Changing Michael

Copyright 2014 Jeff Schilling.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means,

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Cover Design: Steve Parke

Interior Design: Tracy Copes

Published by Bancroft Press

“Books that Enlighten”

410-358-0658

P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209

410-764-1967 (fax)

www.bancroftpress.com

ISBN 978-1-61088-122-7 (HC)

Printed in the United States of America

Jeff Schilling

For my daughter, Maggie

I never really thought much about Michael. He was like a stunted plant or a faded beige wall. I knew someone named Michael existed, but I didn't
know
him.

And he wasn't
that
weird.

There are degrees of weirdness, and weird can be good or bad or somewhere in-between. Bad weird is doing mean things to your pets. Good weird is answering the door nude when religious nuts drop by to save your soul. Convincing yourself that you're really Wonder Woman is somewhere in-between, but closer to bad than good.

Being gay isn't weird. Pretending to be straight when you think you're gay is a little odd, but not as weird as wearing tinfoil on your head so the government can't read your thoughts.

I think I'm gay, but I'm not stupid, so I pretend I'm straight. I may be weird but not stupid. Pretending gives me an advantage. The less
anyone
knows about you, the better.

Everybody's weird. Some people just have a higher percentage of weirdness.

Anyway, on the outside, Michael wasn't that weird. High school senior, sort of tall, but the gangly, awkward kind of tall. Hair that was a bit too long in front and a little too short in back; hair that was parted in exactly the wrong spot and always looked like he'd taken a stab at cutting it himself.

Michael was smart, but in a way that made people often uncomfortable rather than envious. He was the kind of kid who would often come up with the answer before anyone else, or ask a question that would baffle kids and educators alike. The kind of question that gets a, “Well, I'm afraid we're running short on time, so we need to move on.”

Michael walked with his head thrust forward, kind of like a bull with its eyes glued to the floor. It was like he'd fallen through a trap door recently and wasn't about to let it happen twice. He didn't run through the halls, but his stride was a little too choppy to qualify as walking. And when he was in a hurry, the hair in front would start to flop.

In short, Michael seemed to enjoy making his time at school far more unpleasant than necessary. As a result, most of us just assumed Michael had the
bad
kind of weirdness inside as well as outside. And the combination relegated Michael to a fairly low caste in the high school system—one that had to endure mental and, sometimes, physical abuse on a regular basis at Alexander High School.

To be honest, though, the Michael abuse wasn't something that really caught my attention. Like I said, he barely registered. But the day I got sucked in was different. Looking back, I blame my mom. No particular reason, other than I enjoy pinning the blame on Mom. It always gets her going, which is usually pretty amusing.

But at this point, the whole thing has gotten out of hand and someone needs to be held responsible.

And I'm not about to take the blame.

“What's wrong?” Mom asked.

I shrugged.

We were sitting at the kitchen table in-between stacks of Mom's work papers. She's some kind of accountant, I believe. Or auditor. She could be a coroner, though; she definitely has the demeanor.

Anyway, even though Mom does, in fact, have a designated “office” that includes four walls and an actual desk, she prefers the kitchen table.

It was early—I usually don't roll out of bed until I hear, “. . . and this is the
last
time I'm going to come in here.” I have an alarm clock but prefer Mom. In order to use the snooze feature on my clock, you actually have to reach up and touch the right button. With the Mom Method, I eliminate the need to physically move until I absolutely have to. This might sound a bit extreme, but it can sometimes mean an extra twenty minutes of sleep.

It also succeeds in getting Mom nice and wound up before I even get out of bed.

Anyway, it was early and I was sitting at the breakfast table, a slice of unappealing toast parked in front of me. It was just me and Mom; Dad's never around in the morning.

I sighed.

“What's wrong, Matthew?” she said again, this time in her put-upon tone of voice.

I watched her from the corner of my eye as she scanned the piles of paper, looking for something.

I gave a second, smaller shrug.

“Don't tell me then,” she said, taking a sip of coffee.

Although I wasn't hungry, I was a bit irked that Mom thought she could get away with offering her only child a slice of burnt toast with an uneven scrape of butter.

Mom glanced sideways at me, then over at the microwave clock.

“We need to get moving,” she said.

I absently poked at my toast, putting a hole in it.

“You
will
be eating that before we leave,” she said.

“No,” I said, sadly. “I'm afraid someone put a hole in it.”

“You're still going to eat it. I don't care what you did to it.”

“Me?”

“Matthew, I watched you do it.”

“Untrue. I would never desecrate a good piece of toast. Besides, you were looking at your papers.”

No response.

Apparently, Mom was preoccupied. Interacting with someone who's preoccupied irritates me. If she couldn't prepare a better breakfast, the least she could do was give me her undivided attention. It's hard to believe she doesn't know that by now.

“Did you hear me use the word ‘desecrate'?” I asked.

“I did. Marvelous,” she muttered. She leaned over the table, squinting at a pile of documents on the opposite side.

I shook my head.

She glanced at the clock again and said, “Okay, why don't you—”

“Can I have some juice?” I asked, politely.

Mom turned to look at me.

“You see I'm busy, right?”

I brought a hand to my throat. “It's just . . . I feel like I might be getting a sore throat,” I whispered, “and I really don't want to miss school today.”

Mom stared. I swallowed, grimacing painfully.

She narrowed her eyes and started to open her mouth, but closed it and sighed.

“Are you okay?” I rasped. “Are you sick, too?”

I watched her jaw muscles clench.

“You need to drink this quickly,” she soon said as she returned from the refrigerator. “We're leaving in five minutes.”

I accepted the glass, mouthing the words “thank you.”

Mom crossed her arms. I took a delicate sip and winced. She rolled her eyes but didn't say anything. I watched as her eyes were drawn back toward her piles.

“Big project?” I wheezed.

“Yep.”

One of the stacks seemingly called to her. She moved toward it, hand extended.

“Need any help?”

“Help?”

I nodded at the stacks.

“No, thank you. I just need you to hurry up.”

I set my glass down thoughtfully, then pulled a few papers from the nearest stack.

“Here you go,” I said, handing them to her.

“Matthew! No—I have everything organized. Where did you get those?”

The papers were whisked from my hand. Glaring down at the table, she tried to find the correct pile.

“Sorry,” I said, hoarsely. “Just trying to help.”

“As I said, you can help me by—”

“You know I'm always happy to help.”

Mom snorted.

“What?” I asked, looking surprised. “I'm a
very
helpful person.”

Mom laughed. It was the short, annoying variety.

“You don't think I'm helpful?” I asked.

“Finish the juice and get your backpack,” she snapped.

“You're hurtful,” I said, picking up my glass.

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

“Matthew! Get ready!”

“What about my toast?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“I'm hungry,” I said.

“Then take it in the car.”

“But someone put a hole in it.”

Her hands were now on her hips. I gave myself a point.

“Get ready for school . . .
now
.”

“Of course,” I said, standing. “Whatever I can do to make things a little easier.”

“Let me tell you something, young man. This is the
last
time I—”

A car horn blared. I gave myself an additional point.

“What was that?” Mom said, turning toward the front of the house.

“Jack,” I said, polishing off the juice and wiping my mouth. “Got to go.”

I almost made it out of the kitchen.

“Just a minute!”

I turned, eyes wide. “Yes?”

“Jack's here?” she said.

“Yep,” I said, turning to go.

Jack's a friend from school. Well, not a “friend” exactly. I don't have many of those. Friendships require a bit too much give and take. I prefer taking. I guess Jack's what I would call a “close acquaintance.” It's somewhere above “classmate” but below “friend.”

“You're riding with Jack?” Mom asked, slowly.

“Yep.”

Mom closed her eyes. I gave myself half a point.

“You've been closing your eyes a lot this morning,” I said. “Did you get enough sleep last night?”

“When did you know you were riding with Jack?” she asked, struggling to control her volume.

“Last night.” I said.

“Last night?”

“You're repeating yourself a lot, Mom. Sure you're okay?”

A hand came up to her eyes.

“Matthew?”

“Yes?”

“Just go.”

“Love you, too!” I called, hurrying to the front door. I grabbed my backpack and shoved my toes halfway into my shoes.

She yelled something on my way out, but I accidentally pulled the door closed before she finished. I hurried down the front steps and toward Jack's car. Music leaked from the closed windows of his immaculate Oldsmobile Cutlass GR (Geriatric Ride).

Jack's car is two shades of blue. Light blue body with a dark blue roof made of some kind of squishy material. I believe it's the same stuff that covers the seats and most of the interior. Jack inherited his grandmother's car when she died and honors her memory by keeping it spotless, old lady-style.

“What's up?” Jack said as I slid in beside him.

“In a second,” I said, glancing at the front door. “Better go.”

I didn't have to say it twice. The engine whined and we shot backwards, plunging blindly into the street.

“Playing with Mom?” he said.

I nodded, pulling a shoe over my heel.

“How many points?” he asked.

“Two and a half.”

“Nice,” he said. Jack threw it into drive and the car lurched forward.

“Actually, three and a half: A ‘Hands on Hips,' a ‘Young Man,' a ‘Last Time,' and at least one ‘Eye Close,'” I said.

“Sweet.”

As I mentioned, Jack's an acquaintance, but he's privy to more than most. For example, he knew the gist of the Mom Game, also known as Don't Tip the Parent. If you push too hard, there may be consequences. (Like loss of car privileges or loss of a digit—depends on the parent. My point: Know your target well.)

Considering the time limits, scoring three and a half points was a pretty good round. Of course, knowing I didn't have to ride to school with Mom allowed me to take a few more risks.

All things considered, it was a strong start to the morning. I could feel a good day in the works.

And it was, for a while—that is, until I ran into Michael.