Not As Crazy As I Seem

by George Harrar

  "Why don't you tell me about it?"

  "Mr. Torricelli—he's the teacher—he was holding up this stuffed chimp and talking about how people experiment on them—I mean on real chimps, not the stuffed ones—because they're so close to humans in their genes. The real ones, I mean."

  "Yes, I understand. And what he said made you angry?"

  "What he was doing made me angry because I figure how would he like to be experimented on and then stuffed and held up for a bunch of chimps to laugh at?"

  "You really empathize with animals, don't you?"

  "What's that mean?"

  "'Empathize'? It means you sympathize with their situation—you feel their pain."

  "Then why don't you just say 'sympathize'?"

  "The words are slightly different. 'Sympathize' means you feel sorry for someone. When you 'empathize' you almost feel what they're feeling, you identify with them. That's what you were doing with that chimp."

  "I identify with all animals."

  It's not just animals, though. It's things, too. Back in Amherst I started feeling sorry for this old wooden chair Mrs. Greeley left out in her backyard. She could have taken it into the cellar before the snow started. She could have sanded down the seat and glued up the arms and restained it. But she just left the chair out there to freeze and crack. In the spring I know she's going to say it's in terrible shape and throw it away. It was a great chair once, I bet. I never even sat in it, but I could see it from my bedroom window at night when I looked out at the stars.

  Another thing: there was a toy shop in Amherst called The Olde Toy Shoppe. It had one of everything for sale displayed in its big front windows. When I walked by one day I saw that the little stuffed owl that always sat on a stack of miniature books had fallen off. It was sticking head-down in a mound of marbles. For days it stayed like that. Every afternoon on my way home from school I checked that window—the owl was still head down in the marbles, like it had been shot from a tree. Finally I went in and said I wanted to buy the owl in the window. The saleswoman pulled a box from under the counter with an owl in it. I said that I wanted the actual owl in the display window. She told me that one was old and dusty. I had to make up something fast, so I said that my little sister was in love with that particular owl and she wouldn't be happy with anything else. And it was her birthday. The woman climbed into the display window to get the owl for me, but she wasn't very happy about it. The thing cost me a couple of weeks' allowance, and it got lost when we moved here to Belford. That bothered me for a couple of days, but I got over it.

  "Devon, would you tell me what you're thinking right now?"

  Tell him about Mrs. Greeley's chair or the fallen owl? Nobody should be able to make you tell what you're thinking. It's probably in the Constitution somewhere—everybody has the right to his or her own thoughts!

  "I wasn't thinking anything very interesting. I've forgotten already."

  "Well, your empathy with animals doesn't give you the right to disrupt a class. I'm sure you know that."

  I don't want to talk about this. I wasn't wrong, really. I just did something that seems wrong. There's a big difference. Besides, the amphibians poster hangs crooked in that class. That's enough to drive a kid crazy, if that kid is me.

  "Devon, could you look at me?"

  I don't want to do that either. He has drippy eyes. His face is oily, like the skin of a cooked turkey.

  "I asked you to look at me, Devon."

  "I know."

  "Can you do that for me?"

  Sure I could look at him. My head swivels like most heads.

  "I don't think I'm asking that much."

  "No, you're wrong. You're asking everything."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because if I do what you want now, then you'll just ask me to do something else and then something else and—"

  "Okay, I understand your point."

  "—then something else and then something else. And it would keep getting harder not to do things, because you'd expect me to do more and more."

  "Don't you do what people expect of you now?"

  Mostly I do. I get good grades like Mom wants, and I do my chores without complaining like Dad wants, and I don't listen to porno music or swear at them or stay out late or hang with kids who smoke or drink. I do every assignment for school on time, and I speak up in class. I'm mostly a good kid. The thing is, I don't think I can take one more person expecting me to act like they want me to.

  CHAPTER 10

  For two weeks and four days I've walked around The Baker Academy as I did at Amherst, wearing my jacket and carrying all my books. But then the headmaster spotted me in the halls and asked if I hadn't been issued a locker yet. I said I had but liked carrying everything with me. He said everyone at The Baker Academy used their locker, and I could tell by his voice that he'd think it strange if I didn't, too.

  So here I am at my locker, number 379, at the end of the row of lockers between the science and humanities wings. My combination: 18-26-7. Two turns to the right. One turn to the left. Then back to the right. 18-26-7.18-26-7.I hang up my coat on the hook and arrange the books for my afternoon classes on the little shelf. I close the door and get ready to latch the Master's lock. 18-26-7.I can remember that easily. Just to be safe I wrote the numbers down on the cover flap of my algebra workbook, which is the one I've decided I'll always carry with me. I shove the lock bar into the hole, and it snaps shut like it will never open again.

  I have earth science next, and I head down the hall. 18-26-7. Is that my combination? I open the flap to my algebra book and see the numbers ... 18-26-7. I take a few more steps. But what if I wrote down the wrong numbers? What if the numbers I'm remembering and the numbers I wrote down are both wrong? I should find that out now.

  I head back to my locker, passing the kids heading toward their science classes. I dial in the numbers ... 18-26-7, and the lock pops open. I thought it would.

  The hall is emptying fast. I'm going to have to hurry to make earth science. I push the lock closed again and take off in a run. But did I really lock it this time? I was doing it fast. Maybe the bar didn't go all the way in the hole. The lock could be dangling open, and some kid could get in and mess with my stuff. I do a quick U-turn back to my locker and check. It's tight.

  The bell goes off for the start of third period. I'm going to be late to earth science.

  This is why I hate using lockers.

  The girl with the vanilla ice cream cone is sitting on the steps outside the back door when I push through with my lunch. She has a thick book spread across her lap. She doesn't look up at me, but she moves over a little to give me space to sit down. Her name is Tanya, which I know from hearing her called on in English class.

  I take out my lunch bag and unwrap my sandwich squares. I asked Mom to stack them for me, and she did, except they got a little squashed in my backpack. I eat one square in two bites and take out the next. Tanya glances over, then goes back to reading. I want to say something to her, I just don't know what. I've been wanting to say something to her every day in English, but she sits on the other side of the room. Also, Alonzo is in the same class, and I swear he stares at her the whole hour. I sure don't want to get between him and Tanya.

  I eat my third peanut butter and jelly sandwich square, and then the fourth. When I finish I fold up the plastic bag and put it back. I can tell she's watching now, so I try not to act weird. I reach into the bag of carrots and take one out and eat it. Then the second, and third and fourth.

  Then the M&Ms. First the brown, then the green, then the red one, then the yellow.

  She lets out a little breath of air, and I don't know what it means. She stands up like she's going to leave. I don't want her to. I have to say something. "It's not as cold today as last time, you know?"

  She stares down at me. "You're talking to me now?"

  "Sure."

  "You walk by me in English like I'm invisible, and now you want to talk when it's just us?
"

  "Yeah, it's—"

  "I'm not good enough to talk to in front of people?"

  "No, it's not like that. I'll talk to you anywhere—I really will. I didn't know you wanted me to."

  "I don't like being disrespected. It's all about respect, you know."

  "I wasn't disrespecting you. I'm probably the least disrespecting kid you know."

  She hoists her backpack to her shoulder. "Then talk to me in class sometime." She goes past me and heads back into the school, licking her vanilla ice cream cone.

  It's hard to imagine—a girl actually getting mad at me for not talking to her. That makes me feel good, although I guess I should feel bad.

  I finish my lunch and head inside. There's still a half-hour till fifth period, when I figure I'll do my English journal writing assignment for tomorrow. Having to write about my day every day is almost as bad as having to talk about it each night at dinner. Then every Wednesday I go to the shrink's and talk about things again. My life really isn't interesting enough to get all of this attention.

  As I pass the cafeteria I see the jocks sitting at the center table under the flags and the geeks playing speed chess in the corner and the preppy kids talking on their cell phones. Even if somebody hosed down the whole place with Lysol, exterminating every single germ, where would I sit? I'm not a jock or geek or preppy, so what am I?

  I feel like nothing. That doesn't really bother me, because the thing I can't understand more than anything else I can't understand is why kids want to belong to a group. So they can paint their faces and yell "We're number one" at the basketball game? We who? Maybe the kids who play are number one, but how can anybody sitting in the bleachers claim that? And what kind of stupid geek would write "Geeks Run the World," like I saw on the bathroom wall?

  I get to the library early for my free period, and nobody's around, not even the librarian. I guess they don't worry about books being stolen at this school. I don't feel like starting my writing assignment yet, so I grab a Baker Banner from the checkout counter and sit down at one of the study desks.

  The top headline says, "Have You Thought About Suicide?" which seems like a pretty interesting question for a school paper to ask. The article says that each year in the United States five to ten thousand kids kill themselves.

  When I turn the page I see a questionnaire: "What's Your SP (Suicide Potential)?"

  Have you ever had thoughts of committing suicide? I check the Yes box. Sure, I've thought about it. Hasn't every kid?

  Have you thought about how you would commit suicide? Yes. By lightning—I'd stand in a lake during a thunderstorm holding my mom's metal tennis racket. That should do it.

  What would cause you to commit suicide? Life. I suppose I should be more specific, but I don't want to rule out any good reasons.

  If you were going to commit suicide, would you tell your best friend beforehand? What best friend? If you're going to commit suicide, you probably don't have one.

  Has a friend ever talked to you about suicide? What friends?

  What do you think are the warning signs that someone is thinking of committing suicide? Depression, anxiety, anger, failure, misery. And crying a lot, but maybe not so much for boys.

  Suicide Suicide Suicide Suicide Suicide Suicide—six times in six sentences. When you look at the word awhile, it makes no sense ... soo-a-side, SOO-a-side, soo-a-SIDE. Sounds like a pig call.

  I feel better about myself after reading this article. After all, I have no intention of killing myself like thousands of other kids. Just because I'm anxious and obsessive sometimes doesn't mean I'm desperate. Besides, the things I do don't bother me half as much as they bother other people. For another thing, suicide is painful, and I'm not into pain. The last thing I want is to end up as a slab of meat on my dad's embalming table.

  CHAPTER 11

  I don't want to wake up. I want to sleep and dream about a world where I can cruise two feet above the ground and fly up to the roof if I want to or zip around a corner faster than anyone can catch me. All I'd have to do is think—Zoom, Devon, Zoom—and it would happen.

  "Time to get up, Devon."

  Where do dreams come from? From the mind somewhere, but which part—the part that wishes certain things to happen or the part that wishes other things wouldn't? I asked Dr. Castelli this question and he said, "Dreams may be the brain's way of getting rid of the odd images and feelings that accumulate during the day so you can wake up refreshed in the morning." If that's so, how come I wake up feeling like a dog that's been run over in the middle of the night?

  "Devon, you have to get up this instant."

  Why do I have to? Why wouldn't some other instant do just as well? Parents control the house, the money, the car, the food—why do they have to control time, too?

  "If you don't get up, I won't drive you to Harvard."

  Mom always has a threat like this. She knows I want to go into Cambridge and see what Harvard's like. I'm probably not smart enough to get in there. She didn't even make it, and I'm pretty sure she's smarter than I am. Still, it's some place to go on a Saturday. I need a destination.

  "All right, I warned you."

  "I'm up." I jump out of bed just as she pushes in my bedroom door. My boxers are sticking straight out in front. "Mom!"

  "Oh, sorry, Devon."

  I grab the blanket off my bed to hold in front of me. "Sorry"? I've always thought that the most useless word in the English language, because it can never undo what's done.

  Harvard's cool. The library looks like a monument you see in Washington. The information flier says that it has 3.2 million books. I probably couldn't even read all the titles before I die. I walked around Harvard Yard all morning and went in the science building and the chapel and even a class building. I looked in one of the rooms, and the kids were all hunched over their desks writing every word the professor said. And this is Saturday.

  But the most interesting thing about Harvard is Harvard Square, which is where I'm standing now. I've never seen so many weird people all in one place. I'm trying to look at them without their knowing, so I've picked up a magazine at the Out of Town News, which is on a cement island in the middle of the traffic. The kids hanging out next to the subway entrance aren't much older than me. They have spiked hair and nose rings and dog collars around their necks. They're wearing black leather pants and black jackets and black boots. At Amherst we had one or two goth kids, but here there are dozens. How do they get away with it? I mean, don't they have to go home for dinner?

  Imagine me dressed like that—Devon the Destroyer! I could do whatever I wanted, and who would mess with me?

  "You buying that?" I look up and see a very short man with a pencil bobbing between his teeth. He nods at the magazine in my hands. "This isn't a library, you know."

  Crochet World—why am I holding that? "Ah, no, sorry, I guess I don't want this after all." I slip the magazine back into its clip on the awning.

  Behind me I hear laughter and turn to see a girl with silver sparkles on her face, shaking a can of whipped cream. She walks up to a guy holding a sign saying "Jesus Saves" and sprays the whipped cream on his head. The religious guy doesn't move—doesn't even turn around to see what the girl's doing. He just stands there. I know about being picked on, and this is strange. Why isn't he running away or fighting back? Then it strikes me—this guy wants to be picked on. He wants everybody to see how bad the kids are. Maybe he even wants to be persecuted, like Jesus.

  This is too crazy, even for me. I cross the street and head up Massachusetts Avenue, past the Harvard Coop Bookstore. When I see C'est Bon I get thirsty. I wasn't thirsty before, but looking through the window at the big, cold bottles of Coke inside suddenly makes my mouth feel dry. I think I'm very suggestible.

  When you think about it, "C'est Bon" is a pretty strange name. I mean, in France do they have "This Is Good" convenience stores?

  I head for the door. I don't even stop to count the people going in, and I don't know why tha
t is. Sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn't. New obsessions are like that with me—they take time to take hold everywhere.

  A ragged old man jumps in front of me, which is pretty rude. I wait for him to go in, but he just holds the door open, so I slip in around him. I find a tennis-ball can of barbecue chips and a sixteen-ounce Coke, which Mom won't buy for me because of all the caffeine. I pay the girl at the counter, then head for the door. It opens in front of me, and there's the same ragged man holding the handle. This time he has his hand out.

  "Can you spare two quarters for my friend here?" He pulls back his old coat, and there's the smallest orange cat I've ever seen.

  I want to pet him, but I'm not sure I should. Who knows what this guy might do?

  "Go ahead. He won't bite."

  I stick my finger toward the little face, and a paw reaches for it. I don't feel any claws. "What's his name?"

  The man shrugs. "I don't know if he has one. I found him in the cemetery up the road last night. If you want to name him, go ahead."

  The kitten opens his mouth and licks my finger. His tongue probably has millions of germs on it, but I don't care. I wouldn't let any person in the world lick my finger, but this is a kitten. "Sasha, why don't you call him Little Sasha."

  "Little Sasha. I like that."

  I move out of the way to let a couple go past me. The man doesn't open the door for them. I don't know what to do next. I don't normally talk to beggars. Dad says they use your money to buy liquor. This guy doesn't look like a drunk. And he has Little Sasha. I pet the kitten again and then reach into my pocket. I pull out a fistful of change and three dollar bills. I keep two dollars and fifty cents for myself. "I need this to get home on the train, but you can have the rest."

  The man smiles, and I'm surprised to see very straight, white teeth. "I don't need that much. Sixty cents will buy a small container of milk."

  I drop two quarters and a dime into his hand. I hope he didn't notice I was making sure not to touch him. His hand is kind of curled up, like my grandfather's.