So just like that I’m in the Brit Leigh History Group. I say this out loud about ten times. Like pinching yourself to see if you’re in a dream. All because Mom tortured me with that vacation to Uncle Andy’s lake house. The world works in weird ways.
I immediately get on Facebook and sure enough, there’s a message from Brit. Of course, now I have to worry about what Brit saw. I glance through my friends list and realize that it’s not as bad as I thought. Not all geeky gamer guys. There’s a couple of girls who used to play Magic with us at the local card shop. Becca, who’s my friend Eric’s girlfriend. And some of Becca’s friends. And a bunch of girls from school I don’t know that well who probably friended the entire class. And Mercedes, this girl from middle school who told me she was not named after the car. We had this lame unit on ballroom dancing in eighth grade and we sort of became regular partners. I’m not even sure how it happened. After the unit was over she was always sending me dumb little emails and asking if I was going to the football game that night or the mall over the weekend or if I wanted to get together to study. Which at the time was no, no, no because I wasn’t wasting prime gaming time at football games or hanging around the mall and I never studied. Thinking about it now, I just sort of shake my head because she was pretty and nice and I was just clueless.
Then I look more closely at the picture I’ve got posted. It’s awful. And that’s what Brit saw. It’s a picture Mom took of me when we were on vacation. I was sitting on the side of the dock, just sort of staring at the little fish that poke around the slimy poles that hold it up and didn’t even know she took it until we got back home. It was near the end of the vacation and my hair was lighter than it usually is. It’s not as though I liked the picture. It’s just that I hate having my picture taken and that was the only one I could find.
People always say I take after Mom, mostly because my hair is light and wavy like hers, while Garrett has my father’s straight, dark hair. I also got my mom’s height gene, because last time we stood next to each other I was about a half-foot shorter than Garrett, although Mom tells me that all the boys on her side of the family were late bloomers. Come to think of it, my pants aren’t dragging on the ground like they used to, so maybe I am still growing. Anyway, Garrett’s no giant himself. Dad says the only reason he wasn’t recruited by any of the big D1 basketball schools was because he’s not even six foot, although that’s what the high school programs said.
At least it’s an interesting picture, the way the sun was playing off the water behind me. Maybe, I thought, someone would like the way I looked, like I was contemplating the meaning of life or quantum mechanics. Like I was one of those brooding, sensitive boys who get the girls in bad teen movies, when everyone knows in real life they don’t. Anyway, I was probably thinking about some Starfare battle of the past, trying to figure out a more efficient way to harvest lifesource points.
6.
Mom has this big guilt trip over taking her current boyfriend Martin to a week at this yoga or meditation or some other drink-the-Kool-Aid institute in California. She gets all wound up about me staying alone and eating sugary cereal and fast food, but I tell her after all these years of taking care of us, she deserves it. After managing to avoid a teary goodbye scene with them I’m getting really comfortable over at Dad’s. I’m finishing up my third Starfare win in a row when I glance at the computer clock and realize I’m going to be late to Brit’s history group. Especially since I have no choice but to bike. I’m still gasping as I ditch my bike on the library rack.
The group has a table in the back and Brit sees me first and waves. So naturally that reduces me to a state of total imbecility. Rather than have to talk I squirm down into the open chair and pick up a copy of the assignment that’s on the table. I’m pretty sure everyone is staring at me because I’m still breathing hard and my forehead is damp and I wonder if I smell too.
I skim over the assignment and figure out that we have to pick a topic and do a group presentation on the Great Depression. On the plus side, presentations are usually no-brainers. Then again, you have to sit through all the others, which can be excruciating.
“Black Monday and the stock market collapse, WPA and federal job creation, Conservation Corps…” Each one sounding as bad as the previous.
I glance over at Brit and she’s concentrating on the topics, resting her chin on her hand. She’s wearing a T-shirt with these shiny things that make star patterns, including one centered perfectly on her right breast. When she looks my way I jerk my eyes back at the paper.
In the end we choose the Dust Bowl topic, even though one of the girls didn’t even know what it was. And when you think about it, it is sort of goofy name. Sounds like where Kansas U goes to play football in December when they’re 8-6. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out how to game this so that I can either end up doing some part of the project one-on-one with Brit or do something that only takes fifteen minutes. I end up taking on the computer stuff—setting up the PowerPoint with pictures and maybe getting some old songs to play at the beginning and the end.
When I mention I saw a whole photo exhibit on the Dust Bowl at a museum, taken by some photographer paid by the government, Brit reaches across the table and puts her hand on my arm. I’m stunned to discover just how many nerves a human has in the forearm.
“I just knew you’d be a big help,” she says. I find the courage to meet her eyes and the look she’s giving me seems pleasant enough, but it’s missing anything special. And believe me, I’m open to the smallest, subtlest sign.
7.
There’s great news one week into Mom’s trip. She wants to stay another two weeks at her “Institute.”
“I really feel like I’m close to a breakthrough,” she says when she breaks the news by phone. I have to answer a dozen questions about what I’m eating, but I lie cheerfully, thinking only how much of a win it will be for my Starfare game.
“You deserve it, Mom,” I tell her, and mean it. “It’s great that you can take time for yourself.”
Then she wishes me good luck at the tournament and I tell her I love her, which I know is kind of corny to say, but it’s true, and I know it means a lot to her.
“I love you too honey,” she says, and then we hang up.
With Mom out of the picture and Dad on the road I’m getting tons of online time. Stomp badgers me every night for a rematch, but I just ignore him. Block him from my IM, but he seems to always reappear with a different screen name. I can tell it’s him, because he’s always screaming in all-caps and calling me a putz, whatever that is.
At about midnight the day before Brit’s group meets again I spend my twenty minutes putting up some titles and pasting in photos. At our second and final meeting Brit acts like I should be nominated for a genius fellowship.
“I would have never found that music!” she gushes. “It’s perfect.” I file shared a couple of Depression era songs. “Brother Can You Spare a Dime,” opens the show and this Woody Guthrie song about hobos ends it. I’m such a dork that now that I’m Brit’s Facebook friend it’s like my life is complete. I still can’t bring myself to even say hi to her in the hall.
We take the AP exam for Calc two weeks before finals week, which is a breeze, and so it’s pretty much goofing off there. History is just presentations and our group is almost last. I think my PowerPoint kills and Mr. Hobson actually says “nice job,” which is, for him, excessive praise. I love finals week—only an hour or two at school a day.
My gaming is going great. I’m playing straight through to one or two in the morning. Grab a bowl of cereal for dinner, or call in a pizza, and I’m