Infinite Time: Time Travel Adventure (3 page)

A gym locker door slams nearby and I jump. Laughter bounces around me. This is just a repeat of my daily life. Every day is the same.

Physical education class was purely created by a sadistic jerk who wanted to watch kids like me suffer the torture of having to undress in front of athletic gods. At least, the jocks like to
think
they are gods. Just ‘cause their steroids have kicked in and turned them into men, instead of the kids we are. That would explain why they are frigging crazy.

Or maybe PE was designed by someone who wanted to see kids like me fail at the simplest athletic skills, like tossing a ball from point A to point B. For me, the ball always ends up at point W. It’s just a waste of time. How the hell is this going to help me get a job in the future? I suppose adults can put their throwing skills into getting the waste paper into a ball and throwing it in the trash.

“We’re playing football again today,” Douglas says.

Gee, my favorite thing in all the world.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning in dismay.

We have to play against the actual school team, the team that wins against every school they play against—not only wins, but
crushes
them.

Coach says sports are a great way to build character. I call it torture and many other things. All it really does is pit Douglas and me against the jerks, most of them being sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys who are built like Channing Tatum. I’m more of a John Heder type, or at least John Heder when he played
Napoleon Dynamite.

I quickly undress, trying not to let the predators see my super-pale body, which radiates with a pure-white glow. That’s the same color I have all year round, unless I forget my sunscreen.

My body begins to tingle at the thought of not having sunscreen on in summertime. When I burn, I really burn, like a chicken just before it goes crispy. But trust me, the crispy comes later, as my body turns into a dry skin bag. I frigging hate sunburn.

I stow my black-rimmed glasses inside one of my tennis shoes.

I’ve got the cheapest cleats that my mom could find. I don’t think the expensive ones would help my performance much, but they would reduce the teasing.

I sit on the bench and listen to the noises around me, grateful that no one joked about my body today. It’s kind of soothing that without my glasses everyone just turns into a group of hazy blurs, at least till my eyes adjust.

“What are you looking at, nerd?”

I don’t even realize the remark is directed at me until one of the blurs comes closer and a fist slams into my shoulder.

“Hey!” Douglas cries as my focus comes clear. “Where did you get those socks? The Bozo Emporium?” he asks the jock currently torturing me, Paul.

“Shut up, asshole,” Paul says as laughter rises all around us.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen socks quite that colorful before,” Douglas continues.

“Are you colorblind? Only that could explain—”

Douglas’s heavy, sweaty body slams unpleasantly against mine. I push against his fleshy body to get him off me.

It’s like Douglas is immune to their attacks or insults. No matter how many times they knock him down, he bounces back with a smartass comment—which normally results in a second beating.

“Stupid cock suckers,” Paul says as he joins other blurs and they walk out of the locker room.

“Why’d you have to do that?” I whisper to Douglas.

“Why do they have to bully us all the time? It’s stupid what we have to put up with just because we’re a little different.”

“Speak for yourself,” I say, cross at the wrong person.

“Look, man, we are who we are. Why should we constantly defend ourselves from these assholes?”

Douglas takes his helmet and pushes it down over his curly hair. I never know how he manages to fit it all into the helmet, but he does.

I start to say something, but Coach Ridge walks into the locker room. “What are you pansies doing? Get your asses out on the football field.” We can’t even get a break from the teacher. And why would we? He’s the leader of the pack. He was once an all-star student of this school, which he likes to remind us of, but he did well for himself, didn’t he? And yet he’s not a highflying superstar athlete. Nope, he’s the Longwood high school coach.

I grab a helmet and I unwillingly follow Coach Ridge out toward the field. He turns to face me. His beard covers the movements of his mouth. But his overgrown eyebrows move down, and he frowns.

“You’re never going to survive in this world if you’re always hiding out in the locker room. Get out there and prove that you’re more than a wimp!”

Fat chance of me proving him wrong. All my motivation was zapped from me with that great motivational speech. I wonder if he’s been getting lessons from Neil, my stepdad.

The weather outside seems to reflect my mood. The clouds are dark and heavy, and look as if they are about to explode and shower us with rain. A bitter cold wind bites at my naked, muscle-less legs. I’m going to freeze out here. I wrap my arms around my chest, trying to keep the last of the heat in. For once I’m grateful Douglas is standing within my personal space. I can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Why are we even here? It’s not like they are going to throw the ball at us,” I say.

“To get the ball from them,” Douglas says, nudging his head toward our classmates as if he thinks I don’t understand the objective of the game, which I do. The rest of our classmates look like they all play for the NFL.

The coach blows the whistle and everyone moves into place.

I push my helmet down over my head and fumble for my mouth guard. Why would a game need so much protective gear?

Douglas growls around his mouthpiece, resulting in spit flying out.

For some reason, he enjoys this even though he often gets his face pushed into the dirt. I’ve decided Douglas is just a sucker for pain. Maybe when he gets older he will have tattoos all over him.

“Ha,” I laugh.

“What you laughing at?” Douglas asks, then swiftly places his mouth guard back in.

“The thought of you having tattoos all over you, like in Mr. Conrad’s class.”

Douglas frowns. “Why would you think that? You know I hate needles.”

“But you’re a sucker for this game.”

“That’s cause the odd time they slip in the mud, I get to knock them down, and then who’s laughing?”

We both start laughing together. “That was funny,” I say. Last year at one of these PE football "games," Douglas was hilarious. Somehow, God only knows how, he was able to stay on his feet when everyone else was falling flat on their faces in the mud. He was dancing around as if he were riding an imaginary pony. I’ve never seen him so happy. I laughed so hard I ended up with mud in my mouth.

I bend low and press my knuckles into the damp grass, my heart pounding in my chest. It’s like bracing for a car accident you can see coming, but can’t avoid. All I can think is
it’s going to hurt
.

The whistle blows again, and chaos erupts around me.

I pretend to rush forward, but what I’m really doing is trying to avoid the blow that I know is coming. I step to the side and try to line up with the blank spot in the football team’s offense. It works, and I manage to stay on my feet for most of the play. But that’s only one play.

We line up again. I’m a nose guard. It’s my job to keep the linemen busy so the linebackers can get through and make an attempt to sack the quarterback.

The only problem is I don’t know who the linemen are. And how am I supposed to keep them busy? They just walk all over me.

When I was a kid, dad used to show me where to stand and what the plays were; that was when we played for fun against Travis and his dad. Those days are long gone.

The whistle blows again. I move back into position, trying not to look at the guy in position across from me. I learned long ago that making eye contact only makes them more aware of you and, therefore, more determined to knock you into the dirt.

I keep my eyes down.

The whistle again. My heart pounds in my eyes as I move forward, aiming for another blank spot. This time I’m not as successful. The player across from me slams into my shoulder and pain bursts through me, rolling down my spine.

The quarterback throws a pass to the receiver, who is standing wide open on the twenty-yard line.

Cheers rise up from the stands where a few kids who have a free period are sitting, watching the game.

I hear Clara cheering with the other cheerleaders.

“Score, score, score!” they chant.

We line up again. As the whistle blows, I bend down to press my knuckles into the grass.

Travis is right in front of me. He spits his mouth guard out. “I told you not to look at my girlfriend,” he growls.

Before the whistle is blown, Travis surges toward me, and the world goes black.

I can’t hear anything when I wake up. I wonder for a minute if I’m dead, but then the sharp scent of cleaning chemicals fills my nose.

Not dead. I’m in the nurse’s office.

This is a familiar place to me. I come here quite often, though not out of choice. A teacher normally sends me down.

I start to sit up, making the plastic sheet squeak, and gentle hands press my shoulders back down.

“Don’t sit up. You might have a concussion,” Nurse Helen says as she pushes open the curtain around me, bringing with her a welcome sweet smell of perfume.

She always has a welcoming smile when I see her.
Here it comes
. The edges of her lipstick-coated lips move into a car-stopping smile.

All the boys at school have a crush on her. There’s something about the way she smells that used to fill my nights with pretty interesting fantasies. That was, of course, before I first saw Clara. But I don’t like Nurse Helen to see me when the teachers send me down to her, because she always knows it’s because I’m getting bullied, and that I’m pathetic.

“You were hit pretty hard,” she says, the sympathy in her tone as clear as her blue eyes. “I don’t understand why they make you boys play these scrimmages. I’ve gone to the principal about it a dozen times, but he doesn’t see the harm, he says. Well, I can show him the harm, I say. It’s just…”

I zone out a little, trying to remember how I got here. Nurse Helen continues talking in a fast flurry of words, her voice going up when she’s annoyed about something.

And then it comes back—football, Travis… enough said.

“I should get back to class,” I say, interrupting whatever Nurse Helen was saying.

“No. I think you should go to the doctor, get checked out just to make sure it isn’t serious.”

“I’m fine.”

I sit up, moving sideways to avoid her hands. I reach up to brush hair out of my face and realize that I still don’t have my glasses.

“Can I go change?” My gym clothes feel crusty from lying on them.

“Your clothes are here. Your friend Douglas brought them.”

Good ole Douglas.

“Did he stay long?”

Helen smiles. “He used his charm on me, so I let him stay a little longer than I was meant to.”

“Douglas used his charm, and I was still unconscious,” I laugh.

“He’s going to be very popular when he grows older.”

“Douglas, popular?” I never thought I would hear those two words together.

“You both will be, if you get through high school alive. You really need to stand up to those kids,” she says. With a teasing look on her face, she adds, “You had another visitor.”

“Who else came?”

“Kimi.” Nurse Helen smiles, then adds, “Are you taking her to the school dance?”

I snort. Jesus, Parker, what will she think of you? “We’re just friends. Think we are skipping it.” There is no thinking about it; we’re playing Xbox at Kimi’s house that night. Better to be there than laughed at for Douglas’s dancing. He really wants to go. He doesn’t seem to see or care when people laugh at him.

Nurse Helen smiles. “She was really worried about you. Asking all types of medical questions. She’s quite smart, you know.

“Mr. Conrad came to check on you as well,” she adds. I frown. Was he here to see me, or Nurse Helen? Bet they are secretly dating.

“Why did he come here?”

“Something about what happened in class today, and he… felt guilty,” she says, as if she’s not meant to tell me.

I could blame him, but it's not going to make things, or me, any better. “It was just a stupid game.” I shrug it off like it was nothing. Then I start to climb off the bed, but I’m lightheaded and wobble a little.

Nurse Helen grabs my puny upper arm and helps me back onto the bed.

Wasn’t it humiliating enough to be knocked out on the football field? Did I really need to be reminded that I am so weak, that now I literally can’t stand on my own two feet?

I don’t know how this day can get any worse.

Yes, it can.

“What’s going on? Why is my boy not in class?”

Mom.

“Mrs. Jenkins.” There’s an edge to Nurse Helen’s voice when she says my mom’s name. I completely understand. My mom can be a little difficult to take, especially when she is tired, which is always. She acts annoyed at everything.

“I had to leave work to come down here because someone said that Parker was injured. But he looks just fine to me.”

“I am fine,” I say. “I was just going back to class.”

“No,” Nurse Helen says. “He needs to go to a doctor. He passed out and was unconscious for more than ten minutes. That suggests he might have a concussion.”

My mom looks at me for a long second then shakes her head. “He’s tough,” she says. “He’s been hit on the head before and survived. He’ll survive this.”

But Nurse Beth isn’t about to be defied. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares my mom down.

“I will not sign off on allowing him to return to class. You don’t have to take him to the doctor, but you have to take him home.”

My mom mutters something under her breath that I am pretty sure is something less than friendly. But then she gestures at me.

“Get your stuff. You have two minutes.”

Nurse Helen hands me my clothes and gestures to the small bathroom tucked into the back corner of the room.

I dress quickly, relieved to have my glasses back, until I step out of the bathroom and see the dark, sunken look on my mom’s face. She worked the late shift last night, and then the afternoon shifts. Going home early might be fun for some kids, but for me it’s a nightmare.

The lecture begins before we even leave the building.

“Do you realize I had to leave work to come pick you up? Do you know how much money we’re losing right now? How am I supposed to pay the bills if I have to keep cutting work to come get you? My manager told me this is the last time, Parker. Do you know what that means? Do you know what’ll happen if I lose my job?”

“Mom, people are looking,” I say as nosey eyes burn into my body like the scalding sun.

“I don’t care.” She just carries on complaining at me, as if the whole school wasn’t around her with front-row seats to my private life at home—the life which I usually pretend isn’t real, and now everyone can see it.

“Mom, it wasn’t my fault.”

“Parker, you always say that, but really you are old enough to stand up for yourself.”

“Why can’t you be on my side for once? Dad would have been!”

“I am, and dad’s not here. I’m doing the best that I can.”

We both pause for a second. Mom never used to be like this. We were once very happy, when she was everything a mom was supposed to be, but the day my Dad was killed, that part of her was taken also.

As if mom can’t handle the silence, she carries on the way she has since my father died, worrying and complaining. “The electricity bill is due tomorrow. The phone bill the day after that. Do you really want to go without your cell phone? Do you really want the electricity turned off so you can’t play your video games anymore? You do realize those games aren’t free, right?”

“Yes.”

I pay for most of my games from money I earn from selling cheats online. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“This is getting ridiculous. This is the third time I’ve had to come pick you up, and school’s only been in session for six weeks. Six weeks, Parker!”

“I know.” I’ve still got the faded yellow bruises to prove it.

“This has got to stop. You have to stop putting yourself in these positions.”

Like this was my choice. Like any of this was my choice. Does she think I stepped into Travis’s way on purpose? That I went looking for trouble? Does she think I want to end up in the nurse’s office twice a week?

I climb into the car and slam the door, even though I know I'm going to hear about that, too.

The school bell rings and a bunch of kids come pouring out of the school. I spot Clara walking with a couple of her friends. I let my eyes roll over her, taking inventory of all the things that make her unique. The way her skirt fits on her hips, the way her blouse clings to her waist, the way she carries her backpack over one shoulder, the way she tosses her hair. I have it all memorized.

“You need to be a little more respectful, young man,” my mom announces as she climbs into the car.
Young man?
I love how adults can one day leave you to be the adult and the next day insult you with “young man.” “Cars aren’t cheap. You can’t just slam the doors like that,” mom adds. I know how much cars cost; I spent hours trying to find us one. I know more about this car than she does.

I just keep my eyes on Clara, with my cheek pressed against the car window.

“Maybe if I can get back to work by two my manager will let me finish my shift. We really need this money. I can’t believe you had to choose today of all days to do this.”

“You know,” I say without thinking about it, “if Neil worked, you wouldn’t have to worry about the bills as much.”

I can feel my mother’s eyes burning through the back of my skull.

“You know why Neil can’t work. It’s not his fault he hurt his back. If only you had helped him when we were moving, he would be able to work.”

“It was his job to move our belongings, not mine.” Mom met Neil when the bank took our house away from us, a year after Dad died.

Mom had been a wreck, and Neil had swooped in and rescued her.

That’s what she said at the beginning; then once he moved into our new crappy home, he quickly showed who he really was.

“Parker, I taught you to be better mannered than that. You help when people ask.”

The drive home is mostly silent except for the few moments Mom curses at other drivers.

“What are you doing home so early?” Neil asks. I’m surprised he’s even noticed we have entered the room. His eyes are glued to the television, as usual. “Shut the door, you’re letting the cold in,” he adds. If he were wearing more clothes, instead of the off-white wife beater and combat shorts, he wouldn’t have to worry about the room temperature. The only combat his shorts have seen is the struggle to cover his bloated body. From inside the house comes the smell of the frying oil he uses every time he cooks. The smell is disgusting; it sticks to the walls like it does to the crusty, old frying pan.

I hold onto the door handle for a few moments, letting the stench waft out, until mom taps me on top of my hand and pulls it closed.

I watch Neil wipe sweat that’s rolling down his bald head. He’s not cold, he’s having meat sweats. There is a plate on the worn leather seat next to him, with a half-eaten burger. By the ketchup track marks running down his overgrown stomach, I guess that’s not his first burger.

They are
his
burgers. Mom and I are starving most of the time, but Neil always gets double servings, normally most of mom’s food. She always says she’s not hungry, but the gray shadows on her face don’t lie. She’s fading away; what’s left is a shadow of her old self. A mom I can barely remember. Some days she looks like the cancer has come back, and she’s accepted her fate with open arms.

My head starts pounding. I wonder if Nurse Beth is right, that I have a concussion or something.

Stars dance in front of my eyes, and I feel a heaviness weighing down on me. I slump down into the chair.

“Answer me,” Neil demands.

“What? What was the question?”

Neil leans toward me, the sickly smell of burger wafting off him. “You on drugs, kid?” he asks, squeezing my cheeks in as he brings my head closer to his.

I squirm out of his grip, which has left a greasy trail on my face. “No, just got a headache,” I say, wiping the grease away.

“A sore head! You do realize that your mother was at work, right?” he continues. “We have bills due and your mother can’t afford to miss any more work.”

“Then why didn’t you come pick me up?” I ask before thinking. Luckily it’s early in the afternoon, and the two beer bottles on the floor next to him mean he’s just begun drinking.

“I can’t drive, because of the bad back you gave me,” he says, rubbing his back. Jesus, that was years ago, and he still blames me. It's all frigging rubbish anyway. There is nothing wrong with his back, it’s just a tool of guilt that he uses against my mom.

“You drove to the store just fine the other day.”

“I needed my prescriptions. That’s different,” he says with a scowl. “So, what really happened? Why did you come home?”

I don’t want to tell him and hear the mocking from him, not now.

Mom speaks before I do. “He had a half day. It’s my fault. I forgot all about it.”

Neil stares at my mom and then his eyes drop to mine. He knows she’s lying. I can see it in his eyes.

Neil reaches out for my mom’s hand and squeezes her fingertips lightly. “Well, maybe the store will let you finish out your shift if you head back over there.”