by Otis Hanby
“Well, we’re glad you’re with us, Corey. My name is Mr. Harold, and I’ll be your history teacher for the rest of the year. I hope the students here make you feel welcome.”
I make brief eye contact with Mr. Harold and try to decipher if he’s being genuine or just polite. Mr. Harold starts his class by calling on a student to read aloud. As I follow the words with my eyes, not really taking them in, I think about my life back in Garland and all my friends. Any new environment is stressful, I know, but the darkness that’s been building up in me is only worse in these unfamiliar surroundings. I feel so out of place.
After we read and do a written assignment, the bell rings, and the students rush for the door. I’m relieved I didn’t have to read aloud. In the hallway, I watch the cowboys scoot their mud-dried boots across the floor. I’m willing to bet that most of these kids put in a little work on their family’s ranches and farms before they come to school. Not like the poser cowboys that go to Garland, with their boots all polished and well-kept.
By lunchtime, the clouds have thickened, and rain is falling lightly, leaving mud puddles everywhere. Most of the cowboys walk through the puddles without regard for their boots. In the city, the students wouldn’t be caught dead with mud on their shoes. Everything seems so different here. I suddenly have no interest in eating lunch. The anxiety of my new surroundings makes me want solitude. My mood remains dark.
I walk to the library I passed earlier in the day, and take out a paperback that I stuffed into my jacket pocket from Jack’s house that morning. It’s ‘Rage’ by Richard Bachman, and I look forward to reading it. I’ve always been somewhat of an introvert, but now I feel like I’m really embracing it. I open the library door and peer inside. I don’t see anybody, so I walk in. The library is small. All of the shelves are built into the walls, and there are none of the typical rows I usually see at other libraries. Apparently, there isn’t much interest reading around here. The selection of books is pathetic. It’s just one more thing I’m going to have to learn to deal with. I notice a door to the right of me. I knock on the door and slowly open it. “Hello?” No one responds, so I venture into the long, narrow room.
The space is small and cozy. Shelves line the walls, holding various school supplies, and it’s really just a big closet. In the back of the room is a crawl space, kind of a loft with a small window at the top. I climb the few stairs into the loft, which has just enough space for me to lay on my back with my knees drawn up. I peer through the foggy window and watch kids walking to and from different buildings of the school, oblivious of my spying. I found the perfect place to be alone. I lie back and open my paperback. I read by the light of the small window and feel content for the first time in days. Before long, I’ve escaped this hick hellhole and become lost in my book.
I’m pulled back into reality by the angry ringing of the school bell. Putting my bookmark in the paperback, I climb down from the crawl space. I feel reluctant to rejoin the real world. Careful not give away my position, I put my ear to the door and listen for voices inside the library. Hearing nothing, I crack the door open, and the library is still empty. I step out of my hiding spot and walk back into reality as kids fill the halls, but not with the crowds like Garland High. I go to my newly assigned locker and grab my English book. I turn the corner and see my cousin. Without saying anything, I follow him to our next class. We walk outside underneath an awning, which doesn’t do much good since the gusting wind drives cold rain under the sides and soaks us. As I walk into the classroom, though, the atmosphere seems lighter. The room bright and the students are in better humor than they were in History.
“Hi! You must be Corey, Jack’s cousin! My name is Ms. Pullen. So glad you can be with us!” A heavyset woman grabs me warmly by the shoulders, smiling a bright smile.
“Uh… thanks.” I’m not sure how to respond to such an upbeat person.
“You can sit wherever you like, provided the desk is empty,” Ms. Pullen says. The smile is still there, and it seems genuine.
She turns and walks to her desk with an energy that causes her short red hair to bounce. I see an empty desk in the front of the class and take it. There are a couple of empty desks towards the back of the room, but that’s where the not-so-friendly cowboys are sitting.
“Alright class, I’m sure you have all met Corey so I won’t embarrass him by making him tell everyone about himself.”
I’m relieved.
“I want everyone to write for the next ten minutes on any topic you want. This is the creative writing portion of the class, and I’m excited to read the interesting things that come from your imaginations. So, let’s not waste a lot of time visiting with each other and use this time wisely.” Ms. Pullen passes out sheets of paper to the front rows. I take one and pass the rest back to an attractive brunette behind me as she smiles politely at me. I crack an awkward smile and quickly turn back around. I look up at the clock, not wanting to lose valuable writing time. I stare at my blank piece of paper, waiting for an idea to surface. I finally pick up my pen and begin writing words until they turn into a story. I write about a girl who’s running away from a creature. The creature first sees the girl when she’s taking the trash out as one of her household responsibilities. She hears beast-like noise coming from the dark shrubs that are between the house and where she’s standing, still holding the garbage bag. After hearing the sound, she’s reluctant to walk back towards the house. When the noise repeats itself, aggressively closer this time, she starts in the opposite direction towards the woods that surround her home. Soon a sense of panic takes over. The words seem to come to life as I write them. I’m lost in my story until Ms. Pullen says time is up and to pass the papers to the front. I’m disappointed that I didn’t get to finish, but I hand my story and the others to Ms. Pullen. She smiles that warm smile again and takes the papers to her desk. It almost feels like she cares.
“Everyone, turn to chapter nine and work the grammar problems at the end of the chapter.” With silent respect, everyone opens their books and busies themselves with the assignment. I can see that Ms. Pullen is a different kind of teacher. The mood in the room is positive. This is something that I am not used to. It feels uncomfortable to be in a relaxed environment and actually seeing students want to be part of a class. Out of uncertainty, I crawl back into myself.
After finishing the assignment, I close my book and look at the clock. There are only a couple of minutes left in class. I take my assignment to Ms. Pullen’s desk and put it on the stack of papers already turned in. Ms. Pullen seems to be absorbed in the creative writings from earlier. As soon as I sit back down, the bell rings, but before I can leave, Ms. Pullen calls my name.
“Corey, can I see you for a minute?”
After the other kids exit the classroom, I approach Ms. Pullen’s desk.
“I can’t believe you wrote this. This is very descriptive. Do you write much?”
“No, ma’am. That was my first try. I read a lot, so I guess it has something to do with it.”
“Well, you definitely have a talent. I’m very impressed with this. You might have a future in this.”
“Thanks,” I say, flattered but still feeling guarded.
“You keep up the good work, and you’ll have no problem in my class.”
“Thanks,” I say again not believing her.
As I walk out of the classroom, I allow myself, for a very brief moment, to feel good about Ms. Pullen’s comments. Then, as if arguing with myself, I think, “You know better than to think that you have a future in writing. You’re a loser and cursed with being a failure.”
Making a career out of writing would mean going to college, and I don’t see that as an option. It feels like the least obtainable thing to me since I’d be lucky to make it through high school. Hell, at this point, I’ll be lucky to make it through the tenth grade.
Chapter Fifteen
Sitting at the bar in Jack’s house eating dinner, I feel withdrawn. My uncle and my aunt ar
e sitting across from me watching television, while Jack is watching too, but turned around in his chair, and his plate on his lap. A couple of weeks have gone by, and I’m still having trouble acclimating.
“So how do you like the school?” Aunt Sue Ellen asks.
“It’s okay,” I say to appease my aunt. I’m still missing Garland and all my friends too much to feel anything positive.
“They’re starting a youth group in town at the Methodist church. You and Jack ought to look into it.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” I say, not wanting to invest in anything new.
“Why wouldn’t you be ready for that?” my aunt asks.
“I’m not sure if I believe in God. What if there is no such thing as God?” I say, not being argumentative, but questioning if there is actually something bigger out there in the universe.
“There’s a God!” Uncle Joe booms at me. Jack gives me a look that tells me not to go any further. I follow his advice and keep my mouth shut.
“Do you think I could call home and see how things are going?” I ask, feeling awkward and wanting to change the subject as fast as possible.
“I don’t mind as long as you keep it short. It’s long distance, and it’s not cheap,” my aunt responds.
“Thank you,” I say, draining my glass of Dr. Pepper. I get up from the table feeling excited for the first time in days. I push myself out of my chair and head to the phone that’s in the bathroom so I can have a little privacy. Picking up the receiver, I dial Greg’s number using the rotary dial. The phone rings three times, and I begin to feel anxious that he might not answer. Finally, someone picks up, and Greg’s familiar voice comes through.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Greg! What are you doing?” I ask, smiling to myself. It’s good to hear a familiar voice.
“Noth’n. What are you doing fool?”
“Man, I’m in such a hick hell. It sucks out here bad.”
“It sounds like it. Is there nobody to skate without there?”
“There’s nowhere to skate. I’m going crazy out here!” I need sympathy, and I’m not ashamed to let Greg know.
“That sucks,” Greg says, and it sounds like he means it.
“So, what’s everybody been up to? What’s Rodney doing?”
“Same stuff. Everyone is flipping out that you just up and disappeared. Braydon told us what happened.”
“His mom is such a traitor.”
“Yeah. Braydon’s afraid you’re gonna hate him now.”
“I don’t hate him. Can you tell him that I don’t hate him?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell him.”
“So, tell me what’s been going on.”
“Things seem a little different. Chad and Tyler are kind of sticking to themselves. Rodney’s been hanging out with a headbanger. Some guy named Chuck.”
“I don’t really know him,” I say.
“Darren and Brigette are just hanging out together all the time. It’s kind of weird. I just skate with Seth most of the time, and my friend from the neighborhood—Sofon. You remember that Korean guy that skates.”
“Yeah. He’s pretty good.”
“Yeah. That’s about it,” Greg says.
“What about Erica. What’s she doing?”
“Nothing really.”
“Greg, is there something I should know?” I press him.
He pauses. “After she broke up with you, she tried to tell me that she was interested in me. I told her she was pretty but I don’t go out with my friends’ girlfriends. She said she wasn’t your girlfriend anymore. I told her, ‘You know what I mean.’”
I think I knew she would make a pass at Greg. I’m not surprised because Greg’s a really cool guy. And it meant a lot to me that he turned her down.
“Is that it?” I sense there’s something else he isn’t telling me.
“Well, there is one more thing.” Greg sounds reluctant.
“What?”
“I’m sorry for having to tell you this, but Erica is seeing someone.”
I’m flooded with hurt and anger. I stare at the wall in disbelief. I understand why he wouldn’t want to tell me. And I’m growing angrier by the minute.
“Sorry for having to tell you that,” Greg says again, apologetically.
“No, it’s cool. Thanks for telling me. Who is she seeing?”
“Some Mexican kid. He’s all punked out. I’ve only seen him once. He doesn’t go to Garland or anything. I think he skates, too. Things are just different since you left.”
Picturing this new boyfriend of hers brings the blood rushing to my head. I’m trying to think of something else to say to change the subject, but I’m too angry to talk anymore.
“Greg, I have to get off the phone because it’s long distance. Tell everyone I said what’s up.”
“I will. Take it easy and I’m sorry for bumming you out.”
“It’s cool. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Bye,” Greg says. I hear a click on the other line, and I sit staring into space, still holding the phone. Slowly I replace the phone on the cradle. I sit in the dark for several minutes letting my anger fester. I get up and walk out of the bathroom, past the bar, and out to the garage. I reach into my pocket for my cigarettes, and I hear the screen door open. Not caring who it is, I light a cigarette.
“What’s up?” my cousin asks from behind me.
“I’m just pissed. I wish I had something to hit.”
There’s a long silence as I take a couple of drags off my cigarette.
“My brother left an Army duffle bag here. We could make a punching bag out of it.”
“Yeah. That sounds like a good idea,” I say, turning around and looking where the bag could be hung.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” my cousin says, disappearing into the house. I finish my cigarette just as he’s coming back out.
“Here. Help me put this stuff into the duffle bag,” Jack says, handing me some old sheets and clothes. We push the materials into the bag and pack everything in real tight. Jack says he’s going to get a chain to hang the bag with and instructs me to cut the shoulder straps off with a shop knife. Jack comes back with an old dog chain and attaches it to the latch at the end of the bag. I hold the bag at the other end and lift it as he hangs it from the garage door track guide. Feeling impressed with our creation, I give the bag a couple of quick punches.
“Wait a sec,” Jack says, running to the workbench across the garage and returning with a pair of work gloves.
“Here. Put these on to protect your hands.”
I pull the cigarettes and lighter out of my pocket and hand them to Jack. I slip the work gloves on and begin hitting the bag as hard as I can. I hear Jack’s Zippo flick open, and the garage fills with smoke as I hit the bag with increasing intensity. I picture Erica and the faceless boyfriend of hers. I grow angrier with every punch. I circle the bag as I hit it. Over and over I strike the bag until it starts to slide down the garage door track. I chase it, putting the full force of my anger into every punch. For a split second, I see my uncle out of the corner of my eye, looking through the window of the kitchen door. He disappears, and I growl at the bag, rearing back for a particularly vicious punch.
Spittle is forming at my mouth as I swing. I begin to get winded and my strikes slow. I fall to my knees, heave for several breaths, and drip sweat as the cold air cools me off. I remain hunched over and breathing heavy as I see my cousin walking back into the garage from outside. He tosses his cigarette on the ground and snuffs it out, and asks me for the work gloves. I stand up and peel them off. Jack pulls on the gloves and begins hitting the bag in more of a controlled manner than I was. Feeling cold and tired, I go over to the kitchen door and walk in. All the lights are off except the one over the kitchen sink. Jack’s mom and dad have gone to bed. I walk down the dark hall to my room. I put in a “Cure” tape I brought with me from home and turn out the bedroom light. I lie on the bed as my breathing becomes regular
and rhythmic again. I lose myself in the song “Pictures of You” and close my eyes remembering the loss of Erica. I let the feeling consume me as the music conjures mental images of Erica smiling. It all seems like such a long time ago. I feel a tear slide down my cheek. The next song comes on, and I fall into a deep, troubled sleep. I never hear my cousin come in from outside and go to his bedroom.
***
I get through the next few weeks of school without incident. The students seem to be softening around me, although they aren’t exactly tripping over each other to be my friends. I talk to Christian mostly. It turns out he’s an excellent artist. During P.E., Christian sits up at the top of the bleachers and draws. The coach never makes us dress out for gym because he’s too busy shaping up the basketball team. I was bored one day, and I climbed up to see what Christian was doing. He showed me his drawing and several others in his sketch pad and was really impressed by his work. I also found out that he plays electric guitar and I’m curious to hear him play. His taste in music is more mainstream than mine, but I’m reserving judgment on account of his limited access. I had no idea how country Christian is until one day during the week he asked me to describe a city street lamp to him so that he could include it in a drawing he’s working on. He said he vaguely remembers what they look like but needs help to get the details right. At first, I thought he was putting me on, but his facial expression reveals that he was being sincere. It really blew my mind. Even though Christian’s ignorant about some things, I think it actually makes me appreciate him more.
I’m growing more introverted by the day. I move like a shadow through the halls of the school. Ms. Pullen continues to take an interest in me despite my efforts to be invisible. Deep within, I appreciate her encouragement. She’s trying to build me up by telling me how talented I am, and that I could go far if I focused on my strengths. I figure I’m doing good if I can muster the strength to make it through another day. Hope for the future is not something I can entertain; I just don’t have room for it. I do appreciate Ms. Pullen’s encouragement, though.
