“We can be done here if you like, Dominic.” Mr. Michaels’s hands twitched briefly over the open file on which they lay. He glanced down at the papers scattered on top of one another and spoke. “I have everything I need to wrap up your initial.”
After the extended silence, only hearing my own jumbled thoughts somersaulting in no particular direction, even Mr. Michaels’s warm, pleasant voice felt loud. Without hurrying, he organized the papers so they laid neat and flat, then closed the file conclusively. Then he turned an arm over, running a finger along the inside of his exposed forearm, quelling an itch. The sleeves of his burnt orange dress shirt had been folded up past his elbows, buttons undone.
He nodded, as if he were having a conversation in his head. “But that doesn’t mean we have to be done,” he said, quite a bit later. “It just means that anything beyond the standard questions I’m required to ask you, anything else is at your discretion.” He leaned back in his chair, unsmiling, but still radiating a warmth not reliant upon the more obvious displays of kindness. “So, if there’s anything at all you’d like to discuss, we can do that now.”
Even beyond the walls of his office, purely an observer, I felt the sincerity of the words as he spoke them. I’d heard this phrase before, and where oftentimes it came off sounding rote and perfunctory, there was no denying the conviction in which they were spoken. Mr. Michaels wasn’t following any premeditated pamphlet dialog. This was my perception, though. And with only a view of his lower body, I couldn’t be sure Dominic was making the same connection. I tried to read his body language, honing on his sandal propped up against the front leg of the chair, bouncing erratically. Nervousness? Agitation? Boredom? It could be any of those.
“How much do you know?” I should not have been as effected as I was; I’d known he was in there, of course. Still, hearing his actual voice, it was so different from simply knowing with my mind, or seeing a indiscriminant leg and foot.
Mr. Michaels took a deep breath through the mouth, then answered immediately. “Everything.” He sounded neither smug nor upset about this, but there was definitely a lurking note of empathy hidden in the word. “It’s not my intention to mislead you into thinking I haven’t been made aware of your situation. By law, your school has to comply with certain standards. They are required to share any knowledge in which the well-being of the student is concerned.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, very evenly. “And have you contacted my aunt and uncle?”
“I have, yes,” Mr. Michaels replied again at once and without arrogance. “There were a few bits and pieces of information missing from your records, answers I could only attain from an immediate family member.” He glanced down and back up. “Your aunt’s contact number is the first on your emergency card. My—my intentions were to focus only on what was pertinent to your file, but—I think—some—” He stumbled over his words, for the first time looking slightly uncomfortable, as if he didn’t quite know how to phrase what it was he was trying to say. He removed his glasses, setting them down very gently on the desk. “Both she and your uncle are worried about you. I don’t think they expected you to open up right away . . .” He shook his head, considering this. “But, I think—well, I think it concerns them that in the last four months, you haven’t spoken to anyone at all about what happened.”
I felt sick; sick at being near the answers, sick with desperation to know them, and sick with the knowledge that something had happened to Dominic. Mostly, I was sick with myself, at the base level in which I was willing to stoop in order to find out things I shouldn’t know without his permission. There was nothing, nothing at all, right about what I was doing here. I took one step away from the door, then another, then one more, and stopped, staring up at the lights in the ceiling despondently.
You know this isn’t right, Foster, said the voice of ethics and morality.
I made it as far as two more steps, then just like before, I heard his voice, and the idiom, “like a moth to a flame,” took on very personal meaning. I simply couldn’t bring myself to go. I can’t . . . I thought, reaching the space I’d vacated seconds ago in three long strides.
“There’s no point in bringing up an issue that can’t be fixed or resolved,” Dominic said shortly. “But I’ll make sure to let them know their worrying is unnecessary. I’m handling this the only way I know how.”
Mr. Michaels nodded slowly in response. His features rearranged then, not so drastically, but the small smile that appeared on his face beheld more than a generic apprehension. “I know you are,” he agreed, tapping his thumb lightly on the desk. “Which is why nothing is likely to keep your aunt and uncle from worrying about you; I’m twenty-nine years old and I still get texts from my mom making sure I’ve renewed my AAA membership. Worrying is a family’s specialty.” He didn’t laugh, but there was a smile in his voice. “And I can’t say for sure, of course—we only spoke for a few minutes, your aunt and I—but I think they imagine you’re carrying around a lot of guilt. My guess is that’s what concerning them the most. And by talking with someone, it might give you a chance to—”
“For what purpose?” Dominic asked. “It won’t change anything.”
“It wouldn’t, no,” Mr. Michaels agreed, without protest. “But not everything in life needs to have purpose to be helpful.”
“I think in theory . . . you might be right.” He sounded tired, and maybe just a little aloof. He sighed deeply. “And maybe for someone who’s had a really bad day, has just been dumped by their girlfriend . . . or went out to the mailbox to find a too-thin envelope, with a rejection letter from the college of their dreams in it, could benefit from what you’re suggesting. But what I’m dealing with—or trying to—no amount of talking, hugging, or sympathetic aphorisms is going to help make processing this any easier.” He spoke calmly, but the edge in his voice had sharpened some in the last minute or two. “And I’m okay with that—even if everyone else in my life isn’t.”
I watched Mr. Michaels face closely, sure he would show some sign of being stultified, affronted, or at the very least surprised, seeing how seventeen-year-olds with the ability to formulate a response in the time it took for a pen to fall from desk to floor, and then articulate it with poise and fluidity, were not so common. I could find none of the above on the unperturbed, placid expression of Mr. Michaels’s face.
“I understand,” he said, voice full of deference and respect. And though he met Dominic’s eyes squarely when he spoke, it was with caution he treaded. “If at any point you change your mind I’ll—”
“I appreciate that, but I won’t,” Dominic replied politely, but firmly.
What felt like a jolt of electricity shook me from head to toe when a door to my right, on the opposite side of the hallway, suddenly flung open, extracting two snickering girls making impressions of whom I would presume to be not their favorite teacher. Hoping that they would turn left waned as they began sauntering noisily in my direction, I squeezed my eyes shut, my back still smashed against the wall, and counted the seconds until I was caught. First would come the, “What are you doing,” from one of the girls, followed by the opening of Mr. Michaels’s door. And finally, Dominic would emerge from the office and find me there, doing something I could hardly believe myself. He would never forgive me this trespass. This scenario had played out with colorful devastation, when I realized the footsteps had softened to near dissipation. I opened one eye tentatively. The girls had almost reached the end of the hallway. Had they not seen me? Or did I still possess remnants of the anonymity I thought gone for good?
It didn’t matter; so long as Dominic didn’t find me here, it didn’t matter how or why I’d gone unnoticed. My hope—half of it anyway—was restored. I turned my head slowly toward the crack of space between the door and doorjamb. Mr. Michaels hadn’t moved and neither had Dominic’s legs, his feet no longer bouncing.
And now you should leave. Leave before you hear anything else you shouldn’t.
And even though I
knew this—truly, truly knew this—I couldn’t leave. I deserved whatever befell me. I couldn’t make my body still. I shook and dithered while my heart galloped like horse hooves beneath my chest. My mouth was fuzzy and dry from breathing without the aid of my nose, and my hands were so sweaty they dripped. I lay back against the wall, waiting to hear more, or be found out for the scoundrel I was, whichever came first.
“Sharing my personal life with students isn’t something I usually do.”
My hand flew to my heart; trying to send it a message that now was not the time to overreact. Prolonged adrenaline was having grievous effects on my entire body. I tried tuning everything out as Mr. Michaels continued to speak.
“In fact, it isn’t condoned at all,” he said, a regretful lilt to his tone before he sighed deeply. “But if there’s an experience I think could help someone, then I can’t justify not sharing it.” Mr. Michaels’s face was no longer relaxed. His eyebrows hung low over serious, contemplative eyes, teeming with emotion. “A moment ago when I said I understood . . . it was more than my sympathy I was offering you. It would be better to say, that I can empathize with you. I do understand,” he said, the slow calm voice filled with the gravity of truth. “Maybe more than anyone else in your life at the moment,” he added as an afterthought.
“I’ve been exactly where you are right now. And I can tell you that it does get easier, but only after you let it get harder.” He was quiet for a moment, an absorption usurping him and telling me that Dominic’s eyes were likely equally as grave. “I know you said you’re handling this, but if you ever want to hear about it”—he swallowed and I thought I saw a fleeting flash of unrestrained emotion over his face—“and how I was able to make it through that time in my life, I’ll tell you. No questions asked. You don’t have to tell me anything first; it’s a no strings attached deal.” His gaze was unwavering and resolute. I could see the integrity behind the promise, the honesty in his eyes. I doubted this was an offer he made to just anyone.
I let the breath I had been holding out in a soft jerky hiss through my mouth. Mr. Michaels did the same, but blew his out briskly as an act of conclusion.
“You’re welcome to go back to class if you like,” he said, looking down at the silver watch on his wrist. “There’s a little over half the period left.”
Unexpectedly, a long torso leaned forward, a head of dark hair crashing into large hands, stealing the sight of his face from me. He balanced both elbows on his thighs, still and breathing slowly.
Dominic.
I gasped loudly and hurried to cover my mouth should more noises leak out. Just as hearing him had superseded knowing he was in there, hearing him could not be compared with the feeling I had at looking at him—right there, no more than ten feet from me. I could no longer keep still and began switching my weight from my left foot to right and back again. He mumbled something into his hands. I thought it sounded like, “There’s no point.” Then his hands moved, cupping around his nose and sliding roughly down his cheeks as if he tried to rub away the tension.
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” he said gruffly. There was a willingness in his tone, though, that hadn’t been there a moment ago. His shoulders lifted, paused a few inches below his ears, then fell tremendously. The hopeless gesture struck me somewhere between heart and stomach and instantly my throat tightened. “I don’t know where to start,” he whispered to the carpet of Mr. Michaels’s office.
For the first time, I could see him—really see him. He gnawed on his bottom lip, working it in and out of his mouth, teeth digging and scraping the soft, plump flesh. The glowing blue orbs through which he stared, appeared sightless; though, I knew better to believe for a moment that eyes such as his could ever be anything less than alive and intensely devoted to the vivid musings trapped inside his mind. His face, almost serene with a numbness, was distraught in a quiet, thoughtful destitution. My heart wrenched, as if my veins were held together by stitches, and now those stitches had begun to come unraveled one at a time.
I heard the familiar creak of Mr. Michaels chair as he resituated, but I couldn’t look away, not even as he spoke. “I don’t think the place you start is as important as the starting itself.”
For a moment, Dominic didn’t move. To look at him, I would have said he definitely hadn’t heard anything besides his own grief; so loud even I could hear it. But then he was nodding, slowly at first and then a presence and decision were resurfacing in the brilliant blue irises. He swallowed, resolution replacing resignation.
“Okay.”
It’s happening. He’s going to tell him.
If I stayed, there would be no more questions, no more confusion . . . no more sleepless nights spent wondering and imagining all the very worst things about why he acted so strangely around me, why when he looked at me he sometimes seemed to not see me at all, but something else far beyond his reach. The anger, the pain, the stares of caution and unease, I would have an answer to all of it. This must be what it felt like to be drunk; I was most certainly drunk with want.
“It doesn’t matter what I do . . .” Dominic’s voice was strained and taut—a violin string pulled too tight. “Even though I know there’s absolutely nothing I could have done to save them, in my dreams they’re begging me for help and they don’t understand why I don’t give it to them.” Another shrug. “Then I wake up wondering if maybe I could have done something differently . . . that doesn’t make sense though, right? What could I have possibly done? Nothing. Not a damn thing.” He was angry; his hands had balled into white fists on his thighs. I watched him regulate his breathing, slowing so he could continue. He forced his hands open, to lay flat and curl lightly around his kneecaps.
“I thought that coming here—away from familiarity, from everyone and everything I know, would make things easier, but—but . . .” He raised his hand, pulling it harshly through his hair and grabbing a fist full. “If anything, it’s worse.” His voice had grown so ravaged, he sounded choked, as if there wasn’t enough room for the oxygen to pass through. The bleakness in which he spoke gave the stillness of both the office and hallway a life form, something palpable, hungry, and terrifyingly real. “It doesn’t matter where I am, who I’m with, how hard I try not to; I see them—all of them. Asleep or awake, I can’t do anything to stop—to stop it from happening.” His voice broke on the last word. He shut his eyes—not tight at all, but as though he was merely resting and not wracked with an agony so terrible he trembled. “I just have to stand there . . .” He flinched. In half a second there were creases lining his entire face—eyebrows, forehead, surrounding his mouth. He swallowed, his throat working vigorously to push fluid back down the tight esophagus. “Stand there and watch.”
My fingers clung to the wall. It was the only thing keeping me from bursting through the door, taking his face in my hands, and forcing him to tell me everything. I knew I couldn’t do that. Presently, I didn’t know why that was—only that I couldn’t. I also knew if I didn’t leave right now, run as fast as I could away from here, I would forever regret the way in which I learned all his secrets. I wanted to know—more than anything I had ever wanted—but not this way. If I chose to stay, I would be no better than a thief, and what I stole, I could never give back. Before I had time to think any further, and before temptation brought me to a precipice where I could no longer turn back, I dragged my feet against the floor. A shrill squeak rose up, echoing itself against the walls and ceiling. I did it again—just to be sure I was heard—and then I fled.
A windless breeze in my face, I was already regretting my decision as I flung myself around corner, shoes screeching. Had Mr. Michaels come to see what the noise was? Had Dominic? Surprisingly, the certainty of knowing I had done the right thing helped only a little. I knew later I would likely feel better about my hasty choice, but right now I was close to tears. What if he never trusted me enough to tell me? What if he left again? Just left one day and I never saw him ever again? I blinked, forcing back t
he wetness working its way at the corner of my eyes. I began to chant in my head. I would say the sentence over and over again, reciting it for however long it took until I believed it.
He will tell me.
And if he doesn’t?
He will tell me.
Who are “them?”
He will tell me.
What did he “watch?”
He will tell me.
I was at the door to my Revolutions and Revolts class sooner than I had hoped. My backpack hadn’t been touched; it was exactly where I left it, propped against the wall near the door. I bent down, going through motions I need not bother my brain to perform. Looking at my hand, I saw that I still clutched my pass, though it was beyond repair, sodden and with multiple rips at the bottom. It was still valid, right? Mrs. Dashels wouldn’t penalize me because it had incurred some damage between now and the time it was issued? Of course she would . . . Mr. Michaels had said class was about half over. Half! Ms. Dashels was going to be furious. The time stamped on my pass was over twenty minutes ago. How would I explain the gap? She would berate me, ridicule me in front of the class.
This ramble—an attempt to contemplate mundane, trivial things in order to lessen the effects of distress and burdensome regret—would have gone on for quite some time. As it was, my own shaking literally shook me into coherency. The pain shooting along my jaw was just enough to bring me back to the present. I reached for the door, wondering if I would find it locked. It opened. I stifled the shock as it came toward me quietly, sweeping against the floor. The attention of every single person in the room was on me. It shouldn’t have bothered me—especially in the state I was in momentarily—but diffidence was in my blood. I felt my cheeks burn, feeling like a flame as I stood in the fully open doorway, waiting for Ms. Dashels to turn her attention on me. A quick jerk of the head and she would find me there, having interrupted her lesson. I prepared myself for the worse: for her mouth to set in a thin, hard line, dark eyes to narrow to a glare for the caustic reprimand to blister the unnervingly quiet room.
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