In Malcolm's opinion, the closest thing his house ever got to a normal person was Francis.
That probably had a lot to do with him being banished.
:-:-:
Malcolm had friends before he became 'that smart kid'. It was the true nature of childhood, where a person could be best friends in the morning and enemies by lunch. They were never particularly close, certainly not as close as he got to be with Stevie, but he could almost always find a group to hang out with back then. Sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week, sometimes for a month; never the years he wound up with the Krelboynes. But the friends he had were always normal. They were friends who he played tackle football with at recess even though the principal made a fuss about only allowing them to play touch. Friends who he swapped lunches with. Friends who loaned him money and who he—well. He never loaned money. Years of living with Reese and Francis as brothers taught him an important rule: it was pretty stupid to expect to get money back once you gave it away. So friends who loaned him money and who he always actually paid back, even with that rule in mind. Honestly, he'd been weird, but he'd always had friends.
It wasn't bad when it was only a lunchtime friendship. It meant nothing to have people who were his friends at school. But every now and again, he'd had friends who would come over, play basketball in his yard, and maybe follow his lead and stomp into his house with muddy shoes. And therein lay the problem; they were always the sort of person who would actually enjoy being in his house, for reasons other than laughing at him for having to live in it.
That fact alone served as a litmus test of deep malfunction.
(He'll learn sometime in the future that he sabotages relationships, and maybe there wasn't something wrong with them wanting to come to his house. He'll learn this multiple times, actually. He'll also learn multiple times that in his desire to be perfect, he can't accept having flaws and ignores learning lessons in an effort to prove he doesn't. He's not a fan of irony at thirteen and he won't be at thirty, so this lesson will always annoy him.)
Fortunately he won't have to learn much about friendship until high school starts next year, because he doesn't have friends who are at all normal.
He has the Krelboynes.
The Krelboynes come to his house to hang out, and that's sort of all right; he wasn't under the delusion they were regular people before this, so he can't find fault with them coming over.
It helps that they don't exactly enjoy being at his house.
His family eats real hotdogs (with meat!), and drinks real milk (from a cow!), and has a couch without plastic covering it. They greet each other with a punch. Their clothes are too large or too small or smell too funny, and when they can be forced into wearing socks, they either won't match or will be riddled with holes. Some of their best plates are collectibles from McDonald's. Their yard never needs mowing because the grass they have never grows more than two inches. And this is only a cursory summary.
In short, his home is the sort of place where psychological breakdowns of Krelboynes are born.
There's only a single fact that keeps them from running away screaming.
His home is where they can perform science without it having to be something that is both perfectly safe and absolutely suitable for a science fair. And with the Krelboynes there, it's the only time Malcolm's mom assumes that's exactly what it's going to be.
:-:-:
That is how it is from the fifth grade to the eighth.
The Krelboynes pal around with each other and only come to Malcolm's house on the occasions they need to do something that would get them a grounding at home. Malcolm rarely spends time at any of their houses.
Malcolm does, on occasion, visit Stevie. And Stevie's house grows on him. After a while he doesn't mind Kitty Kenarban smiling at him like her face will break or eyeballing him like he's an expert thief who managed to pocket something expensive and replace it with a cheap knockoff right under her nose. He doesn't even mind the times she pats him down under the guise of giving him a hug.
Maybe it's because Stevie's house is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Maybe it's because their dads play poker together and he's gotten dragged into their games often enough to like Abe, who actually likes him a bit in turn, and liking two of the people in the house is enough to make up for the third. Maybe it's because he's Stevie's best friend and so has gotten to go along to a lot of places his family never could have afforded otherwise. Maybe it's just because he's seen her naked.
In any case, he likes it well enough, so it's mostly okay, him only going to Stevie's house.
But sometimes he realizes something.
Even after coming to like spending time at Stevie's he almost never does. It's only a few hours at a time at most; their sleepovers are either ruses for them to sneak out or real and still end in them sneaking out.
Even with spending the summer together on the Kenarbans' houseboat, he's pretty sure he's spent several months fewer at his friends' houses than most kids his age.
That annoys him. But he's only ever spent time at Stevie's house and after three years he doesn't know how to change it. So he tries to justify it instead.
It has a bit to do with the fact that Kitty actually likes him far more than anyone else's mom does. Which is kind of sad when he thinks about it.
It also has to do with the fact that Stevie's right down the street. The other Krelboynes' houses are close enough to walk to, but there's something unique about having a best friend who's virtually a next door neighbor.
It mostly has to do with the fact that the other Krelboynes have never invited him.
:-:-:
Krelboynes believe in getting to class early. Malcolm commented on it once; Stevie said 'No…we get here…on time. You're…late.'
Malcolm's never late, really. He's thought of it—he's a fan of learning but not of school—but he doesn't like the attention that comes with being late, so if he's going to avoid school he might as well go all-out instead of just being tardy. He might sit down right before the bell stops ringing, but he's always on time. The other Krelboynes always have out their books; a single, clean sheet of paper with its edges parallel to the desk's; and two freshly-sharpened number two pencils by the time he shows up. Three if they're being particularly pedantic.
So the bell's ringing, Malcolm's walking into class in the stooped-slouched way that made Lloyd give him the number of a top chiropractor, and Dabney's seat is empty.
Malcolm gapes.
He sits down. The bell finishes its ring. Still no Dabney.
He looks at the door and gapes at it, too. He expects Dabney to materialize somewhere, somehow.
Herkabe stands in front of him. "Malcolm," he tuts. "Did you not hear me say 'Page 325' for the fourth time?"
Malcolm blinks. He sputters out an apology.
"Oh, no. Go ahead and finish pining for Mr. Hooper. We'll all just wait here patiently."
"I get it. I said I was sorry."
Herkabe folds his arms and raises a brow.
("Then Herkabe said 'No, I'm serious; get on with it.', and he actually made me pine for five minutes," Malcolm will say at dinner.
"Good," his mom will answer, taking a bite of food, "that'll teach you not to disrupt class.")
:-:-:
This is how it happens that he gets to go to Dabney's house for the first time in the eighth grade.
It's early December. In another week and a half, they'll be out for Christmas vacation. The weather's not so awful. Malcolm thinks it's cold enough to wear a sweater, but people who live where it snows would probably still be out in t-shirts. He's standing on the sidewalk with papers in his hands, palms sweating a little. He checks the address three times even though he didn't have to check it once.
He knocks.
He notices the doorbell afterwards, and isn't sure if knocking instead is rude or not. They don't have many guests but have a doorbell that only works half the time at his house, so knocking in spite of it seems fine.
Dabney answers.
Malcolm blinks. He thrusts out the papers. "Here," he says. "Your homework."
"Thanks."
"Everyone else was scared they'd get sick and miss school, too, so I had to bring it."
This is a lie. This is the part of his punishment that won't be humiliating enough for him to try telling his family over dinner.
"You weren't?"
Malcolm quirks an eyebrow. His family is the cockroach of people; it'd take a viral spill from a secret government lab to give them colds. "Not really." He shrugs. "You don't look sick, anyway." He realizes afterwards that that sounds accusatory, but doesn't apologize. "So, I guess." He waves his hands emptily.
"Thanks," Dabney says again.
"Yeah." Malcolm takes a step back. "Bye."
"Um, Malcolm."
"Huh?"
"You could come in if you wanted to. My mother's taking a nap."
"Oh. Okay."
:-:-:
That's also how he gets to be sitting in Dabney's house for the first time.
It's one of the more painfully uncomfortable things he's done, which is saying something.
It's not like he doesn't like Dabney.
He's sort of sure it's not like Dabney doesn't like him. He can't tell, sometimes.
He thinks it's just because they're awkward in new situations.
He is usually awkward by swearing too much or using poor grammar or being generally 'uncouth', unless he realizes that that's how he's usually awkward. When he realizes that, he's awkward in a new way. Like his hands and feet are too large and his mouth has gotten a hit of Novocain.
He's realized it this time. So he's sitting in Dabney's living room with perfect posture, sweating but unsure if it'd be weird to take off his sweater in someone's house even if he's got a shirt on underneath, mouth dumb and somehow both too wet and too dry. The silence nags at him. Dabney doesn't seem to mind, but Malcolm doesn't believe in comfortable silences unless a TV's on, and it could be that Dabney's just being polite.
Malcolm knows little about small talk. It's kind of the holidays, though, so he manages one topic. "So," he says. "What do you think you're getting for Christmas?"
"Underwear, the newest ACT preparation manual, and a bathrobe for my mother."
Malcolm frowns at him. He doesn't want to know how a bathrobe for Dabney's mother is a gift for Dabney, so he doesn't ask. "That's dumb. Last week you hit my yard with a rocket made of toilet paper rolls; you have way more imagination than that." Something occurs to him and he says critically, "You don't want that stuff, do you?"
"That's what I'm getting."
Malcolm frowns deeper. "Right. And I'm cynical. No one gives stuff that crappy."
Dabney points to his Christmas tree.
Malcolm looks at it. He saw it while he was outside; it's right in the middle of the window. It looks like it came straight out of a magazine. It's plastic, but high-quality. It wouldn't be that obvious if the branches weren't so symmetrical. It also looks too green, but his family's trees have always been a bit brown, the kind that leave needles in the carpet to be stepped on years later even when it's not in the house more than a week, so he's not sure if that's a good indicator of falsehood or not. The ornaments are all perfect, hung up in a pattern of red-yellow-silver and looking warm, comfortable beneath the soft-glowing strings of lights. There's no tinsel, which is one of his family's favorite parts of decorating. The angel sitting on top is straight, bright, and beautiful. It's an absolutely glorious tree. He loves it and wants to destroy it.
He turns back to Dabney. "It's nice. So?"
"Look under it."
He rolls his eyes as he gets up to look, but he goes. He kneels to look under the tree exaggeratedly.
There is a bag of underwear; a book reading 'The REAL ACT Prep Guide ', and a bathrobe. He shoots up so quickly he nearly knocks the tree over. "They aren't even wrapped!"
"My psychiatrist says it's not good for me to get my hopes up."
:-:-:
It was awkward before, but a kid getting underwear for Christmas is a real conversation killer. Bad presents feel more contagious than any disease Dabney could have had, so Malcolm gets out of Dodge as quickly as possible.
:-:-:
Friday night he realizes what he has to do.
:-:-:
Malcolm doesn't try hard to catch Dabney over the weekend.
He calls once on Saturday, but the Hoopers have caller ID and Dabney's mother knows his phone number from having crossed it off her personal Krelboyne Moms Phone Tree the same time she was booting his mom out of PTA meetings and chaperoning opportunities. He doesn't even get to the part where he says his name. She reams him out for corrupting Dabney, gives him a long list of things he should improve about himself in both behavior and appearance before he even thinks of stepping foot in her house again, says a coldly polite goodbye, and hangs up on him.
He'd like to be able to say later that he tuned her out—and if anyone asks, he probably will-but what he actually does is sit in his room for the rest of the day and tries to convince himself that he's not as bad as she says he is. He doesn't convince himself that she was wrong about anything, but he does find comfort in the fact that she ruined his Saturday by making him think about it and only truly awful people set out to ruin Saturdays, so by Sunday he feels superior again.
On Sunday morning he paws through his closet to see if he can make himself presentable enough to go over in person. He pulls out the best of the best. He comes back with a white dress shirt with a stain that he can keep covered under a suit, a brown suit jacket which is only slightly too small for him, blue slacks that are only missing a belt loop, a tie with red fish on it that is just a bit too long, and black shoes that are barely scuffed and a mere half-size too large.
He looks at himself in the mirror.
Shakes his head and stomps to the living room to flop onto the couch next to his brothers instead. He looks at them, they look at him. He looks at them longer; they say 'Hi.' and return to watching television.
His guts knot up. "Aren't you going to say something?" he demands, helpfully gesturing to his outfit.
His brothers glance at him.
"Nope," says Reese.
"Nuh-uh," says Dewey.
Malcolm's jaw goes slack.
Is it possible he looks this stupid all the time? Is it possible that Ms. Hooper is right?
That thought's so distressing that he goes back to his room to sulk.
A while later it starts to rain and Reese shoves him out the door with an extension cord and an air-conditioner that they got from the dump, because apparently 'Mother Nature's trying to make snow; we just have to meet her halfway.' Or something like that. Malcolm isn't paying attention, even though the hairs on the back of his neck stand up (when Reese talks condescendingly like that, blinking fast, nodding his head knowingly, then, well, it's always bad news.). It's far easier to tune out people who love him than people who hate him.
It ends with him having to explain to Reese why water doesn't put out electrical fires.
:-:-:
His mom calls him an idiot while she treats the burns on his hands.
Once he's all fixed up she lays out his punishment.
He protests that it was Reese being stupid; he didn't even expect this plan to work and-
"Then it wasn't worth it, was it?" she asks.
She looks at him and apparently he doesn't look sorry enough, because she tacks on a couple more chores for good measure.
("Thirteen years and that's still the only response I know I'll get when I talk to Mom," Malcolm will say when he relays these events to Francis that night.
He's not supposed to call Francis, what with him being so far away, but they're brothers for goodness sakes. He'd probably even miss Reese if they were 3,000 miles apart and he's done a lot worse things he's not supposed to than talk to his brother, anyway.
"Congratulations. You've found the one way Mom's consistent."
The phone will crackle. The air will whistle on the other end of the line. Alaska will even sound cold and somehow that will make Malcolm miss Francis even more. He'll want to tell Francis to stay warm, but that will sound girly. He'll want to get mad for Francis saying that, too; he'll feel jealous without knowing why, and he'll want to ask if there's a way to get their mom to say 'I love you.' at the end of most conversations without having to go to Marlin or Alaska and talk to her on the phone only once or twice a month, but that would sound even girlier and it's probably one of the few things Francis can't help him with, anyway.
Francis will say goodnight, but Malcolm will keep talking like he didn't hear and Francis will let him. Eventually the line will die, so they won't have to worry about saying goodbye for real.
Mom will get mad over the phone bill at the end of the month, but so long as he's not caught in the act, this is one thing she can't punish him for. He and Reese and Dewey all sneak calls to Francis and have a sense of duty to protect themselves, so they'll all blame each other, and in the end none of them will get pinned for it. They'll feel proud about that. They'll feel a bit mad, too, and unsure whether it's because they're being sold out or because their brother thinks he's framing them.
It'll take Malcolm four years and a week of being stuck in bed with his mom with mono before he learns that it's less because of that and more because she and their dad have sneaked a few calls to Francis themselves.)
:-:-:
He gets up Monday morning, gets dressed, packs his backpack, and eats breakfast.
He knows where Dabney lives, and math is such second nature to him that he can figure out all the variables and determine when Dabney would probably leave. Were they both to start walking now, they would meet just by the school's fence. He could probably talk to Dabney without having to worry about anyone seeing.
But he knows that Dabney's mom drives him to school even though he's never seen her in the parking lot.
He'd mostly missed the insults she'd leveled at his mom at the Krelboyne Picnic until they were laughing about it at Burger Barn, but he'd heard one firsthand: "I drive my Dabney everywhere. Does she think dirty footprints on the dashboard would deter kidnappers?" with a hand to her chest, her eyebrows high, and something on the end about loving her son.
He might have said something about it in spite of being distracted by becoming the laughingstock of his family, had that particular insult not been the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. By the time he was ready for kindergarten, the entire neighborhood had known two things about them: 1. They had no money and 2. At least one of the stories about his mom. One of the more popular ones was that on one of their trips to the community pool, she had gone vigilante after someone had stolen Francis' clothes out of the locker room. Some of the facts had been embellished by rumor (and some of them had been, in a unique twist, diluted the same way), but the important part was she'd tracked down and publicly humiliated the culprit while she was still in a dripping swimsuit. Taking a kid instead of just their stained, ripped clothes would probably be met with mass murder.
He's never had a reason to feel unsafe walking to school.
But Dabney is apparently prime kidnapping material, so he has to wait.
:-:-:
He loudly and forcibly drags Dabney behind the school at lunch. It'll take him years to realize that this is one of the more conspicuous ways to go about things.
"I got you something."
He holds out a package. He's better at ripping open than carefully wrapping presents; even bare, the gifts at Dabney's house are meticulously placed, neat, orderly, clean, and this would stick out like a sore thumb. This would be the sort of thing he'd worry over, but sometimes oddness is so ingrained in a person so as to seem normal, so Malcolm's completely ignorant to the fact he can't wrap to save his life.
Dabney reaches out for it slowly.
Their fingers touch and Malcolm's face burns hot and his stomach twists up. He swallows hard. He feels dizzy and sick and nervous. He immediately lets go and shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Just don't open it until Christmas, okay?" Malcolm asks. He says it vaguely like a threat, though he doesn't know why. He's pretty sure Dabney wouldn't, even if he hadn't said anything. He furrows his brow, embarrassed with himself, but Dabney doesn't call him on being rude like most people do.
All Dabney does is nod, looking enraptured.
Malcolm plays with the lint in his pockets. He's thinking about everything but the gut-twisting, face-burning feeling.
He thinks about air conditioners and no snow even though it's December. He thinks about Francis who he misses and Reese who gets him in trouble and Dewey who annoys him and all who he loves. He thinks about moms who don't say 'I love you' often and moms who prove to you they love you and moms who try to prove to other people they love you. He thinks of getting presents, wrapped or not, that are only what you want and not what anyone wants you to want. He thinks of going to other people's houses and why you go. He thinks of giving and receiving in all kinds of ways.
He thinks about all of this and he looks at Dabney. And he feels sort of happy and sort of sad.
Abruptly, for that's how Malcolm does most things, with barely restrained chaos in even the most mundane of actions, he asks if Dabney wants to come over after school.