Take It
"Matthew Modine Tracker!"
My father had used my middle name--this wasn't going to be good.
"Where were you?"
Eons before GPS and cell phones, parents would tell their kids to be home at such and such times. They'd even buy them a watch--so they could be reminded of the time--and expect them to come home on time.
"Out with my friends."
"You're late for dinner." It was five minutes after five....on a Saturday.
"Yes sir."
"You're a mess. Get cleaned up and then go eat something. Quickly. We're leaving for church in thirty minutes."
I walked inside the house and passed by the wide-eyed stares of my younger siblings and my older sisters who were all sitting at the dining room table.
The Tracker family filled an entire pew at our church. I mean, there were eight of us counting my parents, Stephen and Sarah, Leah, Rachel, myself, Mark, Luke and John.
Are we sensing a pattern here?
I did my best to understand the aspects of my religion but there was a lot of bias, a lot of a two-faced attitude from everyone around me. Had I asked my parents, they’d probably say “everyone has their own problems”. However, everyone else’s problems became my problems and I would have to deal with them by either kicking someone’s ass or to make their lives a living hell.
Yes, it was wrong to hang James over the bleachers by his ankles but we were sure he’d land on his feet, or at least his hands to avoid the impact. Did I feel there was just a smidgen of a chance that he’d land on his head? Sure, just like there was always the chance the police would catch me in a stolen car or Mrs. Harrison would realize that my essay on “The Great Gatsby” was the same as James’ with a few synonyms thrown in to obscure said plagiarism.
I really did think the world was out to get me and it was best to dish it out first. I was going to be a sophomore and while we may have been the “future tough guys” of the tenth grade in the fall, I knew of the pecking order: There were juniors and seniors who could try to make me into their personal James Kane so it was best to have a posse of like-minded peers, an attitude, and the balls to back it up. It also helps to be a little crazy sometimes.
I tore my shirt off and threw it into the laundry basket. Then, I reached into my pocket and took out the money clip that was in the center console of the car we took from the far end of the parking lot. There was about twenty dollars left after splitting the original hundred with the others and a quick stop at “Señor Froggys” for a taco combo and mexifries. The tacos were preferable to the vegan meatloaf or whatever it was Mom had made for the evening.
I took out the note from Jessie and stared at the number. I’d have to try and meet up with her and thank her friends for not ratting me out at that time. I’d never expect any kind of relationship. with her. She could have gone to some school out in the country and I’d have to tell that as much as I thought she was flat out, boom! Sexy. I’d have to tell her that long distance relationships wouldn’t work. Of course, if I got into her pants, I’d reconsider that line of thought and would tolerate a long-distance with a girl who would put out.
I’d have to act like I knew what to do. It’s not something you’re told about in school and I didn’t know any older, experienced guys who would tell me all about it at the street corner. Yeah, you learn things in health class, you get to know the plumbing and all that but no one states the particular rules to deal with girls. I assumed the role of the “I can be a lovable asshole, just give me a few minutes of your time and let’s see where we go.” Chris almost got Ty to admit he had a hot time with his girl, but Ty straightened-up and became tight-lipped.
I would need to call Jessie sooner than later.
There was a quick knock on my door.
“Matthew, are you ready?”
“Just about, mom.”
“Your dad’s ready to go.”
I shook my head, as Dad was so ready to go. If he said we were going to leave at five, and I got to the car at four fifty-five, he’d say I was late. I took off my jeans, threw on a pair of dress pants, a collared-shirt, what passed for dress shoes, and rushed out of the house.
“What about your hair?” Mom asked as I stepped out of the house and locked the door.
“No time, Sarah.”
“But he looks like a mess, Stephen.”
“Then he needs to get home in time,” The last words being directed at me as I climbed into the suburban.
Every Saturday night was spent at St. Micheal’s church on the other side of Spokane where our family filled out an entire pew. We would sit there, all of us, as the priest and choir speak only in Latin, except for a few announcements. I never understood what I was supposed to get out of it. It was like Biology class wheee everything there was also in Latin, but at least there was a textbook—and a teacher—who could tell us what the Hell we were reading.
The priest was your stereotypical kind: short, kind of old, balding, and he had mumbling down to a fine art. He may have given Marlon Brando lessons. He could shout in low mumbles, shrill in high mumbles, and take those deep breaths before running a word salad of intelligible babble. Perhaps he was speaking to us about finding lost sheep, how to be kind to our fellow man or how to live life to the zenith, but to me it was someone talking with marbles in their mouth.
Mom and Dad would sit and listen and somehow understand what was being said. Us kids? We ran the gauntlet from tolerating the audible abuse to signing song lyrics in our heads. Sleeping got your head slapped by mom, so I usually tried to sit just out of her arm’s reach.
