone. Applause erupts!

I am taking my bow when Leo and his brother barge onstage. They search the empty box: tearing back the curtain, shaking it, looking all around it.

“What’d you do with him?!” Leo asks me while his brother tears the box to splinters.

I smirk. “A magician never gives away his s—”

He reaches out and clutches my neck with his gorilla hands, choking me. “Where is he?!”

The audience roars with laughter!

“Where is he?!” He shakes me violently.

I can’t breathe. I try prying off his grip but it is steel.

“Stop it!” Charity screams, and pounds him with her fists. “Let go of him!”

I am going to be murdered right in front of my parents, my teachers, my friends—while they are laughing, stamping their feet, having a good old time. I have the attention I always craved, and I’m going to die for it.

Their laughter soon mutes and my eyes go dim as consciousness fades.
Everything is so quiet and peaceful in the darkness. I am three years old, lying in bed in my blue feet pajamas, while Mom reads me
Are You My Mother?
I am around five, sitting with Dad as we ride the kiddy train around Harker Park. I am ten, looking down at Grandpa Eckhardt all waxy and sleeping in his casket at church. It is night on a gravel road and Uncle Ray is teaching me to drive his Corvette. I am sitting with Charity and Howard at the Frosty Queen and watching Cookie step off that bus.

I hear the audience again. But they aren’t laughing. They sound stirred up, angry even. When I come to, I am staring up at the stage lights. Charity’s gorgeous face is hovering above me. “Les,” she says. “Les, it’s me.”

“Can you hear me, buddy?” Howard asks.

I am lying on the floor of the stage, my neck throbbing.

Nearby, I see Leo doubled over in agony, gripping his hand. “You bit me, you bitch,” he yells. “You bit me!”

Dad and Mom soon join Charity’s and Howard’s hovering faces.

“Les, it’s Dad.”

“Honey, are you all right?” Mom asks tearfully.

I slowly sit up as Sheriff Bottoms lumbers onto the stage and handcuffs Leo to his brother.

Mom, Dad, Charity, and Howard are pulling me to my feet when I hear the applause. I look out and see all of Harker City Junior High—heck, pretty much my entire hometown—rise to its feet, clapping and cheering. For me.

Life is so . . . odd. But cool!

The moment I can, I slip out the back door of the auditorium. A train engine bellows in the distance, and I move as fast as I can down Walnut Street hill to the rail yard. A freight train is rumbling out of town, gaining steam fast. I come to a stop beside the vibrating tracks, my chest heaving, and eye the passing boxcars. Up ahead I spot a man leaning out of one. Uncle Ray. Waving and smiling big. “Hey, kid! We did it!”

I run alongside his boxcar, calling out over the clanging wheels, “Be careful, Uncle Ray!”

“Don’t you worry about me!”

The train is going too fast for me to keep up. As I slow, Uncle Ray turns around and yells, “Onward and upward, kid!”

“I will! Thanks, Uncle Ray!” I yell back.

As he retreats from view, I feel closer to him than ever. Everything about him, including his flaws, feels larger than life. It’s easy to see why everyone falls for him. Then, in a whoosh, the rattling train and my uncle are gone. I watch the diminishing red caboose light reflect off the shiny rails until all is silent and dark.

“They caught the Kansas City killer last night in Louisiana,” Dad says into his newspaper the next morning at breakfast. “His name is Sam Hanlan. Know what? He looks a little like Ray. Say, is Ray awake?”

I hand Dad the envelope Uncle Ray asked me to give him.

“What’s that?” Mom asks as she comes around the island carrying a plate of toast.

Dad reads the note, says nothing, and hands it to Mom. After finishing it, she’s quiet a moment, then says, “He’s off into the night, just like he came.”

She shakes her head, crosses the kitchen, and places the letter in the trash. “Some people never change.”

“He says he’s sorry,” Dad reminds her. “He thanks us.”

Mom slams the plate on the built-ins. “And what good is it?! Tell me, Roger, what good is it?! He got what he wanted from us and he left.” Mom takes in a deep breath, then exhales. “Can we please forget he was ever here? Please?”

“Yes, dear.”

I’ll never forget it. None of us will.

It is a few hours later, when I’m in my room pulling on my sneakers to go visit Cookie at the hospital, that the phone rings.

“Did you hear about Charity?” It’s Howard.

“Hear what?” I ask.

“Supposedly, she put the moves on Kristy Lynn last night, and Kristy Lynn’s mom and dad found out and want Charity kicked out of school.”

I hang up the phone and sprint to Charity’s house, where Reverend Bachbaugh’s Chrysler is parked in the driveway. Breathless, I peer through the screen door and see Howard’s dad sitting on the sofa talking with Charity’s grandma. A tall, thin man with dark-brown hair and Charity’s blue eyes answers the door.

“I’m here to see Charity,” I say, winded.

“She’s not up to seeing anyone today.”

“Please, sir. I’m her friend Les. I think she’ll want to see me.”

“She’s mentioned you,” he says, and opens the door the rest of the way. “Upstairs, first door on the right.”

Reverend Bachbaugh and Charity’s worried-looking grandmother look up as I breeze past. Upstairs I knock on her closed door, which features a black-and-white picture of a pretty old-time movie actress with Charity’s black helmet-like hairdo.

“Charity, it’s Les.”

“It’s open.”

Charity is sitting up in bed, her back against the headboard, her knees drawn to her chest. She is in gray sweats; her eyes are red and puffy.

“Hey,” I say as I step inside, closing the door behind me.

“Just say it: you were completely right. It was stupid and selfish of me to try anything.” She shakes her head. “I mean, what was I thinking? Her parents had a crucifix or a Jesus portrait or a statue on almost every wall and tabletop in the house—there’s even one hanging over the toilet!”

I can’t help but laugh a little. She glances out the window as I sit on the edge of the bed. Springs creak under my weight.

“Last night, when I kissed her, she seemed really into it—just like that first time.” She speaks slowly, her gaze fixed somewhere out the window. “It was beautiful. I felt a real connection with her. We—then, all of a sudden, it was as if a switch had been thrown in her head: she pushed me away, saying she wasn’t gay and that we both needed to pray for forgiveness. I tried to tell her everything was all right, that there’s nothing wrong with having feelings for someone, but she just got more and more upset, until she was screaming that she wasn’t some dirty, perverted dyke. Oh, and she called me ‘blasphemous.’

“Then her mom came running in, and Kristy Lynn told her I was trying to turn her into a lesbian. Her mother went ballistic, calling me a whore and a sinner. I thought she was going to hit me. Then her dad showed up and both parents started screaming at me, telling me I was going to hell. It was a nightmare.”

“I’m really sorry,” I say.

“Her dad called my dad, screaming to ‘get her out of our house,’ then he informed me he was going to see to it that I was kicked out of school, and out of town if he can manage it.”

“What an idiot,” I say. “How’d your dad take it?”

“It’s weird. He didn’t even seem surprised. Like he knew something like this might happen. My grandmother, on the other hand, is a basket case—you’d think I’d taken up Satanism or something. She and that pompous minister of hers have been trying to get me to pray with them all morning.” She pauses; then her tone turns somber. “Here’s the thing: beneath it all I know Kristy Lynn really likes me—maybe even loves me. She’s just terrified of her true feelings. Exactly as Cookie predicted . . .”

Her eyes tear up and her face crumples. Reaching over, I place my arms around her quaking shoulders. I so want to tell her everything will work out for the best, but I can’t honestly say it.

“My life is over,” she says, pulling back and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

I retrieve a tissue from the nightstand, where a Magic 8-Ball rests beside a lamp. “C’mon,” I say. “It’s not over.”

“I’ll always be a fucking freak. You said yourself—I’m unnatural.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

She stares at me through bloodshot eyes. “You tell me, how can my life ever be good?” she asks. “If I’m true to who I am, I’ll always be an awful person to most people.”

“Since when do you care what most people think?”

“Easy for you to say, you’re straight. People don’t hate you.”

All this pain, all this drama, because she’s attracted to girls, just like I am. Amazing. We sit in silence for the longest moment.

“How am I supposed to face everyone at school?” she asks.

“I’ll stand up for you.”

“You sure you want to put yourself through that? A lot of people will think you’re guilty by association. . . .”

“Most people think I’m gay anyway,” I say.

“You’re so not,” she says, and smiles a little. “You’re not that good a dresser.”