I’m better. I’m okay. I wish I could go outside. Fresh air. I could use some fresh air.
Okay.
Camille posted an announcement on Facebook about practicing for this stupid Spunk River concert that wasn’t really scheduled and lots of people decided they would show up at Gore’s house, which surprised me and also clearly surprised Gore.
I called her at her house from Dante’s the next morning because she didn’t work with me on Wednesday. I gave her the list of band peeps who were going to attend. She was excited and sort of pissed. “But I hate all those people and now they’re coming over?”
“You volunteered,” I said.
“I’ll grill some hamburgers,” she said. “Dad ordered like ten pounds of grass-fed beef. It’s tasty. Everyone will like it. Except for the vegetarians. Is anyone a vegetarian? I’m thinking about being a vegetarian.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll grill veggie burgers too. I made my own with dried mushrooms and black beans. They’re good.”
“Sweet. Thanks,” I said.
“Holy cow! I don’t like any of those people,” she said. Then she hung up.
Goth girl says holy cow. Ha-ha.
After the shop closed, me and RC III sat down at the picnic table out front, which was becoming like our office because we sat out there so much. RC III brought a whole box of leftover bismarcks. (Dante overproduced donuts because the morning before was so crazy.)
RC III opened it and grabbed a jelly-filled one and then offered the box to me.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Really?” he asked.
“Can’t. Those things will make you fat,” I said.
“True. If you eat too many of them.”
“Every day, which is what I’ve been doing for the last couple years.”
“Well, not lately. You dropping weight?” RC III asked.
Okay, Mr. R. Okay. This question filled me with such instant pride I can’t even tell you. I had been in huge pain and exhausted for almost five days. I hadn’t broken though. I ate no donuts. No pop. I barely had a third of the dinner I usually ate. I’d worked out…hard. And yes, that morning, when I pulled on my damn stretchy pants, they felt a little loose in the midsection.
Like the stretch didn’t have to stretch so far.
“A little,” I said, nodding. “Working out with my grandpa.”
“Your grandpa in his jock strap at the door? Weird, dude,” RC III said.
“Yeah. Totally.”
Awesome he mentioned dropping weight because that was enough for me to look those donuts in the eye and say, You’re not going down the hole, chocolate friends.
Then he asked me about Gore; “She have a boyfriend or anything?”
“I don’t know what she does,” I said.
“She’s cool,” he said.
“I guess,” I said.
“You like her?”
“No!” I said. “Remember? I’m mean to her.”
“Chill. Just asking, man,” he said. “Watched you on the phone with her. Your face was all lit up.”
“What do you mean ‘lit up’?”
“Smiley. You going to her house tonight?”
“Uh. Yeah. Everybody. Because—” I got all tongue-tied because I suddenly wondered if I loved Gore. I’m crazy. “Just because she volunteered her house. Guess we’ll put her ballroom to use. We have to practice for our nonexistent concert, you know.”
“Uh-huh. Did you come up with any better strategies? I fear for that concert.”
Then I told him the story about my letter to the editor and he shook his head.
“So much for free press, man.”
“I know. Blows my mind,” I said.
“You know what? I think you should have a protest.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Why are you laughing?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?”
“No, this town is backward and inbred and shit. Needs some shaking up. You should protest those cheerleaders and that new candy coach of theirs right up in their faces.”
I thought about it. He’s right, right? Then I pictured me with super long hair and Camille in her hippie pants playing tambourine, singing We shall overcome to the cheerleaders. “That’s pretty funny,” I said.
“How is that funny?” he asked.
“Like, if they had evil corporate cheerleader offices and we’d come and camp out in their plaza and smoke weed and play Hacky Sack and guitar and bongos and crap. Hilarious.”
“First, my grandfather was part of the civil rights movement and he’d be pretty offended by what you describe as a protest.”
“Oh, sorry.”
RC III stood up. He was jacked. “Second, those girls have already occupied your summer program. That crazy-ass coach is up at your school, squawking at them like she belongs. Don’t you think they should know the pain they’re causing you all? The pain of occupation?”
“Maybe—” I said.
“Uh-huh. I’m right.”
“You are?”
“Mind if I come over for your practice tonight?” he asked.
“No.” Then I shook my head. “You want to come to band practice. Really?”
“Yeah, I’m curious about your band.”
“You know we’re like a marching band, not a rock band, right?”
“Uh, dude, I heard you play a lot last year. I’m in sports, you know?”
“No. I had no idea!” I said. “You? You’re so small and out of shape!”
RC III laughed his hehe giggle laugh. “You farmer kids crack me up, man.”
“I’m not funny,” I said. But I got a little burst of adrenaline. If RC III showed up at the band rehearsal, people might think we’re friends.
Whoa. I just said that out loud, Mr. Rodriguez. I want you to know that I know saying that out loud makes me sound like a big superficial idiot, okay? I’m telling you the truth about everything because clearly a liar would try to hide the fact that he’s so superficial and dumb, right?
At the time, I thought RC III wanted to go to the practice because he was hot for Gore, but I think he actually really likes nerds generally.