19. A Little Lost

This is teenage madness.

Trapped in a room knowing there’s more outside.

Trapped listening to a teacher talk about Hemingway as if each sentence and word the man ever wrote had mythical importance.

Trapped knowing she is in the room with me.

Adults surely don’t have to endure this, do they?

Forced to be somewhere they don’t want to be, forced to not say all the things they need to say, forced to do things they don’t want to do.

That’s the idea, boy. It’s called corporate life. It’s called the American dream.

I hear grownups saying they’d like to never grow up, but isn’t that exactly what we all want to do?

I see a big kid with watermelons for arms, dressed in basketball shoes, staring at the wall.

I see a bleached blonde chewing gum and doodling in her notebook.

I see a guy rubbing the sides of his gelled hair as if something went terribly wrong this morning. (If he asked, I’d tell him yeah, something went terribly wrong.)

Every one of these kids wants to grow up and get out.

My eyes shift back to Jocelyn.

Her hair is blocking half her face, but she sneaks a peek at me.

I turn back around.

Afraid and nervous.

Oh so young.

Oh such a teenager.

Even though I hurry, I don’t reach Jocelyn as we go out to the hall. I see her white shirt and bare arms disappear with the rest of the students being swallowed in the black hole of the hallway.

That means lunch is the next thing I have to look forward to.

I curse in my head and go back to my locker. I see Newt standing there, looking like an FBI informant just before coming in.

“Here,” he says, giving me a sheet of paper folded in half.

“What’s this?”

“Shhh.”

“Nobody’s around, man.”

For the first time I notice a scar on his arm, a lot like the reddish streak on his face.

“They’re everywhere. They’re listening to everyone.”

I start to open the paper, but he grabs my hand. “No, no. Not here. In class.”

“Class is better?”

“Don’t let anybody see you.”

He starts walking backward and runs into a guy in a leather coat who doesn’t even stop. Newt turns and practically dashes down the hall.

I start to open the paper again, then decide to get my books and head to the next class, where I sit next to the wall close to the back. With a spiral-bound notebook half open, shielding the paper from the rest of the class, I open the sheet.

It’s a copy—a rather bad copy—of a newspaper article, dated last year.

Authorities have called off the search for Stuart Algiers after a month looking for the 16-year-old from Solitary, N.C.

Algiers disappeared after telling his parents he was going to Colorado with friends over Christmas break. He never returned, and his friends said he never made it.

The family, which declined to be interviewed, was questioned and has cooperated with the police.

Algiers has a younger sister. She attends Harrington County High School, as did he.

I read it again, trying to figure out why Newt gave it to me.

Does Gus have something to do with this?

Algiers.

Have I met anybody with that name in my classes?

I fold up the article and plan on getting some details when I see Newt again.

Poe is the only one at our usual table. She sees me coming, so I can’t back out. I drop my bag lunch on the table and sit down across from her.

She looks at me with suspicious eyes.

What have I ever done to you? I’d love to say. Instead I ask how’s it going and make small talk.

Truly small, because it goes nowhere.

I’m still wondering about the article. So instead of more painful small talk, I launch the question like a unpinned grenade. “Have you ever heard of Stuart Algiers?”

Poe stops. Her eyes stop blinking, her mouth stops chewing, her body goes rigid.

“What?” I say.

She swallows and scowls at me. “That supposed to be funny?”

“What?”

“Who told you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Rachel tell you? What’d she say?”

“She didn’t say anything. I just—I heard about him.”

“So you had to go there, huh?”

“Go where?”

“You really know how to make a good impression, huh, newbie?”

“What did I say?” My curiosity is becoming frustration.

“You don’t have that many friends at this place, you know?”

“Yeah, I’ve gathered that.”

“So why are you trying to make another enemy?”

“By what? What are you talking about?”

To add to my nightmare, I hear Rachel’s laughter approaching.

I know I’m on thin ice.

Rachel sits down next to me with a grin and a greeting. Just as Jocelyn does the same across from us, Poe stands up.

“Did you tell him?” she snaps at Rachel.

“Tell him what?”

“Tell him about Stu?”

“She didn’t say anything,” I say again.

Rachel looks as bewildered as I am.

“Then how did he know?” Poe demands.

“I don’t know anything.”

“What happened?” Rachel says.

“You know—I’m sick of this. I’m sick of this place and I’m sick of people like you butting into things you don’t understand and never will.” Poe storms away leaving me with Rachel and Jocelyn.

Both of them look like they’re attending a funeral.

“What?”

“What’d you say?” Rachel asks. “What just happened?”

“All I asked was whether she’s heard of Stuart Algiers.”

“Why would you do that?” Jocelyn asks.

Oh, thanks for talking to me now.

“I just—I was just curious.”

“But why? How do you know about Stuart?”

“Joss,” Rachel says.

“Well, I want to know.”

“Someone showed me a newspaper clipping about him. He went missing last Christmas, right?”

“But why’d you ask Poe?”

“Why are you guys so defensive?” I ask. “I just asked a question.”

“There’s no such thing as just a question,” Jocelyn says.

“Yes, there is,” Rachel says.

“Who showed you that clipping?”

I scratch the back of my neck.

Newt had made it clear this was a secret.

“Who gave it to you?” Jocelyn asks again.

“Why?” I ask. “What’s the big deal?”

“We can tell him,” Rachel says.

“No, we can’t.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“Nobody knows.”

“A few people know.”

I’m watching Rachel and Jocelyn talk as if I’m not there.

“It’s not his business.”

I stand up, then lean in close so that nobody else can hear what I say. “Listen—if somebody doesn’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to get up and leave and never sit at this table again.”

“Chris—please, just sit down,” Rachel says, tugging at my arm.

“It’s fine with me,” Jocelyn says.

This girl wants me to go with her to the dance? This is the girl who, according to Rachel, likes me?

“Chris, listen, just sit,” Rachel says. “Please? Listen, Stuart. He was a junior last year—and only a few people know this. He was seeing Poe for a while.”

“Since the summer,” Jocelyn adds.

“And that’s it?” I ask. “That’s why she went ballistic?”

“Nobody knows.”

“So? How was I supposed to know?”

“They think that he died,” Rachel says.

Jocelyn laughs in disgust.

“What do you guys think?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel says.

“He’s gone,” Jocelyn says. “And there’s no point in bringing his name up. Especially around Poe.”

“She loved him.”

“No, she didn’t,” Jocelyn says. “Give me a break.”

“She did.”

“Sixteen-year-olds can’t love.”

“Yes, they can.”

“Please.”

Again I feel like someone just watching from the sidelines.

I want to ask how he disappeared and what people thought, but I decide to ask someone else.

Thanks, Newt. Thanks for pushing me into hot, bubbling water and leaving me to tread water.

“Maybe I should go find her,” Jocelyn says.

“No, let me,” Rachel says, standing quickly. “You guys can talk about tomorrow night.”

Rachel smiles and leaves before Jocelyn can do the same.

Suddenly I feel the weight of five hundred students looking at us.

I’m not imagining this.

I try to ignore them.

“Look, I’m sorry for bringing up his name.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “You didn’t know.”

“Maybe next time I can get the benefit of a shred of doubt.”

“And maybe next time you can just keep your mouth shut.”

Obviously something on my face shows how I’m feeling. The defiant look Jocelyn is showing suddenly deflates.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s all right.”

“No, I just—I’m sorry. Look, I can be—I sometimes need to watch my mouth.”

“I didn’t know about Poe.”

“I know. It’s just that it’s been really hard for her, and for all of us. There’s just … just so much that could be said, but shouldn’t.”

I want to ask her more, but I’m feeling a little shy.

“Look—I know that Rachel talked with you, and I understand.”

“You understand what?” I ask.

“About the dance. And it’s cool. It’s fine.”

“It’s fine … to go?”

“Yeah. She explained things.”

I’m still a little lost.

“Explained things,” I repeat.

“It’s okay. I just hope—it’s Harrington. It’s North Carolina. There’s not a lot of excitement at these things.”

“That’s okay,” I force myself to say.

Just shut up, Chris.

“We should probably talk about logistics.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“When can I pick you up?” Jocelyn asks.

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Why should I?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can pick you up and we can meet Rachel and her date at school.”

“Is this a formal thing?”

For a minute, Jocelyn thinks I’m joking. “Yeah, make sure you rent your tux and have a corsage for me.”

“No, I know it’s not like prom or anything—”

“It’s a dance at Harrington. It’s fine. Wear whatever you want.”

“What time does it start?”

“How about I swing by your house around seven? Nobody says we need to be right on time.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Those eyes hook me, make me melt, make me dizzy, make me consider agreeing to anything she might say next.

“Chris?”

“Yeah?”

I’ll jump off a mountain for you if you want me to.

“Really—I’m sorry for—for chewing you out a few times.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s really not. It’s just—” She looks around and thinks for a minute.

It’s as if there’s something she really needs to tell me. “I haven’t always been like this,” she says.

“Like how?”

“This—”

I thought she said something more, but I couldn’t hear it.

“I better go find the girls, okay? I’ll see you a little later.”

“Sure.”

I gaze after her long figure in jeans and shirt as she leaves the cafeteria.

It doesn’t get old, watching her.

Nor does it get old wondering exactly how in the world I ended up going to a dance with her.