Wilder

by Andrew Simonet

  “You’ve been absent.”

  “I was sick.”

  She waited for more information. I didn’t give it.

  “You need a note from your mother. You’re already up against the limit on absences, so make sure she sends a note.” I nodded. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s OK,” I said.

  Ms. Davies liked to say simple things, then sit quietly and wait for you to open up. Again, my secret: don’t talk.

  She nodded and kept looking at me. She raised her eyebrows and nodded some more. Didn’t work. I said nothing.

  “I sent her a letter asking if we could all sit down, and I never heard back,” she said finally.

  Shit. Somewhere in the stack of mail. I usually caught those.

  “I’ll ask her about it,” I said.

  Silence.

  “The thing is, I’m told there was an incident over the weekend between you and Mr. Bellman.” Ronald Bellman. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “We ran into each other at the VFW,” I said. Full stop.

  “And?”

  “Ronny and some other guys came after me, and I defended myself.” Not exactly true. In fact, a lie.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, nodding. “I’m concerned, Jason, because you are not going to graduate if we can’t get you back into classes.” She gestured at my books. “The work is not getting done, and we’re running out of time.”

  “I understand,” I said. None of this was news to me. She made this speech every few weeks, mostly for herself. Nothing ever changed.

  “I don’t want you to say you understand, I want you to work with me to fix it, OK? And part of fixing it means no more incidents with Mr. Bellman.”

  That was too much. “Look, they’re the ones that mess with me. I’m locked up in here because they won’t leave me alone. You want this to stop? Talk to them.”

  She liked that. She went into her slow nod, wanted me to keep going, keep expressing. I didn’t.

  “Jason, I understand how this must seem from your point of view. But you have to remember the feelings in this community about what happened.” What happened was guidance counselor–speak for me burning that kid.

  “I get it. That’s why I’m gonna sit in here till June, then piss off and get my GED.” “Piss off,” a Meili phrase, bothered Ms. Davies. “I mean, go away and get my GED.”

  “My job,” she said, leaning in, “is to have you walk with your class on June twenty-fourth. Not just for your diploma, Jason. I want you reintegrated in this community. I want you back where you belong, which is in class with your fellow seniors.”

  “I want that, too,” I said. “I’ll go back to class right now if you let me.”

  “You can’t go back as long as you keep choosing violence.”

  “I am not choosing it. Ronny’s choosing it. Ask anybody.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Jason, more than one witness—with no reason to lie—said you threw the first punch.”

  Well, shit. When you put it that way, it did look bad.

  “You wouldn’t understand.” Every kid in Unionville knew the code about fighting. How come no adults knew it? “And who told you that?”

  “Two students independently told me. In confidence.” She lowered her voice. “Here’s how bad it is. Both students said: ‘Please don’t tell Jason I said this.’ They’re scared you might come after them.”

  Fucking should be. Snitches get stitches. Lying snitches get worse.

  And what about the racist thing Ronny said about Meili? Why wasn’t that part of how bad it is?

  She continued, “I also think that’s why the victim didn’t report you to the police. If he had, you would not be walking around today, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  Victim. Ronny didn’t tell the cops for the same reason I didn’t: he knows the fucking code.

  So ironic. Know how this all started? Last summer, two guys got arrested for dealing weed and pharmaceuticals, and a rumor went around that my mom had snitched on them. People started hassling her, saying stuff to her when she was out, driving by our house and yelling in the middle of the night. One day, my mom and I were at the Sunoco, and this guy started talking shit. I told him to step off, not talk to my mom like that, and he got up in my face, calling me snitch-this and faggot-that. Whatever, I’ve been called worse. But then he grabbed my mom’s arm. She’s at the pump, and he yanks her arm, gas spilling on her shoes.

  You listening, bitch?

  Uh-uh. You don’t put a hand on my mom. Sorry.

  I pounded him. Middle-aged dude, big gut, I just dropped him.

  Turned out, that was Ronny’s stepdad. And the fun began.

  OK, deep breath, Jason.

  I tried to sound sincere. I tried to be sincere. “A lot of people hate me. So I have to protect myself. And when I do, they use that as a reason to hate me more. So you tell me.”

  “It has to stop.” She tapped the table twice in front of me, on “has” and “stop,” her fingers gathered together for maximum impact. Every meeting with Ms. Davies had a peak, a moral, a here’s-why-we’re-having-this-chat moment. “Has to stop” was that moment. “Whatever story you are telling yourself, whatever fantasy is justifying this violence, it is wrong. Period.” One last table tap.

  Good news was: if I signaled my acknowledgment, we could start the wind-down.

  I nodded gravely. Yeah, I guess you’re right.

  That must have satisfied her, because she leaned back and said, “I need to sit down with you and your mom. Have her call me.” A smile for a boy who’s learned his lesson.

  “I will,” I said, reaching, preposterously, for my Bio textbook.

  Ms. Davies stood up and headed for the door. “Is Melissa here today?”

  So many truthful ways I could have answered that. No. Or I don’t believe so. Why would I choose the one response that was a direct lie?

  “I haven’t seen her,” I said.

  “OK.” Another smile from Ms. Davies, and a well-practiced wink. “Back to work, buddy.”

  I hadn’t realized how much I was lying until Meili pointed it out. I thought I was protecting people, saving them from worrying about things that were, in the end, fine. I can’t tell Ms. Davies about punching Ronny because she doesn’t know how respect works in Unionville. And I can’t tell her I live alone because she doesn’t understand that I’m OK, that I’m better off without my mom and Al.

  No one understands, that’s what I told myself. Maybe that was the biggest lie.

  I tried to read the Tolkien book to impress Meili, but it was too slow, too pleased with itself. I read enough to be able to discuss it with her later, then switched to The Last Fortress, the second book in my series. I was completely engrossed. I’d expected the Rubber Room to be torture today, exquisite as Meili would say. I looked up from The Last Fortress and it was 2:29. An hour and three minutes had passed without me noticing, something that never happened with Meili in the room.

  * * *

  “Wilder!”

  Todd the Bod, a hunky senior swimmer and lifeguard, nice guy, walked over in the parking lot. We played basketball together, back before everything. Todd was sharp: hair product, tight T-shirt, unlaced high-tops. He was trailed by a big dude, maybe a wrestler.

  “Yo, Jason, man, what happened? You get busted?”

  We did the clench handshake and shoulder hug. Todd smelled nice.

  “No, I’m good, man. Keeping clean.”

  His friend stared at his phone, maybe trying not to talk to me.

  “Saw you at that party, though, right?” Todd said. Was he there? “How crazy was that? Like thirty kids from here got arrested.”

  “Yeah, I hid in the woods,” I said.

  “Oh, shit, on the stealth tip.” Todd socked his friend. “My man Randy here hid under a bed.”

  Randy finally looked up, noticed me, didn’t have a problem with me. Which was nice. He nodded and grinned.

  Todd leaned in. “Dude hides under a bed and p
asses out.”

  “I was pretty hammered,” Randy admitted/bragged.

  “Wakes up, fucking eight in the morning, everybody’s gone.” Todd poked me in the chest. “Makes. Fucking. Breakfast. No joke.”

  Randy shrugged. “Little cereal, OJ. Couple mavericks. You know, start the day off right.”

  A maverick is a partially full beer someone abandoned. Especially delicious the morning after.

  “But, yeah,” Todd said. “I was like: ‘I wonder what happened to Jason,’ cause I didn’t see your bike here yesterday.” He leaned in, got quieter. “And people were like: ‘What happened to that girl, the DJ girl, your friend?’”

  I felt him trying not to say “the Chinese girl,” which I appreciated.

  “Melissa,” I said.

  “Yeah, some people were like: ‘She got deported.’ Other people were like: ‘Her family’s so powerful, they just called up, boom, cops had to release her.’ I was like…” Todd shook his head. “Pfffff, that’s deep.”

  Not surprising that people were talking about Meili. But weird that their guesses were so close to the truth. Not that I knew what the truth was.

  “She wasn’t in the Rubber Room today,” I said. “That’s all I know.”

  “Crazy, man. It’s like…” Todd watched some girls stretching on the track. “Fuck Kendall. Know what I mean? Fuck that whole town.”

  “Seriously,” I said.

  Another shoulder hug.

  “Glad you got away, though. That’s awesome.” Todd headed to his truck, Randy’s phone and Randy close behind. “Tell that DJ I liked her set.”

  Didn’t he hear me say I hadn’t seen her?

  Or was I a shitty liar?

  FIFTEEN

  I shopped on my way home. I bought groceries every day, just cause I could.

  The phone was ringing as I walked in the kitchen. It was the middle of the night in Hong Kong, so Meili wouldn’t be answering it.

  “Hello?”

  I dropped my bag with the mac and cheese, tea, ginger ale, bagels, and—yup, cause I could—a pineapple.

  “Hello, I am calling for Melissa.”

  Formal. Weird.

  “Melissa who?”

  “Melissa Young.”

  “Who’s calling?” I said. Pineapple goes in the fridge? Seemed right.

  “Is this Jason?”

  OK, that’s a fucked-up way to answer my question. I stopped with the pineapple. “Who is this?”

  “This is Melissa’s father.”

  Holy. Shit.

  “Oh, hello. Sir. Yes, I’m Jason. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “Melissa is … um, hold on.” Where was she?

  “Jason,” he said. Could it be a trick? Somebody pretending to be her dad? “I understand you’ve been keeping Melissa safe. We are all grateful.” His voice was warm, steady. He meant it.

  “Yeah, well, she’s … um … she’s amazing.” Ugh. “I mean, don’t worry. She’s safe.”

  “Can I speak with her?”

  God, I hoped she was here.

  Meili was curled up on my bed, asleep. Crash position, mouth open.

  “Meili, your father’s on the phone.”

  “What?” She was instantly awake, no transition. “You serious?” She was on her feet, smoothing her T-shirt (my T-shirt technically), head down, half jogging to the kitchen.

  It was her father. I knew from her voice. Excitement, warmth, childlike glee.

  I leaned against the living room wall and, without understanding a word, followed the entire conversation.

  Meili gushed, giggled.

  She talked about life here, suspiciously upbeat. I heard “Unionville,” “Jenkins,” “Jason Wilder.” I was being introduced to my girlfriend’s father. If she was my girlfriend.

  She laughed, raced through questions for him. She wasn’t like me, giving the minimum to reassure an absent parent. She was enthralled.

  Then something sad and serious. She can’t go home? She’s in trouble for the drinking? Meili absorbed it, protested, gave up, protested.

  And then something deeper and quietly shocking. Someone died? I heard her posture change, the tiny collapse of things taken for granted and now gone.

  Short, flat answers. A final rush of words.

  Silence.

  The phone smacked the floor, slid along the linoleum.

  A wail. Deep and long.

  When my mom cried, you could rate it by how high-pitched she got. Imagine a strongman scale with a bell at the top for one-hundred-point sorrow.

  This was different. This wasn’t taking off into the sky, it was a crack opening underneath Meili, a crevice cutting her in half. When you split wood, the splitter goes in an inch, maybe two, then the whole log gives way at once. Meili was split.

  She caught her breath.

  I did, too, forehead on the living room wall. Let her be. She needs space.

  Then a deeper, harsher, rasping scream.

  Damn.

  OK, give her a minute. I put down the pineapple I was somehow still holding. Think about other things, let it …

  No.

  I marched into the kitchen. Meili was bent off her chair, frozen in midfall. I reached down to … hug her? Sit by her? No. I scooped her up, deadlifted her, tipping the chair, kicking the phone.

  I half fell onto the couch with her in my arms. She let me hold her, let me in.

  She screamed so loud I turned my ear away.

  I never want Meili—or anyone—to be so betrayed and broken. But if we’re gonna live in a world where that happens, I want this. I want her thrashing sobs and gut screams. I want to clench my body to hers and tumble. I want that velocity. I want my share.

  Black River flows through the Notch, these great cliffs for jumps and the occasional death. When the water’s especially high, you can shoot the rapids on your butt, bouncing off rocks and tumbling over two big drops.

  I held Meili as she plunged through the Notch.

  She buried her face in my shoulder, vibrated my chest with her wails. Hair, snot, tears, saliva. Everything flowed and tangled, paused then restarted.

  After the fire, I’d wake up every morning and have a moment of peace. Then: oh, shit, I burned that kid. Meili cycled through crying, settling, then seeing the horror with fresh eyes.

  Her moments of calm gradually lengthened, her breath slowed.

  She slid off my lap, sat next to me. I waited, my arm around her.

  Minutes passed, my personal record for don’t fill the silence.

  “I can’t go home,” she said.

  Terrible news. For her. But I sure didn’t want her to leave.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And it’s worse. It’s not to do with the trial. That’s finished. It’s to do with…” A sob. “Money. Fucking money. You believe that?”

  Well, yes. When money’s involved, people do crazy things. Tyler Beck’s dad still walked funny because of some fight over a trailer worth, what, a couple thousand dollars?

  “It was so fucking good to hear his voice,” she said. “I can’t even tell you. I miss him so much. I’ve been terrified something happened. Jail, another fire. Or something worse. I’ve been petrified.”

  “You don’t talk about that.”

  “It’s the only thing I think about. Ever. It’s right here, every second.” She put her fingers on her forehead.

  Did I have that, something I thought about every moment and didn’t talk about? Euhhh. Shudder.

  “Is he OK?” I said.

  “Yeah, thank god.” Big exhale. “But he’s lying, Jason. He’s been fucking lying for so long. I can’t … aaaaah.”

  She clenched her fists, shook her head. The news seeped in, but her body fought it.

  “About what?” I said.

  “Why I’m here. It’s those buildings, that’s why I’m stuck in America. I’m guarding the family fortune. He put them all in my name so the corrupt arseholes can’t take them. He says they’re at risk.
Vulnerable. Can you imagine using those words with me? I’m fucking vulnerable.”

  I didn’t say it, but I definitely thought it, probably because of the family I grew up in: Could Meili’s dad be the corrupt arsehole?

  “And there’s more,” she said. Resigned, methodical. “There was no fire.”

  “What?”

  She ripped a sheet from a notebook, blew her nose in it, folded it. “Believe that? There were threats, apparently, legal ones and not so legal. But no fire.”

  “Your dad made it up?”

  “Yeah. And he just now told me, like: ‘Hey, good news, darling, no fire! Your stuff didn’t get burned.’”

  “Damn.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I’m jealous.”

  “What’s that?” She picked up a mug, saw it was empty.

  “Wish my fire got erased,” I said.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I’m just saying.” I dug my hole deeper. Why? “I’d love it if someone called up and said my fire never happened.”

  She sat up, got out of my arm. “If you didn’t want a fire, all you had to do was not fucking start one. Is that so difficult to understand? I had nothing to do with my fire. Nothing. It sent me here and ruined my life. And now it’s erased, never happened? Ruins my life again.”

  We weren’t touching. Dammit. I rubbed my own arm—didn’t help.

  “He made up the fire to scare you?” I said.

  “That’s not what he’d say. He’d say he did it to protect me.”

  “The money, you mean.”

  “The what?”

  “He made up the fire to protect the money, the family fortune. Not you.”

  I was focused on figuring out the mystery, not on how devastating it was.

  Turns out: pretty fucking devastating.

  Turns out, this was my equivalent of Meili saying, Florida. It’s gorgeous.

  No, this was worse.

  Her face wrinkled up. “Yeah. That’s it, isn’t it? None of this was for me. Ever.” Like throwing up in slow motion, tears started in her belly, bent her over as they squeezed up through her chest. “Oh god.”

  Meili had two reactions to the conversation with her father. First, she was wrecked. By the call, the lies, the months spent apart from him. Meili, always quick, always direct, overheated completely. She was on the side of the road, steam pouring out of the hood, staring helplessly. That comforted me. It’s how I felt most of the time, broken down and not sure why.