From the kitchen, Ginny yells, “Don’t believe a word that old man says, Sam.” We all laugh and I figure these couple weeks won’t be so bad.
He goes on with the stories and when he finally takes a breath, I hear Ginny—perky positive Grandma Ginny—turn serious in the kitchen, asking my mom all these questions like How long do you think you’ll be, Anne? Do you have friends there? Wait, who is that again? Do you have a job? Money?
This whole thing is sounding like a big deal. So I head in there to see what’s going on and my mom is like, I have to. I need sun. I have to go.
The words are a massive kick in the gut.
How long are we going for, Mom?
She grabs me by the shoulders and looks at me with a plastered-on smile. She says she has to leave me here in Des Moines for a short stay. She’s heading for Phoenix, Arizona, to see an old friend from high school and get her head on straight. Then she’ll come get me and we’ll go back to Aberdeen and start over.
Start over? Who needs to start over?
My mom is talking so fast she can’t catch her breath. Her face turns pinker than the walls. She’s got her fingers locked on my arms. I look at my mom’s hands and they’re beet red, but the ends of her fingers are bone white. She starts sobbing, going on and on about how sorry she is, saying all this trash about my loser dad—who’s never been there to defend himself—and hugging me and freaking out that I won’t hug her back.
I can’t be in the same room with her, so I break out of her squeeze and barricade myself in the bathroom. No matter how much she begs and screams, I won’t come out.
I focus on the green wallpaper with the repeating pheasant-and-duck pattern. The birds are flying around some sunny mountain lake. I would do anything to be there with them.
I want my mom to go.
I close my eyes and wish her away.
Her bawling gets even louder and more intense. She pounds the door with a slow bam-bam-bam—and through her sobbing, slobbering tears, she screams, “GOOD-BYE, SAM!” I mean, my mom screams it. And she sprays all her fear and anger and hurt all at once.
All at me.
It was the first time I can remember my heart pounding like it does now—like a jackhammer—and my face stinging like it’s a pincushion for pissed-off bees.
I wish I could forget.
I could have.
I think I would have.
If it wasn’t for fucking Gilbert!
From his living room perch, he saw it all. Heard everything and recorded the moment in his pea brain. Locked it in forever.
So ever since that horrible day, whether I’m coming or going, I can’t get past Gilbert’s cage without him screeching, “GOOD-BYE, SAM! GOOD-BYE, SAM! GOOD-BYE, SAM!” I hear my mom’s trembling voice and see her crying eyes. And I feel just like I did that afternoon two years ago.
Every day this happens.
Every day I’m transported back.
Every day, at least twice a day, the stupid bird does this to me.
Everyone experiences a painful moment in life. But not everyone has to relive the moment every … single … day.
I do.
Thanks to a stupid parrot.
I feel the rain pelt my face as I sprint toward the house. Past the mailbox. Up the gravel driveway. Through the muddy yard.
I bust through the front door and I’m met with the screech: “GOOD-BYE, SAM!”
I jump at his cage.
“GOOD-BYE, SAM! GOOD-BYE, SAM!”
I wrestle with the latch until the door pops open.
I reach in and Gilbert pecks my hand. Claws my fingers. I clutch his scrawny neck and lift him out of there. I squeeze. He tries to wiggle free. I squeeze his neck harder. I swear he’s looking into me, pleading for his pathetic little life.
I see horror in his eyes.
I see me reflected in them.
What in the hell, Sam?
What are you doing?
I let go of his little neck and he immediately inflates. “GOOD-BYE, SAM! GOOD-BYE, SAM!” He screeches it louder than ever.
I push him back in his cage.
“GOOD-BYE, SAM! GOOD-BYE, SAM!”
I latch the door and haul ass into my room.
“GOOD-BYE, SAM! GOOD-BYE, SAM!”
He’s always gonna say it.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
I collapse on the bed, pull the covers over my head and try to check out.
But I can’t lose the images.
Gilbert’s eyes.
The look on Luis’s face.
The look on those idiot kids’ faces.
My mom’s face, eyes, fingers … the sound of her scream …
Stop thinking, Sam!
Stop.
Just press Play.
I run my fingers over the player till I hit the button.
Do-do, dow-ow, do-do dow-ow. It’s “Big Long Now.”
The distorted guitar is a slow steady hop. A cymbal rolls. Kick drum and toms. Krist’s bass loops up and down, somehow pushing the rhythm while holding it back. The most haunted voice ever seeps into the noise, then soars above it all.
I fight to feel Kurt’s pain. Fight to forget about mine.
I watch a thousand raindrops run down my window. Watch mold grow on the sill. Watch darkness come. “Big Long Now” plays over and over, and all I can think is how this music used to make me want to be something good.
Now I just want it to take me away.
What the hell happened, Sam?
THE RULES
“SAMMY, IF YOU WALK, YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE.” It’s Ginny. She’s knocking on my door. “Get yourself dressed and hop in the car. No need to thank me.”
I had no intention of going back to school today. No intention of seeing Luis. It’s what I get for pressing the snooze too many times.
Ginny drives and chats while I try to hold my shit together.
This year was shaping up perfect; I was anonymous in school. I was forgotten. I was alone. Now I got Luis and classes full of staring kids.
I reassure myself I can make it all go away.
I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.
I’ll burrow deeper than ever, until nobody knows I even exist. Until I disappear again.
I can do this. Because I’ve got a plan. I’ve got strategies that have worked for two whole years. I’ve got … the Rules:
1. Don’t be late to class.
2. Don’t screw around.
3. Don’t ever look the teacher in the eye.
4. Don’t ever look a classmate in the eye.
5. Develop your blank stare.
Work on it. Practice it. Use it. The blank stare is your best friend.
6. Don’t ever raise your hand.
No matter how well you know the answer or how much you wanna correct your classmates’ stupid-ass comments, if you raise your hand and show how smart you are, the teacher will be all over you. They love the intelligent ones. They’ll get to know your name and it’s all over. Kiss anonymity good-bye. So don’t ever, ever raise your hand.
Number 7 is the tricky one. A lot of slackers totally screw up number 7.
7. Listen.
That’s right. Listen to everything.
Regardless of how hard you try to disappear, every once in a blue moon, the teacher will lob a question your way. The worst thing you can do is act clueless. Cluelessness means you’re not listening, and that means you got a lecture coming. And the very last thing you want is a lecture. A lecture is the first step to a teacher deciding he wants to be on your case.
Say the teacher asks you a direct question, making attention unavoidable. What should you do? You should answer correctly. You can do that because you’ve been listening. You’ve avoided the attention that comes with a lecture.
Good.
Now the new problem is that your teacher thinks he’s got you because you were listening and you know the answer. He thinks you’re hooked into his lesson. He thinks you might even
be smart. Now he’s gonna come at you with the follow-up question quicker than you can duck.
The follow-up question is the time for cluelessness.
No matter how smart you think you are, no matter if you’ve got the right answer or an interesting opinion, be strong—follow my advice and hold your tongue. Slowly shake your head, shrug your shoulders, and flash your perfected slow … blank … stare. Hang in there with the stare and your teacher will give up. He’ll be satisfied that you were listening, but reassured that you’re not the sharpest cheddar on the platter and you’re not worth spending a lot of extra time on. He’ll move on to harass the next poor sap, and you’re good for a couple weeks.
At least.
Especially if you’re following rules 1 through 6.
There are two kinds of slackers. First, there are those idiots who love attention and are willing to engage their teachers and classmates, and get into all kinds of trouble. Then there are those who just wanna be invisible. Being the first kind is easy. Being the invisible kind is not easy. You have to seriously want it to make it happen. But desire is not enough. You must reach a level of self-discipline that rivals only the most successful, suck-up, straight-A scholars.
I’ve got the desire. I’ve got the discipline.
And I’ve got a system that works.
OJOS MEANS “EYES” MEANS “YOU BETTER WATCH IT”
I PULL OPEN PUGET’S FRONT DOOR, and just like every other morning, I’m jolted by the screeches and squeals from Viking cheerleaders. Eyes to the ground, I squeeze past them and their rich, waterfront, Briar Park friends as they compare iPhone apps and ski trips and remind me that I hate this place.
I make my way into B Hall, pushing through the jocks and goths and losers—the Des Moines Hill kids who are supposed to be my people.
Then it’s out to the covered corridor and through C Hall and the poor kids who live on and around Pacific Highway.
Between here and Cassidy’s, I gotta pass through Cholo Corner. It’s where all the Latino boys from Mr. Bell’s English Language Learner class hang out. They all practice looking tough and never say anything to anyone except their badass friends.
I scan the place for Luis, but I don’t see him anywhere.
I pull both hood strings tight and keep moving with my eyes on the floorboards, then—
BAM!
I smack right into one of those kids.
“Ojos, man.” He reaches a hand up and pulls my hood back. He gets in my face and says, “You better watch yourself.”
Shit. It’s Carlos Díaz, notorious fuck-up cholo.
“Sorry.”
“Not a thing, man. I ain’t got no beef with you. But Luis does. Yeah, Callado wants to kick your ass.”
I knew it.
“That’s the word, man. Everybody sayin’.”
Everybody?
“They all talkin’. Saying you been starin’ Luis down and he wanna mess you up. And no disrespect, but I wouldn’t mind watchin’ that shit go down. What class you got?”
I pace forward and back as my skin catches fire. My heart pounds like Krist Novoselic’s bass on “Paper Cuts” as I picture Luis tearing me apart.
I take off toward the main building.
But I don’t get anywhere because Carlos—who’s a head shorter than me and a ton stronger—has a vise grip on my arm.
“You can’t be a pussy,” he says. “It’ll make everything worse. Now, I’m pretty sure I asked you what class you got.”
“Cassidy.”
“I’m coming with you.”
As we walk, I feel another me float out of my body. I hover above myself watching the second scariest kid in school haul me to get my ass kicked by the first.
Outside Cassidy’s room, Carlos lets go of my shaking arm and grabs my face. Slaps my cheek a couple times and says, “Relax yourself, kid. Relax your mind. You wanna be loose doin’ battle. Now, if I was you, I’d start with your left. Quick jabs. Keep your feet moving. And mitts up! Even if it ain’t much to look at, you gotta protect that mug. Jab left, punch right. Got it?”
I’ve got no reply. So Carlos says, “Forget all that shit I just said. Just stand there and jellyfish your body and it’ll be over real quick. And don’t worry, I’ll be right out here watching the whole thing.”
I head into class, and everyone turns around to see what’s gonna happen. They all watch me sit my butt down by Luis.
My head gets tingly and my guts turn over. I put my head on my desk, and when I do, I notice that not everyone is looking at me.
Luis isn’t.
He’s just sitting there like the ass-kicking thug he is.
I force myself to sit up.
Luis acts like I’m not even there.
Cassidy pushes her accountant glasses up her nose as she rises from her messy desk. She pulls her frizzy black hair into a bunch, grabs a rubber band from between her teeth and ties the whole tangle into a bouncing pouf.
“All right, class. All right. Settle yourselves.” She claps her hands a couple times. “It’s pop-poetry time so just knock one out. Don’t think too much. Just jot it down. Describe a flower. Wrap it in a metaphor. Bam! You got a poem! Nothing to it. Personify your seat partner’s nose. Boo-ya! Poem! Just free your mind and let that little sucker flow into your journal. This is going to be a daily ritual throughout the entirety of the unit, so get used to it, people.”
Forget her, Sam.
Just look straight ahead.
Pretend he’s not even there.
Focus on the Rules.
And breathe. Just breathe.
I try all that. But I’m distracted by annoying tapping.
It’s Luis. He’s got his fingernails going manic on the desk.
Cassidy starts walking our way. He sees her and says it real fast. Straight ahead, like he’s talking to the whiteboard in front of class. “You got a pencil?”
I’m not sure I heard right. But if I did, he could only be talking to me.
“Pencil. You got a pencil?”
A pencil, a pencil, a pencil … I pat my coat pockets like there might be a pencil there, but it’s ridiculous because I never bring one to class. I take in a deep, slow breath. I feel like I’m gonna faint. I look down at my feet and it’s my lucky day because there’s an eraserless, chewed-up pencil right under the table. I pick it up and pass it to Luis.
He gives me a half grunt and nods straight ahead in thanks, I think. Then he curls over his journal and pretends to write.
The class gets to popping out poems.
For the moment, all is well.
Then straight-A geek Julisa Mendez—on her way back from chatting up Cassidy—walks past us, stops and looks at Luis like she can’t believe what she just saw.
Luis looks up from his fake-scribbling right back at her.
And—whoosh!—every eye is on us.
Julisa walks up to him and pulls his pencil out of his hand. Holds it up for inspection. “Seriously, Luis? This is disgusting.”
There are snickers from the class.
Go away, Julisa!
She walks over and tosses the pencil in the trash.
Do not come back here.
Do not—
She comes back all right, and she’s got her bulging, orange and green, flower-covered pencil pouch with her.
The eyes all follow her every move.
My heart pounds.
I slump down in my seat as Julisa stands there digging in the ridiculous pouch. She eyes the class and says, “What are you all looking at?” as she pulls out a newly sharpened, perfect blue pencil and slaps it on Luis’s desk. Then she looks over at my empty hands and shakes her head.
I pop my hood on and slump harder as she thrusts her hand back into the pouch. “I don’t know which is worse,” she says. And she slaps a shiny yellow one down for me. “Guys, I’m here every day. Just ask.”
Luis doesn’t say a word.
I don’t say a word.
We just stare straight ahead.
>
MY FAULT
THE BELL RINGS. I’m the first one out.
But there’s no escape. Carlos is right there.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Aw, shit. Serious?” He looks 100 percent disappointed Luis didn’t destroy me. Then he brightens up and says, “Oh, I get it. Callado making you sweat this thing out first. That’s just like him. What class you got next?”
Vice Principal Carter appears out of nowhere and says, “Mr. Díaz, I have something awesome I want you to see!” He scratches his head. “I forget what it’s called. Oh, yeah! It’s called your second-period class. You’re going to love it.”
“You ever try comedy, Mr. C.?”
“Every day, Carlos.”
They take a few steps toward Mr. Bell’s class, then Carter turns around and says to me, “Samuel Gregory, how ’bout a smile today? This place isn’t all that bad.”
Dude’s a dope.
Then Carlos shouts, “Ojos, guëy! Keep your eyes open!”
“That’s enough, Mr. Díaz,” Carter says, hauling him away.
I take my seat in Mr. McClean’s geometry class.
Check my left. My right.
All I see is kids sinking into their pre-math stupor. Pretending they’re doing McClean’s problem of the day. Screwing around. Flirting. Texting under their desks.
Not one of them is looking at me. Nobody thinks I’m gonna get my ass kicked in math today. I take in a deep breath and tell myself, Just follow the Rules, Sam. Just follow the Rules. It’s gonna be fine.
Then Luis walks in.
Thirty pairs of eyes lock on his every step.
He sits down next to me.
And thirty pairs of eyes lock on us.
Luis looks my way for a split second. I look away. Scan the class. I’m not imagining a thing. Everyone is checking me out.
Sixty eyes times six classes a day times five days a week times …
This is the way it is.
All thanks to him.
I pound my thigh with my fist because it’s not true.
This is my fault too.
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