The boy shrugged and avoided Sam’s glare, the one that Sophie couldn’t see, but heard in his voice. “Whatever, dude,” the kid said with an indifferent roll of the eyes.
Sam stood silently, a ball of tension, before his shoulders drooped as he leaned against the wall, shaking his head in bitter disappointment. The boy waited uncomfortably, hands in his pockets. “Why do I even bother?” Sam muttered. “You know what? I feel sorry for you. I really do. Take this and get out of my face!” He thrust a dean’s referral at the student.
The boy accepted the piece of paper with a smirk, then coolly backed toward the hallway door. Never taking his eyes off Sam as he retreated, he crumpled the referral with one hand and casually let it drop to the floor, before arrogantly raising his eyebrows at Sophie. “S’up, Miss Cook?” he added, as if her presence was supposed to embarrass Sam. With that, he slammed through the metal doors.
Sam balled his hands into fists as he turned to discover Sophie standing a few feet away.
Sophie’s chest hammered with rage. She didn’t even know what this child did, but she had a vivid fantasy that involved tackling him to the ground and giving him an ass whooping he wouldn’t soon forget.
“Are you okay?” Sophie asked.
“I’m fine.” He answered before the words were out of her mouth. He was shaking, and she caught glimpse of a deep sadness in his eyes.
“Do you want me to make sure he goes to the dean?”
He shook his head. “I don’t give a shit what he does.” He crossed the hall and got a drink from the fountain. Folding his arms across his chest, he raised his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes, remaining this way for several moments.
Sophie did not move.
“I gotta get back to my class, Soph. I’ll tell you about it tonight. Okay?”
“Sure.”
He reluctantly returned to his classroom door, and paused to collect himself before opening it. “All right, guys,” he said to his chattering students. “Let’s get back to work.”
Twenty-One
Jake slipped quietly through his front door, hoping to escape any interaction with his mother, and dropped his backpack at his feet. He passed the living room as he headed toward his room, and spied his mother napping on the couch. Closing the bedroom door behind him and flinging himself onto his unmade bed, he tried to force the horrible afternoon out of his mind.
He really stepped in it this time. Expulsion was imminent. Probably legal repercussions, the dean had said. And what was his mom going to think when she found out what he’d done? He dreaded the shock and disappointment on her face.
His computer sat on his desk in the corner of the room, silently condemning him for making it his partner in crime. Rising to his feet, he stared out the window before reluctantly turning on his computer. It was too late. The damage had been done. How could he have been so stupid?
He navigated to the website that he and his friends created, but it had already been taken down. It started out fun; they found suggestive photos of men and women in Calvin Klein ads, and Photoshopped them so they appeared as if Ian was the woman. It was never meant to go beyond the walls of this room, a joke between Jake and his buddies. But then somewhere along the way they came up with the idea to put the pictures on the internet, so that others could share in the hilarity. If Ian saw it, so what? Too bad for him, if he couldn’t take a joke.
Something deep in Jake’s heart warned him not to go down that road, telling him it was a bad idea, but giving in to the encouragement of his friends had been too easy. What was the big deal? It was all for a laugh. Nobody cared for Ian anyway.
Now, it was as if he was recognizing for the first time how ruthless this whole thing had been. The comments other kids added on the website were beyond cruel; one of them even said he wished Ian would do them all a favor and off himself. When the dean had pulled up the site in her office, he had to turn from the horror in her eyes. It wouldn’t matter if he went home and took the site down, she said. She would take screen shots of everything as proof. And if he thought they couldn’t prove he was the creator, she assured him that IP addresses could be traced.
Jake covered his face with his hands. He would never, ever be able to take back what he had done to Ian. He recalled what Mr. Collins said about Ian’s mother, that she might be dying, and thought of his own mom who was very sick with multiple sclerosis. He could still hear the anger and disgust in Mr. C’s voice.
Jake had no choice but to be the ass in the hallway. There was no way in hell he was going to let anyone at that school know he was sorry. His mother would be the only one. What would he to say to her? He had to tell her himself, before she started receiving the phone calls.
Jake trudged the long stretch from his room and sat down on the coffee table beside her. “Mom,” he said quietly.
His mother stirred from her nap. “Hey, Jakey.” She squinted from the light and smiled. “How was school?”
“It was bad. Really bad.” He burst into tears. “Mom, I did something terrible.”
Twenty-Two
Sam had finished several beers and Sophie as many glasses of wine, trying to forget the rotten day. They both sank into the sofa, somber and quiet, while Wheel of Fortune animated the TV screen. “It’s Greenwich Village,” Sam grumbled, gesturing with his hand. “How can you not know that?”
Sophie had never seen him so despondent, not even when Abby died. She shifted closer, brushing her hand over his knee. “So, how did you come to find out about the website?”
His eyes lingered on the T.V. “Do you know Ian?”
“I don’t know him all that well. I met him at a pizza lunch, and he stops by my room from time to time to say hello. He seems like a really sweet kid.”
“He’s a great kid. But, he gets bullied because, well, you know. He’s . . . I don’t know for sure that he’s gay. Don’t even know if he knows.” He reached for his bottle on the coffee table. “He has a younger sister, a sixth grader. For some reason she didn’t feel comfortable going to the dean’s office. She came to me with it, showed me the site. It’s awful. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it.”
Sophie shook her head. “How did his sister know who made it?”
“I guess it’s been talk amongst some of the students, and Jake wasn’t denying it.”
“God, why are kids so frickin’ mean? I don’t remember them being this mean when we were kids. Do you?”
“I don’t know,” Sam answered wearily, pushing the hair off his forehead. “There’s more, though. Ian was working on some kind of Movie Maker project—”
“Movie Maker?”
“I’ll show it to you. Anyway, he left the video open on his computer, and his sister, Mia, watched it.” Sam turned to her, his usual bright eyes now clouded with concern. “She’s only twelve, Sophie, but these kids have gone through so much with their mom being sick. Mia took one look at this video Ian made and knew she had to show it to someone.”
“She gave you a copy?”
Sam nodded. “I’ve got it on a flash drive. I sent a copy to the counselor.”
The wine had made her feel light, floaty, but this whole incident left her in a black mood. Her body, warm and tranquilized by the alcohol, was strangely disconnected from her heart that ached for this poor boy.
They remained in silence, Sophie twirling her glass, and Sam methodically drumming his fingers on his bottle of ale.
In the early morning hours, Sophie woke to thoughts of Ian. She lay on her side with Sam curled up against her, his arm snug around her waist. She wouldn’t normally remove herself from such bliss. He was quite simply the best place in the world. But her agitation wouldn’t allow her to sleep, and she gently lifted his arm and crawled out of bed.
She wandered to Sam’s office, the ceramic tile cold beneath her feet, and turned on his computer. The monitor’s bluish glow diffused the darkness as she waited for the machine to boot, its fan whirring softly in the vast silence of the house. Easing
into the wheeled computer chair, praying it wouldn’t squeak, she inserted the flash drive and located the video she and Sam had watched the night before. The video revealing emotions Ian had felt compelled to express.
Sophie lowered the volume until the sound was barely audible. Ian’s choice of music was poignant, gut-wrenching. “Mad World”. Not the 1980s version, but the heartbreaking Gary Jules cover done nearly twenty years later.
Ian’s voice was never heard; his story conveyed through images.
Cheerless, woeful images.
Hearts, bandaged and broken. Beaten by a hammer.
Alabaster rag dolls, carelessly stitched together, but no features—only dark, empty circles for eyes.
A nondescript figure among a sea of faces. The word “help” covering its body from head to toe. No one taking notice.
A blood-red tear spilling from a human eye.
One after another they came, each picture expressing his anguish.
After the images had faded, Ian appeared in front of the camera as the music played on. The backdrop of Ian’s innocent young face amplified the unbearably mournful lyrics. He looked into the lens for a few short moments.
She no longer watched a video. He was sitting in front of her. Flesh and blood. Looking in her eyes, begging for relief.
Ian reached up and turned off the camera. The video went black.
Riveted to the screen, tears dripped down her face as the video restarted. She watched it three more times, thinking of him walking the halls alone, wondering if he heard remarks behind his back. Still, he always managed to give her a friendly hello.
“Sophie?” Sam whispered, his hand on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
She swiped her hands across her cheeks.
“Why are you watching this again?”
She covered her eyes with her palms, her face contorted, trying to control the sounds caught in her throat as the song repeated its forlorn message.
“Sophie. . . .”
“Do you think he’s going to do something stupid?”
“No.” He turned her chair around and pulled her up, taking her in his arms. “No, I don’t. You gotta stop watching this, okay?”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know. I just hope. I think he wanted his sister to find it. And she did. His twelve-year-old guardian angel.”
She hugged him fiercely, hating that she was so emotionally overwrought. His t-shirt was soft against her cheek as she breathed deeply, subduing her sobs. “I feel like you’re my guardian angel,” she said, trying to break from the heaviness.
“Well. . . .” He shrugged with mock arrogance. “Why wouldn’t you?”
She let out a clipped laugh.
“Hey.” He lifted her chin. “I was pretty dark about this thing with Ian last night, but now . . . I just have a feeling he’s gonna be okay. He’s tougher than he looks.”
She nodded, and he took her by the hand and led her back to the bedroom.
“Sam, I want to tell you something, while I’ve still got some of that wine in my bloodstream.”
“Does it have anything to do with how devilishly handsome I am?”
Still sniffling some, she brought her finger to her lips, pretending to consider his question. “Not that you’re not devilishly handsome. But no, it doesn’t have to do with that.”
“Then what else could it be?” Now back under the covers, he held up the blankets, inviting her to climb in.
She released an apprehensive sigh and snuggled up against him. “Okay, you can’t look at me while I tell you this.” She buried herself into his chest.
“Why?” His chin rested on top of her head. He had no choice, the way she had positioned herself.
“I just don’t want you to.” So concerned about what he would think of her, even still. Especially after Evie’s reaction.
“You’re so weird.” His voice was quiet. “What did you want to tell me?”
It was another vision, but from awhile ago. They came less frequently now, and she was actually glad about it. But this particular one was very tied up in questions she had about Sam, about his nature and how he came by it.
Through a tiny paned window was a glimpse of this life she pretty much accepted was once part of her, of them.
Her belly showing the beginnings of life, she sat on Sam’s lap where he lounged in a winged back chair, absorbed in a book. She peered into it inquisitively, and he showed her an inscription on the title page. Someone had given this book to him. The title was a strange word, something she had trouble pronouncing.Dhammapada.
“I don’t even know if I’m saying that right,” Sophie clarified after she shared this small morsel with Sam. “I Googled it, because I wanted to know how to pronounce it, and what the heck it was.”
Sam said nothing, and being that she couldn’t see his face, she wondered what he was thinking. “Does that mean anything to you? Are you familiar with that book?”
He remained silent, and she backed away so that she could see his reaction.
“Yeah,” he answered abruptly, as if he hadn’t realized she asked him anything. “Yeah, I read it in college. Part of a philosophy course I took.” He wore a slight frown.
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“Be right back.” He jumped out of bed and left the room.
“Sam?” She could hear him rifling through the book case in his office.
A minute later, he returned and switched on the lamp on the bedside table. “I have a copy of it,” he said breathlessly. “I bought it in a used book store a few years ago.” He handed it to her.
Sophie gasped, almost comically. The hard cover, faced with red cloth, was worn and soiled, but it was the same. “This is it, Sam! This is the one I saw!” She frantically opened the cover to the title page, at the same time trying to treat the book with the greatest of care. And there was the inscription:
My Dearest Matthew,
I hope this will answer some of the questions you have. It has been an honor to know you.
Your friend,
Ping
“Oh my God, oh my God. . . .” Sophie said as she turned the pages.
“Holy shit,” was Sam’s simultaneous response.
This couldn’t be—Sam finding this in a book store years before they even met. Sophie flipped back to the first page and ran her fingers over the inscription. “Do you know who these people are?”
Sam sat down beside her, staring at the book in shock. “No, I don’t.” He hesitated before he asked, “Was I this Matthew person?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“You’re the one who’s seen the book, saw yourself sitting on this person’s lap.”
“This person was you, but I don’t know if he was Matthew,” she explained. “I don’t know—I think maybe he was.”
“And you mean to tell me that you have never had these kinds of things happen to you, until you met me.”
“I swear.” The very book she had seen in her vision now rested in her trembling hands. Why was this happening? Or was she just going crazy? “So you’ve read this book. More than once.”
“Yeah.”
She regarded him curiously. “Are you a Buddhist or something, and you don’t want anyone to know?”
“It’s not that I don’t want anyone to know. And no, I’m not a Buddhist. I’ve just always liked reading this kind of stuff, and it’s not something that . . . well . . . comes up.”
“It just seems like you might have shared something about it before.”
“There’s nothing to share.”
“But, this is what I mean. Since the day we met, I’ve detected this, I don’t know, calm reflectiveness in you. This sense of something I can’t put my finger on—that I wish I had in myself.” She combed through the pages one more time, seeing various notes she assumed were Sam’s, then she closed it and held it tightly in her hands. “I think it’s what makes me want to be with you ad nauseam.”
“Awww. T
hat’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I’m not kidding.” She watched him expectantly, waiting for a response to her confession.
He gave her an endearing scowl. “I’m no sage, Sophie, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I know you’re not a sage, per se, but there is something very sage-like about you,” she concluded while nodding her head, as if she were on to something.
“I was not at all sage-like, as you say, that day in the hallway with Jake. I was anything but.”
“I thought you handled it pretty well. Personally I wanted to beat the living crap out of him,” she admitted.
“Oh, believe me. So did I. But I dislike jail. Besides. . . .” He retrieved the Dhammapada and set it on his chest of drawers. “The type of person you refer to would not have those kinds of impulses.”
“Still. . . .” She touched his face as he crawled back into bed. “I think you are very tranquil, in general. Endlessly tolerant and kind.”
“All right, enough about me.” He rubbed her shoulder. “The sage MO has worked its intended magic on you, so it’s time for me to move on to my next gullible victim.”
“I’m serious, Sam. I want to know more about this.”
“Like what?”
“Like, has this book been a strong influence on how you think? Who you are? Besides the fact that, apparently, it belonged to you in your last life.” She kept her last comment light-hearted, as if that kind revelation was commonplace.
“Yeah. Besides that,” he answered with a bemused grin. “Since we’re not going back to sleep, I think this conversation calls for coffee. You want some?”
She followed him to the kitchen, itching to hear what he would say. At last, she would be given the elixir she needed, that he’d been keeping to himself. Something special kept the waters still within him, while hers were the kind that capsized boats. And not modest-sized boats, but huge pirate ships. Always tossing, rolling, churning. It was exhausting.
“What do you know about Buddhism?” Sam asked as he spooned some grounds into the filter.
Somewhere Between Black and White Page 13
