Sean Griswold's Head

by Lindsey Leavitt

  “What are you doing?”

  Hands still firmly planted over my ears, I look up to see Grady, crutches and all, peering down at me. A large black case is propped between his right leg and the crutch.

  “Sitting. It’s a free country.”

  Grady whistles. “Simmer down. I’m just trying to get into my locker. You didn’t trade back, did you?”

  I take in my surroundings for the first time. My subconscious connection to my old locker must have brought me here. Of course I’m in the Hall of Terror. Of course I stumble into the most hateful place on campus on a day that I should be feeling nothing but love. Where is the love?

  “Sorry.” I stand up. “Do you need some privacy to perform your live sacrifices? Is that your torture kit in there?” I point at the black case.

  Grady actually smiles. I think it’s a smile. It’s a different expression than his usual sinister smirk or fang flash. This look almost borderlines on friendly, which, of course, completely freaks me out. “It’s my saxophone. And I guess if you don’t like jazz, it would be torture.” He props his crutch against the locker and eases the case down. After spinning in his combo, he shoves the case into his locker with his shoulder.

  This is why I don’t like him. Always sneaking up on me. Biting me on the shoulder, then swinging a jazz instrument around like it’s totally normal for someone so … non-bandlike to play the saxophone. I wonder if he’s in marching band. Does he have to wear those hideous uniforms? That I’d like to see.

  “So.” He gives his lock one final twist. “Is that why you’re ditching class? Mistook my case for something more evil and followed me in hopes you can apprentice me? I can teach you how to disembowel a cat in two minutes.”

  All sensation leaves my body. “You … you really do that?”

  “Payton, I’m not a feline killer.” Grady coughs. “You really do think I’m psycho, don’t you?”

  I bite my lower lip and shrug.

  Grady stuffs his crutch back under his armpit and hobbles for a moment before gaining balance. “You’re the one stalking Sean, and I’m the weirdo.”

  “Who says I’m stalking Sean?”

  “Jac.”

  I make a mental note to amend my previous Focus Exercise. Death is too kind. Devise torture chamber instead.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I back away.

  “Oh, I know all about it. The whole way to my house Jac was trying to brag about how wild you girls are to Mark, so he’d stop talking to his girlfriend and listen. I said you’re so uptight and perfect I could stick a quarter up your butt and it’d come back two dimes and a nickel.”

  “That was sweet of you.”

  “I only speak the truth. So then, she said you’re in therapy and if I read your Focus Journal about stalking Sean, I’d see how cool and twisted you are.” He grinned. “She shut up real quick after that. You might want to buy your friend a muzzle.”

  If I hadn’t been mad at her already, such a betrayal of trust would be enough to send me over the edge. Forget torture chamber. Slowly pluck out all her nose hairs. Then make her eat them.

  Grady’s expression softens. “Relax. Don’t get mad at your friend. She was defending you. And it’s not my business if you’re doing some weird tree-hugger therapy with Sean.”

  “Thanks for not saying anything.”

  Grady puts a finger over my lip. His hands are surprisingly warm. “You didn’t let me finish. It’s not my business, unless it hurts Sean. If you’re using him—”

  “I promise I’m not.” I shake my head until he moves his finger.

  “Good. Because he’s just as gullible as you. And God knows why, but I think he might be into you.”

  “He … he is? I mean, I’m … I’m not. Gullible, that is.”

  A group of Mohawk-adorned juniors turn around the corner and stop when they see Grady talking to me. He clears his throat. “So when are you going to take off that chastity belt, princess?” They snicker. Grady lowers his voice and adds, “Don’t tell Sean I said anything or I’ll make sure this little field trip to your old locker is your last.”

  “I’m so scared,” I say, even though I am.

  “Don’t pretend you’re not.”

  I refrain from sprinting my non-gothic butt out of the hallway. I spoke with Vampire Boy and lived to tell the tale. It’s like I’ve been given a second chance at life. And even better—perhaps the one bright spot to the messy day—is what Grady said to me. That Sean might be into me. Even in goth speak, that’s got to mean something.

  I start Dad’s valentine the second I get home from school. My base is a poster board I’d done my seventh-grade history project on. I crumple it up and rip off some of the pictures, making sure to leave scraps of paper hanging and cut it into a sloppy heart. Next, I scribble pink and red marker until only snips of white show through. A big glob of glue is squirted over the entire piece, smearing some of the marker. Then I randomly stick the contents of my trashed bedroom floor around the edges of the heart. A Snickers wrapper, those annoying postcards from my Consumer Reports magazine, used mint dental floss, a cracked nail file, and an empty box of contacts. In the middle, I duct-tape a red piece of construction paper for the message I still need to write.

  Stepping back, I appraise my artwork. It’s trashy, but it needs something really foul, like a blackened banana peel or used chewing gum. All that is left lying around is some torn computer paper, so I head down to the garage to scavenge through the good stuff.

  Whoever wired the electronics in our garage did an awful job. The switch is in the top right corner, away from the entrance and far from the door into the house. At night, we have to navigate around boxes and storage bins just to flip the switch. I’m making my way through the darkened jungle when my knee bangs into something. Hard.

  “Whatduhheckwasthat!” I fall to the ground and grab my knee. The unidentified object crashes against the boxes and I somehow manage to crawl to the far wall, stand, and flick on the light.

  It’s a bike. One I’ve never seen before. It’s not like your everyday mountain bike—this one looks more like Sean’s, with thin wheels and a metallic frame. Not something you find at Wal-Mart.

  Sean. Is it … is it Sean’s? There’s a silver helmet dangling from the handlebar. I take it off and try it on my head. It feels a little lumpy on top, like the straps are attached wrong. I take it off and look inside to find a red piece of paper shaped like a star.

  Hey Payton,

  Now you’re out of excuses. MS 150 ride, here we come.

  Happy V-Day,

  Sean

  P.S. Still a little curious about the secret admirer thing.

  The garage door opens and my dad drives in. I shove the card into my pocket, but there’s no way the bike will fit in there too.

  “Whose bike?”

  I look down at it, in shock that it’s actually real. “Mine, I think.”

  “Where’d you get it.”

  “Uh … my friend.”

  Dad kicks the wheel and whistles. “Must be a really good friend.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

  Dad raises an eyebrow. “He?”

  I nod but don’t say anything. Dad chuckles as he disappears into the house.

  Along with the helmet, Sean had also added some old bike shoes to the package. They’re a little snug on my unusually large feet, but they feel better once I click my feet into the pedals. The bike can’t weigh more than a few pounds; it’s amazing something that thin can hold all of my weight.

  I ease the bike down the driveway and pump my legs up the hill of our cul-de-sac. Sean was right—this has an entirely different feel. I circle around the street, going faster and faster like I’m being flushed down a toilet bowl. When I reach the center of the circle, I break and watch my breath as I gulp in air.

  I’m not thinking about my family, or counseling, or Jac, or even Sean. I’m not worried about what’s going to happen when I get home, or what happened tod
ay at school.

  I’m not worried, period. I just feel free.

  After riding for an hour or so, I go upstairs to finish Dad’s card. I consider calling Sean to say thanks, but I’m not sure what I’m thanking him for. Is it a valentine? The bike implies we’ll ride together, but maybe it’s just Sean being nice. And he did tell me he would loan me a bike for the big MS ride.

  The bike ride. Should I do it? Sean sounded so confident when he explained the course—like it really was possible. It would take lots of work to get in shape, but the ride would also be a good goal. My dad would be happy. And it would guarantee more time with Sean. I can’t mentally commit yet, but it’s still worth considering.

  I’m almost done writing a silly poem on Dad’s card when Mom calls me down for dinner. I cover my trash day card with a pillowcase and cart it down for the festivities. Mom, Dad, and Trent have already lined theirs up on the kitchen table next to the package from Caleb, who we’ll call later on the computer so he can watch my face when I open his card. I’m pretty excited—Caleb always goes all out.

  I know my family is weird. I already went over how the whole thing started, but somehow over time it’s gotten out of hand. The holiday has become consumed by the trash theme. Mom makes gummy worm and “dirt” (crushed Oreos) sundaes. Dad makes us all play love songs on upside-down metallic trash cans. One year, Trent lobbied for us to attend a mud wrestling match, but that didn’t go over well.

  My mom brushes past me on her way to the kitchen. “Can you wrap up the fish sticks? I just have to finish the french fries and we can sit down and eat.”

  “Sure thing. Where’s the fresh newspaper?”

  “It’s on the table.”

  “Oh, happy Valentine’s Day!” I smile.

  “You too,” Mom says suspiciously.

  I get to work assembling newspaper cones for the fish and chips. When I’m done, my mom dumps in the fried mess and we all sit down on the ground to eat.

  If you would have told me after The Jac Incident today that I’d be this happy at dinner, I would have laughed. Or, more likely, cried. But I just can’t stop smiling. Sean got me a bike. And riding it was the best feeling in the world. And it’s fun now, wondering what’s happening inside Sean’s head, and clinging to the hope that his feelings match my own.

  There. Okay. I said it. I’m definitely feeling something for Sean.

  “So how was your Valentine’s Day, Dad?”

  My dad’s fish stick freezes midway to his mouth. “It was great. How was yours?”

  “Fabulous! Aren’t these fish sticks delicious?”

  “Did you hit your head?” Trent asks.

  “No. Why?”

  Dad clears his throat. “This fish reminds me of something.”

  “School lunches?” I ask.

  Dad flashes his irresistible smile and shakes his head. “No, I was thinking more along the lines of where it came from. The ocean.”

  “Yeah.” Trent pops his tenth stick into his mouth. “From the ocean and probably from the farm and maybe even a landfill. These aren’t exactly fresh.”

  Dad examines his fish stick. “You know, you’re right. I think this family deserves some fresh fish.”

  “Hey,” Mom says. “I’m sticking with the theme here. I’ll make you some of that salmon in the freezer later in the week.”

  “Not good enough. I want something fresher.”

  “What are you getting at?” Mom asks.

  Dad stands up and pulls an envelope out of his back pocket. “I was thinking maybe some swordfish. Or marlin. I hear the marlin is delicious in Florida. Which is why I booked us all a flight to the Keys for spring break. Because this family deserves a decent meal.”

  My mom squeals and hugs Dad’s legs. Trent lets out a whoop and starts singing some rap song about girls in Miami. I pull my knees up close to my chest and don’t say a thing. My happy mood has evaporated. I gave this the okay. Too late to change my mind again. The tickets are booked—my family canceling now is about as likely as a Florida snowstorm.

  EIGHTEEN

  I never realized how much of my day’s activities involved Jac until she wasn’t there. I mean, she was THERE, at school, but we both made a point of avoiding each other. Like, before school I saw her out of the corner of my eye turn into the hallway. She saw me and turned right around. Meaning she’d have to walk all the way around the portable classrooms just to get into the adjourning hallway and make it to her class.

  I get to bio early, intent to slouch over my math book, making it look like I’m scrambling to finish an assignment and not avoiding Jac. The only one in the room is Miss Marietta, who seems completely oblivious to my presence. Her head is down on her desk again with a halo of stringy hair cascading around her.

  This is the fourth time in the last three weeks she’s looked like this. She must be quite the partier. Maybe she even does drugs. Can you imagine? A teacher—the person who introduces DARE and all those “Just Say No” school programs—shooting up? I move closer to her desk to see if I can find track marks on her arm. But then she hears me and jumps up in her seat.

  “Payton! I didn’t realize you were in here. Is it third period already? Where did the prep time go? Ugh, I didn’t even finish grading those papers. There goes my lunch.”

  She says it all in one breath, like it’s not a sentence but just one super-long word. And she’s not really saying it to me, she’s more talking out loud to herself and I just happen to be there. No track marks on her arm, although her eyes are puffy and red, but not hungover red. Crying red.

  “Oh. Um … Miss Marietta? Is everything all right?”

  Her shoulders sag. “Do I look like everything is all right?”

  I give what I hope looks like a knowing and sympathetic nod. We are both women of the world. She parties until dawn and I get a valentine from the boy I’m researching. We can understand each other. “I know how it is.”

  She looks me up and down for a moment and lets out a terse laugh. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “No. Really. Guy troubles are tough.”

  She rustles through some papers on her desk and says in a low voice I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear, “Guy troubles. I wish all I had to worry about was high school drama.”

  My classmates start to fill into the room, including Sean and Jac. Although Miss Marietta’s assessment that high school drama is any easier than adult problems is way off, I still feel like I need to help somehow. I go for her elbow and give it a quick squeeze, unsure if it’s too over the line to give a teacher a hug. I don’t know why I chose the elbow and not say, her shoulder. Awkward. She gives me a tight smile and takes a step back as if to say I’m dismissed.

  “All right, guys. Instead of doing a class review on cell components, let’s have you partner up and go over last week’s notes. Make sure you cover all the parts of the cell, because that will be on your next test. I’m here if you have questions but …” She sighs. “I’m a little tired, so … try not to have too many questions.”

  The room buzzes with everyone partnering up. I search for Sean, figuring this will be a good opportunity for me to ask about the bike. I spot him sitting next to Jac, who is already talking to him a mile a minute. She looks my way just long enough to give me a smug smirk.

  So Jac’s decided to go for Sean after all. Traitor. I bet she was lying about the valentine being on my behalf. She was probably just moving in. Well, one thing is for sure, I’m not going to let Jac walk all over me like before. I’m taking control from now on.

  Their heads are bent low over Sean’s notes when I tap him on the shoulder and flash him a smile that would rival my dad’s. “Hey, guys. Mind if we study together?”

  Jac scrunches up her nose. “I believe Miss Marietta said partners, as in only two. And if you count, you’ll see that quota is already full.”

  “Quota. Wow. Big word.”

  “I know lots of big words. Narcissist is another.”

  “What’s going on?
Do you two have a problem with something?” Sean asks, puzzled.

  “No.” I smile again and pull a seat close to Sean. “I don’t have a problem. Jac might have a problem but—”

  “I don’t have a problem either,” Jac says. “Everything is fine.”

  “Peachy,” I say.

  “Fabulouso,” says Jac.

  “Well … good.” Sean opens his book. “I’m sure it’s all right if you study with us. I don’t think Miss Marietta would notice.” A tense pause follows. Jac looks at the ceiling. I look at the floor. “Um … should we look at that one picture on page 285? The one with all the parts mapped out?”

  We all exhale at the release in tension.

  “Love to,” I say.

  “Can’t wait,” Jac says.

  “I guess I’ll quiz you guys first. Let’s see … what are mitochondria?”

  “Powerhouse of the cell!” Jac and I chime in unison.

  “Whoa, you guys are, uh … enthusiastic. Okay, so what about Golgi apparatus?”

  Jac’s face screws up in concentration. My mind rapidly lists off the different vocab words until I come to it. “They’re the storage vessels. For waste. Right?”

  “Right. I can’t believe you remembered that.” My reward is a smile from Sean and a dirty look from Jac. I may not know boys, but I sure as heck know the human cell.

  The rest of the period proceeds the same way—Jac and I smiling and pushing ourselves closer to Sean, responding to his questions. Sean, switching back and forth between a goofy grin and a baffled frown. And Miss Marietta, head still down on the desk, quiet except for the occasional whimper.

  With five minutes left, we’ve gone through both human and plant cells twice. Everyone else has abandoned all pretense of studying, but Jac and I are neck and neck with the quizzing and neither one is willing to give up.

  “Let’s do plant parts one more time,” Jac suggests, glaring.

  Sean fishes through his pocket and pulls out his Advil. “C’mon, guys.” He counts out four pills. “I think you both know your stuff. You’ll do fine, if Miss Marietta ever takes her head off her desk long enough to give us the test.”