Thirteen

By B K Buis

Thirteen-year-old Pete Johnson didn't say the 'N' word, but his life is turned upside down when his best friend's brother accuses him of using it. Pete is subjected to both physical and mental abuse, much via social media, but ultimately, they learn there is one word that shouldn't be said by anybody.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B K Buis
• Release date: Mar 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005644949

B K Buis

B.K. Buis has been a high school Language Arts and Theatre teacher for twenty-seven years. He's written many skits for Pioneer Drama., and The Family Tree is his first young adult novel. He also co-founded and ran a community theatre, The New London Theatre, in Snellville, Georgia.

Book preview

thirteen (thur-teen) noun - a cardinal number, 10 plus 3. a symbol for this number, as 13 or XIII. a set of this many persons or things.

In this story, the dog does not die. My sister tells me it is very important that you know from the beginning that the dog does not die. He gets yelled at a couple of times and kicked once and even bitten by a snake, but if you’re like my sister who hates stories that end with a dead dog (she even felt sorry when Cujo died after we’d seen the movie on some Saturday afternoon) then you don’t have to worry. You can go ahead and care about the dog all you want because he’ll still be alive when you’re through reading.

That year I turned thirteen, and you’d better believe I now view the number thirteen with a whole lot more respect than I did before. When I was younger, thirteen didn’t seem scarier than any other number, even when I was ten and rode to the thirteenth floor on the Tower of Terror at Disney World. Kat, short for Katherine, has reminded me many times that I shut my eyes the entire ride, but that’s beside the point. The point is that now that I’ve lived through thirteen, I understand why people avoid it as much as possible. I even googled ‘Why is thirteen unlucky?’ and read something about the Code of Hammurabi and that Judas was the thirteenth guest at the Last Supper, but all I know is that thirteen was unlucky for me.

That summer our mom moved us from Pennsylvania to Georgia because of a problem with my dad that I may tell you about later. We squeezed in around (my mom’s words) her older sister Aunt Pat and her husband Uncle Dave, who we’d only seen twice in our lives, but their two sons were already grown and out, so there was kind of enough room.

During the last week of July and our first week in Georgia, Kat and I were sitting in the front room of the house while Mom and Aunt Pat had one of many long morning talks in the kitchen. They held long evening talks, too, but Aunt Pat started work at eleven in the morning, so she and Mom fell into a habit of talking as soon as Uncle Dave left the house around eight. Kat was doing her best to annoy me by swinging her legs forward and then letting them swing back to hit the couch, and I was already annoyed by the heat despite the ceiling fan going full-blast over our heads (why they didn’t have the air-conditioning going full-blast I don’t know). I was also trying to listen to the kitchen conversation because it was important. Today their main conversation revolved around whether our dog Buddy would be able to stay or not. Aunt Pat told Mom that Uncle Dave had been allergic to dogs growing up and though we’d only been there a few days and Buddy was a small brown terrier, Uncle Dave already had trouble with a cough and Aunt Pat worried about him scratching and breaking out in hives. Kat must have been listening, too, because she muttered under her breath, Damn bees.

My sister learned to cuss that summer, too. She just turned ten and I guess she thought it’d make her more grown-up to swear. She started with bitch because of some dog show, and she liked the reaction she got when she asked Mom if our dog Buddy was a bitch (which is ridiculous because anybody with half a brain knows that a dog named Buddy is a boy), and then she quickly worked her way up to all the other curse words that the neighborhood kids knew. The list didn’t stretch too long, but the words sounded impressive. It only took a week to work her way up to the big-time swear words, but after she dropped the f-bomb on her friend Molly, I threatened to tell Mom. After cussing me out, she mostly quit. She still forgets every now and then, usually when she wants to aggravate me.

Now, when she said, Damn bees, it took me a couple seconds to realize what she was talking about, but before I could say anything, we heard a solid thump on the front porch.

Buddy yipped and trotted to the door to look through the screen. What he saw made him whine to go outside. Kat looked at me and stopped kicking the couch. I scowled at her (because that’s what I usually do when I look at her) and went to the door. A black boy around my age stood on the sidewalk in the front yard looking nervously at the house.

What is it? Kat asked.

It’s a black boy.

Doing what?

Just standing.

Did he hit the house?

I don’t know. He’s just standing, looking at it.

What for?

I don’t know.

Damn boy.

Kat, cut it out.

Cut what out? I can say any damn thing I want.

She was in a mood to aggravate me. No, you can’t, and you know it.

Sumbitch, the boy said just loud enough that we could hear.

See! If he can swear, so can I! Kat said.

Sumbitch! he repeated a little more vehemently. Cursing sounded different when there was a reason behind it, and I could tell he had a good reason.

I stepped out onto the porch. Buddy shot past my legs and down the stairs and ran toward the boy, whose eyes widened until I could see the white all around them.

It’s all right. He won’t bitecha, I said quickly as Buddy sniffed and danced all around his legs. The boy relaxed a little bit, but I could tell he wasn’t used to a dog doing its best to be friends.

What kinda dog is he?

Mostly a terrier. Maybe some mutt.

My auntie had a terrier. It bit me on the hand once. I ain’t got a dog.

By now Kat stood next to me studying the boy.

That’s Kat, I said. I’m Pete.

I’m Raymond Barnes, but folks call me Scooter.

Kat said, Whatcha looking at the house for?

I’m looking for something. You don’t live here, do you?

We do now. We didn’t used to.

He gingerly patted Buddy on the head, which satisfied Buddy enough that he stopped sniffing Scooter’s leg and found some shade underneath the front steps. Scooter shaded his eyes trying to look under Aunt Pat’s drooping azalea bushes that ran the length of the porch.

Whatcha looking for? Kat said.

A turtle. My brother chunked it cause he got mad at me.

We’ll help you, I offered and leaned down to look under the bushes.

Why’d he throw it? Kat asked.

Cause he’s gay.

My breath caught at the slur, but no one noticed.

You live around here? Kat asked him.

One street over. That’s my backyard you can see through there, and he pointed between two houses on the opposite side of the street. I’ve lived here my whole life. Where y’all from?

Pennsylvania.

It’s cold there, but I like the Steelers.

By now, all three of us crawled on our hands and knees rooting through the bushes. After the initial excitement, Buddy scootched under the porch to cool off and get out of the sun. He lay there panting and watching our search.

Kat asked, What’s so special about this turtle anyway?

Nothin’. ’Cept he’s mine. He’s a box turtle. I found him a couple days ago and been keeping him in an old footlocker my uncle gave me. He was in a war and when he got back he said he never wanted to see any of that crap again, only he didn’t say crap, and then he gave it to me. I fixed it up real nice. Jayzee’s gotta nice home even though my mom says he smells.

Is Jayzee your uncle?

Naw, that’s the turtle. And he’s gotta water dish and a shoe box he can hide in and a little ramp and he’s even…

What’s he need a ramp for? Kat interrupted.

In case he wants to go up it.

What’s a turtle wanna go up a ramp for?

I don’t know. Who knows what a turtle wants to do? Maybe he’s just looking for a different view.

That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of, Kat said. You’d think he was a circus turtle the way you’re talking. ’Sides, it won’t matter if you don’t find him.

All that hard work. And my brother’ll probably want the footlocker and get it.

That’s not fair.

You’ve got a brother. Is everything fair with him?

Kat giggled and looked at me. I grimaced and said, What’re you looking at?

Nothin’, stupid.

Right when she said Nothin’, Buddy shot to his feet and ran yipping past us toward the street.

What’s got him? Scooter said.

I don’t know. Buddy?

Lookee there! And Scooter pointed to where Buddy had been laying. It’s Jayzee!

Sure enough. That turtle Jayzee must have snuck up on Buddy. With a tooth-gapped grin on his face, Scooter slid under the porch, picked up Jayzee and returned triumphantly with the box turtle in his hand.

Kat stared in wonder at the two of us smiling. He’s still just a dumb ol’ turtle.

I looked at Scooter, and he looked at me. That turtle started our friendship; three months later, a single word nearly ended it.

Two

zombie (zom-bee) noun - the body of a dead person given the semblance of life, but mute and will-less, by a supernatural force, usually for some evil purpose.

A few days later, Scooter and I sat on the front porch drinking some cold lemonade from Aunt Pat while Kat drew in an old sketchbook she’d found somewhere. That’s one good thing I can tell you about Kat - she can draw like no other kid I know. Even though she was only ten, no matter what she’d draw, you could always tell what it was, not like some other kid who’d have to explain, That’s a horse in a barn, because it looked like a sloth inside a messy cave. And she wasn’t stuck up about it either. That’s another good thing I can say about her. There’s not much else.

Scooter also thought he was a pretty good drawer, but he wasn’t really. He started drawing a graphic novel called Zombie Heaven because he liked zombies and figured they had to go somewhere after they died, so why not their own heaven. He’d drawn a few pictures, but they didn’t look much like zombies, although he did use a lot of red. He asked me if I wanted to write the story, and at first I said maybe, but then I thought why not. I let him borrow a copy of The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, and I think he liked it. He’s not much of a reader, but I’m pretty sure he must have looked at the pictures because his drawings got a little better. Maybe.

He pointed out the houses in the neighborhood to avoid if we didn’t want trouble.

I don’t go near that one, about a dark green house at the end of the block, but you’d probably be okay.

Why’s that? Kat asked.

"They don’t like black kids. Maybe they don’t like any kids, but they’re likely

to call the police if they don’t like somebody."

They called the police on you?

Not me. But I’m not gonna give ’em a reason to either.

He knew every single family within two blocks of his house and said he’d hidden in the bushes of nearly every one of them and had come to know the neighbors by stealth. I asked him what he’d been doing hiding in folks’ bushes, but he just said, That red house is okay, while pointing down the street. They’re old folks who’ve given up yelling at kids. And they give good Halloween candy.

What’s their name?

I don’t know. I just know they don’t bother coming outside if you’re using their bushes.

Kat giggled. It sounds like you’re peeing.

Scooter replied, Well, I ain’t saying I haven’t done that, and I ain’t saying I have. Sometimes you got to make the best of what’s around.

Why don’t you draw that for the book? I laughed.

Zombies peeing off a porch? Kat asked.

Yeah, it could be real bloody.

And in Zombie Heaven, Scooter explained, they can pee wherever they want to.

That’s silly, Kat said.

Hey, zombies are people, too, but when she giggled he changed the subject back to the neighbors. Your aunt’s okay. One time she gave me a popsicle without even asking. Said I looked hot. Not many folks’d do that for someone they don’t know.

I knew my aunt knew Scooter better than he thought because she’d already told our mom it’d be okay for us to play together.

Buddy, under a temporary reprieve by Uncle Dave as long as we bathed him once a week, slept in front of the door, but he woke, stretched, and wandered toward the steps where he noticed three boys walking toward us on the street. He yipped and trotted down the stairs to greet them.

Scooter looked up and quietly said, Let’s go inside.

Who’s that? Kat asked.

Zeke.

Isn’t he your brother?

Yeah, and he started walking into the house.

Scooter! Zeke yelled. Hey, Scooter!

Scooter had his hand on the door but hesitated a moment too long.

Gimme a dollar, nigga!

My mouth dropped open, and I heard Kat gasp behind me as Zeke’s two white friends snickered. This was the first time we had ever heard anyone say that word in real life. Scooter slowly closed the door and turned toward his brother.

I ain’t got one.

Sure you do. Come here.

What for?

What for? Zeke mimicked in a falsetto voice. Cause I said so.

Aw, leave me alone, but he walked down the steps toward his brother anyway.

Gimme a dollar, and I’ll leave you alone.

Buddy sniffed around their shoes as Kat and I watched the scene unfold. Somewhere inside me, I knew I could quickly get my aunt, but something also told me that would make it worse for Scooter later on.

Zeke looked at his two friends and smiled.

Maybe we oughta pick him up and shake him upside down.

I told you; I ain’t got a dollar.

Let’s see, and he grabbed Scooter’s arms and pushed him towards one of the other boys, who grinned and pinned Scooter’s arms behind his back. Zeke reached into Scooter’s pockets while Scooter squirmed to get away. Buddy whined apprehensively.

Get your dumb dog away from me! Zeke snarled and kicked out with his leg, catching Buddy on his rump. Before I’d moved a foot, Kat jumped off the steps and shouted, Leave him alone! I wasn’t sure if she meant Scooter or Buddy, who had scrambled away and was staring at the scene with his tail between his legs while Zeke’s two friends held Scooter firmly between them.

Who’s that, your girlfriend? Zeke asked Scooter.

I ain’t his girlfriend! Kat shouted. Just somebody who ain’t afraid of you!

Zeke stepped away from Scooter and looked Kat up and down. Suddenly, he punched Scooter squarely in the stomach. I could hear the breath knocked out of him as he sagged to his knees. Zeke looked back at Kat. Well, maybe you oughta.

What’s going on here? Aunt Pat stood inside the house looking through the screen door.

Nothing, ma’am, Zeke said, and his friends immediately let Scooter fall to the ground. Just talking to my little brother.

Well, is he all right?

Scooter looked like he was going to puke.

Yes, ma’am.

He punched him! Kat shouted. He just punched him in the stomach!

Aunt Pat charged out of the house, but Zeke and his friends took off running down the street. She helped Scooter stand up and stood watching with her hands on her hips as the three boys disappeared behind a house.

That was Zeke, wasn’t it?

Yes, ma’am. Scooter had just enough of his breath to answer. Corliss ain’t hit me for a while now.

She looked at him wide-eyed for a second.

How you ever reached this age, I don’t know, she said more to herself than to any of us.

Ma’am?

Never mind. I’m calling your mom. And before he could protest, she went inside. Scooter, Kat, and I could hear her on the phone, but we stayed silent as embarrassment crept into all three of us for different reasons. Buddy, whose feelings had recovered fastest, did his best to help by nudging our hands, but even he could sense that the fun had been taken out of the day. Aunt Pat reappeared at the door and announced, Scooter, you’re staying for lunch. Y’all come inside while your mom and I make sandwiches before stomping back to the kitchen. Scooter didn’t reply. He sat on the bottom step with his back to us still catching his breath. Kat pursed her lips at me, and I knew she wanted me to say something to him.

Scooter, you feelin’ better? I tentatively began.

He nodded.

Is he always like that?

He nodded again and said under his breath, ’Cept when he’s worse.

There was another long pause as we watched him from the corner of our eyes, and then Kat broke the spell.

Geez, Scooter, your brother’s a real…

Kat!

Three

dance (dans, dahns) verb - to move one's feet or body, or both, rhythmically in a pattern of steps, especially to the accompaniment of music.

A few days before we started school, Scooter invited me over for dinner. We would both be in the seventh grade at Allen Middle School and often commiserated with each other over how short the summer was and why we had to go to school at all and how we’d rather die than go to school. Zeke wasn’t due back from his father’s house until the day before school started after serving a penance, so Scooter’s house was temporarily a Zeke-free zone. Ever since he’d punched Scooter at my house, we’d referred to him as Zeke the Freak, Scooter’s secret name for his brother for years (said only once to his face, which Scooter admitted was a big mistake). Though I’d been to their house several times, I had yet to see his oldest brother Corliss, who spent most of his summer either practicing with the high school football team or lifting weights at the school. Aunt Pat said she’d known both Corliss and Zeke for various and sundry reasons when her own boys were younger, but she never explained the particulars.

After a dinner of meat loaf with mashed potatoes and peas (Scooter introduced me to the delicacy of mixing the potatoes and peas together), we sat on his front porch seeing who could spit the farthest. We could hear some girls squealing down the street skipping rope until their mom called them in as the light faded. The heat, even at seven p.m., soon dried our mouths, and I noticed Scooter intently watching the house across the street from his own, which had its windows open and a lamp on in what appeared to be a living room.

Whatchoo looking at? I asked him.

You’ll see. There’s an old couple lives there. The Kincaids. They do something awful funny almost every night.

Like what?

You’ll see.

I was interested. Adults doing funny things was almost always worth a look. The internet provided many examples. We eased down his front steps and sat on the sidewalk for a better