Monday morning riding in with Matt sucks worse than I think it will. Everything I swore I wouldn’t do while I was here, I’ve done. I got involved with a team. A girl. I let some teachers talk me into trying to be more than I am. I am so busy cursing myself out in my head, I don’t even respond when Matt says, “Ruh-roh.”
There’s Emily. And she’s walking with someone else. A guy. “Who’s that?”
“Marty. Track dude. Thought she was with you.”
I look down, grab my lacrosse gear. “Not anymore.”
“You knew?”
“About him? No. About me, yeah.”
“Still sucks.” He smacks me on the arm, then puts his arm around my shoulder. “Good thing you still got us.”
Will and Parker step out of the crowd and join us almost on cue.
The bad news train keeps chugging along, this time dressed as Miss Quinlan. She’s in her casual look today, and my smart-ass self wants to ask if it’s dress-down Monday, but I’m pretty sure going on the offensive won’t help ease the tension for the scene that’s about to go down.
“Mr. Strickland,” she says as I approach. “I’ll need to see you in my office.”
Matt and the boys peel away, leaving me to face another adult who is disappointed in me. I want to tell her it’s her own damned fault, but I’m too tired from the twenty-five miles I ran this weekend, my legs like jelly. Weed sticks to your fat deposits. I need to get rid of those. Everyone wants a clean test, and I can’t disappoint.
She ushers me into her office, and I can’t help but remember the last time I was here, when she was actually hopeful that I’d do good things, make good choices, and all the other crap she laid on me. I plant myself in my chair and put my head in my hands, not because I don’t want to hear her squawk at me but because I’m dizzy from the exercise and no food regimen I’m currently on.
She sits in her chair. I listen for her to gulp her Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee, but she doesn’t even touch it this time. She clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, but we have to talk about your schedule again.”
I nod.
“I can see that you feel bad…”
I put my hand up, look up at her. “No, I’m fine. Put me back in the dummy classes. I deserve that.”
“It’s not that easy. You can’t be in Mr. Bonham’s class, but I’ve looked at all the other options, and it would be impossible to fix your schedule without messing it all up.”
“You can’t just put me back in my other classes?”
“I’m afraid not. You’re doing the work in all your classes.” She clicks through my information on her computer. “You have solid grades in all of them. I hope you will continue to keep those grades up. I think we’ll have to put you in as a teacher’s aide or something, but I need to have a teacher agree to that.”
“And no one wants to do that?”
“The media specialist said you can help her if you like.”
“Sure.”
“OK. Then we’ll do that. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, John.”
“Huh?”
“The drafting class.”
“It’s not that it didn’t work out. I didn’t work out. I didn’t belong there.”
She cocks her head at me. “You made a mistake.”
“Momentary loss of muscular coordination.”
Her face brightens. “The Shining?”
“Yeah.”
She hits the P button on her printer, and a paper spits out. She circles a bunch of things, stamps the sheet, then hands it to me. “Look, John, this doesn’t have to be a make-or-break situation for you. You can still stay on track to graduate on time. Go to college. I’ll help you apply.”
“Thanks.” I grab the new schedule.
“You have to have Mr. Bonham sign you out of his class, here.” She points on the page. “Then you can have Mrs. Reilly sign you in as her aide, here.”
My beast is tired, but he lifts his head. He tells me she could have made it easier on me. Could have gotten me signed out of Mr. Bonham’s class so I wouldn’t have to face him. But I grab the paper and nod at her instead of firing my rage at the one person who is still trying to be nice to me.
• • •
The gods of fucking up my life are working overtime right now, probably having a big-assed party, passing the chips and the beer, and toasting how freakin’ awesome they are. That’s how it feels when I—and I almost never run into Emily at school—see her at least six times today.
I try to catch her eye, but she makes sure that’s not possible. I’ve never known a person to avoid eye contact that well.
So now I round the corner and see that Marty dude trying to lay his arm around her just before Mr. Bonham drums me out of his class. I’m going to have to give those gods an extra point for creativity there.
Emily steps away, a tired smile on her face, like maybe she’s told him to not do that already and he’s not listening. I storm into my old classroom. A wave of emotions hits me, but I make my dragon stand down. He can’t help me here. Mr. Bonham sits next to one of those computer geeks, pointing at some drawing on the computer. That gives me time to examine all the 3-D models on the shelves, the ones I’ll never get to make.
Mr. Bonham sees me waiting by the door, waves me in. “Let’s get this over with.” He sits at his desk, and I give him the paper, trying not to look at the half-eaten sub he’s got in a wrapper on top of a brown paper bag. The pickles and peppers and dressing invade my nose, making my stomach growl like mad. I’m this complete freak of sensations now. Tired. Sore. Hungry. Angry. Wasting. My body is wasting. It’s an actual term they use. Ketosis. I know this because one of Mom’s big plays with New Ryan was to make him eat this ketogenic diet that was supposed to make him get better faster.
I remember how bad it smelled. Fat and protein mushed in a blender. She had me feed it to him so he’d know it wasn’t disgusting, but even he knew better than to eat that crap. He swatted it away and pushed his lips together so it would just pour out. I remember thinking it was like a scene from a horror movie, and Mom yelled at all of us to stop acting that way. That’s when she got the idea. Ryan would eat the food if we all did too.
I used to hide Oreos in my room for Livy so she wouldn’t have to eat tuna salad for breakfast, steak with garlic oil for lunch. She was a little kid, for cripes’ sake. She wanted chicken nuggets and french fries.
That’s how I know what’s happening to my body now. It is actually eating itself. Which is good for my tox screen, maybe, but not good for my state of mind. Because when your body is eating itself, you get kind of mean.
That’s what was happening the first time Ryan hit Mom. I know that now, but I didn’t then. Back then, I just knew he gave her a black eye, and she needed stitches inside her mouth, and then Dad threw out all the mayonnaise and said we could all eat what we wanted.
Mr. Bonham gets quiet. He rubs his hand over his face like he’s trying to wake up from a deep sleep. Then he grabs a pen, signs my paper quickly, and then passes it back at me. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I know it won’t make a difference.
“Thanks,” I say, because he actually was a human being to me, and I know I’m the one who screwed up.
“It wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh, OK.” I start walking away but stop. I need to know the truth. My food-starved brain is screaming at me to stop this shit and get the fuck out of here before I ruin things even more. Too bad my need-to-know brain wins. “Excuse me, but do you mean the contest wasn’t your idea?”
“No. That was my idea. Your drawing was good.” He shakes his head. His hands lay flat on the desk. Hard man’s hands. Unmoving. Unmoved.
I guess he means kicking me out of his class, but I’m not going to go all needy on him and ask. “Thanks again,” I say, then I walk out to the bleachers on the field. I can go to the media center tomorrow.
For now, I stare at the grass, and the wind blows, and in my weird state, I feel like I’m actually watching the grass grow and change in front of my eyes. And I wonder if that’s what happens to moms and their kids. That the wind changes them, and moms just have to sit and watch and love them just the same.