I had just gotten out of the shower when a sophomore who lived down the hall told me all the juniors needed to meet at the gym. She didn’t know why, but she said it was important and I needed to leave right away. I was annoyed and almost didn’t go. There was a chill in the air and my hair was still wet. I had a lot of homework. But I didn’t want to risk getting in trouble, so I got dressed quickly and made my way to the gym. On the way, I saw a van that looked like an ambulance parked near the front entrance to my dorm.
Other juniors were gathered at the entrance to the gym. A senior told us to go downstairs, and then another directed some of us to the locker room and the rest to the equipment room down the hall. A few other kids from my class were already there. Nobody seemed to know what was going on, and after a few minutes of idle speculation, we got quiet. There was a tension in the room, and I thought about the ambulance I’d seen. Maybe something was going on, something bad, and they were keeping us here until they’d gotten the situation under control or, worse, until they could figure out how to break the bad news to us about whatever terrible thing had happened.
My heart started pounding and I felt short of breath.
By the time the door opened, I was having a hard time staying in my seat. I was braced for something awful. A few seniors filed in and lined up in front of the door. What the fuck was happening?
They looked so serious.
Every muscle in my body was tensed almost past endurance. I was ready to run.
One of them droned on about something. It seemed clear something was wrong. And then she said, “Trump! Come up here.”
I gripped the seat of my chair with both hands. I couldn’t move.
I recognized one of the seniors from the night I stayed at Dunn’s apartment. She came over to where I was sitting, but before she could say a word, I started to sob.
“Whoa, it’s OK. We just wanted to give you this.” She wrapped an old varsity jacket around my shoulders. I couldn’t stop crying. She tried to calm me down, but I could tell I was freaking her out.
I had completely ruined an old school tradition in which seniors handed down artifacts with some symbolic importance to juniors, but it went completely over my head. I felt so stupid and so relieved. The pent-up terror began to leave my body. I hugged the jacket tightly around me, not because I knew what it meant, or even cared, but because I felt so alone and without comfort and thought I might unravel.
I bent over and covered my face with my hands and kept sobbing.
Everybody stared at me. Nobody knew what to do.
I skipped dinner and went straight to my room. I sat alone at my desk looking at the picture. Rage surged through me. It was bad enough that I was constantly exhausted, that I couldn’t think straight, that I couldn’t keep up with my classes or play soccer. Now everybody thought I was a fucking basket case. Crying in front of them was embarrassing, but having no control over myself filled me with shame. And what were they even thinking, anyway? What a stupid waste of my time. And now everybody would know I was a fucking mess, a loser who couldn’t keep it together.
I picked up the picture. I hated how it mocked me with its perfection. I looked at my father’s face—he was tan and looked genuinely happy, but I knew it was all bullshit. Images from my dream intruded—the grave, my bloody hands, my father’s severed head, and, worst of all, the look of anguish frozen on his face.
I resented being so diminished. I resented him. I resented my mother. I resented my brother. I resented the fucking idiots who gave me the jacket. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt love or joy or peace. I didn’t think I ever would again. All I had was anger, and there was nothing to defuse it, so I stoked it.
I stood up and slammed the picture against a corner of my desk as hard as I could. The wood frame splintered, and shattered glass flew everywhere. I ran out of the room, slamming the door shut. I flew down the stairs and out the side door; I sprinted toward the road that bordered the north side of the campus. It was dark and quiet as I ran past an abandoned field and isolated houses and empty lots until there was nothing but a dense stand of trees on either side of the road.
I had no idea how far from school I was. I didn’t care.
It was late when I got back to the dorm. I didn’t want to see my roommates, so instead of going to my room, I climbed another flight of stairs and went to see Parker. I couldn’t think what else to do, and she was the closest thing I had to a friend.
Her door was open, and when she saw me, she said, “Hey! Where’ve you been?” My roommates had alerted the house parents after finding the broken glass on the floor. People had been looking for me ever since. I assumed I was in trouble, but instead of going to turn myself in, I sat down.
“Seriously, where did you go?” Parker asked.
“Just down the road. I needed to get out of here.”
“I have to let Mrs. Pierce know you’re back, OK?” Parker was a dorm proctor, so she had her own responsibilities to deal with. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
I nodded.
“Promise me,” she said.
“I promise.” I tried not to sound sarcastic.
As I waited, I noticed there was blood on my right hand from a pretty deep gash near the knuckle of my index finger. I’d probably gotten it from the glass but couldn’t remember. As soon as I saw it, I felt it sting. I made a fist and it started bleeding again. Before Parker and Mrs. Pierce got back, I wrapped a Kleenex around the cut and shoved my hand into my pocket. I didn’t want them to think I’d done it on purpose.
“We’ve been worried about you,” Mrs. Pierce said. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“I think we need to call your mom,” she said. “Can you come with me?” It was a rhetorical question, but I said no. I refused to sit there while she talked to my mother (and probably the dean of students) about me in the third person.
She hesitated, as if debating whether to press the point. I crossed my legs. “OK. Wait here then.” She gave Parker a meaningful look, then left to make her calls.
I stretched out my legs and leaned my head against the wall. I felt wired but also empty and blissfully detached from everything.
“I guess that’s it,” I said to Parker.
“We’ll see,” she said.
They decided to send me home the next day. This time, my mother picked me up.