Sasquatch in the Paint Page 4

  He said it in his usual calm tone, but Theo thought he could hear something in the voice. Disappointment? Not about the fight, but about Theo not knowing something as simple as needing to wrap something frozen before applying it his face. Scientifically, Theo knew that. Water freezes at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, but the bag of corn would probably be much colder. Applying it directly to his cheek could freeze the fluids and tissues in the skin and lead to frostbite. Severe frostbite could result in the loss of skin and muscle. Theo’s School Brain knew all this, but his Everyday Brain hadn’t been exposed to the usual sprained ankles and jammed fingers that most kids his age had suffered. He’d never used an ice pack before. He’d always considered himself lucky that he hadn’t had those injuries. Now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe the experiences would have been useful. Painful, but useful.

  “Okay, nursing time is over,” his dad said. “We’ve got us a dinner to cook.”

  “But I’ve got to ice my cheek.” It was worth a try.

  His dad opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of gray duct tape. “We could tape that bag to your face. That’ll free up your hands.” He pulled a couple of inches from the roll. “We just wrap this twice around your head, thing won’t budge.”

  “Ha ha. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  His dad grinned and put the tape away. He threw his arm around Theo’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “There’s my helpful son.”

  Theo didn’t know if other fathers hugged their sons as much as his dad did. Or whether they leaned over and kissed the tops of their heads when they were sitting down doing homework. Or whether they randomly grabbed them by the necks and said, “My boy! My boy!” His dad did. And though sometimes Theo felt a little embarrassed by it, he didn’t necessarily want it to stop.

  “What are we making?” Theo asked, fetching the milk, butter, and eggs that his dad requested.

  “I’ve got a better question,” his dad said. “What was your fight about?”

  Theo gulped. Yup, things just got worse.

  “YOU didn’t punch him back?” his dad asked while grating cheese.

  “No.”

  “And the bloody nose was an accident? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You apologized, right?”

  “Yes.”

  His dad continued to grate cheddar cheese on top of the casserole. Theo continued to slice tomatoes, cucumbers, and mushrooms for the salad. Neither looked at the other, they just focused on their jobs like they were safecrackers trying to break into a particularly tough safe.

  “And that’s the whole story. That’s everything?” his dad asked.

  Theo hesitated. “Pretty much.”

  His dad nodded. Grated. Nodded.

  “Pretty much” was the truth, but not the whole truth. Theo had left out the part about meeting Crazy Girl and Motorcycle Guy. The loud slap. The mysterious conversation (“This is your last chance!” he’d yelled. Last chance for what?). Theo wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell his dad. He’d always told his dad everything, especially after his mom died. When that happened, his dad suddenly needed to know every boring detail of Theo’s daily life. Theo knew it wasn’t because his dad was nosy, but because all the dull descriptions of Theo’s routine in school made his dad feel like things were getting back to normal. A life-goes-on kind of thing. Every time Theo described a tricky problem from algebra class or a dreary discussion about the causes of the Civil War from social studies, he could see his dad relaxing, breathing easier—healing. Telling him made Theo feel better, too.

  But for some unknown reason, today Theo didn’t want to tell his dad everything. Any more than he’d wanted to tell Brian some of his recent thoughts. He was starting to see how his new height brought certain respect from some people. The problem was, that respect was unearned. All Theo had done was grow. Like a plant. No talent required. Yet people expected more of him. Theo was as big as an adult, so now suddenly he was supposed to act like one. So, he figured that along with those unwanted expectations should come a few cool privileges. Like keeping some stuff to himself. He didn’t want to call them “secrets” exactly, because that seemed too much like lying. He preferred to think of it as a “secret identity.” Growing was his superpower, so he needed a secret identity while he figured out where he fit in now that the world saw him differently.

  His dad now sprinkled fried onion bits on top of the casserole. Brown flakes fell like snow.

  The IKEA clock over the sink ticked loudly.

  The silence was making Theo uncomfortable, like an itch. He was starting to feel guilty about not telling his dad everything that had happened. Maybe his whole “secret identity” thing was a load of crap. He was just about to confess when his dad spoke.

  “Sorry, I missed your game, T-bird,” his dad said. He looked over at Theo. “Won’t happen again.”

  “Not a big deal. Like I said, I wasn’t very good.”

  “It was only your first game. Give yourself some time. My first game on a team”—he stopped sprinkling and chuckled at the memory—“I got so excited when I intercepted a pass that I ran down the whole court and made a sweet reverse layup.”

  “Yeah, not really seeing how that helps.”

  “I made the layup in the wrong basket. I scored two points for the other team.”

  Theo nodded. His dad was always sharing these stories about how he made mistakes and screwed up and failed at things, but they never helped Theo feel better. His dad had been a star football player in high school and college. He didn’t talk much about that. But there it was, the unspoken punch line to all his stories about messing up: he still ended up a hero.

  “I would’ve played better if those kids in the bleachers hadn’t been hassling me,” Theo said. “Talking about my skin and stuff.”

  Theo’s dad put the can of onion bits down and frowned at Theo. “Feed the BIB,” he said, pointing at an old mayonnaise jar half filled with dollar bills and change. A piece of masking tape was stuck to it with BIB written in black Magic Marker. His mother’s handwriting.

  “I wasn’t saying that,” Theo protested. “I was just—”

  “Feed the BIB,” his dad repeated, sliding the casserole into the oven.

  Theo dug into his pocket and counted out a dollar in change. He dumped the coins into the jar.

  His mother had started the BIB jar when Theo was ten and had come home with his sixth-grade report card. He had gotten a two (out of four) in physical education. Everything else was a four. Even though his parents had told him it was no big deal and they were very proud of him, Theo had stormed around the house complaining that the teacher gave him a bad grade because Theo was black and so everyone expected him to be a better athlete. Without a moment’s hesitation, Theo’s mom had pulled the jar out of the recycle bin, slapped on the label, and told him to go take a dollar out of his Batman bank. “Every time you make the excuse ‘Because I’m Black,’ you’re putting a dollar in this jar.”

  “That’s not fair!” Theo had hollered. “I’m not the one who’s racist.”

  “Your teacher sent me an e-mail saying that you didn’t want to play soccer with the other kids. You kept walking off the field.”

  “I don’t like soccer. It’s stupid. Plus, the kids are always ‘accidentally’ kicking each other when they miss the ball.”

  “Not the point,” his mom said. “You refused to play, so you got a two. Nothing to do with being black. More to do with being stubborn or lazy or scared. You pick.”

  Theo had placed his dollar in the jar.

  “Sometimes,” his mom said, “you will get the short end of the stick because you’re black. People won’t always say something to your face, but you’ll know. You learn to see the signs. When that happens—”

  “I get my money back?” Theo interrupted.

  She laughed. “No. When that happens, I still don’t want you to make excuses. Most people get discriminated against sometime in their lives. Because of their religion or
gender, because they’re too old or too young, too fat or too thin. Too pretty or too ugly. For some folks, other people are always going to be too something or other. You can’t let that stop you from moving ahead. There’s no shortage of excuses for not doing your best.” She kissed his cheek. “Okay, lecture over.”

  “Finally,” he teased. He looked at his lone dollar bill in the jar. Tried to figure how many dollar bills the jar would hold. A lot. “What are you going to do with the money? When it’s full.”

  “I’m hoping it doesn’t get full. Or it wouldn’t be much of a lesson.”

  “Come on. Just in case. What if. What’ll we spend it on?”

  She smiled that big smile that showed off all her perfect teeth. “That’s my secret.”

  Even his dad didn’t know what she’d planned to use the money for, so they just left it in the jar. Neither of them wanted the jar to get full, because then they’d have to decide.

  At least Theo wasn’t the only one to put money in the jar. When his dad complained about being passed over for a promotion because he was “a little too tan” for some of the brass in the department, Theo’s mom had made him put a dollar in the jar. Even his mom had put in a few dollars. Once, when a plumber charged her two hundred dollars for fixing a broken toilet, she’d claimed that he’d overcharged her because she was a woman. Theo’s dad had held out the jar. “Feed the BIB,” he’d insisted.

  “But this was because I was a woman,” she’d protested.

  “Close enough,” his dad had said with a grin.

  She put a dollar in the jar. “Clearly you two are discriminating against me because I’m the mom.”

  “Feed the BIB!” Theo and his dad had chorused. His mom had laughed. And put another dollar in.

  Theo looked at the jar, remembering her laugh. Not dainty, but a loud rising sound, like running your finger across all the keys of a piano, from low to high. Not like Crazy Girl’s metallic laugh.

  “Did you enjoy playing?” Theo’s dad said.

  “What?” Theo snapped back to the present. Casserole. Salad. Secret identity.

  “Basketball. Did you at least enjoy playing with the rest of the guys? Being on a team and such?”

  Theo shrugged. “Kinda.”

  “Forget the outcome, who won or lost. Forget your mistakes. When you were on the court, running back and forth, were you happy?”

  “I don’t know,” he said instantly, but he did know. Despite the fear and embarrassment, he had liked being on the court. The excitement of not knowing what would happen next. People watching him. Running with the other boys on the team. He had been outside his thoughts and worries—about Mom, about Dad, about school. He’d been happy. “Yeah, I guess,” Theo added. “It was all right.”

  But if he was being honest—really honest—it was probably the most exciting thing he’d ever done in his life. The fact that he sucked at it didn’t change that fact at all.

  And that scared him. To want to do something you weren’t good at was begging to be let down. It was like telling a bully to please be careful with that squirt gun because you’re wearing your favorite clothes.

  “I forgot to tell you,” his dad said too casually, in that way that said he hadn’t forgotten but just didn’t want to tell him. “We’re driving up to Los Angeles to visit Grandma tomorrow.”

  Theo groaned. “Aw, why?”

  His dad’s voice got stern and lecture-y. “Because she’s my mother and your grandmother. That’s reason enough.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I love Grandma. It’s just that I’m so far behind on everything. And I was going to hang with Brian.” Desperate, he pulled out the schoolwork card. “Plus, I’ve got to prepare for Aca-lympics.” What parent can resist their child’s plea to do more homework?

  No sale. His dad gave him a withering look that announced End of Discussion.

  Theo sighed. It wasn’t visiting his grandma that annoyed him. He really did love her. She was funny and smart and let him eat whatever he wanted without a lecture about health. The annoying part was seeing his cousin Gavin.

  Gavin.

  Just thinking the name made Theo shudder. It was like sitting down to a dinner you knew was going to make you throw up. Theo hated Gavin. Not just hated—that was too mild. Gavin was to Theo what sunlight is to vampires. What soap was to Pigpen. What health food was to Homer Simpson.

  At fifteen, Gavin was fourteen months older than Theo, and he thought he was the coolest guy who had ever lived. He was always bragging about his stylish clothes (which he claimed everyone always complimented), his awesome dancing (which he claimed everyone always wanted to learn), his music collection (“Twenty-five thousand songs and counting, son”), his hip-hop songs, which he wrote and never played for anyone but which would one day make him a multimillionaire hanging out with Kanye and Beyoncé.

  Last time Theo had visited, Gavin had spent the whole time talking about what his stage name would be. “I need something kick-ass, something really street, ya know? Like 50 Cent or Big Rich or Bounty Killer. Those guys are tight. What do you think, Theo? You’re supposed to be a big brain.” Like that. For two days.

  Gavin lived with Grandma Esther while his mom, Aunt Talia (Theo’s dad’s sister), was working in Africa for some nonprofit group. She had been there for two months. Theo and his dad had Skyped her last week and she’d walked her computer around to show them the African village where she was staying. She’d even introduced a couple of young village girls in brightly colored dresses who’d smiled and waved shyly. In the middle of their conversation, her Internet connection had gone dead, as it usually did where she was.

  For the millionth time Theo wondered how such intelligent, selfless women like his aunt and grandmother could raise such a selfish poser as Gavin.

  Theo shook his head and groaned. Worst Friday ever.

  HIS dad set the timer for the casserole. Forty-five minutes. “Go ahead and stick the salad back in the fridge so it stays fresh.”

  Theo did. His dad helped him clean up the mess. Cucumber peels were stuffed into the garbage disposal. Mushy tomato guts were swept into the sink. When they were done, the kitchen was shining like new. His dad snapped on the oven light to check the casserole. He smiled like a fisherman who’s just landed a record-breaking marlin.

  Since Theo’s mom’s death, his dad had become a little obsessed with preparing Theo for the world. Cooking, cleaning, laundry—even ironing—their daily routine was like some sort of household boot camp. Whenever Theo complained, his dad gave the same speech: “You’ve got to be self-reliant, son. Be able to take care of yourself. What are you going to do when you’re out living on your own?” He acted as if he were sending Theo off to war instead of the college he’d eventually be attending.

  Here’s why:

  For almost six months after his mom’s death, Theo and his dad had let everything in the house deteriorate. After they had eaten all the lasagna, sandwiches, and casseroles that friends and neighbors had provided following the funeral, they ate out. Fast food mostly. They would drive in, yell their order into a paint-chipped metal box, drive home in silence, and then eat in front of the TV in silence. Crumpled bags, cardboard french-fry trays, and ketchup-stained paper wrappers decorated the house like some new holiday dedicated to greasy food. Laundry was done only when they ran out of clothes and were hunting through the dirty piles for something that didn’t smell too bad. The line for what smelled “too bad” kept getting moved.

  It was great!

  Then one day his dad came home with a couple of grocery bags of laundry detergent and household cleaners, sponges, and paper towels. Another couple of bags were filled with fresh fruit, vegetables, and steaks. His dad took out one of Mom’s cookbooks, and together they learned how to prepare a meal. Later, they learned how to clean. And do laundry.

  It sucked.

  But after a couple months, Theo got used to it. He still grumbled about all the work, but there was something comforting about the rou
tine. Sometimes he even laughed. Like when he watched his big muscular dad delicately pouring the inside of an egg back and forth between two halves of an eggshell so he could get just the egg white for a recipe. Mom had always done all that kind of stuff without Theo ever noticing. Now that he realized how hard she’d worked for them, he wished he could thank her. Instead, he helped his dad and hoped that counted for something.

  His dad stirred the green beans in the frying pan, sprinkled some sliced almonds over them.

  “More almonds,” Theo said. The almonds made the green beans easier to eat. Theo was not a fan of vegetables unless they were combined with something sweet: marshmallows with yams, Craisins with spinach salad.

  His dad grabbed more almonds and added them to the beans.

  After dinner, Theo went to his room to finish his homework. He’d done most of it at school, so it didn’t take long. He thought about playing a quick game of Call of Duty, but it was late and he had to get up early for the drive to L.A. Plus, his body hurt from playing basketball twice in the same day. Not to mention getting punched in the face.

  He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and saw a small sunburst of red spotting his face. A gift from Jeremy’s knuckles. The punch had only glanced off Theo’s cheek. He tried to imagine the damage, and pain, if the fist had really connected. Mostly he hoped it would be gone by Monday so he wouldn’t have to explain to his friends at school what had happened. Especially Brian, who would give him I-told-you-so looks for the rest of the week.

  Theo’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen. Brian. As if he’d known Theo was thinking deceptive thoughts about him.

  “Hey,” Theo said.

  “What’s the plan for tomorrow? Movie? Comic-book store? Zombie apocalypse?”

  Theo explained about having to go to his grandmother’s.

  “Ugh. Gavin,” Brian said. He’d met Gavin a couple years ago, at Thanksgiving. Gavin had called Brian “Butterball” the whole time, because “He’s as plump as the turkey we’re gonna eat.” When Theo had defended his friend in front of the family, Gavin laughed it off as a joke. Later, after they’d all left, Theo had found one of his school notebooks torn to shreds and stuffed in the trash.