Quality Snacks

Overpass

Overpass When Jack stepped off the city bus, wind blew into his open coat, drying his sweaty shirt and chilling him. The ride home from high school often made him motion sick, but there was nothing he could do about it, just as there was nothing he could do about the high schoolitself,whichwaslargeandold,withtallcorridorsthatalways seemed underlit. He zipped up his coat, licked the pimple at the corner of his mouth, and started home. Before he had gone very far, he heard a voice yelling at him, calling him a pussy. It was his friend Stan, riding down the middle of the street on a ten-speed. Stan was coming right at him, playing chicken, but Jack was tired and couldn’t make himself care. He stood his ground. Stan veered away at the last second, banked his bike in a tight circle and yelled again, this time with more respect, “Jack, you asshole!” “Stan the man,” Jack said, “lives in a garbage can, shits in the palm of his hand, sells it at the Popsicle stand.” quality snacks / 30 Stanlaughed,withahardgrinandelectrifiedeyes.Hishairwas long and frizzed out. He was wearing a Boone’s Farm T-shirt under an army jacket. He stopped his bike next to Jack and they high-fived. “Where you been, dude?” Stan said. “I don’t know,” Jack said. “Man, you missed paint bombing St. Seb’s.” Stanwentonaboutallthevandalism,shoplifting,andsneaking out at night Jack had missed that summer. Jack hadn’t seen Stan since eighth-grade graduation. It was late October now, and he was at St. Ignatius while Stan was doing ninth grade at Lane Junior High. The summer had been shot because Jack’s mom had gone on a rampage about his grades. She had decided he should no longer hang out with Stan because Stan was going to end up in prison. Instead, she had held summer school for Jack, assigning algebra, compositions, piano practice. Once when he had complained, she had screamed at him for twenty minutes, lifting the ironing board a few inches off the floor and slamming it down, over and over. “We should do something one of these days,” Stan said, “like the old days.” “Yeah, I guess.” “Like tonight, before it gets too cold.” “Yeah, maybe.” Stan kept coming at him, circling him like a boxer, peppering him with how great it’d be to do something. Finally Jack agreed to meet Stan under the overpass, at 1:00 a.m., for drinking. Stan promised to bring everything. All Jack had to do was show up with cash for his half. As Stan rode away no-handed, Jack knew this was a bad idea. Not only would his mom kill him if she found out, but he had to wake up early to make the lunches and catch the fucking bus. He would call Stan after dinner—maybe with the dishwasher running, Overpass / 31 so his mom wouldn’t hear—and say he couldn’t make it. Still, seeing Stan made him feel better. When he got home, he saw his mom’s Buick parked at a crazy angle, halfway up the driveway. He knew he was supposed to notice this. When summer ended, her mood had changed. She had been mostly in bed for three weeks now, but he wouldn’t put it past her to drive out near the bus stop to spy on him walking home. Assoonashewalkedinthedoor,herstrainedvoicecalledfrom the bedroom, “Jack, come here.” The air in her room tasted damp and used. On a low table at the foot of the bed, next to the blank TV, the humidifier percolated softly and blew out steam. The nightstand was covered with medicines —little bottles and pill canisters. His mother lay propped up on three pillows. Her dyed brown hair was in curls, which she had permed herself with her Toni kit. When Jack was younger he used to help her with her home perms by spritzing the tightly wound curlers with the special chemical, or pulling the curlers open when the hair was set. It had been weird to see her white scalp. “It’s been an extremely difficult day,” she said now, her voice a low, scratchy monotone. “I’m sure Sandra needs changing. Your aunt was over earlier, but she hates diapers. I had to run out— myself—and get a prescription your father forgot. Don’t ever get...