The Chetster

It was just an anatomy test. That’s all it was. Some tenth-grade, end of quarter, name-all-the-bones-in-the-axial-skeleton test. It took me 45 minutes to finish, and then I up and left for lunch. I was walking when I heard him running up behind me, his untied shoelaces slapping on the linoleum. I turned to see what freak was about to blow past me, but he didn’t. He slowed and started walking to my right.

“Hey there, man!” he said in a pitch that sounded like synagogue Steve Buscemi. A dark black fedora covered his unkempt brown hair, and he tipped it at me unironically. “The name’s Chet Brownley.”

I think I recognized him. “Nuh-uh,” I said. “That’s not your name. You sit next to me in Anatomy. It’s Dylan…something.”

He pursed his face and put a finger to my lips. It smelt like Cheeto dust. “Shhhhh. You got me. They call me Dylan Langlard. But I’m trying to craft a new persona for the ladies here,” he said as he shrugged his wet-paint eyebrows, “and Chet runs off the tongue a little slicker, don’t you agree?”

“Isn’t Chet the kid that died last year in the motocross accident?”

“Yup. That’s where I got it from.” He gave me an our-little-secret wink.

I start to walk faster.

“Hey, wait up!” Dylan says as his right shoelace lassoes around his left. He almost falls. As I break away, he yells out, “I just wanted to thank you!”

I turn around. “For what? We met ten seconds ago!”

Dylan stumbles back up and throws an arm around my shoulder. “For letting me cheat off ya back there.”

“What are you talking about?”

He gives me a playful jab under the ribs, still whispering. “Ah, nice one, Brandon.” Looking over his shoulder, he screams, “I ALSO DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. DEFINITELY NOT THE LAST TEST WE TOOK.” It echoes down a completely empty hallway.

He pulls his head back to a whisper. “Seriously, though, thanks. I was in deep trouble there, so I was happy you gave me the signal.”

“What signal?”

He raises his brow with a grin. “Man, you’re a real nervous one, huh?” Over his shoulder- “I’M ALSO NOT SURE WHAT SIGNAL YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT.” The noise shatters through the silence. He looks at me again. “The palm to the face, bro. You gave me the PTF.”

“I really don’t know what that is.”

“OK, now you’re just being paranoid.” He turns back. “I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THIS PTF YOU SPEAK OF EITHER.” Bouncing down the painted cinderblock, it causes a hobbled old math teacher to peak his head out of his classroom. He sees us. “KNOCK IT OFF, DYLAN!”

“Love you Mr. K!” Dylan says, tipping his fedora again. We keep walking. “The PTF is a signal you give when you want someone to look at your paper. I was panicking, and just as I was about to turn in a zero, you lifted your hand to your chin. Then I could see and copy your answers.”

“I was just resting!”

Dylan grins. “Nice one, ‘resting.’ And I assume I was just ‘resting’ when I was staring at Mrs. Robertson’s ass all period. That’s why I respect you, man. You’re a cool dude who knows how to cover his tracks.”

Back to his normal speaking voice. “Anyways, just wanted to say thanks. And know this-” he raises his hand like a Boy Scout at ceremony, “on my honor, I will pay you back twofold. You have no idea all the good things about to happen to you.”

Before I can oppose his offer, the bell rings, shunning any conversation. As the hallway floods with teenagers, I see him saluting me off as he ran down the stairs. I sigh and hope there’s pizza for lunch.

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Calamity ensues with the final bell of the day. Locker’s smack, sneakers squeak, and Jensen and I walk through the chatter with expert navigation, our final destination the parking lot.

“So he just copied it down? Has he ever talked to you before?” Jensen asks.

“Not even an introduction. Today’s the first time I met him.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Dylan Langlard. But I guess he’s calling himself Chet now.”

Jensen nods. “Cool name. Like the motocross kid.”

“Uh-huh. Do you know him?”

“Maybe.” Jensen pauses. “Does he wear a fedora?”

“I think he showers with a fedora.”

Jensen smiles. “Oh yeah, we had freshman algebra. He bought every girl in class a secret valentine. Each with a personal note from D-Dog.”

“He was trying out names that long ago?”

“I guess. He didn’t think we knew, but we did.” The chaos dies as the gray doors close behind us, and blue afternoon sky greets our faces. “So what’s your plan now?”

“I’m not sure. Just avoid him if I can.”

Jensen half-gasps, half-chuckles. He points his finger outwards. “Good luck. I think he already found you.”

Fifteen spaces away, a sweat-covered Dylan sits on the bumper of my mom’s Chevy Tahoe. He’s wearing a green hi-vis vest, and his fedora now covers his face. It looks like he’s snoozing.

I raise my hands to my temples. “What is wrong with this kid?”

“You’re about to find out,” Jensen says. “See ya.” He starts walking away.

“Wait! Come with me, please!”

Jensen’s eyes widens and he shakes his head. “No shot. That kid’s glowing like social kryptonite. Not even Superman’s getting laid after touching that.” He keeps walking.

I sigh and start making for my car. Eight steps away, he hears me. He looks up, and his fedora slides down his lumpy lap. His face is glossy in the sun, and with a smile he holds up a tiny metallic whistle.

“You ready, Brandon?”

“What is this?”

Dylan drops to one knee and turns his voice into that of a 15^th century knight. “Repaying thy debt to thy one who has saveth me.” He groans as he gets back up. “You’re getting the fast lane today, pal.”

Back behind him, the cars are starting to jam up at the exit. Two seniors in a pickup come to a halt and look at them with mute expression.

“I don’t want the fast lane, Dylan.”

He laughs, wiping some sweat beads off his brow with his forearm. “Nice try, Brandon. I already bought the vest at Walmart during 7^th period. We’re doing this.”

I get into my car and put my head on the steering wheel, hoping if I close my eyes long enough, Dylan might up and disappear. When I hear him blaring the sharp, springy whistle behind me, I know I won’t be so lucky.

“Backing up! Backing up!” Dylan yells. I follow his commands. Once I’m in the lane, I can see the seniors I cut off in my rearview. They look like vultures who missed their last meal.

Dylan knocks on my window, and I roll it down. “Now to the front.”

“No, Dylan. Please.”

He drops his hand on my shoulder. “The Big Chetster’s gonna take care of you, pal.”

With that, he walks backwards into the left lane, his hands over his head in airport marshaller form. I don’t move the car for a few seconds, but his presence is so dominating, so interrupting, that it’d be strange not to follow him. I start crawling up the lane, each car on my right staring at me with an intensity only teenagers can muster. At one point, a mom tries to enter the left lane to pickup her daughter, and Chet puts a hand on the hood of her car.

“No go, lady,” he yells to the suburban, then throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Precious cargo.”

She seems wildly confused, but the visibility vest coupled with the grimy fingers on her white, waxed vehicle cause her to confound to his orders. She starts to backup, and as she does, Dylan turns to me. “Nice cans,” he mouths while nudging her way. Then he keeps moving.

It takes us five minutes to reach the exit, and even though we make great time for a Thursday, each second is like chewing glass. At this point, I’ve unconsciously slithered below my steering wheel, a turtle retreating into its shell, until I can barely see Dylan’s shoulders, and the drivers on my right only catch a crop of my hair. I rearrange myself when Dylan knocks on my window again.

“Good work today, partner. Seems like we’re getting you out a little early today.” He smiles and winks as sweat disobeys his eyebrows and runs down his cheeks.

I nod, my astonishment and anger too much to project any semblance of gratitude. Dylan starts coming to my passenger side, then attempts to open the door. I lock it and yell “NO!” before I can stop myself. He looks genuinely surprised as he circles back to my window.

“What’s wrong, bro? Thought we could get a little chillaxin in. Talk broads with the big Chetster here.”

I take a breath. “Thank you for the help today, Dylan. We are completely square. No more favors are necessary.”

Dylan straightens up into his knight character again, pulling the fedora down over his heart. His head is a greasy salad of brown locks. “Thy debt shall never be paid, friend. Thy surface hast only been scratched.” He laughs at his own voice and winks again.

A vivid imagination runs through my mind, of grabbing his stupid eyeball and pulling it from his socket if I catch him winking again. I shake it away and press my foot on the gas.

---------------------------------------------------------------

I dispel yesterday as a bad dream as I walk through fading blue dawn into our white flash-bomb high school. We all congregate in the cafeteria before the first bell, and I make my way over to Amy, who’s holding our regular spot. She thinks we’re friends, but I’ve felt differently for a long, long time.

“Hey, Ames.” I say, sitting across from her.

“Hi, Brandon. Sleep well?”

“So well my mom thought I’d gone comatose. She called a doctor and he pumped me full of propofol. Everything came back except some physical function.” I slide my head off my hand and collapse a bit.

She laughs, a beautiful flutter of an angel’s wings. “I’m glad you made it back here. I would have missed you.”

My heart roars like a chained lion. I think I’m gonna do it. “Hey Ames, I’m curious if you have any plans this we-”

I feel a heavy flop on the seat next to me, followed by an arm around my shoulder. I know it’s him before I even look.

“Sir Brandon and the Duchess of… what is your name, my good lady?”

She gives him an awkward grin. “Amy. Amy Morrow.”

“Well, Amy,” Dylan goes on. “My name is Chet Brownley. You’ve probably heard of me.” He dips his fedora.

“No, I haven’t.”

“C’mon. Chet Brownley? The Casonova of Creekside? The Man with Three Legs?” No answer.

He puts me in his peripheral. “Humble princess. Great catch, Brandon.” Then he turns back to Amy.

“Here just to introduce myself. And give you one of these.” He slides a piece of paper across the desk face down. Amy picks it up and twists her eyebrows.

“What is this?” she asks, turning the sheet around to me. It’s a certificate, obviously made by hand with colored pencils or something. The top, in Italian bistro cursive, reads Chet’s Choice. Below it is declaration: “I hereby nominate _____ as a prime hunk of meat and worthy of Chet’s utmost admiration.” In the blank space, he wrote my name.

I groan audibly and say nothing. Chet picks up the slack without notice. “That’s a Chet’s Choice certificate, of course. A very special achievement for my friend Brandon here- even more special as he’s the first male to ever receive it. They’re more tailored towards the women in my life. Speaking of…” he pauses, looking at her with a prying eye, “you might be worthy of a certificate yourself.”

Amy laughs in a shallow way and looks at me. “Thanks, I guess.” Then there’s silence. Not the peaceful kind- the skin crawling kind. Finally, she says, “I’ll see you in class, Brandon,” and walks away.

I’m blushing like an electric stove on high. Meanwhile, Chet is smiling with a braggart’s swagger. “Dude! You are so in! I think my Chet’s Choice really sealed the deal. What do you thi- “

Now it’s my turn to interrupt him, and I start by grabbing two palms of his jacket and closing in on his face. “THINK? I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I THINK. YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE. YOU ARE SCARING EVERYONE I KNOW AWAY!” I put my hands over my face. “And the worst part is they think we’re friends!”

Chet sags away. His fedora (a blue one today, as if one color wasn’t enough) hangs droopily over his brow. “Oh. Ok. Seems ol’ Chet got it twisted.” He stands up and moves to walk out the cafeteria. “Sorry to make assumptions.”

I’m left with an empty table and a half-chewed apple.

In Anatomy, Dylan and I don’t speak. And for some reason, it bothers me. We never spoke before- it wouldn’t be strange to ignore him now. Yet that ship sailed long ago, the second he started directing traffic and making awards on my behalf.

Before the bell, I turn to him and whisper, desperate not to injure my social collateral any more than necessary. “I apologize, Dylan. That wasn’t me back there. Just been frustrated lately. My parents been going through it, fighting and stuff, and I kind of took it out on you.”

Dylan stays coy for a minute, nods, and then breaks out into his old Cheshire antics. “Ahh, I knew that pal. The Chetster is one bad bug to get rid of. Plus, I probably wouldn’t have left you alone anyways.

“Why not?”

“Because I still owe you, man.”

“No you don’t, Dylan. Seriously.”

“Ok, ok, no more,” he says. But there’s a sparkle under that fedora brim that just won’t quit.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I stay afterschool for baseball practice and get a ride home around five. The usual play is a B-line straight upstairs, avoiding any crossfire between Mom and Dad, then eat dinner in no less than six forkfuls before I flee for my room again. Yet today the house is silent.

Immediately I fear the worse; murder or kidnapping or worst of all, the big DIVORCE that had been sneaking in coffee table shadows the last six months. I turn into the living room and see nothing. It’s only when I make my way to the kitchen when I see both my parents whispering at the dinner table across from each other.

“Jeez-us! You scared me.” I mutter.

My dad answers. “Sorry, bud. Come sit. We were just talking.”

Careful not to disturb any booby traps, I cross the room and take the chair on the end. They both look at me with a level of affection that scares me.

“We had a visitor today.” My mom says. “It was… a bit random.”

“His name was Chet.” My dad follows. “Husky kid, trench coat, fedora. Kind of a Humphrey Bogart vibe. You know him, right?”

My mind feels like an Etch-A-Sketch mid shake. I cough out an answer. “We have Anatomy together- but you can’t describe him as suave or cool. He’s cool the way Russell Brand is cool.”

“I like Russell Brand.” My mom replies. I moan and turn to my dad.

“Why was he here?”

“Well, he just kind of showed up. Asked to talk with us. We agreed, although I’m not sure why.”

“Then he started to ask questions,” my mom chimed in, “about us, you, the family.”

Dad continues. “We answered them, kind of dumped everything on him. He listened and told us he came from divorced parents. A lot of time alone. Barely any guidance.”

He stops. “Long story short, he told us both his parents regret it. Not only for themselves, but for him, too. He said to work on our relationship before giving up so soon. Then he left.” Dad stared at the door forlongingly.

“Hold on. Were you guys touched by him?” My mouth hangs to the floor. “He’s a slug!”

“A slug that was pretty on the money.” My mom replies, then looks at her husband. “We’re going to give it another shot.”

I stay silent for a moment, collecting myself. Chet freaking Brownley. There’s anger, of course, at the kid who keeps injecting himself into my life. But shouldn’t I be ecstatic? This is what I’ve been dreaming of, if only delivered on unconventional means. Could I overlook that?

I nod and grin as much as I can. “I’m happy. I really am.” They smile back at me, three sets of eyes interlocked in a quiet home, and for the first time in forever, there is hope.

---------------------------------------------------------------

I air it out quickly- there’s just no other way. “Thanks, Dylan. For real this time. Nobody’s helped me out like that before.”

He nods, sitting back in his orange desk chair, his fedora an umbrella that he hides his smile beneath. “No worries, Brandon. Just had to make it even. You know Chetterino lives up to his word, don’t cha?”

“Totally.”

Mrs. Robertson begins walking across the class, handing out our tests from the other day. When she nears Dylan and I, she gives them to us face-down.

I flip mine over. A big C, circled in red, stares back at me. I fold it back over, feeling shallow. My grade will survive, I’m sure of it, but worry boils for Dylan. How will he react?

“It’s OK, man.” He huffs out, as if reading my thoughts. “I’ll be fine.”

It’s only when we’re leaving class when I catch a glimpse of his paper. On the front is a ruby-gilded A.