Twenty-five
Surely, if there were a god, then Friday never would have come, and I never would have had to go back to that awful place. But there wasn’t, there isn’t, and I did.
The awkwardness and misery that descended on me from the very second I entered the front doors of St. Soren’s was truly astounding: the stares, the half-nods of half-condolence, the rippling quiet that followed me like some cartoon rain cloud, dropping discomfort on everyone in my immediate vicinity, the ever-expanding array of saintly Ryan posters, each one more hokey and ridiculous than the last: “Our Guardian Angel” or “Soren’s Hero” and worst of all, “Ryan Stiles: Class of ’95 Valedictorian in the Sky.”
Really, I almost considered turning right around and leaving after seeing that one.
Anyway, I was rushing to my locker with my eyes firmly glued to the floor, when I felt a hand grab my backpack and pull me through an open doorway into a darkened classroom. My heart instantly started racing, my first thought being that it was Alistair, and somehow he knew that I had let Henry into his room and had thus come to kill me.
But it wasn’t. It was just Tristan, squinting conspiratorially, and whispering, “Alistair asked me to go out with him tonight.”
“What?”
“He asked me to go out tonight. Alistair did.”
“Like, on a date?”
“No way,” she said, then paused. “I mean, I guess it’s possible, but I don’t think he would sink that low.”
I did not have nearly the faith in him that Tristan did. “Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know. That would just be so…cruel.”
I shrugged. “So you said no, right?”
She looked at me like I was crazy. “Of course not. I said yes.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “that way I can press him for information, try to find out what really happened that day.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course.” I should have seen that this was where she was going, but I guess I was blindsided by the fact that Alistair had asked her out in the first place.
“And who knows? Maybe he’ll even let something slip. Maybe after a few beers…”
“Wait,” I said, suddenly remembering Jesus Jackson’s advice about using Tristan as a distraction. “Can you, maybe, keep him away from his house tonight? Like, far away?”
“Sure, I guess. But why?”
“Maybe I can get back into the house. Get back that hard drive. See if there’s anything incriminating on it.”
“Oh…”
But then, of course, I remembered something else: Cassie, and how I hadn’t exactly left things on solid ground with her. “Crap,” I whispered back. “But it might not be that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it might be kind of hard for me get invited back over there.”
“Why?” She looked at me suspiciously. “What happened?”
I didn’t really wanted to tell Tristan about the kiss, and my subsequent freak out, but it was beginning to look like I had no other choice. “Cassie and I sort of made out.”
Tristan took a step back as a deep furrow worked its way across her brow, like she was trying to figure me out. “But why would that be a problem?”
“Well it wouldn’t be, except that Alistair got home in the middle of it and I kind of ran out of the house, totally without doing any of the homework and barely even saying good-bye. And I haven’t called her or anything since.”
“Oh. Well that could be bad. Maybe it would be better if I just went out with—”
“But,” I said, cutting her off, “maybe you could help me. You know, tell me how to smooth things over.”
“Hmm,” said Tristan, and then paused, thinking—working out, I assumed, whether or not I actually had a chance at success. Finally, she relented “Well, did you kiss her or did she kiss you?”
I thought back, and to be honest, it was still sort of a blur. “I think she kissed me.”
“Are you sure?”
The memory of it came back to me more clearly, making me blush. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Then there’s no problem,” she said with a sigh.
“Really?”
“Look,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, trying to smile. “Your brother just died, you’re falling behind at school, and you went over to her house for help with your homework, in no way expecting any kind of romance, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So when you ran out of there after kissing her, she’s not going to think you’re just some asshole who got a little action and then left. She’s going to think you were uncomfortable, sad, mourning, whatever, and that she made it all worse by insensitively kissing you.”
“Okay,” I said, growing a little less skeptical. This seemed to make some sense, and Cassie had been quite apologetic, after all. “So what do I do?”
Tristan thought for a second. “Just go up to her today, tell her that you’re sorry you ran out of there, that your emotions were just overwhelming you, and that you’d like to try again, but this time without the homework.”
“Hmm…And you think that will work?”
“Absolutely. Just suggest renting a movie, or something, and you’re golden.”
Right at that moment the first bell rang, signaling four minutes until class. Tristan rolled her eyes and opened the door to the hallway, pausing only to whisper “Good luck” in my ear. Then she turned with a snap, and strode briskly out into the crowd.
***
My first class was Algebra, and as usual Henry was sitting right in front of me. I caught his eye as he came in the door, but he quickly turned his gaze to the floor, refusing even to look at me. When I attempted to pass him note after note about the new plan for that night, he just let them all fall, unopened, onto the floor.
I decided that I’d try to catch up with him after class, but just before the bell rang, Ms. LaRochelle—looking hideous and as hatchet-faced as ever—came slithering in the door, staring straight into my terrified eyes. She whispered something to Mr. Carnegie, who asked me to join our faithful principal in the hallway.
Once outside the classroom, she stared at me for what seemed like a decade, her cakey, wrinkled, overly made-up eyes wide with something between suspicion and sympathy. Finally, she said, “So you haven’t been seeing Mr. Finger, I understand?”
She made it sound like a question, but I wasn’t quite sure how to answer.
“Well,” she went on, “it’s very important that you do. Not only is he your guidance counselor, he’s also the only certified grief counselor we have.”
“Mm-hm.”
“And he’s a very good psychologist.”
“Well, not really,” I said, before I could think better of it.
Her eyebrows rose, sending the wrinkles in her face spiraling into a pattern of menace. “Excuse me?”
“I mean…he only has a B.A. He’s not even a doctor.”
“The nerve…” she huffed. “He was right to schedule this meeting. You come right along with me.”
This meeting? What meeting? What the hell was she talking about?
She marched down the hallway, and I shuffled dutifully after her, more annoyed than ever. When we finally made it down the steps and through the dark hallway to Mr. Finger’s door, I could tell that whatever I was about to step into, it was going to be bad—there were clearly a few people in that tiny room with him.
As I suspected (or perhaps intuitively knew), there, squished into the fading gray, metallic chairs of Mr. Finger’s tiny office, were my parents—both of them. They looked up and stared at me when the door opened. My mother seemed a bit confused, although I’m pretty sure this was just an act (I don’t understand. Mr. Finger…Jonathan seems just perfec
t at home….), while my father pursed his lips, offering a halfhearted shrug.
“Oh crap,” I mumbled, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Jonathan!” said my mother, with a what’s-gotten-into-kids-these-days look from Mr. Finger to Ms. LaRochelle.
Mr. Finger smiled warmly. “Take a seat, Jonathan.” Then, to Mrs. LaRochelle, “Thanks for bringing him, Lucy. I think we’ll be okay now.”
Mrs. LaRochelle turned on her heels and clickety-clacked herself down the long hallway and back up the steps. I took the only available seat—a little stool, clearly meant for a third-grader, squished into a corner opposite the three adults.
“Well now,” said Mr. Finger. “Now that it’s just the three of us, Jonathan, why do you think I brought you all here to my office today?”
I was in no mood for this. At all. “I don’t know. To justify your paycheck?”
Mr. Finger and my mom exchanged a frustrated glance. My dad smirked, though I could tell he felt guilty just for being there. Mr. Finger said, “Really now, this is about healing, not sarcasm. Why do you think we’re here?”
I decided to lay it on the line for him. “Look,” I said. “You seem like a nice guy, Mr. Finger. I don’t want to waste your time. So why don’t you just go ahead and tell my parents what’s wrong with me, so they can blame it on each other, ignore the issue completely, and we can all get on with our day? Does that sound like a plan?”
“Jonathan!” said my mother.
“Aw, Christ,” muttered my father.
Mr. Finger shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Okay, then, Jonathan. Now I’ve been speaking with your mother, and we agree—and I’m sure your father does as well—that you’ve been having a difficult time these last few weeks—”
“Oh, no shit,” I broke in. “You must be some psychologist. Did you go to undergrad for that?”
He swallowed hard and tried to ignore me. “And, Jonathan, we think that you may be having a crisis of faith, as a result.”
“A what?” I let out an audible gasp. Had he been talking to Jesus Jackson? No, it couldn’t be…
“A crisis of faith,” Mr. Finger repeated. “It’s when, during a difficult or traumatic period in your life, you begin to doubt your faith in God…usually when you need it the most.”
Now this was too much. It was one thing to take this crap from Jesus Jackson (who I was, after all, paying for it); I wasn’t about to listen to it from this loser. I looked to my father (who should have known better) for support, but he was studying his palms, refusing to make eye contact. “Mr. Finger, I haven’t believed in your god, or any other fairy tales, since I was nine years old. So whatever kind of crisis I’m having, it’s not one of faith.”
He looked questioningly at my mother, as if she had assured him the exact opposite were true. Which, in all likelihood, she had. She probably told him that I was saying grace before every goddamned bowl of Cheerios the week before Ryan died. But my dad? First the Buddhism, and now this?
“Well, whenever it began,” said Mr. Finger, shuffling through some papers on his desk, “we’re going to help it come to an end. We’ve arranged for you to have daily prayer meetings with the school chaplain, starting tomorrow, and—”
I stared at my father. “Are you really just going to sit there?” I asked him. “Are you really?”
He blinked his eyes up at me, sheepishly. “Look, son…I mean, what can it possibly hurt? Believing in something? What do you have to lose?”
So that’s how this was going to go. My mother deceiving the school counselor into thinking I was a good Christian; my father, the proud heretic, supporting daily prayer meetings.
I put my head in my hands, trying to work it all out. “So,” I said finally, “is there, like, any way you can physically force me to attend these meetings? I mean, will I be expelled or arrested or held in chains if I refuse to go?”
“Of course not,” said Mr. Finger. “These meetings are supposed to help you, Jonathan.”
“And what about coming here? Can I be expelled or whatever for not going to see my counselor?”
Mr. Finger looked a little hurt. “Well, no.”
“Good.” I stood up, throwing my backpack over my shoulder. “Then it was nice to know you, Mr. Finger, but our relationship is officially over. And you people?” I turned to my parents, both looking defeated, pathetic. “I just don’t even know what to say to you people.” Then, to my father: “Especially you. I expected more from you.”
Then I turned, walked through the door, and went back to class.
Twenty-six
I was quickly coming to the conclusion that this whole school thing just wasn’t for me. Sure, I had tolerated it, more or less, in elementary school; I had gritted my teeth and put up with it through middle school. But this high school thing (and especially this high school)—this was just not happening for me. I had pretty much succumbed to doing nothing more than sitting with my head in my hands through all of my classes, and I probably would have skipped out after lunch, had I not happened to step into the cafeteria line right behind Ms. Cassie St. Claire.
She was talking to some girl in front of her, so she didn’t notice me right away, which was fine with me, as I was more than a bit nervous after what happened at her house. For a moment, I considered sneaking away. But before I could try it, Cassie turned her head, and caught sight of me out of the corner of her eye.
She snapped her head around, meeting my eyes. “Jonathan. Hi!”
The girl in front of her peeked to see who Cassie was talking to. Then, realizing it was me (a.k.a. the Dead Kid’s Brother), she quickly began inspecting the boneless rib sandwiches.
“H…h…hey,” I stuttered.
She looked down, fidgeting with the hem of her plaid skirt. “Hey, Jon,” she said, then paused: a very awkward, seemingly endless pause. “Look, I’m really sorry about the other night. I really don’t know what got into me. We were just in my room and I was feeling really comfortable and then I just remember thinking that you looked really cute as you were saying something, and now I can’t even remember what you were saying, but anyway I must have liked it because I kissed you even though I know I shouldn’t have and that it was totally inappropriate so I’m sorry. Okay?”
The girl behind Cassie turned slightly away from the rib sandwiches, clearly eavesdropping.
“Umm. Wow.” I had expected Cassie to be at least a little angry about my abrupt departure, so this caught me off guard. For a few seconds, I was speechless.
“Say something.”
“Well, actually I was going to apologize to you, so now I’m sort of at a loss for words.”
“Why were you going to apologize to me?”
“For taking off like I did.”
“Oh, no,” she said emphatically, touching her hand to my arm. “Don’t apologize. You have so much going on, and then I do that…it was probably just overwhelming. You have nothing to be sorry about.”
Well, I guess Tristan was right after all, I thought. And now that Cassie had taken care of about ninety percent of what I wanted to say to her, there was just one thing left. “So, would you have any interest in trying it again…except this time without the homework? I mean, I still have to do all that homework eventually, so it would be nice if you could help, but I mean, some other time…we could just, maybe—”
“Sure.” She leaned in close. “That would be great.”
“Um, is tonight okay?”
“Oh no,” she said. “Tonight won’t work. I’ve got Meghan Beauregard’s sweet sixteen tonight. Tomorrow, though.”
Dammit, I thought. Tristan was getting Alistair out of the house tonight. I had no idea if she could make it work for the next day. “Oh…”
“But, wait…why don’t you come?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I could feel my face getting
redder by the second. I was going down in flames. “I mean, I wasn’t even invited.”
“That doesn’t matter. Meghan thinks you’re awesome. She told me so. And besides, you’d be my date.”
“Um…”
“Do you own a suit?”
“A suit?” This was getting out of hand.
“Or at least a sports jacket?” She was clearly growing more excited by the second. “It’s a formal, but most of the guys will just be semi-formal, so you can be either.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.
She frowned.
“I mean, yes,” I said. “I do. Lots of them. It…um…it sounds great.”
By this point we’d reached the cashier, and I realized that I hadn’t actually taken any food. So I grabbed one of the infamous “Rib-B-Q” sandwiches just so as to not draw attention to myself. Cassie paid for her salad, I paid for my sandwich, and then she spun around, grabbing my elbow and widening her eyes as soon as we were both past the lunch lady. “Oh, I forgot,” she said. “Meghan has a limo for all her close friends. It’s supposed to be huge, so I’m sure she won’t mind one more. We’ll pick you up around seven, okay?”
“Super.”
“Great,” she said. “Try to wear some blue. That way, you’ll match my dress.” And then she strode off to her table full of gaggling girls, who all, within a second of her sitting, turned in unison to look at me with painfully assuming smiles and miserable giggles floating about their eyes.
I threw my rib sandwich on the table directly across from Henry. He looked up at me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “And just to show you how sorry I am, I’m going to eat that rib sandwich.”
Henry cracked a tiny smile, then quickly suppressed it. “Whatever.”
I sat down and began talking anyway. “I’ve got a problem.”
But Henry just pretended not to hear me.
“I said I’ve got a problem.”
Finally, he relented, but only slightly: a glance at my face, a curt nod.
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