Being Henry David

by Cal Armistead

  “How does that work, anyway? The voting?” I ask.

  “It’s based on applause,” says Ms. Coleman. “At the end, the bands line up on the stage, and the crowd cheers for their favorite band. The one with the loudest audience response wins a trophy and two hundred dollars.”

  Ryan and Sam exchange crooked smiles, no doubt imagining a crowd gone wild. Would be nice. But I have my doubts.

  Hailey buries her face in my shoulder. “Next to the last,” she whispers, and I know what she’s thinking. For her, the waiting will be torture. She’s got all night to be nervous.

  “Make sure you’re ready to go on stage at around nine thirty,” says Ms. Coleman. Not waiting for a response, she clutches the clipboard to her sparkly shirt and rushes off.

  Within the hour, the Thoreau High School auditorium– dance club is rocking with noise and lights and people, and I’m wishing Joey and Matt were here to share this with me. With Joey on drums and Matt on bass and vocals, we would’ve blown these uptight New England bands out of the water with some of our rocking original songs. Not to brag or anything, but we were pretty damn good. I wonder if Joey’s Uncle Phil actually gave our CD to that guy at the House of Blues. I wonder if his record label ever tried to contact us and I screwed things up for everybody by running away.

  At about eight thirty, Hailey is in the girl’s room. Again. She says she just needs to check on her makeup, but I know she’s in there with Danielle and some of her other friends trying to stay calm. I hope it works. Even if her blood sugar is under control, she could psyche herself out so bad that the stage fright could still get her.

  The band onstage is this punk group called Snapper, playing a mangled version of a Sex Pistols song. So far, none of the bands have impressed me, so I’m starting to think we might actually have a chance to win some cash. I scan the crowd, and I’m surprised to see familiar faces. Thomas, Suzanne, and Nessa. A grin on my face, I push through the crowd to get to them. I search for Jack too but don’t see him.

  “Hey, what are you guys doing here?” I shout to be heard over the music.

  “You think we’d miss this?” Thomas asks, and he gives me a hug that’s more like a pound on the back. “Although this song is causing me actual pain,” he admits. “My band used to do it. A whole lot better too.”

  “I can believe that.”

  Nessa looks up at me with this shine to her eyes like she thinks I’m amazing, and I won’t lie, it makes me feel really good. Dressed in a clean white shirt and jeans, without all that dark makeup she used to wear, she doesn’t look anything like a street kid anymore. Just another cute girl at Thoreau High. I don’t know how she did it, but Nessa has been able to hold on to a sweetness and innocence in spite of everything that’s happened to her. Jack seems to be suffering more than she is.

  “I didn’t know you played guitar,” she says, acting shy with me.

  “There’s a lot I didn’t know either when I was with you guys,” I say. “Hey, where’s Jack?”

  The three of them exchange a furtive look, and nobody says anything. The blush drains from Nessa’s face, and she goes pale. Uh-oh. This can’t be good.

  Suzanne clears her throat and loops an arm in Nessa’s.

  “Come on, girlfriend,” she says. “Let’s see if we can go get a program.” The two of them turn toward the back of the auditorium and work their way through the crowd. Nessa glances anxiously over her shoulder at me.

  Thomas stands in front of me, arms folded across his wide chest like he’s trying to protect us both. “Jack ran away, Hank.”

  I must have heard him wrong. “Ran away? What happened?”

  “Not long after you left with Hailey, I caught Jack rummaging through my medicine cabinet. He was stealing prescription pills. I think he took some—antibiotics probably—without even knowing what they were.”

  I bury my face in my hands. “Shit. What did you do?”

  “Laid into him, of course. Shouted at him, threatened him a little. Did my best to put the fear of God into him. The kid’s a junkie-in-training.”

  “It’s not his fault. It’s that guy Magpie who—”

  “Look, I’ve seen what drugs do to people. I was pissed, and I was really hard on the kid. I didn’t think he’d take off like that, but I can’t say I’m sorry for yelling at him.”

  “But…how could he leave Nessa behind?”

  “Probably the best thing he could do for her. We had a long talk with her after he bolted. She’s tired, done with running, and she wants stability. She’s going to stay with Suzanne until Monday morning, and we’ll talk to somebody in child services. Nessa is stronger than you’d think. She’s going to be okay, Hank.”

  “And what about Jack?”

  “That’s up to him.”

  I think about Jack’s hands shaking, his bruised cheek, dark circles under his eyes. The guy is probably deep into withdrawal by now. Maybe even sick from taking too many random drugs from Thomas’s medicine cabinet. Thomas gives me a hard pat on the back. “Try not to worry about this right now,” he says. “You focus on the music. I’ll keep on the lookout for Jack.”

  Snapper finishes its second cringe-worthy song, and Ms. Coleman grabs a microphone and takes the stage, silver shirt reflecting lights like crazy. “Next up, let’s hear it for Red Tide.”

  The darkened side of the stage is now bathed in light, and the next band launches into a Coldplay song. This group is good, really good. Peering closely at the band members, I recognize the girl with the pink-tipped hair, the lanky lead guitarist with his cap on sideways. It’s Cameron’s band. I want them to be terrible, want to hate their music, but I can’t. The singer is good too, just not as good as Hailey.

  “This group is the best so far,” Thomas says as they launch into their second song.

  I shrug, not wanting to agree, even though he’s right. Yeah, but the lead guitarist is an asshole, I want to say. When they finish, the crowd goes nuts, hooting and whistling like crazy.

  “Well, I should get going for now, look for the rest of my band,” I say. “We’ll be up in a little while.”

  “Okay, Hank, good luck. We’ll be here,” Thomas says, giving me another manly whack on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about anything. We’ll figure it out.”

  I head backstage and Cameron is there, basking in the glow of a bunch of people who want to tell him how great he was, so I hang back in the wings, not wanting to deal with him. There’s no way in hell I’ll offer him any praise. To my surprise though, Hailey goes up to him and gives him a long, warm hug. I fight back an attack of jealousy. After all, she’s with me, not him. Right? Well, sort of.

  They talk quietly, but within a couple minutes their voices rise and they’re arguing. Again.

  “But I don’t want to drive into the city, Cam,” Hailey is saying. “Can’t you get somebody else?”

  “I tried. I couldn’t get anybody else,” Cameron says. “Come on, Hailey. You said—”

  “I know what I said. And now I’m saying you’re stressing me out. Can we talk about this some other time? Seriously, Cam.”

  “But I need to do this tomorrow, Hailey. We can’t talk about it another time.”

  She doesn’t need this tonight of all nights. I walk up behind Hailey and stand there like her bodyguard, glaring at Cameron until he notices me. He gives me a double take through suspicious, squinty eyes.

  “Nice shirt,” he says.

  I glance down. The black T-shirt from Nashville. Crap. I wasn’t even thinking when I put the damn thing on.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I like it too.”

  “Give it back.”

  Yeah, like I’m going to whip it off right now and hand it to him. “No.”

  Hailey stands between the two of us, looks ready to burst into tears. “Stop it, you guys. I can’t deal with either of you right now.”

  Cameron and I cut smoldering looks at each other, but for her sake, I shrug. “Nothing to stop, Hailey. Everything’s fine.”

&
nbsp; She closes her eyes, takes deep breaths to control the tears. “Look, I need to go to the girl’s room. Brush my hair. Whatever.” She walks away, leaving Cameron and me standing there, glaring at each other.

  “Why don’t you just leave Hailey alone,” I say. A statement, not a question.

  “And who are you to tell me that? I’ve known Hailey since we were in kindergarten.”

  “Guess that gives you a right to bully her into driving you around like she’s your chauffeur.”

  “I lost my license for that chick,” Cameron says. “She owes me.”

  The next band, comprised entirely of girls with blue hair and white leather miniskirts, walks by. His gaze drifts to follow them, not that I blame the guy. But I don’t take my eyes off Cameron’s face.

  “Let’s take this conversation outside,” I say. Not to beat him up, just to talk. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  He nods, leads me to a back door, pushes it open and we’re outside in a deserted courtyard. It’s a coolish spring night, but crickets are already chirping in the long grass behind the school.

  “So what’s your deal, Cameron?” I ask, stuffing my hands in my back pockets so I won’t hit him. “Are you really that much of an asshole that you want to get Hailey all upset just before she has to perform? You trying to sabotage her and have her mess up like last year just so you can prove some point?”

  Cameron flinches, obviously not realizing Hailey told me the whole story, but then he regains his swagger by changing the subject. “Hey, I can prove that’s my shirt.” He jabs a finger in my face. “My name is sewn into the collar.”

  I stare at him with a snort of laughter. “Oh yeah? Your mommy sews name tags in all your clothes? Is that what you’re saying? So little Cammy won’t lose his precious clothes?”

  He lunges for me then, tries to pull at the neck of the shirt so he can search for his stupid name tag, but I shove him away with both hands like he doesn’t matter. Can’t get into a fight, not now, when I’m due to play guitar for Hailey in less than an hour.

  Cameron comes at me, fists balled, aiming at my nose, but I dodge him, and he swings at the air. I laugh, which just pisses him off more.

  Out of the darkness behind the school comes a raspy shout, and the two of us freeze. “Back off,” it says. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  17

  A dark figure lumbers out of the shadows as panic rises in my throat like bile. It’s got to be Magpie after all, probably with Watchdog and Ginger backing him up in the weeds behind the school, ready to get their revenge, to kidnap or torture me or just shoot me in the head and be done with it.

  “Who the hell are you?” Cameron asks.

  “Don’t talk,” I whisper in a tight voice. God, he’s going to get his ass killed, just for being the idiot he is. The figure shuffles into the light, and with a flash of relief that leaves me weak, I see it’s not Magpie or one of his men after all. Jack takes two steps forward, something clutched in his fist. His hand twitches and the streetlights gleam off the metal of a blade.

  “Leave Hank alone or I swear I’ll cut you,” he hisses at Cameron.

  All the bravado drains out of Cameron’s face, along with the color, leaving him pale and ghostly. “Holy shit.” His voice is high like a little girl’s.

  Good, I’m thinking. Scare the crap out of this weasel. He deserves it. I’ll make sure nobody gets hurt, but I might enjoy the show before I intervene. Jack takes another step toward Cameron, knife pointed in the direction of his nose, then suddenly Jack collapses before he can even put out his hands to break his fall, smacking his head on the pavement with a sickening thud. The knife falls out of his hand with a clatter.

  I hurry to his side as his crumpled body contracts into a fetal position. “Jack!” Blood trickles out of his hair onto his forehead.

  “I don’t feel so good, Hank.” Then Jack’s entire body jerks and convulses and his eyes roll so far back in his head, all I can see is white. I shake him, but it does no good, and then foamy stuff starts bubbling out of his mouth.

  “Holy shit,” Cameron says again, gaping down at Jack.

  Leaning down, I place my ear near Jack’s mouth to listen. “Christ, he’s not breathing.” I reach up and shove Cameron to snap him out of his trance. “Call nine-one-one! Now!”

  As Cameron fumbles for his phone, I dredge up a long-ago memory of learning CPR in Boy Scouts. Immediately, I start chest compressions, then wipe the foam off his lips, trying to blow air into his slack, reeking mouth without puking. I have no idea how long I’m doing this when I hear the sirens. Then I see the lights and my own heart stops beating.

  Flashing lights. Blue, red, blue, red. Blinding me. Like that day with Rosie. In the intersection. In the car. I close my eyes against the lights, the noise, and Jack’s blood. When I open them again, I see the accident all over again. Gray truck getting close, closer, then slamming into us. An explosion of color and terror, shattering glass and grinding metal. Ambulance. Police car. Lights. Blue, red. And my God, so much blood.

  Scrambling backward now, away from the lights and sirens and the blood, I find my feet and spin away. Escape, the beast snarls in my ear. Run. Now.

  I turn and run smack into a man in a blue uniform who grasps my upper arms in an iron grip.

  “Hold on there, son. You’re not going anywhere until we figure out what happened here.” I struggle against him, but unable to bolt, my body surrenders and I crumple to the ground near Jack.

  From somewhere far away I hear Cameron’s voice and the shouting EMTs, but I’m slipping away, the last forbidden memory detonating within me like I stepped on a land mine.

  The gray truck is coming at us, at the passenger door, can’t stop in time, trapped in Mom’s Toyota with its growling muffler and Rosie inside, thin door of metal and glass not enough to protect her. My world collapses on impact, my forehead smashes into the windshield, breaking glass. Rosie is screaming. Save her. Little blond ballerina in pink is broken. Legs twisted under the crushed front of the car. Bone and torn flesh, one leg is cut and bleeding. The other, somehow, is not there. Broken ballerina, crooked one-legged ballerina in a jewelry box, music tinny and distorted before it grinds to a terrible, silent halt.

  “Hey, buddy, can you open your eyes for me?” A stranger’s voice. “It’s going to be okay. We’re taking you and your friend to the hospital.”

  My eyes fly open to stare at the silhouette of a man in shadows leaning over me, blue and red lights swirling behind him.

  “Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth which is the true wealth.”

  Strange. Someone is quoting Thoreau. “What did he say?”

  “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”

  Then I realize I’m the one quoting Henry, to calm myself, to make space from the memory of the accident, the ballerina, alive but broken.

  “If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”

  “What is this kid talking about?”

  From somewhere near his left shoulder, I hear Cameron telling another officer. “His name’s Hank. I don’t know his last name.”

  “Hank,” says a police officer, “Did you take anything tonight that might have made you sick? Have you been drinking?”

  Henry’s words are beads in a rosary, my desperate prayers. “The universe is wider than our views of it.”

  “He might have just passed out when he saw what bad shape his friend is in,” says an EMT. “He doesn’t exhibit signs of drug or alcohol abuse. I think the kid is just in shock.”

  “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” I whisper, shutting my eyes tight. So sorry, Rosie. Mom. Dad. So sorry. I failed you all. And I will myself to just slip away, just die, in that moment on the ground outside Henry David Thoreau Regional High School. Let me die.

  “Not till we have lost the world, do we b
egin to find ourselves.”

  Someone wheels a gurney over to where I’m lying on the ground, and the EMTs reach burly arms down, ready to lift me onto it and shoot me off to Emerson Hospital.

  But no, I can’t give in. Waving away their arms, I scramble to my feet. Can’t let them take me. It’s not time yet. There’s that thing I still have to do. What was that again? Hailey. I promised Hailey. Something.

  “I’m okay,” I say quickly and make my rubber legs hold me up to prove it. “Really, I’m fine.”

  The cop and the EMTs look at each another. “You need to get checked out at the hospital,” the cop says gently.

  I shake my head adamantly. I clear my throat and gather my wits. “Is Jack all right?” I finally say.

  “He probably will be,” the EMT says. “His vital signs are stable now, thanks to you. Do you happen to know what he took?” I tell them everything I know, which isn’t a whole lot, about the pills from Magpie and about the prescription drugs he stole from Thomas’s medicine cabinet.

  “We’re going to need to take a statement, so even if you refuse medical care, we need to take you to the station,” the cop tells me, then turns to say something into the radio on his shoulder.

  “But I have to perform. I need to get inside.” I jut a thumb toward the school, indicating the muffled pounding of bass and guitar, the wail of a singer’s voice. “I’m probably up next. Can’t let my friends down.” My voice lacks emotion, a stiff robot version of myself.

  The cop pulls off his cap, wipes sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, and looks at me doubtfully. “You sure you’re up to this? You look like you could collapse any second.”

  “No, it’s cool. I’m fine.” But my hands are shaking, and in truth, I wonder how I’ll manage to play guitar now. Still, I need to get away from these cops and avoid talking about Jack, which is just going to lead to a can of worms I’m not ready to open. As soon as I tell the police my story, everything will be out, and I’ll be done.