Chapter 8

I turn around, and there is Kendall. He is smirking — but he is also carrying a purse! Mama and his mother, Fran, start chatting. Kendall and I wander down an aisle by ourselves.

“None of your bees’ wax,” I reply. “What do you have in yours, ‘Ken-doll’ — your balls?”

I guffaw. My friend’s nickname comes from Barbie’s anatomically neutered boyfriend. Guys razz him about his supposed lack of gonads. I join in on the teasing, but he doesn’t really deserve the grief. I know that he has balls. I’ve seen them — we’ve gone skinny-dipping. One time, Dad, who has never seen them, said that Kendall must have “big balls” to act up like he does sometimes. That observation puzzled me because, to me, they looked normal-sized. (By the way, I got my nickname when a kid in first grade couldn’t pronounce his “Rs” when saying my name.) 

“Hey, how was your trip to your aunt’s?” Kendall asks, ignoring my question.

“Unh,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

“Sorry,” he says. “Hey, so, are you still sore about me putting you in a headlock?”

“No, don’t worry about it,” I say.

“Well, I know you don’t like that. … Dougie Walters was picking on you the other day. He does that a lot, doesn’t he?”

 “He was squeezing my hand really hard to see how much pain I could take. When I asked him if he was holding my hand because he was a homo, he let go right away.”

“Ha! Good one! Well, he’s a butthole. Let me know if he bugs you again. I’ll take care of him.”

“You’ll knock his block off?”

“Damn straight, I will!”

I laugh. I guess it’s cool that Kendall is still worried about me. He has appointed himself my guardian angel and often comes to my rescue. He has stepped in and pulled Dougie Walters off me several times. And Dougie isn’t the only one who pesters me. When Kendall saw Anson Daugherty giving me a noogie, he ran up and pulled him off of me. He reached into the back of his pants, grabbed his underwear, and gave him an atomic wedgie. 

I am grateful for Kendall’s protection, but I hope he will train me so I can take care of things my own way. Right now, I’m smart, and I can usually talk, joke, or insult my way to safety. I need to be able to keep the assholes off me because, in the fall, Kendall won’t always be around. We will be going to different classes and activities. I will be going to band class and French club, and Kendall will be focused on football and wrestling. It will be a different world for both of us.

“Hey, you wanna work out or go ride bikes later?” he asks, as he swings his mother’s purse from side to side.

“Yeah, if we ever get outta here,” I say, rolling my eyes.

We shake our heads in mutual misery. Soon, Kendall and his mom go to another section of the store. Mama turns and holds out three pairs of jeans.

“Go try these on,” she says. “You’ll need them this summer. You’re ripping your jeans to shreds.”

Ugh. I hate trying on pants. Even if they fit around my waist, they’re always too long, and Mama has to shorten the hems. And it’s summer. I’m not gonna be wearing jeans in the heat. I don’t see why I need new ones. My current jeans, when I wear them, are comfortable. They may have holes in the knees, but so what? — it’s air-conditioning! And I don’t need the right back pocket — I am left-handed, after all! 

Mama waves toward the back of the store, so I take the jeans from her, and we head in that direction. As we reach the fitting rooms, Mama asks, “Do you want me to go in with you?”

“No!” I say vehemently. She laughs; she’s joking. When I was a mere child, Mama did go into fitting rooms with me! She stopped doing that soon after Dad walked into my bedroom while I was changing clothes. I was bare-ass naked, and he looked me up and down and then told me that dinner was ready. Since then, he and Mama always knock before coming into my room. They must have decided that I needed more privacy. 

I slide the curtain closed, making sure there are no gaps where she can peek in. I take off my shorts and stand in front of the mirror. In my Superman T-shirt and red briefs, I flex one spindly arm and raise the other above my head like I am flying. 

“Up, up, and away!” I mouth to myself.

Next, I put up karate hands and make a judo kick. Then, I thrust out my scrawny chest, put my fists on my hips, and recite the lines in my head: “… fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice, and the American way!” 

Oh yeah. I’m a superhero!

I put down my arms and sigh. I stare into my eyes in the mirror. I’m not super. Not at all. Despite Papa’s encouragement, more and more, I am not loving the skin that I’m in. I need more muscles. I need more strength. Maybe Aunt Eva is right — I need to be more macho. Kendall does have to protect me and fight off the bullies. I’ve only won one fight in my life — and I’ve regretted it ever since.

*  *  *

Last year, I “beat up” Wesley Hess. At the time, it seemed to be for a good reason. I learned later that it was not.

He and I were not friends — we still aren’t. In fact, nobody is his friend. He has always been a pest. He is a major tattletale who will tell the teachers who was talking when her back was turned, who was shooting spitballs, and who was passing notes. 

He is also a smart aleck. He thinks he knows everything. A couple of months ago, when I was giving an oral report on the Tyrannosaurus rex, he kept interrupting me. 

“T. rex could not turn his arms,” he claimed. “He just held them there in front of him, like claws.”

I wanted him to shut up. I corrected him.

“In fact, T. rex could rotate its hand inward and upward so that the palm would face its chest,” I clarified. “That made it easier to bring its prey in closer for a bite.”

I illustrated it with my own arms. I raised my hands, palms up, fingers pointed like claws. I brought them to my chest. At the last minute, I put four claws down and left the middle claw up. The whole class saw me flip off Wesley, and everyone cracked up. Luckily, the teacher didn’t see it from her angle. 

At recess, when choosing teams, nobody ever wants Wesley. He is usually the last man standing when sides are chosen. (Luckily, thanks to Kendall, more often than not, I am picked earlier.) Over the years, no one ever wanted to teeter-totter with Wesley, or swing on the swings with him, or go on the merry-go-round with him. He has spent most of his playground time alone — or he has chased after the girls. They have run from him, turned on him, and yelled, “Leave me alone, you little weasel!” And that’s how he got his nickname: Wesley the Weasel. His big ears and big teeth also have something to do with it.

Wesley and I got into it because he was pestering Mindy Graham. Mindy liked me, and I sort of liked her, too, I guess. Our relationship mainly consisted of walking together around the outer edge of the playground, far away from the prying eyes of our classmates. 

I didn’t mind. At the time, the other boys were into playing Smear the Queer. I did not want to run around trying to catch the boy with the ball and piling onto him. I certainly did not want to be on the bottom of that pile. Walking around with Mindy was a better alternative than getting smeared. Or being called a queer.

Mindy liked to chatter. She went on and on about cousins and cats. She tried to cast magic spells and invoke fairies. She wanted a pony. One day, her favorite color was scarlet; the next, it was fuchsia. She talked and talked and talked. At one point, I seriously considered joining the boys, but she insisted that we hold hands, so there was no getting away from her.

In class one day, we were sitting beside each other on the sofa in the reading zone. Mindy was as pleased as punch. When the teacher left the room to check on something, Mindy leaned over, took my head in her hands, turned it to hers, and kissed me right on the lips. The class went wild. The kids whistled and hollered. The teacher rushed back into the room to find out what was going on. Tattletale Wesley told the teacher all about what had happened. 

The teacher looked at me sternly.

“Riley Shrader, keep your hands — and your lips — to yourself,” she scolded.

I was so embarrassed. Why was she blaming me? It was Mindy’s doing; I was an innocent victim. However, I was the class hero for a couple of hours. So that was good. But it did not last. At recess, Wesley started singing: 

“Riley and Mindy

Sittin’ in a tree,

K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

First comes love,

Then comes marriage

Then comes Junior

In a baby carriage.” 

Other kids joined in. I hated it. I didn’t love Mindy. I didn’t want to marry her. I certainly didn’t want to have a baby with her. Mindy, though, loved the attention. 

After the infamous kiss, Wesley chased Mindy around the playground, trying to get her to give him a smooch. One day, he managed to sit next to her on the reading sofa. Wesley smirked as he glanced over at me and draped his arm around her shoulder. Mindy shrugged in an attempt to get him to remove his arm. She looked across the room at me, arching her eyebrows while darting her eyes at Wesley. Did she think I was going to do something about it? Mindy was quite the drama queen. 

After school that day, Wesley was waiting for me on the playground. He had his hands on his hips. We were both scrawny, but he was a bit taller than me. He did indeed look like a weasel with those pointed ears and those teeth that poked out over his bottom lip.

“Hey, Shrimp,” he said. “Mindy is my girlfriend. Leave her alone.”

“I don’t think she knows that, Weasel,” I said. “She thinks she’s my girlfriend.”

He walked over and punched me in the shoulder. It barely hurt. I looked at my shoulder and then up at him. Was this happening? Was he going to fight me for Mindy’s affections? Other kids started crowding around us, chanting, “Fight! Fight! FIGHT!” He took another swing at me. I saw it coming and swerved. He missed. 

He lunged at me and wrapped his arms around my torso. He was trying to take me down. “Fight! Fight! FIGHT!” continued. Oh, great. Now, I have to prove to the crowd — and to myself — that I am not a wuss. Well, if I must, I must. 

I had learned a thing or two from my bullies, so I thrust my arms up and broke his hold on me. I wrapped one arm around his head and took him to the ground. I sat on him and held his arms down as he squirmed under me. 

It felt good to be on top of the situation. It felt good to be in control. It was the opposite of what I was used to. I could do whatever I wanted, and he couldn’t stop me. Borrowing another example from my bullying experiences, I hawked a loogie. It started to slowly dribble toward his face. 

Then, a car drove up, and out jumped Wesley’s mother!

“Get off my son!” she shouted.

I sucked up my spit and looked down at him. His eyes were wide open. He looked very afraid. In that instant, I caught a mental image of myself in that position. Do my eyes look like that when I am peering up at bullies? Do I look that scared? … This was not what I intended to do, I thought to myself. I don’t even care that much about Mindy. 

I suddenly felt sorry for Wesley. True, he had no friends. Nobody liked him. He was a pest. He was also bullied a lot, maybe even more than I was. I knew what that was like. I guess he didn’t deserve what I was doing to him. I patted his cheek, got up, and helped him to his feet. Wesley got in his mother’s car. Looking out the passenger window, he stuck out his tongue at me. I stood there and watched them drive off. That was that, I thought. No harm done.

That night, Dad took a phone call, and I could only hear him say, “Uh-huh,” and “I’m sorry,” and “I’ll talk to him.” After he hung up, he shouted, “Riley! Get in here!”

I walked into the kitchen, and Dad was sitting at the table with his arms crossed. I didn’t like Dad’s expression. He didn’t look happy. He was usually smiling; he liked to tell jokes. This was not a joking occasion.

“I understand that you beat someone up today,” he said. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Well,” I said hesitantly. “I knocked down Wesley the Weasel. But I didn’t ‘beat him up.’”

I made quotation marks with my fingers.

“His mother got there, and they took off in their car.”

Also making quotation marks, Dad asked, “So, you would have ‘beaten him up’ if you had had the chance?”

“I … I … maybe. I dunno,” he had me on that technicality. Would I have beaten him up? Would I have let him have it? Knocked his socks off? Taken him to pound town?

“I don’t know. I guess, maybe?” I said. “But I didn’t want to fight him. He made me! He started it! He kept picking on Mindy, and I was trying to make him stop it.”

“Who’s Mindy?” he asked.

“She’s a friend.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Were you defending her honor?” he said, with his eyes twinkling.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Were you sticking up for her? Was he being disrespectful? Were you righting a wrong?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Yes, that’s what I was doing. … So, you’re not mad at me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “Violence is never the answer. Never, ever fight anyone — unless you have a really good reason. Only fight if you are defending yourself, or if you are protecting someone else, or if you are coming to someone’s rescue. But even then, be careful and think about what you’re doing.”

Dad’s double standard confused me. Don’t fight — unless you have to? I stayed silent. 

“Now, as punishment, your teacher is going to make you stay indoors for recess for a week.”

“Oh,” I shrugged. “The boys are playing Smear the Queer at recess, so I don’t care.”

Dad sighed. Then he looked at me with squinted eyes.

“What was that name you called Wesley Hess?” he asked.

“Um, ‘Wesley the Weasel,’” I said. “It’s what everyone calls him.”

“Why do they call him that?” Dad asked.

“Oh, he has big ears that are sort of pointed, like a weasel’s. And big teeth that stick out over his bottom lip.”

I used my hands to illustrate Wesley’s ears and teeth. As I envisioned him, I giggled. But seeing Dad’s stern face, I quickly stopped.

“Let me ask you something, Riley,” Dad started. “Do you like it when someone calls you ‘Shorty’ or ‘Shrimp’?”

“No. No, I don’t,” I replied.

“Why not?” Dad asked. “You are short, aren’t you? Why shouldn’t someone call you that?”

I considered the reasons.

“Well, it’s a mean thing to say,” I said. “It’s nothing I can do anything about. I’m not going to suddenly start growing taller.”

“Can Wesley help it that his ears are big and that he has an overbite?” Dad asked.

“No, he can’t,” I said.

“Riley, never make fun of someone for something they can’t do anything about,” Dad said. “It makes you the bully.”

“Oh! Okay,” I said.

So, I guess I learned my lesson. Wesley and I still hate each other, though.

*  *  *

Mama calls from the hallway, “Honey, how do they fit? Do you need me to come in and help?”

“No!” I shout, as I snap out of my daydream. I pull on one of the pairs of jeans. 

“Come out and let me see,” she calls again.

I slide back the curtain and almost knock her down because she is so close. She spins me around and puts her sharp-nailed fingers inside the waistband — I hate that — and then she checks the length. 

“Oh, you’re growing so much taller — and wider,” she laments. “You’re not going to be my little boy for much longer. Okay, try on the others.”

I roll my eyes and go back into the changing room. I go through the fitting ritual two more times — minus the superhero poses. Mama decides the first pair fits best, so I guess I had to do all that rigamarole for nothing. I roll my eyes again. I am relieved that this ordeal is over. Maybe I will still be able to do something fun.

As we leave Barnard’s, I look up toward the sun. It’s still shining bright and strong. I can tell that it is now afternoon. Ugh. It was early morning when we started shopping. I sigh. The day is wasting away! When would we be finished? I brush the hair out of my eyes — hoping Mama won’t notice that I need a haircut — and look down the street. 

I see Herk washing a store window. Mama sees him, too.

“Oh!” she says. “I didn’t know he was back in town.”

“You know who that is?” I ask. “You know Herk?”

“Yes, I know who Herk is,” she answers.

“Where has he been?” I ask.

“He has been … wandering. I guess you could say, ‘bumming around.’ I heard that he was in Warrenton, or was it Butler City ... But now he’s back.”

She continues to squint at the giant man.

“Now, Riley, I want you to stay away from him.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Well, some bad things have happened to him, and his life is … not so good. … Come on, we have more shopping to do.”

Despite her admonition, as we walk, we aren’t staying away from him. We’re getting closer. I get a better look at him. Herk is a big man — not fat, really, just tall and wide — a giant. Under the hat, his face is broad, and his nose is flat. I think it might have been broken at some point. He could use a shave, and he is missing a couple of teeth. I can see the gaps because he smiles at everyone who walks past him. His toothless smile creeps me out. There’s no joy in it. It’s almost a sneer. It’s … sinister, as if he knows something dark and dreadful that no one else does, like some hidden secret.

“Hello, Mr. Albertson,” he says. “How do you do, Miss Jenkins?”

He tips his hat and greets all. Few people smile back, and most avert their eyes. Everyone steers clear of him. They make wide circles around him as they walk past. They are all trying to avoid him. 

As Mama and I come closer, he tips his hat out of habit. Then, their eyes meet. His smile goes away. His face grows dark. His chin sinks into his collar. I look up at Mama. Her eyes are locked on his. He looks deep into her eyes. Remarkably, his left eye is blue, and his right eye is green. Heterochromia, that’s what that is. A difference of coloration in the irises. 

Mama’s lips are pursed. I know that expression well. She makes it whenever I do something that irritates her. The mood on the street grows tense. Neither of them says a word. She grabs my arm and pulls me into a store. I turn my head and keep looking at him. Herk stands there, saying nothing. His mouth opens as if he were about to say something. His bicolor eyes bore into me. Herk frowns and stares at me long and hard until the doors close.