Playing Tyler

by T L Costa

  PLAYING TYLER

  T L Costa

  To my Grandmother, who gave up everything to raise me as her own. I miss her every day. And to my mom and dad, for making the years we had together filled with joy and dreaming.

  CHAPTER 1

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

  TYLER

  My fingers drum into the desktop, beating out the rhythm of my hammering thoughts. Have to go. Have to move. Have to leave.

  “The area of one square face of a cube is equal to sixty-four centimeters squared. What’s the volume of the cube?”

  Mr Beard is a moron. Hate Geometry. Don’t care. Need to go. I’m missing stick time.

  The girl in front of me coughs. Her back shakes beneath her sweater. Her tight sweater. What’s her name again? Sheryl? Amber?

  “Tyler, dammit, can you stop that please!” she hisses, turning from the seat in front of me.

  “What?”

  “That drumming. Just because you forgot to take your Ritalin today or whatever doesn’t mean you can bang on your desk all the time.” She stares at me. Face all tight. Smug. She adds, “I mean, if Ritalin doesn’t work, you can always try Adderall or whatever it is they give you freaks.”

  My cheeks burn. She giggles. I hate it when girls giggle. Wonder if she giggles at everyone or just at me. Ashleigh. I think her name is Ashleigh.

  “Does anyone know how to solve the volume of the cube?”

  This sucks. Last period’s an hour and a half. Sucks. Should have cut. Could have been at home gaming. I drum harder, foot going. My friend Alpha’s in the back row sleeping. Don’t know why he gets on me for cutting when all he does at school is sleep. Need gum. Do I have any gum? I could swear I put a pack in my pocket this morning.

  “Sam, do you know what the answer is, or how we can find it?”

  Sam’s shoulders straighten, gets all stiff. Like he’s scared. He should be scared. Sam has been barely passing Math since first grade. Some kids just can’t do it. Not his fault. It can be hard.

  “Sam?” Mr Beard asks again.

  Sam’s face pinches up. If he pinches it any harder all those zits are going to go bursting off. “Leave him alone, he doesn’t know,” I say. I hate it when teachers pick on kids. Kids who they know never have the answer. Sam never has the answers. Not here, not in Math, not ever.

  “And you do, Mr MacCandless?” He turns his grubby eyes on me, now, all sneery.

  “Can I go to the bathroom?” Have to get out of here. Have to go. My leg bangs into the desk and I lean forward, ready to go.

  “Sure, after you answer the question.” He sidles around to the front of his podium, lips pulling back into a wicked grin. “Or is it that you can’t answer because you haven’t been to class in, what is it now, seven days? You have to go to at least part of your senior year to get into college, you know.”

  I look at the whiteboard marker he holds out towards me, like a challenge, like he’s daring me to take it. Jackass. I look at Sam, who is looking down at his desk. Shit. Why did I open my mouth? “I’m here now, right?” But it doesn’t matter, I can’t go to college. Rick will give me a shot, though. A chance at a future.

  “Three absences in twenty days of class is hardly a great start.” Mr Beard walks through the rows of desks, holding the marker like a knife. “Now, can you please solve the problem for us?”

  Right. Screw this. “Five hundred and twelve centimeters.” I get out of the desk and walk up the row to the front wall.

  Beard looks like I slapped him.

  “Cubed,” I add. Yeah. I’ve got ADHD, but I’m not stupid. Not at Math, anyway.

  “Can you show us your work?” His eyes sharp, like a bird.

  “No.” The pass is a broken triangle-shaped ruler that Beard scribbled LAV PASS over like fifty times with a black Sharpie.

  The hall’s empty, so I hold out my hand and scrape the pass over the top of the lockers, feeling each space, each divot reverberating through my arm as I make my way down the hall. The sound of plastic skimming over metal echoes through the empty passage. Sounds good. Sounds like I’m not in class.

  I don’t stop at the lav though, why would I? School sucks, it’s too quiet, too hard to focus with all that quiet. Makes me jumpy. I keep walking, right through the front doors of the school.

  Ride. Pushing my feet into the pedals, burning, my lungs swallow the crisp air, feels good, like inhaling Lysol or something. Pedal faster, almost there. Cars come close. Music blaring, something good, something heavy and hard, I cut off a car and turn into the parking lot of the center.

  The building, an old Victorian mansion with “grounds” or whatever they call a sweet yard that the junkies get to look at but not really use.

  I throw the mountain bike off to the side of the porch on top of some flowers. Crap. I should pick that up, the flowers might die. No, they should put in a bike rack. I take the first stair. I look down at my shoes. I go back down, pick up the bike, lift it up the stairs and prop it to the right of the front door. Flowers are nice. I ring the bell. They should put in a bike rack, though. Not everybody can drive.

  I wave to the camera. The door clicks and I pull it open. The place smells old, like a closet without the mothballs, but with a lot of artificial cleaners dumped on top of it to hide the fact that it’s old. Knesha’s at the desk. She’s wearing one of those nurse shirts. A pink, unflattering, stiff thing with little blue birds all over it. Makes her look even bigger. Why do they make her wear shirts like that? She’s not a nurse. Can’t make nice women wear ugly shirts like that. It’s not right. I give her a smile and let her lead me back through the ugly green halls.

  Brandon’s waiting in one of those over-sized wicker chairs, painted bright white. So bright it makes the green AstroTurf floor of the sunroom look dingy. His cheeks are fuller, eyes a little sharper. Heroin does that, they say, makes you get all skinny and gross with hollow eyes… but he looks good, well, better. More like Brandon.

  His grin is the same. “Ty, man, you look like shit.”

  That’s the thing about Brandon. His voice is like music. Like crazy music, like anything he says is true. He used to have this internet radio show and that voice got him listeners from all over the world. He had a popular blog, too. Everybody said he was the left’s rising new star, but now, well, that’s not what they’re saying. He can’t broadcast from in here. Can barely get any time to email. “You’re a dick, you know that?” I say. I pull over a metal chair and sit. Hate metal chairs.

  He laughs. “That’s why I’m here, right?” Brandon’s voice is a little tight, a little strained. “How’s school?”

  “Sucks.” My eyes go to his arm. It’s habit, now, I guess.

  Of course he’s OK, he’d tell me if he wasn’t. He doesn’t lie, not to me. Not anymore. He’s wearing jeans. That’s good. They’d keep him in those robes if he wasn’t doing good. Must be improving, be close to getting out. He asks, “Have you applied to the Academy yet?”

  “I’m not going to the Academy.”

  “What?” Brandon leans forward, gray-green eyes drilling me. “I thought you sent in the form to get nominated like months ago.”

  I lied, Brandon. “Like the Air Force would take me, B.”

  “What do you mean? Of course they’ll take you. Dad went to the Academy, you lettered in Wrestling. You just haven’t heard back yet.”

  “Stopped Wrestling.” Can’t go. I can’t leave you. “And I’m failing Math.”

  I messed up once, didn’t see him slide. Too focused on school, on getting into the Academy, on myself. I dropped the ball and he disappeared. Poof.

  “What?” He looks pissed. He sits up. “How the hell are you failing Math?”

  “I don’t go.” Last period, three days a week, makes me miss too
much stick time. “It’s boring.”

  “Well, of course it’s boring, but you still have to go. What about the Air Brigade thing?”

  “The Civil Air Patrol?” He always messes up the name. “Yeah, I go sometimes. I see Rick a lot, though. He takes me up, gives me lessons.” Flying is all I want to do anymore.

  “Rick?” he says. I look up. He can’t forget who Rick is. “Oh, right, the mentor guy.”

  My mentor. My drug-free, Civil Air Patrol male role model. Role model’s a loose term, really. Last time Rick and I got together we went to one of those grown-up arcade places and played air hockey and skeeball for like six hours. “He’s more like a friend now, really.”

  “What’s he say about your chances for the Academy? He can write that congressman for you, explain things, maybe.”

  “I don’t think that there’s much he can do, B. Between the Math and History, I’m hit.” And you. I can’t leave you.

  “Didn’t you say once that Rick consults for Sikorsky or something? Maybe he can get you a job there while you get your shit together. Just don’t give up, Ty.”

  “I won’t.” Lie, lie, lie. Sikorsky, a local helicopter manufacturer, would never hire a kid who didn’t graduate. Even with Rick’s recommendation.

  “How’s Jessie?”

  Jessie, Brandon’s ex-girlfriend, isn’t doing so great. Every time I see her I remember the way she was, the cheerleader, the cute smile and great tits, the way she would glow at Brandon while we watched him broadcast his vlog. He was going to be famous. Huge following and all that.

  Now she works at Dunkin’ Donuts. She got knocked up by Jimmy Rothstein, had the baby and is stuck. Last time I saw her she had gained like twenty pounds and even those great tits of hers looked tired. “She’s OK.”

  He takes a sip of water, eyes off somewhere else. “I’m supposed to call her and apologize.” He smiles weakly. Like it hurts him. “Part of my therapy.”

  That’s so not a good idea.

  I say, “You know, Rick gave me this game. It sucks, kinda, really boring. But if my score is high enough on the game, then he’ll let me test this new gaming platform that his company is trying to develop for the military as some sort of pilot training system.”

  “What does that get you, though?”

  “Well, if I help him find the bugs in the upgraded system, then he says he’ll get me into a flight school he has connections with.”

  “Part of the Air Force?”

  “No, some private company. It’s OK. As long as I can fly.”

  “What about school?”

  “What about it?” College obviously worked out really well for you, B.

  “You should go.” His eyes get dark. Sandy hair hangs like strands of twine around his eyes, making everything about him seem old, used up. “Don’t stay here just because of me.”

  He’s tired. I can tell. His eyelids look like sandbags, but there’s a spark there. In his voice. Is this really the same guy who used to kayak circles around me when we’d vacation in Vermont? Who used to read all my books for English out loud to me so my grade in English wouldn’t suck ass? Reading’s hard. It’s like the letters are all over the place. The teacher would get pissed and tell me all the letters were in neat little lines. They weren’t. Not for me. Brandon understood. Brandon tried to help. Worked with me on every essay or report I ever had to write. And I let him down. The one time he actually needed me, I had no idea anything was wrong. I missed it.

  I look up at the clock. Why don’t they have digital clocks?

  “It’s OK, B, I gotta go.” I don’t want to leave. Don’t want him out of my sight. “Later.” I choke out before my damn eyes burn up again.

  “Yeah, man, tell Mom I said hi.”

  She won’t come. Mom can’t ever come. Can’t face the fact that her boy is here.

  I just hope that she’ll be around when he gets out.

  CHAPTER 2

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

  ANI

  Have I been having fun at college so far? Not so much. The only thing worse than being the only sixteen year-old freshman at Yale is being a sixteen year-old freshman girl at Yale. Every time I walk into class I feel like I have a big red 16 stamped across my forehead. I wish I looked at least a little bit older, so not everyone would look at me and assume I’m some kind of girl genius. It makes meeting people next-to-impossible: no one likes to think that they might not be the smartest person in the room. Little do they know how much I’m going to suck at Philosophy. If only I could paint that across my forehead, too, then maybe someone would actually say something. Instead, they give me awkward, halting smiles and look away.

  Just like in high school.

  Yale’s campus sits inside the city of New Haven, Yale’s beautiful old architecture secreted away in a city ravaged by urban decay. Stray too far off campus and the streets become a jumble of abandoned storefronts and forgotten towers. It would make a cool backdrop for a level of Behemoths of War but not such a great place for, say, an unarmed girl to take a stroll. I hold out my phone, double-checking the address of the building in front of me. The restaurant’s sleek lines and soaring windows exude everything modern and chic on a street that walks the line between the acceptable and the derelict.

  I swallow and tuck my phone back into my backpack, rubbing my palms down the sides of my jeans. I’m not dressed for this; when I got the text from my boss I came straight over after class. What a fantastic impression I’m going to make.

  I’ve only met him in person a few times. Once was during my job interview, and the other time was when he came to my house to make the offer. I heard from the other members on my team at my summer internship at Althea back in LA that he had come around to ask about me, but I wasn’t there at the time.

  I haven’t even heard from my boss at all since the day I sent him the program. He sent me a quick message saying that the prototypes are ready for testing and to wish me luck at school. No word from him for over a month.

  Which isn’t so bad, actually, since it looks like classes here are going to be insane. I have to read two novels a week for freshman Lit? Who can read that fast? Not to mention take four other classes and hold down a job. Why am I even trying to make friends? I’m not going to have any time to leave my dorm room for the next four years.

  Pushing the door open, I see him at one of the tables over by the window. He smiles and raises his hand in a gesture that I suppose is meant to be friendly but looks a bit stiff. “Miss Bagdorian, it’s lovely to see you.”

  “Hi, Mr Anderson.” I nod and swing the backpack off my shoulders. Should I try and stuff it under the chair or leave it in the aisle? It’s not like there’s that many people eating dinner this early, but there are a few tables full of business-types swilling glasses of whiskey in front of piles of papers and plates of fried calamari. I stuff the bag under my chair and sit. He watches me like an analyst, scanning my face so that he picks up every twitch of every muscle. I squeeze the sides of the water glass. “So, am I in trouble? Did the software not work?” I ask. I’ve never written that complicated a program before, took me about a month. It was really similar to what I did on my internship, and that helped, but it’s the first time I ever got paid to do something so massive by myself. I hate it, having all the pressure of the success or the failure coming down on my head. But it’s only fair, I guess.

  Having a job that covers most of my tuition for Yale is definitely better than what could have happened if I chose not to work for Haranco. I shiver.

  He tilts his head to the side and I look away, focusing on the smell of the calamari. I’m so hungry I could probably gnaw on the tablecloth. I read the class schedule wrong and missed lunch.

  “No, no the program is working perfectly,” he says, giving me that smile again. I don’t like his smile, I can’t get a good read on its intent. “Wait until you see the final product, I think you’ll be impressed.”

  The hardware we got to use over the summer was fierce,
so I can only imagine. I wish we were at the office looking at the final product now instead of hanging out in a place like this. “So why are we here?”

  The waitress comes over and he orders a plate of calamari and some sort of appetizer pizza to share.

  “How are classes?” he asks, his voice soft.

  “Fine.”

  “Making any friends? I remember my first year of college was quite the learning experience. Whole dorm full of people I didn’t know.”

  My throat tightens. I don’t need this, I don’t need someone trying to pretend that they care. Especially not my boss. “Look, if there’s some kind of problem with something I’ve written or you need me to test something out, just tell me and I’ll do it.”

  He sits back in his chair. “The system is fine. We’re here to celebrate, to talk about how school is going. I want you to know that you can come to me with any sort of problem you may have.”

  Lots of old guys saying that line would make it sound creepy. But not him. He has this aura about him like he came out of his mother in a uniform of one sort or another. When he came to talk to Mom about hiring me, he mentioned the word “honor” no less than fifty-six times. It would be an honor to have her on staff. I would be honored to check up on her progress at Yale. My stomach clenches. Mom just ate it up. Lapped up every word like he was some kind of fatherly-inclined superhero. But I have a father, something that I wish that she would remember.

  “I’m not sure the start of the semester is really a cause for celebration,” I say.

  “Maybe not.” He leans back in his chair as the waitress sets down steaming trays of incredible-smelling food in front of us. “Miss Bagdorian, I’ve been stationed overseas for ten of the past twelve years. If being away from home has taught me anything, it’s to celebrate each new starting point, no matter how insignificant it may seem at the time.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because endings can break a man.” His eyes drift off, shaded for a moment. He raises his glass. “So at Haranco, we choose to focus on beginnings.”