The Sweet Revenge of Celia Door

by Karen Finneyfrock

  28

  Schadenfreude is a German word that means “delight in someone else’s misery.” It’s one of the words I learned in the book Foreignisms. It is the feeling of thrill we get when we read gossip magazines about a starlet getting a DUI. It’s the reason we want to see the mug shot, examine her shame-filled eyes surrounded by dark, half-moons of skin. Sometimes high school pulses with it.

  As soon as the teachers led Drake and Joey away, the bell rang for class and the mob outside thinned until I was able to breathe. I considered running, just leaving school property instead of going back inside. But Drake was in there, and I didn’t want to abandon him. I pulled the hoodie up over my head, opened the door to Hershey High, and went into battle.

  I didn’t see any more photocopies of my poem as I walked down the hall. Clock must have gotten them all. I headed straight for Mr. Fish’s European History class. I didn’t stop at my locker for my book, even though it might mean a lecture from Mr. Fish. A lecture didn’t seem like my biggest problem.

  I could feel the schadenfreude buzzing around me. I heard the names Drake and Joey repeated by almost every group of students. Two boys were reenacting the fight for a group of girls. There was a carnival atmosphere in the halls, a palpable glee running through the freshman class. A chorus of heads turned to stare at me as I walked by.

  I timed my entrance to history so that I could sit down right as the bell rang. That way, no one could attempt to talk to me. My heart was beating so loudly in my ears that I almost couldn’t hear Mr. Fish start class. A voice in my head was attempting to sort out what just happened, but Mr. Fish kept drowning it out.

  “Okay gang, settle down,” he boomed. “Open your books to page forty-three and continue reading the chapter on the French Revolution. I heard we had big excitement at lunch but we are still here to learn.”

  After giving me a disappointed look when he noticed I had come to class unprepared, Mr. Fish let me borrow a classroom copy of our textbook. I settled in and opened to page forty-three, trying to make it through one paragraph. “Even after the attempted flight of the royal family, Emperor Leopold von Habsburg of Austria, brother of Marie Antoinette . . .” I must have started reading that sentence twenty times. The words just looked like words. Nothing made sense.

  “Okay, gang,” Mr. Fish said to all of us, although I was pretty sure that I didn’t belong to the gang. “We are going to continue our section on the French Revolution by dividing up into discussion groups.”

  Oh no! screamed the voice in my head. Any discussion group I was in wasn’t going to focus on the French Revolution. Everyone was going to ask me about the poem or the fight. It would probably be the most popular moment of my high school career.

  My hand shot up into the air before I consciously thought to raise it.

  “Yes, Celia,” said Mr. Fish.

  “I need to go to the nurse,” I said.

  “What for?” Mr. Fish sighed.

  “It’s private,” I said in my most adult voice. A couple of kids laughed. Kids always know when other kids are faking sickness. It’s funny that adults don’t. He let me go.

  The halls were clear outside my class, no students or teachers in sight. I didn’t know where I was going, but it wasn’t to the nurse. I pulled my hoodie up over my head, held on to both straps of my backpack, and decided to walk toward the principal’s office.

  Just as I rounded the corner to the main hallway, I caught a glimpse of Drake’s grandmother walking in the direction of the main office. I ducked back behind the wall before she noticed me. She was walking quickly, her shoes making clicking noises on the floor. I waited there until I couldn’t hear the shoe sounds anymore and then peered into the main hall again. I wasn’t surprised the school had called Drake’s grandmother; fighting was a serious offense. They probably called his parents, too.

  A kid holding a pass walked around the corner and past me. If I kept standing in the hall, I would risk seeing more students, or, worse, a teacher. It was time to make a decision. I had no intention of going back to history class and facing other kids for two more periods, and I couldn’t get to Drake while he was in the principal’s office. I did the only thing I could think to do. I turned into the main hallway, walked to the set of doors that led to the side of the building, and exited into the daylight.

  My boots thumped against the concrete on the familiar walk from school to our neighborhood. I reasoned that if they called Drake’s grandmother, they were probably sending him home with her. We all knew the penalty for fighting. Suspension . . . expulsion, both words contained the terrifying sound of shun. I had to get to Drake, to tell him what happened, to help, to do something. I planned to walk to his house and wait for him to get home.

  All I could do on the twenty-block-long march was wonder what was happening at school. Was everyone talking about the poem, about the fight, about Drake or me? Would it just be the freshman class, or would the whole school be interested? I thought about what happened in eighth grade when Sandy started the Book. I couldn’t go through that again, and I certainly couldn’t watch Drake go through it. Not because of me.

  Drake’s grandmother’s car was already in the driveway, so she must have taken a different route since I didn’t see her drive past. I was on the sidewalk just outside of his house when she opened the door.

  “Hello there, Celia,” she said, but not in a nice-to-see-you voice. “I’m sorry, dear, but Drake can’t talk to you right now. He is grounded. I have unplugged his computer, so there will be none of this emailing.” She managed to make emailing sound sinister. “And I have taken this.” She waved Drake’s cell phone over her head. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “Is he okay?” I asked, choosing to ignore the question about school.

  “Pfft,” she said, throwing up her hands. “Can a child be called okay who is hitting other children and breaking noses?” So Joey Gaskill’s nose was broken.

  “Will you tell him I stopped by?” I asked in my most not-Dark voice.

  “I’ll tell him. If you aren’t going back to school, you’d better go home.” She shook a finger at me.

  I turned toward my house. It’s just like adults that when something traumatic happens, and the thing you need the most is to talk to your best friend, they decide to punish you by not letting you talk to your best friend.

  I looked hopefully at Drake’s window, my brain spinning like a Ferris wheel, then walked a little farther along the sidewalk and paused by a neighbor’s lawn two houses down. The house next to Drake’s had a wooden fence surrounding it, but the house next to that one didn’t. There were no dogs or people moving around, so I ducked down and ran along behind the first neighbor’s fence in the direction of the wooded lot. Then I circled around to the back of Drake’s house and crouched down behind a bush to look for evidence that his grandmother might still be outside. Finding none, I crept right along the side of the house to Drake’s window and pelted it with a tiny stone.

  No answer.

  I picked up a larger rock and tossed it. The curtain drew back, and Drake’s head appeared at the window. I chanced a wave. He looked at me and shut the curtain again. Picking up a larger rock, I was just about to target the glass a third time, when the window opened. Drake leaned out and whispered, “Hold on,” and then pulled his head back inside.

  I waited behind the bush, trying to figure out what to say to Drake. I would have to tell him about the poem, if he didn’t already know. My intestines tied themselves in a bow. After a few minutes, the window slid open again, and Drake looked out. “I was on the phone with my parents,” he said irritably in a loud whisper.

  “Are you in trouble?” I asked.

  “Are you for real? Yeah, you could say I’m in trouble.” As the sun caught Drake’s face, I could see a bruise starting to form over his right eye. Joey must have gotten in at least one punch.

  “What did they say?” I asked, postponing the thing that I had to say.

  “They’re mor
e worried than mad, it’s not like I’ve ever gotten in a fight before. But I’m still grounded . . . and suspended.” His head disappeared inside the window again and then came back. “I thought I heard Gran.”

  “So, I wrote a poem—” I finally started, but he cut me off.

  “You mean the poem that outed me to the whole school? Yeah, I’m pretty familiar with that poem, nice imagery with the leaves,” he said in a sarcastic whisper. “It was so great to read that on the way to lunch with other people standing around. That was awesome.” So he did know. His voice was dripping with rage.

  “My poetry journal got stolen—” I started.

  “I don’t fucking care if it got stolen. Why would you would write a poem about me being gay and then bring it to school and leave it lying around! That’s either stupid or . . . just . . . stupid.” He was gesturing with one hand while the other clutched the windowsill.

  “It wasn’t lying around, it was in my backpack. Drake, I would never—” I started.

  “He called me a faggot in front of the whole school.”

  “You already knew about the poem, and you still played in the game?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Hide in the bathroom? Act ashamed? I’m not ashamed.” Drake ran a hand through his hair and then rested his head in that hand.

  I sat there in miserable silence.

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “My parents said I can’t come to New York this weekend.” He let out a long sigh. “They said they want to come here instead and talk to Principal Foster tomorrow. Mom’s trying to get the day off.”

  “But you’re supposed to see Japhy this weekend.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. What am I going to do? I have to go to New York,” said Drake, slamming one hand on the sill and then glancing nervously back inside the house. “I need to talk to Japhy. He’s the only person who can understand.” Drake whipped the back of his hand across his face and winced when he touched the bruise. “Ouch, fuck. If I could just see him, he would look at my face, and he would know how hard it is coming out. He would know that I understand the way he acted.”

  A dog started barking a few houses away. I tried to conceal myself more fully behind the bush. “Maybe they will let you come up next weekend,” I offered.

  “Timing is everything, Celia. Dreams have a ripeness just like fruit, and you can’t let them rot on the tree,” he said. He didn’t credit Buddy, but I was pretty sure he was quoting. “Getting outed at school, the fight. It’s a sign. I need to go talk to Japhy now. I can’t wait.”

  “Maybe your parents will change their minds?”

  “No, I can’t risk asking permission.”

  “I am so, so sorry, Drake,” I said quietly, overcome with guilt again. I pressed my body into the bush and resisted the urge to cry. There was a silence.

  “Come with me.”

  I shivered.

  “I’m leaving for New York tonight before they get here tomorrow. I’ll get in trouble, but I’m already in trouble. After Gran goes to sleep, I’m sneaking out. Come with me,” he said again.

  “I’ll get suspended if I skip tomorrow,” was the first of ten reasons I thought of for why I shouldn’t go.

  “I’m already suspended. There are worse things.”

  “My mom would freak—”

  “We’re not running away. We can call your mom as soon as we get there, and we can stay at my family’s apartment. I’ve got my keys. We’ll never be in actual danger.”

  “What happens when our families wake up and call the police to declare us missing?”

  “We can leave some kind of note, something they’ll find once we’re on our way and they can’t stop us.”

  Drake was leaning farther out of the window, both hands now supporting him on the sill. His eyes were red and bloodshot and his nose was running. I could almost feel how sore his face must have been.

  “We’ll need money,” I tried.

  “I use Mom’s credit card to buy all my train tickets. I’ll buy yours, too.”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Our Dreams are going to require bravery—” He turned his head sharply and then disappeared inside again. When he came back, he said, “The phone’s ringing, it’s probably them. Come back at twelve o’clock. Gran goes to bed at nine, and she takes her hearing aid out, so you can knock on the window,” he whispered quickly. “I checked the schedule and we can get the bus to Harrisburg and make the five a.m. train. Coming, Gran,” he called into the house. Then he looked back at me and said, “Twelve o’clock . . . please come,” before pulling down the window and closing the curtains.

  I collapsed into the bush and sighed.

  After a few deep breaths, I made my way back along the side of Drake’s house and then through the neighbor’s yard and back to the street. There was still an hour until the final bell rang, and I had to kill time at the park so that I wouldn’t get home before school was out. I sat on a swing and thought about going to New York and wished I had my poetry journal to comfort me. It made my skin crawl to think about Sandy and Mandy reading it.

  I had exhibited some shocking behavior since high school started two weeks ago. I had ignored assignments, got detention, stolen a cell phone, forged a text message, and just now, skipped all my afternoon classes. But nothing compared with going to New York without my mom’s permission. This was another level of bad.

  As the swing moved back and forth, I weighed my options. I would be in a mountain of trouble if I went. But I owed Drake in a huge way after outing him at school. Still, Drake was planning on moving back to New York, and I would still be here with a probable suspension and angry parents to deal with and no best friend. On the other hand, if I was grounded after Drake was gone, it’s not like I would be missing out on any social time. I would have nothing to do anyway. I swung back and forth, while my brain did laps around a track of my skull.

  Finally, when I had wasted enough time to get dizzy, but not to make a decision, I walked home.

  × × ×

  My mom’s car was in the driveway. I knew she was working the night shift and wouldn’t need to leave for hours. I prepared myself for parental small talk, hoping I hadn’t gotten busted for skipping my last three classes. Not every teacher takes attendance. When I opened the front door, I found my mom standing at the coat closet.

  “Oh, hi, June Bug,” she said. “How cold is it out there? I was just trying to decide which coat to wear.”

  “Um, medium,” I answered cautiously, throwing down my backpack inside the door. So far, so good. That’s when I noticed we weren’t alone. There was a man with blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses sitting on our sofa. He stood up when he saw me come in.

  “Celia,” my mom said brightly, “this is Simon, my friend from the hospital. Simon, this is my daughter, Celia.”

  Simon offered me his hand to shake and smiled widely. I did not smile back, and I did not shake. It was the guy from the mall.

  “Mom, is he a date?” I asked in a Dark voice.

  “Celia!” My mom snapped. “Don’t be rude. Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a moment, please?”

  I followed her through the swinging door with my hands folded across my chest. “That was snide, Celia. Simon is the first friend I’ve made at the hospital, and you just embarrassed me.”

  I thought about how people kept assuming that I was dating Drake, but he was just my friend. “Is he gay?” I asked.

  “No, he isn’t,” she said, sighing. “Enough with the rude questions. He’s a friend and that is all you need to know. Simon came over to have dinner and go to a movie before my night shift, and I was wondering if you would like to join us.”

  I felt something finish hardening inside of me, like water that can officially be called ice. There was a decision hanging over my head when I walked through the door and, in that moment, I made it. “Mom, I have a ton of homework, I’d really rather stay home,” I said.

  She stood looking at me. “Are you sure?
I’m afraid that I leave you to eat alone too much. We’re going for Difari Pizza, and I know you love that place.”

  “Yeah, that does sound great, but I have a big paper due,” I said casually. “I’ll just have a turkey sandwich here.”

  “Okay,” she relented. “Bed by ten o’clock. No later.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” I said, smiling. “Sorry.”

  “Well. Thank you, Celia. That is very nice of you to say.” She patted my arm and looked at me curiously.

  I followed her back into the living room. “Nice to meet you, Simon,” I said, waving. “Have fun tonight.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Celia,” he said, standing up from the couch again and waving back.

  “Have a good night, June Bug,” Mom said, and put on her coat. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’m going to school early to hit the library before English, so I might leave before you get home.”

  “Okay.” They left through the front door.

  Then I went to my room to start packing for New York.

  CHAPTER

  29

  I pulled out a duffel bag and started with socks and underwear. Then black leggings, black T-shirts, a couple of black skirts, and an extra hoodie. I added the novel I had started reading, Looking for Alaska by John Green, and begrudgingly found a brand-new composition book to start another poetry journal. It made my bone marrow boil again to think about Sandy and Mandy reading my poetry. But I couldn’t afford any more thoughts of revenge. My glorious revenge had gotten me exactly fifty minutes of satisfaction before Sandy did something worse to me. And she hadn’t just aimed for me this time, she’d targeted Drake, too. Instead of tossing another grenade, I needed to focus on triage.

  I went to my computer. Although I was reasonably alienated from both of my parents, I had no desire for them to sit around thinking I had been abducted by a biker gang or polygamous sect. I thought of someone safe I could tell.

  Re: Your eyes only