neatest girls in the school. It’s like if a girl thinks she’s neat, but she isn’t a cheerleader, then she really isn’t.
I slowed down so we’d have to cross paths, hoping her and the other girl, Joan Jackson, who’s real stuck-up even though she’s flat as a board, would split up and I could talk to the woman of my dreams.
They passed me by, giggling and pretending like they didn’t barely see me. I knew they did, though. I’ve got this feeling Darlene secretly likes me, but she’d never show it because I’m such a fuckup in school. Darlene’s a nice girl, she comes from a nice home, nice parents, probably has a nice dog that doesn’t jump on your leg and try to hump you.
I turned and watched them until they faded into the gloom. Then I put my head down against the wind and walked real slow up the street towards my house. You’ve got to go home sooner or later, even if you don’t much feel like it.
February
THREE
I SAT AT MY DESK , my new model spread out in front of me. It was a Revolutionary War-era frigate, thousands of little pieces, some so tiny I have to fit them together with tweezers and a magnifying glass—the kind of model only a serious builder will tackle, and I ain’t patting myself on the back saying that, it’s the truth. It’s about three-quarters done—I’ve been working on it every night for almost a month.
My room is like a miniature nautical museum, filled with ships and boats of various sizes and displacements, all of which I’ve made myself. I’ve been making models seriously for two years now and I’m damn good at it if I do say so myself, although normally I’m not the type who goes around bragging on himself. Other people say it, too, people who know what they’re talking about, like the guys who run the hobby shop where I buy my models. They tell me I’m as good as any of their adult customers, and they’re not blowing smoke up my ass, either. They appreciate a good builder no matter how old he is.
Besides all the ships I’ve got Navy posters and pictures plastered all over the walls as well. If I ever brought a four-star admiral in here he’d go apeshit.
The rest of the room is pretty bare. I like it that way—easier to clean, which I do myself, all of it, plus my own ironing (I guarantee you I’m the only boy in Ravensburg Junior High who irons his own shirts), I even vacuum twice a week, to make sure the models are free of dust. No one ever comes in. My old man could give a shit less, and my mom’s happy that she’s got one less set of chores to do. The only time anyone even sticks their head in is when my old man gets drunk and wants to give me a ration of shit, or when mom or Ruthie absolutely have to talk to me. They never come all the way in, they know I want my privacy. I’ve even got a padlock for it when I’m not here.
The phone rang downstairs. Ruthie answered it, of course. She thinks she owns the damn thing, anyone else gets a call she acts like they’re invading her privacy. If she really wanted privacy she wouldn’t hang her stockings and undies all over the house where anyone could see them.
“Roy!” She called out after a minute. “For you.”
I shut the door firmly and boogied down the stairs.
“Don’t take forever,” she glared as she handed it over to me.
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar,” I told her. “You don’t pay the bills, Daddy does.” I turned away from her, cradling the phone on my shoulder. “Hello.” It was Burt. I listened for a moment. “Just a sec.”
I ran up to my room, grabbed the first book I could lay my hands on, and ran back down to the phone, leafing through it like I was looking for something specific.
“Here it is,” I told him over the phone, “page forty-three, numbers one through ten.” I listened a minute. “Yeah.” I turned around carefully, checking to see if my nosy sister was eavesdropping. She’s low enough that she would if I gave her half a chance. But she’d
I slowed down so we’d have to cross paths, hoping her and the other girl, Joan Jackson, who’s real stuck-up even though she’s flat as a board, would split up and I could talk to the woman of my dreams.
They passed me by, giggling and pretending like they didn’t barely see me. I knew they did, though. I’ve got this feeling Darlene secretly likes me, but she’d never show it because I’m such a fuckup in school. Darlene’s a nice girl, she comes from a nice home, nice parents, probably has a nice dog that doesn’t jump on your leg and try to hump you.
I turned and watched them until they faded into the gloom. Then I put my head down against the wind and walked real slow up the street towards my house. You’ve got to go home sooner or later, even if you don’t much feel like it.
February
THREE
I SAT AT MY DESK , my new model spread out in front of me. It was a Revolutionary War-era frigate, thousands of little pieces, some so tiny I have to fit them together with tweezers and a magnifying glass—the kind of model only a serious builder will tackle, and I ain’t patting myself on the back saying that, it’s the truth. It’s about three-quarters done—I’ve been working on it every night for almost a month.
My room is like a miniature nautical museum, filled with ships and boats of various sizes and displacements, all of which I’ve made myself. I’ve been making models seriously for two years now and I’m damn good at it if I do say so myself, although normally I’m not the type who goes around bragging on himself. Other people say it, too, people who know what they’re talking about, like the guys who run the hobby shop where I buy my models. They tell me I’m as good as any of their adult customers, and they’re not blowing smoke up my ass, either. They appreciate a good builder no matter how old he is.
Besides all the ships I’ve got Navy posters and pictures plastered all over the walls as well. If I ever brought a four-star admiral in here he’d go apeshit.
The rest of the room is pretty bare. I like it that way—easier to clean, which I do myself, all of it, plus my own ironing (I guarantee you I’m the only boy in Ravensburg Junior High who irons his own shirts), I even vacuum twice a week, to make sure the models are free of dust. No one ever comes in. My old man could give a shit less, and my mom’s happy that she’s got one less set of chores to do. The only time anyone even sticks their head in is when my old man gets drunk and wants to give me a ration of shit, or when mom or Ruthie absolutely have to talk to me. They never come all the way in, they know I want my privacy. I’ve even got a padlock for it when I’m not here.
The phone rang downstairs. Ruthie answered it, of course. She thinks she owns the damn thing, anyone else gets a call she acts like they’re invading her privacy. If she really wanted privacy she wouldn’t hang her stockings and undies all over the house where anyone could see them.
“Roy!” She called out after a minute. “For you.”
I shut the door firmly and boogied down the stairs.
“Don’t take forever,” she glared as she handed it over to me.
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar,” I told her. “You don’t pay the bills, Daddy does.” I turned away from her, cradling the phone on my shoulder. “Hello.” It was Burt. I listened for a moment. “Just a sec.”
I ran up to my room, grabbed the first book I could lay my hands on, and ran back down to the phone, leafing through it like I was looking for something specific.
“Here it is,” I told him over the phone, “page forty-three, numbers one through ten.” I listened a minute. “Yeah.” I turned around carefully, checking to see if my nosy sister was eavesdropping. She’s low enough that she would if I gave her half a chance. But she’d
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