Clockwise

by Lee Strauss

ENGLISH. WHO KNEW IT could be so cruel? Mr. Turner wrote frantically on the chalkboard, The Tempest, then the word “Tragicomic.” With finger to chin, he scoured the faces in his class, a habit he had when looking for someone to call on. I kept my face down, but I must’ve had a beacon on my head that shouted Pick Me, I’m not wretched enough.

  “Miss Donovan, could you explain to us the meaning of tragicomic.”

  Everyone swiveled to hear me. I thought Nate would remain facing forward, but it seemed suddenly he was interested in what I had to say. Another time, another place, I would’ve been up for this scrutiny. As it was I felt my cheeks grow crimson and my throat constricted.

  “Casey?” Mr. Turner would not be ignored.

  “Um, well, I think it means that while the play ends happily the road to the end is often tragic.”

  Much like my life. I can only hope for a happy ending of some sort, but my journey was full of comic tragedy. Mr. Turner hurriedly scribbled something on the board. He turned back to us again with finger to chin.

  “Mr. Mackenzie, can you elaborate?” Nate cleared his throat.

  “Sometimes the tragic situations lead us to believe it will be something other than a happy ending.”

  Like us? We shared a tragic situation (sort of) and it didn’t end up happy. Was this a type of coded message from him to me? Mr. Turner spent the rest of the class unpacking the mysteries of The Tempest, ending with an assignment: one thousand word essay on the many themes of this Shakespearean tragic comedy. No time like the present. I headed for the library to work on my essay. Let’s just say I wanted to get it over with. I didn’t even care about my grade. It would’ve helped if I could concentrate. I couldn’t stop thinking about Nate and how he’d answered Mr. Turner’s question. Was he trying to tell me, without actually talking to me, that I should just get over it? ( ie: get over him). That my life was a tragic comedy?

  I was way too consumed with Nate. I actually felt like I could smell his cologne.

  The empty seat beside me moved and I knew why I had picked up his musky scent. Nate sat down. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Funny, because it seems like I’m in your space all the time and yet you don’t seem to see me.”

  “I know. I’ve been a jerk.”

  I wouldn’t argue with that.

  “Okay, you found me. What do you want?”

  “I know you’ve been back.”

  I examined my fingernails. “So?”

  “So, how are they? Did you find out what happened to Samuel?”

  “Nate, those people have been dead for a hundred and fifty years.”

  “Are they dead to you?”

  I sighed. “No.” I wished I had a fingernail file. “No one knows what happened to Samuel. He disappeared the same day we did. I can’t find any info on him or his brother on the internet. They were born slaves, so there’s no record of their births. And Jones is a common surname.”

  Nate ran a hand through his hair. His face was troubled and I found myself wanting to comfort him, but I was the one in need of comforting here, not him.

  “Maybe you’re used to this, Casey, but it’s been so strange for me. It took me a couple weeks just to process what had happened, and to be honest I was scared to be around you.”

  “That’s okay.” So what if you broke my heart in the process.

  “It’s just that you and I, we hang in different crowds. It’s not that…”

  “Nate, it’s fine,” I lied. “I get it. I knew this would happen all along. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m sorry, Casey. I just wanted you to know.”

  I watched him leave. His swagger, the way he tossed his head to brush his hair from his eyes, how he thrust his fists into his front pockets—all familiar and endearing traits that make Nate, Nate. A deep ripping pain wrenched my gut and I all but muffled a moan and let my head drop onto the table.

  His musky cologne stayed behind to taunt me. I remembered the first time I’d laid eyes on Nate Mackenzie, only a year and a half ago. Before Nate, I was perfectly happy. Well, except for the time travel part. My parents were together, their relationship seemed fine, Tim was a normal, bug catching seventh grader who never showered. I’d had little crushes along the way. Jimmy Fells in second grade. He had greasy hair and picked his nose. Not sure what the attraction was there, just another sign I was on my way to loser-dom. Sixth-grade I did somewhat better. Patrick Wiseman, the boy with the perfect name because he was just so smart. I could hardly understand him when he talked. Warm brown eyes and a dusting of freckles on his nose. His family moved to California the next summer, but by then I was over him. I don’t know if he even knew that I had crushed on him.

  Then there was Nate. He'd arrived half way through last year, at the semester break. By then all the girls had gotten the stats on all the boys and visa versa, and you either had a boyfriend/girlfriend or you didn’t. In January, Nate was new blood on the market. Jessica had promptly dumped her then same-grade boyfriend, Jed, and well, before too long, she and Nate were a couple. I didn’t know much about his family except that his father was a pilot who was transferred from Toronto to Boston. His mother worked in real estate and his older brother, John, was in the Canadian army. I'd heard he'd been shipped off to Afghanistan.

  I'd first really noticed him in the cafeteria line up. Actually, Lucinda had seen him first and pointed him out, whispering, “New guy.” I was immediately smitten. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and when he walked past our table, I accidentally knocked my purse on the floor. He had to set his tray on our table to help me pick up my things. I'd felt like an idiot. He could have just laughed and kept walking. I'd also bent down to scoop up my things—thankfully, just my cell phone and wallet had fallen out and not a pad or tampon. I would have died on the spot. As it was, well, our faces came within inches of each other. We were so close I saw the freckle just under his right eye.

  He'd smiled, handed me my cell and my wallet, picked up his lunch tray and taken a seat at the jock table. He didn’t know my name, didn’t ask. But I was in love. Or rather, I was in deep, murky infatuation. Now, I thought I was in love.

  And I wanted to kick myself. Snap out of it, Casey. It could never work. He knows all about me, and can’t deal with it. The full truth of it hit me like wrecking ball: if Nate couldn’t handle it, no guy could. I was destined to be ALONE forever. Once any guy found out the truth he’d hightail it out of my stupid dual track life. I was cursed! I felt like dying.

  As I headed for my algebra class I had a foreign thought. If I couldn’t die, then I would go home. I’d never skipped school before and the idea sent thrilling chills down my spine. I had my backpack and my purse. If I followed the kids heading to the gym, I could wait to be the last to enter, then at the final moment, slip behind the building out of sight. I was an expert at stealth. It would be simple. My heart raced a little, and the surge of adrenaline made me feel alive again.

  But like any drug (so I’ve heard), the high was short lived and disappointing. I just missed the next bus, so by the time I finished the walk home I felt limp with fatigue. My house felt cavernous. I closed the front door behind me, clicking the lock shut. I just stood there, shell-shocked. The drabness of the gray afternoon was unwelcoming—the silence, piercing, tomb-like. I had to choose, right to the sofa, or straight ahead and up the stairs to my bed. I just wanted to lie down. My body felt heavy and lifeless like a big sandbag. Right, to the sofa took less effort. Like a zombie I walked over to it and let my dead weight fall.

  Now I had another choice. Cry or sleep. I didn’t have any tissues handy and lacked the energy to go get some, so I defaulted to sleep. It took surprisingly little time to doze off. I awoke to the sound of knocking on the door. Who could that be? I sat up and put my hand to my hair. A freaky, fuzzy mess. I peeked into the mirror in our entrance before grabbing the doorknob. Hideous.

  Lucinda, with a bag in her arms, pushed by me. “This is called an intervention.” She
went right for the living room and plopped the bag on the coffee table.

  “You missed school this afternoon. I was worried.”

  “Ah, Lucinda,” I said, feeling guilty. “It’s no big deal. I’m fine, really.”

  “You’ve not been the same since the dance, and since it was my idea to go, I sort of feel responsible.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. Lucinda pulled goodies out of the bag. “We have pretzels, soda and,” she presented a DVD with fervor, “the first season of LOST. Just to remind you that you could have worse problems.”

  I chuckled. “This is really sweet, Luce. Thanks. But I might not be great company.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take what I can get.”

  It worked for a while. I mean, Jack isn’t bad to look at, and Kate’s life is more of a train wreck than mine. It’s true that misery loves company.

  “She reminds me of you, Casey,” Lucinda said.

  “Well, I guess the curly hair thing is like mine.”

  “And she’s pretty and you’re pretty.”

  “I don’t look anything like her,” I countered.

  “Yes, you do, except your eyes are more hazel than green. And your face is more heart shaped than hers.” She popped a pretzel in her mouth. “And I think you’re taller.”

  “But besides all that,” I said. “I look just like her?”She looked at me and laughed.

  Lucinda left when my mother got home from work, and I actually felt a little better. “Where’s Tim?” Mom asked while pulling pots out for dinner.

  “I don’t know.” I’d forgotten all about him. “He didn’t come home after school.”

  I reached for our land line and dialed his cell. “He’s not picking up.”

  Mom and I ate in the living room while watching the news. This was something we never did when Dad lived with us. We always ate together, the four of us, at the table. My mom used to say we needed to regroup as a family and share about our day. This was important to her, or at least it used to be. Now, when we’d try that, the strain of keeping up conversation long enough to finish our food was too difficult. Watching TV eliminated that pressure.

  Tim still hadn’t come home when the news ended. At seven o’clock, there was another knock at the door. Curious, I followed my mother as she opened it. Mom sucked in her breath and I bit my lip.

  Tim had come home. Escorted by the police.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN