After Obsession

by Carrie Jones

  Somehow it does not make me feel better that some other person sat at this desk and felt the same way. I eyeball Blake and Court, who are stuck across the room. Assigned seats in here, which is very fourth grade considering it’s AP. But our teacher, Mrs. Bloom, is like that, all yip-yap peppy like she’s a cheerleader for the classics.

  Court makes a face that tells me I should check out Mrs. Bloom’s ensemble. I do. It’s a sweater that’s way too matchy-matchy with a big plaid skirt, and what looks like her husband’s brown trouser socks, pulled up, but not quite to the hem of her skirt.

  “Bea-u-ti-ful,” I mouth to Court.

  Court mouths back, “I want it.”

  Briley Flood glares at me. She’s sitting in front of Blake and he snaps his finger into her shoulder, telling her to turn around. Briley’s always nice. I don’t know why she’s glaring. People are all on edge lately, even Blake.

  Mrs. Bloom claps her hands together and chirps, “Class! I am so excited. Today we continue our discussion about William Shakespeare’s classic play Hamlet.”

  I slump down in my chair, because I might as well die right now.

  “Miss Avery! Sit up!” Mrs. Bloom says. “Why don’t you read the part of Ophelia?”

  I fake smile. Great. The crazy female. Perfect, given the way I’m feeling.

  Mrs. Bloom pulls at her bra beneath her armpit like it’s chafing her and starts preaching. “Let’s talk about Ophelia first. Who do you think is the most boring, one-dimensional character in Hamlet?”

  That’s a tough one. I raise my hand because I need bonus points after slouching. Mrs. Bloom points at me with the super enthusiasm that only a bra-adjusting English teacher can summon. “Miss Avery?”

  “Ophelia,” I say, feeling pretty brilliant because this should be enough to show her that I am listening and that she doesn’t need to call on me ever again in this class despite my slouchy posture.

  Mrs. Bloom keeps chirping along. “That’s right. Now why? Aimee?”

  Crap. I have the follow-up answer responsibility, too, unless some butt-kisser jumps in. Countdown to butt-kisser. Three … Two … One … It’s Court. Only she’s butt-saving instead of butt-kissing. She tries to be casual, leaning back, legs out straight like a girl jock. She taps her pen on her desk and says, “Ophelia is really boring because she has all this potential, right? Like she could be the whole tragic heroine deal, but instead she just lets herself become crazy and she loses all the heroine potential and just becomes tragic.”

  “Right!” Mrs. Bloom beams.

  “But …” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  “What is it, Miss Avery? Is there something you want to add?”

  I swallow and my stomach flops into itself. “I just … I just don’t think you let yourself become crazy. Mental illness is usually some kind of chemical imbalance, or a disorder. There’s genetic predisposition. It’s not just about giving up.”

  “Genetic predisposition?” Court mock whispers. “She should know.”

  I swear the whole room hears her except for Mrs. Bloom, who has gone deaf on purpose. Something inside me explodes and hollows out. What is with her? I close my eyes and will everyone to go away. Instead, an image of my mother flashes into my head. Her hands reach out to me from the black river water. Her voice says my name, begging me to save … who? I open my eyes to witness Blake giving Court the glare-down, which I totally appreciate. He gets good boyfriend points for that one.

  “That’s true, Miss Avery!” Mrs. Bloom is going after me full force now. Her blue eyes are bland excitement. I have entered the land of teacher’s pet. “Why do you think Shakespeare did this?” She turns away from me. She trots to the front of the room, happy as a poodle at a big dog show, smiling, prancing, tail up in the air. She doesn’t give anyone a chance to answer. “Shakespeare does this because Ophelia’s choice mirrors Hamlet’s. Shakespeare uses insanity to prove a thematic point.”

  Mrs. Bloom is oblivious to how upset I am, and she just keeps teaching. It’s amazing how teachers have no clue about what’s going on inside us. I mean, Courtney’s giving Blake the finger and everything. Blake grabs her finger and whispers in her ear.

  We start reading Hamlet out loud, but I zone out in the parts Ophelia’s not in and think about my mom, which is dangerous.

  When I was a real little kid and my mom was still with us, I woke up one night and got out of my bed. I’d had a dream that my mom was floating in the river, facedown, her long brown hair streaming out around her and fish nibbling on her toes. Her body was puffed up like there were balloons beneath her skin, and she was a funny color.

  It scared me so much that I left my bed just to make sure she was okay. I tiptoed down the stairs and past my dad, who was passed out on the couch. I looked in my parents’ room, but the bed was empty.

  In class everyone turns the page. I turn my page, too. I read my lines. Another page. I skim ahead. No Ophelia for a little while, so I go back to remembering looking in my parents’ bedroom. I go back to remembering things that are probably completely Ophelia-style unhealthy to remember.

  “Mommy?” I whispered into the empty bedroom. “Mommy?”

  But I knew where she was.

  I knew because of my dream.

  I ran past my dad this time, not caring about noise. I raced out the door and went as fast as I could across the backyard, through the woods, and to the river. You could see the river from the house, and the moon was high and full in the middle of the sky.

  There was a lady standing by the river, right between the trees. I was sure it was a lady; I knew it from the shape. Her shape was a darkness that deepened the night. And standing in the river was a man. He was beckoning for her to come to him. Water flowed out of his mouth. His eyes were nothing eyes, charcoal pits. And he wanted her.

  “Mommy?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I ran as fast as I could, but it was hard in my nightie, which was too narrow to allow my legs to stretch out into full stride. The pine needles and branches hurt my feet, pricking into them, cutting them. I kept running.

  “Mommy?” I whispered as I got closer to the darkness of the river and the man, closer to her, and I stopped running. “Mommy?”

  The whole world smelled rotten, like old cucumbers in the fridge that had gone mooshy.

  I took a step toward her. I reached out my hand and my fingers touched her fingers, even though for a second hers didn’t move. Her face was blank like the moon; it had already started the work of retreat. Already. Way back then. She was far away, across the sky, into the moon, maybe the stars, or just the blackness between.

  “Mommy?” My fingers felt warm and glowing and powerful. I clenched her hand as hard as I could and tried to send all the love I had into her. That was the first time I ever tried to heal anybody.

  Nothing. And then her fingers moved to grasp mine, holding, holding, holding me tightly, too tightly. I knew then that she wasn’t really like other mothers. Something was going on. I just didn’t know what.

  “Aimee?” Her voice was wind-whisper sweet. “Did you come to get me? To make sure he didn’t get me?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, because I figured I did.

  She lifted me in her arms. “Let’s carry each other home.”

  When I looked back in the river the man was gone, disappeared under the surface.

  That was the only time any of my visions did any good. Just that once. That one time I actually saved her.

  • 4 •

  ALAN

  I try to focus on Act II of Macbeth, but all I can think about is Aimee Avery. My English teacher, Mrs. Carey, is trying her best to make Shakespeare interesting, and I have to admit that what I’ve read is okay, for Shakespeare. I like the witches and the conspiracy, but Shakespeare requires a lot of work, a lot of mental focus, and right now I just don’t have it. Not for Bill Shakespeare, anyway.

  Aimee said she’d see me later. It’s not like it’s a date or anything. It wa
sn’t even really saying she wouldn’t avoid me later. It was just a common parting. Not a promise. Shakespeare would have written it as “Fare thee well” or something like that.

  She has a boyfriend. Blake. A bell rings and I move on to my art class. Instead of reading, I’m holding a paint brush and staring at a piece of canvas. There’s red paint on my brush and it makes me think of the red paint on Aimee’s hand. She’s an artist. Is she good? She has red hair.

  … Red …

  The damn dream. It hasn’t gone away. Maybe because I know now that the girl is Aimee. Usually, however, when a dream lingers like this one has—when Onawa is in the dream—it’s more than just a mental picture show.

  My hand is moving. I let it go. I don’t really think about what I’m doing. It’s like I’m on autopilot. I paint and think, keeping the two things separate. I don’t paint often. I’m not very good at it, but I do like it. I have incredible images in my head, but my hands aren’t very good translators.

  A Cheeto that looks like Marilyn Monroe? I smile at that memory. Aimee’s gramps and her little brother sound pretty cool. Who the hell would bid $500 for a Cheeto?

  I freeze, my paintbrush poised over my one-foot canvas square. I’ve painted my vision. There is Aimee looking back at me, her red hair flying around her face, her green eyes wide, and her mouth open. Behind her are the green eyes of Onawa, and surrounding them both is blackness filled with swirling shapes. This is crazy. Probably nobody else would see the shapes in the black paint. Nobody would realize who I’d painted. Would they?

  “Alan, that’s very nice.”

  Oh crap. Mr. Burnham stands behind me, his hand on his chin, his eyes fixed on my handiwork. He’s probably in his late twenties, with short black hair gelled to stand up over his forehead. He has a tribal tattoo on his left wrist, which makes me think he’s probably the coolest teacher in this school. Still, I just want him to go away.

  “You realize the bell rang a few minutes ago, right?” he asks.

  No wonder it’s so quiet. I look around. There are no students in the art room.

  “I guess I didn’t hear it,” I say.

  “You were pretty intense there. I can write you a note to your next teacher, but you need to put this away. I’ll clean your brushes for you today,” he says, and now I’m sure he’s the coolest. “Tell me, are these spirits swirled in the black of the underworld?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I say.

  “And the green eyes?”

  “Cougar.”

  “Personal totem?”

  I’m not sure what to say. I look at his tattoo. Those things are so generic. Every poser who wants to feel primitive gets one. It doesn’t mean anything. “You know about totems?” I ask.

  “A little.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “We should all have a spirit guide. It’d make life easier.”

  “Do you?” I ask.

  “No. Somewhere back up the line, on my mom’s side, there’s some Penobscot blood, but it’s too thin in me. I’m just a run-of-the-mill pagan. Not that I tell too many people about that. Folks around here are pretty conservative, in case you hadn’t figured it out.”

  I nod. I want to skip woodworking and stay here and talk to him, but Mr. Burnham takes the brush from my hand.

  “Wash up,” he says. “This is my planning period. I’ll put Aimee and your cougar away and clean the brushes after I write your note to class.”

  “You know who it is?”

  “Aimee Avery is the best artist in this school. Naturally she’s one of my favorites. You are aware that she has a boyfriend. Blake Stanley.”

  I give him a sheepish look that a blind man could interpret. “She’s the only person who really talks to me.”

  “She’s a nice girl,” he says as he writes a note on the back of a scrap of paper. “Who’s your teacher?”

  After woodworking, it’s off to the locker room to suit up for cross-country. At home, the Jets are on the field practicing for Friday’s game against the Chickasha Fighting Chicks. Beating the Chicks would earn the Jets a playoff berth. Will they win without me? Maybe. I decide I don’t want to think about it.

  The cross-country team gathers outside the field house and Coach Treat, a thin woman with mousy hair and pale freckles, outlines the route we’ll be running for the day. I don’t recognize the street names, of course, which means I have to stay with someone who knows where they’re going. It turns out that someone is Blake, who quickly jumps out ahead of the pack. I catch up and run along beside him.

  “I don’t know the route,” I explain. “The street names.”

  “It’s easy to remember once you’ve done it a few times,” he says. He’s not breathing hard. His words are punctuated by the fall of his feet on the pavement. Despite the chill, we’re all wearing shorts. I glance down at Blake’s pumping legs. They’re toned, but skinny. No real muscle mass. I can see the muscles of his calves flexing, but there’s almost no definition in his thighs. He’s all cardio and no resistance training. No squats.

  We run side-by-side for about forty minutes with no more conversation. We come around one last corner with a little convenience store with gas pumps on one side and a drug store on the other. The school’s field house is about two blocks away.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” I challenge. Blake gives me a look that says I’m stupid to challenge him.

  “Go!” He leans into it and sprints forward. I do the same. Behind us, the rest of the team shouts encouragement. It’s mostly generic, but every now and then I hear, “Go Blake!”

  I pass him easily, and now I can hear him panting. Then I can’t. He’s falling behind. Ten yards. Twenty. I race past the fence around the soccer field and see Coach Treat standing in front of the field house with the stopwatch in her hand. I think of the last yards between me and a touchdown that would send the Jets to the playoffs and find another burst of speed. I blow by the coach as she clicks the watch, her eyes following me as I start to slow down.

  Blake finishes a good four seconds behind me. I go back and reach out to shake his hand. He hesitates for a moment, then grips my hand. His breath puffs out in vapor clouds. I’m breathing a little hard, but not like him. The rest of the team trickles in. Coach Treat calls times and her student assistant records them. When everyone’s in, she calls me over to her.

  “Are you always that fast?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess.”

  “Alan, you’ve got a good chance of making the all-state team if you keep that up,” she says. “Good job.” She looks over the whole team, then calls, “Hit the showers.”

  Once we’re in the locker room, people who hadn’t talked to me before are now congratulating me and talking about how fast I am. I know I’m a pretty good athlete, but all this praise makes me kind of uncomfortable. It’s not like I’m Adrian Peterson or Barry Sanders. I’m standing there by the middle bench that is stuck between two long lines of maroon lockers, listening and trying to take it all in. I bend over and start unlacing my shoe, staring at the cold concrete floor, hiding a smile.

  “It’s because he’s an Indian. He’s used to stealing those scalps and running before he gets caught.”

  The boys’ locker room is deathly quiet except for the static sound of one shower running behind the lockers. The air turns icy cold and then hot, as if hate itself is running through it. Somebody’s towel drops to the floor with a wicked splat. The few boys in front of me part. A short, scrawny kid stands near Blake. I don’t know the kid’s name, but it’s obvious he’s the one who said it. He stares back at me. He can’t be more than five foot six, a hundred thirty pounds. I’ve got seven inches and forty pounds on him.

  “What’d you say?” I ask. It’s a bad thing to do, but I take a step toward him. It’s a really bad thing. I take another step. Guys move farther away from me. The kid looks toward Blake, but Blake ignores him. Another step. “You say something about scalps?”

  “Hey, man, I wa
s just playing around,” he offers, lifting a hand in supplication. He backs toward an open locker. Someone’s jock dangles from a hook.

  “Playing around? You say I steal scalps, then run like a coward, and that’s playing around?”

  “Yeah, man. You know, like in the movies. Native Americans are always scalping people … you know …”

  “Yeah. I know,” I say. I’m standing right in front of him now, and his face is level with my chest. He has to look up at me while I talk down to him. He’s not a threat. Maybe he thought Blake would back him up. “I know all about the old movie Indians. Now I’m gonna tell you something. I don’t know how you boys in Maine do things, but in Oklahoma, when someone insults someone else, we don’t stand around and talk about it. We just start kicking ass.”

  “Hey, man, really, I was just playing around.” He steps back, but I stay with him.

  “Alan, man, Matt’s a douche. Just ignore him,” someone behind me says.

  “He’s always saying crap he can’t back up,” someone else says.

  Matt’s eyes show fear. That’s good enough. This time. “Listen to me, little paleface. I’ll only warn you once. You make another ‘Indian’ joke and I just might take the hair off your head after I kick your ass. Got it?”

  “Yeah, man. We’re cool?” He offers a hand.

  I look slowly from the hand to his eyes. His eyes are pleading. You can tell a lot by a person’s eyes. Matt’s weak. He thinks he’s funny. I nod, but don’t shake his hand.

  “We’re cool.”

  The tension breaks and guys go back to changing clothes. Mom would have killed me if I’d gotten into a fight my second day at a new school. I shower and dress as fast as I can without seeming obvious, then head for the late bus.

  • 5 •

  AIMEE

  The entire way home from practice, Blake is a total jerk, which is so unlike him. I’m gross and sweaty and he’s complaining. “You’re dripping on the car, Aim.”

  “And you aren’t?” I shift in the seat, leaning toward the door.