When I finally recovered from my most recent setback, I was already ten minutes tardy for my own study hall. I’m certain Principal Lemus had stationed his regular pack of watchdogs around the building like a pound of bootlicking sycophants, but it was a detail no longer pertinent to me. I had enough to contend with today without worrying about appeasing an administrator who talked slickly, but stumbled more frequently in the rhythm to his own words than a newborn on ice skates. At the moment, a more menacing bane captured my attention as I walked gingerly toward the auditorium’s stage.
It amazed me that Drew Mincer’s vitriolic personality still hadn’t cost him the respect of his followers. Oddly, they seemed as eager as parched hounds to lick at the bully’s heels whenever possible. Drew presently situated himself with a few of these perennial lapdogs at the auditorium’s far side, but any viewable distance from me to him proved too close for my liking. The rowdy boys amused themselves by projecting exaggerated laughter toward the stage in a bid to unnerve me. At this point, I realized that any reprimand I countered with would’ve only served as an accelerant to Drew’s inflammable disposition. For now, I decided to let him burn off whatever unresolved resentment he harbored toward me.
An unfortunate but not unexpected consequence of my silence, however, was Drew’s knack to keep his rage smoldering long after any incendiary argument became doused. Despite his taunting, I kept my oath to stay dispassionate, although the glare I cast in his direction might’ve frozen his heart, if he ever had one. My concentration toward Drew provided the precise nourishment that boys like him required in order to thrive socially in high school. Of course, excelling academically had nothing to do with Drew’s future plans. He seemed resolved to contribute only grief to this community. At times, I wanted to throw up my hands in frustration. Why didn’t students like him appreciate school for its intended reasons? Had I simply forgotten what it was like to be an eighteen-year-old student stockpiled with idealistic dreams?
The optimistic but grossly unfeasible notion that teachers had an innate power or talent to influence every student who passed through his classroom was never far removed from my thoughts during this study hall. Ironically, teaching in a high school was perhaps the loneliest of all professions. On the surface, suggesting that teachers worked in isolation sounded foolhardy to any sensible outsider. After all, we routinely interacted with at least a hundred students and colleagues everyday. But our reality was quite different from what it appeared. Teachers often spoke to impassive groups, who offered little or nothing in response to what we conveyed. As a literature instructor, I asked questions, and then waited despondently to answer them myself. Most kids didn’t have the patience or desire to read a book nowadays, not with technology cajoling them into a realm of mindless preoccupations.
Whenever I became dispirited by the ever-present apathy of today’s teenagers, I focused my attention on one particular boy in my study hall. Occasionally, but not often enough, glimpses of sanguinity replenished my belief in the younger generation. It seemed that the best students invariably managed to utilize their time efficiently whether the environment was optimal or not.
One such example was a boy named Dale McCoy. He might’ve been the sole student at Ravendale High School who arrived each morning with one unflappable ambition in mind: learn as much as conceivable from his teachers without complaint or bitterness. His objective sounded so fantastically simplistic that I often wondered why it became such a taxing ordeal for the majority of his classmates to mimic, including the college-bound hopefuls. I, of course, understood the premise of social interaction, but certainly never viewed bullshitting as a substitute for a thorough education. Dale seemed to understand this premise better than anyone I had ever met under the age of twenty.
Based on my interactions with Dale’s subject teachers, I discovered that he didn’t typically attain the highest scores on standardized tests and so forth. This surprised me initially, but he counterbalanced any learning deficiencies he might’ve encountered with a tenacious approach to his studies; excuses were not part of Dale’s agenda when it came to schoolwork. His printer never ran out of ink, and had he ever owned a dog that consumed homework assignments, no one ever heard tell of it. A determination to consistently perform at his highest ability, in spite of distractions, separated him from the others. No work was above or beneath his most earnest effort.
Dale’s humility served as his strongest attribute, and this again divided him from the spoiled snots that had inherited a sense of entitlement from their overzealous parents. He sought knowledge for the sole sake of cultivating his intrinsic thoughts, while others within his class did so because they presumed they’d be rewarded with praise and monetary compensation. But as it was with most kids in Dale’s league, his circle of friends was limited to three or four likeminded students.
In my study hall Dale always sat alone, purposely situating himself in a section of the auditorium where the least amount of students congregated. I looked to Dale this morning and likened him to a castaway on a deserted island. His face was always dipped in one book or another. But unlike others who endured scrutiny and ridicule under similar circumstances, Dale curiously avoided the students’ cynicism. They might’ve shunned him with their own form of scheming, but he was rarely acknowledged by anyone in a confrontational manner. Startlingly, even Drew refrained from adding the boy to his volume of bullied prospects. I still didn’t ascertain a reason behind this overt omission on Drew’s part, and I wished I’d never have to retract this statement.
Maybe Dale’s immunity to social criticism had more to do with his own aloof demeanor than a blatant oversight. In some ways, he reminded me of myself when I was a teenager. I routinely escaped my peers’ cruelties by keeping my nose wedged between the pages of my journals, dreamily penning what I imagined as the next best seller. Perhaps some who didn’t know me speculated about what I wrote so pensively, but most probably didn’t care. At any rate, I managed to drift through four years of high school almost invisibly. In hindsight, I don’t know if my anonymity helped me as I matured. In my youth I had acquired an assortment of friends, but I permitted those bonds to deteriorate because of a nature to turn inwardly with my ideas. Not surprisingly, most of the relationships I forged when I was a young man had dissolved. I was now forced to examine the potential of continuing this trend as I aged.
It might’ve been a purely sentimental gesture on my part that compelled me to ponder Dale’s situation with more urgency on this morning. I suddenly felt inspired to assist him in a way that he may have never confessed aloud. If any interaction was going to occur between us, however, Dale first needed to put down his book for a few minutes. On this occasion I noticed him perusing a copy of James Joyce’s novel Ulysses, which was a rather ambitious excursion into literature for even an elite high school student.
“Dale,” I called out to him. I didn’t have to project my voice too loudly since he sat closer to me than any of the other kids. “Can you come up here for a moment, please?”
Dale didn’t drop the tome from in front of his gold-rimmed bifocals at first; I presumed he was too engrossed in Joyce’s allusion-riddled prose to give my voice any credence. Since I had never summoned his attention for other than attendance purposes before today, his vacillating seemed ordinary. Following my second request, Dale gradually lowered the book just far enough from his face to peek over the top of its spine. Naturally, he looked perplexed as he approached my table near the auditorium’s stage. I didn’t yet know quite how to propose what I wanted to say to him, so I eased into a bit of small talk.
“Who do you have for British literature this year?” I inquired. Maybe I already knew the answer to this question, but I conveniently forgot it for the moment.
“Mrs. Burton,” Dale replied, barely aiming his pecan-shaped eyes toward me. Despite his sheepishness, I sensed something genuine masked behind those thick eyeglasses. One thing was certain: he had no qualms about his unkempt appearance. Dale was a lanky boy, who
wore baggy clothes to conceal his emaciated frame, and no one would’ve ever accused him of combing his mop of glossy, black hair more than once a day.
“She has you reading Joyce now?” I said, gesturing to the novel pressed up against his body like a sentinel’s shield.
“Nah,” he corrected me. “I’m reading this book on my own.”
Unsurprisingly, my opinion of the boy’s grit solidified. “That’s a pretty challenging novel to absorb by yourself,” I commended him. “How do you like it so far?” Unlike most teens, Dale processed every question presented to him by an adult ponderously.
“Actually,” he remarked, “to be honest, I can’t figure out much of it yet.”
The key word, of course, that verified my earlier assessment of Dale’s potential was the word ‘yet.’ “You’re not alone,” I said. “I’m still struggling with some of the passages in that book. I guess that’s why we keep reading it though, huh?”
“I liken it to a complex trigonometry equation,” Dale affirmed. “If I study it long enough, maybe it’ll eventually make sense.” Why couldn’t more students share this boy’s refreshing outlook when encountering new concepts? Didn’t they yet know that the things that came to them easiest in life were often the first forgotten?
Dale still stood awkwardly in front of the table where I sat behind. I stalled in search of a tactful manner to shift our conversation beyond the framework of Joyce’s opus. “Listen,” I offered, somewhat listlessly. “With all the reading you’re doing, it doesn’t leave much time for going out with your girlfriend, does it?”
The boy then looked at me as if I had just asked him to borrow a large sum of money. I had understandably surprised him with my rhetorical question. He simply furrowed his brow quizzically and remarked, “Mr. Cobbs, I’ve never had a girlfriend.” I, of course, surmised as much, but my feigned ignorance helped me bridge a footpath to my next trail of discourse.
“I didn’t mean to be presumptuous, Dale. I was just thinking about the importance of keeping everything balanced in your life. You know, with the prom coming up in a couple of months, I figured you might have someone in mind who you’d like to take.”
Dale’s face suddenly appeared a bit flustered before he said, “The prom? What makes you think I want to go to the prom?”
“It’s your senior year. Maybe you should think about treating yourself to a fun time now and then. After all, once you graduate, you’ll probably never get another chance to go to a prom.” I expected Dale to become uncomfortable with my suggestion. He fidgeted his weight from one foot to the other while trying to construct a polite excuse to shorten our dialogue.
“Ummm, did I do something wrong?” he asked tentatively. He then deflected my inquiry with the book he had closed around his thumb. “I’m kind of right in the middle of Episode 4, Calypso,” he continued.
“Look,” I resumed, “I don’t mean to hold up your reading, Dale. I was just curious as to who’s attending the big shindig this year.”
Dale’s face deepened with puzzlement before he said, “I’m not trying to offend you, Mr. Cobbs, but why are you so concerned about the senior prom all of a sudden? Are you a chaperon?”
“No. I guess I was just trying to be helpful. Believe me, I understand the pressures of high school. It’s not always easy to put yourself out there. But when I was your age, I wish I had someone to remind me that it’s okay to have some laughs once in awhile.”
Dale and I didn’t currently share a rapport that would’ve allowed us to converse so openly on this matter. He seemed more inclined to resume reading about Leopold Bloom than entertain my ill-conceived notions on the benefits of socializing with his friends.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Mr. Cobbs?” he then asked. I assumed that he recognized my haggard condition by now. “I can go get the nurse if you want me to.”
“I don’t need the nurse,” I assured him. “There’s nothing she can do for me to make me feel any better or worse.”
“Then can I go sit back down now?”
“Give me a few seconds. I don’t ask much from anyone, Dale,” I proceeded, “but I want you to listen to what I have to say first. Then, if you wish, you can pretend you never heard any of this from my lips.”
I figured Dale had the tolerance to at least fake his interest in the ramblings of a middle-aged English teacher who was suddenly envenomed by an altruistic bug. He stood as motionless as possible as I presented my proposal in complete humility.
“This might sound a little out of place for me to mention,” I whispered in an attempt to ensure that eavesdropping scamps didn’t intercept my words. “If you change your mind and decide that you want to go to the prom, I think I know a girl who you might like.”
Dale smirked as if he was privileged to an inside joke. He then swung around in his stance to inspect his surroundings. No one else in the auditorium paid us any mind. “I get it now,” he tittered. “This is some kind of a prank, right, Mr. Cobbs? You probably have someone filming us right now. Did Pete Ladders put you up to this?”
“I’m not kidding,” I insisted. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Then you’re being serious? You want to set me up on a date?”
“It’s nothing like that, Dale,” I countered. “I’m only trying to see that the good kids in this school have something to take their minds off studying on occasion. If you didn’t have anyone to go to the prom with, I might be able to point you in the right direction. That’s all.”
Dale was intelligent enough to surmise that few suggestions of this nature were absent of complications or loopholes, but I presented this one earnestly and without any self-motivation. However, any student, especially those who were most likely to resist it, couldn’t accept this type of infringement so casually.
“I haven’t thought much about the prom,” he admitted. “Actually, I don’t really think it’s for me.”
“I’m not surprised you feel that way. In fact, when I was your age, I remember thinking exactly the same way about the prom. I thought the really cool kids never went to proms or got involved in social events.”
“So you didn’t go to your prom?”
“Oh, no. I went. My girlfriend kept bugging me, and I eventually broke down and went broke at the same time.”
“And was it worth it?”
“Honestly, the hype was bigger than the show, as it usually is. But the whole point is to experience moments in life for yourself so that you don’t have as many regrets later on down the line. Unlike the stage, Dale, there’s no dress rehearsal in life.”
Despite my bold efforts to persuade Dale to embrace my philosophy, I still sensed reservation in his eyes. If anything was working in my favor, at least Dale still remained situated in front of the table. I risked nothing by continuing our discussion in a discreet manner.
“You kids probably get sick of hearing your parents and teachers lecture about how the years fly by so rapidly. It’s an old cliché by now, but sometimes advice that is commonly good needs to be heard repeatedly.”
“It’s not that,” Dale responded, still nervously inspecting the immediate area around the table and stage. He then leaned closer to the table and uttered, “Just between you and me, Mr. Cobbs, I haven’t dated anyone before.”
This was not a revelation for me to consider, but I couldn’t sound so definite in my response. I spoke my next question gently. “If that’s true, don’t you think the prom is a prime opportunity to change your circumstances?” Dale drummed his fingers on the book’s hardcover. A sliver of reluctance peeled from his features as he deliberated my proposition. After a few seconds of analysis, he elected to investigate the matter a bit further.
“So you were saying that you know a girl who might need a date for the prom?”
“I can’t almost bet on it.”
“I’m no expert, Mr. Cobbs, but that’s usually not a good sign.”
“In this case it’s an exception. From the way I remember things,
Dale, some of the prettiest girls in school have trouble getting guys to ask them out. Beauty intimidates most men. Boys assume that the best looking girls are all taken.”
“Well, I can’t argue with you there.”
“The reality is that you can never be certain unless you ask.”
“Another cliché?”
“As I said, the good ones are worth repeating.”
Dale smirked, flashing a polished grin that stood out against his swarthy skin. “So who’s the girl you had in mind?” His voice now dipped even lower than his previous effort. I noticed tiny flecks of sweat glistening on his forehead.
“She’s a little bit shy,” I said, hoping that he’d recognize his own nature through her demeanor. “Most of the kids don’t talk to her too much, or maybe it’s the other way around.”
Dale’s features became tauter when he uttered, “What’s her name?”
“Lenore Rivers.”
Dale’s fingers stopped tapping as he recited this name, first to himself, and then aloud. He reflexively glanced at his hands before revealing, “I don’t know her very well.”
“That comes later. What do you think of her?”
“I’m not sure,” he debated. “She’s not even in any of my classes this year. Did you ever hear her say something about me?”
“No, Dale. She’s never mentioned you to me.”
A few additional seconds elapsed before Dale’s face twitched as if a horsefly landed on the tip of his nose. He repeated the name once more in monotone as I monitored the rest of the room briefly. “I haven’t heard anything lately, but I think I remember a strange rumor about her at one time or another.”
I anticipated what Dale wanted to convey, but he looked as though he was violating some unwritten code between his classmates. “I don’t know, Mr. Cobbs. Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”
“Why? Is it because of a rumor?”
“Well…kind of. It’s really creepy that she burns herself with cigarettes, don’t you think?”
I didn’t intend to lie to Dale by indicating that the validity of this rumor was questionable. In truth, I selected him because I felt he might’ve been the one boy mature enough to handle this peculiarity and perhaps even dissuade Lenore from duplicating such an action.
“Lenore’s a very nice girl, Dale. I have her in my creative writing class. I feel like she wants to make some close friends, but like most students who get lost and battered in this crazy, merciless world, she lacks confidence in herself.”
“And you think I can provide that for her?”
“Who knows? Maybe you can help each other.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Cobbs,” he said sullenly. “I have enough issues of my own to deal with.”
“And who doesn’t? Some people are just better at hiding their flaws. You needn’t be afraid of the scars on Lenore’s arms. It’s the wounds you can’t see that should always make you most afraid.”
“I never heard that one before, Mr. Cobbs.”
“Hey, once in awhile I come up with an original.”
Dale offered me an anxious grin that showed no definitiveness in his intentions at this time, and I didn’t really expect him to make up his mind right now. Perhaps it was better for him to stew a bit with this information, allowing it to thicken like a broth under the scrutiny of his observations. Because he had nothing else to say at the moment, I decided to let him return to his reading without further comment.
My attention shifted to the other students before Dale returned to his seat. Near the back of the auditorium I then noticed Mona Dukes scrunched down in a seat, sobbing inconsolably. Apparently, her feelings for Orlando weren’t as inconsequential as I might’ve hoped. Standing beside her, chewing her strawberry-flavored bubblegum as if it was the food of the demigods, Emily Lee offered sympathy to her friend. In such moments, a classmate’s reassurance outranked any condolences forwarded by me. Besides, I had already intervened in the students’ social affairs more than I ever attempted before today. My arbitrary skills obviously had no further place here.
As I sat behind the table, feeling paralyzed in my present surroundings, it seemed as if my brain had swollen to a capacity where I could no longer see clearly. A haze of blue and yellow light flickered like a poltergeist across my eyelids. Yet I did nothing outlandish to draw attention to myself. Any frantic movement on my part would’ve surely prompted an examination from every student in company. Since I had given up hope trying to resist my episodic lapses, I simply leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. I only distinguished a few muffled sounds while waiting for the blackness of unconsciousness to propel me toward the next phase in my cerebral journey.
Chapter 35
11:08 A.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 34
