Gabe Johnson Takes Over (11 page)

The hole.

Hunger like that is an attempt to fill up a hole, okay? It's pretty literal, sir. I feel like I have this hole, this empty space, that can't ever get filled up, and when I don't feel right, that hole is the only thing I can think about. It's begging to get filled, like it has a voice and a mind, and the voice keeps screaming for my attention until I fill that hole with a thousand pounds of food.

Gore drove me home and it seemed like maybe she wanted to hang out longer to talk or something. But I had this emptiness to deal with. “Gotta go,” I said.

“Oh, okay,” Gore said. “Um…bye.”

My real self, my Gabe self (as opposed to my Chunk self), wanted to spend the rest of the day with Gore. My Chunk self needed attention real bad. “We'll talk later? Let's talk later, okay?”

“Yeah. That'd be nice,” she said.

Then I went inside the house and opened the refrigerator. I thought,
Eat
everything
in
the
world.
Grandpa came into the kitchen and said, “Look who's back home staring at the cheese.”

I looked back in the fridge at a block of cheeses that seemed ready to get stuck in my mouth. Then I blinked, slammed the fridge door, and then said, “Thanks for never leaving the house, Grandpa.”

“What?”

“I'm just glad you're here. Let's work out.”

We jumped rope downstairs for a damn hour. It was killer. By the end, I wanted to puke. But also, I didn't want to plow food in my face after that. Killing yourself with a jump rope takes away hunger, fills that damn hole, man. It really does. That's good to remember.

At dinner, Grandpa and I ate a big salad (gross) with plenty of dressing and some grilled chicken strips (not too shabby). Dad complained about the salad. “I'm not a rabbit. I'm a man.” He took the chicken and made a bunch of chicken and cheese burritos. He prepared his burritos, ate his burritos, and left the table while Grandpa and I were still eating. Lettuce makes you eat slower, I swear to God. When Dad huffed and lumbered away from the table, Grandpa asked, “You sure you don't want to let him in on the program, Chunk? He's in terrible—I worry about the guy.”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “I don't want him to have a piece of this because I like this and he'll kill it.”

Grandpa nodded. “Could be.”

Grandpa knows Dad pretty well, right?

After dinner, I totally passed out on the couch. That was a big day. I led a totally ridiculous protest that did nothing but get us thrown out of school. But still, I
led
it and it
did
announce to Deevers and Big Boobs that we band members cared about what was happening to us. That's something.

Anyway, I passed out in front of the TV and I might've slept through until morning, except around quarter to nine, the doorbell rang.

Wait. Wait a second.

RC III isn't going to get in trouble because I'm telling you this, is he? He didn't do anything himself, just gave me some ideas.

Good. Okay. It was RC III. Grandpa shook me awake. He said, “The quarterback is at the door. He doesn't want to come inside. Just wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?” I asked. “What quarterback?”

“The black kid.”

I rolled off the couch. Dad asked “Who?” from his recliner. I didn't answer, just headed for the door, slid on my flip-flops, and walked out.

“Hey?” I said to RC III. He stood in the front yard, his hoodie pulled up. I was a little embarrassed. Our house is pretty run down—a 1970s ranch-style shit pile with peeling paint. I bounced down off the stoop to make sure he didn't try to come in.

“Yeah. Hey,” he said.

“What's up?” Felt very weird to have RC III in my yard.

“I don't know,” he said. “I'm bored, man. Want to take a walk?”

“Uh…okay?” I said.

He turned and walked out to the street. There are no sidewalks in my part of town. Almost looks like a campground at night. Not too many streetlights, just lights from houses (with a bunch of lake flies buzzing in them everywhere you look). It was dark out there.

“What's going on?” I asked after we got a house or so away from mine.

“My pops thinks I should stay out of this. He thinks it's not my business. Why should I care about a gang of white kids who can't play band or whatever?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Why should you care?”

“I don't know, except I like you a lot better than I like the football dudes who all think they're God's gift to this town.”

“They do suck for the most part,” I said.

“But I really don't know why I care,” he said.

“Oh.”

“But I do.”

“Cool?”

“Okay. So you know about the Green Lake thing?” he asked.

“Sort of,” I said. “I know there were those two murders last year.”

“Yeah, man. Pops is representing this Native American dude against a whole town that's coming after him because he's an easy target, even though they don't have any hard evidence. He's the dude who always got drunk down at the bar. He's the dude who got in fights all the time, shouting names at people on the street. What jury of white people wouldn't figure he's worthless and guilty and deserves to get punished even if he didn't actually do the crime he's got pinned on him?”

“Uh-huh,” I said. We walked about ten more steps. “I don't know what that guy has to do with us,” I said.

“What you all are dealing with isn't going to put you in jail, I know, but it's kind of the same thing, man. You fools are such easy targets. Pull out that Justin Cornell kid and who you got left to defend you? That fake-ass gangster Austin boy? Easiest thing in the world is to take a fool's stuff.”

“That's kind of offensive,” I said.

“Sorry,” RC III said.

“No problem,” I said.

“Anyway, Pops says it's not my battle. But how is some Indian his battle?”

“I don't know.”

RC III nodded. We walked a few more steps. “Can I tell you how to fight better?” RC III asked.

“Uh…sure,” I said.

“First, man, you can't just stand out there in the cafeteria like you're pigs waiting to get slaughtered. You have to do something.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time, okay? We were showing Deevers that he silenced us,” I said. “With our silence.”

“No. You have to make noise, get in the way, make some demands, tell Deevers and the cheerleaders what's going to happen if your demands don't get met.”

“But we don't even have demands really. We're just mad.”

“You demand fairness, man! Demand real democracy.”

“I wrote about that in my letter to the editor.”

“Yeah. It's a public school, man. You demand a hearing before things you care about get taken away. Demand a voice by lifting your voice. Make it hard for those cheerleaders to practice until you're heard.”

“How?”

“Why didn't you have your instruments with you today?”

I stopped walking. “Because! Silence was the point!”

“You've been talking all week about having a concert. That's where you should have your concert. What if you brought your instruments with you?”

“Oh, shit,” I said. I thought. I dropped down and sat in the grass in front of the McDermotts' house. I thought some more. “Oh, yeah.”

RC III dropped down and sat cross-legged on the grass next to me. “They didn't silence you. They didn't take the instruments. They're taking your education and your opportunities.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.”

“I know from basketball how loud you can be with those damn horns and drums. I could hear you blasting on them through whole games during the season.”

“Pep band is loud,” I said.

“So don't stand out in the cafeteria quietly. Don't stand where the cheerleaders aren't.”

“Should we just march into their practice?”

RC III thought for a moment. “How about this? Get up in the weight room above the gym. Bring your instruments. Blast those things. Stop their practice. Get Deevers in there. Tell him and the cheerleaders that you won't quit messing with them until somebody listens to you about the money and your education.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “But wait. How do we get up to the weight room? We can't go through the locker room and the coaches' offices. Isn't the outside entrance locked?”

“I work at Dante's in the morning. After work, if you've got the people, I'm going to let you in there. Coach Nelson gave me an outside key for when I can't go during regular hours.”

“Dude, you could totally get in trouble.”

“I'm going to let you in and leave. Don't tell anyone how you got in there. Maybe the door wasn't locked? Rest of the football team is running winds on the sand at Wilson Beach tomorrow. Nobody will see me.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Can you get your friends back there after what happened today?” he asked.

“Yeah. They thought today was a big success,” I said.

RC III smiled huge and giggled. “You people are crazy. That was one pathetic display, man.”

Just then, Mrs. McDermott leaned out her front door and screamed all crazy, “You boys get off my lawn. This isn't a park!”

“Sorry,” I said. I stood up.

“What's her deal?” RC III whispered, eyeballing her. Mrs. McDermott glared at us from her open door. “She have something against black people?”

“She's been screaming at me to get off her lawn for ten years,” I said. “She has something against people generally.”

“Dude, I get that,” RC III smiled.

He stood too and we walked back toward my house. We walked in silence for a few seconds. Then RC III cleared his throat.

“Yeah?” I asked

“Um,” RC III said.

“What?”

“Are you into Chandra?”

I sort of stumbled, “Who?”

“Gore,” RC III said.

“Well,” I said. My chest got tight. “Probably.” Then my head barked at me:
Shit! Don't say that!

“She's pretty fine,” he nodded.

“I don't know. Whatever. I've got other stuff. I've got some business to handle and I don't really have time to, you know, get all into sex.”

“What, dude?” RC III laughed.

“Shit,” I said. “Love.”

“I wasn't asking you to marry her. I just noticed she talks about you all the time at work.”

“She does?”

“Definitely, dude.”

“Oh.” Mr. Rodriguez, my heart sprang out of my chest, man. I…I…why the hell am I telling you this? Anyway, suddenly, I thought it was a really good idea to go to Gore's house. “Hey,” I said. “I have to plan this protest thing for tomorrow because Shaver's hearing is tomorrow night, so I need to get on it. Maybe we should go over there. Go over to Gore's. Get Gore's help on it. I'd better call Camille. She's…she's a pain in my ass—” My voice sort of trailed off.

“You okay?” RC III asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“I'll drop you off at Gore's if you want, but I have to get home. Pops hits the damn roof if I'm later than ten.”

“Okay,” I said. “Give me a ride!”

We got into his car and I didn't even think for a second about my own dad. RC III drove me to Gore's. I texted Camille on the way. A couple minutes later, RC III dropped me off in Gore's front yard. As I got out of the car, he said, “We'll go do this protest after work tomorrow. Tell everybody 2:15.”

“You got it,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”

I watched RC III turn the car around and peel away.

Yeah, he did let us in the school the next day, sir, but he had no other involvement in anything that happened.

I am telling the truth.

I sat down in Gore's dark yard. I sort of couldn't believe I was there, sir. Why the hell was I there? Some slight information that Gore talked about me at work? I thought,
Oh, my God. You
idiot.
My mouth got dry and I got all shaky and nervous.

It isn't too far a walk to home from Gore's. I could've done it. I thought about doing it. I stared out at the street and thought,
Hoof
it home, dude.
But I'd texted Camille from RC III's car that we needed a planning session so…

So I sat down in the grass and waited for Camille to respond to my text about planning. Maybe she could pick me up and drive me home because I'd clearly gone off half-cocked in love. Or maybe I could knock on Gore's door more easily if Camille were with me. I stared at a streetlight down the block.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Thank
God!

But it wasn't Camille. It was Justin Cornell. He wrote this long text, something like:

Chunk, Seth Sellers is going to kick your ass if you do anything to mess with Emily. He told me to warn you. He's pissed that you aren't showing his girl respect. Or all the girls. Why would you go up to their practice two days in a row? Please take this seriously. I don't want anything happening to you, even though I'm pissed that you're such a jerk to me.

Me? I'm a jerk to Justin? How is that possible? How could he say that? He's hanging out with those guys and not calling me ever and I'm the jerk? If there's one person in my whole life who has done his best to remove my basic human dignity, it's Seth Sellers. Fart sounds? Making me ass-dance? Just the day before, he posted that picture of me and my grandpa in our shiny swimsuits. And Justin wants me to be afraid? What is Seth going to do? Kill me? He's already done his best to crush my freaking soul. I stood up from the grass. I thought,
Stick
it
in
your
ass, Cornell.
I thought,
Come
and
get
me, Sellers.
I walked across the yard and rang the church bell doorbell. Gore answered. “Hi!” she said. “Where'd you come from?”

“The yard.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You have any lemonade?” I asked.

“Of course I do! Come on in!” she said.

We watched Adult Swim cartoons for a couple hours. We drank some lemonade. We sat really close to each other on the couch, which was pretty great. I could feel this amazing warmth coming off her arm.

I lost all fear, man. I was so mad about Justin.

Around 11:30, Gore turned to me and asked really quiet, “So did you just come over for lemonade?”

I swallowed hard, shook my head, and said, “No, we're going to have a real protest tomorrow. A big one.”

“Really? There aren't any announcements on Facebook.”

I thought for a second. “I'm not just going to post on Facebook. The cheer girls will see it. They're upset about what we're doing.”

“Oh. That's good.”

“Can I use your laptop? I need to send some messages.”

“This is very exciting,” she said, betraying absolutely no excitement in her voice.

“Yes,” I said. “Very.”

She exhaled. “Two weeks ago, nobody in the world liked me,” she said.

“Two weeks ago, I was a stupid beach ball.”

Gore reached over and put her hand on my hand. We locked eyes. She swallowed hard. I breathed in deep. I could drink her, you know? It felt like I was sucking helium, like I might start floating.

“I'll get my laptop,” she said.

She let go of my hand, stood up, and skipped across the room and brought back her computer. She looked so pretty skipping.

Then I thought about stupid Justin Cornell.

Instead of posting in a public way, I made a list of everybody who had been to our silent but deadly protest earlier in the day. I logged into my Facebook and sent a message to as many of them as I could.

Go ahead, you already have my account open.

Gabe Johnson, June 13 at 11:44 p.m.

Tomorrow is the day, you Geekers. Tomorrow, the school board at an unannounced time and in an unannounced location will decide whether they should fire Mr. Shaver. We can't control what they do, but we can make it known that our dignity won't be taken from us, that we will have a voice. It's their choice whether our voice is creative or destructive. In either case, we will be heard! Geekers! Meet in the school parking lot at 2:15! Bring your instruments! We will have our concert in the weightlifting balcony! Those cheer girls will know that we are here! Spread this message to all who might feel as we do. Keep this message away from anyone who might want to stop us. We have already received threats from Major Asshole Jocks in the school. Until tomorrow, when we shall play our song!

I sent the message, and immediately, there were replies from Geeks getting cheeky about our power! They spread it everywhere.

Yes, sir, even to Randall Andersson, MLAHS band alum and budding rock star. Hell yeah. He sent me a personal message. He said he'd try to get to the protest. Just wasn't sure their tour van would pull in early enough. Because of their Spunk River Days gig, the whole band spent the weekend at Randall's dad's cabin, I guess.

Take that Justin Cornell. Randall wants to hang with me, okay? Tell your great new pal Seth Sellers about that.

I maybe shouldn't be so hard on him. After last night anyway.

Yeah, I sent the message to Camille too. She didn't respond. I actually haven't seen her since our silent but deadly protest.

That's what I mean. A whole new set of friends, Mr. R.

A week earlier, there was Justin and Camille. In all honesty, both of them are decent people. Really good. But I want you to notice something because I did. Justin and Camille call me Chunk. RC III and Gore call me Gabe. That's my real name. My new friends give me proper respect, sir.

Gore likes to be called Gore or I would call her Chandra, I swear.

Here's where the problem with Dad got big. While I sent messages, Gore cooked us some veggie burgers. In the meantime, my phone went dead. Right after I ate, I fell asleep on one of those big leather couches. Gore covered me up in a blanket. Because her dad isn't around much, I don't think she even considered the possibility that I should go home. I didn't wake up until like 4:30 a.m., and by that time, I had to go to work. (Luckily, Gore had a Dante's T-shirt she never wore, and luckily, she's a big girl or I never would've fit in the thing.)

Why would you ask that? That's not an appropriate question, sir, okay? We held hands and she slept on the floor right beside the couch. I'm not some pervert who just wants to get lucky. Not now anyway. Gore is a woman. The real deal.

Apology accepted.

Sure. Maybe in the depths of my brain I was trying to make Dad mad or “assert my independence.” He doesn't really care if I'm okay. He just wants to control me, like he wanted to control—Listen, the next morning, I was freaked about how Dad would react. It was an accident that I fell asleep. But I didn't want to deal—

Jesus. I'm really tired.

Yes! Jesus God, I'm tired of talking. Can I go back to the cell and go to bed?

What time? Tonight?

Why? Do you have a meeting or something about this whole deal? It's Sunday.

Okay, okay, okay. We'll go on.

I'm so tired.