I'm with Stupid Page 7

  “Sit down, Felton. Grandpa doesn’t mean anything bad,” Andrew said.

  “I mean, I want to help you,” Grandpa said, his face flushing. His tufty white hair stood on end. “Have you ever tried meditating?”

  This made Tovi burst out laughing. “You guys are so nuts!”

  “Not nuts!” Grandpa shouted. “My son is dead!”

  People at tables around us paused. They stared at us.

  “Sorry,” Tovi said.

  What’s weird is that I’d already sat back down and I was already eating again. Jesus balls, I love me a buffet.

  ***

  One of Dad’s T-shirts from the drawer has a picture of hand on it pointing to the left. Above it, in these blocky 1980s letters, are the words, “I’m with Stupid.” There’s a picture in a family album of Dad, maybe seventeen, arm around Evith, maybe fourteen, wearing this shirt. “I’m with Stupid”—arrow pointing at Evith. It totally killed me. I thought it was hilarious.

  I’d pulled the shirt out of the drawer several times during the week. I showed it to Evith on New Year’s and she said, “God, I hated that shirt. Your dad tortured me with that. I was always stupid.” She kind of laughed. Tovi laughed. Andrew stared at it.

  Grandpa said glumly, “Your father’s favorite shirt.”

  That night, I asked, “Can I take this?”

  Air moved in the room. “Yes,” it said.

  I packed the shirt in my suitcase. I was leaving in the morning.

  ***

  I woke up before almost everybody. I climbed down the stairs and found Grandpa Stan alone, sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking an orange juice.

  I poured a glass for myself and sat down next to him.

  “Have you made your college choice?” he asked.

  It was nice to have someone ask oddly. As much as I hated all the people up in Bluffton constantly being in my business about college, I felt sort of bad that no one in my family had asked. (I know now they were trying not to pressure me, that Andrew had actually told Tovi and Grandpa to lay off.)

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Not Northwestern?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Definitely not.”

  “Good,” he nodded. “Wisconsin?” he asked.

  I exhaled. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Who am I going to tell?”

  “Stanford,” I said.

  “Yes!” he said. He pumped his fist. “Very good school. Very good choice!”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I’ll pay for it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “If you don’t want to play games, if you want to study and forget athletics, I’ll pay for Stanford. That’s a fine school.”

  “Grandpa,” I said, “I love football. You even told me to love it last summer.”

  Grandpa nodded. He looked down at his hands. “I know. And it feels good to run people over. Okay, fine. I want you to love what you do.”

  “It’s sort of what my body was built to do,” I said.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Stay here.” Grandpa stood and shuffled to his study, where he listens to music and pays bills. A couple of minutes later, he shuffled back. “Found it.” He placed a folder in front of me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it. Your father’s poem from high school.”

  I swallowed hard. Something real? Something from my dad? A real document? I opened the folder. Made me so nervous.

  There was just a wrinkled piece of dirty notebook paper inside with “Steven W. Reinstein” written on the top. This is what the poem said:

  I will break the mold.

  I will start to stop now.

  I’m a Flying Wallenda between two clouds.

  I am not what I do.

  I am not what I will be.

  I will stop and let go, balanced between two clouds.

  I will break this mold.

  “Hmm,” I said. “He wants to break the mold.”

  “See?” Grandpa said. “That’s your poem now. Take it.”

  I put the poem in the folder and held on to it. “See what?” I asked.

  “Your father’s body played tennis, but he had other ideas.”

  “I don’t see that in this poem,” I said. “I don’t think he had any idea what he wanted to do but wished he did.”

  “Oh?” Grandpa asked.

  “I get it,” I said.

  Grandpa paused. He breathed. He nodded. “And you? Might you like something else? Maybe sitting on a mountainside like a swami? Meditate like an old holy man?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “You might like to grow a long beard?” He smiled.

  “Maybe,” I said. I sort of smiled. “I’m a fan of loincloths.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I like air on my boys.”

  I laughed a little. Then I said, “I’m going to play football.”

  “I’ve just been thinking…you know, worrying, as I get to know you more.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  “Good.” He smiled. “Fine. Go play your game. If it doesn’t work out, you have other options. Sports aren’t everything. You understand?”

  “Okay,” I said. Then I paused, thought. “Hey. What’s a Flying Wallenda?”

  “They were tightrope walkers who crossed spectacular divides and used no nets. Very risky. Sometimes, they fell and died.”

  “Wait. That’s what Dad wanted to be?”

  “Maybe it isn’t such a good poem.” Grandpa’s face lost color. “Give it back to me.”

  “No. I want it,” I said.

  ***

  An hour later, I said good-bye to Grandpa and Evith in the kitchen. Two hours later, I hugged Andrew and Tovi at airport security. Three hours later, I was on my way home to Bluffton, the “I’m with Stupid” T-shirt folded perfectly in my bag. By mid-afternoon, Jerri had pulled up in front of the Dane County Airport in her crappy Hyundai.

  ***

  On the way home from the airport, rolling through the mucky hills of a forty-degree Wisconsin January (too warm, by the way), Jerri said, “You’ll never guess who I spent New Year’s Eve with!”

  No, I would never have guessed.

  Abby and Nolan’s parents divorced in September. Terry Sauter is an orthodontist. He wears a shiny brown leather jacket and he smiles too damn hard.

  I didn’t really care. Sure, Jerri had said she couldn’t be with Aleah’s dad and be a student at the same time. Sure, I thought she was contradicting herself. So what? I came home ready to get on with it. I wrote this on a piece of loose-leaf notebook paper:

  1.One more high school sports season. Run. Stretch. Get ready for Roy Ngelale. Win at least one state track championship. Maybe three?

  2.Figure out good words to say about Stanford. When announcement comes, you’ll show the choice was right one.

  3.Be nice to Pig Boy. Bring him some new drawing pens?

  4.Wear “I’m with Stupid” T-shirt? Looks like something Gus would wear. Hilarious.

  5.Graduate. Have fun. Leave.

  6.This is going to happen whether you like it or not, dickweed.

  See? I was ready to go!

  But…

  Buried/Unburied

  Chapter 16

  The Death of Curtis Bode

  I’ve thought a lot about this. Would I have crashed if Tommy Bode hadn’t been my mentee-sidekick? Maybe not right away. Would I have screwed up my college announcement if Curtis Bode had stayed at school that day in early January? Maybe. Would I have crashed if I wasn’t a jock, if I was just a normal dude who didn’t have colleges texting every minute? At some point, yes. Definitely.

  I have a big problem in my past. I
’ll never actually be a normal dude.

  ***

  Bad. Okay.

  Tommy Bode’s dumbass, drunken, shouting dad kept guns in the house. Do I look like a hunter? You’re right. If my hair grows out, it’s a Jewfro. I’m not a hunter, so I don’t know anything about gun safety, but I’ll tell you this: I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to keep a loaded handgun under your pillow, which is what Tommy’s dad did because he’s a psycho.

  (I only know this because Tommy told me later. He didn’t tell anyone else because he thought the cops would come and arrest his dad, which is probably the damn truth—and maybe would’ve been good.)

  On January 3, the first day after winter break, after a rough morning, Tommy’s little brother, Curtis Bode, left Bluffton Middle School. He walked home, walked into his dad’s bedroom, picked up the pillow, lifted the handgun, turned it on his own chest, and shot himself in the heart.

  He was fourteen and in eighth grade, okay?

  ***

  I didn’t see Tommy that morning. I’d looked for him a little in the commons when I got to school because I wanted to show him my “I’m with Stupid” T-shirt. (I wore it.) It just seemed like something he’d find funny. On my way into choir, filled with forty-four singing dorks, an announcement buzzed on the intercom. “Tommy Bode to the principal’s office immediately.”

  My knees went weak and my heart accelerated. I don’t know why I knew.

  I knew something.

  Curtis Bode died on the floor, his grandma next to him, crying and screaming at a 911 operator. That’s what Tommy said.

  ***

  Bluffton is a small town. Everyone knows everyone, which can suck (and sometimes not suck). We haven’t had a lot of suicides. I remember Jerri crying when I was ten because the brother of one of her high school friends shot himself in the woods by Belmont Tower. Other than that, I can’t remember any suicides other than my dad and Curtis Bode.

  Some places have suicides all the time. Some schools. It’s old hat.

  It isn’t. I’m sure. I know. I hate this.

  The news ripped through the choir (and the school). Kit Hinkins had texts from his cousin within a few minutes. Ms. Rory had to stop class because everyone started buzzing. Kayla Zielsdorf’s brother is an EMT. Ms. Rory let her call him. He confirmed that it was Tommy’s brother. He said it was a gunshot. He did not call it a suicide, but everyone sort of knew.

  Ms. Rory leaned back on the piano and covered her mouth. My classmates muttered back and forth. They all covered their mouths. I sat crumpled in a folding chair, my head in my hands. Gus sat behind me on a riser. He leaned over and whispered, “Is that Pig Boy’s little brother?” I nodded. He said, “Oh, man. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry for me,” I said.

  “Okay. It’s okay, man,” Gus said.

  “What’s okay?” I spat.

  “Nothing,” Gus said.

  ***

  An hour after lunch, the whole Bluffton school district closed down. Cody asked me if I wanted to go out to the big M, my favorite hill near town, which would be muddy and cold as crap in the crap January weather. “Me, Reese, and Karpinski are going out there.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was to sit around talking about “life” and bullshit with a crew of jocks who had it totally easy all the time. (Including one who bullied the shit out of me when I was a broken kid, who thought “keeping the dipshits in line” was funny.)

  Gus asked if I wanted to drive around with him and his sophomore punk rock girlfriend, Maddie O’Neill. “We’re just going to cruise, maybe over to the Mississippi.” I didn’t want to talk about life with them either. Her especially. Maddie likes horror movies and her bedroom is painted black. It’s like death is her style. This did not appeal to me.

  “No thanks.”

  I walked home in this January soup air (a couple miles of muck on the streets). My eyes burned. I thought of Tommy pinning his brother, Curtis, against a wall, choking him the way I did Nolan Sauter.

  ***

  Speaking of Sauters.

  When I got home, Jerri wasn’t at school. Jerri was in the house with Nolan’s dad, Terry. His giant Cadillac Escalade blocked the garage door, so I had to climb up the stairs and go in the front, which caused me to catch them making out on the couch.

  “Whoa, ho, ho!” Terry said when I entered.

  “What are you doing home?” Jerri barked.

  “Kid died. They let school out. Can I speak to you, Jerri?”

  “Kid died?” Terry asked, sitting up. “High school?”

  “No. Middle school,” I said.

  “Oh good,” Terry said.

  I stared him down. His kids were both in high school. I guess I understand why he’d say, “Good.” Still, it was a shitty thing to say.

  “Do you two know each other?” Jerri asked.

  “I used to see Mr. Sauter when he lived in Abby’s house,” I said. “Can I speak to you, Jerri?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Felton. Of course.”

  She got up and followed me into the hallway.

  “Jerri,” I whispered. “An eighth grader killed himself today.”

  “Oh God. Oh shit,” she said. “Do you know who?”

  “Curtis Bode,” I said.

  She nodded. “I was in school with Doug,” she whispered. Jerri graduated from Bluffton High. “That’s his dad,” she said. “Doug.”

  “I heard him shouting on the phone one time,” I said.

  “You? What? You called that kid? Do you have something to do with this? Why would you call an eighth grader?” Even in the dark hall, I could see color rising in her face.

  Did I have something to do with this? Did Tommy smash Curtis into a wall so much he decided to die?

  “No. I’m his brother’s…I’m Tommy Bode’s senior mentor at school. I just called because I wanted to tell Tommy something, and his dad was screaming in the background. Sounded like a psycho, okay?”

  Jerri swallowed. She nodded. “In art class, Doug could draw any car you could name with perfect detail. Any car.”

  “Tommy draws pigs. Good ones.”

  “What the hell happens to people?” Jerri asked.

  “Hey,” I said. “Could we go to a movie in Dubuque tonight? I don’t want to…I don’t want to see my friends and I don’t want to be alone and I…I’d like to see a movie.”

  “Oh shit,” Jerri exhaled. “My first Accounting II class is tonight. It’s a new semester…I want to get off on the right foot, you know?”

  I nodded. “What happens to people?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jerri said, like nothing had ever happened to her, like she hadn’t gone through a hundred crazy changes. “I just don’t know,” she said.

  ***

  Thank God for Andrew. An hour later, he got a text about Curtis and called me. Then we played Minecraft (him on a school computer in Florida, me in my bedroom) for a long time.

  Jerri and Terry left the house while we played. Andrew missed his bus home, and Grandpa had to drive to pick him up.

  Later, Andrew and I talked again, which was good. Something had been bothering me and I didn’t know who I could ask, other than Tommy himself, and I definitely didn’t have the guts to just call over there.

  I sprawled across my bed, staring at the ceiling, phone pressed to my ear. “Was Curtis pushed around?” I asked Andrew.

  “I don’t really know him,” Andrew said. “I suppose. Probably. He’s a year younger than me, so I don’t know for certain.”

  “But do you know someone who would push him around?”

  “Sure. Ryan Bennett is in his grade and he’s a very bad egg,” Andrew said. “When he was in sixth grade, he’d spit on dorky people’s faces, even if they were eighth grade.”

  “I know who he is. His sister is Ca
rly, that sophomore girl, right?” I asked.

  “Yes. Are you going to hunt Ryan down and murder him?” Andrew asked. “So you can keep protecting Tommy Bode?”

  “Maybe,” I said. I was sort of serious.

  “Don’t, Felton. You can’t…you can’t just…Plus, Ryan will grow up and just be a sad person,” Andrew said. “You don’t have to hurt him. Time will take care of this business.”

  “You think, huh?”

  “I’m positive,” Andrew said.

  “You’re smart for a dipshit,” I mumbled.

  “I am, Felton,” Andrew said.

  Then we played Minecraft late into the night.

  Chapter 17

  Brains Are Weird

  I decided not to go to the funeral. I never knew Curtis. I’m just going to show up now? That wouldn’t be respectful…

  Respectful, my ass. Is this the choice a “superhero” trying to take care of the weak would make? Avoid tough parts?

  No. I was too scared to go. I felt guilty as hell because I knew I was too scared to go.

  On Thursday, a couple of school buses lined up in front of the high school and a large part of the freshman class actually went, including Nolan Sauter. They were dressed just like they would be for school. They stood there in the commons like they were waiting to go on a field trip.

  I couldn’t hold steady. I felt dizzy.

  Karpinski, who stood next to me, said, “Now these little peckers give a shit. They probably all took shots at that kid, and now that he’s dead, they’re all going to go cry about it.”

  I turned to Karpinski. “You fuck off, man.”

  “What?” he barked. “Truth hurt?”

  Cody said, “Have some damn respect, you idiot.”

  “Maybe they should’ve had some respect when the kid wasn’t dead,” Karpinski said.

  I spun and walked away fast. I thought of Nolan Sauter. I thought, Karpinski’s right. That didn’t make me like Karpinski any better. He was the same guy who said a few weeks earlier that it was his job to kick Tommy Bode.

  ***

  Really, maybe I didn’t need to go to the funeral. I lived funeral.

  In the couple of days after Curtis killed himself, I remembered Dad hanging in the garage. Before Curtis, I knew it had happened and where, but I couldn’t remember the details. Jesus, did I remember the details now. I woke up choking, the whole freaking thing in my brain, stuck in the back of my throat, ringing in my ears. I asked Jerri about the snack bag on the floor: “Did I forget it so we went back to the house?” She nodded.