Project Pallid

by Christopher Hoskins

  The group looked even more alarmed by Catee’s response than mine, and they said nothing in trade; they didn’t have the chance to before chaos erupted.

  Without warning, Justin leapt from behind them with a sucker punch that landed square into my jaw and snapped my head sideways. It happened so fast that I didn’t see it coming, and there was no chance to dodge it.

  It reeled me two steps backward, and I stood with my mouth in my hand, looking up at him and trying to set myself right.

  That’s when Catee made her attack.

  She slugged him right in the face.

  And it wasn’t one of those girly slaps either. This was a full-on, fist-clenched, knock-out-style punch, square to the nose. She’d gone for the kill.

  His hands rose to deflect her spiraling arms, but the blows rained down, and he could only play defense in a girl-on-boy fight, in front of half the school.

  “What did I tell you about coming near me! What did I say about messing with my friends! Why don’t you just crawl into a corner and die!” she screamed and struck again. Arms spiraling, her blows were relentless and angry.

  And when the pummel of fists subsided, Justin hunkered with his arms cocooned around his head.

  “Get the hell away from us!!!” Her words rattled the quieted lobby.

  “But Catee—

  “Get the hell away!!!!” she screamed again, at the top of her lungs.

  “But I—

  She shoved him back. “Don’t ever come near me again!!! You’re an asshole, and I don’t want you near me or any of my friends, ever again! Get the clue and get lost!!”

  By that point, the front office had cleared. Secretaries, who’d been punching passes and signing in students, leapt to their feet. Armed with the full, administrative team, they vacated their desks and rushed to join the lobby’s riotous turmoil.

  “What’s going on here!?” Mr. Smithson demanded. Catee and Justin had already separated, and his stance between them was cautionary, but unnecessary. Justin wasn’t about to counter with an attack on her.

  “The both of you! In my office, NOW!” Mr. Smithson ordered.

  Contented that she’d finally made her point abundantly clear, Catee smiled and led the way through the quieted, parting crowd. Mr. Smithson followed behind, with Justin trudging, head hanging behind him. The rest of the faculty hung back and made quick check-ins with surrounding students to gather eyewitness accounts, but they said nothing to any of Catee’s friends or to me, as we stood stationary and in silent disbelief.

  Apparently, the new girl wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Somewhere inside her was a monster that raged to get out, and it had done so on Justin. She’d put him in his place, and it was enough to gain her even more respect from the masses that had already come to admire her, based on mystery and looks alone.

  And with Justin out of the picture, there was nothing and no one left to stand in the way of what fate had so calculatedly brought together.

  Catee’s undivided attention would finally be mine.

  September 13th:

  Following her one-day suspension, I kept as close to Catee as I’d promised I would. I met with her and the increasingly familiar faces of her friends in the lobby each morning—still only able to name a couple of them—and I made the move from solitude at my lunch table of outcasts, to the graces of hers and to the company of everyone else who’d been drawn-in by her gravitational pull. I made sure to linger just long enough at our locker during transitions to make sure we’d cross paths there, too. And even though I can’t say I was fully in yet, the steps I’d made in such short time were unprecedented. They were totally out of character for me, but character, as I knew it, didn’t exist anymore. I no longer aspired to be part of the Madison High periphery. I wanted the spotlight. I wanted Catee’s. I had since the first time we’d laid eyes on each other.

  Whether we understood it or not, we’d been brought together for a reason. And though we didn’t realize it, fate had already carved out a significant and nefarious path for the two of us: one that would test our allegiance to each other, to our families, and to preserving a life that seemed troubling then, but that I’d fight, kill, and die for, to reclaim today. And when we weather this storm to find light on the other side—if there still is another side—we’ll have shown fate that united, we are stronger than anything it throws our way.

  I waited as long as possible before I left our locker that afternoon, and Catee still hadn’t shown up. I’d miss my bus if I didn’t get moving, and I really didn’t want to have to call my mom for a second ride home in under a week. I slammed its door shut with a clang that echoed down the mostly empty hall and, while making my way toward the bus, I ran smack into her at the first corner. We broke into immediate laughter at the clumsiness of the encounter and, after I helped pick up her books, she asked what I was doing after school the next day.

  “I don’t know. Not much, I guess. Heading home to Crapsville, and then whatever.”

  “Well, do you want to stay after with me? We can hang out. Maybe head to my house? We can do whatever you want, and you don’t have to worry about my dad or anything like that; he always works late. I’m usually asleep by the time he gets home.”

  I was dumbfounded. I had no idea what to say. The logistics of it all ran through my head, and as I checked off each point of contention, her invitation became a distinct possibility. Plus, my mom would be more than happy to come to Madison to grab me, especially if it was because of a girl—Catee, in particular.

  From there, my head jumped to her intentions, and I worried about the inherent suggestion in her invitation. As interested as I was, I couldn’t imagine rounding the bases with Catee—not yet. And if she weren’t suggesting that, why else would she have said that her dad would be gone?

  I didn’t know him back then, and I didn’t understand that there weren’t any sexual innuendos in her revelation; she was only implying that we wouldn’t be bothered by his need to control her every move and interaction.

  “Well? Are you going to hang out with me or not?”

  Lost in my thoughts, I’d allowed dead air to collect between us, and I hoped she wasn’t interpreting it as reservation on my part.

  “Sorry, Catee. I completely spaced out for a minute there.”

  “No kidding,” she laughed. “So, are you coming over tomorrow?”

  “I’ve just got to check with my mom to make sure she’ll pick me up and all, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Book me in, and I’ll let you know if there’s an issue after I ask her tonight.”

  “Sounds great. Don’t you leave me hanging though, Mr. Lawson. I’m a busy girl with pressing engagements in my calendar. I’ve already shuffled a few things around to clear up the afternoon for you.”

  “What? You moved things around to hang out with me??” I asked, naiveté winning its battle with logic.

  “I’m just kidding with you, silly,” Catee laughed and slapped me playfully on the shoulder. Her hand lingered on contact just long enough for me to feel its warmth through the thin cotton of my worn t-shirt. “I don’t have anything pressing planned. Never do. I’m new here. Remember? And for all I’ve seen, there aren’t many kids I’d want to spend any more time with than I already have to, trapped in this dump,” she added with a look to the concrete walls and the drab, gray lockers that surrounded us.

  “Ha! I knew you were kidding! I was just playing, too,” I tried my hardest to cover my stumble. “And I completely get what you’re saying about this place and all the kids here. I could care less about any of them.”

  “Well,” she replied, “I suppose that makes us a team now. A duo. A pair. A fighting force for everything that isn’t Madison High lame!”

  “You’re on, Ms. Laverdier.”

  “So, tomorrow? Same time? Same place? And then it’s Damian and Catee vs. the World???”

  “Sounds perfect, but I’ve got to run if I’m going to catch my bus. I’ll see you in the morning!” I exclaimed
, turned, broke into a trot, and then a run, as I adjusted my backpack and navigated the hall’s swarms of students, en route to the bus station.

  “Stay on your feet, Mr. Lawson!!” Catee yelled from behind, inciting a thumbs-up response from me as I rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

  September 14th:

  It turns out, I was right about my mom and her receptiveness to the idea of me staying after school the next day. When I relayed my conversation with Catee, she pulsated with excitement at the promise of my first high school connection. She even offered to pick me up, just before dinnertime, and was so agreeable that one afternoon would quickly become two … two would turn three … and three would become a regular, four-day-a-week affair.

  Our first afternoon together was one of the firsts that I’d hung in Madison, free of my Platsville roots. It was an opportunity to feel equity with the Madison High natives who’d made me an outcast, just a week before. Granted, Catee and I didn’t really hang with anyone else that day—or any other, for that matter—but there was still the feeling that I’d somehow ascended to a higher link in the high school food chain.

  We lingered at our locker longer than usual that Thursday, with no real rush to be anywhere at any specific time. Her dad would be working most of the night; my mom wouldn’t be picking me up until 6:00. We had over three hours at our disposal and anything was possible. The silent awkwardness of the moment spoke volumes as we prepared to venture into unchartered territory.

  “So, let’s get out of here,” she finally suggested.

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know, but I can’t stand breathing this high school funk much longer. Let’s go.”

  Still leery of the road we’d travel, I followed her lead and stepped from the comfort of our locker. I left behind my inhibitions and opened the door to a world of exciting possibilities and untimely ends.

  Outside, we walked past the soccer fields, the tennis courts, and the football field—each filled with its respective, varsity squads, who prepped for Friday’s games, meets and matches—and while doing so, we exchanged what could’ve been our first genuine words with each other. Void of the high school noise, each one carried greater meaning. Intended for a singular set of ears, each word was more thoughtfully chosen, and though we’d known each other for two weeks, it felt like our first interaction.

  And within an hour, as we continued to walk the surrounding blocks of the high school, all the tension I’d felt going in was totally forgotten. The flow of our conversations became more fluid. Less forced and methodic, our chemistry was natural, organic, and funny.

  And, just like our first exchange, each subsequent one with Catee kept me on my feet, ready for her punch line, and setting up my own in return. It became a tennis match, and we worked to constantly outdo each another—each line we delivered made me laugh harder, and I become more pliably hers. I had no way of knowing what she was thinking or feeling at the time, and there was no way I was about to ask her own thoughts, but I only hoped she was feeling the same things I felt coursing through me: things that would’ve sounded completely inappropriate, had I given words to them so soon. And so I chose to not search them out, and I vowed to keep them to myself that day.

  Eventually, over two hours later, our walk concluded where it began. Madison High had become mostly empty by then, with only a handful of cars scattered in its expansive lots. Its playing fields were empty, too, and the air was quiet and still.

  Our talk and travel took us to the center of the football field where we laid on our backs to look up at the blue, September sky. Its puffy, white clouds were filled with vast and numerous interpretations.

  “That one looks like Mel Gibson,” Catee pointed up and declared.

  “What!” I laughed, thrown by the randomness of her off-kilter observation.

  “Yeah, Mel Gibson,” she repeated, her finger targeted and followed an unshapely cloud that traced overhead.

  “I don’t see it.”

  “What are you talking about, you don’t see it?!” she asserted. “There he is—like, from Passion of the Christ.”

  “Mel Gibson wasn’t in Passion of the Christ!” I laughed and blurted.

  “Of course he was! Remember? He had that half-blue face, and he rode a horse and led his men in a battle with Danny Glover?”

  I rolled to my side and laughed at the absurdity of her observation.

  Still, she continued to fuel its fire: “He had to save them from aliens, right?” she asked, fully composed, though I knew she understood the difference between Braveheart, Lethal Weapon, Signs, and the story of the Bible.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I said, after regaining composure. I didn’t need to tell her that she’d mixed up four entirely different Mel Gibson movies; she already knew that—plus, he wasn’t even in the last one.

  A collective comfort settled over us in the silence that followed the exchange. We’d reached a new level of familiarity. It was more personal, but indescribable, and it would govern our every move and interaction from then on out. Minutes passed before either of us spoke again.

  “So, where’s your mom?” I couldn’t believe the forwardness of the words that spilled thoughtlessly from my mouth.

  “Huh?”

  “I mean … well … I guess I’ve heard about your dad, and I saw him on Friday, when he picked you up. I guess I just haven’t heard anything about your mom yet … ”

  The ensuing quiet made me feel like I might’ve overstepped a boundary: like maybe I’d asked too much, too soon. The hesitation in her response made me wish I’d never asked the question to begin with.

  Still, I couldn’t just stuff it back in my mouth.

  “My mom?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I had no other direction to go but forward. “What about your mom? Where is she?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Her response made my eyes well with genuine pain for her and her loss. I wished I’d never brought up the subject. “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t choke out anything else.

  “It’s okay. I mean, we’re in family therapy now.” Even then, the word family came out sounding uncomfortable for her. “Well, I call it fractured family therapy,” she added.

  I’d accidentally opened Pandora’s box and I was completely ignorant to the evils that would spring from it; her tone suggested there’d be many.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  “It’s okay. It’s been a few months now.”

  I was stunned to silence by her proclamation. What could I possibly say to make anything right when the wounds she bore were so raw?

  “I’m sorry.” I repeated a third time, as my hand crept across the midfield line to wrap around her own. Its movement, independent of my mind, surprised even me.

  Her response was instantaneous, and her hand flipped over. Her fingers interlaced with mine, and the electricity returned; it jolted up my arm and sent my heart to palpitations.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I caught my breath and asked to the clouds overhead … and to her … an extension of me.

  “There’s not much to talk about.” An uncomfortable pause swooped in before she continued. “She had cancer. She had it for a long time. Four years. She got better, and then she got sicker. Eventually, she didn’t get better anymore. She died in June, right when school got out. Then we came here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, unable to find appropriate words to fill the void she’d revealed. There were none. “I’m here now.” I squeezed her hand in consolation and turned to her, across the grass.

  She looked back and, entirely alone, our eyes locked.

  And unlike any time before, and unlike any time I’m likely to experience again, I knew. I knew she was the girl for me—for life. However short that is now. And I vowed that no matter what, I’d never allow her to feel pain like that again.

  October 19th:

  Catee’s dad discovered we’d been hanging out about a month after our first, footba
ll field rendezvous. She and I’d become quite familiar by then, and it’d become regular habit for my mom to pick me up from Madison around 6:00—for no other reason than to allow us time to hang. Of course, Mom didn’t know our time spent was unsupervised and, for some reason, she never asked. Maybe my good-naturedness had its own, obvious advantages: one of those was trust. Naturally, she still pestered me to invite Catee home for dinner, but I stayed strong and kept my two worlds divided for as long as possible.

  Catee’s dad usually didn’t get home until 10:00, sometimes later, so we were startled by his unexpected arrival home at 5:00—a full hour before Mom was scheduled to pick me up.

  “What’s going on in here?” Mr. Laverdier emerged in the doorway to fill it completely with his broad shoulders and towering height. His wide-set jaw and dilated eyes were off-putting and intimidating; he appeared from nowhere and spoke like the Grim Reaper, there to claim his next soul. I swallowed to keep mine from escaping through my throat.

  “Um … Hey, Dad. This is Damian,” Catee tried to casually introduce me, but the familiarity in which he found us, camped out on the living room floor amid mounds of pillows and blankets, indicated we were more than first day acquaintances.

  “Who is he?” Her dad’s dark eyes emasculated me as he spoke.

  “This is Damian. He and I—

  “Why is he here?” He asked with stern resolution.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. We just got out of school and—

  “AND,” he interrupted, “I think it’s time he should be going.”

  With sympathetic eyes, I looked from her, to him, then back to her. It wasn’t a situation I’d planned on getting into, but it was one I’d landed knee-deep in. I didn’t know what to say that’d make it okay; in time, I’d learn that nothing could have. Nothing would make Catee’s dad okay, and nothing we or anyone else did would ever make him rational again. The sane side of him died with her mom (those were Catee’s words, not mine).