by Pearl Love
“Gee, thanks, sis,” Jeremy protested at her implication that he was a nerd. “I don’t know about all that. I haven’t even been there a full day yet.” He took another bite of his pierogi after dipping it in sour cream. Irina rolled her eyes in annoyance, so he continued before she could pinch his thigh. He hated when she did that. “There was this one guy in my homeroom….” He wasn’t quite sure what to say about his odd encounter with Mr. Jerky. The meaning of the nasty look he’d gotten was clear enough, and he didn’t think it worth mentioning. But he didn’t know how to begin describing the peculiar sensation and unusual music that had seemingly accompanied that initial encounter. In the end, he merely shrugged and said, “I guess he didn’t like me very much.”
“Did he do or say something?” The ambivalent explanation obviously raised Monica’s maternal hackles. “Do I need to go up to school and talk to the principal?” She reached into her purse, which she’d brought with her into the kitchen, and pulled out her appointment book. “I think I have some time free on Wednesday afternoon—”
“No, Monica,” Jeremy said, stopping her before she could begin planning her assault on the unsuspecting administration of Winton Yowell. “Nothing happened. We didn’t say one word to each other the entire time. And he certainly didn’t do anything.” He sighed. “Like I said, it was just an impression I got. It doesn’t matter. We sit next to each other, but I doubt we’ll have much interaction beyond that. Besides,” he added quickly when Irina reacted with a ferocious scowl at the news that he would have to sit near Mr. Jerky the entire school year, “Mr. Crabtree seems like a really decent guy. I, um….” He glanced briefly at his mother and sister before looking back down at his plate. “I kind of hinted to him that I was gay, and he was cool about it. He even said he’d have my back if I needed help. So see? Everything will be fine.”
Monica and Irina stared at him with matching expressions of concerned pride.
“That was pretty brave of you, Bean,” Irina said, giving his hand a squeeze.
Monica nodded in agreement. “And I think it was a very good idea. Okay, well, I guess the third degree is over for now.” She chuckled at his theatrical “phew” of relief. “But if anything happens, anything at all—”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’ll tell you right away.”
After a final kiss to his temple, Monica rose from her chair and nabbed a pierogi from his plate before disappearing into her bedroom/office to do some work.
Irina gave him a tight hug as she likewise got up from the table. Her husband picked their daughter up from her day-care program, and Jeremy knew his sister needed to get home to feed her own family. She paused long enough to admonish him to do the dishes since she’d been nice enough to cook for him. “Do you want me to drive you to school tomorrow?” she asked as she retrieved her purse and headed for the door while he walked beside her. “You said you saw this kid on the bus, right? I don’t mind swinging by if you’d rather avoid seeing him any more than you have to. It’s not too far out of my way.”
“Nah,” Jeremy answered, shaking his head. “I don’t want to change my routine just to avoid someone who doesn’t matter.”
After shoving her lovingly out of the apartment, he retreated to his own room, noting that Andrew had turned his music down. He guessed his brother might be taking a nap before his evening shift at the mechanic’s shop. That is, if he still had a job there. Jeremy was just glad he wouldn’t have to bang on the shared wall between their rooms in protest at the noise.
Jeremy wondered sometimes how he and Andrew were even related. They had absolutely nothing in common besides their last name. Their relationship was nothing like the one between him and Chris. Jeremy remembered asking his parents once when he was really small, maybe five years old, if he and Chris were twins. Their father had chortled openly while Monica explained that twins were always the same age and that there were over four years between Jeremy and his older brother.
Not that Jeremy had cared. He loved all of his family—except maybe for Andrew when he was in one of his bitchy moods—but there had been no one on the planet he’d been closer to than Chris. They’d shared everything, their tastes in foods, their tastes in clothes, even the type of music they’d liked. Chris had been the one to introduce Jeremy to the beauty of jazz, having taken him to see The Benny Goodman Story when it was playing at a nearby dollar theater. Chris had played the trumpet, and Jeremy had tried to yet again copy his brother, but Chris had been completely supportive when the clarinet had captured his fancy instead.
Jeremy flopped onto his bed and reached beneath him when a crinkle told him he’d landed on the package he brought from the library. He’d picked up the sheet music for Sonatina for Clarinet Solo, Op. 27 and a solo arrangement of “Stompin’ at the Savoy.” He figured he’d show Mr. Crabtree his full range at his audition the next day. He pulled the paper sleeve the librarian had stored the sheet music in from beneath his back and took out the pages. He propped his right ankle on his left knee as he glanced over the notes. They were familiar since he’d played the pieces before while studying at Sherwood, and he started humming along under his breath as he read. He reached almost unconsciously for the pendant that was never far from his neck.
Even more than the music they’d both loved, if there was anything that made him remember Chris it was the pendant, the last gift he’d ever received from his beloved older brother. He’d rarely taken it off since Monica had given it to him at the funeral. Distraught over the devastating loss, Jeremy hadn’t wanted it at first, terrified at having a constant reminder that Chris was gone from him forever, but his mother had insisted.
“He told me he’d intended to give it to you when you graduated from high school. He’d want you to have it.”
Jeremy had been nearing the end of his eighth grade year, and had barely been able to think about surviving to the next day, let alone to such a far-off time. Monica had put it in his room, hanging it from the mirror attached to his dresser, and eventually, Jeremy had gotten over his depression enough to wear it. Now the pendant had become a part of him, and he didn’t know how he’d ever been able to stand being without it.
Though he wore it every day, he almost never just took the time to look at it. For some reason, he did so now, holding it up so it dangled in front of his face. The stone was lapis lazuli fashioned into a large teardrop shape about the size of an overripe strawberry. The rich blue was shot through with cloudy streaks of white, and he’d always thought it looked like the night sky with a storm on the horizon, promising a flash of cleansing rain. The stone was relatively flat, only about a quarter of an inch thick. One side was completely smooth, but the other boasted a stylized owl engraved with what looked like gold. Chris had sworn it was just yellow paint since he’d bought it at a flea market during his senior-year school trip to New York City.
Jeremy hadn’t cared, he’d loved the pendant from the first moment he’d laid eyes on it, and he loved it even more now. Especially since it was the only tangible reminder he had of his brother besides the secondhand trumpet he’d placed like a shrine on a shelf of his bookcase. His gaze drifted over to the instrument. It needs a dusting, he mused, deciding he’d ask Monica for the Swiffer when she called him to dinner after Dad got home.
As he studied the trumpet, Jeremy found himself thinking of his new classmate, Tyrell. Why on earth would that guy of all people suddenly come to mind, he wondered. Jeremy blamed his mother and sister for making him talk about Mr. Jerky when he’d have been quite content to put Tyrell completely out of his thoughts forever. Or at least until tomorrow’s homeroom period. He finally returned his attention to the sheet music, determined to impress Mr. Crabtree and earn a first chair spot. Long moments passed before he noticed that his humming had changed from his audition pieces to the music he’d heard that morning on the bus while staring into Tyrell’s deep brown eyes.
Chapter SEVEN
TYRELL STARED out of the bus window, absently watching the bu
stle of the downtown heading-to-work crowd as he thought about his upcoming day. His first class was English Lit. Ryan had commiserated with him on both the subject and that Mrs. Brooks would be his teacher. She was known to be a hardass who liked to torment her students by making them recite the boring, wordy prose favored by “tired, dusty English authors”—Ryan’s words—by heart. Tyrell would have eaten broken glass before admitting to his friend that he really enjoyed English literature and had spent several enjoyable days over the summer with his favorite poet, Robert Burns.
The bus driver called out the next stop, and Tyrell pretended he wasn’t listening carefully for one intersection in particular. He had far more important things to think about, like how he was going to manage to pass Trig. He’d gotten through Geometry the previous year with a respectable if uninspiring B-minus, but he and math had never been on good terms. At least he had Physics on his schedule for his science requirement. No more messy chemistry labs or gross biology dissections, thank you very much. He’d chosen Sketching I for his art requirement, even though he could barely draw a circle without making a hash of it. He’d had to choose something, however, and Cynthia, who’d taken the class the year before, had assured him that the teacher graded for effort not ability.
“This is Madison and Halsted.”
Tyrell’s head snapped up at the announcement. Shit, he thought a second later. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t look for the new kid, Jeremy, on the bus that morning, and yet here he was doing precisely that. And what, precisely, was he planning to do when he saw him? Apologize? Tyrell knew himself better than to believe that, at least not when they were in public on a CTA bus. Smile? That idea had some potential, but he was a little concerned he’d come off as creepy if he just started grinning at the dude for seemingly no reason. All he knew was he had to do something.
After his strange illness at the game the previous evening, he’d hung around with Cynthia and Shaunteé while they waited for the football team to finish up in the guest locker room. By some miracle, they’d managed to lose by only a field goal, thanks in large part to the quarterback who’d played in the second half. Stuart Mitchel was a senior and had turned out to be a brilliant passer. Winton Yowell had been down too far going into the second half to pull it out against the stellar Kendall lineup, but at least the team hadn’t embarrassed itself completely. Ryan had been philosophically optimistic about the upcoming season and had happily engaged in a play-by-play recap while they enjoyed a postgame pizza as though the rest of them hadn’t been watching.
Cynthia had noticed that Tyrell was merely picking at his slice and had questioned him on his uncharacteristic abstemiousness. He’d considered telling her about the eerie feeling he’d sensed while walking past the bleachers on his way back from the bathroom, but instead, he’d found himself confessing his ambivalence toward his new classmate.
“You remember him,” he’d said, keeping his voice low. Cynthia had pulled him away from the table with the excuse of buying more drinks so they could talk with the illusion of privacy. They stood toward the far side of the restaurant near the front counter, their absence noticed only by Shaunteé, who’d frowned when Cynthia had instructed him to help her carry their refills back to the others. “The blond kid with the long hair? The one Dunce and Ryan were razzing this morning before school. The guy is totally weird,” he’d continued when she nodded. “But he seems harmless enough.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Tyrell groaned, knowing how she’d react, but he’d needed to get it off his chest. “We were on the bus together, and I was kind of an ass to him.” He’d told her what he’d called Jeremy in his mind, and winced when she’d predictably smacked him on the back of the head.
“I know you better than that, Tyrell Hughes. I’m not friends with bigots.” She’d glared at him with her hands on her hips in an uncanny and likely unconscious replica of her mother. Natalie Parker had been like a second mother to Tyrell—he’d spent nearly as much time at Cynthia’s house as he had his own over the years—and he respected her greatly. Seeing her likely disapproval reflected at him through her daughter’s eyes made him feel only that much worse. “You’d better apologize when you see him tomorrow, and don’t think I won’t ask to make sure you did.”
Cynthia had threatened to make him go with her that weekend to the senior’s center where she volunteered if he failed to comply with her demands, and Tyrell had caved with a vague promise. Now he faced the dilemma of whether to honor his vow or to just forget about the whole thing. He broke out in an honest-to-god sweat when the bus driver opened the doors, but no one got on except a couple of college-aged girls, who stood near the doors, even though a few empty seats were available.
That’s just great, Tyrell moaned silently. That little bastard hadn’t even had the decency to catch the bus on time. Tyrell rolled his eyes at his own foolishness. If he had to apologize, he’d have much rather taken care of it away from the watchful eyes of the rest of the school. Losing face in front of his classmates wasn’t something he was eager to do. Still his current situation was hardly Jeremy’s fault.
Tyrell accepted that his planned mea culpa was a wash. Cynthia could just cool her damn heels and wait. It wasn’t like she could make him go to that smelly senior’s center with her. He’d accompanied her once out of curiosity when she’d first started volunteering and had sworn he’d never go again. The place had been depressing, full of old people with nothing better to do than wait to die. He couldn’t help imagining his grandmother in such a place and swore to himself he’d do everything in his power to ensure she could live out her days comfortably at home with her family.
Shaking off the unpleasant memory, Tyrell gathered his things as the bus approached his stop. He glanced around one final time as he waited by the back door, thinking maybe he’d somehow missed his target, but that distinctive blond hair was nowhere to be seen. He got off at Halsted and noticed how different the scene in front of the school was from the previous morning. The crowds of loitering students were gone, replaced by the stream of bodies entering through the main doors of the Academic and Arts building. A few people were going into the Phys Ed building, apparently having the bad luck of drawing morning gym class.
Tyrell cut easily through the throng, employing his two years’ worth of experience to navigate the sea of milling bodies searching for their first-period classes. Homeroom wasn’t until second period, so he had a bit of a respite before he’d have to deal with his little problem. Given that he hung out mostly with jocks thanks to Ryan and Cynthia, none of his friends were in his English Lit class. Cynthia, overachiever that she was, had taken the class the previous year, and Ryan was determined to put it off until senior year when he’d have to take the course or risk not graduating.
Mrs. Brooks greeted her class by handing out the syllabus and distributing copies of the Charles Dickens reader that was to be their textbook for the time being. He was only a little disappointed when he perused the syllabus and noticed they wouldn’t be reading Chaucer until after the holiday break. Tyrell eagerly lost himself in the beautiful words and vivid images painted by their first assignment, Oliver Twist. Unfortunately, the bell rang announcing the end of the period before he was ready to face his upcoming challenge.
Tyrell’s English Lit class was on the first floor, so he had to join the melee of students forced to brave the stairwell to reach their second-period class. He made it through with only a single inadvertent elbow to his ribs and one foot stepped on, counting it a minor victory. Freshman year, he’d actually been knocked down the stairs by the mass of bodies coming at him during the hourly change of classes and had ended up in the nurse’s office. Being nearly half a foot taller than he’d been even a year ago and fifteen pounds heavier had its advantages.
When he reached room 204, he saw that Ryan had beaten him there. So had Jeremy.
“How was Mrs. Brooks?” Ryan asked when Tyrell reached his desk. “I heard from Mitchel that she�
�s really a dragon and breathes fire.” Ryan guffawed at his own joke. “Is it true? Oh, and we voted Mitchel as captain of the team. He was really something yesterday, wasn’t he? I still don’t know how he threw that fifty-yard pass without getting sacked. And Dunce swears that new wide receiver, Griffin, uses Stickum on his hands. We’re going to kick ass this year!”
Tyrell let Ryan’s enthusiastic chatter wash over him, barely able to hear what he was saying. That strange music had filled his head again from the moment he’d laid eyes on Jeremy, who was studiously ignoring him by burying his nose in what looked like a precalculus book.
What is with this damn song? Slow instrumental stuff wasn’t really his speed, but the notes came to him effortlessly as though he’d known the music his entire life. Tyrell exhaled in frustration, confused and disgusted with himself that he was just as determinedly ignoring the boy sitting next to him. Cynthia’s admonishment rang in his ears, but the timing was hardly ideal. Witnesses were the last thing Tyrell wanted when he spoke to Jeremy. Besides, Jeremy didn’t seem particularly interested in conversing. Maybe he’d imagined that hurt look Jeremy had given him yesterday on the bus and again when the teacher had introduced him to the class. Jeremy wasn’t making any effort to interact with anyone else, and he didn’t seem particularly distressed about the fact that no one was jumping to talk to him. Maybe he preferred being a loner. Far be it from Tyrell to interfere if that were the case.
Tyrell had nearly convinced himself to drop the entire matter when Mr. Crabtree swept into the room and propped his hips against his desk as he straightened the stack of papers he held in his hands.
“I hope everyone found their first class okay. I have your printed schedules here in case anyone has already forgotten what they’ve chosen to take this year.” Mr. Crabtree walked to the first desk in each row, dropping off a stack as he went. “Pass these back. They should be in order. I’ll take attendance, and then go over announcements.”
