tells us all to go ahead and pick out a comic from the Last Chance Clearance bin, on the house. Most of the time, I hate when people feel sorry for me. When people find out my mother and brother are dead, or that I have no money, or that my dad spends more time with the drunks at the local bar than with his one non-dead kid, they treat me differently. Their eyes get this pitying look, and they go out of their way more than they would for other people.
When people feel sorry for me, it’s because they see me as broken, and sometimes I wonder if there’s truth in that. But it’s weird; I don’t. I know my life is pretty messed up, but I gotta believe there’s more to life than this. Otherwise I’m no better off than my mother and brother, pushing up daisies from six feet under in the cemetery up the road.
I’m like the Silver Surfer. Despite the considerable evidence that the world is pretty screwed up with people who do bad things, the Silver Surfer believes there is still good in the world. And as I look at Nick and Peyton digging through the bins, and Victor smiling as he watches the three of us, I think I’m standing in the middle of it.
• • •
I finally make it home about twilight after going back to school to get my bike. I walk in and am greeted by a view of Monica bending over in front of the oven, her leopard-print thong showing over the top of her denim cutoffs.
“Oh, hey, Hank! I thought I’d make you guys some dinner before I head out.” Monica removes some cremated thing in a Pyrex dish from the oven, fanning her oven mitt over it furiously. Literally, the top is charred and I have no idea what it is, but at this point I’m starving and there’s a short list of other options.
She places a huge slice of whatever it is on a plate and hands it to me.
“Lucky me.” I thank her and smile. I try to cut off a piece with my fork and knife, but the mass won’t separate. I try to approach it from another angle, but still no luck, so I pick it up with my bare hands and tentatively take a bite. It pretty much tastes as good as it looks, but Monica’s staring at me expectantly, so I force myself to chew and swallow it as quickly as possible.
“Whaddya think? It’s spinach-stuffed meat loaf with blackened mashed potatoes on top. I saw it in a magazine. It’s like everything is all in one place. No side dish necessary. You like it?”
“Oh yeah, it’s great.” I’ve never wished we had a dog as much as I do at this moment. But I’m guessing a few bites of this meat loaf would quite possibly kill it or, at the minimum, give it the shits all over the living room floor.
She beams as the front door slams and my dad stumbles into the kitchen, raking his hands through his hair and sighing deeply. He doesn’t say hello to either of us—just looks at the contents of that Pyrex dish and curls his lip. “What the hell is that supposed to be?”
“It’s meat loaf stuffed with spinach and topped with blackened mashed potatoes,” I tell him and take another tiny bite.
Dad reaches over and pokes at the leathery potato topping, then walks to the fridge and grabs the first of who knows how many beers he’ll drink to make this edible. I almost want to ask for one myself.
“Hank likes it. It’s good, right?” She looks at me and I nod, still chewing.
Dad turns, downing half the beer in one swill, and pulls Monica to him, then tells her with a laugh, “Honey, I’m starting to wonder if you shouldn’t stick to dancing.”
She sticks out her bottom lip in a mock pouty face and says, “You’re so mean.” He chuckles, leaning to give her a kiss, and I can tell by the way they look at each other that despite all the good-natured ribbing, they’re genuinely crazy about each other. I definitely don’t need to see where this is heading.
That’s my cue to grab my plate. “I’m gonna take this upstairs. Got a lot of homework.”
They don’t even notice.
In my room, the first thing I do is chuck the spinach, meat loaf, and potato missile out the window. It gets good distance