Away From Here_A Young Adult Novel

by Christopher Harlan

“Yeah, not really, Jacob,” I interjected. “There’s a little more to it than that. Plus, crazy is a dumb word, most people with mental issues aren’t crazy, that’s ignorant.” I couldn’t hold back with people like Jacob, which is why I put a lot of energy into carefully avoiding him. I almost didn’t blame him; he seemed genetically programed to say dumb shit at the wrong time.

  “Screw you, man, I’m not ignorant!” He didn’t know when to stop; didn’t even know that he needed to stop, and I felt my blood start to boil. “And, by the way, yeah they are. If you need pills and doctors to not slit your wrists or be a complete mess, you’re a crazy person, I’m sorry.”

  He wasn’t actually sorry, but he became so after I jumped out of my seat and tackled him out of his desk and onto to the floor for the beating my already balled fists seemed determined to give him. We were on the floor within seconds, and I wrapped around him like a vice, as he became the unwilling recipient of years of grappling I had done with my dad. Though it was hard to perceive those things accurately when you were in the middle of them, I’m pretty sure I got off at least three clean shots and a few on his arm before I felt a pair of large adult hands wrap around my waist, and pull me up onto my feet.

  It was Mr. A, and he wasn’t pleased. Even though he coached varsity boy’s football, and no doubt dealt with some rough physical situations, this type of thing was different. This was Navy-SEAL style, close quarter combat. I’m sure that situation is the exact type that teachers dread: it’s like every fear about the barbaric nature of teenagers laid bare, as we literally tried to kill one another like apes, and poor Mr. A had to put his advanced degrees to work to pull us apart. He threw me aside and pushed through the apathetic crowd of my classmates to attend to Jacob, who had a visibly bloody nose. He looked embarrassed and kind of sad, but that was the price of stupidity.

  I wished that I could have beaten the ignorance completely out of him, that it would have leaked out of his body, and pooled on the linoleum floor as his blood was doing at that moment, but of course that isn’t what happened. I just got to beat on a stupid person for a few seconds, which nonetheless offered its own real, if fleeting, sense of satisfaction. Mr. A yelled at me to go to the Dean’s office on the main floor, and I obliged without protest because, despite having a temper, I was a pretty respectful kid.

  High school deans were bullshit; the personification of self-important pseudo-authority, with their ridiculous color-coded disciplinary cards and unchecked powers. What almighty school principal, in all their vast wisdom, decided to grant a handful of already incompetent teachers even more power by making them the fake judges of a school building? As I sat there waiting on the mercy of this random math teacher who got paid an extra few hundred dollars to pass sentence on troubled kids, in he walked. In the classroom Mr. Longo wasn’t so bad; I had him for geometry when I first came to the school in junior year. But context is everything, the real determinant of people’s behavior, and in that shitty little office Mr. Longo was king, a complete and utter power-happy prick.

  “Mr. Santiagooo,” he said, dragging out the vowels in my name for dramatic effect. I didn’t like his tone at all, or the air of arrogance in his demeanor. It amazed me how power changed people. In the classroom Mr. Longo was the lamb, at the mercy of a room full of 30 tired, angry 16-year-olds who gave no shits about discreet math or geometry. In that office, with that title, Mr. Longo decided to exact his revenge on petty high school criminals to the full extent of his power.

  “Got into a fight, did you? Is that right?” The pretense was that there was an actual discussion to be had, which there wasn’t. He was playing the role of interrogator, probably modeled after some cop show he watched late at night, alone and sad in his little basement apartment. In this fantasy gone insane he was the clever investigator who already knew the answers to the questions he asked the perp. I wanted to complete his fantasy by being a total dick, and telling him that by all standard definitions, what happened in Mr. A’s Psych class fell more appropriately under the category of a ‘beating’ than it did a ‘fight’, but I held back and allowed him to hand down his ruling uninterrupted.

  “So, Mr. Santiago, tomorrow, you’re going to in-school suspension periods 1-6, I’ll have your teachers send work for you to do, and if you’re late, or if you skip any periods you’ll have it again the following day also, are we clear?” The last line he heard in a movie, for sure. It sounded authoritative because he knew that I’d have to say ‘yes’, which I did. Then I got dismissed to go back to class.

  As I walked to my next period I managed to see Pete through the sea of humanity that filled the hallways. He didn’t take physics, but in the classroom next to mine he had another one of the stupid electives he managed to pack his senior schedule with. The wall in between the two classrooms was something of a tribal meeting ground, a place where we gathered each day to talk and make plans.

  “So what happened?”

  “What do you think? Standard Dean bs”

  “ISS?”

  I nodded. “So I’m getting out of here, I can’t anymore…” I trailed off, lost in angry thoughts. I never cut class, but I just couldn’t stomach another two periods of notes and lectures. Pete didn’t argue with me, he saw the resolve in my face. “Text me later on, alright?” I walked out the side door of the school and tried to discreetly head for the street without making eye contact with any adults. I lived close to the school, so it was a quick walk home. A few blocks later I was there, an hour and a half early from the time I normally got home, but Mom didn’t notice. She didn’t notice much of anything by that point in her life. It was a terrible thought to have, but I didn’t want to deal with her either. I walked past her and up to my room, where I got some much needed sleep.

  I woke up to the feeling of vibration in my pocket, not realizing how much time had passed. When I came to my senses I figured that it must have been Pete, texting me like I asked him to earlier, though I still wasn’t in any mood to talk. When I unlocked my phone I saw that it wasn’t a text at all, it was an email. And not just any email, it was an email from her. I closed my bedroom door and immediately took a screen shot. I wanted to record this for posterity so that one day, when I was a decrepit old man sitting around an old age home, I would be able to wow the other geezers with tales of the day Annalise had emailed me. I opened it up immediately.

  So I know this has nothing to do with Psychology. . .well, sort of, in a weird way. I mean, not Psychology class. . .I don’t even know what I’m saying or why I’m bothering you with this. I know we’ve never even talked before and you don’t give a shit about what I’m writing, but I needed to tell someone. I’m done with school and I think I’m gonna drop out. That’s all.

  -Annalise

  The email was time-stamped a half hour before. Almost out of instinct, without much forethought, I hit reply and started pecking away at my keyboard.

  Hey…it’s Logan. I’ve just got this, sorry. Umm…you shouldn’t drop out. I know that sounds weird coming from the kid who hates school and just got into a lot of trouble, but you shouldn’t drop out. We’re seniors and have less than a year left.

  As I hit ‘send’ I realized what a terrible reply I had just offered to someone who was clearly in crisis and needed someone to listen to her. I also thought that I had waited a year to talk to this girl, and I when I finally got the opportunity I had nearly beaten a kid unconscious in front of her. If she was really serious about dropping out of school that email wasn’t going to do much to change her mind. Right then my phone vibrated again. That couldn’t have been her, I thought, it had only been like a minute since I sent my reply, maybe less, actually. I unlocked my phone again.

  Hey – thank you for listening. I still think I’m dropping out but thanks. See you tomorrow in Psych.

  -Annalise

  I started typing back right away. The universe had granted me a second chance at talking to her, and there would be no more awkward rambling, so I began email number four:
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  So, listen, I really, really don’t think that you should drop out. Like, I think it’s a bad idea. My mom dropped out of college. I know that’s not the same thing, but it sort of is, and she always wished she hadn’t, even years later she still talks about it. I don’t know…I just think that you’re too smart to drop out, and I wouldn’t want you to regret it later on. I know I don’t even know you like that, but I just have some experience with this, and I think that you’re strong enough to ride out the last year; it’s only a couple of months. I’ll help you…I don’t even know what that means, exactly, but I will – anything you need. If you need to talk, or whatever. Don’t drop out, or at least consider not.

  -Logan

  I hit send and my heart started racing furiously. I wasn’t exactly clear why my words induced panic, maybe because I hoped that they would have some sort of impact on her decision. I put my phone down and tried to get some homework done. As I did, I realized that at some point high school teachers just decided to give way too many projects to their seniors: a project on political parties for Participation and Government; a project on product marketing for Economics; even the then-doomed Psychology project on mental illness. As I sat there, drowning in instruction packets and grading rubrics, I believed very strongly that I would never use PowerPoint this much again in my entire life. I actually missed tests.

  About a half hour into making up my Econ slideshow my phone shook the bed. I knew that it was her at that point, and I felt like we were texting each other, even though it was only a rapid-fire email chain. Or maybe I just wanted to be texting her so badly that I pretended one was like the other. I didn’t care either way, all I knew was that I was about to have my fifth line of dialogue with Annalise. Call it whatever you want, I couldn’t read it fast enough.

  Wow umm I'm very touched that you took time out of your day to write this email to me. It's not that I hate school or I think I don't have enough potential to finish it because I know I do. It's just hard when you have a lot on your plate. . It's hard to stay focused in school when you have problems like the ones I have…I'm not going into detail because I'm sure it would be irrelevant to you (not to be said in a bad way, because no one really cares) and no it's not relationship problems that's childish. But thankyou for sending me your email, it truly made me open my eyes to why it's not the best decision to make. And btw, what happened after Mr. A threw you out?

  -Anna

  I stared at my screen without moving for a few minutes, probably longer than someone should stare at their screen without moving. Had someone been observing, I probably looked like I was having a stroke and my body had merely forgotten to fall, lifeless, to the ground. While in mid-fake-stroke, I made a few observations about the entire exchange: (1) she wrote thank you as one word and I couldn’t figure out why, (2) She called herself ‘Anna’, and (3) I touched her? Holy shitballs, I thought my I was just rambling on and on, but I guess…I touched her, wow, and (4) I needed to write back. And so I did:

  So after Mr. A threw me out I went to the dean and got ISS for tomorrow. Such bullshit, but what can I do? Anyways, I’m glad I could help, does that mean you’re not gonna drop out? Or at least that you’re considering not? I hope so. And I get it if you don’t wanna talk about whatever problems you referred to in your email, but I promise you that it’s not irrelevant. The reason I got heated today in class was because that topic hits home for me, literally. My mom, she’s…sick. I don’t talk about it a lot but it’s hard and I help take care of her, so I get it. If you ever wanna talk about it, I’m a good listener.

  -Logan

  I realized that I had just let Annalise into a secret part of my life. I didn’t tell anyone about mom. Pete was the only one who really knew what was going on, and that was because he was a brother to me. When we were little he used to call my mom ‘Mom’, and he spent most of his afternoons and weekends at my house, getting a second upbringing, meals and motherly advice included. My bed vibrated again, and the sound shocked me out of my own head. It was Annalise.

  I honestly didn't expect you to share more about your personal life. Not that I don't care, but I for one can't open up like that because I would regret it immediately for some reason. My personal life is similar to the one you have shared with me but only to a certain degree. Add that with mental problems I have myself. I don't want you to think less of me because of my mental issues, which is why I don't openly share it, but I think it's somewhat fair since you've shared yours. However, I do want you to know that though it might not seem like it, I am truly trying my best to keep everything sane around me (school wise, home wise, mentally wise). I can see why dropping out isn't the best solution for my problems, which is why I am finishing high school and hoping to graduate in time. I just assumed you would be like "oh no, what have I gotten myself into?" I don't know how this escalated to me emailing you this, but it helped me in a way and I wanted to say thankyou. And that sucks about ISS. We should cut school tomorrow, just saying. It’ll help me fight my Bleh.

  -Anna

  I made a second set of observations: (1) I needed to ask her about the ‘thank you’ thing, it was bothering me, but it was really cute at the same time and I never wanted her to write it any other way, (2) how was this actually happening right now (less an observation than question, but whatever), (3) she’s opened up to me a lot in a few emails, what does that mean (another question), (4) What the hell was a Bleh?, and (5) She wanted to hang out??? I read that last line about twenty seven times, each time I believed it just a little bit more, yet I still didn’t entirely believe it at all. Of all voices to hear at that moment I heard Mr. Longo, warning me in his best authoritative teacher voice what would happen if I skipped out on my punishment tomorrow. Then I remembered that both he and his punishments were idiotic; and that I would have gladly spent a decade of my life in a maximum security cell with a criminally insane cell-mate for the chance to hang out with Annalise. I wrote back quickly, and after that our average email turnaround time to each other was about 60 seconds, until I suggested that we just text one another because, well, we basically were already.

  Me: Hey…oh my god, yeah, I’d love to. But what are we gonna do?

  Annalise: I don’t know… I'll go wherever, so looks like we just need a plan then... You're putting me in a difficult position to decide where we should go... I was about to say we can get cookies from McDonald's. Those cheer me up for some weird reason.

  Me: You wanna go to McDonald’s?

  Annalise: Not really, I just want McDonald’s cookies – they make me happy.

  Me: I've never had cookies from McDonald's – I’m more of a coffee guy.

  Annalise: And is that a no for McDonalds cookies.....? And I'm more of a basic iced caramel coffee type of person.

  Me: Ewww

  Annalise: Don’t hate on my drink. It’s delicious.

  Me: If you say so.

  Annalise: Shut up! I’m telling you, it’s delicious. Next time I go to Starbucks I’ll get you one. I wanted to tell you something btw.

  Me: What’s that?

  Annalise: What you did today was awesome. That kid’s a dick, and you were totally right, even though you were kind of wrong for hitting him. But then again if anyone deserved to get hit. . .

  Me: It was him, for sure. And thanks. I didn’t want to act like that, you know. Especially in front of you.

  Annalise: Why not in front of me?

  Me: I don’t know. I just. . .I just didn’t wanna give the wrong impression.

  Annalise: And what impression do you think I have of you?

  Me: I don’t know. You’d have to tell me.

  Annalise. Okay. Maybe one day I will. But seriously, how do you feel about skipping school tomorrow?

  Me: I’m down if I get to hang out with you.

  Annalise: One question then. . .

  Me: What?

  Annalise: Do you like nature?

  Interlude

  On being just another mixed up mixed kid.
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  What do I mean by mixed up mixed kid, you ask? We’ll get to the mixed up part in a second, but as far as the mixed kid thing goes, well. . .let’s just say that my racial and ethnic background confused the living hell out of people, especially when I was a kid. When I say confused you probably think I’m exaggerating for dramatic effect, but explaining that shit to people was like explaining how an airplane flies to someone who doesn’t understand math or physics, they just looked at me and nodded, and then tried to classify me the way that was comfortable to them. I mean, I get it. I had a Spanish name, I looked vaguely tan, and I had some weird hair that was neither straight nor kinky, but some hybrid of the two. I don’t know if you’ve ever been asked the strange question of “What are you?”, but I have. Black father, mixed mother, I’d tell them, but she only really identifies as Latina. Yeah, Puerto Rican, actually. No, she was born in this country. No, I don’t speak it, sorry. I don’t know why my hair came out like it did, I’m not a geneticist, it’s just like this, I’m sorry. My hair’s weird, I have no control over it.

  And as far as the mixed up part? By the time I was seventeen I'd just about had it with all the so-called conventional wisdom that had been imparted on me by those who'd survived long enough to have some authority over me. And the type of conventional wisdom that was forced on kids seemed particularly suspect in my experience. What do I mean? Well, let's examine the greatest lies parents tell their kids:

  Be yourself. People will like you. After all, how couldn't they? There's no bias on our part, son, even though we literally created you out of thin air, and therefore think you're basically a unicorn birthed of your mom's loins who can do or say no wrong. No, everyone will love you for who you are, no matter what.

  Now this may have been sound advice for those cookie cutter kids who walked, talked, and looked just like everyone else, but for someone like me? I should have been sat down and forced to write the following over and over in one of those old-school marble notebooks until it had been internalized in my little mind: