Sorta Like a Rock Star (9 page)

Donna steps forward and says, “And I am a tax-paying community member. Mr. Pinkston’s son likes to trick my son into making sexual overtures to female classmates. My son will repeat almost anything he is told, especially when encouraged by the captain of the football team, so this is quite an easy task to accomplish. On Monday, Mr. Pinkston’s son told my son to tell sophomore Ryan Gold that her
quote
boobies were lovely
unquote
. So Ricky did, which resulted in Ryan Gold’s bursting into tears in the middle of the lunchroom.”

Mr. Pinkston stands and says, “How dare you burst into our meeting and accuse my son with unfounded—”

“Sit down, Mr. Pinkston!” Donna says.

Mr. Pinkston scans the crowd for support, finds none, and then sits.

“We visited with Ryan Gold and her parents yesterday,” Donna says. “Ryan Gold is a member of the National Honor Society. She goes to church every week. She is the nicest, most well-spoken girl you have ever met. And she is willing to testify in a court of law. Now I have talked with Principal Fiorilli several times and have even sent him letters regarding the harassment Mr. Pinkston’s son has inflicted on my son and other students. These letters are documented, of course. I have responses. So if you fire Franks, or if this man’s son—with malicious intent—comes within thirty feet of my son or Ryan Gold or any of these good kids here tonight, I will launch a lawsuit on this school that will drain your budget so fast, you’ll have to fire every damn teacher in the district to get it passed. Am I clear?” Donna’s eyes scan the crowd. She lets them take in her hotness. “And if any of these children have any sort of uncomfortable experience during the next few school days, this digital document gets copied and sent to every newspaper and television station in the area. Have a good meeting, boys and ladies. Keep Franks. Avoid legal trouble. It’s a win-win.”

When Donna strides out of the room, we follow, and when we are outside, Donna distributes the celebratory high fives, and my boys are all smiles.

“What do you think, Amber?” Chad says.

“Did we deliver the speeches okay?” Ty says.

“Do you think it will work?” Jared says.

For some crazy reason, instead of answering, I smile and give each one of my boys a big old hug, which makes Ricky say, “Hi! Hi! Hi!”

And Donna says, “Let’s go to Friendly’s!”

So we all pile into her Mercedes.

When we arrive at Friendly’s we get a big booth and Donna orders one of every sundae on the menu and six spoons, and we eat ice cream as a team, sword fighting with long ice cream spoons, laughing our butts off, getting chocolate sauce and whipped cream and caramel all over our teenage chins as we shuffle around the sundaes and sample all of the delicious concoctions—replaying the night, talking about how cool we all were, and how Franks is sure to keep his job now, and how Franks Freak Force Federation rocks hard-core, espe-cially in our new camo shirts, which we all agree to wear to school tomorrow like the sports teams do before big games. But when people ask us what the shirts are about, we won’t tell them, because it’s our secret. True? True.

So I try not to get any sundae on my new shirt and catch myself looking at Donna a lot. She’s not really saying anything, and she doesn’t eat very much ice cream, but she’s smiling in this very satisfied way, and every so often she runs her nails through Ricky’s hair, which makes me jealous again. God, I really wish she were my mom. I’d be so much cooler and smarter and—but then I remember to be thankful for what JC sent my way today, and I smile and run my nails through all of my boys’ heads of hair, which makes them say, “Stop! Ice cream hands! You sticky ho-bag!” So I laugh at them and keep on trying to run my hands through their hair, pretending to go for one, and then at the last second, going for another boy’s hair, which results in a lot of grabbing wrists and screaming.

The waitress comes over when we almost knock over Chad’s high chair. She’s a teen from another high school, who says, “You must chill, or Kevin is going to—like—freak.”

“School night, kids,” Donna says, and then pays the bill while we all try to mess up each other’s hair on the lawn outside of Friendly’s. As we wrestle, I think about how much I love these boys. They are good people. I really really love these boys. All of them equally. My boys. My friends. Franks Freak Force Federation.

After Donna drops off Ty, Jared, and Chad, I say, “How did you know that Lex made Ricky say that stuff to Ryan Gold?”

“Lex Pinkston is a bad boy!” Ricky says. “Bad boy! Bad boy! BAD BOY!”

“Hello?” Donna says. “Son diagnosed with autism. No secrets in the Roberts household.”

“Did you really talk to Ryan Gold and her parents?”

“Yep.”

“But you had a murder trial today and—”

“I sent Jessica to represent our interests regarding the Golds.”

Jessica is Donna’s young and pretty and extremely smart assistant, whom I hate, because Donna is always going on and on about what a great future Jessica has.

“Cool,” I say, totally wanting a Jessica of my own someday, who will help me do even more killer good for deserving people.

“You’re not really self-conscious about your teeth, are you?” Donna asks.

“No. I just made that up on the fly. I’m cool with my teeth.”

“Good, because they really do look white and straight.”

“Thanks.”

“Will I be driving you home, Amber?”

“Got to pick up Bobby Big Boy, because I can’t sleep without my pup,” I say.

“How about I drive you and Bobby Big Boy home after that?”

“No, thanks.”

“It’s pretty cold outside,” Donna says.

“Yeah, but I have to stop by Franks’ house.”

“Mr. Jonathan Franks!” Ricky says.

“Oh?” Donna says, because she knows I’m totally lying. I’m pretty sure Donna knows I’m living out of Hello Yellow. She’s super smart. When I don’t say anything, Donna says, “Amber, I know how you feel about taking help from me, but I
can
help you and your mom if you need it. I know people who can—”

“We don’t need your help,” I say, and am surprised that I sounded like a cat saying what I did. I feel badly about this—especially after all Donna has done for me—but I can’t help adding, “Not everyone needs your help, you know.”

I am such a bitch.

But Mom is going to come through one of these days. I’ve got my money on mi madre, and mi madre on my mind, sucka!

“Pride is not pretty,” Donna says.

“I’m not a pretty girl,” I say, because I can’t help myself, and I dig Ani DiFranco.

“You’re gorgeous,” Donna says, “you shine, only you don’t know it yet.”

This is a weird thing for Donna to say, so I clam up and listen to Ricky counting aloud and wonder about what he could possibly be counting.

CHAPTER 7

When we get to Donna’s house, I let B3 out of his room, mop up his welcome-home puddle, put his plaid coat on him, and then find Donna in her room changing.

“Donna,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I was a bitch in the car.”

“You weren’t a bitch in the car.”

“You rocked the school board meeting pretty hard,” I say.

“No,
you
rocked the school board meeting pretty hard,” she says.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yeah, you could have. You just don’t know it yet.”

“I’m going to leave now,” I say, because I don’t want Donna to patronize me, even if she is trying to be kind. I could never do what she does. I sleep on a school bus. I’m a freak. I couldn’t even take first place at the Marketing Club regionals.

“Okay,” Donna says. “See you tomorrow morning?”

“True,” I say, and then leave without saying goodbye to Ricky, because—all of a sudden—I’m feeling sorta down for some reason.

It’s cold outside. North Pole cold. And I don’t have a proper winter coat.

As I’m walking toward the school bus compound, I remember what I said about visiting Franks’ house, and since I don’t want JC to think I am a damn liar, I make a detour. Franks lives in the neighborhood, in a grasshopper green rancher with a big old addition on the back—bedrooms for all of his redheaded kids.

It’s kind of late for a school night, but B Thrice and I walk up his driveway and knock on his basement window. Franks is playing Halo 3 in his basement, probably against Ty of the Franks Freak Force Federation and people all over the world, which boys and men do through something called Xbox Live. He looks up at me, then points to his watch and shakes his head. But before I can knock again, I hear Franks’ mean redheaded wife say, “I’m calling the cops if you don’t get off our property! I know who you are, Amber Appleton. Go home and leave my husband alone! He’s not working now!”

“I’m totally in love with your man,” I say to Franks’ wife, just to get her riled up. “He’s going to leave you and marry me as soon as I’m of age!”

“I’ll kill you with my own bare hands!” she yells, stepping out of the kitchen and into the cold night. She’s wearing a depressing bathrobe and slippers, which makes her look really sad and homely.

“Just kidding, Red. Your husband is an honorable man, and he loves you to death and would never leave you or the kids. Not for a million bucks. That’s why I want to hug him so much. I don’t expect you to understand, but please know that I’m praying for you and your family every night.”

“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Franks says.

“You’re a lucky woman,” I tell her, and then BBB and me walk away.

B3 is a little lackluster at night. He’s a morning dog. So I usually talk to JC on my long walk home to Hello Yellow.

“JC,” I pray. “You see us at the school board meeting? Whatcha know about that, sucka?” I laugh because it’s sorta fun to call JC sucka when I’m praying. “Were you proud of me, Heavenly Father? Did your daughter do you proud?”

I look up into the sky and there are no stars. Just streetlights and blackness.

I don’t really feel like JC is listening tonight, so I stop praying and start to cry.

I cry a lot when I am alone, probably because I am a chick and all, but maybe because I’m not strong like Donna, and I think about stuff too much—like, for example, sometimes I get this idea that my dad has really been watching over me the past seventeen years sorta like a guardian angel or something, only he’s really alive and waiting for me to earn the right to have a dad, and once he sees me doing enough good, he’s going to run up behind me and surprise me with a big old fatherly hug, picking me up off the ground and spinning me around like in the damn movies. Sometimes, after I have done something pretty kick-ass, I turn around really quickly, because I sorta believe that he might be there ready to hug me. But he never is.

I don’t want to turn around tonight, because I’m seventeen, so I realize that the fantasy is silly and even delusional maybe, but as I’m walking home tonight, I think about how I protected Ricky from Lex Pinkston today, and how happy The KDFCs looked when we were performing “You Can’t Hurry Love,” and I know that Father Chee is definitely proud of me, and I got my boys to save Franks’ job, which is something that any good father would be proud of, and as I’m walking down the street, I start to feel like my father is really behind me—I even think I hear his footsteps.

I don’t want to turn around and be disappointed once again, but I also still believe in hope and the possibility of beautiful things happening in this world. I still believe that JC and God have a kick-ass plan for every one of us, so I say, “Dad?”

With so much hope in my heart, I spin around in the middle of the sidewalk and there is no one there—like always.

And so I cry—so hard that BBB gets scared and starts barking, so I pick him up and carry his butt back to Hello Yellow.

Mom’s asleep under the comforter, so I let her be.

I don’t do my homework.

I sit in the quiet darkness for a long time.

For some reason I start thinking about the time I asked my mom for a tent, which is all-time Amber-and-her-mom moment number four:

When I was maybe seven or so, I saw this sitcom on television where the mom and daughter spend the night in the backyard. The little girl gets a tent for her birthday and then she wants to sleep outside instead of her room, so the mom sets up the tent for her, and they have these great times pretending that they are explorers pioneering across America back when it was inhabited by Native Americans, back in the day. It looked like fun, so I begged my mom for a tent.

Mom didn’t get me a tent, but she made me one out of blankets and broom handles one summer night and we attempted to camp behind the apartment complex we were living in at the time, back when Mom was with a different boyfriend, Trevor, who was only around for a few months or so.

By flashlight, Mom and I read books I had checked out of the library, and then she told me silly ghost stories before we went to sleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night feeling some sorta slime on my face.

“Mom?” I whispered. “Mom?”

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“I think there’s something on my face.”

“Go back to sleep,” Mom said.

“I really
really
think there is something on my face. Can you check?”

Mom turned on the flashlight and started to scream.

I sat up and started to scream.

There were slugs all over the inside of the blanket tent, all over our sheets, and a few were even on us.

Both of us ran out of the tent, and we couldn’t stop screaming.

Eventually, the cops showed up with their guns drawn, because someone reported a disturbance.

We were so freaked that we couldn’t even talk.

Mom just pointed to the tent.

The cops actually aimed their guns at the tent and started to talk very mean to the slugs. “You’re surrounded. Come out with your hands up. We can resolve this peacefully.”

It was pretty funny to hear the cops talking to slugs like that, so I started to laugh.

The cops didn’t like that, and started questioning us, and soon they understood that they had drawn their guns on a tent full of slugs, so they had to laugh too.