She turns to the board.
WHAT MAKES LIFE WORTH LIVING?
She smiles at us. “Back up your answer with examples from your life. This is a chance for you to connect experience with theory. Plus,” she says, like we’ve truly won the jackpot, “you get to talk about yourself!” She smiles, and the bright lights in the room illuminate the stubble growing past her buzz cut. “Any questions?”
Josie raises her hand and everyone turns to look at her. “I don’t get it.”
“Me either,” one of the hockey guys in the corner says. Evelyn sighs and pulls the Smart Board out. When she turns it on, a more cohesive project description pops up. There are phrases like Explore what makes us most human!, Determine your convictions!, and Present your theories to the class!
I glance behind me at Brendan, and he widens his eyes at me. I hide a smile and look back at Evelyn. “We’ve been reading all these different philosophers in class over the last few weeks,” she says, leaning on her desk. “Now I want to hear from you. What do you think about this life situation?” She waves her arms over her head, I guess to denote life. “No need to write a play or a book or a hypothetical situation; just examine your own life. It’s important that we start to bridge the gap between what we study and what we live,” Evelyn continues. “Especially before you go off to college.”
I look over at Abigail and she blinks dramatically. Cremate me now, I communicate to her.
“Now, let’s talk Caligula!” Evelyn turns the Smart Board off and holds her book up with both hands like a judge giving a score. “Let’s start with personal reactions. Go ahead, Josie,” Evelyn says, nodding to Josie’s incredibly straight arm, which shot up before Evelyn really started her sentence.
“I found it uninspiring,” Josie says. “Caligula thinks he’s had this big aha! moment when his sister dies and he realizes”—she flips to a page in her book—“‘men die and they are not happy,’ but that’s not really groundbreaking. He just sounds mega-depressed.”
“Yeah,” Jared says. “Maybe if he got some therapy, he wouldn’t kill everyone just because life is ‘meaningless.’”
Abigail puts her hand up as soon as Jared finishes talking. “Caligula was whiny. I liked the guy Sisyphus who just kept pushing that boulder up that hill. He accepted the absurdity of his situation, whereas Caligula destroyed everything to try to reach something beyond this world.…” She flips to a page in her book with a large green sticky note. “Symbolized by the moon, I guess?”
In my head, I replace the words on the chalkboard with our current situation: High school as it is, is unbearable. I must have the moon or happiness or something.…
The discussion keeps going and going. Meanwhile, real life is going on out there in the real world, beyond our theories. My dad is at home, probably with an aide right now, finishing lunch or watching the afternoon news, while his brain gets destroyed in ways even science doesn’t understand.
“Cham?” Evelyn says. I look up abruptly.
“Good day,” I say. A few people laugh.
“What are your thoughts on Caligula?”
I stare at the board and the notes Evelyn has put up there. There’s enough stuff for me to put an answer together, but I just don’t have it in me.
“I’m sorry, but this all just seems so pointless to me,” I say, tracing the initials carved into my desk. “Caligula would probably agree that high school is meaningless and we all graduate and we are not happy.” I clear my throat. “I mean, we might be happy for like a day, but then everyone’s running around doing stuff for college and hauling ass over grades and scholarships. We’re all looking for a… moon,” I go on, which is quite genius, if I do say so myself. “We want something out of this world—but the closest star we land on is college… and I think that sounds really expensive.”
Somebody stifles a laugh. It’s important not to look up at a time like this. “Like my old friend Caligula, I just want something outside all of this.” Yup, I realize as I catch the horrified look Abigail is giving me. I want the fucking moon.
“Interesting point, Cham,” Evelyn says. “Have you given any thought to what there is outside the world of high school and college? And if so, what are you going to do there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there actually is a world outside high school. You potentially have a moon,” she says. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Um…” The only sound is the rain hitting the window. “Become an astronaut?”
The whole class laughs, and Evelyn shakes her head, but even she is smiling.
“Since you’re stuck here for the next month, you might want to think about what would make the rest of your high school experience meaningful.” The intercom rings and Evelyn frowns up at it.
“Will all seniors please report to the auditorium, all seniors to the auditorium,” the secretary drawls.
“All right, tomorrow we’ll pick up where we left off,” Evelyn says amid the noise of everyone getting out of their seats. “That’s something you can all be thinking about,” she adds. “A meaningful rest of high school!”
I take my sweet time putting my two school supplies into my backpack just in case the timing would work out for Brendan and me to walk out the door together. It doesn’t.
“If I don’t get valedictorian, none of this shit will be meaningful,” Abigail says, linking her arm in mine as we walk out.
It’s a prime opportunity to ask her for help with my essay, but instead what comes out is, “Honestly, I think I’ll be happy with my high school experience as long as I don’t have to take a feral cat to prom.”
“’ello, love,” Hilary says, British accent in full swing when Abigail and I take the two seats next to her in the auditorium. The room is dark, but not dark enough to hide Gene and Helga canoodling in the back row. A few rows over from us, Brendan’s taking a seat, and for some reason I remember how he laughed in the hospital and his fake mustache went askew. Don’t worry, that’s natural after a breakup. The heart goes haywire.
“The time has come, seniors,” Mr. Garcia says, sitting on the edge of the stage with his legs dangling off, “to finalize groups and trip plans for Nicaragua. As you know, this is a rare opportunity that the Gill School provides to build homes in devastated areas, work with local children—”
I smooth one of my unruly frizzies down and look back at Gene involuntarily.
“You okay, Cham?” Abigail asks, peering around me to look at him. “Want me to mince and sauté his balls?”
“Ew.” I slink down in the felt chairs. “I’m hunky-dory, just want high school to be over.”
Abigail and Hilary share a glance that I pretend not to notice. “Come on, Cham, you can’t only be excited about prom and graduation and stuff when you have a boy,” Hilary says.
Easy for her to say. For everyone else, life going on means life getting closer to Big Things, and none of those involve more aides, more medication—or in the worst scenario, none of those things at all.
“In leaving cell phones behind and immersing ourselves in the work at hand, we’re giving our full presence and attention to helping,” Mr. Garcia says, then signals to someone at the back of the room to turn the lights off and start the PowerPoint. The first slide tells us that the following presentation will cover everything from how to drink water in other countries to which types of mosquitoes ruin your chances of reproduction tenfold.
I take my phone out, hiding it under the zipper of my backpack.
Text sent from one world to the other:
How’s Dad? C
Hilary elbows me and I jump. “Hey,” she hisses. “So I was waiting for the right time to tell you this, but I have some news.” She strokes her cool blue hair.
“When it comes to tap water,” Mr. Garcia is saying, “don’t drink it. Don’t even look at it.”
“Yeah?”
“I got into State, too!” Hilary whispers, kind of bouncing in her seat. Abigail looks ov
er and grins, and they’re both staring at me, and it takes me a second to register the significance of this.
“Wow,” I say, sitting up straighter and summoning all the positivity I can muster. “Congrats! Are you gonna like room together and stuff?”
“We’re gonna try,” Abigail says.
“But ya never know, do you?” Hilary says in her stupid British accent. I want to pull her cool blue hair out.
“Well, I’m really excited for you,” I say, leaning down to see if my mom has responded.
Abigail squeezes my arm. “And you can room with us second semester if you get your applications in!”
“My grades probably aren’t—”
“Well, then you can go to community college and transfer after.” She says it with such genuine enthusiasm for my future that I wish she’d lend me some.
“I mean I haven’t looked into community college at all, but, yeah, totally.” I feel my phone vibrate, and I stick my head in my backpack to read it. It’s very crowded in this room. It’s like being inside a throat that’s closing.
M No texting in class. Focus on school.
Yeah, because school is so important right about now.
“So there you have it,” Mr. Garcia says as the PowerPoint clicks off and the lights come up. “We’ll finish checking in with teachers today about progress reports just to make sure all students are cleared academically.”
“You’re okay, right?” Abigail asks. “You haven’t gotten any warning e-mails?”
Not if you ignore the one in my in-box this morning. “Uh, yeah, I think I’m good. Just gotta finish my essay this weekend.”
“Do you want help?” she asks. I find myself shaking my head. Her eyes are full of concern for all the things in this world that I haven’t done yet, but essay deadlines aren’t real deadlines. Real deadlines are the ones you can’t push back.
“So now for your groups. Group one.” Mr. Garcia scrolls down the iPad. “Danika Sandhu, Doug Freeman, Cham Myles, and Helga Huber.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” I breathe. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“I’m not going, remember, Mr. G?” Helga calls out. “Gotta get back to Germany.”
Damn right you do.
“Oh, that’s right, okay then, let’s put Brendan Gordon there.”
“Not going either,” he sings from the way back of the auditorium.
“Why wouldn’t you want to go to this?” Hilary whispers.
“Yeah. It’s freeeedom,” Abigail says. “Our parents can’t even bother us once. We can make calls with the community phone, but they can’t reach us. Ever.”
I look down at my combat boots. “What if there’s an emergency, though?”
Hilary laughs. “Whatever it is, it can wait a few days.”
“Yeah,” I say, remembering how my dad was slouched on the bathroom floor. He could have been there for hours if I hadn’t been home. “Totally.”
“All right, seniors!” Mr. Garcia says, raising his voice to be heard over the chatter that’s started, people standing up and collecting their things, eager to get out of school even thirty-nine seconds early. “Our next big class activity is the Breast Cancer Polar Plunge this weekend. In the meantime, have a good week!”
“Shit, that’s this weekend?” I groan.
“You were the one who practically tackled me at lunch to vote for it.” Abigail laughs. I grunt in response.
“Should we all wear bikinis?” Hilary asks as we file out.
“Ass-naked is the call,” I say, decidedly not mentioning that I’ll be at the Brain Degeneration Walk, hiding out in a porta-potty. I’m sure Bad Daughters burn in hell, but I’ll be all right. Any burn I get turns into a tan eventually.
Dear Universe,
I want all of this to be over.
I want Gene and Helga to elope someplace special, like hell.
I want a root beer float.
I want new soles for my combat boots.
I want an umbrella instead of a trash bag.
I want directions to my life.
I want Band-Aids.
I want six ways to be a better daughter.
I want someone to name a constellation after me and take me there to flourish amongst my stars.
We’re almost out of the auditorium when I hear my name. “Hey, Cham,” Brendan calls from a few rows over. He waves to me, and I override my feelings of self-consciousness. Kind of.
“Don’t know what this is about, but see you guys later,” I say to Abigail and Hilary, then cut across the line of people milling out the door.
“Uh, okay, bye,” Abigail says.
I step out of the auditorium and into the bright hallway, waiting for Brendan by the windows to the courtyard.
“What’s up?” I ask when he approaches me.
“Just wanted to see how you’re holding up.” Someone passes and I think I hear them say Tater Tots. My ears get red hot. “That’s why I ignore them,” Brendan says, smiling a little with his dark brown eyes. “People suck.”
“They really do.” A few girls Abigail is friends with on the dance team walk out of the auditorium. They’re talking about prom and how far the beach is from the town we’re staying in in Nicaragua.
“It should just be called Senior Vacation,” Brendan mutters. I nod. “Mr. Garcia just told me I can’t go if I don’t pass in my English essay,” I blurt out.
“That sucks,” he says. “I mean, if you were looking forward to spending even more time with the senior class.”
“Ugh,” I say, and forehead-plant the rain-streaked window.
Brendan puts his hands in his pockets. “Anyway, just wanted to see how your dad is and how you are.”
“He’s, um—” He hasn’t spoken or left his room, really. If I thought things were bad before this, well, let’s say the dominoes in my life haven’t just fallen; they’ve thrown themselves on the ground and now they’re playing dead. I look up into his face, and something about his nose and his eyebrows—the whole arrangement of his features—makes me feel safe. “I don’t think he’s doing okay.”
I’m about to say more, but down the hall Gene is coming toward us. I don’t know how to be in the presence of both of them. Maybe I’ll burst into a couple of pieces: only some of them Gene will recognize. Most of them Brendan will.
“Are you gonna be okay not to throw things at him?” Brendan whispers.
I burst out laughing, even though nothing else in me feels capable of it. “No promises.”
“Well, catch ya later, Cham. Hey, Gene,” Brendan says, walking away.
“’Sup, dude,” Gene says with a head nod. Brendan’s tutu brushes Gene’s khakis as he heads down the hall. I watch him go, avoiding Gene’s face as long as possible. His tie is loose, and his blue-gray eyes don’t show how everything has changed between us. All those butterflies that used to fill my stomach when I saw him? They die. I’m a receptacle for a bunch of dead things that once knew how to fly.
“Hey, so this is kinda awkward, but”—Gene reaches into his pocket and pulls out my prom ticket—“I figured I should give this to you so you can get into prom and everything. No need to pay me back,” he says quickly.
“Okay.” I take the ticket from him. Our fingers do not brush during this exchange. We are bits of space debris on a parallel course, and even though I never pay attention in science, I know their solitary fate.
“I miss you,” I accidentally whisper, then stare out the window into the courtyard so I don’t have to look at him.
“It sucks—” he starts to say, and for a second, I think that maybe it isn’t over. For a second, I am wrong. The bell rings.
“I’m sorry it has to be like this,” he adds.
“Didn’t I mean anything to you?” I blurt out.
“Of course you did, but—”
“I just didn’t mean enough to you.”
There are fewer and fewer people in the hallway. I don’t know if they’re looking at us. For once I don’
t think I care.
“You did, but I have to get to going, Cham, I’m sorry.”
He starts to walk away, and the veins in my fist bulge. I’m speechless, dumb.
“So that’s it?” I call after him. But you made me feel special. And isn’t that what it comes down to? We all have this tiny secret belief that we’re a freaking treasure, and even though we shave our legs and leave patches on our knees and sometimes fall asleep without brushing our teeth, we still think we’re special, maybe even magnetic. Not so magnetic that when we walk by the kitchen, pots and pans fly out of the cabinets and attach themselves to us, but strong enough not to be replaced by someone else in thirty-five minutes.
“Cham,” he says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “This year was really great, but we’re about to go to college. Did you really think—”
If one more person says the C-word, I swear I’m going to drop out. Become a monk. Start an ant farm. “Never mind, Gene,” I say, turning my back on him. “Just never mind. That’s all the closure I need.”
I walk away, getting faster and faster. I want to run, but the blisters on my feet are raw and oozing still. I want to move until I feel something besides this angry ball of energy shooting around my body like I’m a pinball machine. But no matter how quickly I hobble, it’s not fast enough. I look down at my combat boots and realize I am in a flesh prison. That’s all skin is: entrapment.
And then it dawns on me that this is just a small version of what my dad might feel like. Oh my god, how is he not screaming every minute of every day?
The angry ball of energy gets more and more frenzied. I pass the last stragglers hurrying to catch the bus, then duck into the nearest bathroom.
I think I might actually explode, but there I am in one piece in front of the mirror. I want to punch it. I want to feel glass shatter in my hands because that’s part of what I liked about punching the bus window a little too close to Ava’s face. It hurt me. It seemed better to hurt in my hand than in my heart, or whatever it is that breaks when I look at my dad and he’s looking at the neighbor in the tree. How do you do this? I close my eyes. My forehead rests on the dirty mirror, with its smudges and streaks, as if every time someone looked in it, a little piece of them stayed. I wind my hand back and then make eye contact with myself.
Dear Universe Page 14
