Moon Face

Pollen was attacking my face, and my face made it known. It was red, snot streaming, and puffy. The school’s ‘garden’ was a mixture of big bluestem grass that peered down and bull thistle that jabbed out from juniper bushes. The bluestem brushed over the brick wall outlining the stadium. I had my back pressed to it, heaving. The sunlight shone through the dirt-encrusted stairs, forming slats along my bare legs. I watched from under the bleachers as he was thrown off the field toward me. 

“Jonker, just what are we doin’ here?!” Mr. Munchick spat. He slid his palm down across his dewy, wrinkled face. He was always slick and sniffly this time of the year, like me. Mac Jonker, charmer that he was, just laughed apologetically. 

“Boy, if you don’t get it together,” he started, but trailed off. “Alright boys, line up!” 

Mac pointed to himself. The coach shook his head, took off his hat, and slicked back his hair. “You need to take a walk son, cool off.”

I watched as he walked up above me to get his duffle bag and gear. As the lines of his shadow shifted across my skin, I could almost feel his movement. It was a sharp, rapid movement. I could never move like that, so aware of my body. My body was not a part of me, as if it belonged to somebody else. I was as disoriented as they come. To top it off, I think I just missed a good fight. Well, I had been fighting my own battle. 

As I watched his ankles descend the stairs, I got a sudden intrusive urge. My hand darted out before I could stop myself. I pinched the back of his foot. He made a noise like a rat and I snickered. Mac paused for a moment. Then, he disappeared. There was no shadow, just those slats of hot sunlight now running all across me.

There was a thud to my right and then a sudden smack on the back of my head. It was just hard enough to sting. I turned to see the man himself, Mac Jonker, duffle bag and all. His knotting eyebrows told me he was not amused, but I did not feel like explaining myself to a guy who just hit me. Mac must have jumped down from the railing. 

“You’ve got nice ankles,” I said. “Very womanly.” That softened him a bit.

“So you think you can just do whatever you want?” he accused, with a feminine flair. He crossed his arms with a hmph and strutted off. He was pretty good at it too.

I waited there, watching practice wrap up. Nothing else of note happened. I snagged one of them before they all left.

“Mac,” I said. 

“Yea, uh…” he pulled out his phone and gave me his number. 

“Thanks.”

He was the full moon guiding me through the dark. One might call him a crator-face, but that pimpled face was glowing. His pleasing smile and his starry eyes moved me to a place I had not yet found myself.

“I won’t pinch your ankles,” he promised me. When he took my hand, I felt my thoughts clear up. This was something that made me feel different, in all sorts of awful and wonderful ways. I had not felt this way since.. ever. I did not think I would ever feel this way again. I had to savor that feeling. I had to do whatever I could to preserve this feeling. “Do you trust me?”

I was not quite sure, but now was not the time to air my concerns. I watched the park and how it livened in the night. Here, there were real flowers that kissed the riverbed. The trees were large as swept all the way down. Their knobbed roots plunged in and out of the thick, soft grass, with moss seeping into all their woody crevices. 

“If you did,” I mentioned. “I would get to slap you.”

“You’re funny,” he said, without laughing. “But I wish you hadn’t made me scream like an infant.”

“..like a rat,” I corrected. He squeezed my hand.

“What a flattering animal to compare me to.”

I wanted to keep the dialogue going, but I was lost in myself. I could not keep my mind still. It was just as noisy as all the insects. It felt odd to get so close with a stranger, so suddenly. I had heard his name before and seen him in classes. We knew each other only through a shallow mask. 

“What do you do, Mac?” He gave it some thought. I liked how considering he was with his words, calculating before they left his lips. 

“I like opera music. My mom would play it in the car all the time.”

“That’s not really doing anything,” I told him.

“I listen. That’s what I do.”

“Alright, what else?”

“I take notes in History and I sleep through Geography. I play hacky-sack at lunch. I’m an office assistant. I go to football practice and then I go wash cars. Sometimes, I help the detailer there. I help my little brother with his homework. I braid my little sister’s hair and we all go walking through the plains. I take pictures of the antelope there. I hang them up on the fridge.”

I took in his routine. He had laid out a comprehensive map for me. I wondered if there was any room in there for me. I supposed that this time, in the night, was my spot. Well, it was too soon to be portioning out his time for myself. 

“Do you want to play for the NFL?” I asked him. He laughed at the thought.

“About as much as I want to be an opera singer.”

“..Aren’t you going to ask me now?” I wondered, looking over at him. I had forgotten that I still had his hand.

“If you want to tell me what you do, just tell me. I won’t stop you.” 

I could not tell if I liked what he had said or if I hated it. It was not uninterested, but it was not entirely enthusiastic. I ground my teeth in contemplation, back and forth and side to side. I did not say anything, but I leaned against him. I would rather have him ask later and keep the mystery going. If he cared, he would eventually. 

We watched the clouds clear away until the stars reflected on the river. They even shone in the slick mud lining. At that moment, I believed in something like fate. Maybe something deeper than fate, like a purpose or a role I was meant to fulfill. 

He shared no such wonder, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Through that tiredness, he waited until I stood to leave. 

“I want to see you again,” he said. It was blunt as could be. If I was a swooning kind of lady, that would have been the time to swoon. Then again, I was not sure.

“Mac, I don’t know. You seem not very interested?”

“What do I have to do to show you I am? Look, I’m just a little tired tonight,” he admitted. It was hardly a revelation. I watched those sleepy eyes and saw he was earnest.

“I need to know you’re not just playing a game with me.”

“I don’t play games very well,” he said. “Never have.” There was something I needed done, something he had the skills for. 

“Wash my car for me?” I asked him.

My car was filthy. There was still grime everywhere: still water spots, dust, dirt, mud, and anything else one might consider grime. I was mad then. I thought I had found something here. That thing everybody talks about. My fist clanged against the car window. The fragile glass did not hesitate to spray me, the sidewalk, and the driver’s seat. 

No, this was not so bad. I should not get so angry. Not for this. This was fixable. Not the window, but this thing that we might have. I could still fix it, somehow. He was not some slacker. This work did not have to repeat itself. 

A hand grazed my shoulder. I spun around to see Mac behind me. He had two sandwiches on a plate. He froze when he saw my hand, and then what it had done. 

“What the hell?” he asked. “I go inside to get us something to eat and you break the window? Dude, I just cleaned this!”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, dejected. “I should have told you but I was too embarrassed.”

“Huuuh?”

“My car’s been locked for a while. The keys are on the inside. I haven’t been able to get them out.” I wrung my wrist. I did not want him to assume the worst about me.

“You didn’t want to call a locksmith?” He wondered.

“I don’t… No, I can’t afford that.” He handed me a sandwich. My blood stained the white bread. I went back inside the house to wrap both of them up. I was not so hungry now. He had not cleaned the inside. That was the most important part of the car. I had asked him to clean the whole car. 

Yet, maybe he was just not a very good detailer. After all, he said he

“I cleaned up the glass,” he said, rushing through the door. “You really should have just asked me to try to break in… I found your keys. Pretty hidden, you got a lot of old bags and cups in there,” he said, looking at my mangled hand”

“Yeah, I’m not fond of throwing things away.”

I crouched up on the ladder of the school building. It connected the ground to the roof of the one-story building. It was rusting so badly that I made myself ready to bolt if I felt the slightest wobble. I sat watching the last cars pull away, burying my head in the neck of my jacket. I wanted to see Mac more than anything. It was the final game of the season and I had never gone to see him play in all the time I had known him. The first and only time I had watched him practice was months past. 

“What are you doing, miss?” Mr. Munchick asked.

“Minding my business,” I said, pointedly. He was damp as usual. He whistled and waved his hand down. I slowly climbed off. Instead of standing to face him, I sunk to the ground. 

“Why are you still at the school? Go home, be free,” he joked.  

“I’m staying to watch the game. I want to see Mac play,” I answered.

“Ah, well…” he said, squatting down in front of me. His brown jacket smelled like old, sour coffee. “Mac is benched… for now.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Something told me this had to do with the fight.

“Look, Mac is a good kid. He’s just not… a very good player,” the coach explained. The nerve of him to say that. This old man had lost touch if that was his take. I couldn’t see my face, but it felt mean. The look on his face confirmed it. 

“You’re just an old man,” I told him. “What do you know.”

“Hey, none of that,” he scolded. “I have nothing against the kid, but I think he chose the wrong sport.”

It fell faster than I expected. It landed right where I intended. He came down right with it, right onto the concrete. I can down with it two, right on top of both of them. I stomped as hard as I could, jumping up and down.

I had never seen an old man die, but he fought tooth and nail for every year he had left. He had been milking it for too long. If I had not done it, time would have been far crueler. From the vacant stare left behind, I knew he did not understand what had happened. How could he? He knew very little if that was how he thought. I hid the old bastard in the bluestem. There was not much blood anywhere, not with all the dirt here. I kicked it around some. There were only the dark patches left that the ladder had kept from sun-bleaching. I heaved the ladder up, end by end. It was also easily hidden in the tall garden. 

I headed over to Mac’s house. It was clean, as it always was. It smelled like all sorts of fall candles. Fall was not for another week. Mac was lying on the couch, not in his gear or even jersey. He noticed my concern right away.

“I don’t think I’ll go to the final game.” It was then that I realized that the coach had been right. Mac looked dejected, like all those games on the bench were weighing down on him. This was not the charming Mac I knew. I thought I had known what he was and how great he was. I thought I could expect something more. That was the real letdown, how little he cared about himself - about me.

“That’s okay Macky!” I sounded chipper, trying to cheer him up. He barely registered the sound of my voice. He was too far lost. 

“I never really liked the game anyway. It was my dad who made me do it. Never been my sport,” he said. I realized then, that was exactly what the coach had said. He had known Mac’s true nature. 

“I got a better game we could play,” I offered. “Hey Mac, do you think you’d fit in your duffle bag?” He got a slight gleam in his eye but he shook his head.

“I’m not in the mood.”

I grabbed it off the ottoman and emptied it into the trash.

“Out of sight, out of mind.” He rubbed his temples.

“What the.. I gotta return that, you know..”

“Yea yea,” I said. “Later. Let’s not think about all that now. It’s a new trash bag anyways.”

I stomped over to him, very menacingly and with a sweet smile. I put it over his head. Yes, this would fit. He sighed but made no motion to remove it. I continued, putting both arms inside. I slowly scooped him up and plopped him onto the carpet so I could get his legs in. He did not help but he did stay rigid as I moved him.

“You always makin’ me do something,” he grumbled. “Even when I’m not in the mood. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not the right-“

“Not the right guy,” I conceded. I zipped him right in.

“W-wait..” 

He reached for the zipper on his end, but I held it firm. 

“Hey wait I can’t unzip it,” he said. “Open it up, I’m stuck.”

I just laughed. I was tired of him letting me down again and again these months. He was a good brother and a good son, I would give him that. Yet, he was a terrible partner. Time and time again I had given him chances, just for him to mess up. He was such a mess and hardly a man at all, I had come to find.

“Hmm. Maybe if you had something a little more breathable than polyester.”

“That’s not funny,” he said. He started pushing out against the bag, all limbs, all flailing. 

“Look, Mina.. please, please, please please please let me out,” he begged. Each please was a breath. He was hyperventilating. That was about the worst way to conserve what little oxygen he had left. He began flailing more. I could only wait and see if the bag would rip. I wonder what he would do if he got free, or what I would do. Hopefully, he would not make me have to do something worse. Oh, right.

“I killed your coach too. He was telling me you weren’t football material. If you can’t even get out of a duffle bag… I guess he was right.”

As soon as the bag went still, I kicked it. No response, I zipped it open, just a little. The buzz of the zipper marked my own. This vicious knot in my stomach was both thrilling and appalling. I wondered how his lungs felt. They must be screaming just as much as he had. All that fight, just to give out raw. 

Nothing but tangled hair stared back at me. I poked his head. Still, stillness. When I pulled his hair, the reaction was much the same. I did not know what kind of zombie I expected, but it was disappointing. Just then, a brilliant idea entered my mind. It would be symbolic, artistic, and perfect. I would make him into what he could never be. I opened the door and the car door to start. 

I laid by the bag and rolled it over my arm. I positioned it along my shoulder and twisted up to sit, pulling the bag down to my elbow as I turned then up again with an overarm. He was not as heavy as I had expected. I supposed it made sense, scrawny as he was. I got one knee up and took a breath. I pulled my other leg up, slowly squatting to stand. I wobbled, but it was not far to the car. The duffle had moved to the back of my neck. Along my back. I hunched over to keep it from sliding. My shaking arms were doing little to prevent that. I killed him, so it was my burden to bear. 

The car ride was smooth and seamless. I did not bother with the parking lot, I pulled up right up into the field. The coach’s usual spot was empty. There stood the parents and the players on the field, some waiting and some calling. They were confused when they saw my olive green Pacer. I took Mac from the trunk. This time, I rolled him down the slight slope to his teammates. 

“Jonker’s here!” I announced.