Twelve Stories

Jeff Landon

Ask Peter Emerson, boy genius, a simple question about reptiles, and he will gaze at you placidly over his juice box and say, “There are 8,240 species of reptiles worldwide, but that number is fluid.” Ruffle the hair of that little genius.

Peter Emerson is only eleven and already a rising sophomore at Jefferson and Grant University. He lives alone with his mother in an off-campus apartment complex called Yorktown Arms. His father teaches American History in China, where ice cream was invented.

In pre-calculus, Peter sits between two Amandas. They text message each other and giggle through class, and then, on quiz days, cheat off Peter’s quiz. He lets them cheat because he has a crush on the brown-haired Amanda. She wears low-cut shirts and sometimes shares her morning Pop Tart with Peter. She smells like beer and toothpaste when she talks to him.

At the soccer game, Peter and his mother cheer for the Jefferson and Grant Green Dragons. When Peter’s mother sashays off to the hot dog stand for fries and vanilla milkshakes, the freshmen behind Peter whistle low. “MILF,” says one. “MILF deluxe.” Peter knows what that means. Everyone assumes he’s smart about science and stupid about the things people actually care about, but they’re wrong. After the game, a tie, Peter and his mother amble over the campus square. Leaves whirl. Couples walk by, wrapped around each other. Sometimes, at night, Peter imagines that Amanda will take his hand and place it on her boob. Maybe she’d kiss him, but probably not.

Six months later, Peter’s mother comes home with rollerblades from the secondhand sporting goods store. “Let’s have some fun today,” she says. They go to the park with Uncle Adam, who lives alone in a loft downtown. The three of them skate around a pond filled with paddleboats and algae. They hold hands like kids playing Red Rover. Later, over peanut soup and cheesecake, Peter’s mother takes a deep puff from Uncle Adam’s cigarette and says, “Peter, your father has decided to stay in China another year.” Peter chews his cheesecake. His eyes are too big for his stomach. “OK,” he says. Last year, for Christmas, his father sent him a dozen marionettes. Intricate and eerie, they hang from Peter’s ceiling on hooks like slabs of meat at the butcher’s.

Blake lives next door, and he always wants to play Monsters. He slunks around on all fours and growls at Peter. He never cuts his fingernails. Peter never gets to be the monster. He has been, at various times, a businessman, a football coach, and a missionary. All the games end with the monster devouring Peter. Today, Peter is a Pilgrim. He wants to correct Blake and inform him that the word “Pilgrim” is incorrect—the early settlers were not, in fact, interested in religious freedom; they arrived in America for economic gain, and, therefore, should be known properly as English Colonists. It doesn’t matter. At the end of the game, Blake pounces on Peter and stomps on his three-cornered hat as if it’s on fire. He bites Peter on the cheek and says, “Flesh!” Peter’s mother wants, so badly, for Peter to find some new friends.

The Creek Monster is the worst of all the monsters because he is mostly human. He waits in a cave, or behind the dead oak at the bend in the creek. He is crippled, but his one good arm is strong enough to hold Peter’s head underwater while the monster counts out loud, slowly, to thirty-five.

Tonight, Peter’s mother does not accept the long-distance charges from China. She smiles at Peter, but Peter doesn’t smile back. Soon, he knows, his mother will eat her way to sleep. She’s getting fat. She’s a cow. Peter goes upstairs and rattles his rollerblades free from his closet. He goes outside; it’s getting cold, but he’s not even going to even wear a sweater. Screw that. He skates down his street. Under the streetlamps, he raises his hands over his head to make his shadow longer. Someday, he knows, he will be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a scientist, or famous. Maybe he’ll move to Peru with Amanda. They will hike the Inca trail to Machu Picchu and sleep on a circle-shaped bed with flowers strewn all over it. Things will be different there.

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Jeff Landon has published stories in Crazyhorse, Another Chicago Magazine, Other Voices, Phoebe, Mississippi Review and other places.