Instead, about three steps into the living room, he stops dead in his tracks. He turns around and stares at me, his eyes squinting as if he’s never seen me before and can’t figure out why I’m in his house. Then he takes off his shirt. He’s still looking at me quizzically when, sounding stone sober, he says, “Grayson, something needs to happen,” and I say, “Huh?” And Tiny says, “Because otherwise what if we just end up like everybody at the Hideout?” And I’m about to say huh again, because those people were far cooler than our classmates and also far cooler than us, but then I know what he means. He means, What if we become grown-ups waiting for a band that’s never coming back? I notice Tiny looking blankly at me, swaying back and forth like a sky-scraper in the wind. And then he falls facefirst.
“Oh boy,” Jane says behind me, and only then do I realize she’s here. Tiny, his face buried in carpet, has taken to crying again. I look at Jane for a long time and a slow smile creeps over her face. Her whole face changes when she smiles—this eyebrow-lifting, perfect-teeth-showing, eye-crinkling smile I’ve either never seen or never noticed. She becomes pretty so suddenly that it’s almost like a magic trick—but it’s not like I want her or anything. Not to sound like a jerk, but Jane isn’t really my type. Her hair’s kinda disastrously curly and she mostly hangs out with guys. My type’s a little girlier. And honestly, I don’t even like my type of girl that much, let alone other types. Not that I’m asexual—I just find Romance Drama unbearable.
“Let’s get him in bed,” she says finally. “Can’t have his parents find this in the morning.”
I kneel down and tell Tiny to get up, but he just keeps crying and crying, so finally Jane and I get on his left side and roll him over onto his back. I step over him, and then reach down, getting a good grip under his armpit. Jane mimics me on his other side.
“One,” says Jane, and I say, “Two,” and she says, “Three,” and grunts. But nothing happens. Jane is small—I can see her upper arm narrow as she flexes her muscles. And I can’t lift my half of Tiny either, so we resolve to leave him there. By the time Jane places a blanket on top of Tiny and a pillow beneath his head, he’s snoring.
We’re about to leave when all of Tiny’s snotting finally catches up with him, and he begins to make these hideous noises that sound like snoring, except more sinister, and also more wet. I lean down to his face and see that he’s inhaling and exhaling these disgusting bubbly strands of snot from the last throes of his cryathon. There’s so much of the stuff that I worry he’ll choke.
“Tiny,” I say. “You gotta get the snot outta your nose, man,” but he doesn’t stir. So I get down right by his ear-drum and shout, “Tiny!” Nothing. Then Jane smacks him across the face, really rather hard. Nada. Just the awful, drowning-in-snot snoring.
And that is when I realize that Tiny Cooper cannot pick his nose, countering the second part of my dad’s theorem. And shortly thereafter, with Jane looking on, I disprove the theorem entirely when I reach down and clear Tiny’s airways of snot. In short: I cannot pick my friend; he cannot pick his nose; and I can—nay, I must—pick it for him.
Chapter two
I am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me.
those seem to be the two choices. everything else is just killing time.
right now i’m walking through the kitchen to get to the back door.
mom: have some breakfast.
I do not eat breakfast. i never eat breakfast. i haven’t eaten breakfast since i was able to walk out the back door without eating breakfast first.
mom: where are you going?
school, mom. you should try it some time.
mom: don’t let your hair fall in your face like that - i can’t see your eyes.
but you see, mom, that’s the whole f**king point.
I feel bad for her - i do. a damn shame, really, that i had to have a mother. it can’t be easy having me for a son. nothing can prepare someone for that kind of disappointment.
me: bye
I do not say ‘good-bye.’ i believe that’s one of the bullshittiest words ever invented. it’s not like you’re given the choice to say ‘bad-bye’ or ‘awful-bye’ or ‘couldn’t-careless-about-you-bye. ’ every time you leave, it’s supposed to be a good one. well, i don’t believe in that. i believe against that.
mom: have a good d—
the door kinda closes in the middle of her sentence, but it’s not like i can’t guess where it’s going. she used to say ‘see you!’ until one morning i was so sick of it i told her, ‘no, you don’t.’
she tries, and that’s what makes it so pathetic. i just want to say, ‘i feel sorry for you, really i do.’ but that might start a conversation, and a conversation might start a fight, and then i’d feel so guilty i might have to move away to portland or something.
I need coffee.
every morning i pray that the school bus will crash and we’ll all die in a fiery wreck. then my mom will be able to sue the school bus company for never making school buses with seat belts, and she’ll be able to get more money for my tragic death than i would’ve ever made in my tragic life. unless the lawyers from the school bus company can prove to the jury that i was guaranteed to be a f**kup. then they’d get away with buying my mom a used ford fiesta and calling it even.
maura isn’t exactly waiting for me before school, but i know, and she knows i’ll look for her where she is. we usually fall back on that so we can smirk at each other or something before we’re marched off. it’s like those people who become friends in prison even though they would never really talk to each other if they weren’t in prison. that’s what maura and i are like, i think.
me: give me some coffee.
maura: get your own f**king coffee.
then she hands me her XXL dunkin donuts crappaccino and i treat it like it’s a big gulp. if i could afford my own coffee i swear i’d get it, but the way i see it is: her bladder isn’t thinking i’m an ass**le even if the rest of her organs do. it’s been like this with me and maura for as long as I can remember, which is about a year. i guess i’ve known her a little longer than that, but maybe not. at some point last year, her gloom met my doom and she thought it was a good match. i’m not so sure, but at least i get coffee out of it.