There were people who complained about Robert, saying that he was a poor sport, that he always had to get his way, and all of this was true, but I saw quickly that no one at New Trier would go against him publicly. As far as I could tell, Coyle was the only person who ever stood up to Robert, but Coyle could do it because he was already an outcast, which maybe was the point of joining the burnouts in the first place.
Even in those first weeks at New Trier I knew that if I succeeded in joining Robert’s crowd Coyle would see that as a victory for me. But it wasn’t so easy to join. Robert’s snide, picky friends all sat in judgment of anyone who tried to get close, and I knew they saw me as some weird blue-collar loser. But I had one card in my favor: Robert was competitive with Coyle, and befriending me would bug Coyle, so I lingered around Robert’s table in the first week, hoping that he’d banter with me again, but it didn’t happen. After that first day he seemed annoyed when I lingered, and after awhile I gave it up.
* * *
—
“They slip the orders through here,” Deanny said. “Ten sheets of carbon. A box of number-two pencils. A ream of mimeo. That’s five hundred sheets.”
I was down in storeroom B, of New Trier, in the basement starting my job for the building manager. I was being shown the ropes by a student named Teddy Deane, or “Deanny.” He’d done the job for three years. Now I was taking over.
Deanny was a muscular, athletic kid with wavy brown hair, a wrestler, with veins that stuck up on his forearms.
“This is the best job in the school,” Deanny said. “In the bookstore you have Miss Winters and Miss Schock pecking away at you. The old hags. In the file office it’s just so boring. But down here, no one bothers you.”
Deanny picked out office supplies casually, tossing them into a cardboard box, talking the whole time, explaining the job.
“Keep the old boxes. Use them as containers. Label the box with the teacher’s name and room number. Put the yellow carbon in the box for verification. Then leave the order here, on the cart, for delivery.”
There were four aisles, with black metal shelves stocked with office supplies. There was no one else in there—just the two of us.
“You do the next one. Only way to learn.”
Deanny sat against the wall with a copy of Candide, in French, and I started on the next order, searching through the aisles for number-two pencils, mimeograph paper, a three-hole punch. I was slow because I didn’t know where anything was, but I made sure to be accurate. A part of me was thrilled. I had my first paying job. And it was in school. I got paid to go to school! But there was another side to it. I worked in the storeroom like a janitor, and I knew that was an embarrassment. I had learned from my peers that manual labor was shameful. “Normal” people worked as doctors and lawyers and businessmen. If you had to use your hands for the job, it was not something to be proud of. This attitude was all around me, in the air I breathed.
We’d been working about twenty minutes when there was a knock on the door.
“We’re being hailed,” Deanny said, and, reaching over, opened the door to see a pretty, dark-haired girl named Renata. A cheerleader and field hockey player.
“Hey, Deanny,” she said in a singsong tone.
“Welcome to my lair,” Deanny said. “What can I do for you, RJ?”
“I can’t get into my locker.”
“Is that so?”
“The dial won’t turn. They said you can fix it.”
“If I feel like it,” Deanny said.
He checked her combination in a book and then the three of us started out into the basement hallway of the school, Deanny carrying a steel toolbox, me carrying spare parts for the lock. As we walked I noticed Deanny was constantly saying “Hey” or “What’s up?” or giving the cool nod to other students. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed at all to be out in the open with his tools. He walked with a swagger. He was “The Deanny.” In everything he did he exuded a casual confidence. No one was going to make him feel small.
When we arrived at Renata’s locker, Deanny found it was not just jammed, but broken, the dial not turning at all. Deanny immediately went at it with a little screwdriver, removing the dial from the locker, taking the lock apart right there in the hallway, laying the pieces out on the tile floor.
“I’ll teach you how to do this. It’s like a puzzle. It’s fun,” he said.
Deanny explained the basics of how those locks were put together—the tumbler, the various dials and gears and bars—and while he talked his hands moved in a practiced blur. I stood over him, watching closely. And the whole time he was working and I was trying to follow his instruction, other students wandered past and stopped to watch. Deanny made casual, jaunty comments to them, and they seemed impressed and interested in what he was doing. And I took this all in.
And when I look back on this interaction now, I understand that watching Deanny was deeply instructive for me. As a younger kid I had thought that knowing how to hang drywall or deliver papers made me special. I knew something other kids didn’t. But bit by bit as I got into junior high I understood by the sneering of other students, by consistent derisive comments, that manual labor was inherently shameful, and I had started to hide the work I did for my father.
But now, observing Deanny, this competent, intelligent, popular guy, striding through the hallways with his tools, setting up a workshop in the middle of the hallway, I saw a different way of being. Deanny’s whole manner was a counterargument to what I had learned about certain kinds of work being shameful.
Afterward, as we walked back to the storeroom, an angular soccer player named Jack Renn, an unpleasant kid, said, “You still cleaning up our messes, Deanny?”
“Only if I feel like it,” Deanny said, and we kept walking.
Back at the storeroom, Deanny set the toolbox in its spot and said, “Forget losers like Renn. It’s only weird if you let them make it weird.”
I always remembered him saying that.
* * *
—
September, I’d been at New Trier for about a month when I walked into the back hallway of the field house and found Coach Schneider with his cowboy boots on a desk, grading driver’s ed tests and listening to country music.
Coach Schneider was a straight-backed, ex-military guy from West Texas who was the basketball and tennis coach. His no-bullshit manner reminded me of Bobby Knight. I stood in the doorway of his office.
“I’m Willie Brennan,” I said. “I think you’re the varsity tennis coach.”
“As far as I know I am,” he said. “Unless you know something I don’t.”
That was the way Schneider talked. Everything was a little sarcastic.
“I’m a freshman,” I said.
“You don’t say,” he said.
“I play tennis. I want to be on the varsity. My brother made varsity baseball as a freshman. I’m too small to play baseball, so I play tennis. I want to make a varsity sport, too, just like my brother.”
“Sibling rivalry. No better incentive,” he said. “Is your brother Coyle Brennan?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I know your brother. Good athlete. I also know your father.” He held his fist up. “Strong disciplinarian. I like that. I wish there were more fathers like him at this school. It would make my job easier.”
He looked me up and down.
“You know we won state last year and are expecting to do well again this year. Normally, some freshman comes in here, says he wants to make the varsity, I’d say, ‘Yeah, good luck with that, Chief.’ But if you’re anything like your brother maybe you can do it. Do you know how the team’s organized?”
“Six people make it, right?”
“Yeah. Six, and one alternate. But four of those spots are already taken. There are two spots left. They’ll be filled by high-level sta
te players. If you aren’t good already you won’t make it.”
“I am good,” I said.
It wasn’t a complete lie. Dad had made sure we all concentrated on one sport, and I had chosen tennis because it was a sport where you didn’t get knocked around.
“You’ll have to start playing doubles,” Schneider said. “Have you played doubles?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a whole different beast. Some of the better JV players get together three or four days a week during the winter. If you could get in with them it would help.”
“Who are the players?”
“Well, the guy who runs the court is named Robert Dainty. Do you know him?”
I looked away, biting my lip.
“Yeah, I know him. He lives close to me. Coyle got in a fight with him.”
“Who won?”
“Coyle,” I said.
Schneider looked pleased.
“Well, whatever happened, I’m sure Dainty deserved it. He’s a real piece of work, that kid. But the Daintys have this court reserved three times a week and the kids all play together. Robert thinks he’ll be the fifth man. Maybe he will be. That’s to be determined. Get in with them. That will help.”
I said I would and Schneider put his boots back on his desk and picked up a test.
“What’d you say your name was?”
“Willie Brennan.”
“Yeah, well, good luck, Willie. See you in the spring.”
* * *
—
There was a signup sheet for the pickup tennis outside the Tri-Ship Club, which was like a fraternity in the high school. When I checked the list there were already about twenty names on it. I put my name down, but that didn’t mean they’d call me. Only a select few got chosen. Over the next few days I said hey to Robert in the hallway and gave him the cool nod in the cafeteria but I didn’t get the call for their after-school tennis club, and Robert didn’t bother to talk to me again, either. Just the opposite, really. Signing up for tennis seemed to assure that he’d keep his distance, though he was good-natured about it. Robert seemed pleased to be completely friendly to me and to also completely ignore my request to play with them. He genuinely seemed to enjoy my discomfort. I didn’t hear anything more about it, except that a few of Robert’s friends whispered to one another when I walked past and when I stopped by their table at lunch a kid named Tom Corley tossed a bit of hamburger at my feet and said, “Coo coo, pigeon.” I didn’t stop by again. A few more weeks went by. Nothing happened, and I figured nothing would. Being a large public school, New Trier was often seen as being a meritocracy, but to get in the clubs or on the sports teams, you had to be either part of the crowd of people who ran the school or just be undeniably better than the other kids. I was ready to do what I had to do, but if I wasn’t allowed to even practice with the guys from the team, I had no chance. A few more days passed and my dreams of making the varsity tennis team and showing up Coyle began to fade.
* * *
—
Then it was the last day of September. I was at my locker and suddenly Robert was standing there.
“Willie,” he said in an unnaturally upbeat tone. “How you doing?”
He’d never acted so pleased to see me. I figured he must want something.
“What’s up?” I said.
“I got a question. Did you get moved up in levels?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because I heard you did.”
It wasn’t something I publicized. I wanted people to think I’d tested into the 4 levels on my own, not that I’d weaseled my way in.
“Who told you?”
“Your brother.”
“You talk to him?”
“You know, in between beating on each other, yeah, sometimes we talk. We’re in all the same classes, except I’m in 3 level Latin. I was complaining about it and he said I obviously wasn’t as persuasive as you were, because you’d talked your way up in all your classes. Is that true?”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, yeah, I did.”
“So, in every class?”
“Yeah.”
He opened his eyes wide.
“Do you realize how lucky you are? I know like eight people who tried to get moved up and it didn’t work for any of them. Your parents must have done something. Did they pay money?”
I laughed.
“My parents said if I wanted to get moved up I should ask myself,” I said.
“So you just showed up on your own without your parents?”
“Yeah.”
He considered this silently for a moment.
“And what’d you say?”
“I just told Wilkins I wanted to move up.”
“That’s it?”
“I mentioned that I was working for the school.”
“Did he like that? That you were working?”
“He might have.”
“And what’d you wear?”
“Just my normal clothes.”
“You mean like jeans and a sweatshirt?”
“It was summer. I actually think the shorts I wore had paint on them. I didn’t dress up, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Robert took this in.
“Thanks,” he said. “I get it.”
He walked off and that night I saw Coyle in the basement, lifting weights.
“Did you tell Robert I got moved up in levels?” I asked.
“His mother knows someone in the admin offices,” Coyle said. “He already knew. Did he ask you for advice on how to weasel with Wilkins?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you give it?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“That was stupid,” he said.
“Why’s it matter?”
“Extra competition.”
“He’s not in my grade. And maybe he’ll help me someday,” I said.
Coyle smiled knowingly. It was irritating.
“Robert Dainty is never going to help you. That guy will pretend he’s your friend and then stab you in the back when it’s time for him to help.”
“Maybe that’s just what he does to you,” I said. “Because you’re such a pleasant person.”
Coyle sat up from the bench press. I backed away, starting up the stairs.
“Good luck getting in with the cool kids,” Coyle called after me.
“Good luck fighting with everyone for your whole life,” I said.
Nothing happened for a few more days. I forgot about it. Then Robert showed back up at my locker, brimming with self-satisfaction. He tossed a Super Ball at me—a translucent dusty thing with a twisted red ribbon inside.
“Keep it,” he said. “Reward. For helping me. I talked to Wilkins. I did just what you said. I showed up alone. I didn’t dress up like I was going to church. I told him I was working part-time at The French Baker.”
“Are you?”
“Of course not. My dad would probably die from embarrassment if his friends at his office heard that I had to work. No. I just said I did because Wilkins likes kids who work, apparently. Thanks. You saved my GPA.”
“I aim to please,” I said.
He walked off, holding a fist up.
“Willie Fucking Brennan!” he shouted, when he was halfway down the hall.
* * *
—
A few days later I was unlocking my bike when Robert’s BMW pulled up to the curb and stopped. The window rolled down.
“Hey, Little Brennan,” Robert called. “Get in. We’re on patrol.”
“Patrol?” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tom Corley said. He was riding shotgun. “Just get in.”
Tom was the guy w
ho’d said “coo coo pigeon” to me. Tom was territorial about their group and had noticed me lingering. He didn’t like it.
“Patrol for girls,” Robert said. “Put the bike in the back. I’ll drop you off later.”
Robert popped the trunk and I put my bike in the back and hooked the trunk with a bungee cord. When I got in the backseat Tom turned with exaggerated disapproval.
“You took your time getting in,” he said.
“Was I supposed to hurry?” I said.
Tom let out a puff of air, like that was just beyond everything. He turned back to Robert and gestured laconically to two girls passing.
“She’s PP,” Tom said to Robert.
“Possible pussy,” Robert said back to me. “Tom swooped on her younger sister. What’s her name? Sheri the Cherry?”
“Shut up,” Tom said.
“Not ‘the Cherry’ anymore,” Robert said.
I thought I was supposed to laugh, so I did. Tom turned again, scowling.
“Shut up, freshman. Not like you’ve ever gotten any.”
“How would you know?” I said, though he was right.
Tom gave me an appraising look and, reaching out, fingered the cuff of my jacket.
“Isn’t that Jay Ellison’s jacket?”
I realized Jay’s mother must have donated the jacket to the Salvation Army, where Mom got all our clothes.
“Jay’s mom gave it to my mom,” I lied. “It didn’t fit him anymore.”
“Well, you need other hand-me-downs, let me know. I got some old underwear and shit you could probably have.” Then, turning to Robert, “Can you believe he’s wearing Jay’s jacket? You always go around begging?”
“It didn’t fit Jay anymore,” I said. “And I didn’t beg for it. What? Are you jealous? I’ll let you wear it if you like it.”
The Brother Years Page 8