But I looked away out of timidness, too. I’d accidentally locked eyes with a girl who was totally out of my league, and I was afraid she might think I was ogling.
And seconds later, when my heart regained steady rhythm, and I was able to turn back to her, we locked eyes again. She hadn’t turned away, and she was glaring right at me. Through me. Her expression said it all: Turn your head. Shut up. Don’t say a word about this. I read her face loud and clear, and I did exactly as she demanded.
With her gone, it became my turn to enter Mr. Grayson’s Workshop of Tears.
“How can I help you, young man?” he asked, and turned from the door to look down at me, seated just outside his office.
“Ummmm … ” I peeked around him and out the window as I spoke, hoping to catch one last look at the redheaded girl before she disappeared from sight—driven by mixed curiosity and intrigue at someone who might be feeling just as out of place as I was—but she was already gone.
“Mrs. Dorr brought me to see you. I’m supposed to be in her homeroom, but she didn’t have me on her list and I need to get my schedule,” I replied, and turned my full attention back to Mr. Grayson.
“Well, that should be easy enough to clear up. Come on, step into my workshop!” he proclaimed with the same first-day enthusiasm that’d overtaken the rest of Madison High’s staff.
Ironic choice of words, I thought.
“So,” he began, once we got inside, “I have to say, I thought you were someone’s little brother when I first saw you sitting there,” he laughed.
“Because of my size?”
I’m fully aware that I’m small. Not just short. Small. I’ve been about half as big as the guys from my class for as long as I can remember, but Mom says that my dad was that way, too—all through high school—right up until their senior year when he shot up a foot. She always reminded me that guys in our family were late bloomers—not something that helps when you’re starting out in high school—but at least it provided some light at the end of the tunnel.
“Yeah, we’re late bloomers,” I repeated her credo to Mr. Grayson, but quickly wished that I hadn’t. He laughed softly and under his breath at the simplicity of my response, and I felt myself redden.
Turns out, it was all just a simple oversight in the system. My name was there all along. He printed out my schedule, my locker assignment, and he assured me that the school’s attendance sheets would be updated the next morning. He also cautioned that I wouldn’t be on anyone’s roster for the day, and that I’d have to refer teachers back to him if they had any questions.
The thought of all that first day interaction made me sick to my stomach.
I just wanted to be left alone.
But I didn’t understand what alone really felt like back then.
Not like I do now—when alone has become my only option.
It’s only when everything’s gone—when it’s ripped painfully away—that you’re able to appreciate the small things you once took for granted: like mixed-up schedules, awkward encounters, and first-day jitters.
Those things we hate that remind us we’re alive.
September 3rd:
It was later that afternoon when I ran into the redheaded girl again. I still didn’t know her name then, but there she was: sitting opposite me in the horseshoe arrangement of geometry class. The room was made mostly of sophomores, but there were a few other grades sprinkled in, too. Freshmen with high enough scores earned a seat in geometry, but we were a clear minority. Based on the crowd around me, I figured I was the only one.
According to first day protocol, a rigidly formal attendance was taken and, of course, my name wasn’t included. Mr. Atkins agreeably added it to his roster without added interrogation before proceeding with class introductions. Beginning on the opposite side of the room and picking up momentum as it went, a wave of sharing was set into motion. We were each asked to introduce ourselves by name, grade, and to provide a couple interesting things that everyone might like to know about us.
The redheaded girl, who I couldn’t help but keep looking up at, was sixth to take turn. I’d hardly heard a word anyone said, leading up to her. I needed to hear her story.
“My name’s Catee Laverdier, and I’m a freshman. My dad got a job transfer this summer, and we just moved here from Baltimore.”
The simplicity in which she said this makes me scoff, today. It was so casual—like they’d somehow had a choice about their move to rural nowhere.
“We’ve only been in Madison for about a week,” her sharing continued, “so we’ve still got a lot of unpacking to do. At first, I wasn’t really happy about moving here, but it’s been really great so far. Plus, everyone seems cool here, so I’m excited to get to know everyone better,” she spoke with feigned optimism.
I came to two conclusions back then. First, she was a bit of a liar. I’d overheard her guidance office meltdown just hours before, and if that’s what she described as excitement, I would’ve rather been sad. Second, she was just as intriguing to everyone else in the room as she was to me. When Catee finished, the room gave her a response unlike anyone who’d shared before. Everyone, even Mr. Atkins, was latched onto her every word, and they welcomed her by name and with questions of their own when she finished.
And when the swooning subsided, the sharing continued, and the wave surged closer and closer to me. It would be my turn to talk soon, and I’d rehearsed my chosen lines over and over to avoid stumbling my words. I wanted to make a good first impression on the class, but more importantly, on Catee. I can’t explain why. There were plenty of other pretty girls in school. I’d had classes with dozens of them, even back in Platsville. Still, there was something about her I couldn’t dismiss.
“Hey, everyone,” I started softly. “My name’s Damian Lawson. I’m a freshman, and I grew up in Platsville.” You could tell the Madison natives in the room: most of them rolled their eyes, while some whispered quick exchanges to the kids beside them.
“We live sort of in the middle of nowhere, and my parents have a small farm. It’s nothing big, mostly chickens, but we’ve got a garden and some other stuff, too,” I admitted and continued while the class laughed at the naivety of my share. I was too green to recognize it as one of the least cool things I could’ve possibly disclosed on day one. In doing so, I’d officially branded myself “Farm Boy”.
The only one I didn’t see laughing was Catee, who smiled instead. Her look was a much-welcomed improvement from the one she first shot me, just hours before.
“And I’m excited to start fresh here, too.” I lied to the room and slunk into my seat.
I glanced up and, oddly enough, she was still looking my way, even as the kid to my left started in on some rant about himself. I couldn’t read what Catee was thinking, and the prolonged look she gave me made me feel a little uncomfortable. But, hard as I tried, I couldn’t help the magnetic pull of her curious stare.
Mid-lesson, I looked back as the corners of her mouth drew up, and a smile stretched across her face.
I knew then that I’d found my Madison “in”, even if I looked away at the time. The fact that we were both new made no difference at all. On the contrary, that’s probably what first pulled us together. It was a connection that had nothing to do with familiarity, and we still hadn’t spoken a word to each other. Still, there was an irrefutable magnetism that drew us together, and I could only hope I wasn’t alone in the things I was feeling.
“Listen up, Farm Boy …” Justin cornered me when class got out. He was the fifth to share, and he had a seat right next to Catee’s. “I just want to make sure you understand how things work around here.” He had me trapped in one of those armpits where the last locker in a row meets the wall. I couldn’t remember whether he was a junior, maybe a senior, but I guessed it was one of the two, based solely on his size. He didn’t touch me, but he loomed there, and his words pummeled down to make his point abundantly clear.
“Keep to yourself in there, and
we’ve got no problems.” His words were like hornets as he pointed back toward the door. “And keep away from that new girl. I saw how you kept staring at her in there, and ain’t no way she’d go for some little Platsville shit like you. Consider yourself warned.” His threat was unwarranted, like it was unfounded. Catee wasn’t the type of girl who’d want much from me, or Justin, either—a box of hair had more brains than him.
Still, I knew I was outmatched and unarmed, so I nodded my consent and that was enough to get him to back down and continue on his way. His ego was enough to occupy two seats to his left and his right. Apparently, anything within its gravitational pull was all his—even if a brighter, unassuming star sat directly beside him.
Shaken and standing alone in the middle of the hall, crowds of kids fanned by and moved me with the nudges of their bodies as they pushed along.
Justin was nearly twice my size, and he clearly intended to throw his weight around—with me and anyone else his massive ego targeted. I didn’t even know the guy, but I was smart enough to know I wasn’t his only victim.
But I had no intention of making a move on Catee.
I’d never had a girlfriend before.
I’d never even held a girl’s hand before.
And based on what little I’d seen until then, she was completely out of my league to begin with.
And having survived the day to closing bell, I was never more excited to leave Madison High than I was that first day. Start to finish, I couldn’t have scripted a worse one in my head. I’d planned to be as inconspicuous as possible and to blend in as best I could. Instead, what I got was roadblock after roadblock, exempting me from the experience, all together.
And as the buses pulled from the curb, they passed groups of kids who littered its sidewalks. Some moved forward while others stood stagnant—hanging out, instead of heading for home. And among them, Catee’s red hair stood unmistakably out. I caught her standing there with a small group of others, Justin included, and I decided then that my connection with her could’ve only been superficial. Anyone who’d give Justin the time of day wasn’t worth mine. And after ruling her out as my Madison in, I turned away and reverted to the loneliness I’d always known.
I looked to the sprawling, two-story building behind me, and I resented having to see it again, and again, and again, for four, long years.
But then The Whitening struck, and it wiped the slate clean.
September 3rd:
“So, tell me about all the new friends you made.” My mom always pushed me to reach out more, though I was perfectly content as a loner.
“Tons, Mom. Can’t even list ‘em.” She got my sarcasm but ignored it and pressed forward anyhow.
“So, tell me your High and tell me your Low,” she prompted with her customary gauge of our days: a tool to bookend the details she’d fill in, later on.
“Well … ” I hesitated, in search of my High. “Do you want the High or Low first?” I asked.
“I want you to start with the Low, and end with your High. You know I prefer a happy ending.” Her smile was a contended one as she reclined back in her chair. I took a seat next to her on the couch to begin, and I silently thanked her for the extra time to fabricate a worthy High.
“Okay,” I began. “So, my Low was the fact that I didn’t really know anyone there. I didn’t really make any new friends. Actually, I might’ve even made a new enemy.”
“Well, that sounds a little extreme,” she shot back. “But it couldn’t have been all bad.”
“I guess it could’ve been worse.” I answered, more for her peace of mind than anything else. In reality, it couldn’t have been more frustrating than it actually was.
“So, why don’t you start by telling me how you went about making a new enemy on your very first day …” The dramatic emphasis she placed on the word, and the smile with which she delivered it, revealed awareness of my exaggeration.
“He’s this guy in geometry class.”
“So what happened with this guy? Tell me about him …” she prodded.
“Well, his name’s Justin, and I barely know him at all. Well, I actually don’t know him at all. I mean, he talked in class—in this sharing thing we had to do—but that’s it.”
“So, why would he have a problem with you?” she asked. Her hands moved from behind her head to interlock and rest across her stomach.
“Well, I guess that’s my High.”
“Okay. Now you’ve got me interested. Keep going,” she smiled and prompted.
“So, there’s this girl … ”
“Yeah???” Her response was a curious one, already trying to connect non-existent dots in her head.
“And I saw her the first time when I was waiting for my schedule this morning.”
“Okayyyy …” she prodded, salivating for more.
“Well … I guess … she caught me looking at her …”
“Annnnnd?”
“Annnnnnd,” I repeated, “she shot me this really nasty look.”
“Oh. Well, that doesn’t sound so good …” Mom delivered her words in a baiting, but still consolatory fashion.
“But it wasn’t bad either,” I jumped to correct. “I had geometry this afternoon, and there she was. In class. Sitting right across from me!”
“Really!?” Mom gasped in mock surprise.
“Yeah, really.” I left my response short, knowing her curiosity would push me forward.
“Welllll???”
“So ……” I delayed, to starve her the details. “I kept seeing her look across the room at me, and she saw me looking back at her too.”
“So, then what?!” Mom was totally hooked by then. It was the story she’d been waiting for since middle school: Damian meets girl. Girl falls in love. Damian and girl live happily ever after.
“Well, nothing really happened after that,” I answered. “But I know she’s cool with me, though. I could tell just by the way she was looking at me.”
“That’s great, Damian! So, you did make a new friend after all!”
“I guess. Maybe. But we haven’t even talked yet, Mom. So don’t get your hopes up about grandkids or anything like that.”
My relationship with my mom’s always been one of mixed-sincerity and sarcasm: one that I always thought was indestructible, even in the face of death. But that was then, before the disease, when death was still abstract. When it was something that could be confronted, stared down, and defeated. I didn’t understand it like I do now; I didn’t understand its unforgiving finality. Not like I do today.
“You just trust your gut; it’ll always steer you right,” Mom encouraged, before she dug for more. “So, tell me all about this new enemy.” She repeated the word as though it tasted vile on her tongue.
“Like I said, his name’s Justin. And apparently, even though she barely knows he exists, Catee’s his.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he cornered me after class got out, and he told me pointblank to back off her … like he was claiming her or something. Like she was already his.”
“Well, what makes her his anymore than yours?”
“The fact that he’s twice as big as me and an upperclassman.”
“That’s no answer.”
“It is if you’re a 5’5” freshman from Platsville,” I answered.
“Still, Damian. If you like that girl, and if she likes you—and I can’t imagine any girl wouldn’t—you just do what feels right. If you want to talk to her, do it. And you don’t back down no matter what this Justin kid has to say about it.”
“I won’t, Mom. Thanks for the advice.”
“Don’t just agree with me now to make me happy, Damian. I’m serious. If this girl’s someone you’re really interested in, don’t you go letting some fool get in the way of that. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah, Mom. I get it. Don’t worry.” I tried my best to assure. “I can handle myself, even if some people think I can’t.”
“Well mayb
e you need to start speaking up for yourself more, Damian. Stand up for yourself. Don’t you go letting other boys push you around like that. It’s high school now, and there’ll be a whole lot of that out there. Don’t you play second to nobody. Do you understand me?”
“I know, Mom,” I insisted. “I get it. Don’t worry. I won’t let him bother me any.”
“Good.” She’d reached her own satisfied conclusion to the conversation. “Then it’s about time we get started on dinner. Your father will be home in an hour, and I want to make sure we’ve got something nice ready. He’s had a rough day at work; plus, your sister’s coming home, and we can’t go having an empty table when everyone gets here.”
“Yeah, Mom. I get it.” Having already read between the lines, my response was dry. I knew from past experience that dinner would mean just as much work for me as it would for her. She’d taken to referring to me as her “sous chef” a week before, when Nicole left for college. Basically, it was her fancy title for “servant.” I usually got put in charge of the prep work before dinner, then the cleanup after—chores I’d always alternated with my sister but inherited full-time after she’d moved to campus.
If I’d know how few meals we’d have left together, I wouldn’t have minded the responsibilities so much—I would’ve been more appreciative of the time together, no matter how it was spent.
The thought of it makes my eyes heavy with tears, and I hold them back for as long as I can before burning eyelids give way to warm trickles that race down my cheeks. I can barely stifle the sobbing that follows, but the hunters above demand I get hold of myself.
I can’t be heard.
Not right now.
“Where do you want me to start?” I asked my mom, knowing she’d already planned-out my sous chef role long before she started the conversation about dinner.
“I need you to head down to the pantry, and I need you to bring up this list.” Mom procured a neat, handwritten note from the side table and presented it to me as she pulled forward in her recliner and launched to her feet.
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