everything all right?”
He raises his chin and takes a deep breath, almost as if he’s caught a scent. “You think you know people, and then…”
“And then what?”
Dad is silent. I can’t read his face. I don’t know if he’s searching for the words or refusing to search. He threads the fishing line into the eyehook on the end of the plastic worm.
“Dad?”
“Ahh, don’t listen to your old man.” He casts out his line. “Time to see what’s biting this morning.”
The implication here is that today’s catch might be some big mystery, but both Dad and I know he has a 125 percent chance of catching a bluegill. Twenty years of hand-feeding has mollified these fish—the near-literal manifestations of fish in a barrel. And yet the bluegills thrive, overwhelming the pond, eating the hatchlings of the largemouth bass and crappie trying to hide in its deeper locales.
I start to make my way back to the house. Dad reaches out, grabs me by the arm. “Hey, you don’t want to at least wait for the first catch?”
“No thanks, Dad. Gotta go get dressed, pick up some people.”
He flicks the pole, reels in the line a couple feet. “At least wait a few minutes.”
“Where’s Grandpa?”
“Still in bed.”
“His hip?”
“His hip, his knees, his blood pressure, his cholesterol—take your pick.”
A small moment of recognition. “He’s not going down without a fight, Dad.”
Dad nods, gazes out across the water. Our house sits on the north side of the pond. The location affords us a nice view, especially now with the sun dropping lower in the sky on summer’s eve.
“Seeing your grandpa go downhill so fast is tough to watch,” he says. “I feel so powerless.”
I pat him on the shoulder. “You’re doing all that you can, Dad.”
“Am I?” he asks. “My hope and prayer for you is that you never have to see me like that, after life has beaten me down.”
“Speaking of down,” I say, pointing to the red-and-white bobber dipping below the surface. “Looks like you got one.”
Claire lives in my neighborhood, so I picked her up first. Beth was next, then Hatch. The Subie ferries us to McDonald’s to meet the rest of the seniors, or at least the ones that matter.
It’s been an interesting few weeks leading up to today. Prom was awkward at best. A complex confluence of events led me to take the Johnson County Fair Queen as my date. Not that complex—Laura had ripped my heart out of my chest cavity and thrown it in a Cuisinart, Beth had said yes to her ex-boyfriend Tyler before they broke up and didn’t have the heart to back out, and Dad’s sales manager at the dealership had a hot seventeen-year-old daughter who happened to be the Johnson County Fair Queen.
Zoe Applefeld had above-average calves, she was one hell of a dancer, and I was certain she’d have slept with me if I had asked her. What is the proper etiquette in regards to losing your virginity to daughters of your father’s employees anyway? We got drunk after prom, stayed out all night, split a plate of biscuits and gravy at Bob Evans, and I kissed her goodbye sometime around 8:00 a.m. The kiss was more innocent than I wanted it to be, just a quick peck on the lips, although I did try to pry open her teeth with my tongue. I’m a giver.
“Thanks for choosing McDonald’s this morning, May I take your order?”
I recognize the cashier’s bad bowl cut and pencil-thin mustache. His name is Chip Funke. He’s in our class. Nice guy but keeps to himself at school and plays trombone in the band. A little on the delusional side—drives go-karts on the weekends, talks about one day winning the Indy 500.
“Morning, Chip.”
“Oh, hi there, Hank.”
“You plan on going to school today?”
“I pulled a twelve-hour shift last night. Thought I’d stay and help the morning crew before I head out.”
“That’s mighty charitable of you. How’s the racing going?”
“Doing pretty well in three-quarter midgets.”
“Does that involve race cars or actual midgets that are seventy-five percent as tall as normal midgets?”
“Shut up, Hank. What do you want to eat?”
“I’m just fucking with you, Chip. Egg McMuffin and a coffee, please.”
Hatch orders two sausage biscuits and a Coke. Claire and Beth both just order coffees, their appetites curbed by the most popular of high school diet pills, cigarettes. Claire, Beth, Hatch, and I sit at our regular booth in the far corner of the restaurant. The Dwyer twins sit a couple booths away with their boyfriends.
“Tammy, Sammy.”
“Hi, Hank!” Their Prepster boyfriends don’t even raise their heads to look at us. Hatch and I call them “Steff-1” and “Steff-2,” in honor of their feathered hair, glassy eyes, expensive suits, and cotton shirts unbuttoned down to their navels that were more than a little derivative of James Spader’s character in Pretty in Pink. Steff-1, Tammy’s boyfriend, is the guy who likes to rip out spleens. Steff-2, Sammy’s boyfriend, has slept around behind Sammy’s back for almost their entire relationship.
Beth looks at all of us. “I can’t believe we’re seniors.”
Claire nods. “This year is going to be one to remember.”
“I plan on not remembering much of it.” Hatch laughs. He passes the invisible baton to me. “How about you, Fitzy?”
“Umm…” I can’t think of anything to say, which of course means I’m about to say everything. Even better, I’ll probably phrase it as a question, as if to mitigate the moment with uncertainty.
“Laura and I are back together?” The sound of a cash register…
Thanks for choosing McDonald’s this morning. May I take your order…
The cash register again…
Your order number is fifty-seven…
“What?” Hatch slams his hands on the table. “You’ve gotta be fist fucking me.”
Claire shakes her head. “Unbelievable.”
“Seriously, Fitzy.” Hatch grabs my shoulder, squeezing. “You better be yanking my chain, or else you can just go suck a fat baby’s dick.”
I try to ignore Hatch’s metaphor onslaught. I stare at Beth. She hasn’t said anything.
Number fifty-five…
I
