Changing Michael (5 page)

“Why are you doing this?” Michael demanded.

“So you'll talk.”

“No, why are you trying to—”

“Because I'm tired of seeing you get pushed around,” I said. “And I want to do something about it.”

He stared.

I stared back.

He started walking again, and I sighed, thinking of the energy it would take to make a scene on the side of the road.

“Okay, Michael—”

“I can't really explain,” he said.

“Explain what?” I asked.

Michael frowned at me. “The dreams.”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

He shook his head. “They wouldn't make any sense to you. I mean, there are
parts
that make sense, but most of them . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Most are so arbitrary and surreal.”

“I see.”

Michael shot me a look.

“So what's the big deal?” I asked. “If they don't make sense and they're so arbital and surreal, why's your little friend back there so worked up?”

“
Arbital
?” Michael said, smiling just a little.

“You know what I mean,” I said.

He nodded but didn't answer right away.

“Parts of them are pretty . . .”

I waited, but not for long. “Parts of them are pretty . . .” I prompted.

“Violent,” he said.

“I get it. Keep going.”

“I don't usually have dreams like that,” he said. “And now I'm having them all the time.”

“So who are you killing?” I asked.

He looked a little startled, but eventually said, “Jimmy thinks—”

“I don't care what Flap thinks,” I said. “What do you think?”

“Flap?”

“Your buddy back in the bookstore,” I explained. “What do
you
think?”

Michael sighed. “It's hard to explain,” he said.

“You mentioned that.”

“Because the characters in the dreams . . . they're supposed to be people—people I know—but they don't look anything like them.”

“Michael, who?”

“Leonard.”

“Shocking,” I muttered.

“My stepfather.”

“Your . . . Wait. Your who?”

“Stepfather,” he said.

“Big gut?” I asked, holding my hand a few feet from my stomach.

“Yeah.”

I congratulated myself for knowing something was up when he'd appeared on the other side of the door. I'd probably have nightmares about him too if I had to live with him. The thought of Gut wandering around the house in his boxers made me shudder.

“Oh my God,” I said.

“What?”

“He doesn't wear briefs, does he?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Anybody else taking a beating in your head?” I asked.

Michael gave me a sour look but shook his head.

So, basically, Michael didn't like his stepfather, or the kids who pushed him around at school. Really abnormal, huh?

“Is that it?” I asked.

“Is what it?”

“That's what you're worried about?”

Michael hesitated. “Jimmy's worried,” he said.

“Jimmy seems a little fussy.”

“So dreams like that aren't important?” he asked.

“In my professional opinion? No.”

“So I should just laugh about them in the morning?” he asked, starting to heat up.

“Easy now. I'm trying to help you, remember? I don't want to show up in your dreams tonight.”

I thought it was a pretty funny line. Judging from Michael's face, he didn't share my opinion.

“Okay, relax. It was just a joke. Guess we need to work on your sense of humor, too.”

“Why?”

“Never mind. Look, what if you weren't having the dreams anymore?” I said. “Would you still be all cramped-up?”

“All cramped-up?”

“That's my new thing—‘all cramped-up.' Like it?”

Michael shrugged.

“Give it two weeks,” I said. “It means all worked-up and hysterical.”

“I'm not hysterical,” he said.

“Whatever. I'm not going to argue about seamatics.”

“Huh?”

“Seamatics.”

“I think you mean semantics,” Michael said.

“Stop talking,” I said. “Anyway, I think I can help you.” I thought for a minute. Convincing the entire school to leave him alone was a bit daunting. I needed to start smaller.

“We'll begin with Gut.” Before he could say anything, I raised my hand. “‘Gut' is your stepfather. You need to start thinking of him as ‘Gut,' not as your stepfather.”

“Why?”

“Because he's like a pet. He needs a name.”

Michael stopped walking.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked. “We're never going to get there if you keep stopping.”

“Why are you doing this?”

This again.
I sighed. “Because you need my help, Michael . . . and I'm a wonderful, giving person.”

Michael stared. Actually, he didn't just stare
at
me. He stared
into
me. I wasn't sure what he was looking for, or what he would find.

Maybe he'd just walk off again. And maybe this time I wouldn't follow him.

But then again, I'd already sacrificed a great deal of time, endured several difficult conversations with Michael, and narrowly avoided a pass from Flap. So losing Michael would be somewhat annoying.

And I
still
hadn't gotten a “thank you” for rescuing him from Leonard.

But eventually, he gave in. I didn't see it—I felt it. It was like the air coming out of an inner tube, leaving Michael flat.

“Should I call him ‘Gut' to his face?” Michael asked.

“Of course not,” I said.

I turned, hoping Michael would follow. He did.

“And don't let it slip out, either,” I said. “People like Gut aren't very observant, but they'll surprise you once in a while. Now let's go back to the bookstore. Jimmy's probably soiled his flap by now.”

The bookstore wasn't far, but far enough for us to go over some of the basics.

“First of all, what's he do?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Gut, Michael. Pay attention.”

“Watch TV.”

“I mean for work. What's he do?”

“Construction.”

“Shocking,” I said. “Okay, works construction. Does he watch sports? Wait a minute. What am I saying? Of course he does.”

“Football,” said Michael. “And NASCAR.”

“Fabulous. Favorite driver?”

“I don't know. I try not to watch when it's on.”

“You might have to start,” I said. “But for now, just find out who his favorite guy is.”

“Why?”

“Because you're going to tell Gut he's gay.”

Blank look.

“Gut?” Michael asked.

“His driver, Michael. We're going to plant a little something in his head,” I said. “He'll say it isn't true, so you need to know what you're talking about. You'll need to know a couple of names. It's going to be something like . . . I don't know Vaughn Thomas was seen leaving a gay club at two in the morning . . . or maybe he made a pass at someone in the garage. But you have to be specific, and you have to use the language. It has to
sound
plausible.”

“Why?”

“Why does it have to sound plausible?”

“No, why am I doing it?”

“Because,” I said, turning down the side street toward Flap's bookstore, “the first thing we need to do is throw him off balance. Do you think he's going to like hearing that his favorite driver is gay?”

“No,” said Michael, smiling just a little.

“Of course not. And he'll say it's a lie and he'll say you're an idiot, but inside his little walnut brain, he'll wonder if it could be true,” I said. “And then he's going to wonder if something's ‘wrong' with him since he likes a gay driver.”

We stopped by Flap's sign.

“And since he's not used to thinking,” I said, “he's going to be just a little off balance. And when he is, we're going to push him a little more. And after that, we're going to push a little more. And once he's good and wobbly, you know what we're going to do?”

Michael shook his head.

“We're going to knock him over,” I said with a wink.

I left Michael standing by the sign.

“Don't try anything tonight!” I said, getting into my car. “Just find out who his favorite driver is. Go online and learn something, okay?”

“Okay,” Michael said.

I started the car and pulled away. I glanced in the rear view mirror and was pleased to see Michael still standing there, watching me coast down the street.

At a stop sign, I leaned over and opened the glove compartment, looking for a CD. I couldn't find it, but I did run across a black Sharpie.

I took it out and turned it over, considering.

I flirted briefly with the urge to modify Flap's sign, but tossed it back in the glove compartment.

Like I said, I don't really hate Flap, or his Flower Lady for that matter.

Sometimes, though, I think I'm too nice for my own good. I remember thinking that someday it was going to get me in trouble.

Saturday.

I spent the morning doing a lot of nothing. Between the rigors of school and my newfound interest in Michael, I needed some downtime. I woke up late and watched a few episodes of
Pawn Stars
until hunger forced me out of my room.

I tromped down the stairs, but no one was in the kitchen.

I grabbed a bagel, managed to slice it in two without injuring myself, and topped it with as much cream cheese as possible. Opening the refrigerator to return the cream cheese, I decided to abscond with the entire orange juice carton—there wasn't much left anyway.

I retreated to my room, locking the door behind me.

I resumed my former position in bed, devoured my kill, and dozed in front of the TV for a while.

When I came to, I realized the plate had slipped from my lap and was now lying in three ragged pieces on the hardwood floor. I stared at it a while, but opted to clean it up later.

I took a shower and decided to visit Wanda.

Wanda is probably the only person in my life who's actually achieved “friend” status. Wanda's like a statue. She's tall and chiseled and looks like an Olympic sprinter. She's dark and fearless but reserved—her silence is like barbed wire. It's almost impossible to get through it and into her head.

No one can tell what is going on below the surface, and I only know what she wants me to know. Wanda thought she might end up playing poker for a living.

She didn't live that far from me, but in Northern Virginia, unless someone actually lives a couple doors down, you may be talking hours, not minutes, in the car. Going to Wanda's involved pulling out of our neighborhood onto a road that usually had about as much traffic as your average highway. After about fifty yards, you pushed your way down the ramp and onto the Beltway. And though it was only two or three exits, surviving the Beltway was always dicey.

After that, another clogged artery, then a couple of capillaries, and you were in her neighborhood.

I hadn't heard anyone downstairs and wondered if there was still a car in the garage. I shuffled down the stairs and peered into the kitchen.

No Mom, but it could mean she had the car. My eyes went to the hooks just above the writing desk.

Excellent.
Her keys were still there.

Time to find her—or, actually, time to determine whether she was in the immediate vicinity.

“Mom?”

No response.

Helpful Hint
: When calling for a parent in a situation where they might say “no,” never raise your voice above normal conversation level. The intention is not actually to find them. (In other words, use your “inside voice,” please.)

Rationale
: You don't really want to find or speak to them. You just want a believable excuse when confronted later for not asking permission. I think it's called “possible deniability” or something. If you're that worried about it, go look it up. Here's an example:

“Why did you take the car without permission?”

“I didn't. I tried to find you, but you didn't answer.”

“I was in the next room!”

Whisper: “I'm worried about your hearing loss.”

I took my time wandering up the path that led to Wanda's front door.

Everything about Wanda's place is unusual and worth a second look. The flagstones are cut from some material I can't identify. The shrubs on either side of the path are either flawless replications or impeccably manicured living things. I stopped to inspect one.

I wasn't in a hurry. I hadn't called to see if she was home and didn't know where I'd go if she wasn't. I took a quick look, didn't see anyone nearby, and squatted beside the closest shrub. I still couldn't tell, but if they were fake, they were the greatest artificial plants ever produced.

I stood and dusted my hands, though it was more for show than to remove any real dirt.

Wanda's house is long and low. Large, spreading oaks protect it like a giant bird standing over her chick. There never seems to be any direct sunlight bearing down on the roof. There's a second, slightly higher roofline behind the first, but it can be difficult to see on an overcast day. I can't really tell you how big the house is. It's not something you can determine from the outside. Or from the inside, for that matter. I'd been inside several times, but only gotten past the front room once or twice. Like I said, Wanda doesn't let many people in.

I wandered up to the front door and rang the bell.

It was one of those bells you can't quite hear from the intruder's side of the door—the kind that leaves you thinking it might be broken, and maybe you should give it another push, just to make sure.

I waited uncomfortably, raised my hand to ring again, then tried to drop it when the door suddenly opened.

“I heard you,” Wanda said. “You don't need to lean on it.”

“I wasn't going to . . .” I started, but conceded the point to Wanda and slipped inside.

“Thanks for calling first,” she said, walking to the middle of the room and settling into a slick black couch that faced the front door.

“You know you were waiting for me,” I said.

Wanda snorted, sounding almost exactly like my mother. She stretched out across the length of the couch and propped herself up on an elbow, staring at something on the cushion. It might have been a tablet, but there was something about the shape or size that was off.

Wanda's house was filled with that sort of thing: items that were exotic, understated, and obviously expensive.

I sat across from her on a smaller couch (a love seat, or whatever they're called). Both seemed to be covered in black leather (either that or some new fiber only available to the military elite). My couch didn't have arms, which got me thinking. I pushed myself to the edge of it and leaned down in an attempt to look underneath. I couldn't spot any legs, so I just assumed the couch hovered.

There was something daunting about Wanda's “front room” that usually left me quiet and compliant. Medical waiting rooms could save themselves the hassle of unruly patients by studying it. It was spacious and spare, all its items streamlined and modern. The one exception was a tall piece of pottery, a vase that stood on a short, black box near the entrance to the kitchen. It could have been anywhere from three years old to three thousand. I was afraid to go near it, assuming I'd either crash into it or insult it by not averting my gaze.

All the furniture in the front room was angular and sharp. You had to be careful about how and where you moved or else risk a slash from the corner of an end table.

The front room's light was always muted. There was a row of windows behind the love seat that ran the length of the wall and ended at the front door.

There was an enchanted forest on the far side of the room. Exotic flowers grew in clumps across the ceiling.

Okay, so I made up a couple things, but I was getting a little disgusted with myself. I don't know why I tried to describe her house in the first place, but apparently I've just written the beginning of a book Michael will really enjoy.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Hmm?” she muttered, distracted.

“What's that thing in front of you?”

“You.”

“Hilarious,” I said. “The thing laying next to you—the device that seems to be getting more attention than I am?”

“What do you think it is?” she asked, looking up from her screen.

Wanda was stretched out on her couch like a lioness. The couch was long but not quite long enough. Her bare feet dangled off the edge. She turned off her device, then stood and stretched.

The curve of her body seemed to fill the room from ceiling to floor, a nearly perfect arc. It took me a minute to realize I was staring; I was definitely off my game.

She wandered toward the back of the room and into the kitchen. “Want something?” she said, her voice floating back to me from around a corner.

“No . . . thanks.”

I sat on my hover-couch and folded my hands.

Looking around, I noticed a massive painting to my right. It was abstract, and the design was familiar, although it wasn't something I remembered from my last visit.

I stood and carefully slithered over to it. Having felt the burn of Wanda's sharp furniture once or twice, I refused to move at any speed above old-man shuffle.

I stopped a few feet from the painting.

“Is this real?” I asked.

I could see globs of paint that appeared to be three-dimensional, but wasn't quite sure I could trust my eyes.

I shot a furtive glance toward the kitchen, then brought a tentative finger toward a blob of red.

“You don't do that at the gallery, do you?”

The voice was so low and close that at first, I thought the painting was upbraiding me.

“No,” I said, defensively tucking my arm against my side.

Wanda's mother emerged from a wormhole and stepped up beside me.

Her mother is just a bit taller than Wanda and, though not quite as muscular, somehow more imposing than her daughter.

“What do you think?” Mrs. W asked, nodding toward the painting.

I always called Wanda's mother Mrs. Wanda or Mrs. W. Can't really explain why. It just seemed to fit and she didn't seem to mind.

“Umm . . . it's real?” I tried.

She laughed.

“It better be. Do you like it?” she asked.

I turned back to the painting. I didn't need a second look to decide whether I liked it or not. It was hideous. But seeing Wanda's mother was an anomaly, and I needed a moment to get my head out of my ass.

“Of course I like it. It's very . . . it's . . . Actually, no . . . no, I don't,” I finally admitted.

She smiled.

“Me, neither. But it's worth a lot.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Wanda's voice cut in from the other side of the room.

“Going to work?”

“Mm-hm,” her mom said.

“What time you coming back?”

Mrs. W shrugged.

“Can't tell me or don't feel like it?” Wanda asked.

Setting a tall drink on an end table that must have scuttled in behind her, Wanda folded herself back onto the couch.

“One of those,” her mom said.

I don't know what her mom does for work. Wanda says she knows but can't tell me. I think she's lying. I've pressed Wanda on it a few times but haven't gotten anywhere.

“Headed for the pet shop?” I guessed.

Another smile from Mrs. W.

She slipped from my side, threading her way across the room and over to her daughter. “You can order dinner,” she said, bending over Wanda to kiss her on the cheek.

Wanda had her device going again.

“You can stay for dinner if you like, Matthew,” Mrs. W offered.

“Thanks.”

“Not if he doesn't ask me first,” Wanda said.

“You'd better watch yourself,” her mom replied.

The change in her voice was subtle, but I suddenly found myself a bit more alert than I had been just a second ago.

“Yes, ma'am,” Wanda said, quietly.

Her mother stood over her a moment, assessing, then leaned down and kissed her other cheek.

Wanda smiled.

To me, she said, “Wash your hands if you're planning on touching that painting again.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

A quick smile and she slipped out the front door.

I stood in place a moment, then shuffled back over to my hover-couch. My leg brushed a coffee table on the way, opening a five-inch gash.

I fell into my seat, stared at my hands a minute, then looked up at Wanda.

“She gets to you, doesn't she?” Wanda said, smiling.

“Please,” I said dismissively.

Wanda continued to stare. Wanda can see much farther into me than anyone else—it's a feeling I don't care for, but also one of the reasons I spend time with her. She's a worthy opponent. I haven't found a way past her barriers and definitely haven't discovered a way to beat her on a consistent basis. Spending time with someone like Wanda is good practice, not that I need a lot.