Michael Seidlinger: Falter Kingdom

“You hit up JJ yet?”

Shit. That’s right. I can’t leave the guy hanging. He’s my source for booze, blunts, and anything else I want. For cheap.

“Not yet, after I finish eating.”

“Bro, he’ll be pissed.”

I’m going, I’m going.

Push the food away and Brad takes it, always hungry.

I always leave via the back entrance of the cafeteria so that I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone. But I’m not always that successful, you see.

On the way out, I cross paths with Nikki. She’s got this guy, Luke, with her, and he’s handing over her purse. As she looks back at the door, I happen to be the one walking out. We exchange glances. That smile, one I’ve seen before. Strand of red hair brushed with her hand back over her ear. Blue eyes on me. This is where I’d trip and fall if I let it get to me, but I don’t. But so what, she smiled at me? So what? She says hello. She says my name. She slows down and waits until I’ve gone.

So what?

It’s not a big deal.

But Brad makes it a big deal.

Goes on and on: “Bro, there’s no way you didn’t see that…!”

I play it off the way I know how things should be played: “Yeah, I saw.”

“You know you have to talk to her now,” Brad says.

I’m thinking, “What makes anything mandatory if I don’t want to?” Yeah, I want to talk to her, and yeah, I like her — so what? But just because we looked at each other doesn’t mean now I’m supposed to let go of my own problems.

What problems?

No, I’m pushing that aside. Not thinking about that.

“Don’t be stupid,” Brad’s saying, as we walk around back, where the theater kids smoke because it’s near the auditorium stage.

Jon-Jon and a few others hang here.

You can hear barking from far away. That’s Jetson, his corgi. He always brings the dog to school. It’d be a problem if he went to class, but he’s got all that covered. Rumor has it he pays off the principal. Halverson gets a cut from sales. It’s just a rumor. Gossip.

But that’s like all things at Meadows.

Everything’s gossip until it’s naked truth.

Brad tells Jon-Jon. Of course he tells Jon-Jon. “Dude, Nikki Dillon’s got a thing for our bro here!”

Some days I can almost see it happening: I’ll start by punching Brad in the gut. He’ll wince in pain and I’ll wrap — I don’t know, sometimes it’s rope, other times it’s piano wire — around his throat until his neck snaps. I’ll say something clever and then walk away. The next day people will know what I did and everyone will be happy. Brad’s body is brushed under the floorboards.

Jon-Jon tugs at Jetson’s leash. The dog runs up to Brad, hyper and seemingly happy as always. Corgis. Happiness is a corgi.

“Brad,” Jon-Jon says without looking up from his phone, “enough.”

“Yeah, sorry, man.” Brad works on finishing the chicken fingers.

I’m watching him until Jon-Jon asks, “Hunter, how are you feeling today?” Jon-Jon’s eyes are almost always glued to the phone in his hands. Guess it’s the way he conducts business. But he looks at me like he’s concerned. Is he really? You know, I never know what’s real or fake with the guy.

“Yeah”—I fake a yawn—“just a little tired.”

Jon-Jon leans forward. “That so? How tired are you, on a scale of one to ten, ten being chronic insomnia?”

Uh, I go with an eight, which means I really tell him, “About a five.”

Jon-Jon clicks his tongue, looks up at one of the girls, kind of cute, brown hair tied back, red lipstick — no one knows any of Jon-Jon’s girls, their names or anything else; I’m pretty sure they don’t go here — and the girl hands him a notebook.

Brad with his mouth full: “Is that…?”

It is. It’s yesterday’s betting pool.

See I kind of started betting on football, baseball, basketball, whatever everyone around me was betting on, because it kept things cool. If I won, I get some cash. If I lost, then whatever. I don’t have a stake in any of these teams. I don’t even really find it all that interesting. Watching Brad as he flips through the book quickly, for him it’s more than just money.

“Hell yes,” Brad shouts, “you owe me! Pay up, pay up!”

This is how it goes. Then there’s still all the talk about stats, which player to pick, who’s got the better team. I just want to make it until fifth period so I can get some sleep.

I lean against the wall while Brad and Jon-Jon talk sports, then about this rapper who’s supposed to be in town soon, how Jon-Jon can probably get tickets for cheap, which gets Brad excited. “Get me a few. Perfect bait for landing a date!”

I glance over at Jon-Jon’s girls, or assistants, or whatever. I know they find this as dull as I do. Or maybe they don’t.

What’s the big deal?

I used to feel kind of bad about not being interested in sports or music or that kind of stuff. Culture, I guess. I mean, I still do. I can see how learning about the stats and predicting how ball games will turn out could be really cool. I bet it’s satisfying. But before I can really get used to it, they’re talking about other things. Never really been into hip-hop or the stuff I hear coming from people’s cars. At least at the parties they blast it so it’s all bass.

But I guess I never got into it.

I don’t really know what I like. Music can be fun to listen to, but sometimes I just like sitting back and listening to podcasts, people chatting about, I don’t know, new technology, space, time travel. Weird stuff that doesn’t come around often. I guess that’s kind of insane.

Jon-Jon didn’t bring me here to listen to them talk business.

He asks me, “Too tired for one on me?” He holds up a bottle of vodka.

This guy, there’s no way he’s getting away with this stuff just by being careful. I say yes and we both take swigs from the bottle, Brad included. We take enough to ease off a little, but right before Brad and I walk back for class, Jon-Jon calls me out: “You ran, huh?”

Back turned, I kind of freeze, feeling the more powerful lull of liquor, how it kind of feels heavier than a beer buzz. Brad nudges me. “Bro…”

I know.

I tell him the truth, the lie I’ve practiced enough for it to be truth. Trick is to believe it yourself.

“Yeah, man,” I say, playing it smooth, “I did.”

Jon-Jon stares at me. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

Brad chimes in: “Wasn’t really planned, like, we got in each other’s faces, this guy and Steve… you know Steve? Steve the creep?”

Jon-Jon nods his head once. “I do.”

Brad continues: “Well, our boy here got in dweeb’s face and then just fucking ran Falter like it was nothing.”

Jon-Jon puts his phone down on his right knee and claps five times, slow, like this — clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

“Yeah”—I sort of smile—“yeah, you know.” I laugh.

“I could have made some money. We all could’ve,” Jon-Jon says.

See that’s what’s been happening with Falter and Meadows students. You go there and run on a bet. No one talks about it and no one really makes any bets, but whenever people plan on actually running, more than a few people show up. They show up and Jon-Jon’s always there.

I can see why he’s disappointed.

Jetson barks at me.

Jon-Jon looks at the dog. “And?”

Jetson growls. I’m not doing anything. I take a step forward and the dog charges at me. Jon-Jon tugs the leash back.

We all look at the dog.

We’re all thinking the same thing, but only I really know the real deal.

Still, I’m not telling. I don’t want the last thing people remember of me to be that I caught one, showing symptoms and all.