All You Need Is Love Page 2

  The school day goes by like lightning. I really like school, and it usually goes by fast, as long as nobody bothers me. Today, I guess my bully was picking on somebody else.

  And as the day is coming to a close, I also realize something else: the day has gone quicker because I wasn’t dealing with Lisa’s drama. My plan to “quit looking at her” was working well. For me, anyway.

  After school Jeep meets me at the car. He stands there, waiting patiently. He must have had to haul his big ass to get there before me. He’s no lithe-bodied sprinter. Jeep’s not fat, but he’s sort of a teddy bear-type body, tall and squishy-massive. His giant grin greets me as I put my key in the car door, get in, and reach over to unlock his door.

  “Let’s burn some rubber, Dew,” he says, settling into his seat.

  There is no way I am going to “burn some rubber.” My daddy—even as old and as big as I am—would tan my hide with his belt if he caught me mistreating his car.

  I pull out of the parking lot with all the caution my grandpa taught me when he gave me driving lessons, and we head home. Jeep, just like this morning, never shuts up.

  “Okay, so what about geometry homework? You done it yet? I tried to do it in class, but not only was I clueless, but I kept nodding off.”

  “It was an easy theorem, Jeep. I can show you.”

  “Come inside when you drop me off. I think we have some Cokes. You like Cokes? Ma bought some at the store yesterday, I’m sure. I told her to get some Grapettes, some RCs, some Dr Peppers, some Nehi Oranges, and some Big Reds, so we got all kinds of Cokes to choose from.”

  Yep, I could tell Jeep was a Texan born and raised. Around here, we call any kind of cold drink a Coke, no matter what the brand is.

  “I could drink a Nehi,” I say.

  “Nehi it is.”

  He tells me his address, which is in the subdivision right next to ours. Now, we’re not rich or anything, but our little two-bedroom house with my bedroom addition Daddy added is a mansion compared to the house Jeep lives in. It is about half the size of ours, the paint is peeling, and the screen door sticks.

  I find myself in a tiny living room. There is a fold-out divan, a chair, a coffee table—with three legs and a stack of phone books propping up the fourth corner—and a little old black-and-white TV. I notice a small kitchen off this room to the right, and Jeep leads me through a door to a little bedroom in back of the living room.

  “This is my room. Ma sleeps on the couch. She likes it. Says it helps her back.”

  I don’t question him, but in my heart I know his mother probably chose the couch because she wanted her son to have his own room.

  Jeep’s room has a single-sized bed, a little desk with chair, and a chest of drawers. There is a bathroom off that, and when I peek, I see also the bathroom opens into the kitchen.

  Pointing to the bed, Jeep says, “Have a seat. I’ll get us our Cokes.”

  I sit as he disappears. I look around. He has a battered stereo with a stack of record albums. The one on top reads Vanilla Fudge. In the corner is an electric guitar with an amp. That is about it for the room. Not much here.

  Jeep comes back carrying two bottles: my Nehi Orange and a Grapette for himself. “These Cokes are icy cold. Just what we need after a hard day’s work.”

  He pulls out the desk chair and plops down in it after handing me my drink.

  He takes a long swig of Grapette. He lets out a moan of ecstasy. The boy likes his grape drink, I think. Then he jumps up, grabs the Vanilla Fudge album, pulls out the record, and puts it on the turntable. “Now you’re in for a treat.”

  Very strange sounds come from the machine. He has it cranked up as loud as it will go. I recognize the song, but this version is a far cry from the Rascals’ record. It assaults me at first, but within thirty seconds I find myself responding to the look on Jeep’s face. His eyes are closed, and he is lost in another world. I close my eyes too. And that simple act is amazing. Shutting out the entire world, suspended in darkness, I get it; this group speaks to me. I’d heard my English teacher use the word enraptured to describe the Romantic poets. Then I just laughed to myself at her word. But listening to “People Get Ready” now makes me realize truly what enraptured means. It is an experience I will never forget.

  The song comes to an end, and I open my eyes. Jeep reaches over to take the needle from the record. I swear I see tears drop from his cheek.

  “What did you think?” he says, as he replaces the record in its cardboard sleeve, being careful to touch only the outer rim of the vinyl, like he cherishes it.

  I can’t figure out what to say. I want to speak. But somehow, anything I say won’t describe what I felt, what I’m feeling.

  Jeep looks at me. I look at him. Somehow, he knows. He knows how I’m feeling. And words aren’t needed.

  And he breaks the spell. “Geometry?”

  He pulls his book from the pile he’d brought into the room, and I spend the next twenty minutes explaining the homework to him. He’s a fast learner. Jeep is no dummy. He may be a hippie freak—that’s what everyone I know calls his kind; never just hippie, always hippie freak—but he is my hippie freak new friend. And he is funny, and smart, and sensitive. I’d learned that today about him.

  We finish our homework, and then he bellows, “Now, how about that haircut?”

  “Jeep,” I protest, “I can’t give you a haircut. What if I mess it up?”

  He primps like a girl and says, “You can’t mess up these curly locks.”

  He hands me scissors, and I very carefully trim around his ears. He looks in the mirror and pronounces me hairstylist of the year, even asks if he can make another appointment in two weeks at my “salon.”

  We both laugh at his mimicry. And it is a good laugh.

  As I start to leave, he thrusts the record album at me. “Don’t forget your Fudge,” he says. I feel like I’ve just been given the most precious gift he could bestow.

  Somehow, I know he is going to “miss” the bus the next morning. And probably every morning thereafter.

  Chapter 2

  JEEP STANDS at his screen door, hopping up and down on each foot, as I pull into his drive. He’s certainly anxious. He’d said he would meet me at the bus stop, but I told him I could pick him up at his house. What’s a few blocks out of my way? Daddy gives me gas money, and if I have to ask for more, which I doubt, I’ll just tell him I’m taking a friend to school from now on. He’ll like that. That I have a friend. My daddy is convinced I am the most unpopular guy at my school. He may be right. I joined about six clubs, plus choir and drama, and everyone’s friendly. But I get home, and the phone doesn’t ring. Maybe it’s me. I guess I could call them. But I don’t.

  So Jeep comes bounding out his door and jumps into the car. If he hadn’t had to stop a second to open the car door, I’d have sworn he’d done it all in one leap. Today he has a fresh tie-dye on. He’s a hippie freak, but he’s a clean hippie freak.

  “Mornin’, Dew!” he bellows, settling into the seat. Then he chuckles. “Morning dew? Get it? Like the grass?” And he laughs like he is some kind of Bob Hope or something.

  “I get it, Jeep, I get it.” And I smile at him. Why I don’t laugh, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want him to think he’s won me over that easily. But he has. His laugh, his smile, his whole manner is so infectious that before I know it, I’m out of my gourd hysterical. I realize something: Jeep makes me happy, makes we want to enjoy the ride.

  When things calm down, he winces. Then he starts fiddling with the dials on the radio. “There’s got to be something better than Tommy F-ing James on.”

  “I like ‘Crimson and Clover,’ Jeep. You can sing to it.”

  “Don’t spout that American Bandstand crap to me,” he says, like American Bandstand is something dirty.

  “I’m not. And besides, the phrase they use is ‘you can dance to it.’”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jeep says, still switching stations. “Okay.” His snide tone tells me Tomm
y James and “Crimson and Clover” is not okay, not one bit. “There’s gotta be something better here.” He finds a station with loud rock ’n’ roll, and he turns the volume up so that it’s blaring. He sits back and starts accompanying the song on air guitar.

  I just shake my head back and forth. I should kick his crazy butt out of the car.

  But this is the most fun I’ve ever had. Before yesterday, driving to school was a calm, lonely journey. Now, it’s a “pump me up, get ready for a great day” adventure.

  The song finishes, and Jeep expels a very loud “oh, shit!”

  I jump out of my skin. My usual mornings don’t include ear-splitting shouts, much less ones that include a word I’ve never said.

  “Watch your language, Jeep. I’d hate to have to put you out.”

  “What? ‘Shit’? Perfectly good word. Frees the soul. Say it.”

  “I’m not saying that word, Jeep.”

  He pokes me in the ribs. “Say it. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit….’” And he keeps shouting it and keeps poking me with every “shit.”

  I look at him. He’s not going to stop this until I say it. So, quietly and with no force at all, I whisper, “Shit.”

  “Louder, Dew, louder!” And he continues his poking/shouting ritual.

  I say it again. I try to give it more force, just to placate him. But that doesn’t work.

  “Come on, Dew. You can do better.” And he pokes me harder.

  I take a deep breath, and going against everything I’ve been taught about politeness and what words should and shouldn’t be said, I scream, “Shit!” I feel my mother’s disapproving eyes boring into me, sort of like whenever I did something even remotely naughty in elementary school, I was convinced that she knew.

  “That’s better. Now, force and repeat, ‘Shit, shit, shit.’” He directs me like Miss Zelko directing the choir at school.

  I follow his lead, and I bellow at the top of my lungs. “Shit, shit, shit….” And with each “shit,” my heart gets lighter. He’s right. It frees my soul. My soul that may be going straight to hell right now.

  Finally, he gives me a perfect Miss Zelko cut-off signal.

  A moment of silence. But my heart beats faster, my whole being feels lighter, and life somehow is better. Is this what cussing does for you? Or is it what having a friend does for you?

  “Now, don’t it feel good?” Jeep asks.

  “Yeah, it does.” I smile at him. And he grins back at me. Then it hits me. “But why did this start to begin with?”

  “Oh! I forgot.” Jeep wallops himself in the head. “My geometry homework. I forgot it at home. I’m doomed. Blevins will flunk my ass for sure.”

  I pull over into the nearest parking lot, back up, and point the Chevy back to his house. “I’m not letting you flunk out after all the ’splainin’ I did for you yesterday, Lucy.”

  “But you’ll be late.”

  “No, Jeep, we have plenty of time. I’ll just speed up some.” And hope Daddy doesn’t find out. I get a speeding ticket, and Daddy will send me straight to hell.

  “You’re the best friend a guy could have, Dew.”

  I just smile. I’ve never heard anyone say that before to me.

  A pause. Jeep gets wound up again. “I Love Lucy, huh? Funniest show ever.”

  At first I’m stuck in Jeepland where things don’t have to make sense, so I can’t figure out why he brought up I Love Lucy. Then I remember I’d used my favorite line on him. Comes from Ricky constantly saying to Lucy, “Lucy, you got some ’splainin’ to do.”

  “Yeah. Lucy’s my favorite show, bar none. I bet I’ve seen every rerun twenty or thirty times, and I still laugh.”

  “You know, you look a little like her, Dew.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, you don’t look like a woman, for sure, but Lucy and you both have red hair. Yours is not as orange as hers is, but it’s still red, so you remind me of her a little bit.”

  I was glad he put that “don’t look like a woman” in there. Butch Pollard probably wouldn’t agree. He’s always calling me “girl.” I hate it. I know I’m not as manly as the other guys in school, but I’m no girl.

  “Okay, Jeep, I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.” Back in his driveway, I order, “Now, get your homework.”

  He’s back in a flash, and we hightail it to school. Ten minutes flat. Thank God we didn’t get stopped. My mother’s brother is the city attorney in our little suburb, so I could mention his name to a cop and probably get out of a ticket. But that doesn’t mean the cop wouldn’t tell Uncle Bob, then Uncle Bob would tell Mother, and she would probably tell Daddy.

  We enter the foyer of the school, a huge room that features a statue of the school mascot, a lion. To the left is the cafeteria, noise spilling out from everyone grabbing breakfast, and directly in front of us are the double doors leading to the main office and the classroom hallways. Jeep starts to peel off and then turns, says, “Later, gator. Meet up?”

  I eye him.

  “What? You busy?”

  “No, I got nothing this afternoon. Meet you here?”

  “’Kay. See you right after school.”

  I don’t know why I said we’d meet here instead of at the car. People will see me with the hippie freak. So what? They never see me with anyone else, ’cept Lisa—but that’s pretty much over, I think. I kinda like the idea of people seeing me walk with a friend for a change. Even if he is the school hippie freak.

  I have a few minutes before I need to report to the intercom room. I look at the clock. The bell rings in seven minutes, so I have time to sit a minute and collect my thoughts. I sit, put my lunch sack on the bench next to me, and pull the daily devotional folder out of my notebook.

  I read the devotional every morning over the loudspeaker. Mr. Waters, the speech and drama teacher, used to have different people doing it each day, but Mrs. Haynes, the Dean of Girls, told him she likes my devotionals the best, so now it’s only me. Mr. Waters puts them together and gives me a folder every Friday for the next week. I’m supposed to practice them over the weekend, but I don’t. I just look each day’s over before I have to read it. It’s not like I’m in a Broadway show here. This isn’t Death of a Salesman I’m performing every morning.

  I’ve read that, in other states, people are saying morning devotionals are unconstitutional. That the Supreme Court ruled against them six years ago. Well, not in Texas. We still have ’em, and I’m the guy who gets to read. Good practice. I like doing them.

  As I start to read over today’s script, I hear, loud and strong, “Dew-ey!”—emphasis on the “Dew” just like a farmer shouts “Soo-ey!” when he calls his pigs to dinner. Butch Pollard is in the house. I sigh. And tremble a little. What will he do to me today?

  Butch comes straight for me, grabs my lunch sack, and plops down on the bench so close I feel his body heat. And, I might add, smell his body odor.

  “Whatcha doing, Dewey girl?”

  “Move over, Butch. You st—” I stop myself. I almost said “you stink.” My mother taught me never to be unkind. Plus, Butch might have punched my lights out. “You stop crowding me.” This is the closest I’ve ever come to giving Butch Pollard an order. I had to think of something quick that started with “st.” But I shiver when I say it.

  Butch just laughs. “What? You don’t like being close to your Butchie, baby?”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say because anything I come up with will probably make it all worse.

  Butch Pollard is a nasty, smelly, stupid kid. He has a sister and five brothers. The oldest is in the pen at Huntsville. Assault with a deadly weapon. His own fist. Butch’s daddy sits at home all day and drinks beer. He doesn’t work. He came home from the Korean War shell-shocked. My daddy says Butch’s daddy is not good for much of anything but making babies. Butch’s momma works her tail off at Bell Helicopter, just trying to feed everybody. I should feel sorry for Butch.

  But I don’t.

  Butch open
s my lunch sack. “What you got for lunch today, Dewey?” He peers in, and he pulls out my apple. Takes a big bite out of it. Apple juice streams out of his mouth as he chews. Then he tosses the apple back into the bag. “Got any cookies?” he says, rummaging around in my lunch.

  “Not today, Butch,” I say, just wishing he’d go away.

  Butch tosses my lunch onto the floor. Then he turns to me. He takes two knuckles and rubs them on my head. “Bring cookies tomorrow, huh? I like cookies.” He gets up and saunters away.

  Why do I deserve this? I’m not a bad guy. But I either take it or do something about it. And I know I’m not going to do something about it.

  The bell rings, and I gather up my lunch, books, and notebook to head to the intercom room. I slow a moment at the trash can to open my sack and throw away the mutilated apple.

  Mrs. Haynes calls out, “Good morning, Dewey,” as I pass her office.

  The vice principal leads the pledge and reads the morning announcements, then says into the mic, “And now this morning’s devotional with Dewey Snodgress.”

  I get closer to the microphone and hold the copy so I can read it easily. I begin, “This morning’s thoughts are from the poet John Donne. He said, ‘No man is an island,

  Entire of itself,

  Every man is a piece of the continent,

  A part of the main.’

  “In other words, we are all a part of this world, and we are here to help and appreciate each other. Let us pray. Lord, we ask you fill each of us here today with the wisdom, grace, and goodwill to see every student, every teacher, every staff member here has worth and can be our friends. They, each and every one of them, deserve respect and friendship. In Jesus’s name, we pray.” But before I say the “amen,” I add, “And, on a personal note, I want to say I appreciate my friend, Butch. Amen.”

  I don’t know what made me go off script. I’d probably catch hell for it from Mrs. Haynes or Mr. Waters, but in the moment, my brain told me it was time to fight back. Yeah, it was a tiny thing. And I wasn’t sure what it meant. Was I extending friendship to Butch? Was I trying to humiliate him? Trying to make everyone else think Butch was friends with me, Dewey the Dolt? I don’t know. I would just have to wait and see how it played out.