The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,12
some. You’re being stupid. Dramatic. Dad says it’s okay to be gay; just don’t be a pussy. He’s a comedian and makes gay jokes in his act down in Colorado Springs, but it’s all in fun. He even has a joke about a guy licking his balls and how that’s one of life’s delicacies. That was sort of freaky when I heard him do it. I don’t exactly get my dad on this stuff, but I know he loves me. But I also know if he heard these thoughts I’m having, he’d screw up his face and tell me to shut the fuck up with that pansy-ass shit. Warrior up. Warrior up, dude.
He’s right. I smile. I breathe until my jaw unclenches. I have the power to change my thoughts. Like I did when we moved here.
I’m eight. We’ve just moved to Dobson Ranch, a suburban neighborhood in western Mesa near the canal. We had lived in central Phoenix. I’m tossing a Nerf football with my neighbor friend, Skeeter, and we’re talking about going to the park and waiting for the ice-cream truck so we could get Drumsticks. These other kids I don’t know so well come around, and they say, “’Sup, Skeeter.”
“’Sup,” he says.
I say, “’Sup,” too.
“We’re gonna hit the park so we catch Mister Softee.”
“Cool,” Skeeter says, and he tosses the football to me. I throw it over the side fence and say, “Cool,” too.
“You’re not coming, Maximo,” this one kid says. He has a blond crew cut and he’s short and round. He says “Maximo” like he’s saying “dog shit.” I didn’t know he even knew my name.
“You need to stay here in case the migrant-worker truck comes and your whole family gets a job.”
Everyone laughs. Skeeter too. He laughs.
A smile crawls over my face without my even trying. I laugh too. And then they all run off, leaving me there. I just stand there in the middle of the street until a pickup truck honks at me and I have to move. I go inside and play Grand Theft Auto. I don’t tell my mom. Next time I see Skeeter, we toss the ball again and we don’t talk about it. And it’s understood that when those kids come by, they’re gonna go to the park, and I won’t.
I grimace for just a nanosecond ’til I catch myself. Then I smile until I feel better. I mean, there are terrible, racist-ass people out there. But also good people. Who am I gonna focus on?
Shit. I’m better than that. That’s about those kids. I have the power to change my thoughts. Always did. I have the power to smile through all this.
No one gets the best of Super Max.
I’m sitting on the dirt in the front yard, watching the sun rise over the palm trees, waiting for Max. I look at my phone. 5:08. He’s late.
As the hot morning breeze washes over me, I lean back on my elbows, and I wince as one of them hits a sharp pebble. My poetry journal is by my side. I’m bringing it because there’s a part of me that hopes this isn’t going to work, that we’ll go out and no one will want our food and I’ll be able to sit there and write poems, which is a weird thing to want since it would lead to our homelessness but there you have it. There’s a part of me that hopes Max doesn’t show up. A big part. He won’t show, and I won’t have a partner for the truck, and I won’t have to go out and face people who are desiring good food and good service when I have zero experience with either. That’s the worst. That not only will I be letting my dad down, my mom, myself. I’ll be letting strangers down too.
A Dodge Durango pulls up and Max hops out of the driver’s side. He runs his hands through his wavy black hair, and as he walks over to where I’m sitting, he gives that toothy Guy Smiley smile, raising his killer dimples. Some people are just blessed with good everything, and Max is definitely one of them. He’s wearing a simple blank T-shirt and hideous tan cargo shorts that I would never in a million years be caught dead in, and yet somehow it just works on him.
“What up?” he says.
I stay seated. “What up,” I say back.
He stuffs his hands into his shorts pockets. “So how does this work?”