by Edward Bloor
“Yes.”
“But it’s called a journal, and it reads like it’s nonfiction.”
“It does seem like nonfiction, yes. The author was in London that year, and he did keep a journal. What you are holding is a story based on all that, but written afterward. It is a work of fiction.”
I finally turned around to match that girl’s voice with a face. She was really cute. And smart. And, as I mentioned, confident.
Mr. Proctor held up a memo. “Before we begin, I want to tell you about a change in the language arts curriculum this year. You are expected to write a lot, about four thousand words per month.”
Arthur let out a low whistle.
A new kid in a very tight Pittsburgh Penguins T-shirt raised his hand. He asked, “How many words is that a day?”
“I don’t know. I’ll let you do the math. One way you can achieve that total, though, is to write a journal for me for extra credit. So pay attention as you read this book. Think about how Daniel Defoe documented the history of a people and a place.”
The Pittsburgh Penguins kid asked, “What if you don’t have a journal?”
Mr. Proctor smiled. “A journal can be anything—a notebook, a pad, even loose papers that you clip together.”
The kid seemed relieved.
Arthur muttered to me, “No way. That’s too much work.”
But I didn’t think so. I had a new notebook from the Food Giant school supplies section, a small one that fit in my back pocket. I kind of liked the idea of a journal.
The Pittsburgh Penguins kid asked, “What if we write a whole lot and then we lose it?”
Mr. Proctor squinted at him, but then he explained patiently, “You can just tell me you did it. I’ll believe you.”
The kid sounded amazed. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He looked around. “You guys wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
The kid laughed and answered goofily, as if for the whole class, “Oh no! No, we wouldn’t do that!”
Mr. Proctor then picked up a black erasable marker and wrote one word on the whiteboard: plague. “Okay, tell me, what is a plague?” No one said anything, so he looked at his seating chart. He asked that new kid, “Ben Gibbons, what is a plague?”
“Uh, it’s a really bad thing.”
Mr. Proctor laughed. “It is. It’s a really bad thing. So what are some really bad things that can come in plague form?” He turned to the whiteboard and assumed a writing stance. Still, no one said anything, so he wrote the word disease.
Then the cute girl in the back spoke up. She rattled off a list as Mr. Proctor wrote frantically to keep up: “Frogs. Locusts. Hail. Darkness. Death of firstborn males.”
Mr. Proctor muttered, “Good. Good. Some of the ten plagues of Egypt, from the Bible.” He pointed at the paperback. “Does anyone know what Daniel Defoe’s plague was called?”
He looked at the girl, like she was the only one who had any chance of knowing. When she didn’t venture a guess, he told us, “The bubonic plague. It decimated London, England, in 1665.” He looked around the room. “But what about nowadays, in the year 2001? What kind of plagues do we have now?”
He answered his own question again, before any of us could. “AIDS? Swine flu?”
Mr. Proctor put down his marker. He pointed out the window. “Listen. I have been reading about a new plague. And they do use the word plague to describe it. It is a plague of drug use, right here in small-town Pennsylvania. The drug is called methamphetamine. Has anybody heard of it?”
Nobody answered. Nobody had, I guess. Not yet.
“Okay. Well then, let’s go back a few hundred years and see what’s going on in Daniel Defoe’s England.” Then Mr. Proctor began to read A Journal of the Plague Year aloud.
The drug-counseling group that Lilly would attend every Monday, and that I would attend one time only, was held in a large conference room inside the school’s main office. In the middle of the room, there was a long table with about twelve chairs around it. There were another dozen or so chairs set back against the walls, nearly ringing the table.
By the time I arrived, the wall chairs were already filled, forcing me to be the first kid to sit at the table. I looked at the table’s only other occupant, an attractive woman dressed in a dark blue suit. She wore an expensive necklace, earrings, and watch. Her hair was swept up in a style that I would call French (although I’m not sure why). I figured, correctly, that she was the leader of the group.
I watched Lilly enter the room. Her nostrils were pulled back as far as they could go, like she was entering the smelliest place on earth. She took the seat opposite me. Then, as Mom had predicted, Arthur walked in. His face betrayed no emotion at all as he took the seat right next to me. I turned, but I hadn’t said a word when he told me, “Shut up. This gets me out of football practice.”
I glanced quickly around the room, seeing how many of the wall-huggers I could recognize. Many were high schoolers. Some actually looked like stoners, with scraggly hair, tattoos, piercings, heavy-metal T-shirts. But some were a surprise to me as, I am sure, Lilly and I were a surprise to them.
Jenny Weaver was there, which really surprised me. She’s basically the perfect kid—Student Council representative, honor roll member, office assistant. She’s also in most of my classes.
Chris Collier was there, too. He was president of the Junior High Student Council last year, but I don’t think he’s running this year. At least I haven’t seen his name on any posters in the halls.
Angela Lang walked into the room. She was carrying her own folding chair, which she set down by the door. Angela had been my “girlfriend” back in the sixth grade, although we never actually went on a date. Our whole relationship went something like this:
Angela: Do you want to go out with me?
Me: Okay.
Angela: I think we should break up.
Me: Okay.
And she has barely spoken to me since.
Finally, and best of all, that cute girl from my English class walked in and stood next to the leader. I had a much better view of her now. She did not look like the girls from around here. She had bright blond hair and a golden tan. She had blue eyes and very white teeth. She actually seemed to sparkle.
The leader woman reached over and touched the girl’s golden arm. (I suddenly wished I could do the same.) She directed her, for some miraculous reason, to the chair next to Lilly.
The leader then cleared her throat softly and spoke. “Before we get started, I would like to announce that I do not have the plague. Any of you who would like a comfortable seat around the table, please join us now.”
No one moved.
The woman went on: “Okay. My name is Catherine Lyle, and I am a mental health professional. I have a master’s degree in counseling from USC.” She stopped for a moment, wondering whether she had to explain that to us. She concluded that she did: “The University of Southern California.” Then she added, like it was some big deal, “My husband is Dr. Richard Lyle.”
We just stared at her. Arthur muttered to me, “Didn’t he play linebacker for the Steelers, back with Mean Joe Green?”
Catherine Lyle explained, “He is a well-known lecturer in the field of psychology.”
Arthur continued muttering, “What? He works in a field? Hey, I might know him, then.”
Mrs. Lyle told us, “I just want you to know how much I appreciate this opportunity to put my degree to work. And I hope this group will be a benefit to all of you.”
She pointed at the door. “First things first: As a counselor, I adhere to a code of ethics. We will have strict confidentiality in this room. Does everyone know what that means?”
Arthur said loudly, “What we say in here stays in here.”
“Yes. That’s very well put.”
Arthur liked that. His scarred cheeks reddened.
Catherine continued: “If I see you in public, I will not acknowledge you. If I did, people would think, That person must be in counsel
ing, and that’s nobody’s business but ours. So if I do not say hello at Starbucks, I’m not being mean; I’m just following my counselor’s code of ethics.”
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one thinking, We don’t have a Starbucks here, lady.
She opened a large leather notebook with gold-trimmed pages. She slid a silver pen out of a slot in the middle, clicked it, and said, “Now let’s go around the room. Please say your name and one quick thing about yourself so we can get to know each other.” She turned and looked at Chris Collier. He shrugged and said, “I’m Chris Collier, and I work at the Strike Zone.”
Catherine Lyle beamed a white smile. “Now, what is that? A batting cage?”
Chris looked confused. He answered, “No. It’s a bowling alley.”
“Ah. Of course.”
The next kid, a high school stoner, mumbled his name as Terry something, but he didn’t add anything else. He looked so stressed-out that Mrs. Lyle changed her mind on the spot. “Okay. Let’s say that the one quick thing about yourself is voluntary. You’re free to just say your name.” She smiled kindly at Terry and moved on.
All around the wall, kids started mumbling their names and nothing else.
When the kids sitting in the wall chairs were finished, Catherine Lyle looked at me to start at the table. I said, “I’m Tom Coleman, and I work at the Food Giant.”
“I’m Lilly Coleman. And I work there, too.”
“I’m Arthur.”
Finally it was the cute girl’s turn. “I’m Wendy, and I am new here at Haven.”
Catherine Lyle concluded by saying, “Thank you all. I know that was difficult for some of you. It’s difficult to talk about yourself, isn’t it? You think no one really wants to hear about you and what you are feeling, but that’s not true. Not in here.
“In this group, we will talk about low self-esteem, low expectations, and many of the other factors that can lead to teenage drug abuse. But I will not be doing all the talking. If we’re going to have a successful group, you’ll all need to talk, either in the large group or in smaller ones. I will be inviting some guest speakers to come in, too.”
She consulted her notepad. “Finally, I want this group to be an information resource for you. Information is power when you are dealing with drugs and addiction. I’d like to ask for a volunteer to do a report on a drug that has recently emerged in this area—methamphetamine.”
Most kids looked away. I could have researched that word on our Gateway computer and written a report on it if I’d been planning on coming to another meeting.
The cute girl finally raised her hand and said, “I’ll do it.”
Catherine Lyle said reluctantly, “All right, Wendy. Thank you.” She stood up very gracefully and moved her hands in a circling motion. “I know it is easier to talk to a few people than to many, so let’s arrange ourselves right now into groups of four.”
The cute girl took the initiative. She held out her arms so that they encompassed Arthur, Lilly, and me. “How about if the four of us form a group?”
I replied eagerly, “Sure. Okay.”
Arthur just frowned at her.
Lilly didn’t even do that. I could tell by her eyes that she had checked out completely.
Still, the girl smiled gamely and told us, “I’m Wendy Lyle. And … you guys must all be related, right?”
I smiled back. “How did you know that?”
She pointed to Lilly. “You two have the same last name, and the same face.” She looked at Arthur. “And I’ve heard you call him ‘cuz’ in English class. Am I right?”
“You are,” I assured her, then added, “That’s very perceptive of you.”
She beamed at me, so I tried, “And you have the same name as our group leader, but not the same face.”
She gave me a short finger point. “That is very perceptive of you. Catherine is my stepmom. We just moved here for my dad’s job. He’s a professor at the university.”
Arthur said sourly, “My dad’s a drunk.”
Wendy looked right at him. “I’m sorry. I hope that will change.”
“I don’t think so. He’s dead.”
She kept looking at him. “Sorry again.”
I liked how Wendy kept her cool in the face of this open hostility from my cousin, and the open indifference from my sister. I didn’t know why they were being so rude. Because she was an outsider? Because she was cute? Because she was kind of a teacher’s pet? I turned to Arthur, determined to ask him what his problem was, but I stopped when he waved at someone outside.
Looking through the window, I saw Arthur’s stepfather, Jimmy Giles.
Jimmy is a wiry, scraggly guy who always looks like he just woke up. He was standing in the school office, wearing a threadbare jeans jacket. Jimmy’s brother Warren was out there with him, jangling a set of keys. (Jimmy had his driver’s license revoked by a judge, so Warren has to drive him around.)
Warren is a handsome guy of about forty. He’s the same age as my dad, but he looks a lot younger. Warren was wearing a jacket, too, but his was striking. It was green satin with gold lettering on the back. When he turned, I saw that the lettering said Haven High Football.
I asked Arthur, “What’s your stepdad doing here? And Warren?”
Arthur nodded toward Catherine Lyle. “A judge sent Jimmy to this counselor lady.”
“Yeah? Really? So is he in our group?”
“Nah. He’s here to do community service.”
Since Arthur wasn’t exactly answering my question, Wendy Lyle added, “My stepmom asked him to talk here today.”
“About what?”
“He’s talking about drugs. About what they did to his life.”
I looked at Arthur. “That doesn’t sound like Jimmy.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Well, public speaking.”
Arthur smiled. “You just might be surprised about that.”
Catherine Lyle walked over to the door. She had a very classy walk, like a model. She opened it and spoke softly, “Mr. Giles? Are you ready?”
Jimmy nodded and entered the room. Warren stayed outside, watching through the glass.
Mrs. Lyle told us, “It takes courage to face an addiction and to overcome it. I’d like to introduce you to someone who is facing that challenge right now. Actually, I will let him introduce himself and tell you about his own experiences getting into, and then getting away from, drug addiction.”
She smiled sweetly and reclaimed her seat. Jimmy Giles stood by the door, avoiding eye contact with us. He seemed to be talking to himself for a few seconds. Then he pulled a white note card from his pants pocket and started to read from it.
“I am here to tell you about my experience so that it does not become your experience.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Any dumb animal can learn from a mistake. If a horse walks into an electric fence and gets a shock, it don’t walk into that fence again. It learns from it. But humans can also learn from others’ mistakes. I hope that’s what will happen today.”
Catherine Lyle encouraged him. “That’s an excellent point.”
Arthur suddenly spoke up, as if he were at an old-time-religion camp-revival meeting. “Amen, Jimmy! Well told.”
Jimmy grinned at Arthur. Then he looked at the rest of us. His nerves seemed to melt away as his glance passed from face to face. When he spoke again, he was relaxed. “I should tell you my name is Jimmy Giles, and I’m from Blackwater. I have worked as a wildcat coal miner, on and off. I have worked as a mover”—he looked back through the door—“with my brother Warren. We move kids in and out of Blackwater University. We also sell Christmas trees.”
He paused to clear his throat. From my side view, I could see his large Adam’s apple bob up and down.
“I got involved with marijuana in junior high school.” He looked around at the walls of the room. “At this junior high school, in fact. I started smoking it when I was twelve, and I was still smoking it three months ago when I got arrested f
or the second time. If I get arrested a third time, I go straight to jail.”
Jimmy hung his head, as if looking back into his days at Haven Junior High. “Here’s what I learned between then and now—what I learned the hard way.” He suddenly pointed at Wendy. “Miss? Name something that you love to do.”
“Me? I read. I read a lot.”
“Okay.” He pointed at me. “What about you, Tom?”
I answered, “Uh, play video games. Nintendo 64.”
“Okay. Got it. Now let me break it down for you.
“You love to read, miss. And then you get high, and you love to read even more when you’re high.
“And you love to play video games, Tom, and then you get high, and you love to play video games even more when you’re high.”
He looked from Wendy to me. “But then something bad happens.” He pointed at Wendy. “You find that you don’t love to read anymore when you’re not high. It’s not good enough.” He switched to me. “And video games? You don’t love to play when you’re not high. No way. It’s not good enough.”
Jimmy stopped, then said, “Now, here’s the really awful part.
“Miss, you soon realize that you don’t love reading anymore even when you are high. And Tom, you don’t love video games anymore, high or not. You don’t love anything anymore. Not books, not games, not even getting high.
“But you keep getting high anyway because … well, that’s what you do.” He glanced at the kids against the wall. “Right, stoners? That’s what you do, so you keep on doing it. Even though you hate it now. You have officially arrived at zombieland. You don’t love anything. You don’t like anything. You don’t care about anything. It has all been taken away from you … by drugs.”
A few of the stoners nodded at him.
Arthur suddenly said in his tent-revival voice, “Preach, Jimmy!”
Jimmy looked at Arthur. His voice started to rise. “I am thirty-eight years old, with a wife and kids, and I have a job that only pays minimum wage. And I have had some jobs that paid less than minimum wage. What can I thank for that?”
Arthur answered, “Drugs. You can thank drugs for that.”
