by Foster, Lily
My grandparents lived in a modest house closer to town, right off Main Street. It was better having them around. My mother’s parents were doting grandparents and they did their best to help out. They’d had my mom late in life though, their only child, so they were pretty old by the time I came along. My Grandpa could throw the ball around the yard with me and he let me tinker as he hobbied in the garage, but I didn’t have any sort of structure really. There were many nights back then when my dad didn’t bother with the whole bath, brush teeth and bedtime story routine that my mother had established. And put it this way, after she was gone, no one was sitting at the dining room table in the evenings helping little Jeremy with his homework—homework that he simply could not do.
I can still picture my mother sitting with me, tirelessly flipping through flashcards. Each letter of the alphabet, she’d train me to name them and then to pair a sound with each one. It took repetition, day in and day out, for me to master this basic skill. My mother always smiled patiently and paired the painful task with cookies, hot chocolate, kisses and hugs.
She got sick when I was in first grade so the tutoring sessions went by the wayside. When I entered second grade in this new school district, I think the phone calls and meetings with Dad started right away. The appeals to have me tested: I couldn’t read at all, maybe I needed glasses, maybe I was intellectually impaired. I overheard it at the time but didn’t know what they were talking about, other than the fact that I couldn’t read. Of that, I was already painfully aware.
In this school, not only were the other kids in my second grade class reading, they were reading full-on chapter books with many, many pages and no pictures. How could anyone enjoy a book without pictures? But these kids were the offspring of doctors, high-profile trial attorneys…astrophysicists for fuck’s sake. Their DNA gave them reading superpowers, while I was lacking in every academic skill area. Even math, which came easily to me, was now giving me trouble because I couldn’t make heads or tails of the word problems.
My father was in no state to even think about getting me help at the time. Getting through a day’s work, remembering to shower, to shave, remembering to eat—those were now priorities. He was grief-stricken. So I repeated second grade and struggled my way through third, fourth and fifth, growing more frustrated and angrier year by year.
The last day of August, our last practice before Coach was announcing the starting line-up—that’s when I saw her. She was the reason I’d been “asked” to leave school all those years ago.
We had to walk through the gym on the way to the locker rooms. Every other day it was empty, as football practice started a few weeks before school started up. Today though, the girls’ volleyball team was having tryouts. When did volleyball uniforms get so hot? I took in the shorts that barely covered their ass cheeks and the tight, formfitting tank tops. The guys started hooting and hollering as they took in the scene, the girls preening, laughing or looking annoyed in response.
Back in the locker room, Chase, one guy I had come to truly dislike, called out, “I know who I’ll be whacking off to tonight…Samantha Cavanaugh. That girl has the sweetest tits I’ve ever seen.”
“You mean, the sweetest tits you’ve never seen, don’t you?” Will asked.
“Only a matter of time, young Will,” answered Chase, stupid smug grin on his face. I pretty much always had the urge to slap that kid.
“I’d take Carolyn Harris over her any day. She’s a lot nicer and those legs…I can envision those long, beautiful legs wrapped tight around me,” Mike said, making a crude gesture with his hips.
“Shut the fuck up. Carolyn is mine.”
“Take it easy, Drew,” Mike said.
Drew’s face changed from menacing to light in the span of a second. “I’m fucking with you, Mike, but she is going to be mine. I’ve been waiting to ask her out for a year.”
I raised my eyebrows as I looked to Will. Once I heard her name, I was listening with rapt attention to everything that was said. Will explained, “Carolyn’s parents won’t let her date until her sixteenth birthday, or at least that’s what she tells Drew to make him back off.”
“October twenty-ninth, baby,” Drew said absently, tossing a football into the air repeatedly.
Spence pushed Drew’s shoulder so that he missed the ball. “That’s a little ass backwards. Are her parents Amish or something?”
“No, they’re cool, just a little protective. I’m good with it. And when Carolyn does go out with me, at least I’ll know she hasn’t already sucked off every other guy in our grade…unlike Chase’s babe.”
The locker room erupted in laughter with a whole lot of “burn” and “oh, shit” taunts thrown in. Chase looked like he was going to charge at Drew for a second before he started to laugh along with everyone else. “Yeah, I wouldn’t call Taylor pure as the driven snow, I guess. I wouldn’t call her my babe, either.”
There was no more talk of Carolyn but my thoughts were stuck on her, even as the coaches came into the locker room to announce the starting line-up for our first game that following Friday. When Will slapped my back, I was startled and looked up at him. “You daydreaming, Rivers? I thought you’d be more excited about being a starting cornerback.”
I smiled, nodding, recovering myself. I looked over to see Landon Westfield scowling in my direction. He was a senior who would now be sitting on the sidelines unless I got injured. I did feel bad, kind of. Being him sucked right about now. But this was football, not girl scouts, and I appreciated that the coaches here respected talent and work ethic.
As I lay in bed that night, my thoughts drifted back to that week in sixth grade that changed my life.
With my learning delays and the surly attitude that I used to mask my embarrassment, I tended to frustrate my teachers. But even though I wasn’t the most respectful kid in class, I knew my place. I’d never made an enemy out of any teacher. Sixth grade, though, brought Mr. Witt. I’d named him Mr. Zit inside of a week, due to his post-pubescent case of acne. He wore glasses, he was my height exactly, and he was mean. It’s like he had me pegged as an outsider, poor and stupid, inside of a week.
I didn’t think I dressed shabby or anything, but these kids dressed differently. They seemed to have new sneakers every few weeks while I got new ones only when I let my dad know that my big toe had a blister from being crammed in too tight. Other boys dressed in khaki pants, some wearing button down shirts and loafers when there was no dress code. What twelve year-old boy willingly does that? Anyway, I guess I looked, dressed and acted…different.
The first day Mr. Witt called on me to read aloud, I swear I saw him smirking. He knew. Fucking bastard knew and he was trying to make me look like a fool in front of the entire class. I shook my head, declining. He raised his voice and ordered me again to read. I said, “No,” meeting his gaze without raising my voice. He told me to stand in the corner next to his desk, where everyone had no choice but to stare at me. I tried to think of anything else—the new snowboard I was hoping to get for Christmas, Beatles’ lyrics, the Patriots’ chances of making it to the Super Bowl that year—anything to take my mind off of where I was at that very moment and why.
I stood there for the duration of that period. He was our Social Studies teacher too, so I had to stand for the next period also. When the bell rang for Gym, I went to move and he yelled, “You will stay right there!” As the other kids filed out, he lowered his voice and said, “You will stay there until you learn to listen.”
The other kids came back from Gym, one or two chuckling over my predicament when they saw me still standing there, but most looking uncomfortable or sympathetic. Carolyn Harris, sitting right up front, looked as if she was fighting back tears. I had to look away or else I knew I’d start crying too and I was not crying in front of Zit. I wouldn’t give that asshole the satisfaction.
The entire day I stood there. I was told to each lunch standing while the other kids went to the cafeteria and he held me back when the othe
r kids went to Music. He tried to speak to me a few times but I stood there, stock still, defiant in my silence. He swapped one failed strategy for another, changing from tough guy, to good cop, to “doing this for your own good” bullshitter. I gave him nothing.
At dismissal, gathering his things and walking out of the room, he announced, “Perhaps Mr. Rivers will demonstrate respect tomorrow, as the rest of you do.” He tried to sound casual but his voice was shaky from what I guessed was either nerves or fury—I wasn’t sure.
A few boys smirked at me as I angrily grabbed my things from my desk but most steered clear. One douchebag named Trent teased, “I c-c-can’t ruh-ruh read.”
I kept my head down for a second, grinding my teeth to keep from swinging. When I peered up at him, I must have looked set to kill because he literally ran around a desk and scooted out of the classroom at lightning speed. I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun around to see Carolyn, her eyes full of pity. “I’m sorry, Jeremy. He’s a jerk.”
The day had gotten to me.
I snapped.
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarled as I pushed her back by her shoulders. She tripped over the leg of my desk and landed on her ass, shocked. I ran—ran out of the class, ran out of the school and ran until I was at the lake, lungs burning, the cold, early December air freezing the tears on my cheeks.
I was mad at Zit, I was mad that I still couldn’t fucking read better than a first grader, and I was mad at Carolyn. Why did she look at me that way? Why couldn’t she just leave me alone? I hated myself when I pictured the look on her face. Quivering bottom lip, tears in her eyes, hurt and betrayed by what I’d done.
Carolyn had never been anything but nice to me and to everyone else in class. She always smiled—a sweet, adorable smile—whenever she caught me looking her way. And Carolyn was always kind to the class misfits—the fat kid who always had boogers in his nose, the one girl who’d sprouted giant knockers by fifth grade, the quirky autistic kid—she made attempts to include everyone. Is that how she sees me? Another misfit, the one who can’t read? Didn’t matter. Fact was, she had been nothing but good to me and I’d just forcefully knocked her on her ass, cursed at her and left her crying.
Carolyn was smart—I’d say the smartest girl in our grade. I would smile inwardly listening to her answer questions, amazed by how much she knew. And when she read out loud to the class, it was like her voice put me under a spell. Carolyn read with emotion, changing her tone to match the mood and intention of the characters. She read so well that sometimes our teachers would let her read several pages in a row, rather than stopping her after one page and choosing the next narrator. I think they enjoyed listening to her sweet voice as much as I did.
Carolyn was also beautiful. Not prettier than the other girls, necessarily, but something radiated from her and drew everyone in. Happiness? Kindness? Whatever it was, I wanted some to rub off on me. Carolyn was everything a lonely, hot-tempered, foul-mouthed, hopeless boy could ever dream of.
We weren’t friends back then. It was more like I was a distant admirer. She’d never know it though, as I made a point of scowling or turning away whenever she caught me staring at her.
As I sat in class daydreaming, I would imagine myself talking to Carolyn, making her laugh, amusing her with my smooth, clever lines. In reality, though, I lacked the confidence to interact with her in any way. And I couldn’t trust in her kindness. Even though she was nice, I figured she also thought of me as stupid and incapable—someone to feel sorry for.
As the anger bled out of me that cold afternoon, I walked slowly back towards town, to my grandparents’ house. By now, my grandmother was not in her right mind. She remembered me and could sometimes hold a lucid conversation with me, but she was not a caretaker anymore. My grandfather really couldn’t look after me anymore either—his hands were full caring for Grandma. I’d go there after school, attempt homework for no more than fifteen minutes and then watch television with them most days until Dad picked me up.
Today I sat and had a soda with my grandfather and then asked him for five bucks. I needed to perform some act of penance.
I always saw Carolyn breaking off pieces of chocolate from a weird triangular shaped chocolate bar and handing them out to her girlfriends. As I walked into the grocery store, which in this town was like a gourmet food emporium, I saw the bars displayed up by the register. Figures…she likes candy bars that cost three freaking dollars apiece. I plunked my money down and went home to write a note that I taped to the weird triangle-shaped box.
I got into class before everyone else the next morning and shoved the candy into Carolyn’s desk before taking my seat. Everyone looked at me warily as they filed in. That is, everyone except Mr. Zit. He didn’t look my way.
When he was handing out permission slips for next month’s class trip, instead of just giving a stack to one kid or giving the first person in each row papers to hand back, he called each child up one by one, in alphabetical order. He greeted each with a smile and some inane friendly comment as he handed them the paper. It was a trip to the Bruce Art Museum, a few towns over, and I was excited about it. I knew they had a few Rodin pieces and I was looking forward to seeing them up close. The closer Zit got to R, the itchier I got.
My grandfather loved tinkering with clay, metal, wood—he even carved soap. He would make the weirdest, coolest looking sculptures out in the garage. He gave me my first sculpting knives, sketch pads, pencils and charcoals when I was seven. He used to call me his Rodin, in reference to the fact that I was self-taught and my “art” could be a bit on the wacky side. When my grandmother would look at my work, wide-eyed and bewildered, my grandfather would say, “Don’t listen to the masses, Jeremy. Rodin was an outsider—son of a clerk, self-taught, rejected from that snooty art school in Pah-ree. He went on to create some of the most famous works of art in the world. Don’t you ever listen… just create.”
When Zit called Trent Ralston’s name, I knew in my gut he would not be calling me next. Yep, next name called was Amy Simms. Stay calm, I told myself, but I knew my face was turning an angry shade of red. My knee was knocking with nervous energy against the underside of my desk.
Zit was downright gleeful after he finished handing out the permission slips. He clapped his hands twice and then told everyone to take out our book. We were reading To Kill a Mockingbird. I hated that fucking book. I hated certain characters in the book, namely Atticus and Calpurnia, who happened to be two of the truest, most genuine people, but I hated them because I stumbled so badly over their names. I came to like Boo of all people. His name? Piece of cake.
I had a pit in my stomach. Here we go again. “Chapter four everyone,” he chirped. “Mr. Rivers,” he said without looking my way, “I’m being generous and giving you an opportunity to redeem yourself. Please start us off.”
I took a look at that opening sentence: The remainder of my school days were no more auspicious than the first. There was no way. I couldn’t even make heads or tails of the second word. A long minute passed. “Jeremy? We’re waiting,” said the smug little shit. “Is there a problem?”
I stared down at the page and angrily swiped at the one hot tear that was escaping.
“I didn’t want to have to do this, I really didn’t,” he said in a saintly tone, meant to convey to the others that he was truly sorry about what my incorrigible behavior was forcing him to do. “Jeremy, come stand up front.”
I sat frozen, my body too big for the desk I was crammed into. In truth, being tall to begin with and a year older than the other kids, the desk was small, but this was different—I felt large, overheated, agitated and trapped.
“Jeremy? The entire class is waiting.”
I rose up and slowly made my way to the front. I heard someone behind me sniggering, probably Trent. Some kids looked up as I walked past but most kept their gaze straight ahead. Carolyn sat right up front, head down, shoulders slumped. She was clutching the boxed chocolate in her hands with a white-knuckle
grip.
I took my place next to his desk and turned to face the class. I fixed my gaze on the back wall. My blood was liquid rage, pumping furiously through my veins. My fists were clenched and my jaw ticked angrily. Underneath all that anger, though, was shame. I was so fucking ashamed. Ashamed that I was stupid, ashamed that everyone knew I was stupid, ashamed that people, that Carolyn, felt bad for me on account of the fact that I was stupid.
I was this man-child, bigger than everyone but less capable than every single person sitting in that room.
Zit came and stood right in front of me, nose to nose. His hot, sour breath hitting me as he hissed, “You will do this every day. Do. You. Understand?”
Lights out.
I knocked him to the ground with one punch. I’m sure that punch was painful, as it packed every ounce of fury that had built up inside of me over the past two days.
I stood there for a moment, shocked, cradling my sore fist. I remember seeing his glasses, bent and broken on the floor. I’m pretty sure I also saw a tooth.
My class erupted as I ran out of the room, racing down the hallway as fast as my legs could take me. I ran straight into a lady as she rounded a corner, nearly knocking her over. By then I was crying—big, scared-shitless kinds of tears. “Jeremy? Are you all right, sweetheart?”
She worked in the main office. I remembered she was someone who had spoken with my dad and she’d given me a letter to bring home to him once. She was short and skinny, but she held me firmly by my shoulders and spoke in a sure and commanding voice. “It’s going to be okay. Whatever happened, it’s going to be okay.”
For some reason, her words soothed me. She led me to her office. After calling someone to go check on my class, she sat me down and in between tears, coaxed me into telling her everything.
Mrs. Connolly. From that day forward, she became my advocate, my biggest cheerleader. She was petite and looked sweet, but the lady was fierce. When the principal tried to lay into me after hearing Zit’s side of the story, she stood up and faced off with him. “With all due respect, we will examine all sides of this story before Jeremy is assumed to be the one who bears all of the blame here.” I was stunned.