By: Evan Howell
At Mr. Wells’ request, Lionel rose from his seat and walked to the front of the classroom. He uncapped a whiteboard marker and began to work on his assigned problems – multiplying fractions. He tried to write carefully, but his numbers came out an uneven scrawl across the board. He was good at math but struggled in situations like this. He’d get so focused on the thought of his classmates’ eyes boring into his back that he couldn’t think straight.
He had two equations to work. He managed to get through the first and was in the middle of the second when a coughing fit started in the back of the classroom. It was Josh, of course. He hacked loudly, like he had gravel stuck in his throat, and between coughs he inserted his favorite word.
“Dickweed.”
Lionel didn’t even know what a dickweed was, but that had been his label since he’d arrived at this school. He assumed it was some type of North Carolina slang. His face burned red. He hurried through the second equation, knowing he’d done it wrong. He turned and started back to his seat, eyes on the floor.
“Not so fast,” Mr. Wells said from his desk at the back of the room. “Take another look.”
Lionel returned to the board. He looked at the problem but couldn’t focus. All he could hear was snickering from Josh and the other baseball players.
He stared at the whiteboard for a long moment, frozen.
“What’s seven times four?” Mr. Wells said, his tone impatient, as though he couldn’t believe it was his lot in life to teach mouth-breathing pre-teens who couldn’t even do multiplication.
Lionel’s mind was blank. His fight-or-flight defenses had hijacked any higher order thinking abilities.
“Seven times four is twenty-eight,” Mr. Wells said. Then when Lionel wasn’t quick enough to move, he snapped, “Write twenty-eight. We don’t have all day.”
Lionel wrote it down. As he walked back to his seat, he heard Josh once more.
“Dickweed.”
This time it was plain as day, not even hidden between coughs. How did Mr. Wells not hear it? As Lionel took his seat, he glanced at his teacher. The assistant baseball coach sat reclined in his chair, beefy arms crossed and resting on his protruding belly. He had a half-smirk on his face, as if trying to suppress a laugh.
So, he had heard it.
The bell rang five minutes later, and Lionel filed out with everyone else. As he fiddled with his combination lock, Valerie Robinson took her place beside him, accompanied by the citrus smell of her shampoo. She was a blonde-haired, freckled cheerleader in Lionel’s math class whose locker sat next to his. He harbored a secret crush on her, but they’d only spoken once all year, a couple months earlier when she asked him what the pages were for that night’s homework assignment.
As Lionel dropped off his books a voice behind him said, “Don’t you need to be in some kind of special class?” It was Aiden, one of the hangers-on in Josh’s circle. Mocking Lionel was how he asserted his in-group status. Lionel pretended not to hear and, thankfully, the kid kept walking.
Pre-algebra had been the last class of the day, so he loaded his backpack. He went slowly, just in case Valerie had another question for him, but apparently she’d written down her assignments that day.
Lionel walked out to the bus lot. He found a seat near the front and leaned his head against the window as the bus pulled out of the parking lot, the glass cool on his forehead, the rhythmic bumping of the ride soothing. He watched the strange North Carolina landscape roll by. So much different than Florida. Down there he could breathe, surrounded by 360 degrees of open geography. Here the horizons were shorter, hills everywhere. He felt claustrophobic.
This was his second year in North Carolina. He’d arrived at the beginning of 6th grade, when his mother relocated to be near a boyfriend. That relationship ended soon after, but she liked the Carolinas enough to stick around. She’d held down a steady job the entire time, working as a receptionist at a doctor’s office. Lionel was used to her job-hopping, so the stability was a welcome change, to open the fridge and know there would be food. But other than that, he hated it.
For someone who’d spent his whole life in a tropical climate, the winters were miserable. He shivered at the bus stop in his thin fall jacket, wrapped himself in a blanket inside their drafty house. The neighborhood wasn’t great, either. No kids there, or at least no kids that played outside. Yards were unkempt; neglected dogs paced angrily on short chains. The police were a regular presence. Lionel’s father lived back in Florida and had yet to follow through on his promise to visit.
When the bus pulled onto his street, Lionel saw a familiar red Corolla in his driveway. He groaned. Randy stood at the counter when Lionel came in. Lionel’s mother had recently given him a key, which he took as an invitation to drop in whenever he pleased.
“Hey pal,” he said. “Got off work early. Thought I’d cook dinner for you and your mom.”
He wore a polo shirt tucked into pleated khakis. His pants ended an inch above his shoes, revealing white socks that even Lionel knew didn’t match the rest of his outfit. He worked in the billing department at the local hospital and his work badge was still clipped to his shirt.
“What are we having?”
Randy pointed to grocery bags on the counter. “Picked up some ground beef. Taco night.”
Lionel offered a polite half-smile. He dropped his bag on the floor and went to the fridge for a soda. He loved being a latch-key kid. His two hours of solitude after school were his favorite time of the day. Today Randy ruined that.
Randy was his mother’s new boyfriend. They’d been together a few months and so far he hadn’t distinguished himself in Lionel’s eyes. Lionel was a tough customer, having seen a string of boyfriends over the years, all of whom related to him in different ways. Some attempted to be paternal, while others acted like he didn’t exist. There was the ex-football player who tried in vain to teach Lionel to throw a spiral. Then there was the car salesman who smacked his mother around and, just to keep things interesting, Lionel on occasion. As for Randy, he talked a lot.
“Look what I brought,” Randy said, putting a familiar box on the table. “Want to play Settlers of Catan?”
Lionel most certainly did not. After the day he’d just had, he wanted to sit on the couch with a Coke and a bowl of microwave popcorn while watching Westerns on cable, but clearly that wasn’t in the cards. He joined Randy at the table, too polite to complain, but hoping that his lack of enthusiasm would signal how he really felt. Randy, however, seemed immune to social cues such as sour expressions and he happily went about setting up the board. Even though they’d played before, he explained the rules in detail.
And the lessons didn’t stop when the game began. When Lionel tried to trade brick cards for sheep cards, Randy asked him gravely, “Are you sure you want to do that?” This was followed by a lecture on the importance of resource diversity, with Randy opining that sheep were one of the least valuable items in the game. Furthermore, how did he plan to build roads to connect his settlements if he had no bricks? Lionel had never met someone so passionate about board games.
An hour in, his mother bailed him out by arriving home. Randy left the table with assurances they would play more another day. Lionel didn’t doubt it.
The evening was one long slog of talking. The adults yammered while they sat around the table, then yammered some more while they gathered on the couch and watched a TV singing competition. Lionel finally got the peace he wanted at 9:00. Randy had left and his mother was back in her bedroom. He got all set up on the couch with his Coke and popcorn but was asleep within minutes.
A few days later, Mr. Wells handed back their unit tests on fractions. Lionel got a 98. He felt quite good about this, considering that most of the class bombed it. There were no congratulations from Mr. Wells, just the grade scribbled in red ink across the top of the page.
Lionel’s attention drifted during class. Mr. Wells was introducing their next unit on decimals, which Lionel found as easy as fractions. As long as he didn’t have to demonstrate at the board, he could do these in his sleep. A poplar stood outside the classroom window and he watched a pair of squirrels chase each other around the trunk. He drew the scene in his notebook, the tree branches and bushy-tailed rodents spilling over his half-finished notes.
He’d spoken with his father that weekend. They hadn’t talked in nearly a month, so Lionel called. When asked about coming to North Carolina, his father sounded excited about the prospect. He said that his schedule would free up in the fall, maybe he could come up and they’d do a Panthers game. He didn’t have much time to talk, but told Lionel to call him the next day and they could make plans.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” his mother had said when he hung up.
She was right. When Lionel called back the next day, his father didn’t answer. He waited a few hours, then tried again in the afternoon. Still no luck. His mom, seeing how this affected him, tried to cheer him up by ordering pizza for dinner.
“Randy could take you to a game,” she offered. Lionel shrugged in response.
Sitting in class, his mind drifted from his father to the leftover pizza. A few slices sat in the fridge, and he planned to scarf them down as soon as he got home. In front of the room, Mr. Wells belabored decimals, going slow for the kids who didn’t get it. Lionel pulled his phone out and surreptitiously played a game.
When the bell rang, he shouldered his backpack and made his way to the bus lot. He stopped at the bathroom on the way, making sure to grab a stall. Urinals gave him stage fright. Once in the privacy of the stall, he allowed himself to smile. Not only had he gotten a 98 on his test, a fridge full of pizza awaited him at home. Not a bad Friday.
As usual, the bathroom was raucous with middle-school antics. When he’d come in, two knuckleheads were throwing balls of wet paper towels at the mirrors. Lionel tuned out the nonsense and tried to do his business. However, while he peed it seemed that the noise migrated to right behind his stall. He cocked his head and tried to figure out what was going on when two things happened at once – he heard a loud bang and felt a sharp blow to his back. Someone had kicked the door in, which hit him and knocked him over. He fell down mid-stream, urine spraying his pants and shirt. A group of boys standing at the open stall door collapsed into hysterics.
Josh stepped forward from the crowd of faces and gave him a swift kick in the stomach. They then retreated, leaving Lionel exposed and gasping for air. The entire crowd in the bathroom vanished. Lying with his cheek on the tile floor, Lionel watched all the feet scurry out. No one wanted to get blamed if a teacher happened to come in.
For a while, he lay there. As his diaphragm recovered from the kick, he was able to breathe normally. He eventually sat up, zipped his pants, and examined his clothes. He was a mess. He dragged himself from the floor and walked to the sink. He pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and tried to clean himself. When this proved futile, he got another wad of towels, soaked them with water, and mopped them all over his shirt and pants. If he could dilute the pee, it might look like he’d gotten splashed from the sink. Or spilled a cup of water. Anything was less embarrassing than pissing himself.
When he felt he’d managed the situation as best he could, he warily exited the bathroom, ready to dart back in if he saw anyone. The hall was empty. He held his backpack in front of his crotch as he made his way to the bus lot. He knew he was late and picked up the pace, but when he stepped outside, the last of the buses was pulling out. He stopped walking. A chilly March breeze whipped through his hair.
“Dammit.”
His mom was at work and wouldn’t be able to give him a ride. With nothing else to do, he started the five-mile walk home.
He didn’t tell his mother what happened. Even walking, he still made it home before she did and had time to run his soiled clothes through the washing machine. He wanted to rinse away the memory of that afternoon but knew it wasn’t possible. The story would undoubtedly make the rounds. When he came back on Monday, all of 7th grade would know about Lionel pissing himself while lying on the bathroom floor.
God, he missed Florida.
And then Randy came over for dinner again. His appearances were becoming more frequent. He always brought something to cook. Tonight it was ground beef patties. Since they didn’t have a grill, he browned them in a skillet. Smoke filled the kitchen, along with a charred aroma that didn’t whet Lionel’s appetite. When he ate his, it was still red in the middle. He suppressed his gag reflex and forced it down with large gulps of water. When finished, he asked if he could be excused.
“Hang on one second, pal,” Randy said. “Got you a present.”
Randy got up from the table and retrieved a box next to the door, wrapped in brown paper. He set it on the kitchen table. Excited in spite of himself, Lionel tore off the paper. Underneath was a shoebox featuring a picture of work boots. Lionel assumed that whatever Randy had gotten him, he’d stored in this old box. However, lifting the lid proved this assumption wrong.
Randy had actually gotten him a pair of work boots.
“Boots,” Lionel said, with no inflection.
“Not just any. They’re Red Wings. High-quality work boots. I worked construction a few years after high school and wore a pair like these the whole time.”
Randy rapped his knuckle on the toe.
“Listen to that. Steel-toed. You could drop an anvil on these suckers.” He gave a quick wink to Lionel’s mother. “Not that I’d recommend it.”
When Lionel was slow to respond, Randy took one of the boots out and held it up. It was made of dull brown leather held together by heavy-duty stitching. Thick laces were fastened through brass eyelets. They were clunky and ugly. Josh would have a field day if he ever saw Lionel walking around school in these.
“Every man needs a pair of work boots,” Randy said. “Never know when they might come in handy.”
When Lionel didn’t say anything in response, his mother snapped from across the table, “Could you please act a little more appreciative?”
Randy waved her off. “It’s alright, Janice. He’s worn out from a long week of school.”
Normally, Lionel would have acted more excited. He knew he wasn’t being polite, but he didn’t have the strength to fake it. The day’s events had drained him. He took the boot Randy was holding and put it back in the box. He mumbled a thank you and walked back to his room, where he shoved the shoebox under his bed. He lay down and stared at his popcorn ceiling, looking at the brown water spot over where he slept. It mushroomed out like a cloud, with several layers of color, different hues where the ceiling had dried, then got wet again. The landlord kept saying he was going to fix it.
He could hear Randy and his mother down the hall, laughing together. He rolled on his side and pulled a pillow over his ear. Why couldn’t his mom ever pick someone that he liked? Like his dad, for instance. He sometimes felt angry at her that their marriage hadn’t worked out.
Lionel’s dad gave first-rate presents. One Christmas it was an X-Box. Another time he gave a bow and arrow. Beyond the presents, he was just cool. He’d been a basketball standout in high school. He drove a shiny truck with loud pipes. Women liked him. That was a big reason Lionel wanted to spend more time with him, to learn how to be around the opposite sex. His father was at ease with them. Every time Lionel saw him he was with a different woman, always good-looking. Meanwhile, Lionel hadn’t the slightest clue how to talk to a girl, let alone attract one.
His dad didn’t drive a beat-up Corolla or give lame-ass presents like work boots. The way Lionel saw it, the only problem with the guy was that he lived all the way down in Florida and that his schedule always seemed to be full.
Two days later, on a muggy Sunday night, Janice asked Lionel to run down the street for a gallon of milk. Over the weekend the chill of spring had dissipated and, for the first time in months, he was able to walk outside without a jacket. His second North Carolina winter was coming to an end, and none too soon. He took his usual shortcut through the park to the grocery store, where he used a crumpled ten-dollar bill to pay for a gallon of two-percent.
On the walk back he cut through the park again, across the soccer field and up an embankment. His path was not well lit and while crossing a drainage ditch he stepped into a sinkhole. His right foot squelched into it, disappearing up to his ankle. When he pulled the foot out, it was covered in mud. He clomped the rest of the way back with one shoe heavier than the other, shaking off debris the whole way.
At home he tried to clean the shoe, but to no avail. It was white and no matter how much he scrubbed, the stain would not disappear. These were his only school shoes. He asked his mom if they could run to Wal-Mart for another pair.
“It’s 9:00 at night,” she said. “What am I supposed to wear to school tomorrow?”
“Randy just gave you a perfectly nice pair of boots.”
He sighed. He hadn’t even thought about the boots since shoving them under his bed. He retreated to his room, knowing he wasn’t going to win this one. He wasn’t sure which was more embarrassing – wearing muddy shoes or wearing Randy’s ridiculous clodhoppers. It was a toss-up.
He ended up wearing the boots. He picked his longest, baggiest pair of jeans, which covered most of them. Now they just looked like ugly brown shoes.
“Don’t think they’re such a bad gift now, huh?” his mom said when he walked into the kitchen.
He waited until she wasn’t looking to roll his eyes. However, in spite of his worries, he made it to lunch without any comments on his footwear. He seemed invisible today, which was about as good as he could hope for. He sat by himself in the cafeteria, sipping chocolate milk and sketching pictures of Iron Man in his spiral notebook.
Even better, there had been no comments about the bathroom incident. Josh and his lackeys were in Lionel’s morning classes, but they hadn’t said a word. It occurred to Lionel that it was in Josh’s best interest to keep that incident quiet. Physically assaulting another student could get him suspended, maybe even kicked off the baseball team.
When the lunch bell rang, he dropped off his tray and filed out with everyone else. He had band after lunch and needed to retrieve his trumpet. He walked down the hall with his notebook open, putting a final bit of shading on Tony Stark’s helmet. He was almost at his locker when a familiar voice rang out behind him.
“Hey dickweed.”
His stomach churned. He should have known things were too peaceful to last. He kept walking but Aiden – probably at Josh’s bidding – stepped in front and blocked his path. Lionel tried to sidestep him, but Aiden wouldn’t allow it. He had an advantage of several inches and at least thirty pounds. Lionel stopped resisting and assumed the position, arms dangling at his side, expression blank. He’d tried different responses to these guys and had found that being a 7th grade Gandhi was the most effective. Nothing they said would make him respond. He wouldn’t dignify their existence with his attention.
Josh planted himself next to Aiden. Both wore khaki shorts, polo shirts, and sunglasses perched atop spiked hair. The uniform of the school’s privileged and popular.
“Get all cleaned up over the weekend?” Josh asked.
Lionel looked past him. There was a clock in the hallway, safely ensconced behind a cage. He stared at it intently. He watched the second hand jerk along, waiting for Josh to be finished.
“Lionel had an accident the other day,” Josh went on. “He wet himself in the bathroom.”
His voice was raised, like he was giving a speech. Students passing by slowed down. A crowd began to form.
“Well, it was a little more involved than that. First, he fell down with his tiny dick flapping out. Then he wet himself. I’m so disappointed I didn’t film it.”
“You know,” Aiden said, “there’s still a way they can see it.”
“You know what? There certainly is.” Josh addressed the crowd with a showman’s flourish. “Would you folks like to see a re-enactment?”
They had clearly rehearsed these lines beforehand, like a sick Abbot and Costello routine. A few kids in the crowd responded with cheers.
“OK, you’ve convinced us.” Josh gestured to Aiden. “You be Lionel.”
On cue, Aiden produced a small french fry that he’d brought from the cafeteria and held it in front of his crotch.
“Did I get the size right?”
Lionel ignored him, still watching the second hand. Shame burned through his chest, but his face was a mask. Aiden turned around and pretended to urinate while Josh pantomimed kicking in the stall door. Aiden collapsed to the floor and yelled in a shrill voice, “I’m pissing myself ! I’m pissing myself!”
The crowd of students – at least twenty strong – erupted in laughter. Lionel’s discipline wavered and he allowed himself a glance at their faces. They were distorted with ugly amusement, one kid so overcome with hilarity that he leaned against the lockers and pounded them with his fist.
Valerie was there too, standing with a group of fellow cheerleaders. She didn’t laugh along with the others, though. Her face was twisted into a look of pity, which Lionel found even worse. Her expression cut him to the quick and, with a decisive movement, he stepped forward and kicked Josh in the shin with the steel-toe of his boots. The blow felt solid, a smooth transfer of kinetic energy from one object to another, like connecting with a baseball on the sweet spot of the bat. Josh dropped to the floor.
Lionel braced himself for a blow from Aiden, but – to his amazement – his other tormentor backed away, as if he didn’t want to be next. Josh lay on his side, gripping his leg. His eyes were wide with shock, staring at Lionel’s feet.
“Those boots,” he said between clenched teeth. “You broke my leg with those motherfucking boots.”
Lionel saw an opening, a chance to deliver a blow while Josh was laying down. His Gandhi posture had never been about non-violence; it was just his only option. But now another lay before him and he was about to step into it – to deliver a sweet, retaliatory kick to the stomach – when a hand gripped his shoulder.
“What’s going on here?”
Lionel turned to see the face of Mr. Lowder, one of the school’s assistant principals. He looked at Josh lying on the floor in pain, looked at Lionel standing over him.
“Come with me.”
Josh’s on-the-spot medical diagnosis was not accurate. Lionel had not broken his leg, though he did leave him with a sizeable bruise, which resulted in Josh having to sit out that week’s baseball game. Lionel received a 10-day suspension. He felt sure the severity of his punishment was related to Josh’s absence from the baseball field. Coach Wells had no doubt made an angry trip to the Mr. Lowder’s office and demanded justice for his student-athlete. At home that night, Lionel’s mother was furious and made it clear that his time off would not be relaxing.
“You’ll think twice before getting into another fight,” she said, handing him a piece of paper.
It was a list of chores. Washing windows, organizing the shed, scrubbing baseboards, pulling weeds, cleaning bathrooms. He didn’t complain, nor did he offer much in the way of defense other than, “He was picking on me.”
As expected, this did not fly.
“Son, there are always going to be people like that. What if I go to work and start kicking co-workers I don’t get along with?”
Lionel nodded along, pretending she’d made a valid point. In reality though, he felt the kick was well worth it. He’d replayed it in his mind all day and there was nothing he’d have done differently. A lengthy suspension and a couple weeks of indentured servitude were a small price to pay.
When he went to bed that night, he finally took off the boots. He’d worn them all day, even around the house. Upon waking the next morning, he put them back on before leaving his room. He slipped his feet inside and pulled the laces tight. He looked at them from several angles, then ran his fingers over the toes, a layer of coarse leather concealing a steel cap.
He walked down the hall and into the kitchen, his feet making a satisfying clomp on the wood floor. While he poured a bowl of cereal, his mother picked up last night’s lecture. He didn’t talk back; he just absorbed it, counting down until she left for work.
Once she was gone, he decided to tackle the shed. It was a lengthy task. In their short time in this house, he and his mother had managed to fill it with an impressive amount of junk. He found the work peaceful, though. It was a mild spring day and he walked back and forth, back and forth, pulling items from the shed and dropping them into piles in the yard.
Mostly he liked walking in his new boots. The very thing he’d hated about them only a day earlier – their weight – was now their most appealing feature. It was almost like he’d grown a new pair of feet. Their bulk gave him a pleasant feeling of inertia. When he started walking, they pulled him along. He left larger footprints than he used to. When a rusty paint can got in his way, he didn’t feel a thing when he kicked it aside. He felt substantial.
By lunchtime he’d pulled everything out into the yard and decided to take a well-deserved break. He drank two sodas, ate two bags of microwave popcorn, and watched Fistful of Dollars from beginning to end, reveling in the joys of an empty house. He’d seen the movie several times, but this time paid more attention to Clint Eastwood’s feet as he sauntered around that dusty town, dishing out justice. Clint had a nice pair of boots, too.
He spent the afternoon pulling weeds and working on make-up assignments from his teachers. His mother got home at 5:30, accompanied by Randy. He held a bulging grocery bag and Lionel wondered with apprehension what he’d be cooking tonight.
“Pad Thai,” Randy said, as he unloaded items onto the counter.
These words made no sense to Lionel, but he watched as Randy prepared the meal and soon determined it to be some type of noodle dish. It filled the kitchen with a foreign aroma that confused his senses. He couldn’t decide if the smell was appetizing or not. When they sat down for dinner, Randy scooped a large helping onto Lionel’s plate, then sprinkled crumbled leaves on top.
“Cilantro,” he said. Another word that didn’t compute.
Lionel took a tentative bite and was pleasantly surprised. This was certainly better than undercooked burgers. As they ate, Janice filled Randy in on recent events.
“Ten days! I didn’t know suspensions went that long. I think the next step is expulsion.” She twirled noodles on her fork. “Maybe you can have a word with him. I don’t think he’s listening to me.”
Randy looked to Lionel, giving him a chance to state his case.
“They were picking on me.”
“He just keeps repeating that,” Janice said. “As if that justifies it.”
“Your mother’s right,” Randy said. “You can’t go around kicking people you don’t agree with. That’s not going to get you very far.”
Lionel nodded without taking his eyes off his plate. A silence followed. Lionel knew he was supposed to respond with statement of remorse, but he wouldn’t. Janice sighed, disappointed that this conversation wouldn’t be any more productive than previous ones. She got up from the table to refill her water and when her back was turned, Randy grinned at Lionel and gave him a quick wink. When Janice returned to her seat, she launched into another speech, this time about how colleges looked at more than just grades. Behavior mattered, too. Randy didn’t say much else on the topic, only interjecting when prompted.
“Suspensions will stay on your permanent record. Isn’t that right, Randy?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that’s true.”
Otherwise, he left the lecturing to Janice. Lionel’s muted response took the wind from her sails, though, and after a few minutes she wound down.
“We’ll talk about this more tomorrow,” she said, putting her napkin on her plate. “And you’ve got all the dishes tonight, Mister.”
As Lionel scrubbed plates at the sink, he wondered about Randy’s wink. What was behind that? It was a knowing gesture, as if Randy grasped the justification for Lionel’s actions without needing to be told. Somehow, he just knew. Maybe Randy could relate to being picked on. With his small frame and geeky demeanor, it was easy to imagine him having a rough go of it in middle school, too.
Lionel glanced into the living room, where his mother sat with Randy on the couch. His arm was draped over her shoulder and she leaned into him while he casually flipped channels. Perhaps Lionel’s mood was influenced by the surprising tastiness of dinner, but he had to admit that Randy was growing on him. The man had annoying mannerisms and wore godawful white socks with khakis, but he also treated Janice well. Lionel had never seen a man cook for his mother before. And in the six months they’d been together, she was more at ease. Her perpetual anger – at their lack of money, at Lionel’s father – had dissipated. She laughed more and yelled less.
When the dishes were done, Lionel wandered into the living room. He stood for a while and watched TV. The news was on, adult drama that meant nothing to him, just idle chatter. He waited for a commercial break to interrupt.
“Want to play Settlers?”
Randy turned towards him, his face shining with a broad grin.
“I knew it would start to grow on you. It’s an acquired taste, but once you grasp the strategy, it’s hard to stop.” He kissed Janice on the cheek and got up from the couch. “Sorry, honey. Duty calls.”
Randy was wrong about one thing. Lionel still hated Settlers of Catan. It seemed to him like a bizarre form of homework. However, he liked Randy’s attention. It nourished him, the same way his peaceful day at home had, and the feeling of his foot on Josh’s leg.
They played for over an hour. When Randy went home at 9:00, the game was unfinished and they left it out on the table. Randy got assurances that no one would disturb it.
“Lionel’s got an eight-segment long road,” he said, with an excitement that wasn’t shared by Janice. However, she agreed the kitchen table could remain monopolized by the game for as long as they needed.
Once Randy was gone, Lionel went to bed, worn out from the day’s labor. As he tried to fall asleep, his mind flashed forward to his return to school. What would it be like going back? Josh would be angry, that was for sure. But it didn’t worry Lionel. The whole baseball team might kick his ass and Valerie probably still wouldn’t talk to him, but this bothered him less than it would have only a few days earlier.
His room was stuffy and he got up and opened the window. He stripped to his boxers and lay under a thin sheet, listening to the night sounds of crickets chattering and cars whooshing by and distant dogs barking. He flipped over his pillow and lay his cheek on the soft coolness of the other side.
He looked forward to tomorrow. Another day at home, making his own schedule. The boots stood next to his dresser. Grass stained, creases forming where they bent, already starting to look worn in.