by Edward Bloor
Then she looked at me expectantly. All I could manage to whisper was, “What was that?”
She whispered back, “It was … what it was. Did you like it?”
“Yeah.”
She backed away, smacking her lips together loudly. “Let’s get some more. For eating, though.”
“Okay.”
“No more taking advantage of me because I am drunk.”
I laughed. “Okay.”
She led me back into the dining room. Two guys were standing by the CD player. One was dressed in zombie attire. The other had on a long black robe and a white skull mask, a death’s-head mask. The death’s-head was saying, “Play something Midwest, man. I’m sick of this L.A. pop crap.”
The other guy pointed to a stack of CDs. “Tell me what you want to hear, bro.”
Wendy dragged me right up to him. She called out, a little too loudly, “Hey, Mr. P.!”
The death’s-head mask turned around. It had big holes, so you could see the eyes and mouth inside. It was Mr. Proctor all right. Definitely. And he did not look pleased to see us. He managed to say, “Hey. What are you guys doing here?”
Wendy replied, “I live here! This is my house!”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” We stared at each other for a few seconds. Then he turned left and started toward the front door. “Sorry. I really don’t think I should be partying with you guys.”
I watched him go.
Just as he disappeared, I felt a hard tug at my arm. I turned and saw the pirate guy with the eye patch. He looked me up and down, but he spoke to Wendy. “Now, what’s he dressed up like? A townie? Is he your little townie friend? A little townie who has to go home now?”
Wendy said, “Shut up!” But she didn’t sound angry.
“Bye now, little townie friend.” The guy turned his back on me. He told her, “You come over here and shut me up.” Then he took Wendy by the wrist and walked her back to that same place against the wall. Then he leaned over her, just like before.
I started to panic. I wondered: Should I go rescue her?
Then I stopped wondering.
Wendy opened her mouth to him, revealing another piece of candy corn. She stuck out her tongue and held it there, dangling it in the air, just as she had done with me. The pirate guy knew what to do next. He covered her tongue with his whole mouth.
And there they were, the two of them, making out against the wall. Right in front of me, like I wasn’t even there.
I felt the blood rising in my neck, and face, and ears, like when Rick Dorfman was choking me.
I stared for a few more seconds; then I tore myself away. I pushed through a crowd at the front door, looking for Arthur, hoping to get out of there as fast as I could. But I didn’t see him.
So I found an open spot against the railing and stood there with my head hanging down. I was furious and ashamed and humiliated all at the same time. I gripped the railing and stared at the ground, hoping nobody would see me or, worse, say anything to me. I was a total loser, just a total coward loser.
After a few minutes, I sensed somebody grab hold of the railing next to me. Grab it clumsily, bumping me to the side.
I saw a girl’s arm to my left, and the purple folds of a costume. It was Wendy. She may or may not have known that it was me standing next to her. She leaned over the railing and hurled very loudly, projecting a solid three-foot-long stream of vomit onto the dirt below.
My stomach turned at the smell, and the sight, of the pieces of candy corn. There they were, risen from the grave of her stomach. Undigested. Making me sick.
From behind me, I heard someone say, “Nice shot.”
It was Arthur. “You ready to get out of here?” he asked. “Or did you want to, maybe, kiss her again?”
Before I could answer, I heard the sound of a large, boisterous group coming out of the house. Wendy suddenly snapped to attention. She hurried down the steps and took off into the night.
A man in a pirate costume called out, “Wait! Is that my daughter? Does my costume embarrass her that much? Come on, Wendy—I did leave off the codpiece!”
The group of mini-pirates around him started to laugh, and I realized this was Dr. Lyle. He had on a long blue velvet coat, a puffy white shirt, and a golden vest. He had on a feathered blue hat, too.
Dr. Lyle’s bloodshot eyes suddenly turned toward Arthur. He squinted and then demanded to know, in a loud voice, “Now, what are you supposed to be? Let me guess: a homeless man with a sleeping disorder?”
The pirate boys laughed.
Arthur did not reply, so Dr. Lyle tried again. “No? Perhaps a coal miner who has tried, unsuccessfully, to wash his face?”
The boys laughed again.
Arthur cleared his throat. He answered, “Yeah, that’s it. I’m a coal miner. You got a problem with that?”
Dr. Lyle leaned back, popping his red eyes open. “Certainly not. That is a great career for the new millennium. Coal miner. Yes, there will be a great demand for nonrenewable fossil fuel and those who can dig it up, I am sure.” He looked at his boys. “Did you know that clean coal is an oxymoron? A self-contradiction?”
The boys replied with variations of no, so he continued.
“Like wise fool. Like military intelligence.”
The boys laughed appreciatively. One of them snorted, and told him (obsequiously), “That is hilarious, Doctor.”
I looked at Arthur. He was enraged. What would he do? I took a step down the stairs, hoping he would follow me, but he did not. Instead, he spoke up in his dumb voice. “Well, coal minin’ isn’t as fancy as doctorin’, I guess.” He held up a finger, like he had a thought. “Oh! I hurt my finger today, Doctor. Do you think you could look at it?”
Everybody froze. Dr. Lyle’s nostrils flared out, as if he had detected an odor. He finally replied coldly, “No. I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Oh? What kind are you?”
Dr. Lyle answered abruptly, “Perhaps you should go home now.”
Arthur joined me on the step. “Yeah. Yeah, perhaps. Perhaps to all that.” He took off quickly toward our parking space, and I followed.
Dr. Lyle said one more thing to his boys, but I could not hear it. They all started laughing, so I concluded it was about Arthur.
Or about townies.
Or about coal miners.
November
Monday, November 5, 2001
Last week was pretty miserable for me.
Wendy did not come to school the first two days after the party. Maybe she had a really bad hangover. I was relieved because I had no idea what to do—about her, about the college guy, about the whole humiliating scene.
That guy had broken up the most beautiful moment of my life. He had pulled Wendy away from me. He had called me her “little townie friend.”
So what was I supposed to do about all of that?
Wendy finally reappeared midweek, on the TV, giving the morning announcements. She was smiling and beautiful, as always. She talked up this week’s football game against North Schuylkill. (And she pronounced it right.)
I took my front-row seat in Mr. Proctor’s class and waited for her. She breezed in just seconds before the bell. She smiled at me and whispered a breathless “Hi,” like nothing was wrong.
I smiled back. I don’t know why; I just did. I couldn’t help myself. But I did not speak to her. I didn’t speak to her on Thursday, either. But by Friday, I had relented. I had basically forgiven her. She had kissed me, sort of. Twice. And then she had moved on.
It was what it was.
Make no mistake, though, I had not forgiven that scumbag college guy. I couldn’t. Maybe that’s how they do things in California, and in Florida—they forgive and forget and move on.
But it’s not how we do things in Blackwater.
Mr. Proctor began with vocabulary. He picked up his marker and wrote this on the whiteboard: docent—a museum guide. A decent docent doesn’t descend to dissent.
Wendy sounded as perky as
ever. “Another good one, Mr. P.!”
We all started working silently on vocabulary. I finished mine quickly. I guess Arthur did, too, because he started whispering to me from my right side. “Did you hear, cuz? We’re going on another field trip.”
I stared straight ahead, but I whispered, “No, I didn’t hear.”
“Jimmy told his counselor lady that he’s scared of going down into coal mines.”
“Is he?”
“Yeah. Jimmy did some wildcat mining a few years back. The down shaft collapsed on him, and it took the other guys about an hour to dig him out. He was okay, but he quit mining. Anyway, he told Mrs. Lyle about it, so guess where we’re going next?”
“A coal mine?”
“Got it. Over in Ashland.”
Mr. Proctor interrupted us. He raised his voice and announced, “Okay! It sounds like you’re all finished.”
He returned to the whiteboard and wrote annus mirabilis—the year of wonders. He asked, “Who here remembers his or her Roman numerals?” About half of us raised our hands. “Okay. Call some out to me.”
We did, and he started to write them on the board, apparently in random order: C, L, X, V, I.
He turned back to us. “Come on, what are the bigger ones? M is a thousand, right? What about five hundred? What is that?”
Nobody answered, until Wendy told him, “D.”
“There you go!” He added M and D to the list. “That’s it. And that’s all of them. The Romans had no use for millions, or billions, or trillions. And frankly, neither do we.” He pointed at the capital letters, and we learned that they were not in random order after all.
“The Romans only needed these numerals. And only once in human history would each numeral appear only one time, in descending order, to designate a year. The year was MDCLXVI. Who can tell me what that is in our numbers? How about you, Tom?”
He caught me off guard, but I managed to work it out aloud: “Sixteen hundred and … sixty-six.”
“Correct! Good man! Sixteen sixty-six. It was expected to be the annus mirabilis, the year of wonders, and great things were expected to happen during it. However, because of what did happen during it, it has come down through history bearing another name. That name is …” He paused for effect before intoning in his horror-movie voice, “The plague year, 1666. One of the most deadly, destructive, devastating years in all of human history.”
He paused to write the plague year on the whiteboard.
Wendy raised her hand. “Mr. P.? What would that be in Latin?”
“I am not sure,” Mr. Proctor admitted. “I did look it up online”—he started to write again—“and I came up with three possibilities.” He read them out: “annus vomicam, annus pestis, and annus pestilentiae.”
Arthur pointed out, in what I guess was his Wendy Lyle voice, “Mr. P.? They’ve all got anus in them.”
A few kids sniggered.
Wendy turned and glared at him.
Ben said, “I like Annus Vomicam. It has, like, the plague and vomit in it.”
Arthur turned to Ben and added, “And anus. And cam, like in camera. Like you have a camera in your anus to record when you’re vomiting.”
Ben replied, “Awesome.”
Just about everybody laughed or groaned. Except Wendy. She threw up her hands angrily.
Mr. Proctor stopped the discussion, saying, “Okay. Okay. That one is particularly disgusting, yes. But so was the plague. Let’s remember what we already learned about it from Daniel Defoe.” He raised up his copy of A Journal of the Plague Year.
“The plague had devastated London the previous year. The English people knew they were in for it. They were aware of plagues that had ravaged Europe three hundred years before, when half the people in the Western world had died.
“Half the people in the world! Dead! For no apparent reason!
“Imagine what the plague would do to your town. Imagine half the kids in this school not showing up tomorrow, not because they were sick, but because they were dead. Half the members of your family not showing up for Thanksgiving dinner! Half the world … just … gone!
“It was devastating beyond belief. It appeared to be the end of the human race. Whole towns disappeared. Whole economies collapsed. There was no one left to bring in the crops, or herd the sheep, or milk the cows. Western society broke down completely, and it would stay broken down for generations to follow.”
Mr. Proctor held up his copy of The Roses of Eyam. “That brings us to my play. My play needs actors.” He looked right at me. “My play needs you.
“Now, do not worry if you have never acted before. I promise you, this will be a no-pressure production. All the actors will carry Bibles. Inside those Bibles will be your lines, typed out in big letters. You may simply read what you cannot memorize.”
Wendy didn’t like that, and she told him so. “That is so lame. Actors should memorize their lines.”
Mr. Proctor shook his head. “It will be fine. The message of the play is what matters.” He pointed his book at Wendy. “You know, I could see you and Tom Coleman in the lead roles.”
Wendy smiled delightedly.
I did not. I replied right away, “I’m sorry, Mr. Proctor. I can’t do it. I have to work.”
He raised up one eyebrow. “It may not be the big time commitment you think.”
“I have to work just about every day now.”
Mr. Proctor seemed genuinely disappointed. “Oh. Okay. I’m sorry to hear that.”
I thought, Yeah. Me, too.
He pointed to my right. “How about you, Arthur? I have a role in mind for you.”
“What is it?”
“The Bedlam.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s a very important character.”
Arthur cocked his head. He asked, like he was horse trading, “If I played him, would I get an A for your class?”
“Yes, you would.”
“For both semesters? Because that’s what I really need.”
Mr. Proctor thought for a moment, but then he agreed. “Sure. Why not.”
Arthur slapped his desk. “Then sign me up.”
Mr. Proctor pointed his book at other students. “Ben, Jenny, you could have parts, too. Let’s talk about it. I’d like this class to take as many parts as possible. The remaining parts will be filled by members of the Drama Club.”
So, for the next fifteen minutes, everybody who was interested in a part got one.
Everybody but me.
Because I had to work. For no money. At a family business that my family doesn’t even own.
After school, while we were waiting to go into the conference room, Arthur said, “Check this out: Jimmy Giles had on a white shirt and tie this morning.”
“No way.”
“Yeah. He’s got a new gig with WorkForce.” He explained, “They do day labor.”
“I know. We use those guys at the Food Giant.”
“Jimmy doesn’t like it. He says it’s like government work.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you don’t really have to work. Close enough is good enough. That kind of thing.”
“Got it.”
Jenny came out of Mrs. Cantwell’s office. She joined Arthur and me and whispered, “Did you hear? Mike Szabo’s dad got arrested.”
I was shocked. “No!”
“Yes. Out on the turnpike. At a rest stop.”
“What did he do?”
Her voice dropped even more. “He tried to sell meth to an undercover cop.”
“Meth? Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Mike told me himself. His mom was in the car when it happened, so they both got busted. Taken to the police station, the whole bit. Anyway, they’re gone.”
I was really stunned. “They’re gone? What do you mean? He has no parents, just like that?”
“Yeah. They had no money for bail, so they’re in the county jail, awaiting trial.”
Arthur, always skeptical, d
emanded to know, “How did you hear this?”
“Like I said, I talked to Mike. And his parents talked to my parents from the jail. They asked if Mike and the twins could stay with us.”
“The twins?”
“He has twin sisters. Two-year-olds.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So they’re all moving in with you?”
Jenny acted like it was no big deal. “They already have. The two little girls—Maggie and Dollie—and Mike.” She looked around furtively. “Anyway, don’t say anything to Mike. We’re doing a presentation today. He’s already nervous enough.”
Mikeszabo walked in shortly after. He had three white posters rolled up under his arm. If he was broken up about losing his parents, it did not show on his face. He joined Jenny at the front of the room, where they huddled with Catherine Lyle.
The rest of us took our seats. (They were the seats we had taken the very first day, back on September 10. No one in the group ever deviated.)
Catherine Lyle began, “We have been talking about drugs and how they can destroy a community. Jenny Weaver suggested to me that we could do more than just talk. We could take action in some way; perhaps sell T-shirts that warn people about getting involved with drugs. I thought that was a great idea. So today Jenny, with Mike’s help, is going to open our meeting. Jenny?”
Jenny and Mikeszabo stood up and unrolled one poster. It had a black-and-white drawing on it. The drawing looked like a robot bug, with round pods sticking out. Jenny said, “This is the molecule for dopamine. That’s the hormone that sends feelings of pleasure to the brain.”
Jenny held on to the poster while Mikeszabo unfurled the second one. The drawing looked like the first one, but with a slight variation. “This is the molecule for methamphetamine,” Jenny explained. “As you can see, it is very similar to the dopamine molecule, similar enough to fool the brain into thinking it is the pleasure molecule.
“But it is not. And the brain won’t stay fooled for long. The brain realizes it has been tricked by the meth molecule, and it shuts down. It refuses to send any feelings of pleasure to the brain.”
Mikeszabo put down the second poster and unfurled the third. In its center was a drawing of some drug paraphernalia—pipes, cigarette papers, needles. On top of the pile were three giant blue letters: NEO. Underneath the pile were the words, also in blue, Not Even Once.
