Bad Kid by David Crabb Page B

mirror-rattling bass.
    â€œYeah!” Greg screamed, hugging me as the lead singer cooed the lyric “I want to be where the boys are . . .” We bounced up and down in the seat midhug, knowing that our days of almost dying before first period were over.
    â€œYou fags are too much,” Johnny said, patting me on the back with a smile. The word sounded different than it had before. And as I hugged Greg, listening to our music in our car in our driveway, I felt a little more like someone’s brother.

    Here’s Greg and me during our sophomore year shortly after we moved into a more New Wave aesthetic; lots of vests and hair gel during this phase. I believe we’re each wearing matching ankh charms at the end of those homemade, black yarn necklaces. Our favorite lunchtime offerings were these scalding-hot hamburgers that were microwaved in their own plastic packaging. Greg’s excitement over his burger might explain his look of surprise here. I’m surprised we allowed ourselves to be photographed during lunch. Eating was never very goth.

CHAPTER 8
This Must Be the Place I Waited Years to Leave
    F uckin’ wake up!” yelled Johnny, wet and naked, holding a balled-up towel over his crotch. “This fucking phone rang off the hook until I had to get out of the fucking shower,” he screamed, shoving a cordless phone into my face before snapping Greg with his towel.
    â€œJerk!” Greg murmured, wincing in pain as he woke up.
    â€œExcuse me,” my mother asked through the receiver.
    â€œMom? What’s wrong?” I asked.
    â€œDavid. Your father’s here to pick you up,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
    I’d forgotten that we were spending Super Bowl Sunday at my grandparents’ house.
    â€œTell me the address,” my dad barked in the background.
    I quickly washed my armpits and scrubbed my face to prepare for his arrival, trying to look awake in spite of the three hours of sleep I’d gotten. I went into panic mode, combing the dried gel out of my hair and pacing the bedroom.
    â€œGreg, I need normal clothes. Please! Something for church.”
    I looked at the options Greg laid out on his bed, the comb shaking in my hand.
    â€œDavid, it’s okay. What’s wrong?”
    â€œI just don’t want him to be mad,” I said, looking out the window as I put on Greg’s khakis. “We’re going to be twenty minutes late because of me!”
    â€œ David, why don’t you stay here? Say you’re sick or . . .”
    A car horn honked. We looked through the window at my dad in the brown truck outside, his jaw locked tight, knuckles flexed around the steering wheel. He slowly turned his head until his laser-beam gaze stopped on us. Greg flinched away from the window.
    â€œGod, David. He looks . . . mad.”
    I hugged Greg tightly and whispered, “He’s mad a lot.”
    My dad and I spent the first part of our fifteen-minute ride in nerve-racking silence. Over the hum of the engine I could hear his teeth grinding against one another. Each red light or delayed exit lane seemed like the final straw, the thing that would push him over the edge.
    Every turn, brake, and acceleration was loaded with the possibility of a confrontation. One that would make me sink slowly against the car door, trying to become a puddle that would evaporate in the sheer, blazing heat of my father’s anger.
    â€œWhy weren’t you at your house and ready?” he asked as we arrived.
    â€œI forgot.”
    â€œYou forgot?”
    â€œYeah, Dad. Sorry.”
    â€œWe’ll see if I forget you the next time we make plans,” he said, braking hard in front of my grandparents’ house. “Now tuck your shirt in.” He got out and walked into the yard. “Hurry up, dammit.”
    â€œSorry,” I said, fumbling with the seat belt. “I’m coming. Sorry.”
    My grandparents had lived in the same