Then a hand grabbed my ankle!
I awoke with a jolt. It was morning and the room was blurry. Drenched in cold sweat, I threw back the covers for some relief. I sat up, tossed my feet over the edge of the bed, and vigorously rubbed my eyes to restore my temporarily impaired vision. As my room came into focus, I noticed dark lines in my periphery. There was writing across my wall—a clumsily written backward “R”—which seemed to be gibberish.
I dropped to the floor in front of the writing. The backward “R” smeared as I ran my finger down the wall. The tip of my finger was coated in a chalky residue and I wiped it off on my shorts.
I scanned my room to see if there was anything else amiss. And when I looked across the room—into the mirrored closet doors—I saw the true meaning of what was written on the wall. MY ROOM.
I stared into the mirror for what felt like hours, trying to make some sense out of what I was experiencing. I wanted to talk to someone about this but was afraid, afraid to bring more attention to myself.
I grabbed a wet towel from the bathroom and desperately scrubbed down the wall to erase the evidence. The words came out, but a dark smudge remained in their place—a reminder that something was still here, in my room, if I could call it that.
“How are you feeling?” Desiree asked. “You look surprisingly good.”
“I feel surprisingly good,” I said, taking my usual seat in chemistry. Desiree had on a green blouse that made her eyes absolutely sparkle and a pair of skinny jeans. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, completing her casual look.
“I was worried about you. I was gonna give you a call after school, but then realized I didn’t have your number.”
“As you can see, I’m fine,” I said.
We were both quiet for a moment, and students continued to pour into the class. I rummaged through my backpack to retrieve my textbook and water-damaged notebook.
“Well, are you gonna give it to me so I can check up on you after future fights?” she said, finally.
Halfway through telling Desiree my number, Leslie walked between us, and I momentarily forgot the last four digits. My eyes followed Leslie to the front of the class where she elegantly sat down and crossed her legs. Her red miniskirt revealed much of her thighs—a tease for all the guys in the classroom. Unattainable.
Desiree cleared her throat and I returned my attention to her with a reflexive sense of guilt. I clumsily recited the last four digits of my phone number. She didn’t write them down immediately, pushing to prolong my embarrassment.
“What is it with that girl? You stare at her every day,” she said.
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, if you’re so infatuated with her, why don’t you go talk to her?”
“I can’t do that. And say what? No, I can’t…”
“Boys. You’re all so pathetic.”
“That’s helpful, thank you.” I glanced back at Leslie.
The tank top she wore cut halfway down her back and showed off her bra straps. I was mesmerized and it took all my willpower not to stare. Desiree sighed, obviously aware of my internal struggle.
Class began.
My thoughts traveled backward, from the mysterious writing on my bedroom wall to yesterday’s fight. It was hard to believe the fight was just yesterday; it was so clear in my mind, but I didn’t have a scratch on me. There were neither cuts nor bruises on my face, and my body wasn’t the least bit sore.
When I parted ways with Desiree after class, I was consumed by dread on the approach to my locker. I anticipated my tormentors waiting for me, wanting to finish what we’d begun.
But they weren’t there. I opened my locker, not yet relieved. An ambush could come from behind. I waited for that sinister voice, daring me to turn around. I retrieved the books I needed, closed my locker, and whipped around. The ambush didn’t come either.
The same anxiety gripped me when I entered the gym locker room later that morning. I walked in with the veneer of confidence, glancing down each row. Many of the students looked up with mixed expressions, causing me to feel like I was reliving my first day of school. But no tormentors appeared.
I felt a little relieved, but still anxious to change and get out onto the blacktop, free from the grimy confines of the locker room. Even though nothing yet had happened, the stress of the day had become exhausting, and I felt nauseous.
Coach Andrews let me sit out of the baseball game. From the sidelines, my thoughts consumed me—again. I just wanted class to end so I could get out of my head. I knew worrying was pointless, but I changed out of my gym clothes with the same sense of urgency I had used to change into them.
I arrived at my expected lunch spot and found Anna sitting alone in the grass. She hadn’t waited for everyone else to begin eating her sandwich. She wore a lacy spaghetti strap tank top and a different pair of Dickies, and an eclectic collection of silver rings and leather bracelets.
She looked up and smiled shyly as I sat down across from her.
“Where’re Desiree and her boyfriend?” I asked.
“They usually buy their lunches, so they’ll be here in a few minutes.” Anna finished the first half of her sandwich and took a sip from her bottled water. She looked at me inquisitively. “You don’t look like you were in a fight yesterday.”
“You heard about that, huh?”
“I think everyone heard about that. Eli and I heard the yelling from here, but didn’t know it was you until later. What happened?” she asked.
I told her with the fewest amount of words possible.
“Aww, a man standing up for his woman,” she cooed mockingly.
“It’s not like that!”
“Hey, don’t get all emotional about it. I won’t tell. What happened afterward? Did you have to go down to the office or anything?”
“Hey, guys!” Desiree and Eli came up from behind me and sat down. “What’re you guys talking about?”
“Oliver’s little act of chivalry,” Anna said, throwing me under the bus.
“What?” I protested. “Me getting beat up was by no means chivalrous. It was actually quite the opposite—pretty humiliating.”
“You didn’t get beat up. You held your own.” Desiree said matter-of-factly. “But don’t push your luck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying those guys are kinda creepy. I don’t want you getting hurt, that’s all.”
I snuck a glance toward Eli and could tell he was biting his tongue. He wanted to say something, but, for some reason, didn’t.
Luckily, the conversation shifted off me and went back to the latest gossip: a girl that hooked up with her ex, some girl with hideous shoes and a dress that didn’t match, and celebrities in the magazine headlines. I didn’t understand the excitement and giddiness of the conversation and hung back with Eli, though he ignored me completely. He tightly held Desiree’s hand. I tried to not let him ruin my lunch and listened to the girls prattle on in a higher pitch and decibel than was humanly comfortable. Thankfully, the lunch hour ended without incident. Eli gave Desiree a noticeably long kiss before we headed in separate directions.
“I think Anna likes you,” Desiree said as we waded through the quad. I held the door to the humanities building open for Desiree and followed her into Mr. Gordon’s classroom. Mr. Gordon gave us a warm greeting as we entered. We sat at our usual desks in the back of the classroom, and Desiree turned to me before I had a chance to get out last night’s assignment.
“So, what do you think?” she asked in a low voice.
“About what?”
“About Anna.” She now sounded slightly annoyed.
I had not thought much about Anna. I had only seen her twice and today was the first time we held a short, yet legitimate conversation. She was cute and seemed nice, but I needed to choose my next words carefully. That much I learned from the girls’ gossip conversation.
“I think she’s a nice girl.”
“And—”
“And nothing right now. I don’t know. I just met her and don’t want to make anything awkward. Your boyfriend makes it awkward enough for everyone.”
“Eli just needs time to get to know you. He can be overprotective sometimes,” Desiree said and took out her books.
After class, I asked Mr. Gordon if he could spare a few minutes to talk. He suggested I come back after art class so our conversation wouldn’t be so pressured for time. I reluctantly agreed and chased after Desiree so we could make our way to art class together.
I could’ve finished my Halloween drawing if I’d concentrated more. The pastel colors were coming together nicely. I was learning to blend the colors together with my finger, smearing them into each other carefully to get the shades I desired instead of a puke-colored mess. Desiree was only halfway through her painting. She worked with the precision of a surgeon. She mixed her colors skillfully until they completely matched up with the picture.
“How are you doing after what happened yesterday?” Sara asked as she painted.
I knew someone would bring it up. I had hoped to avoid the conversation again, but I was really just waiting for it to begin.
“I saw that. It looked pretty brutal,” Blaine said.
“I saw part of it,” Andy said.
“Desiree told us about it yesterday,” Krystal said.
“So what happened?” The question was asked simultaneously like a sitcom with an audience laugh track. Again Desiree came to my rescue and retold the story.
“That guy, Sasha, was expelled from West Hills last year for fighting and then threatening a teacher,” Blaine said.
“So what’s he doing here?” I asked.
“That’s how these two schools deal with their problems, they trade. Seems dumb, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets sent back to West Hills.”
“All you have to do is mess up twice and you’re right back where you started,” Andy said, not looking up from his drawing.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” Blaine said apathetically.
“What about Patch Heights?” Desiree asked.
“The delinquent school? You have to really hurt someone or something to get thrown in there.”
“I just want to get him out of here,” I said.
“Here’s to the administration and their infinite wisdom!” Blaine exclaimed.
“Hear, hear!”Andy said.
The bell was about to ring and I had gotten very little done. It was okay since I was anxious to talk with Mr. Gordon. I packed up my station and was the first one out the door. I faintly heard Desiree call after me, but I was already gone—on a mission. I had no intention of stopping.
Mr. Gordon’s classroom was empty since he didn’t have a sixth period. I took off my backpack and placed it on one of the front desks. Mr. Gordon looked up from his papers, leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head, and grinned blithely.
“Mr. Grain,” he said dramatically. “What can I do for you?”
“You said you saw bruises and cuts on my face yesterday. I felt them at first. But when I went to the bathroom to wash up, they were gone.” I spoke forcefully and found myself pacing. I had been thinking about my next question all day, but I was embarrassed to ask it aloud. “Did you…somehow…heal me?”
Mr. Gordon laughed. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
I threw myself into the closest seat and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk aggressively and pushing forward even more so it teetered on its two front legs.
“Do you believe it’s possible?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m unsure about a lot of things right now.”
“The fight you were in yesterday—what if I said you caused it, indirectly?” Mr. Gordon said, putting his hands back on the desk and leaning forward.
Here he was accusing me again. I tried to remain calm.
“I guess I could’ve just walked away like you said.”
“That’s not what I mean. The provocation would still have been there. In the direction you were headed, even if you had walked away, a confrontation would still have come. It just might have been today or tomorrow or a few weeks down the road—whenever your last straw finally snapped.” He paused for a moment to allow me to digest what he was saying. “Do you believe everything that happens to you, you’re responsible for on some level? What were you thinking about before the fight?”
“How much I didn’t like them. And I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of my odds.”
“And what happened? You witnessed those odds firsthand. Everyone is on a plane of consciousness. Whichever plane you’re on determines your experience. Your experience right now is intertwined with those guys, which you currently think is inevitable. But I’m here to tell you it isn’t.”
“Can you move from one plane to another?”
“Absolutely! In fact, you do so all the time. You can change your course, your destiny, at any moment. With just a new thought, leading to a new commitment, you can change your entire future.”
I didn’t know what to think. I started to get the feeling that Mr. Gordon was actually crazier than me. He spoke with such passion and conviction, even more so than he did in class. But it would take more than a few New Age theories to make a believer out of me.
“I thought you might say that,” Mr. Gordon said. “Let me show you something extraordinary.”
5
Road Number Two
Mr. Gordon rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to just below his elbows. He picked up a pair of scissors from a stained mug on his desk that read What came first, the coffee or the bean?, and opened the blades. He presented me his left forearm, which looked perfectly fine.
Slowly bringing one of the scissor blades down to his forearm, I watched in horror as he pushed it into his skin. The blade easily dug into the flesh near his wrist and cut all the way up his forearm. Blood gushed from the wound and poured around his arm. I gasped at the self-inflicted mutilation. The back two legs of my desk hit the floor with a thud as I slid back in my chair. Mr. Gordon seemed to be in no pain at all.
He quickly grabbed some tissues from atop his desk and wiped the underside of his forearm before the blood began to pour like a waterfall onto the carpet. He threw the blood-soaked tissues in the cylindrical trash can beside his desk and grabbed another wad of clean ones. By the time he had soaked up all the blood there was no cut underneath! None at all! Not even a shiny scar in its place!
I tried to say something, but I could barely breathe, let alone speak.
Mr. Gordon finished wiping his arm and threw the second wad of tissues in the trash. He held out his forearm again for me to examine, making a fist and flexing his fingers so I could see all the muscles and tendons working harmoniously.
How could this be...?
“Take a deep breath,” Mr. Gordon said. He waited patiently for me to recover.
I needed more than a moment. I needed a lifetime, and even that might not be enough.
“That gives you some insight into my experience, into my plane of consciousness. On the first day of class, my first question was: Do you believe anything is possible? What did you think about that question?”
“I—I wanted to believe it,” I stuttered.
“But you didn’t.”
“There are so many rules, laws of nature, restrictions. Some things simply aren’t possible.”
“Like instantaneous healing through the power of thought?”
“I may have to rethink that one,” I said, still staring at Mr. Gordon’s forearm.
He chuckled and sat down at the desk next to me. “Well, I said it before and I’ll say it again: Anything is possible. This is the point where we come to a fork in the road; we can only go in one of two directions. One, you can walk out the door and go home, putting this out of your mind completely. Go on living your ordina
ry life. I understand how overwhelming this may seem and would think no less of you if that is the road you choose.”
“What if I take the other road?” I asked apprehensively.
“Ahh, road number two—if you choose road number two, I will show you more. I will show you what is really possible, allowing you to see in a way you have never seen before, seeing things which until now have remained hidden from you. I will show you what opportunity really is! And, like I said on the first day of school, this is the kind of opportunity that feels like magic.”
My head was swimming. I knew my life had just taken a turn for the weirder. Crazy didn’t even cut it. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but what are you?”
“A regular person like you, but with a little more insight, which I would be willing to share with you.”
“Why me?”
“You doubt yourself so much. Why not you?”
“And you think I could learn to do what you did earlier?”
“You’re quite capable. Learn to eliminate doubt and you’ll learn exactly what you’re capable of.” Mr. Gordon looked at me with his penetrating eyes.
Strangely, I believed his confidence in me. I felt much calmer than I did a few minutes prior. An intoxicating warmth gently washed over me. I had so many questions, but my serene state subdued my anxious curiosity.
“I think I’m ready to take road number two,” I said. How could I not want to know how to do that?
“I only have two conditions. One: I’m tutoring you in history. You’re the new student in need of some extra attention to catch up with the curriculum of this school. I doubt the school board would condone this type of tutoring, but this is beyond them. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. This is not a secret per se, but if we let in spectators and critics, then our productivity will be greatly lessened. And two: You have to give up everything you think you know, wipe the slate clean and allow your new life experience to unfold naturally. That’s all I ask in order for us to proceed. Sound fair?”
Provex City Page 5
