Everybody’s Out There

by Robert M. Marchese

  But this doesn’t stop Dan’s classmates from asking him about his disturbing discovery. “Were you freaked out?” “What did she look like?” “Did you know she was dead?” “Are you having nightmares?” These are some of the questions I overheard as I attempted to engage a group of students - two boys and two girls - in a discussion on a Flannery O’Connor story I assigned. It took a week for me to learn that the Dan Hart I had heard so much about was actually my student. With the boys in the Homer House, it was different; I had to learn their names for the dorm reports. Not to mention I heard them constantly in and around the dorm and during mealtimes. Noah would ask Dustin how long he’s liked banging little boys. Alex would tell Cal he found Cliff’s tampon floating in the toilet. Cliff would berate Andrew for being what he called “a little bitch on training wheels.”

  But the students I teach are another story. We might be holed up together, sweating miserably inside a tiny classroom on Monday through Friday, but I put little effort into learning their names. It’s true that I began grading their work and even passing it back to them, but I do so after leaving it in a pile on my desk and asking them to retrieve it themselves. Yet my three classes know my name, which, for some reason, they say in its entirety: “Grayson Loveland, do you miss Chicago?” “Grayson Loveland, do you mind working for your daddy?” “Grayson Loveland, did you mind growing up on the HAS campus?” My answers are terse at best.

  One afternoon, Rollie held a staff meeting after lunch - something he began doing often ever since the D’Ambrosio girl’s body was discovered - and enforced accountability for all students at all times.

  “We need to know where our children are,” he said, “at all times. I want constant head counts during meals and constant attendance during classes and activities. And I want immediate action taken if anyone’s missing. Call the SOD office. Contact an administrator. Hell, call me. We need to know where our children are.”

  Roger, a math teacher and dorm staff in the Miles House, leaned towards a pretty, young Asian teacher named Sandra and whispered something. Smiling, she nodded. The Old Man told us that he’d recently spoken with parents who feared for the safety of their child. Two students, he added, have officially withdrawn from the school. Roger, the math teacher, again leaned towards Sandra. This time I heard what he said:

  “What about our safety?”

  The Old Man heard him.

  “I’m glad you mentioned that,” he said, looking at Roger. “Because we’re in the process of hiring additional night staff. Louise and I will be interviewing this week, in fact. We’re all uneasy about this thing. But in the meantime, please be on top of your attendance.”

  On the way out of the dining hall, I was on the heels of Roger and Sandra, who continued with their conversation. Sandra, with flawless sarcasm, said something that made me laugh out loud:

  “Have a good class. And try not to let a little thing like having a murderer on the loose distract you from your lesson.”

  . . .

  Dan Hart, whose name heads the roster for my afternoon class, is missing today.

  “Anyone know the whereabouts of Mr. Hart?”

  The three other students offer sheepish grins before one of them, a short, dark-haired diva with a lip ring, speaks up:

  “He’s not here.”

  “I see that. Does anyone know where he is?”

  They eye one another as though the secret they share has the power to bring a man to his knees.

  “Yes,” the girl says.

  I look at her, waiting for a response. She stares back at me, any trace of a smile now gone. It’s replaced with contempt. Contempt for a stranger who stands before her, weakly asserting whatever vague power he may have, and daring to ask her about Dan Hart, her peer or boyfriend or whatever. Still no answer. I try to recall the handsome, wiry boy who did attend my class a few times - always late, always without an excuse, and always to the resounding cheer of the other students. Dan Juan! they would chant when the classroom door swung open and he’d enter, his eyes mostly hidden under unruly tufts of hair.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, examining my roster. “Are you Meredith or Molly?”

  “Meredith.”

  “I’m Molly,” the other girl says, raising her arm at half mast. “And Dan’s likely busy.”

  “Your elusiveness just misses the mark of being charming,” I tell her.

  “Well fuck me,” says Molly, “because charming is all I’ve ever wanted to be. Truly.”

  The other student in the class, a broad-shouldered sourpuss with long sideburns and black framed glasses, laughs to himself. Their loyalty is fascinating. They behave as though Dan is some terribly misunderstood figurehead rather than a troubled teen who likes to ditch class so he can get laid. It’s as though their peer’s sexual plights have vicariously become their own. I wonder if these kids have grown so unaccustomed to victory that they’ve decided to redefine what it means. Maybe it now means that if one of their own is lucky enough to feel good - even if just for a moment - then they have to do whatever is necessary to allow that to happen. Maybe this gives them hope that their turn to feel good is just around the corner.

  As I pick up the phone to call the SOD office, in walks Dan Hart; he’s licking his lips, which are twisted into a cocky, impish grin.

  “Dan Juan!” the others call out.

  Hanging up the phone, I turn to the boy, who has snuck by me and taken a seat in between the two girls.

  “Mr. Hart.”

  He looks up at me, smiling and massaging the hairs on his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

  “They’re getting strict with attendance. They want you guys in class on time.”

  “I can’t give you any guarantees. Lateness is part of my charm.”

  “We were just discussing charm,” Molly points out.

  “I just told you, they’re getting stricter about it.”

  Meredith asks why I’m using the pronoun “they” when talking about the Hundred Acre School. She says she finds this interesting.

  “Shouldn’t you be using we?”

  I tell her I don’t know and that it’s not important at the moment. Looking back towards Dan, I once again explain the school’s position on attendance.

  “There’ll be consequences in the future.”

  He looks at me for a moment, his smile sliding around his face as though it’s chasing the right words he wants to use. The other kids watch him, knowing they’re about to be entertained. When it seems like he’s without a comeback, I look down and pretend to organize the papers on my desk.

  “Would you encourage me if you discovered I was an outstanding student?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you found out I was some fucking wunderkind - if I was all over this academic stuff?”

  “Would I encourage you?”

  “If I excelled in class,” he said, respectfully losing his patience with me. “Or in any area, really - literature or basketball or cooking? The question is this: Would you help me realize my potential by creating situations where I could do so?”

  He threw me off guard. Wunderkind? Realize my potential? What could I say? Bullshit aside, I was the boy’s teacher.

  “Sure.”

  “Then forget this attendance nonsense,” he said, “with me anyway.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because it’s your job to encourage us. Even if it’s a fucking job you don’t want; it’s still your job. And you need to respect that, and help me realize my potential.”

  The others lean into our conversation. I’m struck by their restraint.

 
“Are you kidding me?”

  “Don’t you see? I’m trying to help you help me.”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  This, of course, is a lie. I know what he wants. His exploits are well known, even to someone who’s been at the school for only a short time. Not to mention I recall what Rollie told me about him.

  It occurs to me that I’m toying with Dan for a couple of reasons. One is that I’m floored that such a young kid can articulate his case the way he does - or, at the very least, believe wholeheartedly that he’s making a valid proposition. Another is I’m intrigued over the loyalty his peers have towards him. I’m curious to learn how well they’ll work in concert in trying to conceal his licentious intent.

  He says all I have to do is not hassle him or report him for being late. And this, he tells me, will help him realize his potential.

  “For what?” I ask, daring him to tell me.

  Dan looks at his peers. Meredith and Molly are shaking their heads, their gazes wide-eyed and fixed on Dan, waiting to see how far he might go. Dan sighs. For the remaining minutes of class, the four of them sit at their desks and work mostly in silence, the weight of my still unanswered question hanging like some tinny echo. On occasion, there’s a whisper or snicker. When the passing bell sounds, they slam their anthologies shut, gather their belongings, and slide past me to the exit. Dan is the last in the procession, and he stops in front of me after the others have gone. With that grin that has probably gotten him laid dozens of times, he smooths his hair and shifts his book bag to his opposite shoulder. He’s making perfect eye contact with me. Then, as though it’s fallen to the floor, it quickly vanishes, and I’m looking at a young boy who wants more than anything to appear as a man. His disabilities suddenly come to mind: ADD, bipolar.

  “It’s not like I can do it at the talent show this weekend,” he says. “And it’ll never get me any awards, but it is my thing. And I’m good at it, so why bust my balls? Respect it. Besides, I know all this literature shit from my other school. So what’s the problem?”

  Interesting scenario: specious plea from a horny, depressed adolescent, advocating for his right to cut class and have sex in the woods. He’s serious, too. And has been the entire time. This is evident in the way his voice trembles a little. And his eyes, which moments earlier, with his modest entourage present, were lit with confidence and intellect, now resemble two tiny bowls of crushed glass.

  I stare at him and furrow my brow. He’s a handsome boy. I’ll give him that. And he presents a compelling, if not inane, argument. After a moment, he smiles once again and begins to move past me. But because I can’t leave things alone, unresolved, with Dan having the upper hand, I decide to ask him a question of my own:

  “Why do you think this is a job I don’t want?”

  Turning around to face me, he hoists up the other shoulder strap to his book bag and tucks his thumb underneath. He tells me he’ll make me a deal if I want. And before I can even question his audacity, he comes out with it:

  “You use discretion with my shit,” he said, dropping his hands to his side, “and I’ll use discretion with yours.”

  . . .

  Old Brookview hasn’t been my home for more than fifteen years. And in that time, I’ve felt victorious for having left. Like my liberty was hard-earned and well deserved. The truth is I was just another suburban brat with a callow worldview and a sense of entitlement. Which is not to say that I don’t cringe at the thought of being back here now after so long, but I’d like to think that my perspective is more sophisticated. Old Brookview is, after all, a well-regarded town. Connecticut magazine keeps it on their “Top Ten Places to Live” list year after year; or so my father tells me. The public schools often garner enough accolades over academics and athletics to entice local businesses and philanthropists to make generous donations.

  The town has a practical purpose for me now. Its fine green lawns, scrubbed white fences, and lovingly-cared-for homes are monuments of domestic privilege. At one time, they represented what I took to be a vain contrast to whatever my generation’s cause became. And though I never took the time to find out what it was, I did see life in suburbia as a sort of dreadful complacency. But like I said, I was callow and entitled.

  Driving around now on my weekend off is not the nostalgia trip one might hope for. My memories are not adrift on its streets or in its hangouts. They are not lazing on its beaches or within the homes probably occupied now by strangers. The truth is that this town has always had one meaning for me. The Hundred Acre School. It’s the heart, blood, and bone for me. That’s not at all by choice.

  Main Street in Old Brookview is postcard perfect. There’s Sali’s Pizza Joint, which is currently under renovation. There’s Page Turners and Roarick Art Cinema and Tiny’s Drugstore. These are places very much intact from my youth. But I feel anything but a rush of romanticism at their sight now. It’s true I ate my share of calzones and other junk food at Sali’s, and loitered in Tiny’s, buying candy and condoms, and sat through more than enough mediocre films we settled on when free tickets were given to us by friends who worked at the door. I did all of this the way adolescents should - with girls and guys, after school or late at night, and with impatient sneers from adults when we were too loud or too indulgent with our agendas of sex and freedom.

  It was all fine. But it was never more than that for me. I always knew I didn’t want to stay - or even return. Still, though, I wonder about those I drank with and slept with and saw in the nude and swam with in the ocean under perfect summer starlight.

  There was Nadine and Val Candee, identical twins who left school for two months to accompany their father, a university professor, around the United States during a book tour. Always the ones to buy or supply the booze, they were two years ahead of me and called me “Little Brother.”

  There was Anita Gregory, a chic Amazonian with a wicked sense of humor and precocious sexual mores. She and I managed a nice reciprocal arrangement when we were both bored and single. I always imagined her destined for a rude awakening once her looks ran their course.

  There was Justin Mann, one of my closest friends, even into college, which is where we eventually lost touch. It was with Justin that I was able to unburden myself and lose any inhibitions that are part and parcel of adolescence. Any sophomoric musing or surly teenage diatribe was safe in the company of Justin. He would gladly agree, making a toast to your sentiment, and throw back a shot or two of whatever he stole from his mother’s liquor cabinet.

  And there was Erin Stevens, my high school sweetheart. Together we made a fine, proud couple. We figured we were in love, so we did what any teenagers do who find themselves considering the rest of their lives: We intensified our commitment until it turned disastrous. With her, though, I shared my contempt over the HAS, my sorrow over my mother, and my indifference towards the Old Man. To this day, she remains the only girl - besides Laura, naturally - who I ever introduced to my father.

  If I think of those times now, which I do less and less these days, it’s not because they weren’t filled with the sweet spirit of recklessness. They were. It’s because my past is so transfixed with the Old Man’s Hundred Acre School. The way the place would sound like a frenzied dress rehearsal for some absurd soap opera. Or the way it looked during the fall when the yellow sugar maples would bloom with their fiery leaves. And the way Mickey’s cooking would seem to stick to your guts for days.

  I never appreciated being unique in the ways in which I was: having nearly one hundred siblings, as the Old Man used to put it, and sharing my home and my father with each of them. To some, this might build character or foster acceptance. To me, it meant I had no control over my home life. When I think about that home life these days, all I have are recollections of strangers
in a strange place. What confounds me is that my memory has actually allowed the HAS to bulldoze what were some good times with some good people. It’s cleared some vast spaces and planted itself there, firmly, proudly, and without explanation, as though it’s conspiring to teach me a lesson about what’s somehow really responsible for shaping my virtues and giving me this life.

  Parking in front of the movie theatre, I explore the downtown. An older woman with a pie face and large-framed glasses smokes a cigarette outside the small art gallery. She smiles as I walk past. A young couple pulls their toddler in a wooden wagon. A man brushes past me, towards the post office, with a box of envelopes tucked under his arm.

  I stop in front of Louden’s, where a college-age kid is washing the large plate glass window with a squeegee. Peering inside, I can see the same old faded green sign above the register - it’s been there as long as I’ve known the place - that bears the diner’s former name: Tit for Tat Diner. So much better than Louden’s, I think. Watching a waitress dole out plates of food to a corner booth, I’m reminded of my mother. The Old Man always made a point of telling me - if we ever ate here or even just walked past - that “Virginia was one fine waitress, a real pro; they all loved her to pieces.” He said this every chance he got, even getting specific with endearing stories about her fancy coffee pouring technique, or how pretty she looked in her skirt and apron, or how after hours she’d dance from one end of the place to the other to the sounds of Otis Redding or Sam Cooke, two of her favorites. I never took the bait. I knew full well he was trying to flesh out my mind’s image of her. And it worked. Thankfully. At the time, though, I wanted him to think that such recollections were prosaic. My mother, the waitress? This was beneath her. She was a woman of depth and grace. I would simply remind him that she was a Cornell grad and worked at the diner for only a short time.