Changing Michael (19 page)

“No.”

“No?” I laughed.

“I'll listen to you. I promise. Just not yet.”

Pause.

“Will you not be mad?” she asked. “Will you give me time?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing useful came out.

“Guess I'll have to,” I managed.

“Thanks, Matthew.”

“Oh, sure. My pleasure.”

“Don't be mad,” she said again.

“I'll do my best,” I said, sourly.

“Please don't.”

Think of something!

But nothing came.

“Okay.”

“I'll call you?” she said.

“Yeah, sure. When?”

Pause.

“I don't know . . . I'm sorry.”

“Oh, it's okay. It's Michael's fault anyway, right?”

That one fell flat on its face.

“I'll call you,” she promised.

And then she hung up.

I was by the window. I reached for the vertical plastic rod and started twisting it, opening and shutting the blinds.

“Ridiculous,” I said, twisting it one way, then the other. Turning it to the limit, then turning it a little more.

I let it fall back against the slats and tugged on the cord. Lifting the blinds a few inches, then releasing them. I'm not sure how long I stood there, but after a while, I wandered back to my bed.

I sat on the edge, staring at the blank TV screen. I laid the phone to one side and picked up the remote.

Actually, I'm glad she canceled
, I thought.
Saved me the trouble, and I still have the sick card for another occasion.

No, really. This is good.

No more trips to Baltimore. No more uncomfortable phone calls, drunken dads, or aquarium security guards.

For a while, I mean. Just a little break.

No more Michael, no more half-sisters, no more members of the Michael Clan. Now I can spend time on me instead.

I sat at the foot of my bed and started watching another
Pawn Stars
, but was back at the blinds after only a few minutes.

Twisting the rod.

Thinking.

Michael.

I heard a
pop
. I dropped the rod and let it swing back against the blind. It dangled awkwardly.

“Ridiculous,” I said.

I hope you're not expecting a moral to this story. Because I'm the one telling it, not Michael.

If he was telling it, I'm sure he'd include a moral. Probably something like, “Be happy with yourself and tell everyone about it. Or, “Appreciate people for who they are instead of trying to change them.”

So if you're the type of person who needs a moral, how's this? I tried to help Michael. It worked for a while, and then he messed things up. The moral? “Be very selective if you're thinking of helping anyone.”

Of course, if this was a movie, I would have pulled Michael from a burning building by now (or vice versa), and we'd have put aside our differences, embraced, and become friends for life.

But it isn't a movie.

I knew Michael would get suspended. That was a given. Leonard, too.

However, I had a bad feeling Michael's life would probably be a lot better from here on out.

I mean, I was pretty sure people wouldn't be picking on him for a while. The rumor (
my
rumor, in fact) had already made that so, but after what happened with Leonard, I doubted anyone wanted to risk a beat down from Michael. They'd completely lose their place in the food chain.

So that was something.

Oh, and Wanda.

Thanks to me, Michael knew Wanda. Not only did he know her, apparently she could actually stomach being around him for more than two minutes.

(Which reminded me, I really needed to speak to her about that.)

And his dad, right? He knew his dad now.

And Chrissy . . .

So all that time and attention, and all that success, and Michael
still
had the balls to kick me to the curb.

Well, anyway, Monday showed up way too soon. The only thing that made it manageable was vacation from Michael.

That, and I figured I'd probably get a call from Chrissy in a couple of days. There was still plenty of time to win that one. Unlike her ingrate of a half-brother, I knew Chrissy would apologize. And even though I wouldn't answer the initial call, I decided to be lenient with her. She'd leave a message. I'd be nice and call her back in a day or two.

Wednesday came. Even though it was still a little early, a call wouldn't have taken me completely by surprise. So I didn't think much of it when she didn't.

Thursday
, I told myself as I was falling asleep.
Definitely Thursday.

But no call Thursday either. Near the end of the day, I checked my phone for messages, figuring one might have slipped past me.

No message.

By Friday afternoon, I
still
hadn't heard anything and was starting to simmer.

Once again, Michael had managed to irritate me, this time remotely. I was sure I'd get a call Friday night, but on the off chance I didn't, I decided to take Mom's car Saturday morning and make one last visit to Michael's crappy house.

I didn't bother thinking up a plan to get past Gut or persuade Michael to let me in. I'd break that fucking door down, tap dance on Gut, and drag Michael kicking and screaming from under his bed.

For all I knew, Michael had called Chrissy again just to make she understood the “danger” of getting involved with someone like me. By 9:00 Friday night, I was sure he had. A week had gone by and the only explanation that made any sense was Michael butting in yet again.

I was past simmer now. I'd reached a rolling boil, and the only thing that kept me from roaring over to Michael's Friday night was the fact that Mom had actually gone out with some of her friends for the evening. Dad was, of course, elsewhere. Well, that and the fact that Michael was probably already in bed snoring peacefully.

I'll give her until noon Saturday
.
Just to be sure.

(I was pretty mad, but not mad enough to get up early on a weekend.)

But I was up early Saturday.

If it's the weekend and I'm alert and awake before 8:30, I know it's going to be a bad day.

Refusing to be pushed around by whatever body part was unable to be quiet and let me sleep, I flipped over and tried to get comfortable. I stayed still for a while and glared at the ceiling. When that didn't work, I tried almost every sleeping position known to man.

But instead of finding the right one, all the movement just added to my insomnia. I made one last angry flip and vowed to stay put until either sleep returned or my bladder burst. But my last flip brought me face to face with my window.

And as I studied the light that had somehow managed to sneak through the blinds, my eyes settled on the broken twisty rod. And that stupid twisty rod shoved me right back into Chrissy's absurd phone call.

Michael and his nonsense had me up and in a shitty mood before 9:00 on a Saturday.

I jerked out of bed and started pulling on clothes.

Time for one last visit.

I cleaned myself up as best as I could, though I didn't have much patience for it. I grabbed my music and was quickly out of my room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. I was so caught up with Michael that I forgot to peer in first.

“Wow, you're up early,” Mom said. One of her many tired old jokes.

As usual, she was at the table.

“Back already?” I asked. “How was girls' night out? Hit any strip clubs?”

I grabbed her keys from off the hook and turned to go.

“Are you taking the . . . Matthew! Get back here!”

I stopped and backed into the kitchen. I don't know why I didn't just bolt for the door. I wasn't thinking straight. Heaving a massive sigh, I turned to face her.

“So, I guess you're going out,” she said.

“Nope, just taking the keys for a little walk.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see a dear friend.”

I turned.

“Matthew!”

“Yes?”

“Who?”

“Michael.”

“Who's Michael?”

“New kid at school. You'd love him.”

“Really? When am I going to meet him?”

“Maybe we'll visit him at the hospital,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing. Can I go now?”

“No. When are you coming back?”

“I don't know. A couple hours?”

“How about lunchtime?” she said.

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

Just get out of my way or, so help me, I'm going to run you over.

“Matthew! I'm going to take those keys if you keep turning your back on me.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said. “What is it now?”

“I want you back at lunch, okay? Really.”

“God! I told you I'd be back. What else do you want?”

Watching her cringe, like I was an unstable dog that had just tried for her nose, almost pushed me over the edge. Keeping my voice in check took every ounce of self-control I had left.

“What?” I managed, pushing the words through my teeth.

She opted for a dramatic pause, before saying, “It's important,” in a meek little voice.

I endured her Look of Concern as long as I could.

“Why? What's going on?” I demanded.

“There's a reason I want you back by lunch. I want to make sure we have a chance to talk today.”

I didn't say anything right away. I should have said, “Okay, fine,” but instead I said, “Why?”

“There's something we need to discuss,” she said, eyes dropping down to her piles.

“What?” I asked.

“Just something we need to discuss,” she repeated. “I don't want to talk about it now, okay?”

“No,” I said. “Not okay! I don't have time for this crap!”

The hurt on her face just made me angrier. “Matthew . . . why are you—”

“Just shut up and leave me the hell alone.”

I turned and stalked down what little hall there was, threw the garage door open, and slammed the hell out of it after I was through.

I hopped into the car, clicked the button for the garage door, and pulled out before it was all the way up. Out on the street, as I was jerking the car into drive, I detected movement in the garage.

Glancing over as I pulled away, I saw Mom standing in the pocket door, eyes wide, mouth partially open. I didn't bother to award myself any points. I didn't feel like playing the Game today.

We're so close to the Beltway that it's almost always the first leg of any trip. I'd driven this stretch so many times that I was fairly certain I could pull out of our neighborhood and onto the exit ramp with my eyes closed. Today, I was almost pissed enough to finally try, but I wasn't about to do anything that might delay my little visit with Michael.

Merging into the line of traffic, I loaded my music and went right to the Album—the one I only play three times a year.

The Unforgettable Fire
. Not the whole album, mind you, just a chunk.

Songs four through seven.

I guess some people have a favorite song. I have four and they just happen to be right next to each other.

I never want to get tired of these songs, so I only let myself listen to them three times a year. But it was late spring and I'd already listened to them twice—not a good sign.

Barring any pile-ups or road work, the trip would be a quick one. It was only one exit away—the exit that would take me past school and, eventually, to Michael's.

I stomped on the accelerator. The exit came up fast. I hauled the car into the right-hand lane and started to slow.

Then I took my foot off the brake and let my car slide right past the exit.

I guess maybe I needed a little time—time to think, time to draw up a basic plan. As I mentioned, I'm not big on improv.

There was another exit less than a mile away. I decided to take that one instead and make my way back toward school without the assistance of the Beltway. It would give me just enough time to plan.

I stayed in the right lane, ready to exit. I even hit the turn signal. But I didn't take this ramp off the Beltway either. I just kept going.

I lost a bunch of anger after that. I wasn't sure what I was doing, but figured I'd find out soon enough. So I just drove, soaking up the Album, head empty.

It was a nice feeling that didn't last very long. Once I crossed the bridge that separated Virginia from Maryland, I suddenly realized where I was headed.

As soon as I crossed the border, I reached for the radio. I stopped the Album, took it back to the first song, and let it go.

And for some reason, when I think back on that day, deciding to play the Album in its entirety always stands out as one of the strangest things.

By the time the Album was done, I was pretty close.

I took a quick look inside my head, wondering if I had a plan.

Nope.

No plan, but there
was
something. A little speck hidden under something old and dusty. Something from a long time ago, but something immediately familiar. And when I blew the dust off and looked at it for the first time in years, I almost threw it into the darkest corner I could find.