A List of Things That Didn't Kill Me by Jason Schmidt Page B

on, back at our house on 15th.
    â€œStep back, kid,” one of the firemen on the street said to me as I tried to get into the yard to help Dad move our stuff.
    â€œThat’s my house,” I said.
    â€œJason!” Dad called to me. “Stay back there. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
    So I stood and watched while the firefighters threw more of John’s stuff out the window onto the lawn, and Dad kept hauling our stuff to safety. Once he was done with our things, he started bringing Beth’s belongings out and putting them in another pile. I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting Mickey and Kurty to come and watch the whole thing, but they didn’t even come back to the street to wave at me. Either this was a lot less interesting than I thought it was, or their parents had told them to come inside.
    After a while my dad seemed satisfied that he’d saved as much from the house as he could, and walked over to where I was standing. He looked sweaty and annoyed, but not nearly as angry as I would have expected.
    â€œWe can’t stay here tonight,” he said. “I’ll have to find us a place.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œI’ll need to move our stuff, too,” he said. “We can’t just leave it out here on the lawn. It’d be easier if I could leave you with someone. What about those kids you were playing with? Could you stay there for a few hours?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “They don’t like me that much.”
    â€œWhat about their parents?”
    â€œI was talking about their parents.”
    â€œOh,” he said. “Come on. I’ll talk to them.”
    So I walked down the street to Mickey and Kurty’s house in the afternoon twilight, and my dad knocked on their door. When Mr. Wagner answered I got the same feeling of vertigo I usually experienced when Dad talked to straight people. Seeing him standing there in his flamboyant hippie clothes while Mr. Wagner stood in front of him in a Lycra polo shirt and plaid slacks, arms crossed, biceps flexed—it was like matter and antimatter were about to collide. I didn’t hear much of the conversation but Mr. Wagner seemed to appreciate that our house had caught on fire, and I went inside while Dad ran off to make arrangements for us and our stuff.
    I’d never actually been inside Mickey and Kurty’s house before. It seemed not to have enough windows, and the dining room table was directly beyond the front door. The whole family was sitting there looking at me—the kids and Mrs. Wagner.
    â€œWon’t you join us?” Mrs. Wagner asked.
    â€œUh,” I said. Then I looked at the table and felt my pulse quicken. It was covered in pretty much my favorite foods ever: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, broccoli, carrots, and peas. I’d never seen that much fried chicken in one place in my life. Everyone was still staring at me, and I remembered I’d been invited to share this bounty.
    â€œSure!” I said. I started for the table, but Mrs. Wagner looked horrified and I paused again.
    â€œThe bathroom’s through here,” Mr. Wagner said, guiding me to a small room off the dining room that had a toilet and a sink in it. I went in, because he seemed to expect me to, but after he closed the door I just stood there until I remembered that Grandma had sometimes told me to wash my hands before eating. So I rinsed my hands quickly under some cold water, toweled them off, and went back out. By then they’d made a place for me at the table.
    â€œThis looks great,” I said, sitting down and reaching for the nearby platter of chicken. “You guys eat like this all the time?”
    Mickey and Kurty exchanged an embarrassed look. Mr. and Mrs. Wagner were giving each other looks, too, but I couldn’t read them. I paused and looked at everyone else’s plates. They’d all been eating, so I knew they weren’t