This choice: Let Caleb come home with you. • Go Back...Chapter #73Anticipation and Transfiguration by: Seuzz   "Tell her that you're out with, um, Chen, and you lost track of things," you suggest to Caleb. "And that you won't be home until late."
"I'm gonna get in a lot of trouble, aren't I?" Caleb murmurs as he thumbs at the screen.
"As long as you don't call her a cunt mouth, you'll be fine," you assure him. He shoots you a beady glance.
"So I'm not going home?" he guardedly asks after sending the reply.
"You can come home with me. You can help me with my math. But you gotta go home after that, man. You gotta get on the horse sometime."
"On the jackass, you mean," Caleb retorts.
* * * * *
So, supper at the Kirkhams' gets sorted out via text as you're driving back to the elementary school (Gordon following in his Bug): Mrs. Kirkham asks if she's supposed to eat leftovers, and Caleb, after a hard gulp, replies Yes, which at least earns no rebuke worse than an ok. At the school, you and Caleb help Gordon lug the thing down into the black and dank basement, where you shove it in a corner between some bookshelves, and pile some loose boards over it to hide it. If you're lucky, no one will ever break into your clubhouse to find it. If you're unlucky, maybe no one will think the thing odder than a brilliantly executed statue of a nude, teenage boy.
After that, Gordon drives back to the Johanssons', while you and Caleb go back to your place. (Kirkham's mask and clothes you leave in the floorboard of your truck.) Your parents—your dad in particular—greet Caleb with friendly cheer. Not actually having eaten, you plead the need for a second supper, and you and Caleb raid the fridge for leftovers: pork chops, apple sauce, asparagus, and a three-bean salad. With plates piled over with food, you go upstairs to your bedroom.
Caleb amuses—or horrifies—himself by reading again through Kirkham's texts, paying special attention to the ones from his friends asking how "the faggot's" beatdown went. Caleb is inclined to answer in detail about how he whaled on you, but you persuade him to hold off, reminding him that you want the new "Kirkham" to go easier on you. Caleb is dubious—"He was going to fucking kill you, Will, he told you so himself"—but you persuade him to answer the texts with nothing more detailed than an enigmatic, Busy now, tell you later. To Chen's further query, Is it my turn with the little faggot tomorrow? you let Caleb at least reply with Fuck you, he's mine, which leaves him gasping, white-faced, but also giggling. You remind him that come tomorrow morning, when he will be in David Kirkham's face and form, and with his memories and instincts, such a reply will not only be easier to send, it will probably feel totally natural.
And then, after flopping onto your bed and throwing out his arms, Caleb says to the ceiling, "I'm not gonna lie, Will, I'm think I'm starting to look forward to tomorrow."
"What do you mean?" you ask.
"Oh, nothing."
"I thought you were pissed off that we were making you do this."
"I am, still, sort of. Mostly. But I'm also thinking—"
He hesitates. Then he turns onto his side and gives you a very serious look. "I'm thinking about when you and Gordon switched places," he says.
"Uh huh?"
"Well— It was a big change for you guys," he says. "You especially, I guess. It wasn't like when you and me switched places. You and Gordon, you're a lot different from each other."
"Yeah, I know."
"It was kind of fun for you, wasn't it? Being so different?"
"It wasn't any fun being Gordon. I mean, his life—"
"Yeah, but aside from that. And I am worried about what Kirkham's life is going to be like. I mean, fuck! How fucked up does a guy's life have to be to turn out like him? But it's gonna be ... way different for me. And that's kind of exciting." He falls onto his back again, to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. You just agree that it's going to be different for him, and let the subject lapse.
* * * * *
Along about nine o'clock, Caleb texts his mother-to-be to report that it will be eleven before he gets home—to test out her reaction—and again only gets an okay back. Then at a little before ten, you head out with him, supposedly (you tell your folks) to take him home, but actually to drive him back out to Westside so he can make the switch and pick up Kirkham's car. Even after you're at the school, parked next to what you presume is the sedan that Kirkham drives, you and Caleb are reluctant to part. "So when am I going to see you tomorrow?" you ask.
"I dunno. I'll see you around, play it by ear."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"I'm not gonna hit you, Will."
"You might have to, to make it look good."
"Worst is, I'll haul you out to the portables for a smackdown, and we'll talk out there."
You nod at this, then catch yourself. "That won't work either," you tell Caleb.
"Why not?"
"'Cos the whole reason I'm in this mess is because I'm not letting assholes like Kirkham do that to me. I'm gonna have to fight you back."
"No you won't."
"Yes I will. I got cred now that I have to keep up—"
"Well, there's your problem."
"—and I'm not gonna throw it away by letting you—"
"Alright, alright! Shit. We'll think of something tomorrow."
"I dunno." You shrug. "Maybe we should just avoid each other. You can act like I finally taught you— Well, that I taught Kirkham to leave me alone."
"Do you really think you could'a done that?"
You wince.
"You tell me," you reply. "Tomorrow."
He's just climbing into the sedan as you drive out of the parking lot, and you stare at the silhouette of his head bobbing inside the dark cabin of the car as you roar off down Borman back toward home.
* * * * *
It's still dark when you wake with a start and feel for the chiming phone under your pillow. You are still half-asleep as you pull it out and fumble for the alarm. Only after you see that it is not even six o'clock yet do you realize that the alert was for a text. You blink, struggle into an upright position, and open up the messenger app.
It's a text from David Kirkham, a new one that has just popped under the last one he sent yesterday. That one read I'm sending u to the morgue, and with that as context the new one is almost terrifying: Meet me 630 salvation donuts.
You shake your head clear, and still your beating heart when you remind yourself that it's only Caleb.
But what does he want to meet me so early for? you wonder as you stumble out of your bedroom to the shower. Something wrong with the mask? You're not sure what else could be such an emergency. Ok, you reply as you turn on the water.
Salvation Donuts is on the way to Westside, so you pack up all your school work and shoot Caleb a text telling him you'll be a little late getting there. No matter. You get there first, and are sitting at a tiny table by the plate glass window, slowly eating a fresh maple-glazed donut and nursing a small coffee, when the figure of David Kirkham comes swaggering up out of the parking lot.
Almost you shit yourself, because if it isn't the real fucker, it's a perfect replica.
It's a dark day under lowering clouds, and the thermometer is hovering at around forty-five degrees, but he's dressed like it's summer, in trim khaki shorts and a short-sleeve polo shirt. His tinted glasses, as always, hide his eyes, and he rolls a toothpick about in his mouth as he turns to look at you after entering the shop. For a count of three (it seems) he regards you with amused contempt before softly intoning, "Well, fuck me. The little pissant comes when he's called."
"Hey," you reply, and the choke in your voice at least covers the slight stammer you feel. He chomps hard, white teeth down on that toothpick in a grin, then saunters over to the counter to order a muffin and a coffee. He gives you a half-glance over his shoulder as he takes out his wallet to pay for it.
You can't help rearing back as he comes over, to pull out the chair opposite you by hooking a foot around its leg. He drops into his seat with a soft grunt, sets his muffin and coffee in front of him, then leans back to study you from behind folded arms. (Folded arms which bulge noticeably with biceps.) After a moment spent coolly studying you, he says, in a low voice through unmoving lips, "So how do I look?"
"Perfect. How's the, uh—" You touch your temple.
"Got it." He snorts. "God damn it, but he hates your fucking guts."
You sag. "So what are we going to do about it?"
"That's how come I wanted to talk to you early, and here. Mendoza likes to stop in on his way to school, and I'm hoping he catches us."
"How come?" you ask in alarm.
His lip curls in an amused sneer.
"'Cos it'll give us a chance to explain to him how you and me bonded yesterday an' are now best buds."   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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