The Spectacular Now

See, by letting her help me, I’ll be helping her. She gets confidence and I get the satisfaction of bringing confidence to someone who needs it worse than a pop singer needs rehab. Hey, it may not change the world, but for the two of us, it’s a win-win situation.

The problem is, since officially I’m grounded, I have to pass the idea by Mom over breakfast. Usually, in the mornings, she tries to avoid talking to me—except maybe to say, “Get it yourself”—but when I hit her with the Aimee proposition, she hits back with a barrage of questions that are supposed to sound like she’s trying to get a read on Aimee’s character.

I know better. What she really wants to know is whether Aimee has any uppity-up social connections. If that was the case, I’m sure Mom wouldn’t have any problem with me going over there. But, of course, since Aimee’s mother is nothing more than the queen of the paper route and the Indian casino, Mom suspects I must have some sneaky ulterior motive.

“So,” she says, “how do I know you’re not just trying to get out of being grounded all afternoon?”

I go, “Hey, if you don’t believe me, why don’t you call her up and ask her?”

And she’s like, “Because, for all I know, this is just some little thing you want to date, and she’ll say anything you tell her to.”

“Believe me,” I say. “I do not want to date this girl.”

Why does everyone have to automatically assume it’s a sex thing?

Mom’s still not convinced, so I tell her to call Mr. Aster and ask him whether I need a tutor. That does the trick. She’ll never call him. I know all too well that she doesn’t like to get involved with my actual schooling if she can help it. Something must have happened in her childhood to make her afraid of teachers.

So we work out a deal. I still can’t drive to school, but I can drive to Aimee’s in the afternoons. And Geech will check my gas level every evening to make sure I don’t go driving around all over everywhere. Like I can’t just put more gas in the tank if I want to. Jesus.

Chapter 25

Driving over to Aimee’s that afternoon, my intentions are good, but I have to admit this girl’s going to be a challenge. Judging from how her parents and her best friend treat her, she may be the biggest pushover I’ve seen since Kenny Hoyle.

Poor little Kenny. He reminded me of a character out of a fairy tale. He lived down the street with his stepfather and three stepbrothers. His mom committed suicide. The stepbrothers were enormous thugs. While they were out vandalizing road signs or inhaling spray paint or whatever, scrawny little eight-year-old Kenny was outside cleaning the windows or pulling weeds or pushing their giant lawnmower up and down the steep front yard in the hundred-degree heat. But you knew there wasn’t any fairy godmother waiting out there to zap Kenny into some shining prince. All I could do was go over and help him mow the lawn now and then before he got sucked underneath the mower and spit out the side like a batch of hamburger meat.

Anyway, I’m expecting Aimee’s house to be a real shack, but it’s actually a lot like the house I lived in before the era of Geech—basically a small brick cube with a gray roof that needs new shingles and a scruffy little bare yard with no trees or shrubs or flowers or anything else. At least my old house had an overgrown hedge and a cool redbud tree to climb in, but this house doesn’t have even a shot glass’s worth of character to it.

After taking a hit of whisky with a mouthwash chaser, I head up to the cramped porch and give the doorframe a jazzy little knock. Inside, a whiny voice calls out, “Aimee! Your boyfriend’s here!” Which is followed by Aimee going, “Please, Shane, don’t embarrass me, okay?”

A second later, the lock clicks and the door opens.

“Sutter,” she says with a cautious smile. “You’re here.”

“Right on time.”

Something’s different about her. It takes me a moment, but then I realize she’s wearing lipstick. Usually, she doesn’t wear any makeup at all, and let me tell you—this isn’t better.

As for the inside of the house, it’s an absolute sty—clothes piled on the backs of the faded sofa and recliner, fast-food sacks gaping open on the coffee table, obsolete VHS tapes littering the floor. And in the middle of all this, her little brother’s sprawled out, his legs flinching and twitching as he proceeds to blow up bug-eyed, saw-toothed video game aliens on their ancient PlayStation.

“Um, this is my little brother, Shane,” Aimee says. “He’s eleven.”

“Hi there, Shane.”

He doesn’t bother to look at me. “Mom says you’re supposed to go to the store and get a big bottle of Dr Pepper,” he says, his hands still twisting and popping at the game.

“I’ll get it later,” she tells him, but he’s like, “You better get it now. Randy might want some pretty soon.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “There’s a little bit left in the fridge.”

“I’m just saying what Mom said.”

“You know, Shane.” I step up next to the sofa. “You could go get it yourself. There’s a convenience store right down at the end of the block.”

Shane responds by splurting out a raspberry.

Aimee laughs nervously and gives me a sheepish boys-will-be-boys look.

Usually, I’d hit the kid with a scalding putdown—which I’m all too capable of doing—but that’s not going to help Aimee any, so I’m just like, “That’s no way to act toward a guest, little man.”