Mrs. Pearlman still isn’t satisfied—something I think her husband probably says about her. Her eyes are digging into me like she wants more. I look around the room. Some are still laughing, some are trying to mouth other words, but my mind is blank. I try to speak, and all I see, feel, is the impact of the collision, not with a deer, but a human being. It repeats in my head, over and over, making me want to jump up from my seat. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Everyone is giggling, whispering behind my back—something I’m used to. She moves closer and leans down into my space. “I suggest you study a little more and party a little less. Or you won’t pass this class. Got me, amigo?”
There’s a lot I want to say. I don’t party, ever, I don’t give a shit if I pass or not, that previous statement is a lie, and for Christ’s sake, I’m not Mexican. Instead, I smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
We’re interrupted by a student office helper who hands her a yellow note. No one wants the yellow note. It means you’re either suspended, flunking, or someone died. There’s no other reason to go to the office. Ever.
She reads the slip, hands it to me. “Take your things.” I string the bag over my shoulder and exchange one last glance with Kyle. He’s urging me with his eyes, begging me not to rat him out if they’re about to interrogate me. I give him a nod, almost to say, I said I wouldn’t, so I won’t, even though the kid should know by now, I’m not the type to rat people out, especially after I give my word.
I feel the eyes of the class on my back. Mrs. Pearlman adjusts her glasses as she flips through a stack of papers and hands me a pile. “Due Friday.” She’s telling me this because she thinks I’m being suspended, wants to give me advance notice, I guess. I know the drill.
The long, quiet walk down the hallway, I’m stuck on the little boy. He has no face in my mind, like one of those creepy dolls that murder people in the movies, but I imagine his tiny body being flung by the hood of the Benz as we just drive away like cruel, heartless bastards. Every time I remember the feeling, I choke up.
In the main office, there are four doors, the four pillars of East Clifton High. One to the principal, one to the vice principal, one to the guidance counselor, and one to the nurse’s station. I choose the guidance counselor because that’s where the yellow note tells me to go, and my stomach drops. He sees me before I can knock.
“Mr. Alvarez,” Mr. Lawson, aka Big L, says. “Come on in and have a seat.” He’s scribbling something on paper, his eyes not on me.
I fall into one of the two chairs and hug my backpack. My heart is beating a million times a minute, and I envision police officers rounding the corner with handcuffs and pepper spray. The room is quiet, except for the sound of his pen. I stare at the many pictures on the wall of him posing with all the kids he’s helped over the years through his churchy youth program in downtown Indy, Teams 4 Dreams. They trade shooting guns for shooting hoops, which, to me, isn’t even close to the same as far as extracurricular activities go, you know, if you’re into shooting things, but whatever.
He finally finishes, neatly stacks the papers into a folder, and crosses his heavily tattooed arms together. I like the one of the pinup girl that peeks out from his rolled up sleeves, for obvious reasons.
“How’s it going, man?” he asks, reaching out for a shake. It’s not the first time we’ve met; more like we’re old friends.
“Same shit, different day,” I say. To any other teacher, I couldn’t, wouldn’t, say this.
He chuckles. “I hear you. That’s why I’ve got some strong liquor waiting for me when I leave this run-down dump.” He points to his desk drawer.
It’s warm in here. Too warm. He wants me to crack, I know it. I smile, bite my nails to pass the string of silence between his words. He pulls another file from his desk drawer and shoves a piece of paper in front of me. “You see that?” He points to the string of letters and numbers on my most recent grade card. I nod. “You’re flunking.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m trying.”
“Two years ago it was Algebra I, last year Algebra II, this year, chemistry. I don’t know how you’re scraping by, but it’s time to buckle down, man.”
I wriggle around in the chair. The backpack is making me sweat more, and I’m just wishing he’d get it over with—bring the cops in, lay it on me. “I am buckled.”
“Look, Bash,” he says with concern in his voice, “it’s nothing we haven’t already talked about. I know school isn’t easy, that you’re struggling with work and your mom, but in order to graduate, by Indiana law, you have to have pass the Core 40. You’re dangling between thirty-eight and forty.”
He points to the F again—Mrs. Pearlman’s class.
“She hates me.”
He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “That crazy bitch hates everyone. It’s not personal. But you still have to do the damn work at a passing level. Or all this work, everything we’ve done to keep you in school, means jack shit.”
Now I lean back in my chair, stew on his words. He’s right. All the tutoring, extra credit, extra classes—everything he’s done to get me that diploma—will be worthless if I can’t get past the gatekeeper. “Fine,” I say.
“You’ve got to nail a B next semester to get the full credit.”
I think about what that means, having had only a few B’s in my entire life. Maybe I should just quit now and save myself the time. We already know the way my story ends, anyway. Typical trash who stays in the gutter, says Kyle’s mom. He angles his head at me in an attempt to tap into my thoughts.
“What do you want to do with your life?”
I don’t hesitate. “Draw.”
He nods with a smile. “I’ve seen your work. You’ve got real potential, and I don’t say that to everyone. Look at it this way, in order to be the next da Vinci, you’ve got to know about molecules and reactions and formulas and shit—for now. It sucks, but that’s the way it is. But then—then—you can flip us all off and go sell some paint scribbles for a hundred grand while you say, Now who’s the idiot?”
I say nothing, still focused on quitting. Ma would be so disappointed. I couldn’t do that to her, could I? He folds his hands again, something I feel like he learned in counselor school, and leans close.
“Look, Bash, I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I know things aren’t going so great. But you can’t cut anymore. Not one day, not one period. We’re all sensitive to your situation, but you’re almost done here. Get it done, and get out.”
His words are eerily like Kyle’s, I nod.
“And between you and me, you smell like weed. Get your shit together, man, or you won’t have a future to graduate for.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
He’s serious now, his face is telling me to shut up, so I do. Then I open my big mouth again. “So is that all? You want me to pass chem, but then you pull me out so I can’t learn a goddamned thing?”
He wants to smile, but he doesn’t. He’s fighting it, I think. Four years, five for me, with this man, and I know his tells. “Go.”
I give him a silent salute, throw my backpack over my shoulder, and walk away. But instead of going back to class, or to my next class when the bell rings in a few, I do the exact opposite of what I promised—I leave.
Through the double doors, I slink out to my car that’s near the back. My hands are shaking, I fumble the keys in the lock, but the door sticks. I shove my body up against it several times until it opens. Piece of shit.
Once inside, I toss my backpack to the rear seat. The landing causes my visor to fall, an old picture of Ma and me in full view. My face grows hot, my jaw clenching. The anger boils to a bubble inside of me with every bad thought building, kicking me while I’m down. I can’t hold it in. My hands on the wheel, I look into her eyes and think of a time when she didn’t hurt, I didn’t hurt. But it was so long ago, no matter how hard I stare, I can’t remember the feeling.
My jaw presses harder, and te
ars burn my eyes, blurring my vision. I bang my hands on the steering wheel so violently, it leaves my palms red, while releasing a scream so loud my ear drums muffle. All of my energy permeates into this stupid car, this space where I am all alone in the world (Kyle does NOT count), and suddenly my heart feels like it’s sitting right here in front of me, barely pumping.
“I won’t let you down,” I say to the picture as I catch my breath. “But until then, I have to let you down,” I say, referring to my shit job I decide to drive to so I can take my mind off things.
When I get to the skating rink, I park in my usual spot near the back of the empty lot and head inside, using my super special employee key. It sticks, like always, and I freeze my ass off out here in this wind that lashes out against my bare hands. The awning screeches and dangles above, threatens to give out, fall on my head, which might be the best thing to happen to me, really. The rink isn’t actually open until five on weekdays, but there’s always gum to peel off a table or skates that need disinfecting. I toss my stuff to the small office counter just as Vinny pops his head in.
“Thought I heard ya,” he says. “You’re early.”
“Don’t ask.”
“Wasn’t gonna.” He’s holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a holiday hat that would barely fit his short, fat head in the other. He tosses it to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“You’re gonna wear it every shift through Christmas. It’s festive.” He smiles the kind of smile that says he’s taking too much pleasure in my misery.
“Thanks,” I say, putting it aside.
He stares at the hat. “Wear it now.”
I’m reluctant, but his eyes don’t move, so I slowly put the stupid thing on my head. The little, white ball falls over my eye and he laughs.
“Ho ho ho!”
I blow the ball out of my vision and start to walk out of the office, but he stops me. “I’m actually glad you came in when you did. I’ve got an important job I need done stat, and no hands to help me with it.”
He points to a stack of papers and the envelopes beside them. “Stuff and seal. I want those mailed to all the schools and businesses within a fifty-mile radius.”
I pick up one of the pages splattered with red and green ink. SKATE 4 THE HOLIDAYS. I grunt beneath my breath. Coupons are at the bottom of each page. Vinny makes his way toward me to point to the bold print as if it’s not staring right at me. “They cannot double the coupons, so make sure when you’re working the window they know they can’t get in for free, or it’ll come out of your check.” He’s nodding with his eyes like I won’t understand. “Got it?” he asks, sipping from his cup. The dribble sticks to his bushy mustache and drips onto his shirt. “God damn it! First the cable goes out and now this!”
“Cable’s out?” I don’t care.
“Since yesterday morning. Evie’s losing her shit not getting her stories or her Housewives of Whatever. I’m like, ‘There’s news—actual news and important things—happening in the world’—and she thinks I’m the asshole.”
“I haven’t had TV in years,” I say.
“No cable in years? She’d die.”
“No. Like no TV, at all, in years.”
He’s quiet. “Sorry for your loss.”
I laugh, because he’s a moron. He’s almost out the door when he spins around. That coffee drizzle left a pretty huge splotch in the shape of pretzel on his precious sweater. “By the way, I’ve got all the new girl’s stuff in that file by the computer. Told her to stop in and fill out the forms before Wednesday, so in case she comes by when you’re here, there they are.” He says it as if he has a full staff when really, there are only three of us.
“There they are,” I repeat. It’s like swatting a fly.
He disappears somewhere into the rink, probably to change his festive sweater and put on another that looks exactly like it, because I’ve seen them all, and dear God, they’re the same.
I fall into the swivel chair and spin around to my workstation. My fingers fumble through the papers that I really want to push through the shredder. I pull out my phone to see if Ma called; she hasn’t, but there are six texts from Kyle.
KYLE: WHAT HAPPENED W/ BIG L?
KYLE: BASH?
KYLE: WHERE THE HELL R U?
KYLE: WE GETTING CAR FIXED?
KYLE: R U IN JAIL?
KYLE: SAY SOMETHING!!!
I ignore them. They just remind me of the mystery boy and the choice we’ve made. Or more like the choice I’ve made. It’s a feeling like quicksand, and I’m going under fast.
I slide my chair over to the computer on the other side of the counter to search for any kind of news update. Link after link, they all say the same things with different words. No change in his condition, family asks for help finding the hit-and-run driver. One thing that’s clear is the community is grieving and hopeful they will find whoever is responsible for such a horrible act of cowardice. My first thought? I damn sure hope they do.
I try to swallow, but the lump sticks in my throat. Enough wallowing. I click out of the window and start my project. Fold, stuff, lick, stamp. Fold, stuff, lick, stamp. When I glance at the clock above me, I realize hours have passed by the time I’ve finished. My phone vibrates, indicating a missed call and new voice mail, but my phone never rang because the rink is in the cell tower’s black hole. The message says to call the nursing home right away, so I do.
Nurse Kim puts me on hold. I’m so nervous my hand slides sweaty against the plastic phone’s case. The Christmas music Vinny is playing through the speakers doesn’t make me feel cheery; it makes me angry, reminds me of the hat I’m wearing. I rip it off, check the minutes balance on my phone. Sometimes it takes bigger chunks than a minute at a time. I don’t know how it decides, but I’m almost always getting screwed out of the minutes I pay for. It’s down to twenty-two. My heart pounds. I’m just waiting, wasting away the metaphorical time I have left.
“Bash?” Nurse Kim says. She’s been taking care of Ma since day one. From the first time we realized this is it—this was where she’d go to die. Kim’s seen Ma’s wrinkles deepen, her eyes sink, and what’s left of her hair fall out. Her voice is soft, calm, like she’s trying to keep me soft, calm, too.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, panicked.
She hesitates, which is never a good thing. “You might want to get over here as soon as possible.”
A burning lump lodges in my throat, making it hard to swallow. “Did something happen—is she okay?”
“It’d be better to talk about this in person.”
“Tell me something. Please. I can’t go there until I get off work unless it’s an emergency.”
She hesitates again, and my heart thrashes. “The preactive phase is nearing an end. We had some things happen today and … she wants to see you.”
I know exactly what she’s talking about—death. She explained when Ma was admitted there are two stages of dying, preactive and active. She was the former when admitted—an amount of time left could not be estimated because everyone’s different. Except, they don’t know Ma. Single mother, tough as shit, sixty-hour workweek, take-no-bull-from-anyone kind of woman. She’s a goddamned fighter. They said it could be a few weeks once we stopped all treatment. No more chemo or radiation, no more weed for the pain. Ma wanted to go out on her terms. Free and alert.
That was three months ago.
But in these three months, I’ve watched this brilliant, insanely vivacious woman with a knack for genius one-liners, my hero, disintegrate into a frail pile of bones and broken smiles.
“Sebastian?” Kim asks. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
I shake the tears free and clear my throat. “Yeah. Be there as soon as I can.”
With the phone clutched between my fingers, I hang up and squeeze so hard, I hear the plastic creak. She seemed okay yesterday, but I’ve learned that okay doesn’t mean much at this point in her disease. My frustration is interrupt
ed by a knock on the metal door. The clock says it’s nowhere near time to open, but I unlock anyway to see who’s there. Kyle pushes through, shoves me into the wall in what he thinks is a playful way. His touch sends an electric voltage through my fingertips, firing up all the rage that’s been buried, and I shove him back, hard, without a second thought. He trips, falls backward over the red velvet rope that divides the Enter and Exit lines. Now I’m looking down on him, panting. I could argue I didn’t mean to, but I won’t, because in this moment, maybe I did.
“Dude—what the hell?” he shouts, smoothing his shirt.
I pull the doors closed and help him up. “Sorry,” I say.
His eyes are bugging out of his head as he paces across the tiled floor the same way he did before when he told me about the boy.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“You didn’t text me back. Why’d you ditch school—did you talk to the cops?” He’s an inch from my face, close enough for me to see, smell; he’s on something more than adrenaline. I’m not talking to Drunk Kyle or even Wild Kyle right now. It’s full-on Tweaked Kyle. Anxious, sweaty, with an almost irrational string of rambles. I poke a finger at his plaid button-up shirt and nudge him away. “Cool it, dude. I haven’t said anything to anyone.”
He runs his fingers through his oil-slicked hair, but it keeps falling in his eyes. “Okay, okay, okay.” He chews on the words, his eyes racing. “Just making sure. I didn’t hear from you, and I thought—”
“Chill out, man,” I urge. “Vinny’s here, so you need to split before he sees you. I can’t lose this job, and you know that. I didn’t say shit, so let it go.” He stares at me, through me. I wave my hand in front of him, but he’s suddenly turned to stone. “Kyle!” I shout, shaking him out of his daze. “Get lost. I’ll text you later.”
“Like what time later? I have shit to do, but if you tell me when, I’ll be ready for it.”
I stare at him, Kyle in all his annoying glory. My teeth grind against each other. Vinny appears in the office behind me. He stops to look at us through the glass window and signals to me with one damning finger. I shoot Kyle a look and head back to Vinny before he notices the level of weirdness that’s filled the interior entrance.
The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash Page 8
