by Jeff Zentner
Peter Diamond was the latest up-and-coming Brooklyn wunderkind literary sensation. He was two novels into a Proustian four-novel cycle that dealt, semiautobiographically, with the day-to-day (sometimes hour-by-hour and minute-by-minute) travails and ennui of being an early-twentysomething creative in Brooklyn. Captivating stuff, no doubt.
This is a good preview of what I have to look forward to in New York, Lydia thought. She loved Dahlia, but.
Maybe this is the universe telling me to stop putting this off. After a few false starts, she began her post about the first day of school.
Here’s what I’m thinking about as I drive to Nashville today, my last day of summer before I begin my senior year: nothing makes you feel like you’re trying to grab and hold on to a handful of sand like first days of school. And by “sand,” I mean time.
The first day of senior year is when you realize that summer might never again mean what it used to. Before you even enter a classroom you learn that life is composed of a finite number of summers, passing us by in a haze of ice cream, fireflies, chlorine-scented hair, and skin that smells like coconut sunblock. We live in a series of moments and seasons and sense memories, strung end to end to form a sort of story. Maybe first days of school are to give us lines of demarcation, to make sense of these childhood moments and the life cycle of friendships and—
As she typed, a warm wave of excitement about her impending new life swept through her.
Dill surveyed the parking lot with glum resignation, watching his fellow students file in. But this year, I don’t even get to wish for the year to be over quicker, because that means no more Lydia. Al Gore was parked in the rear of the lot, Lydia’s preferred spot for quick after-school escapes. She even had a track of fast banjo music that she played on her iPod for these getaways. Somehow, they’d arrived with time to kill before class began. The hatchback was open and Lydia and Dill sat on the bumper.
Ms. Alexander, the cheerleading coach, walked past.
“I never thought she was as hot as everyone else does,” Lydia said, after she’d gone.
“Me neither,” Dill said.
Lydia looked satisfied, as though he had passed a test of some kind. “I’d bet twenty bucks she ends up arrested for banging some thirteen-year-old student.”
Lydia kicked her legs gently. She wore tights woven in an intentionally chaotic pattern with purposeful rips. They would have been a disaster on anyone else. Her calf tapped the A HEALTHY SMILE IS A HAPPY SMILE bumper sticker. Her dad had offered to remove it. “Why didn’t you let him?” Dill had asked once. “Because it’s still as true as when he drove it,” Lydia had told him. “Plus, it’s both creepy and hilarious.” “What hotness discount do you give her?”
Dill thought for a moment. “Seventy-five percent hotness discount.”
“Oh damn. That’s Dollar General pricing.”
“People at this school confuse a tan and perfect teeth with hotness.”
“But not you.”
“Not me.”
Lydia gave him the you-passed-the-test smile again. Her teeth were as chaotic and imperfect as her tights. And like the tights, Dill thought she pulled them off in style. She refused to let her dad fix them, just like with the bumper sticker. She explained to Dill once that it was similar to the way makers of Persian rugs would intentionally leave a flaw in their work, as a reminder that only God is perfect.
They kept up their red-carpet commentary until it was almost time to head inside.
As Dill was about to ask Lydia what she had first period, he heard laughter off to the left. He saw Tyson Reed and his girlfriend, Madison Lucas, approaching. His heart sank. Here we go.
“What up, Dildo? Senior year!” Tyson said with mock excitement, raising his hand for a high five. “Come on, player, don’t leave me hanging!”
Dill went into defensive mode. He shut off and turned away, ignoring Tyson. He prayed in his heart. Bless them that curse you, bless them that curse you, bless them that curse you. And another thought ran parallel: God is punishing me for dishonoring my mother and going to school. He won’t allow me even an hour’s peace.
Lydia laughed a braying, sarcastic laugh. “Wait a minute, hang on…I see what you did there! You said ‘dildo’? Like his name! But you add ‘-do’ to the end! This is fun with these good jokes.” She applauded.
“Glad you appreciate my joke, Lydia Chlamydia,” Tyson said. Madison snickered from behind him.
Lydia’s mouth dropped open. “Wha—Lydia Chl—You did it again! You made an extremely hilarious joke by rhyming my name with a funny sex disease! Tremendous!”
“You’re tremendous,” Tyson said. Another snicker from Madison. This one was louder and more pointed, as though he was finally treading the territory she hoped he would.
Something surged through Dill. Not courage exactly. More the realization that he had nothing to lose by getting kicked out of school. Maybe that was what God wanted for him anyway. He might be able to land a punch on Tyson before Tyson could react. He wouldn’t be expecting Dill to do anything. Even Christ had chased the moneylenders from the temple, and Lydia’s friendship was a temple to him.
Dill rose. He felt Lydia’s hand, warm on his arm. He sat, his head spinning with adrenaline, trying not to visibly shake.
“Yeah, Dildo. Do it. Bring it,” Tyson said.
Lydia crossed her legs, holding her knee and rocking back casually. “Tremendous, huh? Let’s go with that and say I could lose, oh, twenty pounds. I can easily do that by not eating chess pie or bacon or any of the other things that make life worth living. But you”—she pointed at Tyson with an elaborate flourish—“are dumb. And there’s nothing you can simply not eat that will make you any smarter. You’ll die an idiot.”
“You’ll die from too many french fries, fatass Lydia Chlamydia.”
“Do you really want to do this?” She wagged her finger between them. “A battle of wits? It’s not even fun to destroy you because you’re too dim to understand you’re getting destroyed.”
Madison lunged forward, her face resembling a spray-tanned fist. “You’re an ugly person. Inside and out. You think you’re better than everyone here because you’ve been interviewed in the New York Times and you’re famous on the Internet.”
Lydia studied Madison with the look she’d give a clogged toilet. “Since I know that you don’t equate ‘smarter’ with ‘better,’ I’m going to say that that’s not true.”
“This is why no one can stand you,” Madison said.
“Fabulous. I’d hate for it to be because of halitosis or something.”
“Nice witch tights, by the way,” Madison said, her voice dripping with scorn. “They come from the trash?”
“No, they were a gift from the Rodarte sisters. They’re last season, but I hoped no one at Forrestville High would notice.”
“All your fancy friends,” Tyson said. “You gonna go cry about us on your blog now?”
Lydia gave Tyson a condescending smile, furrowing her brow. “Oh. Bless your heart. You think you’re important enough to talk about on my blog. You are still very important, though, you special widdle guy.”
Travis walked up, looking exhausted. “Hey.”
“Tyson, do one of your name jokes for Travis,” Lydia said with a wicked grin. Travis’s fight with Alex may not have raised his social status, but people still feared him. Travis had at least eight inches and almost a hundred pounds on Tyson.
Tyson grabbed Madison’s hand. “Y’all can blow me. We’ve wasted enough time with your queer asses.” They stalked off. Madison flipped Lydia the bird over her shoulder. Lydia, Dill, and Travis flipped them the bird to their backs. Dill’s heart still thumped from the encounter, but he breathed again. Maybe God had a different message for him.
“They’re really not over that interview, are they?” Lydia said.
“You did call Forrestville High a ‘fashion wasteland,’ ” Travis said.
“Full of outlet mall–clad drones who smell like survivors of an A
xe body spray tanker truck crash with a school bus,” Dill said.
“Aw, you guys read it!”
“Why don’t you unleash all your blog fans on the people who give you trouble?” Travis asked.
“Well, first off, the people who like my blog aren’t very good at cyberbullying, which is fine. I would hate to be liked by people who are good at it.”
They got up and walked to the school, a large, nondescript, 1970s-era building. It had all the charm of a state-run asylum.
“I gotta head this way, y’all,” Travis said.
“Hey, why do you look like you got fifteen minutes of sleep last night? You okay?” Lydia asked.
“I was up late talking with friends from the Bloodfall forums. No big deal. Meet y’all after I get off work?”
“Yep,” Dill said. He and Lydia kept walking. Lydia said nothing. She had the air of a boxer who’d won a bout: triumphant but bruised. That’s how Dill felt.
“You’re not fat or ugly,” Dill said.
She laughed. “You’re sweet, but I’m completely fine. I love myself and nothing Tyson can say will ever change that. One more year with these bipedal turds. Then I’ll never see any of them again. I mean, unless one of them serves me french fries in ten years. Apparently I’m a big fan.”
Dill thought that he’d managed to hide it, but he must have appeared bruised himself.
“You’re not a dildo, you know,” Lydia said. “I don’t get why they haven’t figured out “Dullard” as a nickname. It’s funnier and more creative. But it also requires a larger vocabulary.”
“Nothing they said bothered me.”
“They? Did I say something?”
They got to the front doors and stopped as people hurried past them.
“It’s fine; I’m fine.” He started to walk inside. Lydia stopped him.
“Nuh nuh nuh, hold up. What?”
“When you talk about people still being here in ten years—”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Oh man. Can we stipulate right now that I’m not referring to you when I say something like that?”
“It’s just—What if I’m the one serving you fries in ten years? Does that mean you think I’m dumb like Tyson?”
“Really, Dill?”
“You asked.”
“Fine, you’re right. I asked. No, I don’t think I’m better than you. No, I don’t think you’ll be serving me fries in ten years. Jeez, could you please not with the drama? After I stick up for you?”
“What if? What if I end up no better than Tyson?”
“I won’t let that happen, okay? I’ll hire you as my butler first.”
“That’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not, because you’d be the worst butler. You’d always be spacing out and playing the guitar while people knocked at the door, and then when you answered the door you’d be like ‘Hey, isn’t it weird how the Earth is flying through space all the time, and yet we can’t fly,’ ” Lydia said, imitating Dill’s voice, “and you’d get your butler panties in a twist every time a guest hurt your feelings a little bit.”
“What about the thing you said to Tyson about how he’s not important enough to talk about on your blog? You’ve never talked about me on your blog.”
They stood and stared at each other.
“Do I honestly need to stand here in the entryway of Forrestville High School and tell you how important you are to me? What’s really going on here, Dill? Something else is bothering you.”
The five-minute bell rang.
Dill broke eye contact and turned. “We better get to class.”
Lydia grabbed his arm. “What?”
Dill looked from side to side. “Last night, my mom tried to get me to drop out of school and go to work full time.”
Lydia’s mouth fell open, as it had with Tyson and Madison, but this time her astonishment and outrage were genuine. “What? That’s so gross. Who does that?”
“My mom, apparently.”
Vice Principal Blackburn strolled up the hall. “Mr. Early, Ms. Blankenship, five-minute bell’s rung. You may be seniors, but you don’t get to be tardy. Move it.”
“Yessir,” Dill said, and watched until he rounded the corner. “My mom said something else.”
“What?”
“She said someday I’d learn that I’m no better than my name.”
“Well, she’s wrong. And we’ll talk about that and some other stuff when we get a chance.”
They went their separate ways. As Dill hurried to class, he caught a whiff of some astringent industrial cleaning chemical.
Suddenly he’s twelve years old, helping his father clean their church on Saturday morning so that it sparkles before Saturday evening worship. He’s finished feeding the snakes in their wooden crates, and now he’s scrubbing one of the pews when his father looks at him and smiles and tells him that God is happy with him and that by the sweat of his face shall he eat his bread. And Dill’s heart sings because he feels that he’s pleased his father and God.
Times are simpler when no one hates you because of your name and it doesn’t occur to you to be ashamed of it.
Raynar Northbrook’s day’s labors were almost at an end. As Lord of Northhome, he didn’t need to soil his hands with work. He did it because he loved the sweet, spicy smell of cut wood and the rich, earthy smell of damp soil. A man’s work kept the back and arm strong for war. And he would need every ounce of strength in the coming days…
“Travis!” his father shouted over the din of the saw. Travis glanced up. His father tapped his watch and made a circular motion with his finger pointed in the air. “Quitting time! Wrap it up.”
Travis finished his task and switched off the saw. He’d only been working a few hours. He was on work release from school, so he got to leave early. He checked his phone. Two messages from Amelia. He felt a pulse of excitement.
How was your first day of school?
Oops forgot you’re at work now huh.
Travis hurried to text her back.
Yeah, at work. First day wasn’t bad. I was a little tired from how late we talked LOL. How was your day?
Hehe, tired too. Ugh every day of school sucks. I’d rather spend a month at the Siege of King’s Port than one day at my stupid school.
But remember at the Siege of King’s Port they had to eat rats and boiled leather until King Targhaer’s brother broke the siege. I love food, Travis replied.
Hehe, true, me too. Maybe too much, which is one of the things I get crap for at school.
Don’t listen to those people. I bet you look great. Travis blushed as he typed. He almost didn’t hit “send.” But he did.
He stood there for a couple of minutes waiting for a response. His heart sank deeper with every moment that none came. He knew he shouldn’t have hit “send.” He put his phone in his pocket and started to walk toward the office. His phone buzzed. He almost dropped it removing it from his pocket. Amelia had sent a picture of herself, taken at a sharp angle and heavily filtered. She had dyed bright-red hair, large gray eyes with dramatic eye makeup, and a soulful pout on her round face. She held a piece of paper that said “Hi, Travis.”
I was right, Travis typed, his pulse pounding. He went through his photos and found the best one that Lydia had taken of him with his staff. He texted it to Amelia with the message Here’s me. Sorry, didn’t have anything to write on.
What a great picture. Nice staff! If we ever hang out, you have to bring it.
LOL, my friends hate it when I bring my staff places. Ok! Gotta go, my dad’s waiting for me.
See you on the forums tonight?
Yep.
Bye bye!
Bye!
Travis pumped his fist, mopped the sweat from his forehead, and walked to the office, where his father and Lamar were sitting in the cool of the air conditioning, shooting the breeze, dipping snuff, and spitting in empty Diet Coke cans.
Lamar tossed Travis a cold Coke. “Got yourself a hot date tonight, boy?”
“No sir. Hanging out with my friends tonight and doing some homework,” Travis said, enjoying the feeling that he may have been lying a bit. Or at least only telling half the truth.
“You realize you said ‘Travis’ and ‘date’ in the same sentence, Lamar? Don’t you know him at all?” Travis’s father said.
As if you know me at all.
“All right, all right. Tall young man, hardworking. There should be a girl or two out there,” Lamar said.
“Maybe there is,” Travis said, popping open his can.
“If there is, he don’t care about it,” his father said, as if Travis weren’t sitting right there. “Too busy with them friends of his. Hey, guess who he runs around with?”
Lamar shook his head.
“Grandson of the Serpent King,” Travis’s father said.
Lamar looked from Travis to Travis’s father and back. “Well. How about that. Dillard Early’s grandson?”
“No,” Travis said. “You’re thinking of Dill’s dad, not his papaw. Dill’s dad is named Dillard Early too. He’s the snakehandler.”
Travis’s father eyed him in wonderment. “No, I ain’t talking about the Pervert Preacher. I mean Dill’s papaw. You telling me Dill ain’t told you about his papaw, the Serpent King?”
Travis shook his head, bewildered. “No. I didn’t even know Dill had the same name as his papaw. He don’t care to talk about his family.”
Travis’s father snorted. “You reckon?” He slapped Lamar on the shoulder. “Tell Travis the story of the Serpent King, old man. You remember it better than me. He ought to hear.”
Lamar grunted and reclined in his chair, folding his arms across his beer gut. “Lord above. I ain’t thought about the Serpent King in a long time. Long time.” He rubbed his white beard and adjusted his Carhartt ball cap. “Well, first off—there’s three Dillard Earlys. There’s Dillard Serpent King. There’s Dillard Preacherman, son of the Serpent King. And there’s the one who you’re friends with, son of the Preacherman. Now, he’d be Dillard III, but after his papaw died, his father became Dillard Sr. and he became Dillard Jr. Only reason I know how that works is that I’m the third Lamar Burns. But I became Lamar Jr. after my papaw died.”