Poster Boy by Dede Crane Page B

thought you could trust adults,” I said. “But maybe they’re not smart. Maybe they’re idiots. And we’re being taught to be idiots, too — to go to school, get an education, then a job so we can buy a killer car, then a toxic house full of toxic crap, buy new improved lemon-scented detergent that kills the ocean…”
    Davis was swinging really high now.
    â€œYou know what?” I said.
    Davis launched into the air, ridiculously high, and landed on his feet in the sand with a dull smack.
    â€œWhat?” He jumped around to face me, chest out, hands on his hips like a superhero.
    â€œI’m going to quit my stupid job.”
    â€œYeah, stupid job. Although, I’ll miss those free previews.”
    â€œI want go live like a caveman.”
    â€œOo-oo, ya,” yelled Davis, nodding. He stabbed a finger toward me. “Goo, ma, moo?” He hunched up his shoulders and began pretend-picking his nose. He spoke in grunts and gestures the rest of the night, and I understood every word.
    * * *
    When I got home, it was way past my curfew. Normally Mom would have gotten out of bed to throw a mild fit but she didn’t bother. She wasn’t sweating the small stuff, I guess.
    Maggie was passed out on the couch in the living room, her movie still playing on the TV. I turned it off. Every so often her pain was so uncomfortable, she couldn’t sleep and ended up down here zoning out on TV. She was all set up with pillows and comforter. On the coffee table was an apple core and half-eaten rice cake spread with almond butter, a glass of water, a box of unbleached tissues, two prescription bottles and a deck of cards. She and Mom had an ongoing rummy match, a penny a point.
    Snoring through her nose, Maggie was making little pig snuffles. In the old days, meaning a few weeks ago, I would have pinched her nostrils closed, laughed as she struggled to catch a breath and then startled awake.
    Asleep, she looked even younger than twelve. More like a perfectly healthy six-year-old. She was holding a bottle of pink nail polish in one hand, her nails a pearly pink. I pulled out my camera and snapped some pictures.
    A raised voice came from upstairs. I couldn’t tell whose, but it didn’t sound happy.
    In the kitchen I grabbed a bag of baked not fried potato chips, a couple of organic bananas and a glass of goat’s milk and went downstairs. I sipped the milk. It was thicker than I was used to and had a goaty thing going on but it wasn’t bad.
    I went online and looked up nail polish. Nail polish contained phthalates, a carcinogen. Shit. Maybe it was the nail polish. Maggie loved painting her nails. Had been doing it since she was three. I’d tell Mom tomorrow.
    I would have thought Dad would know this stuff. He was the scientist in the family, after all.
    I watched some TV, then went on line and messaged Nat.
    looking forward 2 Friday. killer fettucini alfredo at Little Italy? caesar salad, garlic bread, tiramisu.
    If she couldn’t decide where to go, I might as well. I hoped I spelled the dessert thing right. Dad took us there on Mother’s Day last year and I got that very dinner. It was seriously good.
    looking 4ward 2 ur place after.
    I got all warm thinking about those condoms in my wallet. Those spermbags, I thought, and burst out laughing. Just like at the playground, laughter took me over like some sort of internal earthquake, and I almost puked my goat’s milk.
    I thought to warn Nat about the crap that was in her whitening toothpaste. I was about to sign off and go masturbate my way into oblivion when a message popped up.
    It was Ciel.
    hi gray, how’s maggie feeling? it must be so hard for your folks. and what about u? r u doing alright?
    I suddenly choked up and couldn’t write back. Since Maggie’s diagnosis, not one person had asked how I was doing.
    * * *
    Monday morning at school, I ran into Natalie and company by the Coke