Please Ignore Vera Dietz(51)
Author: A.S. King

“I’m fine,” I say, instinctively rubbing the lump that remains.

“I wish I would have beaten the shit out of him, Vera.”

“Why? It was an accident, right?”

“I just regret not doing something about it, I guess,” he says. I can relate to that more than he knows.

We look at each other for a few seconds, until James says, “We can’t hang out anymore, can we?”

I shake my head.

“I thought so.”

“And I can’t drink. Like—ever again.”

“Yeah.”

I see Lazy Larry driving down the hill to the main strip, and I know I need to get to work. “Dude. I gotta go. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

James gets into his car and waves. I drive across the parking lot to the store and hide the cigar box under my seat. I feel the urge to drive home and lock it up somewhere safer before anyone else sees it, or in case it’s stolen. I panic at the thought of it being in my possession. There is no going back now.

“Anything yet?” I ask Marie.

She nods at the next order and holds up three fingers, which means I’ve got three minutes.

I go to the back door and out to my car again, and to the box.

I sent the flowers early, so they’d be there when you got home.
I turn to the next napkin page, where the letters vary in size.

But then everything went to shit.
I turn to the third napkin. He’s scrawled diagonally on it.

You have to understand, the whole thing was fine until she found out.
I wasn’t getting hurt.
Something inside my body is making me feel weak and tingly. I pull out the yellow envelope and feel what’s inside. Stiff and bulky in the front, and something round in the back. A CD or a DVD. The pervert from when we were eleven appears in my mind’s eye. He says, “Pretty blond pigtails.”

Marie stands at the door and gives me the signal. It’s a quick run to the burbs outside of the old high school. I get a three-dollar tip and a wink from the anchovy-loving old lady. When I get back to the car, instead of driving to the store, I drive up Overlook Road to my house.

Dad is there, in his office late because it’s April. I run upstairs with the box hidden in my baggy Pagoda shirt, and I wedge it between my headboard and the wall.

“Everything all right?” he asks as I speed-descend the stairs.

“Just forgot something,” I say, and wag my red Pagoda cap in front of him.

There are a hundred of these at the store, but he doesn’t question me.

“Be safe!”

“You too,” I answer, a little pissed off at how obvious he is. “Don’t let the stacks of paper bury you or anything.”

The whole way back to the store, I feel Charlie heavy in the air. I say, “Don’t worry, man. I’ll clear everything up.” But he doesn’t trust me. He’s trying to get me to steer the car back toward my house. He wants me to do it now. He’s waited long enough.

When I pull into the parking lot, Lazy Larry is standing there, smoking a cigarette. I don’t know why, but I like him. He’s Dad’s age—around forty—and even though he’s lazy and can’t mop and hates cardboard paper cuts, he has an air of confidence that Dad doesn’t have. He puts the cigarette out and walks in with me.

“James left this for you,” Marie says, and hands me a small, folded piece of paper.

Charlie-in-the-air makes me crumple it, put it in my mouth, chew it, and swallow it while Marie and Larry watch me. I smile at them and go back to the steps and fold boxes.

Larry arrives in the back room thirty seconds later. Marie shouts back, “I’m nearly out of large boxes up here, man!”

“Grab a box,” I say. I sound cold, but I don’t mean to. I’m not really thinking about what I’m doing. I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’m floating to my bedroom and reading the rest of Charlie’s box of McDonald’s napkins. He’s making me do this. He’s like alcohol in my veins, completely dulling my senses except for what he wants me to feel.

Larry says, “… do I?”

I stare at him, trying to re-hear what he just said, but I fail. “I’m sorry. My mind was somewhere else.”

“I was asking about the stupid hats. Do I really have to wear one?”

I nod.

“Can I wear it this way?” He puts it on backward and folds his arms like a bad rapper.

“Nope.”

“Damn.”

I say, “We all know you’re cool, so who cares, right?”

“I just never thought at my age I’d have to abide by pizza delivery guy dress code.”

“Technician,” I correct. “It’s pizza delivery technician.”

He laughs. “Okay. Technician.”

I nod but don’t answer, because I am now distracted by the thousand Charlies racing toward me from the front of the store. They are as big as a jet plane, and are aiming for my head. They want me to climb on board and buy a ticket to the Mount Pitts police station.

“You okay?” Larry asks, and then he leans in close—right in my ear—and speaks with Charlie’s voice.

He says, “Please don’t hate me.”

A BRIEF WORD FROM THE DEAD KID

So I make him say what I want him to say. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but Vera will understand.

She knows I am her pickle.

I am the pizza box and the light switch.

I am the note from James dissolving in her gastric acid, unread.

One thing about the other side is, when you die, you find out the truth.

If Vera were to die right now, she’d know everything that’s in that cigar box I left her. She’d find out Jenny Flick always hated her because she’s classy without having to try. She’d see how it all played out—how Jenny fought when I tried to break up with her. How she took my dad’s old gas can from the garage and took it to Zimmerman’s. How she stole my Zippo lighter, too. She’d see how I drank a bottle of tequila and ate the worm later on to forget and feel better about the whole thing. How John gave me a handful of pills while we drove around in his car, and how I’m not really sure how many I took.

She’d see that her mother loves her but never wanted children, and feels so guilty about it, she’s paralyzed. She’d see that her father is just about to face his shit and get on with his life. (He’s going to start by asking Hannah at the bank out to dinner.)

On one hand, it’s nice on the other side. Secrets don’t exist. There’s nothing to ignore, and no destiny. On the other hand, the same thing is possible in life, if only we’d start paying attention to the right stuff.