Spit Bubbles

Matthew Crink had forgotten to set his alarm correctly, and it exploded with molten lava anger fifteen minutes too late. His gums bled salty and iron as he hurried through brushing his teeth, he threw a mangled, tattered copy of the history (or was it science?) textbook into his brother's old backpack, swearing all the while. His father was still out, wouldn't come back until the evening, and his mother would be of no use at all, passed out on the couch, her mouth wide open like a gaping, sweaty cavern.
         The clock was a liar, and who knew when the bus would come anyways, it was different every day, entirely unreliable. Secretly, he hoped school would be cancelled, maybe a power failure, or a freak snowstorm that had struck at midnight and was mysteriously invisible to children.
         On second thought though, school wasn't quite as unpleasant as staying home. It was just an easier place to hate.
         The great yellow tyrant creaked to a squeaky halt, spurting black petrol farts onto the blue sky background, like a ketchup stain on a milk-ivory dress shirt. Matthew sighed and climbed the stairs, ignoring the banister for the first time, after having been ridiculed for clinging to it, by a green-eyed, boil-faced teenager.
         Marching like cattle, yet also cautiously manuevering through the crowd like New Yorkers, the entire Hucksfield Middle student body paraded their way to their lockers and their homerooms. The smell of canned sludge, chalk, and oppression radiated through the halls, like the nefarious odor of sweat, of which they'd often been warned and armed with deoderant and gym clothes.
         Matthew's eyes alone knew of his tiredness. It was an important secret to conceal on days like these, days he would gain nothing from defying Ms. Anslosky, since Brett and Fred and Tom were locked away in the bowls of the detention hall. Today, he strived only towards staying awake and getting through the day with the least amount of trouble as possible, unless trouble were to find him. His father always told him to avoid adversity as much as possible, but kick it square in the balls should it seek him. They were words he said the family lived by, and Matthew knew it, he'd seen it in action. The bad government man who tried to cause trouble never, ever came back.
         He kept his weary eyes glued to the clock, watched it with rapt attention, as if in a trance. The hands were like people, like old friends who moved far away from each other, but tried to keep in touch. They would sometimes get together for a cup of tea or a movie, at odd times like 10:50 or 3:15. Unlike the one at home, this clock was honest, since it was the only one in the room, and the only one that mattered. Soon enough the clock declared it was time to go to lunch, and the bell system agreed with it. Can't argue with that kind of logic.
         Matthew stretched to his feet like a lizard awakening from a nap, and trudged to the cafeteria. This was an awkward time of day, especially without his friends there to provide a home. The classroom, though dull and frustrating, was safe, in that it forced everyone to be together, whether they liked it or not. There was no freedom, and there were no problems. Everyone was the same.
         The absence of fat wallets of cash or of a brown paper bag invited questions, interrogations, the third degree with blinding icy light that stung the eyes, and stabbing curious inquiries that stung the gut, like being punched hard in the stomach and doubling over.
         Those questions hurt infinitely more than the actual lack of food, and he didn't know how to explain that. Fred felt no shame, seemingly about anything. He would simply ask someone for a dollar, and if he was told no, he would nail the kid hard in the shin with his father's old steel-toed construction boot, and ask again. He never went hungry.
         Matthew's stomach rumbled with emptiness and adrenaline. He resolved for today to be a brand new day, and he knew it would feel great. He marched resolutely across the canyon dividing the lunch tables into two separate columns, heading for a frequent target of Fred's, Jerry Slebbert.
         

Jerry licked his lips impatiently. He leaned against the cafeteria wall, like a cat, arrogant and bored with everyone around it. He was grateful for lunchtime, the one time of day ensuring a break from the insufferable monotony of "learning". Learning. Ha! What a complete crock of lumpy bullshit. This place was nothing compared to his old school, which he longed for dearly.
         Hucksfield wouldn't allow him to move up a grade, didn't offer algebra until high school, and wouldn't even let them choose the books they have to read. There was no mention of an "honors" course, every single class was integrated, the dumb mixed haphazardly with the smart, forcing the imbeciles and the geniuses to compromise, leaving no one with anything at the end of the day. Irritating, equally bored delinquents ruled the teacher, instead of the other way around, and Ms. Anslosky herself didn't seem to give two flying fucks about education.
         Jerry couldn't wait to get out of there. But for the time being, he just couldn't wait for the line to move. A nearly-full night of reading and writing had exhausted him too much so to wake up in time for breakfast, and so he was exceptionally ravenous. The prospect of a full lunch was promising too, since Fred Iverson had finally gotten caught smoking.
         Gurgling and bubbling, Jerry's stomach gave another hearty quake. He was vaguely ashamed of his vast appreciation and love of food, feeling it was something intellectuals do not get so excited for, but the alluring smell of warm, salty French fries was overbearing, outweighing his self-image.
         Food was Jerry's only vice, although he harbored a number of small habits, which he considered to be vices, when he was having a bad day. In addition to cramming his face full of chocolate and Cheetos until he felt he would surely burst, he also frequently found himself pulling the hair from his eyebrows, and making little spit bubbles with his tongue, to see how long he could keep them there.
         The former often caused him to be the victim of ridicule, adding not only weight to his repetoire, but also girlishness, as the other kids accused him of plucking his eyebrows, as if that would make him more beautiful, or something. The second though, usually went unnoticed, and he was extremely thankful. Even more so than being fat and girly, Jerry was afraid of appearing immature, babyish, petty; everything he saw in those around him. If they saw him making spit-bubbles, well, he would be mortified beyond belief.


Matthew strode confidently up to Jerry, crackling his knuckles and flexing his biceps, hoping he would appear intimidating. Jerry was lost in thought about something his father had said about the Krebs cycle, and daydreaming about high school biology, absolutely fascinated by the concept of dissection.
         "Hey, kid, I need like three bu..." Matthew poked Jerry in the chest, and held out his palm, jumping the gun slightly. He trailed off, seeing something shiny behind Jerry's teeth. "Dude, do you have your tongue pierced?" Matthew remembered his mother talking violently, a long time ago, about a young woman with a tongue piercing, and having never seen one, was intrigued by the idea. Even more impressive than the piercing itself, was the idea of Jerry, of all people having one. The math geek with a tongue ring! It was interesting.
         "What? No." Jerry blurted the truth, bursting Matthew's bubble like the bubble on his tongue. Both dissolved into nothing in mere moments.
         "Then what was-"
         "Nothing! It was nothing! Fuck off, you know, I know you were just coming over here to take my money and I'm not gonna let you have it. It's MY fucking money, asshole, maybe if you weren't such a dick, you could work and get some too. I'm sick of you jerks stepping all over me and getting my money. It's not my fault your families are too poor to give you money. Fuck off."
         Matthew and Jerry were both equally stunned by Jerry's sudden outburst, though Jerry knew better than to show it. He folded his arms squarely across his chest and stood up a little straighter. Matthew blinked, jaw hanging slightly agape, and slowly turned around and walked away. Jerry breathed a light sigh of relief, and made another couple of spit-bubbles with his tongue, careful to keep his mouth completely closed.
         

Matthew walked numbly through the glass doors at the front of the school, ignoring the threats of cameras or suspension or truancy officers. None of them could hurt him at all. He kept his eyes glued to the sandy sidewalk in front of him, memorizing the cracks and litter, both increasing in frequency and amount as his feet found their way home. Not even bothering to sneak quietly, he let himself in and pushed through the empty cans and toys and DVD boxes to his room, to collapse enormously on his bed, like an earthquake tumbling a skyscraper.
         "Huh? Whathafa's goin' on?" His father was home, and not yet angry, but bewildered.
         He stumbled through the mess and pushed Matthew's door open. "Eh kid, whaddaya doin' home, donchu got school still?"
         "Fuck that." Matthew replied, finally embodying the toughness he knew his father admired in his westerns and shoot-em-up films.
         "Yeah well, ya git there." He replied, with a messy, drunken grin. "Son, lemme tell ya somethin'."
         "Yeah?"
         "Ya wanna sip of my beer?" He brandished a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Matthew had only recently realized that his father referred to all alcoholic beverages as "beer", though only about half of them actually were. This was nothing new. His father had seldom drunk without offering his son a sip or a bottle of his own, but Matthew had always refused him, seeing how it eventually transformed him into a loud, scary, violent mess.
         "Sure." He replied, taking the bottle and swallowing a deep swig.
         "That's ma fuckin' boy!"
         Matthew chuckled, and took the bottle out of his father's grasp, gulping down a few more. Soon enough the bottle was clear and empty between them.
         Laughing and spinning, enjoying the feeling of being so dizzy, Matthew stumbled into the living room and fell over. Convulsing with hysterical laughter, he picked himself back up and threw his body through the screen door. This was hilarious, not even a screen door could stop him! He fell down the stairs of the porch, smiling, enjoying the bumpy ride.
         The world was a carousel. It was magnificent. The sun and the trees and their faded pink siding were all meshed into one, like food in a blender. It was a milkshake, and he could never have too much!
         Could he?
         The spinning sensation began to become tiresome and unpleasant. His brain loved it, but his stomach wasn't so fond. That familiar, nauseous feeling of the flu started to overtake him, to spread upwards.
         He vomited. And then he vomited again. And again. And again and again, over and over, until there wasn't anything left to vomit. And then he vomited nothing, merely water. He lay down, carefully, in a patch of clean green grass. His mouth hung open sadly, and spit-bubbles trickled down his chin and onto the ground.