Strays Read online

  “When were you in jail?”

  “I wasn’t, but I know guys who were.” He looks me up and down. “Why’d you wear those stupid pants? You gonna be the guy in the stupid pants forever, you know that, don’t you?”

  “These are old, but they’re Ralph Lauren cords, okay?”

  “Now you’re fuckin’ gay. Get away from me.”

  We stand in the quadrangle and turn the map in my orientation packet upside down, then right side up, then upside down again. C.W. hails a couple of guys who are wearing the same Kobe tank top he is, but — believe it or not — bigger. All three of them have on yellow work shoes like the bulldogs who run steam shovels in cartoons.

  “Where’s the administration building?” C.W. asks.

  They fool around with their shades. They look at me, then at each other. One leans north, the other south. Then they stagger off, laughing.

  “A hundred brothers to choose from,” C.W. says, “and I get a couple of wankstas.”

  My parents wouldn’t know what to make of King/Chavez. It’s too much like downtown Los Angeles: graffiti, trash, drug dealers, criminals around every corner. My mother couldn’t get over this story about some woman in New York named Kitty who was beaten and raped while people — neighbors, some of them — watched and didn’t do anything.

  Just then a scuffle breaks out twenty yards away, and nobody pays any attention. At Santa Mira High somebody would have yelled, “Fight! Fight!” Not here.

  C.W. points to the kid on the ground. “Maybe he knows where the fuckin’ administration building is.”

  I ask a couple of skateboarders. But young ones, not the really scary kind who stick up 7-Elevens on their way to empty somebody’s pool.

  They size me up. The one with porcupine hair and an eye Bic-ed on his wrist answers, “Bungalow with the A on it about two over from here.”

  “You transfer in?” asks his friend, who’s got music coming out of him from who-knows-where.

  I nod.

  “Well, don’t leave your luggage unattended.”

  They crack up and roll away, already buzzed on something at seven forty-five in the morning.

  I look down at my feet. Sometimes I get this feeling about the ground I’m standing on. About what it knows. All the things it’s seen and been through. And it’s still here, anyway.

  That always makes me feel a little better. There were horses and wagons once. People worked hard and were nice. If somebody’s parents died, the nearest neighbors took him in.

  Ms. Ervin said she would fax things over and she did, so we okay some paperwork, fill out some more, and then find the counseling center, which is enormous. Rows and rows of orange chairs — the plastic, easy-to-keep-clean kind for the bleeders and the weepers. Doors all around like some nightmare version of Let’s Make a Deal. Every now and then, one of the doors opens and a counselor with a manila folder in his or her hand butchers the next name.

  C.W. gets called right away: “D.W. Potter?”

  I sit down a couple of seats away from a girl with twenty or so piercings in each eyebrow. Silver rings like the kind that hold up shower curtains, but a lot smaller. She’s wearing a white long-sleeved top and an all-the-way-down-to-her-ankles blue skirt. It’s like her head goes to raves and her body goes to church.

  Pretty soon a guy whose blond hair is starting to turn green settles down between us.

  “Hey, man,” he says.

  “Yeah, hi.”

  He leans in and kind of points with the cast on his broken hand. “You know this girl over here?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I just moved here so —”

  “What are you reading?” he asks her, turning his back on me.

  She holds up the paperback in her lap.

  He scoots closer. “What class is that?”

  “It’s just for fun.”

  “Wow. Far out. What’re you here for? I gotta clear a few things up. I used my computer to enroll in summer school and got three English classes, one of ’em at midnight.”

  If I lean back, I can see her smile at him.

  “Summer school’s a drag,” she says.

  “Tell me about it. But I got no choice. I was a movie star for a couple of months, so I missed a lot of classes.”

  She shifts so she’s facing him. “You know Tom Cruise?”

  “Not exactly. I mean I got paid, so I could help my mom with the rent, and I bought a van and all. But mostly I just partied.” He waggles his cast. “Now this and they’re like, ‘See you, dude.’ And I’m like, ‘What about my check?’ And they’re all, ‘Read the fine print, man.’”

  “Maybe you need an agent.”

  She’s kidding him, but playing along too. How did he get her to do that?

  He shakes his head. “I’m glad to be out of it, you know what I mean? Surfing’s supposed to be fun, but they were always, ‘Show up on time, Derek.’ ‘Do that again, Derek, and look at the camera.’ And I’m like, ‘Every time is different, fucker. I can’t fucking just do it again. It’s the ocean, man. Not a wave factory.’ You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “So,” she asks, “do you have to give the money back?”

  “Nothin’ to give back, babe. The money’s gone.”

  Out comes her hand. “I’m Angie.”

  “I’m Derek.” He keeps holding her hand. “I’ve seen you around.”

  A door opens and I hear, “Mr. O’Collar?”

  I tell him, “It’s O’Connor.”

  My counselor, Mr. Skinner, flips through my permanent record, glancing up every now and then to make sure I am still there. Seeing him reminds me of what C.W. and I talked about a couple of days ago — how people used to be named after their jobs.

  Mr. Skinner is big but not soft, has a handlebar mustache, and wears cowboy boots. He looks like he could drive a mule team. Or gut a moose and cure the hide.

  On the wall behind him stands a rack full of pamphlets featuring Top Ten schools with huge buildings and fascinated students seated in a circle listening to some guy with a beard. There’s never anything closer to the truth, which would be a city college campus with hollow-eyed stoners huffing glue out of Burger King bags.

  “How are you getting along?” He taps the folder. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “I’m okay, I guess.”

  “Is there anybody you can talk to?”

  “I’ve got friends,” I lie, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a professional.”

  “My social worker calls me a lot. And comes over all the time.”

  He strokes his mustache. On the wall by his desk a plaque says VIOLENCE DEGRADES EVERYONE IT TOUCHES.

  Really? Scott McIntyre never seemed too degraded after knocking me around. Neither did those guys who put the stink bomb in my locker. Or even the girls who said I smelled like a wet dog and knocked me off the monkey bars.

  “And this social worker,” he says, “has access to psychologists, grief counselors, that kind of thing?”

  I nod.

  “Who decides when you should talk to one of those?”

  “She does, I guess.”

  “But you don’t feel the need.”

  “I trust Ms. Ervin. She’s, you know, kind of like a mom.”

  He tries his X-ray vision on me, but I am wearing my impenetrable suit.

  “Well, all right. As long as you’re talking to somebody.”

  I know my parents are dead, but going over and over it isn’t going to help. The lions in my bedroom help. The giraffe in the backyard really helps. Especially the giraffe — that long, sweet face and those eyelashes.

  “We’ve got peer counseling here, Todd. Did you know that?”

  I shake my head, but I do know. In one of the orientation pamphlets there’s a picture of the Deeply Furrowed advising a boy with a bowl haircut to stop being such a simpleton.

  “If you’re interested,” he says, “I can set up an appointment.”

  �
�Sure.”

  He writes on a Post-it note, then sticks that onto his computer with about a dozen others.

  Mr. Skinner says, “This is a chance for a fresh start, Tom. Take it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Yes, sir. Three bags full.

  “All right, then.” He heaves himself to his feet and holds out an enormous paw.

  That’s how I can stand this, by pretending he’s a bear. I was at the zoo once on a field trip and one of the bears was singing its death song. The teachers couldn’t tear me away from the cage, and I couldn’t stop crying.

  Imagine what my classmates did with that.

  We know where the administration building is, so C.W. and I meet by the steps, then walk toward the cafeteria. We eat at eleven-thirty, part of the first shift.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod. “I was waiting to see Mr. Skinner, and I heard this surfer tell some girl how he’d blown a whole bunch of money.”

  “Chicks love that reckless shit, don’t they?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Anybody give you grief about those pants?”

  “You should talk. What size are yours — Double Extra Large Tremendous?”

  All of a sudden he grabs me, pulls me close, and whispers, “How long we been here?”

  “At school? Since a little before eight.”

  “Guess how many fools asked if I was holding. Talk about stupid. ‘Lookee here. A new jiggah. Let’s see if he’s got some weed.’ I could be a narc. I could be anything. But they just walk up like I’m a fuckin’ vending machine and ask for a dime bag. I already got to write a paper for Introduction to Black Studies, and guess what it’s gonna be about?”

  “Jumping to conclusions?”

  “For sure.” C.W. slaps at his pockets. “You got a pen?”

  I’ve got everything. And it’s well organized, too. How pathetic is that? I imagine talking to that girl in the counseling center: “Yeah, I’m totally crazy. I mean, it’s the first day of school and I’ve only got one refill for my gel pen!”

  I hand C.W. a new Bic, one of the ones that Mrs. Rafter probably had to buy for us. She passed them out this morning, then stood on the porch and watched us leave. I wonder what she does all day.

  C.W. opens the door to the cafeteria. There are already people eating, so I get the whole feedlot atmosphere — the chewing, the lowing, the milling around.

  I step out of the way when somebody from the other side of the room bellows, “Yo, C.W.!”

  “Listen,” he says, “I’m gonna eat with these guys.”

  “Which guys?”

  “Just these guys.”

  I watch him head for his new friends. He’s got his middle and index fingers tucked into his palms, his shoulders roll forward, he’s bobbing his head.

  If my father saw him come into the store, he’d lock the cash register. I know C.W. dresses tough and talks tough, but I’m not sure he is.

  Bored ladies in hairnets wave shiny metal spoons around. The line that leads to a ton of sloppy joes is really long. But there’s a lighted box of portable food by the west wall. That’s for me.

  I take my sandwich outdoors. The indestructible metal tables are wobbly and scratched. A boy with acne so bad his face looks like it needs medical attention talks into a cell phone: “It can’t be downhill salmon, man. A salmon’s a fish, and we’re talking about skiing.”

  A girl in a wheelchair types on a laptop with one finger. I have to talk myself into it, but finally I go over and ask, “I’m kind of new here. Mind if I sit with you?”

  She just points. “There’s room over there.”

  Shot down again. I should know better. Actually I do know better, but, God, wouldn’t you think the pariahs would band together so we could roll and lurch through the halls, terrifying the pretty and the celebrated? It never happens.

  I inspect my stupid sandwich: a slice of turkey I can see through, lettuce wilted and brown around the edges, bulletproof cheese. Sparrows land on the edge of the table and say, “Please!” So I feed them pellets of bread.

  “Free as a bird” is a dumb thing to say. Gray sparrows like these almost never go farther than a mile from where they’re born. They eat, mate, and die.

  Which is what my parents did.

  A week or so ago, Ms. Ervin told me that I was still in shock and that when what happened really hit me, I should call her. She just wants me to cry my little eyes out.

  Animals never cry. They don’t go to pieces and call somebody and go through a box of Kleenex an hour. A lot of times they sniff the body, and that’s that.

  The lions get under the covers with me at night, and when they do, I think about my mother whether I want to or not. She always had four or five dogs on her bed. She wasn’t like any other mother I’d ever heard of: no PTA, and fish sticks for Thanksgiving. But everything I know about animals I learned from her.

  “Think about something else, Ted,” says the nearest sparrow.

  The floor of this outdoor patio isn’t poured concrete but brick. A gift — says the brass plaque — from the Class of ’02. Ants are everywhere, burrowing into the packed dirt and motoring toward their underground home.

  I drink my milk, watch them pick up crumbs twice their size, then line up like they’re on safari. Which reminds me of Africa. Man, if I was in Africa, everybody would want to sit at my table.

  “Ted!”

  I look up and see Astin bearing down on me. His arm is around a girl who looks like the source of many a hopeless crush. She’s dressed like a musketeer in really tall boots and one of those short jackets with loops and wooden things instead of buttons. Astin whispers something to her, and she slaps at him.

  I wonder what he said, or maybe it’s just how he said it. I’m terrible around girls, not that I’ve been around that many. I always say the wrong thing. Or the right thing the wrong way. Or both.

  “What’s up, my man?” he asks.

  His girlfriend waits for me to answer.

  I glance away from the ants. That surfer in the counseling center got along with that Angie by telling stories. So I say, “I was just thinking about locust forecasting.”

  Astin grins at the girl. Except for the purple streak, her hair is the color of old silverware. Then he points back and forth a couple of times. “Megan, Ted. Ted, Megan.”

  She asks, “What, pray tell, is locust forecasting?”

  “It’s just a guy with agents in the field, and they call in with data about drought and winds and things like that.” I know I’m talking too fast. Slow down, Teddy. “All of which goes into a computer and then you know when the locusts will arrive.”

  “This would be some other place without a Starbucks every two blocks.”

  “Yes. Africa, mostly.”

  “And once you know the locusts’ ETA?”

  “Get the Raid,” says Astin.

  “It’s better to know than not. Maybe get the crops in early. Maybe just take the babies and get out of the way.”

  “And this,” Megan asks, “is a real job?”

  I nod.

  “Didn’t some guy in the Bible eat locusts and honey?” Astin asks.

  Megan pretends to be stunned. “You never fail to surprise me.”

  “Mrs. Rafter used to read me stories while she gave me a bath.”

  “Lucky Mrs. Rafter. And so dexterous.”

  I tell them, “There’s a tree called a locust, which is a kind of carob. So that guy was probably eating honey and chocolate.”

  Megan nods. “You must be one of the smart ones.”

  I shrug and say, “And you must be one of the popular ones.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” she protests. “I’m just visible. There are girls in this school who could knock me down and give me a black eye and I’d just be grateful for the attention. And you can tell how divine they are because they are never on the phone. I, on the other hand, could not live without mine.”

  Hers goes off right on cue. She grins, showing advertisement-qual
ity teeth as she says, “Hi. In the Pit. Sure.” Then she tells Astin, “Belle’s coming.”

  “Then we should either get the crops in early or take the babies and get out of the way.”

  Megan slaps at Astin the way girls do when they’re with boys they like.

  When her phone rings again, he pretends to be fed up and pushes her out of the way.

  “Your classes okay?” he asks me.

  “I guess. In English I learned Shakespeare was a playwright.”

  “Who’s your homeroom teacher?”

  “Mr. Decker.”

  “He’s cool. How about your counselor?”

  “Skinner.”

  “That jerkwad. He still calls me Tex.”

  “Because Astin sounds like Austin, which reminds him of Texas.”

  “Bingo. Where’s C.W., anyway?”

  “Eating with his new friends.”

  Astin shakes his head. “I’m telling you, man, drop one of the brothers in the middle of nowhere and before you know it four or five hood rats show up and they make a rap video.”

  This girl, who must be Belle, glides through the door leading out of the cafeteria. She’s pale and thin and dressed in gauze. She kisses Astin on the cheek, and he acts like he’s getting a penicillin shot. Then she clings to Megan, who chants, “Belle, Ted.”

  Belle winds herself around me like this boa constrictor my parents had in the shop for a while. “Oh, my God,” she says. “It’s the orphan.”

  It’s a Saturday morning. The house is almost empty. Mr. Rafter’s truck, a Ford F-150, is gone, and so is Astin’s motorcycle. C.W. left right after breakfast to play basketball.

  When I’m alone like this and I know Astin’s not coming back for a while, there’s this thing I do. I put on one of his leather jackets and get out my homework. I pretend I’m somebody else. Not Astin, but not me either.

  This boy, whoever he is, isn’t president of his class or valedictorian, but he’s still smart. He knows a lot of people but only has a few close friends, kids he’s known almost all of his life. If somebody has a problem, they call him and talk. He doesn’t pick fights, but he never backs down.