A List of Things That Didn't Kill Me by Jason Schmidt Page B

could leave you with Grandma and Grandpa, just for a couple of weeks. Get a job. Get us a place to stay in Seattle. Then I could come get you.”
    I realized we were up against it, and that Dad didn’t like the idea of sending me up there any more than I liked the idea of being sent.
    â€œI guess that’d be okay,” I said. “Just for a couple of weeks?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOkay. Sure. That sounds like fun.”
    *   *   *
    Two days later, Dad pulled up in front of Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The four of us had an awkward lunch together. Dad stayed the night in a room in the basement, and I slept in the guest room upstairs. The next day he got back in the Vega and headed down to Seattle.
    I ended up staying with Grandma and Grandpa for about three months.
    I was enrolled in second grade at Stanwood Elementary, which meant a forty-five-minute bus ride into town every morning, and a forty-five-minute ride home in the afternoon. I tried to make friends, but the other kids confused me. Every place I’d been up to then, there were rules about not swearing and not telling dirty jokes, but they were teachers’ rules. Flouting them was usually the easiest way to get other kids on my side and make friends. Instead, the kids I met on the bus and at school seemed genuinely upset when I told jokes about poop, or called one of them a cocksucker.
    Their attitude toward violence was also strange. When I pushed one of them, instead of pushing me back or beating the stuffing out of me, or even running away, they’d go and tell the teacher. At first I interpreted their curiously nonconfrontational behavior to mean that they were all just exceptionally nice, but that didn’t turn out to be true either. Most of them were really forthcoming about telling me they didn’t like me, and telling everyone else what a jerk I was (evidently “jerk” was the strongest word most of them felt comfortable with, which I also found confusing). Meanwhile, the houses on the island were so far apart that there were no kids close enough to want to play with me just because I was convenient. After a month or so I pretty much gave up on my classmates and resigned myself to playing alone until I could get out of there.
    Then, to my complete surprise, I started having a lot of fun at church.
    Grandma and Grandpa took me to church every Sunday, and I barely tolerated the services. I disliked the singing and the sermons. I hated getting dressed up and having to hold still for an hour. Most Sundays, I felt like the only kid in a congregation of geriatrics. Then, after a few weeks, the youth pastor sent me a letter inviting me to their youth groups on Wednesday and Saturday. I went reluctantly, but it turned out to be more fun than regular church. There was some Bible stuff that I was basically indifferent to, but there were also a lot of activities and, finally, at the end of each youth group, a chance to vent some aggression.
    They played a game at youth group that was a little bit like tag. We’d get a bunch of boys on a field, someone would throw a ball out in the field, and we’d all try to get it. Whoever got it then had to run while everyone else tried to clobber him and get the ball. When the runner was tackled, he’d throw the ball up in the air and someone else would pick it up. Officially there were no points, but we compared the number of times we’d possessed the ball, and bragging rights were given for more possessions. I’d never played a game quite like it before. It was called “smear the queer.”
    Dad came up every week or two and stayed overnight in the basement room, smoking (in spite of Grandma’s frequent admonitions), sleeping late, and refusing to go to church. When I told him about smear the queer he got very quiet for a while, then said, “Jason, remember when we talked about Jesus?”
    â€œThe alien thing?” I