waiting van. The guys, who were watching us with interest, started chanting a “Woof! Woof! Woof!” dog-chant that got louder and louder.
I could see the van start to rock. Mr. Snyder, at the wheel, looked a bit panicked.
The Dog glared at me. “Don’t you worry about my sister. All I have to do is call, and mom’ll pick up Bianca.”
I got out my cell. “Speaking of your mother, Drew.”
He interrupted, “I said, my name is not Drew.”
I kept going. “I owe your mom today’s report. Just so we’re clear, I intend to provide much more information than her minimum requirement. See, I’ve decided to use my twitter account to post my texts. That way she'll have an on-going record to track. It’s open to the school, or really, anyone — like, say college administrators or football recruiters — but people will only find it through word of mouth. Which means, as you can guess, since you’re something of minor local football celebrity, that it could get to be huge. Or it could be a boring little navel-gazing series of tweets that no one reads. Totally depends on the content. Your choice.”
The Dog stared at me. “You’re serious.”
The door to the gym opened and Bianca stepped out, holding on to the arm of the old guy and laughing up at him. It was hard to tell whose head — Tio’s or the Dog’s — would blow steam out the top first.
Tio, the Dog and I stood in a triangle, glares darted back and forth between 1) each other, 2) the van (which was now woofing, howling and rocking even harder, until Mr. Snyder appeared to be strangling the steering wheel), and 3) the gym door (where the young guy joined Bianca and the old guy). The young guy grabbed Bianca’s arm and started pulling her toward a Porsche Carrera convertible parked in the handicap spot out front. If that guy had more than a learner’s permit, I’d eat my belt.
I flipped open my phone and Tio zoomed into trotting mode, heading for Bianca and the guys. “Who does that twerp think he is,” the Dog said, taking giant steps toward them, fist bunched.
“Her tutor,” I said, busy typing.
Silence made me look up. The Dog had turned. His teeth were bared and he spoke in a quiet, eerie voice. “Her what?”
I took a step back, lowering my phone to my chest like a shield, and pushed send.
The Dog flicked a glance down at my phone and said, with that same alien calm, “Did you just tweet about me?”
He shoved his hands in his hair, like he had to do something to keep from exploding, turned to look at the van, then turned and looked at his sister, then turned the rest of the full circle to me. He gave a growl of frustration and I could feel my heart thumping the seconds out. One more minute, that’s all it would take. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon ..
I must have muttered it without realizing, because when Mr. Snyder snapped under the pressure (as I knew he would) and threw the van into drive, peeling out of the parking lot, taking the Dog’s posse with him, the Dog turned back to glare at me, like everything was my fault.
You know how it’s somehow worse when your mom doesn’t actually get angry. When she, instead, has that cold, calm tone and you know she’s going to say she’s “disappointed” — and she really means it? That’s what it was like when the Dog spoke.
“My life has gone to hell ever since you pointed that stupid camera at me. Don’t look so surprised. You can bet your Chanel ass I haven’t forgotten you broke into my locker room to take pictures of me. Oh you’re a devil’s dam, all right,” he said, mocking Tio as he repeated his words. “And now I’m the damned devil.”
***
Half an hour later, Tio said, “They’re gone. Lean on my shoulder — ow — until we get to the brick wall. Now slide down and put your head between your knees.”
I know in my heart of hearts that Tio helps me when my head gets woozy with relief because he is a true friend, but sometimes, I think he’s only doing
I could see the van start to rock. Mr. Snyder, at the wheel, looked a bit panicked.
The Dog glared at me. “Don’t you worry about my sister. All I have to do is call, and mom’ll pick up Bianca.”
I got out my cell. “Speaking of your mother, Drew.”
He interrupted, “I said, my name is not Drew.”
I kept going. “I owe your mom today’s report. Just so we’re clear, I intend to provide much more information than her minimum requirement. See, I’ve decided to use my twitter account to post my texts. That way she'll have an on-going record to track. It’s open to the school, or really, anyone — like, say college administrators or football recruiters — but people will only find it through word of mouth. Which means, as you can guess, since you’re something of minor local football celebrity, that it could get to be huge. Or it could be a boring little navel-gazing series of tweets that no one reads. Totally depends on the content. Your choice.”
The Dog stared at me. “You’re serious.”
The door to the gym opened and Bianca stepped out, holding on to the arm of the old guy and laughing up at him. It was hard to tell whose head — Tio’s or the Dog’s — would blow steam out the top first.
Tio, the Dog and I stood in a triangle, glares darted back and forth between 1) each other, 2) the van (which was now woofing, howling and rocking even harder, until Mr. Snyder appeared to be strangling the steering wheel), and 3) the gym door (where the young guy joined Bianca and the old guy). The young guy grabbed Bianca’s arm and started pulling her toward a Porsche Carrera convertible parked in the handicap spot out front. If that guy had more than a learner’s permit, I’d eat my belt.
I flipped open my phone and Tio zoomed into trotting mode, heading for Bianca and the guys. “Who does that twerp think he is,” the Dog said, taking giant steps toward them, fist bunched.
“Her tutor,” I said, busy typing.
Silence made me look up. The Dog had turned. His teeth were bared and he spoke in a quiet, eerie voice. “Her what?”
I took a step back, lowering my phone to my chest like a shield, and pushed send.
The Dog flicked a glance down at my phone and said, with that same alien calm, “Did you just tweet about me?”
He shoved his hands in his hair, like he had to do something to keep from exploding, turned to look at the van, then turned and looked at his sister, then turned the rest of the full circle to me. He gave a growl of frustration and I could feel my heart thumping the seconds out. One more minute, that’s all it would take. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon ..
I must have muttered it without realizing, because when Mr. Snyder snapped under the pressure (as I knew he would) and threw the van into drive, peeling out of the parking lot, taking the Dog’s posse with him, the Dog turned back to glare at me, like everything was my fault.
You know how it’s somehow worse when your mom doesn’t actually get angry. When she, instead, has that cold, calm tone and you know she’s going to say she’s “disappointed” — and she really means it? That’s what it was like when the Dog spoke.
“My life has gone to hell ever since you pointed that stupid camera at me. Don’t look so surprised. You can bet your Chanel ass I haven’t forgotten you broke into my locker room to take pictures of me. Oh you’re a devil’s dam, all right,” he said, mocking Tio as he repeated his words. “And now I’m the damned devil.”
***
Half an hour later, Tio said, “They’re gone. Lean on my shoulder — ow — until we get to the brick wall. Now slide down and put your head between your knees.”
I know in my heart of hearts that Tio helps me when my head gets woozy with relief because he is a true friend, but sometimes, I think he’s only doing
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