Orchard (9780062974761)

by Hopen, David

  “I’ll call.”

  She nodded, left me alone. I skimmed through the letter:

  Dear Mr. Eden,

  Thank you for participating in our annual contest. We are pleased to inform you that your submission has been awarded the Philo Sherman Bennett Prize. Please note we receive several hundred submissions each year, and that winning essays are selected by independent judges, all of whom are—

  I read on. I was to receive a gold medal and monetary compensation—one thousand dollars, thanks to the generosity of the Bennett family—and my paper was to be published in an upcoming special edition journal sponsored by the Institute. What paper? I knew it was a farce, probably designed to extract Social Security numbers, though a harried Google search returned, at least at first glance, a semi-reputable website. I scanned the page: no clear mention of the cost of accepting the award, though I didn’t bother with the fine print. Bewildered, anxious about what would happen in the morning, I crumpled the letter, tossed it at my desk, returned haphazardly to my paper and, soon enough, nodded off to sleep.

  April

  Although the young may be experts in geometry and mathematics and similar branches of knowledge, we do not consider that a young man can have Prudence. The reason is that Prudence includes knowledge of particular facts, and this is derived from experience, which a young man does not possess; for experience is the fruit of years.

  —Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics

  I’d never been inside a courthouse. It was an empty, depressing room: dusty and poorly lit, with dark mahogany paneling and a tacky rendering of the American flag pinned to the wall. Before the judge’s bench sat a pair of cops and a haggard-looking stenographer bent over a typewriter. The judge, the Honorable Ralph Holmes, was a middle-aged, overweight man with a booming voice and a face knitted into a permanent frown, probably from years of adjudicating deadbeats and totaled vehicles. The air conditioner seemed to be set to fifty degrees. I found it difficult not to shiver.

  Evan waited outside. He wore a dark suit, the one he wore to Remi’s party. He looked regal, almost, despite his scar, despite his cane. He shook my hand, thanked me for coming. I helped him inside.

  “Where’s your lawyer?” I figured he’d arrive with some white-shoe attorney.

  “Don’t have one.”

  “Doesn’t your father know you’re here?”

  “He doesn’t care. Actually, he’d like me off his hands for some time. Best way to do that is to lock me up.” He winced as we made our way to the back of the room to await our turn. “What about your parents? Are they aware you’re helping the Malach HaMavis?”

  “They’re very much not.”

  We were the third case of the morning. We rose for the judge, who glared impatiently from the bench, tapping his pencil without any particular rhythm. “No attorney?”

  “No, sir,” Evan said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t believe I need one.”

  The judge took off his glasses. “You were recently released from the hospital, as I understand it. Due to injuries sustained the night of your accident. A boating accident.”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Did you receive that scar on your face during said incident?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge grimaced, rummaged through his documents. “Police report states you had a blood alcohol level of 0.10 percent at the time of the incident. A blood alcohol level of 0.08 percent is sufficient to convict.”

  “I’m painfully aware, Your Honor.”

  “I’m finding your demeanor off-putting, Mr. Stark.”

  “You’re not alone, I’m afraid.”

  “You also face charges of reckless driving,” he continued, frowning. “This leaves us as follows. For the count of reckless driving, you’re liable, under Florida law, to a five-hundred-dollar fine and up to ninety days in prison. For the count of driving under the influence, you’re liable, under Florida law, to a fine of one thousand dollars, fifty hours of mandatory community service, as well as a one-year period of probation and up to six months in prison.” He cleared his throat. “You do grasp the gravity of these consequences, young man?”

  “They seem a bit draconian, Your Honor. But yes.”

  “Did you just use the word ‘draconian’ in my courtroom?”

  “My apologies, Your Honor.”

  The judge inched forward in his seat. It was hard to imagine he’d ever faced a defendant as interesting, or as deliberately insolent, as Evan. “You seem to be a relatively bright kid.”

  “You flatter me, Your Honor.” Evan shifted his weight on his cane, cringing some more. Then, unable to help himself: “You seem bright yourself.”

  “Yet apparently not bright enough to refrain from talking back to a judge. Or staying out of trouble. And if there’s one thing I detest in my courtroom, Mr. Stark, it’s a young man with a titanic ego and apathy for the rule of law.” He smiled wickedly. “Have any ambition? Work hard in school? Do you, dare I suggest, have plans for when you graduate?”

  “I cannot speak for the legitimacy of my ambition or work ethic, Your Honor. Hopefully my friend can attest to my character.” He gestured toward me, allowing me to feel the full weight of the judge’s stare. I swallowed hard. “The only thing I can say is that I’ve secured postgraduation plans.”

  “Oh, yes? Do share them with the court.”

  “I’ll be attending Stanford, Your Honor.”

  “Stetson?”

  “Stanford.”

  “Stanford, you said?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The judge frowned in disbelief. “I wasn’t admitted there,” he muttered.

  “I’m certain the admission committee kicks itself regularly for that mistake.”

  I felt only fleeting anger toward Evan. I didn’t understand why he cared enough about his future to request my help but couldn’t refrain from sabotaging himself, though at least his irrational desire to rouse Holmes’ ire had no effect on my own fate. No, bewildered as I was in that moment, I turned my anger on Sophia. She should never have put me in this position, she should’ve known Evan was hell-bent on self-implosion. She should never have made me expendable. She should have chosen me over him.

  “How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty on both counts,” Evan said. “In self-defense, I offer the following motions: motion to dismiss for an unconditional delay in filing charges, for a failure of the government to preserve evidence, for insufficient evidence of a crime, for lack of probable cause, for an improper search of a vehicle and for the violation of my Fourth Amendment rights.” Evan paused. “Oh, and for general governmental misconduct, Your Honor.”

  The court stenographer, who’d been stabbing diligently at his keyboard, released a high-pitched giggle, which he attempted to conceal as a cough. Evan remained composed, staring coolly in the direction of the bench. “Think this is some joke, Mr. Stark?”

  “Hardly, sir.”

  The judge leaned back in his chair, scribbled further. “Stand, witness,” he said, averting his eyes. “See if it does any good.”

  I stood meekly, cleared my throat. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Holmes raised his brows. “For what?”

  I cleared my throat a second time. “For allowing me to testify, sir.”

  Evan looked at me, nodded, nudged me along.

  “Did he give you that?” the judge asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your arm.”

  I looked down at my cast. “Oh. Yes.”

  “Your name?”

  “Aryeh Eden.”

  “What was that?”

  “Aryeh?”

  “Would you spell that, please?”

  “A-r-y-e-h. Or Andrew. You can call me Andrew.”

  “Which is it?”

  “It’s my Hebrew name,” I said, embarrassed, “and the name I use.”

  “And how do you know Mr. Stark?”

  “We go to school together.�
��

  “Some school. Are you going to tell me you’re attending Stanford, too?”

  I thought of the newest round of rejection letters I received only the day before: Brown, Dartmouth, Harvard. “No, sir.”

  “As I understand it, you were in the boat the night of the incident?”

  I nodded.

  “Communicate verbally, Mr. Eden. For the court’s records.”

  “Yes.”

  “The police report excludes your blood alcohol level content. Were you drinking?”

  I felt clammy. “Only a bit, sir.”

  Holmes peered down from on high. “It’s difficult for me to imagine anyone with half a brain would get into a boat in the middle of the night with an inebriated driver—unless, of course, you weren’t sober, either.”

  I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

  “Did you notice Mr. Stark was drunk?”

  “He wasn’t drinking in the boat.”

  “But did you discern erratic behavior?”

  “I—nothing abnormal.”

  I felt very far off from the courtroom, my mouth dry, my voice carrying as if I were underwater.

  “Well,” the judge said, playing with the frames of his glasses, “what you’re saying hasn’t been much help, since it directly conflicts with the police report and paints you either as startlingly naïve or as a liar.” He smiled pleasantly. “I will, however, give you the benefit of the doubt, Mr. Eden, and presume the former. So let’s conclude. Can you tell me whether, in your own estimation, Mr. Stark is a stand-up young man, and whether this incident, despite his impertinence, is out of line with his character? That is, according to your conscience, Mr. Eden, can you recommend that I grant leniency to Mr. Stark?”

  I blinked stupidly. I thought about the night, yes, the realization that we were going to crash, the look on his face, but mostly I thought of her. The night of Purim: red eyes, broken glass. I thought about how she’d stormed away at Oliver’s party, even when I was vulnerable. I thought about her tears at Remi’s birthday. I thought about her desperation as she stood by my locker, as she used me. She had always used me.

  “Your Honor,” I said, feeling Evan’s knowing gaze on me. “Evan was drunk, high, reckless and put my life at risk. I have no reason to believe this was out of character.”

  Silence. A whirling in my skull. I could see Evan breaking into a faint smile, even with my eyes fixed firmly to the floor. “Should’ve chosen a better friend,” the judge said brusquely. “Evan Stark, I sentence you to a fine of fifteen hundred dollars, one year of probation, fifty hours of community service and thirty days in delinquency rehabilitation.” Holmes slammed his gavel, snorted. “Let Stanford do as they wish.”

  * * *

  I ARRIVED AT SCHOOL BY lunch period. Soaked in nervous sweat, ignoring Sophia’s text messages, I raced upstairs to the third-floor balcony.

  “You’re shitting me,” Amir said, after I recounted a heavily redacted version of the story, one in which my condemnation of Evan was conspicuously absent. Oliver whistled a long, sad note and lit a joint.

  “So what’d you tell the judge?” Noah asked. He dropped his sandwich, his appetite gone.

  I perched myself where Evan usually sat. “Everything I needed to say.”

  “You’re a good friend, Drew,” Noah said, nodding.

  “How’s he possibly going to tell Stanford?” Amir looked genuinely devastated, despite any academic rivalry with Evan. “They won’t tolerate this.”

  “Nah, they’ll keep him around,” Oliver said. “And if they don’t, he’ll go elsewhere. Harvard or Yale or some shit. I mean, it’s Evan Stark. He’s smarter than all of us put together.”

  “He won’t be able to,” Amir said quietly. “He won’t go anywhere, actually, not with this on his record.”

  “Ari, you okay?” Noah asked, noticing how I cringed at this last comment. “You look like you’re about to puke.”

  I forced deep breaths. “Still a bit tense from court,” I said. Evan expelled, Evan behind bars, Evan roaming the streets. Had I just demolished his entire life?

  “Hit this.” Oliver shoved his joint into my mouth. “You need it.”

  I didn’t object.

  “Will the Academy even let Ev graduate?” Noah asked. “How’s he supposed to miss thirty days of classes?”

  “Do we even have thirty days left on the calendar?” Oliver had that lazy twinge in his voice indicating he was excessively high.

  “Maybe it’ll help,” I said. “Clean him up.”

  “What?”

  “Rehab,” I said unsurely. “He’s a mess. Something has to change. Maybe this is best for him.” Another wave of nausea: green, overpowering guilt, guilt that made my insides turn. I nearly gagged.

  The bell rang and we headed to Rabbi Bloom’s office. I hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach was queasy, my forehead burning. Rabbi Bloom gave a masterful class, discussing what he called “the Modern Orthodox paradox of opting to feel divinely obligated in a free, secular world,” but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think of was the look Evan gave me when I left the courthouse.

  Rabbi Bloom had me stay back after the close of the period. “Something to share, Mr. Eden?”

  I felt a strange ringing in my ears. “Evan spoke to you?”

  He smiled weakly. “Let’s leave that for later.” Did he know? It was inconceivable for Evan to have omitted my part in the story, inconceivable for him not to be bursting with shock, rage, betrayal. I tried returning Bloom’s gaze, tried emitting innocence, remorse. “I was referring, actually, to your prize.”

  “My what?”

  “I assume you received a notification?”

  The letter. I’d forgotten entirely about the letter. “I don’t understand.”

  “Those papers I assigned, after we read Sidgwick?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wasn’t entirely up front with you, Mr. Eden.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You wanted a plan B, as I recall, after Columbia. Here it is.”

  “Rabbi,” I said. “I really don’t—”

  “One of my old PhD classmates is a professor at Princeton. Metaethics. He works on a journal that sponsors an annual contest for young thinkers. I entered your paper, Ari, I hope you don’t mind. You shouldn’t, really, because the good news is you won.”

  I rubbed my eyes—I was moderately high at the moment—and tried banishing Evan’s face from my mind. “That was real?”

  “It’s legitimate, Mr. Eden, and quite impressive, actually. Now, nothing’s for certain, but I will admit that prizewinners often enjoy successful careers at fine universities.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, offered a fixed smile. “You forgive me for entering without your permission, don’t you? I didn’t want to get your hopes up, the odds of winning being so low, you understand?” He offered his hand, opened the door for me. “And Ari?”

  Dazed, squinty-eyed, I turned to face him. “Rabbi?”

  “You did what you could for Mr. Stark.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and retreated into his office.

  * * *

  RUMORS SPREAD QUICKLY THAT WEEK. Some were absurd—he was attending Stanford early, he was boycotting school, he was working for his father’s fund—and some downright nasty: he’d been expelled, imprisoned, institutionalized. The truth, that he was stuck in a rehabilitation center for thirty days, his admission to Stanford on the line, circulated, too. My role in the affair, however, remained unknown.

  The faculty avoided discussing Evan, refused to confirm stories. In the hallways, I received looks. My imagination descended into frenzy. I took notice of how voices dropped around me, pictured freshmen clustered at lunch, whispering about what had happened on the boat. Overrun with paranoia, I hastened from class to class, seeking refuge at my locker, lowering my gaze to the floor.

  After our penultimate biology class—our lectures ending early so that we’d have sufficient time to focus on studying for the AP
test—Sophia lingered in the classroom. Her normally reflective eyes were downcast. “Have a minute?”

  Since my appearance in court I’d returned to avoiding her. On the day of Evan’s sentencing I’d offered her the same story I’d given my friends, only to proceed to ignore her, both in the hallways and over text message. Given that she hadn’t confronted me, I felt sure that Evan hadn’t told her what I’d done. But I wanted to avoid deepening my entanglement of lies or, worse, watching her weep for Evan. If I stopped seeing her, I could end my heartsickness. Sophia Winter was a virus, snaking through my bloodstream, eroding my bones. To excise her from my life would be to dull a significant source of pain, to gradually distance myself from the stranger I’d become. “Actually, I’m meeting Kayla,” I said hurriedly. “We’re going for dinner.”

  Unmoved, she continued leaning nimbly against her desk, as if I’d responded in the opposite way. “Just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

  “I—” I frowned, uncertain how to answer. “I’m fine.”

  “I never thanked you. I know how difficult it must’ve been, and that it was terrible of me to ask you. But you did it, Ari, and you were so noble to try.”

  I avoided her eyes. “It was nothing. And clearly it didn’t work.”

  “The alternative could’ve been worse without you.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I picked at my nails, woozy with shame.

  “He starts rehab this week?”

  “That’s what Noah heard. But—doesn’t he tell you?”

  “No,” she said, causing my heart to swell with joy, despite my best efforts to steel myself into indifference. “He’s told me nothing.” An awkward lull ensued. I calculated the distance between us: ten feet, at most, from her desk to where I stood at the doorway. “Anyway.” She walked toward me, hesitating. “I won’t hold you. I just wanted to thank you. And—to tell you I miss you.”

  She disappeared through the door and I remained in my spot, pleading with myself to wait until her footsteps grew lighter, until I knew she was gone. And yet, after only several moments, I could take no more of the sound of her feet scraping lightly against the tiled floor.