by Jesse Jordan
And then he was awake, soaked with sweat. Again. Even in the safety of consciousness and familiar surroundings, the dream felt awful: full of divinity and accusation. James had no interest in returning to that place or sleeping at all. The muscles of his neck and back were rock; his jaw quivered. He pushed himself up and made a round of the room, turning on each light as he came to it. He turned on the TV and charged through the channels until he found an infomercial for a collection of old Dean Martin Roasts on DVD, and then he let the modern appliances do what they do best: chase away the products of the mind. He stripped and showered and brushed his teeth, but even the bathroom light bulbs’ implacable realism could not dissolve the terror of that descent, of the clamoring behind those walls.
James took one of Mom’s cigarettes and went out to the front porch to drink a chocolate breakfast shake as he waited for the sun to please, please come up; and when it did, it felt like he’d been granted a stay.
Now all I have to do is never fall asleep again.
On Monday, the first thing James saw when he entered school along with a crush of his classmates was the handmade sign with removable, cardboard numbers that hung, low-slung, in front of the main doors to the gym:
Only 3 Days of School Left!!!
James put his head down and dissolved into the crowd. Locker, pee, first-hour geometry. He saw glances and the backs of hands, whispers directed around him, and one kid who just out-and-out pointed. James ducked into class and took out his sketchbook. Eyes down, he started to work.
“Hey.”
James’s head snapped up, and he saw Dorian already in her seat, smiling. (Her eyes: You didn’t look for me.)
He jammed the sketchbook back into his bag. “Hey.”
“Guess I missed some excitement on Friday.”
“Yeah . . . I don’t know.”
Leaning across her desk now. “Did you really knock him out?”
He nodded, looked around, everyone pretending not to listen.
“I suppose he had that coming.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
She started to say something else but stopped, smile gone, sitting back in her seat. She nodded with a single, tiny head raise toward the door.
“Mr. Salley?”
James turned to see Ms. Vargas, the dean’s secretary, standing in the doorway, holding a clipboard as if it were a holy scroll. She addressed the question to Mrs. Windermere, who nodded over to him, her eyes all there-he-is-if-you-want-him disinterest. All faces followed.
“The dean would like to see you,” Ms. Vargas added, taking a single step back into the hall, waiting.
James stood, shrugging his bag over his shoulder, and walked to the door. Just before he reached it, though—
“Hey.” Ceasar Almedina leaned out from his front-row chair, his fist outstretched toward James. “That’s a clean hook, man.”
The class spit up a menagerie of tsks and ooohs and laughter, followed by Mrs. Windermere’s lackadaisical, “Mr. Almedina.”
James just smiled and bumped Ceasar’s fist before following the secretary out of the room and down the hall. Then into the egg-yolk outer office—past Nick sitting in one of the two black-pleather chairs reserved for kids who’re in trouble—and into the main office, where Mr. Worthington sat behind his desk. He was a big man, like a linebacker gone soft, with a reddish bulb of a nose.
He made the universal hand gesture for James to sit and looked down at the papers before him, shuffled and set them aside. Then, looking up at James once more, his eyes somber and disappointed, he shook his head. “I suppose you know that you and Mr. Schroeder are in quite a bit of trouble.”
James hadn’t even thought of this, not with everything going on. Trouble? Oh, right. The images of the call home, suspension, Mom and Dad yelling at him, grounded, it all sprayed across his mind in an instant, and then he was almost up out of his chair, leaning forward.
“No, you can’t—”
“I’m sorry?” Challenged, insulted. Good job, genius, you pissed him off.
“I mean, what, what did Nick say?”
“Mr. Schroeder told me about the fight you two had on school grounds Friday afternoon.”
Bullshit.
Bullshit?
Bullshit.
James didn’t know how he knew it—though he was learning to trust that little tuning fork inside—but as soon as the words were out of Mr. Worthington’s mouth, James knew they were a lie. Nick stonewalled. Shouldn’t be much of a surprise, not like he’d want to broadcast what happened; but it was something else too. James got a sense all of a sudden that Nick wouldn’t have said a word anyway. He sensed a steel rod of rules holding Nick up, and one of those was that cops and teachers and deans got nothing.
Mr. Worthington continued to stare down his nose at James in the too-big seat. James felt him holding his bluff, felt him ready to rejoice inside when James inevitably broke and revealed all, begging for leniency, a much easier child to manipulate than that hunk of rock sitting out there, and as he saw those things, the entirety of William Worthington, high school dean, opened up before James. He saw the man’s path: a better teacher than an administrator, wonderful with the students, kind and supportive, everyone’s favorite. Pressure from other teachers and administrators (“But you’d make such a good administrator”) as well as from home (“If you went into administration, we could save more for Kelly’s college and finally move out of this place”) pushed him into this role, which he’d never grown to love as he had teaching. Then the marriage ended, and even if he wanted to go back to it now, he couldn’t; the alimony was prohibitive. Earlier then, earlier, back to college, majoring in education and theater, a ham, well liked by the ladies, a change for him, because high school had been such a nightmare, his open, sensitive nature and interest in the arts assigned him as such a natural victim, corralled by shoves—“Do something, fag. C’mon.”—so often the butt of the joke, followed by the wedgie, the unseen shove in the hallway—
—and James knew what to do.
“Could I ask you a favor, Mr. Worthington?”
“You’re not really in any position.”
“I know.”
A pause. Mr. Worthington shifted, a bit annoyed that James hadn’t cracked open as he’d planned.
“Okay, then. What is it?”
“Could we just forget about this?”
The pause was longer this time. Mr. Worthington tilted his head—two cartoon blinks—and looked at James as if he’d just suggested that his desk was made of marshmallows. “Could we . . . ?”
“Just forget that it happened.”
“This isn’t just . . . this is very serious—”
“Look, Mr. Worthington, I’m not gonna say that there was a fight on Friday. I heard there was one, but by the time I got out there, the police had chased everyone away. Okay?”
Those big blinks again. He had no idea what was happening.
“So you could dig into this and go asking around and all that; I know you could. I’m asking you not to.” James leaned forward until he was almost touching the desk, and he looked as far into Mr. Worthington’s eyes as he could. “I know that you know what it’s like. He—Nick, he’s made my life hell. He’s waited for me outside so that when I leave school, my stomach’s all spasmy—Will he be there? What will it be today? Charley horse? Nurples? A group shoving? Face full of wood chips? Once, he got me in a headlock and noogied me until my scalp bled. I’ve—” James felt the tears coming, couldn’t stop them, stopped trying. “I’ve been so scared for so long. Do you know what that’s like?”
Tears appeared floating atop Mr. Worthington’s bottom lids, but he did a better job of holding them there.
James could feel the tracks already turning cold on his cheeks. “So I’m not saying I did, but what if last Friday I finally said enough, finally stood up to him? What if we went to the courts and we did fight?” He couldn’t keep the smile from the corner of his mouth, but he knew it didn’t matter, knew
it would play. “And what if I hit him once, square on the chin, and knocked him out? Can’t you understand what that would mean? Freedom, y’know, from fear and . . . and all that.”
Mr. Worthington’s gaze shifted to Nick on the big, black-pleather chair, and then back to James.
“Don’t you wish,” James said quietly, as if they were coconspirators, “that you had stood up to them? That you’d been able to feel that?”
Mr. Worthington stood up and turned his back to James, facing the window. He coughed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face and stood for a while that way before settling them back over his ears and heaving a great breath. He turned back to James. “You will tell me if you hear who was in that fight on Friday?”
James nodded, hoping it got his gratitude across. “I will.”
“Tell Mr. Schroeder he can leave as well. At the moment, I don’t think I want to . . .” A headshake—James could tell he was remembering the monster of his youth and wondered what his name was. “Make sure I don’t see you in here again, Mr. Salley.”
“You won’t,” James said, backing toward the door. “Thanks.” And then he was out. He closed the door behind himself and, a moment later, heard the blinds snap shut. Ms. Vargas’s taunting grin went slack as James went by without a word. He walked out the door and stood before Nick, who looked up, his whole body giving off a miasma of fear and revulsion.
For a few moments, they just stared at each other. Nick looked smaller to James now. He remained seated while James stood, and it seemed to James that there was a question of who would finally speak. Looking down, James saw Nick’s knuckles, scraped and split, dried blood not quite gone to scab.
Nick pulled his hands back. “What?”
“Worthington says we’re free to go.”
“Whatever.” Then he’s up and off.
“Wait.” Nick stopped. He turned, slowly, eyes wide again. “What happened to your knuckles?” James felt the words come out like a command, and he knew Nick would answer.
Nick changed his fingers into fists and inspected the damage. “Colin told my brothers what happened. They worked me all weekend, said I’m supposed to fight you again.” He looked up and James saw it: he was terrified.
It took James two steps to cover the ground between them. He wanted to slap him. He wanted to spit in his face. You fucking coward! You were so happy to torture me, to, to, to—so happy to fight when the outcome was certain, and now—look at you; you’re terrified—you’re scared. How’s it feel, asshole?
James put his finger in Nick’s chest, hard. “You listen to me. You and me are done. You got it? Done. You stay away from me, and I’ll stay away from you. You tell your brothers the dean said if we fight again, he’ll expel you. Do you understand?”
Nick’s eyes went into rapid blink, mouth working furiously on nothing. One nod. Two.
James felt a sensation sorta-kinda like pity crawling up and said, “Go away.”
Nick turned and almost ran down the hall before disappearing around the corner.
The high had worn off. James now felt a mild sickness at the eyes turning toward him, the electrocharged air, the whispers. The final bell reminded him of being released from a punishment. Bag over the shoulder, through the classroom door, he wondered if he’d be the first person out of the building.
“James!” From back down the hall, no mistaking the voice.
James stopped and turned and waited for Dorian to catch up.
“Hey,” she said, turning left.
Without a thought, James followed, away from the back doors from which he usually exited.
“So are you gonna tell me what happened?” They reached the front doors before the mob made the main hall. Again Dorian turned, without a word or question, toward her own home.
James followed. “It just . . . sorta happened. It was an accident.”
Dorian reached her hand around her head and pulled that explosion of red hair across her neck so that it dangled on the other side. It was the single most beautiful gesture he’d ever seen. Done and over already but replaying in his mind. Elbow out—the soft, freckled white of the underside of her arm—the hand swinging across the face, a circle, her tiny fingers under the hair, pulling it taut, just around the neck and then down, down, so she could look at him without its rude presence.
“How exactly is punching someone in the face an accident?”
“Not that. That—I mean, the fight was an accident. I didn’t want to fight him.”
Her little fist shot out and hit James lightly on the elbow. “Not even a little?”
James smiled and they walked on, letting their eyes take in sights they’d seen a thousand times.
“I wish I’d been there. I would have loved to see you . . . anyway, I had a thing.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s . . . um, you know NPR?”
“Yeah,” James said, thinking of the bored British and whispered Midwestern voices he heard when driving with his father.
“Well, they . . . It’s silly, but they did this . . . thing on me, like a small interview thing, and then, y’know, I sang.”
“Oh my god, that’s amazing. Dorian, that’s awesome. Wait. So I missed it? Why didn’t you say—?”
“No, I just recorded it Friday. They’re not playing it until this weekend. Saturday, I think.”
“You think?”
“No, it’s Saturday.” Cheeks red, tight smirk, she checked him out of the corner of her eye. “Like 10:45 in the morning.”
“That’s so cool. I’m gonna make sure I hear it. I’m gonna make sure I’m listening.”
She tried to keep it small, but the smile took over her whole face. “Thanks.”
“Of course. I can’t wait.”
Another pause. James and Dorian walked, and he was aware of the sound of his gym shoes on the sidewalk and the sweat at the small of his back, and he couldn’t understand why he felt so naked and vulnerable after he said things he meant, but he could see why some people never did. Life must be so much easier with jokes and primping and chest-puffing.
The compassionate breeze turned his brow sweat to cold water as they continued past the J&J and the elementary school. James felt the urge to say so much. He wanted to talk to her but found himself completely without content. His eyes implored the side of her neck and looked away from her answering smile. His mouth hung half open as if about to speak, but he said nothing as they passed the last few houses.
As they reached Dorian’s house, James noticed her mom standing next to their idling Volvo. She was a stringy, porcelain thing, just like Dorian, but with a Scandinavian’s untouched blonde hair. Where Dorian looked fragile, though, her mom felt sharp and unyielding. Something in the pulled-back shoulders, in the tight line of her mouth.
“Practice,” Dorian said when she saw her mom.
“Right.”
That damn silence again.
“Okay,” Dorian said, “I’ll talk to you later, James.”
Then she turned to go, and suddenly the courage was there. Something about the way she said his name, maybe. Who knows?
“You’re beautiful.”
Dorian stopped. She looked back over her shoulder—disbelief?—a smile! Small but there. “What?”
“Nothing.” No, no, go on, go on. He pressed ahead. “It’s just, I always wanted to say that and I never have.” And then the embarrassment was simply too much. He turned and went—Escape! Run away! No! Don’t run! For an instant he pictured himself actually running away, and though he didn’t think it possible, it increased the embarrassment, so instead he just walked hard and fast, like that group of old ladies he saw frantically stomping past the house on Sunday mornings.
He heard Dorian’s mom—“Who was that, Dory?”—but he didn’t hear her response.
45. Half a story about an Illinois senator pushing to have Russia’s lack of diplomatic contact with the United States officially recognized as an act of aggression tantamount to troop
mobilization, followed by a story about a fundamentalist faction in Africa pulling drive-bys on teen girls in driver’s education courses.
9. End of (School) Days
A glass of orange juice devoured in two gulps, a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios while watching the morning news,46 another note from Mom, and then James was out the door.
James had never felt so untethered. Walk, SUV (not Them), school, people—his mind vacillated between an intense focus on the moment and a complete absence from his surroundings. Thoughts of the Pit and Taloon were cut off by the PTSD-intensity-level replays of what he’d said to Dorian, which was interrupted by his dreams and What was that with Dean Worthington? That one was overtaken by the sight of Jess and Nick back together and making out by her locker,47 just as ruminations on Ezra’s words about made-up rules were impeded by Dorian’s sudden appearance in the hallway, at which point he dove into the faculty bathroom. The part of his mind which harbored hope that she could feel for him what he felt for her had risen up (Good for you!) and gotten its one big shining moment, but now it was grounded. In class, pretending to be engrossed, feeling her eyes; head up, robot smile, back down. Good.
Ezra had James called down to the library at lunch, where he had sandwiches from the Italian deli and bottles of Cherry Coke set out for both of them. He congratulated James on his “first successful foray into combat” and asked him if he had any questions from what they’d discussed the morning before.
James said he did not.
James did, of course. He had millions of questions. Questions Ezra couldn’t answer or wouldn’t; questions he was afraid to have answered; questions so profound he lacked the vocabulary to ask them. He wanted to know everything they knew about the supposed War, and how they could be so sure what the Creator would do, and what would happen if he just ran away, and a lot more things.