Period 8 - By Chris Crutcher Page 0,1

his buddies. He’s tall and built like an athletic machine. None of his features are classic, but his slightly crooked nose, shaggy brown hair, and dark watery eyes fetch him more between-class approaches than his friends can stand. He hears, “She wants to have your babies,” in his ear at least twice daily. Most often from Justin Chenier.

But then came Hannah.

Paulie raps lightly on the door to room 137, Homestead Studio Suites, an extended-stay hotel less than a mile from his house.

The door opens on a man in his early forties dressed in khakis, an open collared blue gingham shirt, and Birkenstocks. “Hey, Dad,” Paulie says. “We still on for breakfast?”

“Indeed we are,” Roger Baum says. “How much time you got?”

“Much as we want,” Paulie says. “My first two periods are free this morning.”

“I should have gone to your high school,” his dad says. “Let me get my jacket and in five minutes we’ll be knee-deep in pancakes.”

“How long before you’re back home?” Paulie asks as they slide into a booth at the IHOP across the street.

“Shouldn’t be long,” his father says. “Your mother and I have been talking. We had dinner last night.”

“She seems pretty determined this time.”

“You must have talked to her before we had dinner,” his father says. “She’s coming around.”

The waitress brings the “bottomless” pot of coffee and takes their orders: a sausage and cheese omelet with hash browns, wheat toast, and juice for Paulie, pigs-in-a-blanket for his dad.

“Man, Dad, don’t you get tired of it?” Paulie asks, as she leaves to put in the order.

Roger Baum closes his eyes, shakes his head slowly. “I do get tired. Things just . . . you know way too much. You shouldn’t be dealing with this.”

“Right,” Paulie says, “but I do, like, every time.”

“Your mom should keep this between me and her.”

“Come on, Dad, what’s she supposed to say when you’re home one night and packing your stuff the next? It’s not like she complains to me. When things are shitty it’s obvious.”

“I guess,” his dad says. “I just don’t like you having to deal with it.”

Only way that’s going to happen is if you stop doing it. Paulie sits back. This conversation ends the same every time. “I have personal reasons for asking, Dad. Why do you do it?”

His dad sighs. “I don’t need the judgment, Paulie. I’ll talk, but you don’t bring the guilt.”

If you’re feeling guilty, it’s not ’cause I’m bringing it. “Fair enough.”

They spare the waitress as she places their breakfasts in front of them.

“Part of it is the job,” his father says when she walks away. “The stress of it, the high, and then the boredom. The call comes and you’re in the truck, lights flashing and siren wailing, weaving in and out of traffic, then you’re scrambling to save somebody’s life or get them to emergency where somebody else can. You do all you can and then bam! It’s over. You either did it or not.

“Then you go for a couple of beers, which turns into a half rack, feeling like a hero, or at least a near-hero.” He looks away. “Sometimes inventing glory that never was, and if your partner is female, things get . . . well. You get to thinking you’re the only ones who understand. Next thing you know . . .”

Paulie says, “Wait.”

“You promised not to judge.”

Paulie throws up his hands. “No judgment, but that was this time. Time before it was that lady at the fitness place and unless I missed the newsflash, it wasn’t on fire. . . .”

Paulie’s dad leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’re right. Bullshit excuse. It’s . . . character for lack of a better word. Sometimes it feels like it’s in my DNA.”

“This is the part I want to know.”

“I was twenty-three when your mother and I got married,” Paulie’s dad says. “You know the story. There’s nothing I wouldn’t have done to get your mother interested. We broke up for a short while when we were seniors and I swore if I ever got her back, I’d never chance losing her again.”

“Why’d you break up that first time?” Paulie asks.

His dad’s eyes close.

“That’s what I thought. How’d it happen?”

“I was the cool jock and this girl your mom hated—her name was Charlotte Weaver—was moving in on me. Your mom was out of town and Charlotte stopped over to see if I wanted to do something.”

“And the something was her,” Paulie said.

“The something was her. I felt bad afterward—scared—but