I headed straight for my locker, wondering if my lockermate, Aaron, would be there. I was supposed to share a locker with my ex-friend Garrett, but after this summer, those plans changed. Brody still had to share with Ben Rankin, one of his ex-teammates, so his locker was covered with Spirit Club streamers and balloons. I walked head down through halls ringing with wild laughter, flowing red crepe paper, and the sounds of happy couples laughing.
My locker was bare. Aaron’s army surplus jacket sat on top of a stack of his magazines with video game cheat codes. I was surprised to see Aaron’s stuff after last night’s mix of rum, cola, and unexpected angry mood. I dropped off some books, so by the time I stepped through the doorway of Mr. Steinbach’s noisy homeroom, the bell had gone silent.
“Please be quiet for announcements,” Steinbach said to little reaction.
I put my head down on my desk, closed my eyes, and made up my own announcements rather than listen to the endless list of clubs, events, and activities that touched my life not at all: May I have your attention, please? Mick Salisbury would like to announce that he’s sorry about what he did to Nicole, he wants her back, and he wants her to know it wasn’t his fault. Mick also wants to announce that Roxanne Gray is a lying slut. Everybody have a great Dragon Day!
I loved homeroom last year; that’s where I’d met Nicole. By the ninth day of ninth grade, I’d fallen for her. I remember how her long brown hair always fell in her face. I would see her in homeroom and long to reach over, brush it back, and see her brown eyes smile at me.
I got her attention last year by doing fake announcements: Your attention, please! The Chess Club challenges the Mathletes to a geek-off. The horn section of the Marching Band would like to tell the school: blow us. If you’ve ever wanted to see France, join the French Club. If you’d prefer to see Jackson State Prison, then please join Dave Wilson and the stoners after school behind the bleachers. Finally, for all seniors wanting to graduate this year, the teachers would like to say “Good riddance, you losers.” Now, have a great Dragon Day! She’d laugh, even at the weaker, unfunny ones. What she was really laughing at, I thought, was how hard I was trying to impress her and make her like me.
The only girl in this year’s homeroom that interested me above the belt was the one Brody called Cell Phone Girl. Even though we had two classes together last year and homeroom this year, I still didn’t even know her name. That fact said something, even if she never ever did. While I’m not one to volunteer to speak, I’d talk in class if the teacher called on me. But this girl never said a word to anyone, not teacher or student. The teachers rarely said anything to her, other than to tell her to put away her cell phone, which she never did for long. She used no makeup, had dirty blond hair that was either greasy or unwashed, and wore an oversized gray hooded sweatshirt. She’d put her head down on her desk, when Steinbach wasn’t looking, but somehow I could always see her peek at the phone buried in the sweatshirt’s pocket. Her best move was to transfer the cell phone from the pocket and bury it in the sleeve. She’d pull down the sleeve or nudge the phone out every five minutes or so, look all sad again, and then put her head back down on the desk. As isolated as I felt, especially after Nicole dumped me, I couldn’t imagine what was going on with Cell Phone Girl. I wanted to say to her, Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll help.
That morning, I was obsessed with wondering if people wondered about me. Were other people in homeroom thinking of things they’d like to say to me? Was Cell Phone Girl sitting there, in between phone peeks and sullen sighs, thinking, I wonder what’s going on with Mick Salisbury? He’s dating Nicole, and he loses her for a couple of seconds with Roxanne? What’s wrong with him? Oh, right, his dad was like that, too. But Cell Phone Girl never spoke to me, and I never tried to know her. We sat just feet apart, but with miles between us.
By the time the bell rang for first period, I’d asked myself that same question: what was wrong with me? I knew that home was where the heart was broken. Always hovering over my life was how ex-Dad betrayed my mom, then I betrayed him. But two wrongs didn’t make anything right. The base of this triangle of lies was ex-Dad’s refusal to confess or repent. His brick wall of silence, of refusing to admit responsibility, stuck like a bone in my throat. Mom used to talk about it more, especially when she was in therapy after the divorce. She always said that until ex-Dad accepted responsibility, then none of us would be fully healed. I didn’t much care about ex-Dad’s healing, I cared more about hearing his apology or explanation.
As I trudged slowly from homeroom out into the hallway, I thought not about school but about home. Thinking about Mom and ex-Dad made me walk slower, like a pile of bricks was on my back. Your family isn’t just your family: it is your history, your future, and your burden.
Do you think about being famous?
Everybody I know does. Most won’t come right out and talk about it, but it’s always there underneath the surface. That’s why I used to do those mock interviews with Brody. It made him feel like a star. But not just Brody; anybody who ever picked up a football, baseball, or basketball thinks one day they’re going to end up on ESPN, on the cover of Sports Illustrated, or at the least in the local newspaper, the Flint Journal. Anybody who’s ever sung a note, or played in the band, or acted, must think about cutting a CD, making a music video, or starring in a movie. I never did any of those things—I’m not a jock or some band geek—but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have dreams of being famous. Now I would dread seeing my name in the paper. I wouldn’t be famous, but infamous. But I don’t have to worry about reading the paper myself because they don’t let you do that at the Genesee County Juvenile Detention Center.