Free Savage by Nathaniel G. Moore Page B

to sneak beers, I poked my head out.
    "I didn’t know you were coming back this weekend." I said.
    "Yeah, last-minute thing," Holly said, blowing her bangs from her eyes, putting the beers into her laundry basket.
    "I have to do a multimedia thing tomorrow for English. Like film it with some guys from class. On the play Death of a Sales Guy ."
    "Man," Holly said, dragging her still-warm laundry into my room.
    "Yeah, Man. These guys from class are coming over."
    "Andrew?" 11
    11. We had quarreled in January while watching Madonna’s Justify My Love video, which Andrew had taped. This full version he had taped was a hot property, and he wanted me to see it because it was banned in late 1990 when it was released. He kept putting it on PAUSE/STILL as Madonna undulated in black lace panties. Andrew shut the door to his den and began to prod and poke at my semi-erect penis with one hand as his high-powered VCR slow-motion scanned the shot of Madonna’s lace covered behind writhing in black and white. I got up to leave, feeling a strange reluctance to participate. I got up off the couch and stormed out, with Andrew’s condescending tone reverberating down the stairs, something about never talking to me again. I walked home feeling angry and somehow relieved. We had just started speaking again weeks later in early March, the incident erased.
    "No, he’s not in my class."
    "Don’t tell Dad," she said, putting a bottle of beer into the laundry basket. "What time are they coming?"
    "Noon."
    Holly was balling socks. "This laundry is a futile abyss."
    "Maybe you could be in it, like the video we gotta do, help us out?"
    "No way. Going shopping; can’t."

    *

    "I’m going to punch that little bitch in the tits next time I see her!" Holly shouted on the phone. I shook my head and torpedoed down the stairs to my room. I had no time to spare; those idiots from school would be over in less than two hours to work on our English assignment.
    I shifted my custodial activities to the basement, attempting to normalize it. Mom chimed in, with her usual mauve sweater, and exhausted, dowel-eyed glare. I was halfway down the stairs.
    "Better clean your room!"
    To which I retorted, "Those jerks aren’t going anywhere near my room!" Then I laughed maniacally. "They will never see my laboratory, my master plans, my secret hidden..."
    "All right, fine," Mom growled. "Help me unload the dishwasher!"
    I knew finding material to add realism to the video project wouldn’t be hard; props were in abundance; excess wood, metal and plastic objects were everywhere. Mops, lumber, pipes .
    From where I stood, I could see that my bedroom door was ajar. I had moved my geeky sci-fi props from the main basement into my room (wooden guns painted grey and black, model space ships and other odd creations were covered with clothing). The thought of strangers from school sitting on my bed, asking me questions about my choice in décor or requesting an explanation after giving me a what the hell is that ? twisted-teenaged face in regard to a Star Wars prop made me shudder with disgust and terror.
    Mom shouted, "What time are they supposed to be here?"
    "They’re coming at noon, I told you already!" I shouted up the dirty stairwell.
    "Do they want food?"
    Mom had a thing about food and people coming over, no big deal but really, even the most minor snack getting plus-oned was enough to throw her into a fit; as if another hot dog or peanut-butter sandwich was the equivalent to fixing a rack of lamb followed by a deep-dish seven-cheese lasagna.
    "I told them to eat their own food outside in the driveway before coming in."
    "Oh, be quiet," Mom said. "Just answer the question."
    "I don’t know; think they probably will have eaten."
    "Well, you should have asked them," Mom said, shaking her head and vanished in a wash of late-morning noise.
    "I can’t think of everything ," I said, appearing with a half-full plastic bag. I shoved