by Cody Wagner
“One.”
Using all the pent-up emotion, I actually cranked out four more before tiring out and dropping to the ground. Allowing myself a few deep breaths, I jumped up again and did three more, grunting from the exertion.
I stayed at the bar for an hour, trying every few minutes to pull myself up. My arms trembled from fatigue, but I forced myself up again and again. I began yelling at myself, partly from frustration at being so puny, partly from anger at not joining Luke and Darrin, and partly from disappointment that I’d considered it. The effort was exhausting and my shirt was drenched when I finally gave up and collapsed.
“Time to call it a night, Trales.”
I yelped, flew up—preparing to run—and looked behind me. Adkins was standing there. Where had he come from? He was like a hairy ninja.
“You scared me to death.” I said, rubbing my chest.
“That wasn’t my intent.”
I wasn’t sure if that was an apology or not, so I said, “OK.”
“How many did you do?”
“Fifteen or so.”
“Better.”
“Not really. I’ve been out here a long time.”
“I know.”
I squinted at him. How long had he been watching? He must have seen how pathetically weak I was. I said as much.
“I’d rather have a student who tries harder than everyone else but does less than one who breezes through.”
“Oh.” I responded, not really sure what else to say. I took a few steps toward the gym. Adkins joined me, pulling out his keys.
“Why are you out here by yourself?”
I glanced around. Apparently, the workout session was over, because Luke and Darrin were walking through the grass away from us. They held hands as the rest of the group talked emphatically around them. One guy flexed his muscles and pretended to kiss them.
“Just wanted some exercise,” I lied. Adkins saw me watching them and turned back to me.
“They wouldn’t let you join?”
“Actually, they invited me, but I didn’t.”
Adkins cocked his head in surprise, looked at Luke and Darrin, and back at me.
“Sounds like you got a better workout than you thought.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but didn’t press the issue. When we reached the gym, he held up a hand, blocking me.
I blushed, realizing I was following him. I didn’t do it on purpose; I just wasn’t paying attention. Story of my life.
“Sorry,” I said.
He didn’t notice my embarrassment. Instead, he said, “Principal Wolcott needs a word with you.”
I took a step back. “Me?”
He nodded.
“What for?”
As usual, worst case scenarios found their way into my head. Maybe, by only doing fifteen pull-ups in a million hours, he was suspending me for being a wuss.
As if reading my thoughts, Adkins said, “You’re not in trouble. Trust me.”
Hearing that actually helped. Although I didn’t really know him, I did trust him and nodded.
“He’s at the admissions building when you’re ready.”
“OK.” Although a million questions bubbled, that was all I could say.
Mr. Adkins nodded back at me and disappeared inside the gym.
For the next ten minutes my mind wandered, so I have no idea how I made it to the admissions building. A giant nasty shoe could have flown at me and I wouldn’t have noticed. I just couldn’t stop thinking about what Wolcott wanted. Maybe he met every student. On random nights. Out of the blue. Yeah, right.
“Beautiful night,” Wolcott said.
I chirped in surprise. Wolcott sat on a bench outside the admissions building, looking up at the stars. He wore a suit and tie, just like at orientation. I’d have been uncomfortable, but he leaned back on his hands, relaxed.
Just hearing him made me nervous again, like I was meeting Ghandi. I couldn’t bring myself to look up with him, but managed to mumble, “Uh huh.”
He smiled and stood up. Sticking out a hand, he said, “Mr. Trales.”
I shook it, wondering how he knew my name.
“I only need a few minutes of your time,” he said.
I eeked out, “Sure.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not in any kind of trouble.”
Smiling again, he turned and walked inside.
My insides churned as I followed.
Wolcott led us down a hall to the right of the admissions building entrance. Without slowing, he passed a few doors then turned left. I followed him into a nice, carpeted office. A wooden desk—definitely not Ikea—sat in the middle. Wolcott ignored it and went to a TV screen mounted on a wall. Three chairs had been arranged around it.
Jimmy sat in one of the chairs.
The fear that had been mounting fled. What was he doing here?
“Hi Blaize,” Jimmy said. He didn’t make eye contact.
Weird.
I couldn’t judge him, though, because I awkwardly whispered, “Sup.” It was the dumbest thing ever, me trying to sound cool and relaxed.
Wolcott walked around, sat in the middle chair, and motioned to the one next to him.
Keeping my eye on Jimmy, I went over and lowered myself.
“I’m sure you have a million questions, so I’ll get right to it,” said Wolcott.
A million and a half, I thought.
“I just wanted to talk to you about the funeral.”
“The what?”
Wolcott raised an eyebrow. “I understand you attended a funeral this summer?”
The past rammed into me. I’d done so good at blocking out that day but here it was, tormenting me again.
Wolcott must have seen the change in my expression, because he said, “You remember.”
I nodded.
“I understand Zimmerman’s Zealots protested.”
I straightened up as a horrible thought hit. “They’re not coming here, are they?”
He shook his head.
“Good.” I looked at Jimmy, who pretended to watch TV. Nothing was on the screen.
Weird squared.
I turned back to Wolcott and pinched my hands with my knees. “What did you want to know about them?”
“Actually, I wanted to talk about your friend.”
“Who?”
“The friend who accompanied you to the funeral.”
I knew who he meant, but didn’t want to discuss Kyle. I looked down.
“I heard you had a rough day.”
“You heard I had a rough day?” I looked at Wolcott and realized what he meant. “Timothy told you.”
He nodded.
I wasn’t sure how that made me feel, Timothy spilling everything. A part of me admitted it made sense; he had to convince the school to enroll me. But I didn’t want the world to know about my unpopularity. Sanctuary Prep Academy was my chance to start over.
“Blaize?”
I debated making something up, but I didn’t want to come across as a liar. I mean, if Timothy told them everything, Wolcott already knew. I might as well just get it over with.
Staring back down at my hands, I said, “His name was Kyle. Is. His name is Kyle.”
“Kyle,” Wolcott said, nodding. “What happened to him?”
Keeping my eyes focused on a single thread of carpet, I said, “He joined the protesters.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me too.” I didn’t expect such honesty to escape my mouth, but it did.
“Did you have any idea he was going to join them?”
I shook my head.
“So what happened?”
I began rubbing my foot back and forth across the floor. “We were walking to the funeral, then he just turned around and went over with them.”
“Did you try to stop him?”
I was too chicken to do anything.
I couldn’t say that, so I muttered, “I told him to come back.”
&nbs
p; Wolcott stood and walked toward the TV on the wall. “And what did he do?”
“He just ignored me.” I paused to pick nothing off my shorts before adding, “It’s like he was in a trance.”
Wolcott cleared his throat. “Did you hear singing or chanting of any kind before your friend tranced out?”
That one caught me off guard. I looked up at him and said, “Yes. Someone was singing this stupid song about how everyone should join them.”
Wolcott didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed a remote control and pushed some buttons. The TV flickered on and a video began playing. I looked up to see the funeral. Someone had caught the protest on film.
I pushed back into the chair, hoping I might vanish into a black hole.
The camera panned around for awhile, then Wolcott paused.
“Is that the two of you?”
Squinting, I focused on the image. It was me all right, standing in front of the barricade at the funeral. Kyle had already crossed over and held his sign in the air. The moment looked exactly as it did in my memory. I turned away; seeing the scene sucked almost as bad as being there. Still, I nodded.
“And you’re sure he is?”
“Sure he’s what?” I asked.
“I’m asking Mr. Blackwood,” Wolcott said.
I flinched. With my mind on the funeral, I’d forgotten Jimmy was there. Confused, I looked at him. His legs swung back and forth under his chair. I had no idea why, but he was embarrassed. He reminded me of my sister Molly when Mom forced her to tell the truth.
“Mr. Blackwood?” Wolcott’s voice was a little more stern.
Jimmy looked at Kyle on the screen and nodded. “Yes, he is.”
I couldn’t help myself and said, “He’s what?”
Wolcott powered off the TV and came over. “It’s nothing.”
I wanted to say, “Nothing? Kyle screwed me over on the worst day of my life. How can you tell me it’s nothing.” But Wolcott ushered me out of the building so fast, I couldn’t get anything out. It’s like that flying shoe came back to zoom me away.
When we stepped outside the admissions building, Wolcott finally stopped. I took advantage and immediately said, “I am so confused.”
Wolcott simply nodded.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
“I can’t, I’m sorry. But it’s nothing you have to worry about. Just enjoy your time here.”
“Then why even bring me here tonight?”
“We just needed to confirm a few things.”
The wind picked up and ruffled my hair. I batted it back down.
“To make sure I’m not lying?”
“Not at all.”
“Why did you ask about the singing, then? And what does Jimmy know about Kyle?”
Wolcott held up a hand to silence me. My dad used to do the same thing when he was done with a subject. I stopped with the questions and said, “Fine, good night,” before walking away.
“Blaize.”
I stopped.
Wolcott came over, laid a hand on my shoulder, and said, in the kindest voice I’d ever heard, “I’m sorry about your friend. Actually, I feel sorry for him. And for you. Neither of you deserved this.” He reached out and lifted my chin. “Sometimes things outside our control happen that influence us. Sometimes we get sucked into doing something we’d never normally do. I hope you can find find it in your heart to forgive your friend. That wasn’t really him.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said the word before, but I was flabbergasted. I should have been furious. And I guess I kind of was. But Wolcott was speaking as if what he said was absolute fact. Like he knew for certain Kyle was innocent. That threw me and I didn’t know what to think.
Before I could ask any more questions, Wolcott disappeared into the admissions building, leaving me to my thoughts.
Seven
Zimmerman's Zealots
The next few weeks flew by in much the same way as the first couple days, with equal parts melodrama, stress, fun, and everything in between. After not showing up at the gym, Luke and Darrin stopped inviting me to workouts. They never even questioned why I was a no show. Instead, they pretended I didn’t exist. Roze said it was because they didn’t want to look desperate, which sounded about right. The silent treatment was unnerving, though. Probably because I constantly wondered if the next day would be the one they turned on me.
Speaking of Roze, I found her the morning after our “incident”. Before I got anything out, she punched my arm and said, “Five bucks on the obstacle course today?”
I grinned, assuming she’d heard I ditched the jocks and forgiven me. Rubbing my arm, I said, “I don’t know how to get five dollars from my credit card, but you’re on.” And with that, we got right back into our bantering routine. Crisis averted.
The Wolcott incident wasn’t as easily avoided. Actually, they did awesome at avoiding it—Jimmy acted as if nothing had happened and Wolcott was never around. But I was really curious and followed Jimmy around, asking him about that night.
I thought he’d be easy to wear down, but the guy evaded the subject like it was smeared with dog crap. Any mention of “Why did Wolcott ask you about Kyle?” or “Why was Wolcott so interested?” and Jimmy would suddenly become distracted by clouds or chicken nuggets or light fixtures. The more I questioned, the more frantic he’d look around, like he was having a seizure.
One day, a couple weeks in, Jimmy snapped. I was in the cafeteria, waiting on him so we could work on Algebra homework. As he munched on some fries, I started repeating, “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.”
Suddenly, Jimmy slammed the table and exploded, “JUST DROP IT!”
I froze, guilt stabbing my cheeks. I’d never heard him scream like that; he was usually bent on pleasing everyone. The entire cafeteria screeched to a halt and stared. I put my hands up.
Awkward. I was glad Roze and Cassie weren’t around.
The old Jimmy returned. He looked around and shrunk into a wad. “Sorry, man.”
“It’s fine.” I took a drink of water. “I didn’t know it was that big a deal.”
“It’s just,” he stabbed his mashed potatoes with a fry, “Mr. Wolcott is right. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. Honest.”
“I just don’t know why he talked to me.”
He looked directly at me. “I promise.”
Jimmy never made eye contact with me. Or anyone. He must have been telling the truth. I decided to let it go; I’d do some research on my own.
Sighing, I said, “OK. Finish our homework?”
He smiled. “Sure.”
It’s surprising how algebra can take your mind off of anything.
After the first few days with nothing assigned, I stupidly thought this might have been one of those “no homework” schools (other than the random book to read). Ms. Meeks’s “homework or quizzes” turned that around. She gave us the option of taking a pop quiz every day or doing homework. I tried the pop quiz first and made a twenty-three on it. Twenty-three!
Jimmy, who opted to do his homework, realized she used the hardest questions for the quiz. So, basically, you had to do your homework to learn the pop quiz questions. It was one of those stupid conundrum things. Or maybe algebra geniuses could get away with the quizzes. That sure as crap wasn’t me, so Jimmy and I worked together.
When he wasn’t busy being weird or making up stuff, Jimmy was decent at math. Given his oddness, I considered him nothing more than a homework buddy. He and Cassie seemed to be friends, but she was the type who would like anyone.
While Cassie was cool, I found I had more fun with Roze than anyone else. Our mutual desire to fend off drama at home led us to keep our friendship light. We spent most of our time bantering with each other, all in the spirit of competition. We both loved to win and made dumb bets on everything (“Whoever eats their hamburger first gets to pour milk in your soda”). It was a blast. Even Cassie and Jimmy loved the outcomes.
That competitive drive l
ed us to start weekend board game nights in the dorm. We advertised it as a way for the four of us to have fun together (Cassie and Jimmy weren’t athletic and refused to play sports), but it was really the competition we loved. Also, it sounds stupidly nostalgic, but I missed playing games with my family.
The first game night, when everyone was settled on the saggy couches in the foyer, Roze pulled out Pictionary. I thought we’d dive right in, but Jimmy and Cassie gave us blank looks; they had never played. I was shocked but tried not to laugh; I didn’t want them to quit before we started. Well, Cassie, anyway. Jimmy was so thrilled to be included, we could have played, Eat the cat turd, and he would have stayed. Smiling to myself at the thought, I yanked off the box cover and set up the pieces as Roze explained the rules. Then we divided into teams: me and Jimmy versus Roze and Cassie.
The competition turned out to be fairly even. Roze and I were equally skilled—she was a better artist than me, but I was faster. It played to my advantage on some turns. On others, I got so rushed, I ended up drawing incoherent blobs. During one round, the bucket I drew was so awful, Jimmy kept shouting, “It’s a watch! It’s a watch!” Roze rolled on the floor, laughing, when the little plastic hourglass emptied. I wanted to hurl my pencil at Jimmy.
“A watch? Where did you get that?”
He grabbed the pencil and made one adjustment to the drawing. It looked just like a watch. Grumbling, I gave the dice to Roze.
Jimmy was a self-professed artist and I had to admit I was impressed. Except he tried to make elaborate landscapes out of everything (“It’s an eagle, Jimmy. You don’t have to draw mountains and rivers around it!”).
Cassie, on the other hand, made everything emotional or abstract. It was hilarious when she got milk and drew someone crying into a glass.
“She’s crying over spilled milk,” Cassie said, when they lost the round.
Roze slapped the hourglass and I laughed really loud to rub it in.
All in all, it turned out to be a really fun night. Despite our taunting, Cassie and Jimmy enjoyed it, too. Actually, Cassie seemed to like watching our reactions as much as she liked playing, and Jimmy was happy just sitting with us. But I counted it as a victory.
