More importantly, that section gave her an idea of what to look for as she read through the other profiles, along the way jotting down notes on motel stationery in the crude, blocky print of a girl half her age.
One page, entitled DEAD, holds three names. A second, marked with the header TOO FAR, lists fifteen subjects who had at some point moved out of state. Another twelve names fill a page entitled NO GOOD.
That leaves an even ten names on the final list, which has no title.
Joy crosses her own name out and works her way down the rest of the list, re-reading the subjects’ reports, looking for information on their current whereabouts. She crosses off a name after learning the boy in question is sitting in a state hospital for the mentally ill. She strikes a second name after reading that the girl is a runaway, missing for five months, current whereabouts unknown. That culls the list of prospects down to seven.
The name directly under her own, MARTENS KURT EVAN, is at present a resident of a halfway house for psychologically disturbed youth — a halfway house that is, conveniently, two towns over. According to his file, Kurt suffers from severe anti-social tendencies, resists all efforts to impose structure or instill discipline, and displays extreme contempt for authority figures.
“Hello, new friend,” Joy says.
TWENTY-ONE
Friday begins on an appropriate note, meteorologically speaking; we arrive under a sky packed with dark gray clouds that threaten rain or a late winter snowstorm.
As a group we meet at Missy’s house, and as a group we walk to school. Matt and Sara and I may be dealing with crap of our own, but we agree that our problems are, individually and collectively, secondary to Missy’s. For the foreseeable future, it’s all about her needs. I tell Missy I’ve canceled my date with Malcolm to be with her tonight, but she won’t have it.
“I don’t want you to cancel birthday plans for me,” Missy says. “Besides, Mom’s dragging me to the hospital to visit Daddy after she gets home from work.”
“You don’t sound thrilled about it,” I say. “Don’t you want to see him?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. What am I going to say to him?”
“Fair point, but you two need to clear the air eventually. He’s your father, and he does love you.”
Missy shrugs. “I don’t know if I love him anymore.”
The rest of the walk passes in silence.
We arrive at school well ahead of the first warning bell. Mr. Dent stands at the main entrance, greeting students as they enter. He wishes us good morning and, as a unit, we grunt back.
“Kids, is something wrong?” he says.
“What isn’t wrong?” Matt says.
Given a line like that, most adults would offer us a patronizing smile and chuckle and dismiss Matt’s comment with a blithe Oh, things can’t be all that bad, because teenagers never have real problems, do we? Not compared to adult problems. We blow everything out of proportion and don’t know what real problems are.
Mr. Dent, however, is not like most adults. He nods sympathetically and says, “You guys are going through a lot, huh?”
“To put it mildly,” I say. “We’re feeling a little overwhelmed —”
“A lot overwhelmed,” Sara says.
“— and nothing we do seems to do any good. It’s frustrating, you know?”
Mr. Dent nods again. “May I offer some advice?”
“Sure,” I say. Doubt anything he says will help, but he sure can’t make things worse.
“Take a big step back,” Mr. Dent says. “You can only push for solutions for so long before it becomes counterproductive. You lose sight of what the problem really is, you get frustrated, and pretty soon you’re making everything worse without meaning to. Sometimes the best thing you can do is let yourself cool down a little so you can approach things with a clearer head.”
I stand corrected; that’s actually good advice.
“I think Mr. Dent’s right,” I tell the others. “Between Concorde blacklisting us, the Buzzkill Joy mess, all the garbage going on with our families — we’re getting smothered under the weight of it all. None of us can think straight anymore.”
“Don’t see how we fix anything by doing nothing,” Stuart says. “Feels like we’re giving up.”
“Stuart, I promise we’re not giving up, but we need to try to relax a little. We’re reaching a breaking point. If we totally lose it, we’re no good to ourselves or anyone else,” I say. “Two days. We put everything on hold until Sunday, take some time to reboot our brains, and start fresh. What do you say?”
It’s a nice little speech, and they buy it.
I wish I could.
“Kurt,” Mr. Dalloway says, “once you’ve finished loading the dishwasher, please go up to your room and make your bed.”
“Uh-huh,” Kurt says.
“After that, we’re meeting downstairs for the morning group session, so don’t be late. Nine sharp.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good man.”
“Uh-huh.”
As household chores go, cleaning up the breakfast dishes is among the more tolerable: Collect everyone’s dishes off the breakfast table, take them to the kitchen, dump them in the dishwasher, fill the detergent reservoir, press a button, done and done, onto the next bit of assigned and scheduled slave labor.
Any chore is preferable to the torture that is group therapy, the twice-daily confession ritual designed to force Kurt and his housemates to confront their flaws and weaknesses, the various sources of their anger and sorrow. The worst is when someone has what Mr. Dalloway, the live-in house monitor-slash-therapist, calls a “breakthrough,” because that always involves one of the boys crying like a little bitch.
Kurt hasn’t come anywhere close to having a breakthrough.
The other boys look up to him, after a fashion; it’s less respect and more a healthy fear. Sometimes the new arrivals get smart right away; they sense Kurt’s power, his quiet resolve, and they don’t challenge him. Just as often, a new boy will try to assert himself and throw down a challenge. He’ll get in Kurt’s face, puff out his chest, set his jaw, tell Kurt he’s not so scary. He’s not so tough. He’ll dare Kurt to push back, to take a swing, but Kurt will take the display in stride and, when Mr. Dalloway isn’t within earshot, tell the boy to meet him in the woods behind the house at midnight.
There, in a small clearing, Kurt teaches the new boy his first lesson as a resident of Sutherland House: Do not screw with Kurt Martens.
There have been occasions when Kurt wanted to take Mr. Dalloway to the clearing — many, many occasions, but what would that accomplish? That’s nothing but a one-way ticket to another halfway house, maybe someplace worse than Sutherland.
Maybe back home.
Kurt trudges upstairs to his room, passing in the stairway a boy named Donald — or Ronald, something like that — the last new arrival to challenge Kurt’s dominance. Donald (or Ronald) pushes against the wall, granting Kurt the right of way. The boy bows his head submissively, not daring to make eye contact.
Kurt’s hand pauses over his doorknob. There’s a strange odor in the air, a combination of leather and a soap that is definitely not the disgusting Irish Spring Mr. Dalloway insists on buying. There’s something else there, something Kurt has not smelled in a long, long time, a faint aroma that sends a charge of primal excitement down his spine.
He opens the door. Buzzkill Joy smiles at him from his bed.
“Shhh,” she hisses, holding a finger up to her lips. She beckons Kurt inside with the same finger. He closes the door and leans on it — the best he can do for security, since none of the bedroom doors have locks.
“Who the hell are you?” Kurt says.
“I’m your new best friend. My name’s Joy. And your name’s Kurt.”
Kurt snorts. “That supposed to impress me? My name’s on a half a dozen whiteboards around here.”
“Oh, you want me to impress you? Okay, Kurt Martens of Bridgewater, do you wa
nt me to tell you how you wound up here? How you nearly crippled your stepfather after he — nah,” Joy says, bouncing onto her feet, “let me tell you about the cool stuff you can do. I know you’re, like, freaky strong for a kid. I know you could probably hear me breathing from the other side of the door, maybe smell me because of your...what did the report call it? Enhanced old factory senses? What do you say? Am I impressing you yet?”
Kurt grabs for the collar of Joy’s leather jacket, intending to scare her — beat her, if necessary — into telling him how she could possibly know all that. Joy intercepts the clutching hand, stopping it cold, and coaxes from Kurt a hiss of pain as she sinks her claws into the soft flesh of his wrist.
“Be cool, Kurt. I told you: I’m a friend. If I wanted to do you wrong?” Joy says, applying pressure. “You’d be bleeding to death.”
Joy feels the tension drain out of Kurt’s arm. She releases him.
“Good boy. Now, how about we talk like a couple of civilized people?” Joy says, drawing from Kurt a derisive chuckle. “You got questions, don’t you?”
“Only a couple hundred.”
“Pick a favorite.”
“What do you want?”
“Hmm. You picked a tough one, Kurtsy. I want a lot of things.”
“Pick a favorite.”
Joy, grinning, resumes her seat on the edge of the bed. “I want a shower that actually has hot water. I want to go to sleep in bed that doesn’t smell like Lysol. I want to eat something other than Dunkin’ Donuts and takeout Chinese and pizza. You know: reasonable stuff.”
“Yeah, no, can’t help you with any of that.”
“You know what I want the most, though? I want to burn the whole damn world to the ground,” Joy says, “and that, Kurtsy, I think you can help me with.”
Kurt smirks. “All right,” he says. “Now you got my attention.”
TWENTY-TWO
I inspect myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my mother’s bedroom door. Something’s wrong. Something’s missing.
Malcolm suggested dressy-casual attire so I went with form-fitting black jeans, ankle boots, a powder-blue blouse, and a gauzy scarf with artfully tattered ends (I think it’s technically taupe, but a lot of neutral colors look the same to me). I didn’t go crazy on the hair and make-up, but the total package that is me is fit for a night out with her handsome young suitor.
So why do I look so drab?
Because I’m not smiling is why. From the neck down I’m hot stuff, but if you were to judge me solely by my expression, I’m heading out to a wake. I can’t muster anything but the fakiest of fakey smiles. The past several days are like a physical weight on my chest, crushing me by inches.
Oh, I am going to be a pure frickin’ delight tonight.
Malcolm’s arrival brings with it an incremental rise in spirits. He offers his arm, all gentleman-like, escorts me to his car, and asks me where I’d like to go for face-stuffing purposes.
“Surprise me,” I say, which is a euphemism for I have absolutely no appetite whatsoever, so don’t ask me.
Luckily my tastes are fairly broad, so I’m totally cool with the Tex-Mex place Malcolm takes me to. It has a rambling floor plan with lots of little nooks and hidden alcoves, and we wind up in a dim, cozy corner well out of view of the other diners — perfect for my decidedly anti-social mood.
With effort, I keep up my end of the conversation, which circles around with no real point. Malcolm and I chat about school, he tells me more about his family vacation, mentions some project he’s working on for the pastor at his church, and I nod and offer polite responses all the while, trusting it hides my indifference effectively.
Nope.
“You’re a little distracted tonight,” Malcolm observes.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“No, I get it, you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
“Too much. It feels like...”
“Your life is falling apart around you?”
I wince. “Little melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“But accurate?”
“...Yeah. Between my mom and her boyfriend behaving like horny teenagers, Matt’s parents heading for divorce, Missy’s dad in the hospital, Sara’s dad’s weird freak-outs — and we’re all stuck in the middle of this crazystorm with no way out.” I let out an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know what to do, Malcolm. I feel totally helpless. I hate feeling helpless.”
Malcolm nods. “I felt that way when my mom got diagnosed with cancer,” he says. “I didn’t fully understand everything going on at the time, but I remember Dad losing his job right after Mom went into the hospital, which meant we lost his health coverage, so he had to dip into savings, so he was always in a foul mood, and my aunt — Mom’s sister — she was going through a divorce at the time, and she was taking all her frustration out on everyone around her, including Dad and me...it was a heck of a soap opera.”
“What did you do?”
He spreads his hands. “Nothing. What could I do? I was six. All I could do was endure.” He smiles. “You know what helped?”
“What?”
“Well, I guess there are a few versions of the story, but my pastor told me about a great sultan who summoned King Solomon, the wisest man of the time, to ask him the secret of finding peace during troubled times,” Malcolm says, “so Solomon presented him with a ring inscribed with the phrase, ‘This too shall pass.’ The point is: Everything in life is temporary, including suffering. You just need to be strong enough to weather the storm — or crazystorm, as the case may be.”
It’s a dumb story, the kind of simplistic homily I’d expect from a pastor attempting to console a confused and desolate young boy.
And yet, it does make me feel better. I manage an honest smile.
“You’re good,” I say.
“I have my moments,” Malcolm says.
A loud sizzling sound heralds the arrival of our fajitas. I get one whiff of the chicken and vegetables sizzling in their cast-iron pan and my dead appetite rises from the grave with a vengeance. I devour my food with unladylike gusto. Marines at chowtime are more genteel. Malcolm, judging by his broad grin, is perfectly content to enjoy the show with his dinner.
The waitress comes to clear our plates, at which point Malcolm excuses himself. I assume he has to hit the little boy’s room but he returns with a present, a box he needs both hands to carry. He sets it on the table in front of me.
“I’d say you didn’t have to get me anything, but I know you’d argue the point,” I say.
“I would. Go ahead, open it.”
I lift the box off the table, give it an obligatory shake. It’s got a bit of heft to it but it doesn’t rattle, so whatever inside is fairly solid.
The pre-unwrapping ritual complete, I pull the pale blue ribbon off and, because I’m a dork, carefully peel the white paper away at the seams to reveal a plain cardboard box. I pull the packing tape off, fold the flaps back —
Oh.
Skates. Malcolm got me a pair of ice skates. They’re white leather, with white laces and nice long blades that gleam like polished mirrors.
“Sara helped me pick them out,” he says. “I didn’t know your shoe size, so she did a little spy work for me.”
“Uh-huh,” I say as I start to tear up. I try to thank him, but all I can muster is a lot of sniffling and a pathetic squeak, and I am so grateful we’re in a private corner, because crying in front of an entire restaurant? Utterly without dignity.
Malcolm shifts his chair next to mine and slips an arm around my shoulders. “You hate them.”
“Shut up.”
“Knew I should have gone with pink.”
“Shut up.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thank you. Now don’t ruin it by having the waitstaff sing to me while I’m crying.”
Malcolm jumps to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sooooooo?” Sara says to me the very instant she opens her front door.<
br />
“Good morning to you too,” I say. “So...what? Are you referring to something specific, or...?”
“Oh, don’t you even. How did your birthday date with Malcolm go?”
“It was fantastic, but man, am I sore,” I say.
Sara raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you are, are you?”
“What was that?!” Mr. Danvers shouts from the kitchen.
“My boyfriend took me ice skating, Mr. Danvers!” I respond.
“Oh,” he says.
“God, Dad, could you possibly embarrass me more?” Sara says through clenched teeth.
“I’m sure he could if he tried.”
“Let’s not give him the chance. Come on,” Sara says, slipping out without offering her father a goodbye. “All right, we’re clear. Make with the details.”
I give Sara the full story en route to Missy’s, and she delights in every last shmoopy moment. It’s weird, having someone live vicariously through my relationship, especially when said person could easily have her own (but that is a discussion to rehash with Sara another time).
Missy is less interested in my night, which is understandable considering how she spent hers. “How did the visit go?” I ask her.
“It was awkward,” she says. “Mom and Dad talked a lot. I just sat there and stared at the floor, and Mom kept trying to get us to talk but neither of us could say anything to each other or even look at each other. I don’t know what to say to him.”
Sara wraps an arm around Missy’s shoulder. It stays there until we get to the train station.
Missy brightens once we transfer at South Station onto the train heading to Worcester, the westernmost point for the MBTA commuter rail system. That’s where Meg picks us up, and she makes quite a show of it: We head to the parking lot and find her leaning on her car, a sporty little convertible in fire engine red. She looks like an extra from Grease: She’s wearing a knee-length pink skirt, a matching cropped jacket, and her hair is tied into a ponytail with a polka-dot length of fabric.
Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Page 19