But she is rocking pretty damn hard this morning—so much that she even blows through a stop sign, but I don’t say anything, because I don’t want to kill the mood, which is totally rocking, and how often does one truly get to rock out hard-core? Let alone a high-powered attorney who has a murder case to worry about. Sometimes you just have to let crap slide when it comes to adults acting like kids, because that can be a beautiful thing. True? True.
When we arrive alive at the high school, Donna kills the music, kisses Ricky, and tosses me the XXL camo shirt for Franks.
“Your boy Franks should be proud today,” Donna says, and then winks at me before she turns up the tunes again and pulls away.
“Going to play Halo 3 with Mr. Jonathan Franks!” Ricky says, and then we’re knocking on the outside basement door.
Ty kicks open the door this morning, and then Franks and Chad kill off Ty’s and Jared’s spacemen so that Ricky can join the action—just like every other morning.
Before I lose my boys to video games, I say, “Franks, check this out,” and then hold up the camo shirt.
“For me?” Franks says.
“Mommy Roberts made a shirt for Mr. Jonathan Franks and all five members of Franks Freak Force Federation!”
“Cool,” Franks says, taking the shirt from me, admiring the orange lettering and rubbing the material between his thumb and forefinger as if the shirt were made of precious fabric—like it’s the original American flag sewn by frickin’ Betsy Ross or something. “Very cool,” Franks says.
“You do see that we are all wearing the same shirt?” I say.
“Also cool,” Franks says.
“We playing a game, or what?” Ty says, and then all of the boys are logging into the virtual world.
Did my boys forget all about last night, or did they already discuss the school board meeting with Franks?
Before I can bring up the subject, just before their minds are sucked into the various Xboxes positioned around the room, Lex Pinkston knocks on the hallway door and sticks his head in. “Um, Mr. Franks, may I come in and say something?”
“Mr. Pinkston, all students are welcome in my room. Enter.”
Lex enters slowly. He is tall and full of muscles and dumb-looking, but today he has this very sincere look on his face. “Listen,” he says to the room. “Sometimes I say dumb things because I like feel I have to in front of people or something because there’s a lot of pressure on me, being that I’m the QB and all, and well, I know that what I’ve been telling Ricky to say is well, um—not cool.”
“Are you trying to apologize?” I say.
“I’m sorry that I said those things to you, Amber.”
“I’m praying for you every night,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because you need it.”
“Well, I’m also sorry for telling Ricky to say those things to Ryan. I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again. Okay?”
“Did your daddy make you come down here this morning?” I ask—like a total cat.
“Listen, I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again. Okay?”
“No. It’s not okay, because you can’t just erase—”
“Do you like playing Xbox, Lex?” Franks says.
“What?” Lex says.
“Are you a gamer?” Franks says. “Do you like video games?”
“Yeah. Who doesn’t?”
“Are you any good at Halo 3?” Franks asks.
“Beat anyone in this room,” Lex says.
My boys all exchange glances and restrain smiles.
“Why don’t you play a game with us,” Franks says.
“Right now?”
“Homeroom doesn’t start for fifteen minutes.”
“Are you serious?” Lex says.
“You’re on Ricky’s team,” Franks says. “Amber, why don’t you pull up a chair?”
I pull up a chair next to Franks and for the next ten minutes I watch my boys’ virtual spacemen kick the crap out of Lex’s virtual spaceman in every way imaginable. If I had to guesstimate, I’d say Lex gets killed an average of five times per minute, and never even records one kill.
My boys are unmerciful.
My boys are triumphant.
My boys are beautiful.
“You guys are really good,” Lex says when the game is over.
“Bring your friends next time,” Franks tells him. “We play every day before school and at lunch. All are welcome.”
When the warning bell rings, my boys skedaddle like someone yelled fire or something—the lab rats—but I hang back.
“Why did you tell Lex he could hang in our room?” I ask Franks.
“This is everyone’s room. All are welcome,” Franks says.
“Lex Pinkston? Do you know that just yesterday he called me a disgusting single-syllable word for a woman, which I’m not even going to repeat?”
“Maybe if he were in this room more, he wouldn’t have called you that name. Maybe you’d become friends?”
“Are you for real, Franks?”
“No, I’m an illusion,” he says, and then laughs at his own joke—like a moron.
“Have you heard how the school board voted last night?”
“No.”
He doesn’t bring up our saving his job, so I assume my boys didn’t tell him.
“Aren’t you worried about the vote?” I ask.
“It’s of this world.”
“Your wife was pretty pissed when I came to your house last night.”
“You shouldn’t come to my house, Amber.”
“She doesn’t really think I’m in love with you, does she? Why can’t I hug you, Franks? Just once.”