by Gordon Jack
To be honest, I was experiencing some choked feelings about my first meeting with Spencer. I knew I’d make a good first impression, but I had no idea how lame he was going to be. Walking into the cafeteria at lunch, I immediately regretted picking this as the spot for our first meeting. The place was packed with people waiting in line to buy food or eating their lunches at the round tables scattered across the room. What would my peers think when they saw me eating with a freshman? I wished I’d brought a little sign that said Do Not Disturb—Mentoring in Process to put on our table.
I scanned the area for someone who matched my mental image of Spencer Knudsen, who I pictured as a pudgy boy in lederhosen, like the kids in The Sound of Music. Did that take place in Norway? I now regretted not brushing up on my geography prior to this meeting.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and saw a mini adult wearing a white button-down shirt and black trousers, which still looked freshly pressed and ironed. With his violin case, he might as well have been on his way to a concert at our performing arts center. The pasty boy extended a hand for me to shake. “Mr. Barry, I presume,” he said without looking me in the eye.
“Spencer?” I said. My first thought was: Fuck!
We found space at a table and sat down. I looked around and was relieved to see no one I knew. Yes, yes, I know. This makes me a shallow prick. I totally own up to the fact that it matters what people think of me. For as long as I can remember, my dad has drilled it into my head that the real three Rs of school are Relationships, Reputation, and Real Estate. For him, being successful means a) knowing the right people; b) having them think highly of you; and c) owning the most desirable space on campus. (Although, I think this last point is not meant to be taken literally, unless it’s possible to buy the section of the quad where all the cool people hang out.) Currently, I was failing in all three Rs. I was in the cafeteria eating lunch with a freshman who looked like he had memorized the periodic table of elements in the first grade.
Spencer dug into his rolling backpack and removed a mini ice chest. His food was housed in tiny plastic containers, which he arranged carefully on the table in front of us. There was something goopy that looked like homemade yogurt, a small bowl of pasta covered in Alfredo sauce, and a peeled and diced pear. Nothing he ate had any color. It was like his mom had killed his lunch and packed its ghost in Tupperware.
“How did you know who I was?” I asked.
“I Googled your name. The only picture I found was of you vomiting in a toilet.”
“Good to know.” Eventually, I would have to clean up my digital life as well as my actual life. Baby steps, I reminded myself, baby steps.
“So, Norway huh?”
“That is where I’m from, yes.”
“I bet it’s cold there.”
“Oslo is negative four degrees in January.”
“Yikes.”
“Of course, that’s Celsius. In Fahrenheit it would be . . .” Spencer paused. “Twenty-four degrees.”
“Which are we?”
“Fahrenheit.”
“Right.” Boy, did this guy need help. I took a deep breath and dove in with another question.
“So, you play the violin?” I nodded toward his case.
“Viola,” he corrected.
“What’s the difference?”
“A viola has a deeper sound than a violin.”
“Like a cello?”
“A cello is an octave below the viola.”
“Other hobbies?”
“I enjoy astronomy.”
“Seriously?” I mumbled. Was this kid in training for the nerd decathlon? He was hopeless. If he were looking through his telescope, he wouldn’t be able to see Planet Cool from where he was standing. He reminded me a little of me, back before I met Alex. Back when I went to origami conventions and tried to learn Japanese so I could read all of Akira Yoshizawa’s books.
But I didn’t want to turn Spencer into a pothead, not that he seemed the type to go in for that kind of thing. The problem was he wasn’t an athlete, funny, or good-looking (unless you were attracted to young Harry Potter types minus the scar and magical powers). You needed at least one of these attributes if you were going to be cool and didn’t want to smoke pot. He was a musician. That was something. But he played the viola, not the most popular instrument for garage bands. I did a quick Wikipedia search on my smartphone and only came up with one violist who was remotely cool. John Cale used the viola in some Velvet Underground songs, but I was pretty sure he also used heroin, which made him less than a perfect role model. This was going to take some time.
“I think we should meet twice a week,” I said.
“Hey, Lawman,” Will said, sneaking up behind me and whipping off my baseball hat. “RESOL” could still be seen on my face so I slapped a free hand over my forehead.
“Give me back my hat, you fucker,” I said.
The guys took great delight in watching me dance between them as they tossed my hat around the circle. I glanced over at Spencer and saw him frozen like a statue amid the mayhem.
“You have something on your face,” Adam said, imitating someone politely warning an unsuspecting person of an unsightly food particle wedged in his teeth.
“What’s RESOL mean?” Nate asked.
“Is that some kind of Satanic cult?” the other Nate asked.
“Ha ha. Very funny. Can I have my hat back now?” Will tossed me my hat. “Assholes,” I said as they all grabbed chairs and sat around our table.
“Who’s your friend?” Adam asked.
“Is he your math tutor?” Nate asked.
“What do you guys want?” I said.
“We need a ride to Taco Bell,” the other Nate said.
“I’m kinda busy here,” I said. My mind scrambled to think of a way to explain Spencer. If I told them about the Buddy Club, there’d be no end to the hazing.
“C’mon, dude,” Will said. “We’re starving.”
“You can copy my trig homework,” Adam said.
“Give your tutor a break. I’m sure he’s exhausted explaining polynomials,” Nate said.
“Polynomials are covered in algebra, not trigonometry,” Spencer said.
“Oh, snap!” Adam said. “The little dude just out-mathed you.”
“Nerd alert, nerd alert,” Will shouted.
I wanted to shield Spencer from more comebacks coming his way. The only way I knew to end their taunting was to give them what they wanted. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll take you to Taco Bell.”
The guys whooped and hollered and stormed out of the cafeteria.
“Sorry, Spencer,” I said, standing up. “Mind if we continue this tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is fine.”
“Can we change our meeting time though?”
“What time would you prefer?”
“How about we meet for breakfast instead?” There’d be less douchebags in the cafeteria then, I assumed.
“That’s fine, but it has to be at seven, since I have orchestra at seven thirty.”
“Works for me,” I said, grimacing. I hadn’t woken up before 7:00 a.m. since my dad’s regular golf caddy got a concussion from a wayward line drive. After today’s embarrassment, though, I owed it to him.
“Later.” I held out my hand for a fist bump. Spencer looked at me like I was offering him a bruised apple from the cafeteria fruit bowl and left me hanging.
FIVE
It was tough waking up at 6:30 the next morning, but one thing you should know about Lawrence Barry is that he honors his commitments. I knew a 7:00 a.m. meeting would be difficult, given that my faulty alarm clock always shuts down with repeated fist pounding. So I placed the clock in my underwear drawer about thirty feet away from my bed. When the alarm sounded, I had no other choice but to leave my warm bed and dig through my boxers to shut the thing off.
Mom had posted another video message on our family website. She had filmed it in the back of a cab, probably on her way to another talk
show. She looked a bit like one of those Real Housewives, the ones that border on crazy. Maybe she was just overcaffeinated or nervous about her interview.
“Hey, honey, it’s Mom,” she began, not realizing this kind of introduction was unnecessary in a video chat. “I miss you. Hope you’re doing well after all that funny business at school.”
I assumed the “funny business” she was referring to was my near expulsion.
“Send me a video and tell me how you’re feeling. I’m going to be swamped all day, but I want to hear from you. People here are still having trouble with our site, so the more emotional you can make the post, the better. I need it by noon your time. Okay, honey. Kiss, kiss.”
The video ended. I instinctively gave her puckered face the finger. Mom had taken an awesome piece of technology and turned it against me. Now I was going to have to find time during the day to cry in front of the camera so she’d have her proof of concept. Maybe instead of sadness, I could express how I was really feeling. That would require hurling my phone against the wall though, which would hurt me more than it would her.
I was five minutes late when I arrived at school, so I parked in Mrs. Coolidge’s space in the faculty lot to cut my walk to the cafeteria down by a minute. Mrs. Coolidge’s out on maternity leave so the prime parking space would be vacant anyway. My convertible BMW stood out amongst the teachers’ Priuses and electric cars, but hopefully no one would object to me classing up this section of the lot.
Spencer was in the cafeteria when I arrived, dressed in the same white shirt and black pants as the day before. His jet-black hair looked almost toupee-like in its perfection—not a strand out of place. He was reading a giant brick of a book titled, Quantum Mechanics Non-Relativistic Theory Volume 3. “WTF, dude,” I said, pushing the book aside and sitting down.
“Good morning, Lawrence,” he said.
“’S’up,” I said. I placed the list of discussion items that I had brainstormed the night before in front of him. “I thought this could be our syllabus for the next couple of weeks.”
Spencer examined the list. “What’s this word?” he said, pointing to the first lesson.
“Pantsed,” I said.
“I wasn’t aware pants could be used as a verb.”
“It’s when someone pulls your pants down in gym. There are ways to avoid it.”
Spencer continued reading.
“Why must I pretend to know karate?” he asked, referring to agenda item four.
“Well, you’re not going to win any physical fights, so you have to appear like you’re trained in some lethal martial art you only use in self-defense.”
“And this lesson about my belt?”
“That’s easy. Don’t wear one.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not cool,” I said, lifting up my T-shirt to show him my belt-less cargo shorts. “You want your pants to hang off your butt.”
“That doesn’t look comfortable,” Spencer said.
“Being cool isn’t about being comfortable,” I said. “It’s about creating an image. Speaking of which, you’ve got to lose those cuff links. It looks like you’re going to a funeral.”
“Who died?” a deep, hoarse voice said from behind me.
I could tell by the sudden eclipse of the sun that Zoe Cosmos had entered the cafeteria. She was only a sophomore, but she had the soul of an ancient Greek witch. We were in the same art class last year and she only drew pictures of dark orbs and serpents.
What was she doing at school so early? Shouldn’t she be getting back into her coffin by now? I hadn’t anticipated defending my mentee against this she-devil. I squeaked a response to her question but even I didn’t understand the sound that came out of my mouth. Truth was, I was powerless when it came to Zoe Cosmos. Her jet-black hair, narrow eyes, and sharp cheekbones looked like they were designed by a Disney animator to scare small children. The best thing I could hope for was that one of her ravens would beckon her to some fresh roadkill on the other side of campus.
“Who’s your friend, Lawrence?”
“I’m Spencer Knudsen.” My mentee spoke up when he saw I was having trouble breathing.
“Nice to meet you, Spencer,” Zoe said, extending her claw. Spencer stared at her hand but did nothing. Maybe Norwegians have some other form of greeting, like the kissing French or the bowing Japanese.
“We’re kinda busy here, Zoe,” I managed to say.
“Fine,” she said. “See you around.” And she slithered away.
I should probably explain my rudeness lest you come to the inaccurate conclusion that I am some woman-hating misogynist. I am not. I love the ladies and strongly believe we need to break the glass ceiling to help them ascend into the stratosphere of equality.
With that said, I must confess there are some women who frighten me. I get chills whenever Nancy Grace is on television, and I failed freshman algebra because my teacher, Ms. Helman, had these froglike eyes that shot lasers. (Full disclosure, I was often high when I went to algebra.)
With Zoe Cosmos, though, things are more complicated. Have you ever stood on the edge of a cliff and had to resist the urge to jump? Or wanted to accelerate into the car ahead of you on the freeway? Then you have some idea of how Zoe makes me feel. I guess you could say I’m simultaneously attracted to and repelled by her. If I’m Odysseus, then she is my siren, the girl who tries to lure me to my death by singing on some craggy shore. The best thing I can do when she’s around is plug my ears with beeswax and keep moving.
“So that was Zoe,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Why don’t you shake hands?” I asked.
“I don’t like touching people.”
“Okay, normally, I’d think that’s weird, but in Zoe’s case, it’s probably good policy.”
“She seems nice,” Spencer said.
“She’s not. Trust me on this.”
We sat in silence. Zoe had seriously interrupted my mentoring flow. I looked at my list of discussion topics, hoping to find my place again. Was it too early to start my lecture on body spray etiquette?
“I noticed you arrived from the south today,” Spencer said.
“Excuse me?”
“The student parking lot is located on the north side of campus, but you arrived from over there.” He pointed toward the faculty parking lot.
“Yeah, I was kinda late, so I grabbed an open space in the teachers’ lot.”
“Mrs. Coolidge’s spot?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I just saw her walk past with Principal Stone. She looked . . . upset.”
“Shit!” I said, pushing my chair back and bolting for the door.
“You might want to give Mrs. Coolidge this,” Spencer said, handing me his blueberry muffin, still wrapped in cellophane. I took off toward the faculty parking lot.
Sure enough, my car was surrounded by Mrs. Coolidge and Principal Stone, both looking grumpy and bloated. Apologies flowed from my mouth like beer from a poorly tapped keg. The food offering appeased Mrs. Coolidge. “Thanks. I’m starving!” she said, regarding the muffin as if she had just birthed it.
“Lawrence,” Stone said, shaking his bald head and furrowing his shaggy eyebrows. “I should have known.”
“I just had to run into the cafeteria to tell my mentee I was running late.”
Stone muttered something about no good deed going unpunished to Mrs. Coolidge, who couldn’t respond due to the muffin in her mouth. He pointed a stubby finger in my direction. “You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am meeting my partner from the Buddy Club. You can ask Lunley if you don’t believe me. His name’s Spencer Knudsen. He’s a freshman. From Norway. I’m helping him.”
“Why don’t you help him understand our policy on student parking?” Stone asked.
“Well, he doesn’t drive, so it’s probably not necessary. Believe me, he’s got more pressing issues we need to tackle first.�
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Stone walked over and rapped his knuckles against my skull. “Maybe you should cover the consequences of repeatedly breaking school rules and pissing off the principal? I can arrange for a ‘scared straight’ tour of Quiet Haven if you think it would help.”
“Not necessary,” I said, getting the gist of his message. “This won’t happen again.”
After moving my BMW to a space in the more distant student parking lot, I hiked back to the cafeteria.
I found Spencer flipping through the pages of his Quantum Mechanics book and collapsed next to him.
“Phew,” I said. “That was a close call.”
“Are you sure these morning meetings work with your schedule?”
“My what?”
“If we are going to meet regularly, I’d like it to be on the same days at the same time in the same place.”
“I’m more of a spontaneous kind of guy. Why don’t I just text you?”
“I don’t text.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have a cell phone.”
I stared at him. Mouth agrape, if that’s the correct term. “You. Don’t. Have. A. Cell phone?” Spencer could have said he didn’t have one of his testicles and it would have surprised me less. “You mean you don’t have an iPhone?” I whipped mine out and showed it to him as a visual aid. “That’s cool. You got an Android?”
“I don’t have a cell phone.”
“TracFone?”
Spencer shook his head.
“Oh my God.” I don’t know if I said these words aloud, but they were echoing in my head, along with that ominous music that signals the death of every minor character in horror movies. “You have to get a cell phone.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why? Because, it’s, like, everything.” There was no single reason I could articulate. It’s like trying to answer why you need oxygen. Well, no, that’s easy. How about sight or hearing? Sure, you could survive without one of your senses, but think about all the amazing things you’d miss out on. Cell phones were like that.