by Gordon Jack
“What is it, Lawrence?” she asked. “You’re looking at me strangely.”
“You don’t like school very much, do you?”
She shrugged. “It’s tolerable,” she said, gripping the doorframe a little tighter.
“Homecoming must suck for you, right? All that enthusiasm for something you hate?”
“I do not grasp your meaning,” Audrey said. She closed the door and positioned her body so I couldn’t see inside her house. The paint smudge on her cheek stood out in contrast with her reddening blush.
“What are you painting?” I asked.
Audrey’s eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open, but the only thing she said was “Eek.” I pushed the door open with my right shoulder and barged into her house. There was a small entranceway that led into the living room, which was wallpapered with climbing vines and flowers. There were thousands of teacups in the room, a sign of a serious hoarder or caffeine addict. Every surface, from shelf to piano to windowsill, had a series of mini ceramic cups just waiting to be crushed by a bull. I was that bull.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Good sir,” Audrey said. “Prithee, tell me what you seek?”
“You know what I seek. Where’s your room? Down this hallway?” I ran down the hall and entered the open door at the end. There, resting on a drop cloth on the floor, was the Viking head. A jar of yellow paint lay next to it, touch-up for the Viking’s flowing mane and beard. “Diablerie!” I said.
“Audrey?” an old woman’s voice called from the adjacent room.
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Is that a boy?”
“No, Grandma. Just the TV.”
“Turn it down. I’m resting.”
Audrey grabbed my arm and pulled me back toward the front of the house. She was surprisingly strong. Maybe not surprisingly. Regular swordplay with adult men probably keeps one in pretty good shape. She swung me outside and closed the door. “Lawrence, let me explain.”
I took a few steps back and waited for her to continue, my mind reeling. Audrey struggled for words. Her inability to talk was completely at odds with her bouncer-like ability to throw me out of her house. “Tell me in Old English,” I said, desperate for the confession.
“Last night, I was on my way to the other side of the house when I heard you raise the alarm. I was on my way back to you when I bespied a small figure with an enormous head scrambling over the fence. When I heard the commotion in the backyard, I assumed you had alerted the family, and rather than join you, I gave chase. The villain was nimble and knew the terrain, but he was impeded by his mask and must have known I would eventually capture him. In desperation, he withdrew the mask and let it fall at my feet. I stumbled over the obstacle he had thrown in my path, which allowed the bandit to make his escape. Not knowing what to do with the piece of evidence, I brought it to my house. I was going to inform you at school today, but you weren’t there.”
“Why are you painting it?”
“I’m afraid his countenance suffered some damage when I stepped on it. I was simply trying to make some repairs before I returned it to you. Please. You have to believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” I said, turning to walk back to my car.
“Lawrence,” Audrey called from behind. “What should I do with the head?”
“Keep it,” I said. “I never want to see that thing again.”
I got in my car and drove home.
TWENTY-THREE
That night, I dreamed I was slow dancing with Audrey in our high school gymnasium. We held each other tight and spun in slow circles as the disco ball sprinkled us with multicolored light. I buried my head in Audrey’s honey-scented hair and was just about to kiss her full, red lips when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw the Viking standing behind me. “May I cut in?” he said, and then he split Audrey right down the middle with his giant sword. “Thou art a puny, sheep-biting giglet!” he roared, swinging his weapon at my head.
I woke up drenched with sweat. It took a long, cold shower to shake off the nightmare. After I collected myself, I logged on to our family website and entered the story on the “Troubling Dreams” page and waited for Mom’s response. Given her long history of therapy, I thought she’d be quick to interpret some of the dream’s symbolism. All she wrote a few minutes later was The giant sword is a phallic symbol representing the penis and sexual drive.
Thanks, Mom, I wrote, ending my session with Mrs. Freud. I made a mental note never to consult my mom on matters of the subconscious ever again. Now our little exchange existed permanently in cyberspace for future generations to mock.
I left for school hungry and unsettled, thinking life had only gotten stranger since I stopped smoking weed.
Walking onto campus, I was in a fouler mood than when I woke up. I looked around at the students milling outside the school. Why had I told Audrey there were more good people than bad at our school? I hated Meridian and its stupid homecoming traditions. Heading toward the cafeteria, I wanted to tear down all the celebratory banners and fairy-tale decorations. Why did we need a week to celebrate the most popular students at school? Don’t they get enough attention every day of the year? Wasn’t this why we fought a war with the British? So that we wouldn’t have to be beholden to a monarchy? Why is it we still long to be ruled by kings and queens?
I reached the entrance to the cafeteria and saw a posted list of homecoming court nominees. I tore the list off the glass door and saw a predictable list of names. Dawn and Jerry topped the list of twelve students most likely to be voted queen and king. Brett Bridges secured a slot too, thanks to his campaigning. Maybe now he’d drop his Viking exposé reporting and focus on smearing his fellow nominees.
I crumpled the list and threw it in the trash. Spencer was seated at our usual table, eating his healthy breakfast of Norwegian foods. For the first time, I felt hesitant to join him. I didn’t want to treat him differently, but how could I not now that I knew he might be autistic? Suddenly he was like a chemistry experiment you weren’t sure would bubble, freeze, or explode.
“Spencer?” I said softly. “Hey there, buddy. It’s me. Lawrence.”
Spencer looked in my direction and raised an eyebrow. “Hello, Lawrence.”
“How are you feeling?” I said, sitting down.
“Fine. Are you worried I’m still angry about our last conversation?”
“I feel bad about upsetting you.”
“You needn’t worry. I am fine. In fact, I have some news to share with you.”
“Please, tell me.”
“Can you speak in your normal voice? I find this tone . . . unsettling.”
“Fine,” I said, trying to relax. “Wassup?”
“Miss Schwam has asked me to the homecoming dance.”
“And how does that make you feel?” I heard my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth but was powerless to stop it. Spencer scowled, showing a clear and appropriate emotional response. Maybe he wasn’t autistic after all.
“I am flattered, but unfortunately I cannot go.”
“Why not?”
“My mother would never allow it.”
“Do you want to go?”
“I think it would be enjoyable, yes.”
“Then you should go.”
“It is impossible. Miss Schwam told me you were taking Miss Cosmos, which I found curious.”
“She’s blackmailing me into taking her.”
I filled Spencer in on the events of the previous two days, beginning with my botched attempt to thwart the Viking and ending with my discovery of the mask in Audrey’s home.
“Her story certainly sounds plausible,” he said.
“I know. There are just too many strange coincidences.”
“But you were with her prior to the events at Miss Schwam’s house. She didn’t have the mask with her then.”
“She could have stashed it near the house earlier.”
“I suppose,” Spencer
said. “Still, she has no motive.”
“She hates the school.”
“Has she ever said as much to you?”
“Pretty much. Plus, she doesn’t participate in, like, anything.”
“That shows she’s indifferent, not antagonistic.”
“Okay. Maybe she hates me.”
“Have you told her you’re taking Zoe to homecoming?”
“Yesterday.”
“After these attacks have happened. Why would she want to frame you before then?”
“Maybe she’s a psychopath. That would explain the whole LARPing thing, wouldn’t it?”
“Psychopaths are characterized by their superficial charm and egocentricity.”
“Hey, guys!” Brett said, placing his hands on the backs of our chairs. He was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with his yearbook picture and the phrase “The Man Who Would Be King.” He threw down some chocolate coins on our table. I picked one up and saw Brett’s profile embossed on the gold foil. “Did you read the latest story on the Beacon Signal website?” he asked.
We shook our heads.
“You should check it out.” Then he left to distribute his chocolate wealth to the next table. “And don’t forget to vote for me at Friday’s assembly,” he said over his shoulder.
I pulled up the BS’s page on my iPhone and placed it between Spencer and myself. “Editor Thwarts Viking’s Attempt to Destroy School,” the headline read.
Beacon Signal editor Brett Bridges saved the school from another attack by the vigilante known as the Viking Vandal last night. “I’d been tipped off that an attack was imminent so I stepped up my midnight patrols,” Bridges said. “That’s when I saw him.”
“Is it standard journalistic practice to write about yourself in the third person?” I asked.
“It is not,” Spencer answered. We continued reading.
The Viking, armed with two bottles of bleach, approached the school from the south entrance, moving toward the football field. “It was clear that his plan was to destroy the turf using the bleach,” Bridges said. “Maybe he wanted to write another disparaging remark about Principal Stone. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
Armed with a baseball bat, Bridges crept up behind the Viking as he attempted to scale the chain-link fence that surrounds the field. Years of training on both JV and Varsity baseball teams helped Bridges wield the bat with authority.
“I swung the bat against the fence as a warning,” Bridges said. The Viking, however, showed little fear or remorse and continued his break-in attempt. Knowing there was no time to lose, Bridges hit the Viking on the back of the legs, forcing him to drop to the ground.
Disarmed, the cowardly Viking ran away before Bridges could unmask him. The bottles of bleach are now with the authorities and undergoing fingerprint tests.
“I’m sorry he got away,” Bridges said. “Next time, he won’t be so lucky.”
Bridges will surely be lauded for his bravery but his modesty makes him reluctant to accept the title of hero. “I’m just doing what any other student at Meridian would do.”
My eyes rolled so far back in my head I could see my amygdala. “What a load of crap,” I said.
“It does seem a bit self-aggrandizing.”
After Spencer explained what self-aggrandizing was, I heartily concurred with him. “And worse than that, it’s not even true,” I said. “The Viking head was at Audrey’s last night.”
“Unless Miss Sieminski went on a midnight patrol, Brett has fabricated the entire story.”
I vowed to check Audrey’s calves in class. I didn’t know how I was going to do this, but it was the only way I could confirm that Brett’s story was bullshit.
Audrey wasn’t in class when I arrived. Maybe it was her turn to take a mental health day. Or maybe her calves were recovering from being hit by Brett’s baseball bat. No, I couldn’t think like that. Brett had made that whole story up. Spencer was right. Audrey may have had the means and opportunity, but she had no motive.
The morning passed uneventfully, except that everyone kept eyeing me suspiciously and pointing at my legs. During lunch, Jerry and his football buddies held me upside down by my sneakers and rolled down my pants legs (or rolled up, given my inverted position) to inspect my calves. “Those are the palest, weakest pair of legs I have ever seen,” Jerry yelled, confirming my innocence and my wussiness for the crowd, who walked away disappointed.
When I got to Yearbook, I found Eddie in a jovial mood, which only made me more depressed.
“I’m going to ask Dawn to the dance today,” he said. “It’s my last shot. What have I got to lose, right?”
I nodded weakly, all the while mentally listing the things Eddie could lose by following this course of action: his dignity, his reputation, his joie de vivre, his optimism, his faith in humanity, his belief in a kind and loving God. The list went on and on.
Seeing Eddie look at me with his puppy-dog eyes, I couldn’t help but recall my tenth-grade reading of The Catcher in the Rye. There’s a moment in that book when Holden tells his sister of his dream of being the catcher in the rye and stopping the innocent children from running off a cliff or something. We discussed that metaphor for two days, but it didn’t hit me until now what Holden was talking about. Eddie was about to run off a cliff and I should find a way to save him.
“Dude, the dance is two days away. Don’t you think Dawn’s lined up a date by now?”
“Why do you always have to be so negative?” Eddie said. His puppy-dog eyes suddenly turned Doberman on me. “Can’t you just support me this one time?”
“I’m just saying,” I said. “Homecoming is a stupid tradition.”
“Homecoming is not a stupid tradition,” Eddie said, his voice drawing the attention of others in the class.
“Really? What’s so great about it?”
“It’s about coming together as a school. Everyone participates to celebrate our community.”
“Community?” I spat. “Is that what you call it?”
“Yes,” Eddie said.
“Then why the social hierarchy? Why even have a homecoming court?”
“Because it’s a tradition!”
“Because it’s tyranny!”
“I agree with Lawrence,” Crystal said, sneaking up next to me. I didn’t know how I felt about this alliance. Eddie and I had always sided against our editor in chief. Just standing next to her made me feel traitorous.
“It’s so not a tyranny,” Eddie said. “The homecoming court is nominated and elected by the student body.”
“Those people are preordained from birth,” I said.
“Exactly!” Crystal said.
“What are you two talking about?” Eddie said, shaking his head.
“Homecoming isn’t about celebrating community,” I said.
“It’s about celebrating the king of kings!” Crystal said.
“Right,” I said. “Wait, what?”
“Jerry Tortelli represents the highest ideals of this school: strength, courage, and washboard abs. He is the living embodiment of all that we strive to be. It is honorable and just that we bow down to him and honor the sacrifices he has made for our great nation!” Crystal’s voice boomed, her eyes bulged, her whole body started to tremble. It suddenly became apparent that we weren’t on the same side, which was kind of a relief. We both believed homecoming honored the popular, but Crystal clearly saw this as a good thing.
The room got real quiet after Crystal’s pronouncement. She must have realized she had said too much, because she started handing out page assignments to the assistant editors.
“Dude, she’s totally lost it,” Eddie said after Crystal had dispersed the crowd.
“Yeah, it’s weird how a person can become obsessed with someone they have no hope of ever dating.”
“I know, right?”
There was a slight pause in which Eddie failed to catch the clue I had lobbed in his direction.
“So, you think I should ask Da
wn before or after practice?”
“After,” I said through a clenched smile. I wasn’t the catcher in the rye. I was the air traffic controller telling all the little children they are clear for takeoff. Have a nice trip! Mind that first step. It’s a doozy.
I told Mr. Koran I thought my pancreas had burst and excused myself from class. The situation was a mess. Spencer wanted to go to the dance but couldn’t because his mom thought an American dance involved kids having sex on the gymnasium floor with assault rifles. Eddie wanted to go to the dance too but had set his hopes on taking the most unavailable girl on campus. Meanwhile, I had no interest in going to the dance but would be dragged there in a dog collar by a bloodsucking vampire. If I refused Zoe, I would be kicked out of school on Friday and shipped to Langdon Military Academy on the first plane leaving for North Dakota.
I wandered the halls trying to find a way out of my predicament. Eventually, I found myself walking across the student parking lot, where I found a couple of freshmen writing RESOL in shaving cream on the rear window of my car.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I screamed. They took off running in opposite directions, making it impossible to slam their puny heads together. I reached my car and started wiping off the foamy letters, which just smeared shaving cream all over my hands and window.
“Goddamnit!” I screamed, pounding the trunk of my car with my fists. Would I be forever branded with this tattoo? I should just save everyone the time and get T-shirts made. I could wear RESOL as my logo, like the Izod alligator or Polo pony.
“You okay?” a voice to my left asked. I looked up and saw the smiling face of Dawn Bronson staring down at me. She reached out to touch my shoulder but then hesitated as if I were a baking pan that was too hot to handle without an oven mitt.
“You’re Lawrence, right? Eddie’s friend?” Dawn smiled at me with her pearly white teeth. As my grandfather used to say, you couldn’t assemble a more perfect mouth with glue and a hacksaw. He wasn’t known for his folksy wisdom.
My mouth dropped open. Like Eddie, I had known Dawn since freshman year, when she was my campus guide during orientation. Unlike Eddie, I did not follow her into every activity hoping she might notice me nipping at her slender ankles. The fact that she knew my name shocked me. I think the right word is “stupefied,” if that isn’t one of the three unforgiveable curses from Harry Potter. I tried to form a reply—all I needed to do was nod my head to indicate I understood her—but I couldn’t do anything but smile awkwardly and cough something that sounded like a distressed chicken.