“Maybe that moment would have made all the difference.
“Which brings me to high school rule number three: Be the difference.
“I’m not going to sugarcoat the situation. High school is messed up. Life is messed up. But that doesn’t mean you can’t do something about it. And even WHEN you can’t, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Always try. Because the alternative is a world where people don’t. A world where people see no good, and they have no hope. They exist because that is the default state of life, and then they die because that’s what happens next. All the while, they let the world rot and fall apart around them.
“But life is more than just existing. And it’s more than just a door with death and nothingness on the other side. Life is a series of doors. Every moment, every decision, is a door. And by opening them and stepping into the unknown, we are expanding and illuminating a world that we never knew existed. But if we don’t open those doors? If we stay put? We’ll be living in a world of walls.
“Don’t you want to know what’s on the other side?”
I should have stopped reading there. There was a space before the following paragraph, indicating that what he had to say next was a separate thing. But I was so swept up in Shane’s words, I couldn’t stop.
“P.S. If I’m not alive when you read this, know that I am so sorry.”
The words were like fishhooks, ripping my throat open from the inside. The auditorium reacted as if my mouth were actually bleeding—a swell of gasps and whispers.
I kept reading aloud, even as my voice quivered.
“It must sound hypocritical of me to say all this when I don’t even know if I’m going to make it. When I don’t even know if I’m strong enough. But please know, Cliff, that you are. And that I’ll never stop being your big brother.
“Sincerely,
“Shane Levi Hubbard”
If there had been any hope of me walking away from this Sermon Showdown without crying, it was underwater by now. I sniffed, swept a heavy sleeve across my burning eyes, and blinked the wetness away.
Carefully, I folded Shane’s letter, and I inserted it in my lucky hoodie pocket.
“I don’t know why Shane killed himself,” I said.
I inhaled and exhaled—deeply—like I was giving away a piece of myself. Carving it right out of my soul.
“It seems unfair,” I said, “that someone can take their own life, and not tell you why they did it. As if they somehow expect it to not torture you every day for the rest of your life. But that’s all that Shane left me—questions with no answers. And somehow, I’m supposed to make the most of it. Well, that’s what I intend to do. Maybe I don’t know why Shane killed himself, but I’ll tell you what I do know: Happy Valley High School sucks.”
Several students laughed. It was short-lived, however, when it became clear in my expression that I was not joking.
“Three years I’ve been going to school here,” I said, “and all I’ve ever seen is a bunch of teenagers being awful to each other—cliques and gossip, bullying and harassment, prejudice and hate. I don’t know about you, but I refuse to accept the idea that that’s just how people are. Maybe there isn’t an easy fix. Maybe the answer is way more complicated than some hokey to-do list. But maybe the answer is easier than we think. Maybe we just need to try. Maybe Aaron’s List isn’t the answer, but it is something. Christ, if we had all tried? If we all had done something a long time ago? Maybe Shane would still be here. Maybe. Who knows. It’s useless torturing ourselves over the past. Ruminating over the what-ifs. But it’s not too late for someone else. I don’t know who else may be struggling like my brother was—who may be silently hurting like he was—but I think the List is for them.”
I cast my gaze like a fishing line across a sea of eight hundred eyes. Four hundred faces.
And possibly one girl named Haley.
“I think the List is for you,” I said.
That was it.
I had said everything I had to say.
I was done.
A vacuum of silence filled the auditorium—oppressive and crushing. The sort of silence that makes you wonder if your wildest nightmares have come true, and you’ve somehow become naked in public.
After a quick downward glance—still clothed, thank God—I nervously retreated to my chair, and sat down with my hands in my lap.
What happened next was like a hydrogen bomb, but with less radioactive fallout, and more clapping and cheering.
“Fuck yeah!” Tegan somehow managed to scream over everyone else. Her hands became twin pistols that she pointed in a downward V, pretending to shoot the bench in front of her. “That’s my fuckin’ boyfriend, yo!”
Spinelli shook his head. “I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear that.” But then he turned, smiled, and—I swear—he actually winked at me. “Good job, kid.”
Even Zeke Gallagher was clapping! He was still standing by the projector—awkwardly—with Jack and Julian and the others. Although I only really noticed this because of what happened next.
“Are you kidding me?” said Esther. “Are you freaking KIDDING ME?”
She noticed Zeke first. And her volume trumped Tegan’s by a couple hundred decibels.
Zeke slow-clapped to a halt—hands frozen together, like he was praying for his life.
Esther stood up. Marched right over to him, causing him to back against the nearest wall.
She attacked.
“YOU’RE—SUPPOSED—TO—BE—ON—MY—TEAM!” Esther shrieked with each blow—slapping, kicking, even going for a throat punch.
“Urp. Gluck. Blechh,” Zeke gurgled.
“Holy hell,” said Spinelli. Scrambling out of his chair, he made a feeble attempt to pry Esther off Zeke’s soon-to-be corpse. “Help! Can I get some help?”
The Sermon Showdown kind of dissolved on that note.
“I did not lose!” Esther screamed. “A captain can’t lead an insubordinate ship! I demand a rematch! I DID NOT LOSE!”
She screamed this declaration to the four hundred students who passed the main offices where she was being “detained” on their way out. One school security officer was trying to get her to calm down. Another was on the phone with Mr. and Mrs. Poulson.
Technically speaking, Esther was right. Because she never gave her rebuttal speech, there was no clear-cut winner of the Sermon Showdown. Spinelli called it an “incomplete debate.”
But he also added, “I think you can decide the winner for yourselves.”
As far as incomplete debates go, I couldn’t have been happier with the results.
I didn’t waste a moment. The moment I cleared the deafening chatter of the crowds, I called Aaron.
There was a staticky shuffle on the other line, and then Aaron’s voice. “You better have some good news.”
“You’re alive!”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“What’s going on? Is your brain okay?”
“Well, I’ve officially been diagnosed with epilepsy.”
“Shit.”
“Dude, it’s fine. Basically all that means is that I’ve experienced two seizures from the same brain injury. Maybe I’ll experience more, maybe not. Some epileptics go months or even years between seizures. The worst part is that football is definitely out—probably forever. Unless I want to play Russian roulette with my brain.”
“Shit,” I said again.
“But it’s fine,” Aaron reemphasized. “They x-rayed; there’s no bleeding. No damage at all.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Impatient. I’m just sitting on a hospital bed playing Plants vs. Zombies until they tell me I can go home—which may be never. I thought I’d never get tired of this game, but right now, I hate it so much. Now the real question—HOW’D IT GO?”
Up until this point, the weight of Shane’s letter had been pretty heavy on my chest. Like my lungs had been replaced by vacuum bags and were now filled with dust and debris
and shit. A year later, and Shane’s death still felt raw and fresh.
But here, on the phone with my best friend, I gave myself permission to take a deep breath, set the pain aside, and completely lose it.
“AAAaaaaaAAHHHHHhhhhhhHHHHHhhhHHHHHHHHhhhhh!!!” I said.
“Whoa, whoa. Is this a good ah or bad ah?”
“Good ah! Very good ah!”
“We won?!”
“Well…sort of?” I said, physically and emotionally breathless. “But not exactly.”
“Huh?”
“It kind of ended before it was officially over.”
“What? It did? But the film was a success, right?”
“Actually, someone stole Jack and Julian’s flash drive, hacked their shit, and deleted all copies of the video. So we never played it.”
“WHAT?”
“But it’s cool. It all worked out.”
“How is this a good ah? This sounds like the worst ah ever!”
I recounted every detail—from Jack, Julian, Niko, Frankie, and Tegan injecting their two cents, to discovering Shane’s secret letter in my lucky hoodie, to Esther literally attacking Zeke because he had the audacity to clap after my sermon.
Aaron’s response was appropriate: “AAaaaaAAHHHHhhhhhhHHHHHhhhHHHHhhhh!”
Somewhere in the background, I heard frantic footsteps and a nurse freaking out. “Doctor? Doctor!”
“No, no, I’m okay!” said Aaron. “Christ, I’m okay!”
The Sermon Showdown was a big event, no doubt. But what it sparked was something even bigger. A craze. A pandemic, even.
Everyone had contracted Shane fever.
A year after his death, Shane had become a posthumous celebrity. There were posters of his likeness everywhere—8.5-by-11-inch printouts of his last yearbook photo with the caption Shane Forever. Outside the main offices, one girl was selling “Forever Shane” bracelets. Judging from the actual line to purchase them, and an extra-large pickle jar stuffed with dollar bills, they seemed to be selling like hotcakes made of gangbusters sprinkled in stardust.
The digital world was even worse. Aaron and Tegan showed me on their phones. There was a hashtag—#ShaneForever—taking the Happy Valley social networks by storm. Suddenly, every photo anyone had ever taken with Shane—every experience they had ever shared with him, no matter how small—was paraded online like the latest Internet challenge. Judging from each individual post, you’d think that Shane was this person’s best friend, and they had just now come to terms with this great and devastating loss.
I appreciated that Shane was being remembered.
Really, I did.
But at the same time, it felt like Shane’s memory was being appropriated and sensationalized. Like his name and face were a trend and nothing more.
“Is this weird?” I said. “Tell me this isn’t weird.”
I noticed both Aaron and Tegan—absorbing the Shane craze with me—inconspicuously glance down at their brand-new Forever Shane bracelets. Tegan, visibly embarrassed, managed to slip hers off with one hand and tuck it into her pocket.
“It’s a bit much,” Aaron admitted. “But it is cool, right?”
Exploitation aside—I guess it was kind of cool.
The coolest thing was how Esther was taking it. (Hint: it wasn’t well.) As if to counterbalance the Shane craze, she made a big show of reiterating how “not over” the Sermon Showdown was. But it was only the façade of a pump-up speech. At its core, it was a This is your fault speech.
“A leader is only as good as her followers,” said Esther. “And let me tell you, my followers are not as good as they could be. In fact, I even struggle to call you good. I want you to take a long, hard look in the mirror. I want you to ask yourselves: What have you done for the JTs lately? What have you done for me? Because I can tell you, I’m sick and tired of giving you my everything and getting nothing in return. I’m sick and tired of your disloyalty. Your half-assed dedication. So, this is your moment of truth. I want you to either pledge your full loyalty to the JTs, or I want you to get the hell out of here. We have no room for you here.”
The JTs were humongously not into this. Disbelieving glances were exchanged. Eyes were rolled. And then—for the first time ever—a JT walked out on her.
It was Zeke.
“Hey!” said Esther. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Getting the hell out of here,” said Zeke.
Others were quick to follow. Not all of them. Not even most of them. Probably a solid twenty or so—give or take—but with a great many others who seemed severely on the fence. Enough to make it blatantly clear that the JTs were no longer what they once were.
This was more than just a schism. It was an awakening.
All day, I experienced something of an existential crisis. Something big had happened with the Sermon Showdown—something bigger and flashier than a mere “victory”—and I didn’t know how to process it. Let alone, do school. Like, what was school anyway? How does one “go back to school” after an event like the Sermon Showdown?
Well, I started by going to Ms. Allmendinger’s World History class and actually paying attention. She talked about World War I and the nine million soldiers and the seven million civilians who died as a result of the war. Maybe it was the vastness of the death that stunned me. Sixteen million people—dead. I thought about the families and loved ones who received letters or had soldiers showing up at their door, informing them that their father/husband/brother/son was dead. And how that father/husband/brother/son was just a number to some general, moving little figurines on a war room table, preparing the next strike. But to the people whose doorstep was visited, that father/husband/brother/son was Everything.
Even now, people all over the world were dying in wars, and we were seeing it on the news while our parents drank coffee and we got ready for another day at school, and they were even less than numbers. They were background noise.
But they weren’t. To someone, somewhere, those lost people were Everything.
This pattern of listening and thinking followed me to second-period Algebra, where—according to Mr. Gunther—math was the language of the universe, to third-period Physics, where matter and motion formed the fabric of space and time.
On my way to fourth period, exchanging textbooks in my locker, I noticed Zeke confronting Robin Dunston.
Okay, in my peripheral, it looked like a confrontation. So naturally, I rolled up my soft-cover Spanish workbook until it was an indestructible tube of kick-ass.
But Zeke stopped a safe and respectable distance away from her. His lanky, wristband-laden arms dangled at his side—fidgety and awkward. When Robin turned from her locker and noticed him standing there, her entire pixie body tensed up.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Robin was frozen, clearly waiting for the part where this turned into another malicious prank.
Except it wasn’t a prank. Zeke’s eyes were somber orbs of apology.
“What I did was messed up,” he said. “And I can’t blame the JTs for what I did. They were my own actions, and no one else’s, and I’m just…I’m really sorry.”
Robin still wasn’t moving. It was hard to decipher her thought processes, other than the fact that they were processing hard.
“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” he asked.
Robin’s eyes shifted up in thought—mulled for a brief, silent moment—then met Zeke’s gaze.
“You work at the Bookshelf,” she said.
“Huh?”
“The Bookshelf—that bookstore in Kalispell. You work there, right?”
Zeke’s confusion seemed to melt rather quickly, leaving his face with nothing but a big, dopey smile. “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve seen you there, haven’t I?”
“You’ve probably checked me out a few dozen times. Anyway, I like free books.”
Zeke nodded, barely suppressing a chuckle. “Okay, okay. How about this? I give you unlimited access to my employee dis
count—twenty percent off—and your first book’s on me?”
Robin extended a hand to shake on it. “You got yourself a deal, Gallagher.”
Zeke laughed, took her hand, and shook it firmly.
By the time the lunch bell rang, my brain was in hyperdrive, and it felt kind of weird getting excited that today was chimichanga day.
Aaron and I claimed our usual seats at lunch. And then Tegan appeared, holding her lunch tray, pretending to glance apprehensively at the empty seat next to me.
“Just so you know,” she said, “I am way too attracted to you right now. So if I happen to grab your ass, I refuse to take responsibility for the consequences. Is that seat taken?”
My mouth lost motor function, so I just shook my head.
“Gag me with a spoon,” said Aaron. “You realize I’m sitting right here.”
Not a moment later, Jack and Julian sat down beside us. Tegan glared at their blatant cock-blocking, because clearly five was a crowd.
“Mind if we dine with you?” said Jack. “Our table started talking about which My Little Pony they would bang, and we just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Yeah, it’s so stupid,” said Julian. “Everyone knows that Twilight Sparkle is the only pony worth banging.”
Jack and Julian sat across from each other, next to Aaron and me, respectively. Lacey joined our table shortly after, flanking Aaron’s other side.
“Good job on the Sermon Showdown,” said Lacey, offering me a high five—which I reciprocated. She then glanced around the table. “I guess I should be congratulating everyone. Well, everyone except for Aaron.”
“You could congratulate me for not dying!” said Aaron. “Thank you very much.”
I proceeded to wolf down my chimichanga, and Julian politely informed me that chewing was a general function of higher life-forms, and Jack added that it was also a good tactic for not choking and dying, at which point I stuffed the whole damn thing in my mouth and flipped Jack and Julian off with both fingers. Lacey laughed, nearly spewing her milk.
Neanderthal Opens the Door to the Universe Page 28