having spent two weeks of summer playing hockey, so he responded in kind. “Do you think hockey is a cause or an effect of my fatigue?”
Jane responded by rolling her eyes in an exaggerated way, which—as crappy as he felt—made him smile for a second as she continued. “Okay, Mr. Cause and Effect, I’m going out for a few minutes to run errands and drop off some papers to your father. I don’t suppose you’d like to come?” Martin’s father, Hank, was second in command at the same industrial supply house Jane’s father—i.e., Martin’s grandfather—had started almost thirty years earlier.
“No, I’m too tired,” Martin said.
“Well, I suppose this officially marks the start of your adolescence,” Jane declared in an airy tone. “Maybe I’ll check in later, then? Oh, and by the way, don’t forget about those paints I ordered for you.” She smiled at him. “That might cheer you up.”
“Okay, thanks,” Martin said with more enthusiasm, but one that as soon as his mother was gone gave way to a new fog of ambivalence. Most days, he could spend hours painting a goalie mask—he had a collection of almost twenty—pleasantly intoxicated by the epoxies and urethanes, but in his current mood, the thought seemed as enticing as a game of “school” with his little sister, Suzie.
He contemplated the lazy turn of the ceiling fan until the sunmoved over the tree line, invading the porch and driving him upstairs to his room. He pulled down the shades, flicked on the power button to his stereo, and moved the arm of the turntable over to
Houses of the Holy
.
He was listening to it for the second time when his sister poked her head around the door. “Martin,” Suzie yelled, “Mom’s back and said to turn it down.”
“What?” Martin barely raised his head from where it had landed on the edge of the bookshelf after rolling off his pillow. “Get out of here.”
“She said turn it DOWN!”
Martin reached over and turned off the power, so that the whole system ground to a halt with a vicious scratch, right in the middle of Robert Plant’s howl at the end of “D’Yer Mak’er.” He eyed his sister. “Happy? Now could you please disintegrate? I’m serious.”
He went downstairs to the kitchen and ate three bites of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich his mother made for him before he decided that—definitely not up for mask painting today—he needed a change of scene. He grabbed a hockey stick out of the basement and walked over to the tennis courts at his old elementary school, but the turnout was meager, as this was prime vacation time in Cedar Village; in fact, the Vallences were leaving the following weekend for their annual two weeks at the beach in Loveladies.
On his way home he took a shortcut and ran into some freaks behind the school. “Hey, Vallence,” one of them greeted him; it was Dunfree, a tall, skinny kid with white hair.
Martin knew Dunfree from science class, where even though Martin was more of a jock than a freak, they had talked about Led Zeppelin and the Who and speculated about perpetual motion. “What’s going on?”
“Science experiment,” Dunfree answered as he blew some smoke into the face of a little sixth-grade freak as he tapped at his pocket. “Want one?”
Martin was hardly the rebellious type; he was on the advanced science and math “tracks” at school, where he always received high grades—which pleased Jane—and was considered one of the better hockey goalies for his age group in Pittsburgh, which made his father happy. He had no trouble believing that smoking was a pretty good way to get cancer and suspected his parents would kill him if they found out, yet none of this seemed persuasive when he considered the possibility of a cigarette breaking up what so far had been the most boring day of his life. So he accepted and was not disappointed by the nauseating rush that ensued a few minutes later as he picked up the basics of inhalation.
He had
Jane responded by rolling her eyes in an exaggerated way, which—as crappy as he felt—made him smile for a second as she continued. “Okay, Mr. Cause and Effect, I’m going out for a few minutes to run errands and drop off some papers to your father. I don’t suppose you’d like to come?” Martin’s father, Hank, was second in command at the same industrial supply house Jane’s father—i.e., Martin’s grandfather—had started almost thirty years earlier.
“No, I’m too tired,” Martin said.
“Well, I suppose this officially marks the start of your adolescence,” Jane declared in an airy tone. “Maybe I’ll check in later, then? Oh, and by the way, don’t forget about those paints I ordered for you.” She smiled at him. “That might cheer you up.”
“Okay, thanks,” Martin said with more enthusiasm, but one that as soon as his mother was gone gave way to a new fog of ambivalence. Most days, he could spend hours painting a goalie mask—he had a collection of almost twenty—pleasantly intoxicated by the epoxies and urethanes, but in his current mood, the thought seemed as enticing as a game of “school” with his little sister, Suzie.
He contemplated the lazy turn of the ceiling fan until the sunmoved over the tree line, invading the porch and driving him upstairs to his room. He pulled down the shades, flicked on the power button to his stereo, and moved the arm of the turntable over to
Houses of the Holy
.
He was listening to it for the second time when his sister poked her head around the door. “Martin,” Suzie yelled, “Mom’s back and said to turn it down.”
“What?” Martin barely raised his head from where it had landed on the edge of the bookshelf after rolling off his pillow. “Get out of here.”
“She said turn it DOWN!”
Martin reached over and turned off the power, so that the whole system ground to a halt with a vicious scratch, right in the middle of Robert Plant’s howl at the end of “D’Yer Mak’er.” He eyed his sister. “Happy? Now could you please disintegrate? I’m serious.”
He went downstairs to the kitchen and ate three bites of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich his mother made for him before he decided that—definitely not up for mask painting today—he needed a change of scene. He grabbed a hockey stick out of the basement and walked over to the tennis courts at his old elementary school, but the turnout was meager, as this was prime vacation time in Cedar Village; in fact, the Vallences were leaving the following weekend for their annual two weeks at the beach in Loveladies.
On his way home he took a shortcut and ran into some freaks behind the school. “Hey, Vallence,” one of them greeted him; it was Dunfree, a tall, skinny kid with white hair.
Martin knew Dunfree from science class, where even though Martin was more of a jock than a freak, they had talked about Led Zeppelin and the Who and speculated about perpetual motion. “What’s going on?”
“Science experiment,” Dunfree answered as he blew some smoke into the face of a little sixth-grade freak as he tapped at his pocket. “Want one?”
Martin was hardly the rebellious type; he was on the advanced science and math “tracks” at school, where he always received high grades—which pleased Jane—and was considered one of the better hockey goalies for his age group in Pittsburgh, which made his father happy. He had no trouble believing that smoking was a pretty good way to get cancer and suspected his parents would kill him if they found out, yet none of this seemed persuasive when he considered the possibility of a cigarette breaking up what so far had been the most boring day of his life. So he accepted and was not disappointed by the nauseating rush that ensued a few minutes later as he picked up the basics of inhalation.
He had
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