Sean Griswold's Head

by Lindsey Leavitt

January 18 7:58 AM

  Topic: Bicycle Boy

  I. Introduction

  A. Sean is either scared of aliens and wears a helmet to protect himself from getting his brains sucked out or, more likely, he rides a bike.

  B. Another clue to that fact would be the excessive array of cycling pictures plastered in his locker. Where do you even find pictures like that? Dork Riders Weekly?

  II. Body

  A. Bike riding is SO not cool

  1. Having your parents drop you off is higher on the transportation totem pole than having to lock up your bike.

  2. Well, I guess it depends if you have embarrassing parents or a beater car.

  3. No, doesn’t matter. He carries around a HELMET. Can’t get lower than that.

  B. Why bike riding?

  1. Is it because he won the school Bike Rodeo in fourth grade and he’s still holding on to that moment of fame?

  2. Or is he nobly training to bike across the country in order to protest rising gas prices?

  3. Or does he simply hate walking?

  III. Conclusion (Bringing it back to the almighty head)

  A. So, something to know about Sean Griswold’s head: It is safe as he pedals to and from school.

  B. It’s a wonder his hair still manages to look decent in third period with that obnoxious helmet flattening it out.

  School is out and the masses have dwindled. This is the time I love, hearing the solitary click of the principal’s heels or the booming laughter drifting from Coach Berne’s office. The staccato quiet is comforting, like the smell of lead from a box of number two pencils.

  Except I’m not completely at peace. There’s a nagging feeling I’ve forgotten something. I would check my lovely leather planner, but I can’t remember where I put it, let alone the last time I wrote in it. Organization, coordination, concentration—basically all my former -ation skills—are all buried somewhere in my closet. Maybe it’s a good thing I have my Focus Journal after all.

  I thwonk my head against the cafeteria wall. Ouch. Why do people hit their head to get an idea? Zoning out is far more effective. I slide down to the ground and shift my attention to the JV swim guys hunched around a table in the back corner. Sean’s there, big head and all. Should I write something? I know I’m staring but I can’t stop. Is some blond hair and, if I’m being a little unscientific, a nice smile really going to help me remember all the things I’m forgetting? Even the things I want to forget?

  Jac’s play rehearsal should get out any minute. Maybe she’ll remember whatever it is I’ve forgotten. This is pretty tragic when you consider I’m counting on the biggest airhead ever as my memory jogger. It once took me forty minutes to explain that Australia is both a continent and a country. The conversation concluded with her debating which Australian actor had the best abs.

  My zoning ends when two of my former basketball teammates, LaShelle and Rachel, burst through the cafeteria doors, laughing. They’re wearing their maroon and silver team uniforms—the ones they wear to away games—with their hair in matching braids. Messy braids, I might add. I was the master braider on the team.

  Basketball. I quit the day I got back from break. Midway through the season. I didn’t even give a reason. Just walked into the coach’s office and handed her my uniform. It was a few days after I Found Out. It seemed like a really logical move at the time, but all the reasons have settled into this blur. Dad coached me in basketball. He lied to me. And his ability to also play basketball, well … that could go away next relapse. The sport and my dad are so intertwined, just the look of my uniform made me sick.

  LaShelle and Rachel say something I can’t hear to the swimmers. Zach Hernandez, tall and untouchable, grabs the basketball Rachel’s holding and dribbles around the tables. They’re on the edge of the tile, right in front of the carpeted stairs, before she does a reach around and snatches her ball back.

  “Foul!” Zach says.

  “That was a steal!” Rachel turns back to LaShelle and the boys. “Was that a foul?”

  LaShelle points at me. “Ask Gritas.”

  Rachel’s braids whip her face. “Hey girl. Didn’t see you there. Foul or not?”

  “Oh.” My cheeks burn. “I … I didn’t see.”

  “Yes she did,” Zach says. “She’s covering for you. I get a free throw.”

  Rachel tosses the ball to Zach. “Take it.”

  I decide this is as good a time as any to examine the condition of my cuticles. They’re ragged and in need of a good push down. I should do that now. In the bathroom. But Rachel stops me before I have a chance to save my cuticles. Or myself.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” she says.

  I force a smile. “Yeah. But I heard you guys beat Methacton.”

  “Barely.” Rachel scratches her nose. “Could have killed them if you were still playing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Zach shoots the ball against the wall. The swimmers whistle.

  “Wish you hadn’t quit the team. I mean, you just kind of left without saying anything. And we’re weak in the key now.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I look back at my nails. “Stuff came up.”

  “LaShelle said she heard your dad has cancer or something.”

  “Or something.”

  The ball rolls by us and Rachel swoops it up. “Take a pill, Zach. I’ll bust you in a second.” She bounces the ball under each leg, then hands it to me. “Hey, we’ve got a while before the bus comes. Wanna come warm up in the small gym?”

  Yes. I want to warm up. I want to talk—really talk—with all my basketball friends again. I want to taste that need to push and drive and win. I cringe at every game announcement, every sneaker squeak, and especially every run-in with an old teammate, but I made my choice.

  So please go away.

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s cool. Well, I better go embarrass Zach. Adios, Gritas.”

  She sprints across the cafeteria and maneuvers around Zach before passing the ball to LaShelle. They call to the boys and skip out. Skip. When was the last time I skipped?

  “Are you done already?” Jac asks. I jump. She’s still wearing her My Fair Lady costume. At least I think it’s her costume. You can never tell with Jac.

  “Done with what?”

  “Your Safety Council meeting.”

  I slap my forehead. That’s it. “I forgot.”

  Jac plunks down next to me. “You forgot.”

  I nod.

  Jac wiggles her fingers at the table of guys who, now that she’s joined me, are looking our way. “Good luck at your meet, boys!” She lowers her voice. “Swimmers are the most underrated athletes. Just look at Trent and Caleb. Primo.”

  “Sick. I don’t look at them like that. They’re my brothers.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to see them in a Speedo. Do you think Caleb’s caught an accent now that he’s in London? That’d be so hot.”

  “Accents aren’t contagious.”

  “Fine, if I can’t have your brothers, I’ll take Zach. Or Sean.” She stares straight at him. I go back to analyzing my cuticles. “You know, even with the head, he’s actually kind of cute. Hey, what did you find out this morning?”

  “His head can’t be too big because he managed to find a bike helmet that fits it. I am following a bicyclist.” I look up from my cuticles and smile. “How weird is that?”

  “Weird? Hello? Ever heard of Lance Armstrong, Mr. Hottie-Hot-Hot of sports? I bet Sean has killer calves. Can you see them under that table?” Jac licks her braces. “I might have to get myself a Focus Object too. Have any more cute heads I could follow?”

  I give her a severe eye roll. Sean Griswold cute? This isn’t about boy chasing. This is serious psychological research.

  FIVE

  Jac and I are halfway to her house when I tell her I’ll call her later. Alone time is a must today. I walk slowly, kicking a rock along the sidewalk. At my street, I pick up the rock and throw it as far as I can and watch it bounce t
hree times before stopping in Mr. Lopez’s yard. He waves as he wipes down his red Camaro, just as he does every day, his breath visible in the chilly air. Usually, I’d go over and talk to him, but today I just nod and slip through our back gate.

  All I have to do now is sneak through the back door and tiptoe up the stairs without my mom hearing—

  “Payton, is that you?”

  She was waiting. Ever since she quit her part-time job as an art curator at a gallery downtown, exercising and waiting—for me to get home, for Trent to go back to school, for Dad to get better—is all she ever does.

  “No,” I yell.

  “Come into the living room and talk to me.”

  I make a desperate dash for my room. I’m almost home free when Trent blocks my door.

  “Move.” I look behind my shoulder to make sure Mom hasn’t followed me.

  “Make me.”

  “You know I can’t do that. Look, I’m not in the mood, got it?”

  Trent raises a waxed eyebrow. Yes, I’m related to a male eyebrow waxer who, surprisingly, is Very Much Straight. He started waxing his eyebrows after he shaved his legs, which was after the Nair-on-the-chest debacle. He’s a swimmer, that’s his excuse, but come on—is extra eyebrow hair really going to slow you down in the water?

  “The mood? The mood to what?” he asks. “Hang out with your family? Talk to Mom?”

  “No. I’m not in the mood to deal with my nosy brother who should be off at college so I can finally live my dream of being an only child.”

  “Well, someone has to hang around to help Dad. Now that you’ve peaced out on him.”

  “I have not peaced … Will you just move. Please?”

  Trent shrugs and moves out of the doorway. “I didn’t realize fifteen-year-olds have such busy schedules.”

  “And I didn’t realize college kids have no lives!” I shout before slamming my door.

  I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. Trent didn’t used to annoy me so much. I was actually glad when he decided to transfer from Penn State to the local community college for a year. He said it was so he could make extra money selling pest control and I bought it. Not the pest control—the lie. It wasn’t until recently that I discovered his real reason for moving home was my dad.

  Trent did at least tell me this: After Dad’s MRI, my parents sat down with my brothers and talked all about the disease. Trent insisted he move home for a year, putting his swimming scholarship on hold, putting his life on hold. I don’t know what difference he thought his presence would make, like the family couldn’t survive without his hair removal tips and annoying music. Like he could make Dad get better. They said no, but he still showed up last August anyway.

  I’m sure the only idea everyone agreed upon was to shield little, naive Payton from the Big MS Monster. Which is total bs. I mean, I’m old enough to go to PG-13 movies. In some cultures I can even be married. Not to mention my already proven track record of responsibility and civil service. It’s ridiculous that my family thought I was the only one too immature to know that my dad has a disease.

  Even worse, Dad claims his disease doesn’t change anything. What doesn’t it change?

  What I know about my dad’s MS is that it’s at a stage where he can relapse at any time. It’s actually one of the better stages, because it’s not a continual decline. He’ll go weeks or months with nothing wrong and then relapse and go numb again. During his worst relapse, the numbness spread from just his hand to his entire left side. Sometimes the numbness affects his sense of touch, so he can’t feel anything, like his hand is asleep. But occasionally, it’s like his brain can’t tell his fingers what they want them to do. His job as a dentist relies on the ability to work on small things with his hands. Mom said if things get really bad, he can always find a job teaching. Yeah. Like that’s reassuring.

  I mean, it isn’t cancer. It … people don’t … necessarily die. Don’t do chemo. They don’t follow a set recovery plan. They just change. Their body changes. Their abilities—the things they do that make them who they are—leave, sometimes temporarily, sometimes forever. Every day they wake up with that big what if ?

  And nothing is scarier than a life filled with what ifs—living day by day without predictability and control. Some people end up losing feeling. Some have uncontrollable spasms. Some can’t function. Some end up blind or in a wheelchair. Some end up bedridden and paralyzed.

  It’s hard to know who “some people” will be.

  I fall asleep thinking about Dad and my first day of Field Research, but wake up about a half hour later when I hear a basketball bouncing outside. I peep through the blinds. Dad’s home early, working on his free throws.

  He misses three in a row, bounces the ball and pauses, consumed by concentration. Even from a distance, I can see the ball shaking. Next shot, the ball circles the rim twice before bouncing out. Dad jumps up to get the rebound, but when he comes down, he freezes. I can only see his face in profile, but he looks horrified. A few moments later, I notice the water he is standing in. I’m confused at first—it hasn’t rained; I don’t get where it came from. Then I see the front of his sweats and … oh my gosh … my dad … wet himself. A grown man. I’m sure the expression on my face matches his horror.

  Healthy people don’t lose control of their bladder from one little jump. This is so not fine. So not.

  He bends over, hands on his knees, shaking his head. I knew incontinence was an MS symptom, but knowing it’s possible and actually watching my dad pee his pants is something else entirely. I’m so embarrassed, so embarrassed for him, that I can’t watch anymore. I snap the blinds shut and sink into my computer chair. My phone is lit with three texts from Jac. I consider ignoring her and resuming my much-needed nap, but ignoring Jac is about as easy as ignoring a zit on your nose. Besides, I need something to erase that image of my dad right now. Uck.

  Jaclyn: Hey, what R U doing?

  Jaclyn: Hell-oooooooooooooo?

  Jaclyn: I know U R there. Fine, if U don’t want to know what I found out about Sean, your loss. Here I am, trying to be a good friend and U can’t even get off your butt and come see what I have to say

  Payton Gritas: I’m here

  Jaclyn: Oh. I knew U were. Here, I’ll call U

  Payton Gritas: No, I’m having my alone time, remember?

  Jaclyn: U R so drama

  Payton Gritas: Tell me quick

  Jaclyn: Sean Griswold’s mom is a real estate queen. I did a search on his name and her website came up—she mentioned Sean on the bio part of her site. Anyway, check it out

  Payton Gritas: What’s the site?

  Jaclyn: I’ll e-mail you the link. They must be loaded. Seriously loaded. Do U know where he lives?

  Payton Gritas: No

  Jaclyn: U R not a very good stalker then

  Payton Gritas: RESEARCH ANALYST

  Jaclyn: What does that even mean?

  Payton Gritas: I don’t know. It just sounds good. Look, I just started TODAY! Stop doing my job

  Jaclyn: Sheesh. U R welcome, babycakes

  Payton Gritas: Thank you. I owe you my life. Where would I be without your ingenious internet savvy?

  Jaclyn: Shut up

  Payton Gritas: Shutting. Checking link. Late

  Jaclyn: XOXO

  I’m clicking on the link when there’s a knock on the door.

  “I’m busy,” I call. Despite the Big MS Lie, I’m talking to my parents. I just limit all correspondence to two or three syllables. I only hope it’s my mom and not …

  My dad pushes the door open. “Hey, sunshine. What are you doing?”

  I close out the open links and turn my body so I’m blocking the screen. “Nothing.” I can’t look him in the eye. He’s showered and changed his clothes. I wonder if he told Mom or did the laundry himself.

  “Studying for midterms?”

  “Sure.” One syllable. Safe.

  “Too bad. I was just shooting around outside.”

  No me
ntion of his accident. That’s good. I can ignore it too. “Oh.”

  “Hey.” He fiddles with the strings on his hoodie. “I was thinking we should go down to the city tonight. Maybe get some Geno’s steaks. I won’t even gag when you put Cheez Whiz on yours.” He smiles.

  My dad’s smile is more infectious than a yawn. He’ll smile at a total stranger, and even in downtown Philadelphia people smile back. Then again, they might just smile out of fear—the man is well over six feet tall with hair covering his whole body from the neck down. His head is just as noticeable as Sean’s, not because of the hair but the lack thereof. So when he smiles, it’s like a mutant-sized baby is cooing at you. A baby with lots of fur.

  I smile back for a moment but turn the corners of my mouth down. “Not hungry.” One, two, three.

  “Not hungry for Geno’s trademarked gut bomb? Is it even possible?” Dad folds his arms and leans against the side of my computer desk. “Okay. Maybe another time. How’s everything else going? Was school good today?”

  School. I forget about his basketball playing and brush a stray bang away from my face. I want to say, The stupid counselor you are torturing me with unknowingly assigned me to analytically research a guy I’ve known since grade school. All because you never told me there was something wrong with you. But I don’t. Instead, I shrug.

  “Come on, let’s gut bomb it. Or at least come shoot around with me.”

  I stare at my computer screen and open a bunch of random documents. Is he serious? Doesn’t he remember what he just did fifteen minutes ago? What if I had been shooting around with him then? “Sorry,” I answer. Even without my syllable rule, I doubt I can say any more to him right now. “Homework.”

  “All right. I’m just … I’m trying to make this right. I really am. I hope you can …” Dad’s voice trails off into a cough used to disguise his hurt. My eyes stay glued on the computer screen until he leaves.

  When he does, I let out a sigh, hoping it releases some of the bad karma I just incurred from being so heinous. I don’t want to be like this, but I don’t know how else I’m supposed to act. Like nothing is wrong? Like he didn’t just pee his pants?

  One of my desk drawers is open, and I’m about to slam it shut when I pause to admire the order inside. At least everything is mostly in its proper storage compartments there. At least that part of my life is still together.