by C. W. Trisef
“Or someone who’s about to become one,” Ana added, waltzing into the room. A nauseating stream of perfume and other gaseous hair care products was not far behind, following her scent like bloodhounds.
“What is the meaning of this?” Pauline inquired, removing the scarf and sunglasses gently.
“He thinks he looks like a freak,” Ana answered for him.
“That’s not true,” Ret countered calmly.
“Ana, just eat your flapjacks,” Pauline instructed.
“Sorry, Mom; only liquids for me,” Ana explained, daintily sipping her orange juice. “I’ve brushed and flossed these pearls twice already this morning. I just can’t afford the risk of getting something stuck in my teeth—no, ma’am; not today.” Pauline’s spirits seemed to sink a bit at this pronouncement. She returned her attention to Ret, still awaiting his answer.
“I just don’t want to make a scene, is all,” Ret said in hushed tones. “You know I don’t like the attention, what with my being, you know, so different and all.”
“Oh, Ret,” Pauline responded tenderly, kneeling near his side and looking fearlessly into the pair of bright blue eyes that had once frightened her so many months ago. “You needn’t worry so much about what other people think of you.” She smoothed her hand over his cheek. “And this hat,” she said, removing it from Ret’s brow. “I love your hair,” she told him, curling a lock around her finger. “It reminds me of—”
Her voice vanished. Her gaze fell. Her hand released Ret’s hair and sought refuge in the cradle that was the other hand in her lap. Both Ret and Ana glanced at each other soberly, then looked away. They both knew whose name was on her lips—the name she would have spoken had her voice not fled to the shards of her aching heart. Both teenagers were astonished when she continued.
“I named you after him, you know,” she told Ret for the first time as he watched tears spread from her eyes to the ridges of premature wrinkles, which caused her tears to linger and to paint her aging skin in a design that was as intricate as her grief. Never knowing how to ease her mother’s pain, Ana dragged a few flapjacks onto her plate, momentarily forgetting her dental delicateness. “You remind me so much of him,” Pauline whispered, “not so much by how you look, but by who you are.” She returned to her seat, and Ret and Ana tried to chew quietly as they finished the flapjack platter. When they heard the school bus barrel around the corner, the family embraced, and Ret closed the door behind them, leaving his ornamental apparel on the table.
To say that the Coopers lived on an island would contradict even the most lenient of dictionaries, as Tybee Island was surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean on all sides except for the narrow strait where it moored to the mainland. Regardless of the terminology, however, Ret certainly considered it to be an isolated place, with the nearest city more than a dozen miles to the west and with the apparent edge of the world less than a dozen yards to the east. Once, after reading a biography of Christopher Columbus, Ret thought that he himself had contracted exploration fever, so itchy was he to imitate the European sailor who launched from the edge of his own world to discover what lay beyond the horizon.
Ret was grateful that he lived on the southern end of the island, making his bus stop the first on the route that snaked northward until it finished near the north coast at Tybee High School. Upon boarding, Ret and Ana were greeted by a gruff and altogether miserable-looking bus driver.
“Morning, chillens,” he sneered like a villain in disguise, bits of his breakfast still clinging to his decayed teeth. With a black patch covering one of his eyes, the driver affixed his penetrating glare on Ret, never noticing Ana. Through the wide, smudgy mirror hanging above his head, the bus driver maintained his glare on Ret as they retreated to the backmost bench of the empty bus. Hoping not to draw any more attention to himself, Ret slouched between the high-rising seats, relieved to be out of sight of the bus driver, whose piercing gaze caused Ret’s innards to quiver with uneasiness.
Each time the bus halted, Ret would peek over the top of his barricade to steal a glance at the new riders. Much to Ret’s surprise, some of his classmates seemed to want to draw nothing but attention to themselves. The clothes and hairdos were so outlandish, the most intriguing to Ret being the young man who had dyed his hair green and then molded it into half a dozen footlong spikes.
“You were right,” Ret whispered to Ana, still captivated by the pointy hairstyle. “There really are some strange people who go to high school. Maybe I won’t stick out as much as I thought.”
“And you’re much more handsome than that slime ball,” Ana said reassuringly.
They waited for everyone to pile out of the bus before doing the same. Tybee High struck Ret as an attractive and inviting place to spend the day, its pleasantly painted façades and well-groomed grounds appearing much less torturous and incarcerating than he had imagined. Rows of mature palmettos flanked both sides of the main entrance, their fan-shaped fronds waving to the students in the morning breeze and bidding them inside. Borders of monkey grass thrived at the feet of hedged azaleas, the occasional, residual flower of pink and red hues blooming as evidence of both a prolific spring and the imminence of winter. It was not a large campus, indicative of the modest island’s small populace, but upon entering the edifice, Ret reasoned that every teenager in town must have been confined in the commons, so raucous was the rumpus raging within.
“Stay close to me,” Ana roared above the clamor, grabbing his hand and yanking him behind her as she drove into the melee. Ret felt like toothpaste as they squeezed through the crowd, somehow arriving at a row of bombarded tables manned by a team of bewildered teachers.
“Cooper, Ana,” Ret overheard from his guide’s mouth. “Cooper, Ret.” Ana returned to Ret’s side clutching two slips of paper.
“Oh, good,” she sighed, “it looks like we have a few classes together this semester, Ret. Now, here’s your class schedule,” she explained, handing him the appropriate piece of paper. “It lists the name of the course in this column, followed by the teacher’s name, the room number, and the title of the textbook,” she said, wildly pointing every whichway on the spreadsheet like an astrologer tracing hidden constellations. “Oh, and your locker number’s down here.” She noticed Ret’s puzzled look. “Trees get stumped, Ret; not brainiacs like you. Now, I’ve got to find Paige in this mess and see what she thinks of these pants before class.” Ana released herself into the fray before yelling back to Ret, “I’ll see you in World Geography. Remember: first impressions!”
On the edge of the multitude, shifting in the shadows under a leafy ficus, stood two suit-clad men, one as still as a statue, his partner as jittery as a jackhammer. With eyes like eagles, they surveyed the first-day goings-on with great interest, standing on the periphery like two sharks among a school of fish. Sporting feigned smiles, they spoke to each other through their teeth.
“Do you see him? Do you see him?” the jitterbug asked, his hushed voice growing more earnest with every word.
“Patience, my fidgety friend,” the motionless man admonished. “We’ve waited ten months; I’m sure you can manage a few more minutes.”
“Do you think it wise to merely stand on the sidelines and wait for him to, what, appear before our very eyes?” the impatient man asked. “Should we not, instead, mingle amongst the students and, as they say, divide and conquer? After all, you are the principal of this school, are you not?”
“I can see everything just fine from here,” the principal informed, his calm tone gradually becoming sterner. “And besides, I hate children.”
“Ah, yes, neither am I particularly fond of the little brats,” the quick-talking jabber resumed, “their grimy hands that reek of sweaty copper. But he is not exactly a child anymore, now is he, sir? I mean, by now he ought to be—”
“Sixteen years old,” the principal coolly interrupted the fumbling fool, his own patience wearing thin.
“Great Scott! Is the boy sixteen already?” the accompli
ce asked rhetorically. “Where does the time go? He most likely looks nothing like we remember him, what with adolescents his age shooting up like weeds and growing their hair long.”
“And I thought you were my geography teacher this year,” the principal said sarcastically, “not a professor of physiology.”
“Well, actually, I’m neither, but you already knew that, now didn’t you, old man?” the pretend educator chortled, sending the principal a conspicuous wink as a reminder of their secret.
“I doubt he’s changed much at all,” the principal admitted. “The extraordinary characteristics of his kind never diminish.” He continued to speak as he scanned the student body. “Pale skin—”
“White as snow,” the teacher added dreamily.
“Bright eyes—”
“As blue as crystals.”
“Golden hair—”
“I see it!” the teacher yelped. “I see the golden hair!”
“Where? Where?”
“Over there, near the middle, by the tables; don’t you see him?” gasped the teacher, the principal catching him by the arm as a master would restrain his rabid dog.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
“Patience, Ronald!” the principal demanded. “We mustn’t make a scene.” He pulled him closer to his face. “Now, let’s review our plan, shall we? We stroll tranquilly toward the boy, greeting students along the way.”
“So now you want to mingle, eh?” the teacher mocked sardonically. The principal tightened his grip, shooting his captive a threatening glare.
“We walk to the boy,” he started again, emphasizing the verbs in each step. “We greet the boy—totally without suspicion. We shake hands with the boy, like this.” The principal then used both of his hands to demonstrate the prescribed double-handed shake, abandoning his grip on the teacher.
“RET COOPER!” the teacher hollered, fleeing from the principal’s clutches. The escapee entered the swarm of students like a bullet, knocking bodies down like dominoes in all directions. The miffed administrator marched after his disobedient sidekick, stepping over fallen children without proffering any apologies.
“Ret Cooper! Ret Cooper!” the teacher called after the boy, now just a few feet from where he stood. Hearing his name, Ret looked up from studying his class schedule just in time to witness an emotionally-unstable man grab his hand and shake it violently.
“Ret Cooper,” he said, out of breath, “it is such a pleasure to meet you.” Just then, an austere hand appeared on the troubled teacher’s shoulder. Upon contact, the teacher’s countenance clouded over with fear.
“Principal Lester W. Stone,” he introduced himself, extending his right hand toward Ret.
“Ret Cooper,” came the timid reply, Ret cautiously shaking the principal’s hand.
“Obviously,” Principal Stone remarked. “I see you’ve met our World Geography teacher, Mr. Ronald Quirk.” The principal removed his hand from Mr. Quirk’s shoulder in disgust. “Never mind Mr. Quirk’s indecent behavior. First-day jitters, I’m afraid; I’m sure you can relate.” Principal Stone placed his now-free hand on the back of Ret’s, executing the recently-rehearsed double-handed shake. “Welcome to Tybee High School, son,” he said, not alarmed by Ret’s eccentric eyes. The principal used his left hand to peel Ret’s hand apart from their original handshake, turning it cup-shaped and exposing Ret’s palm. The principal’s eyes plunged toward the handshake, prompting Ret to yank his hand from the sandwich and find his pockets. Principal Stone smiled satisfactorily and hissed, in an eerie voice, “We’re glad you’re here.” The duo turned and strode away from Ret, the principal nearly dragging his teacher.
Ret had heard of principals, but he questioned if this was the normal protocol of first-day festivities. His wonderment was put to rest when he heard the overwhelming silence and realized that everyone in the square was staring at him. The multitude dispersed at the sound of the first bell, which echoed in the noiseless corridors and sealed Ret’s first impression.
Principal Stone locked his office door behind him.
“Did you see it?” Mr. Quirk asked urgently.
“Of course I saw it,” the principal growled, “no thanks to you.”
“What do we do now?”
“We report.”
CHAPTER 2
TRUTH UNCOVERED
Ret’s gaze rolled back and forth with the flow of the waves, the reach of their shoreward oscillations gradually receding with the ebbing tide. The rising sun blazed a shimmering path across the surface of the sea. A pack of seagulls alighted upon the shore, squawking and squealing as they prepared to feed. Ret watched as the birds buried their beaks in the ground, searching for tasty sand crabs who revealed their whereabouts by the fatal air bubbles they released when the waves withdrew. Witnessing the feast, Ret would have mourned the loss of so many of the crustaceans had he not known them to be so plentiful. With particular interest, he watched one poor fowl that was unable to join the meal because his comrades, though birds of the same feather, continually crowded him out of the festivities. The gull appeared to lack the gall to forsake decorum and embrace rudeness by forcing his way into the clique. Instead, he abandoned the group and hopped hungrily to another locale.
“Is this your favorite spot, too?” Pauline asked as she approached, calling out to Ret over the roar of the nearby waves. She was referring to his secluded nook, situated just out of plain sight where the island’s miles-long beach wrapped around its southern tip. “Mind telling me why you love this part of the shore so much?” she said, sitting down next to Ret, slightly sinking in the sand that was still damp from the most recent tide.
“Because no one ever comes down here,” answered Ret, happy to share his feelings with someone he trusted completely. “Because I can be alone to think. Because the sun’s never in my eyes.”
“Could it also be because this is the place of your first memory?” she suggested unobtrusively. He responded with a confused look, which was proof to Pauline that her listener was completely in the dark.
“Ana tells me you’re not very fond of school,” she said, changing the subject without permission from Ret, who was painfully curious to learn about memories from his past.
“I’d rather not go back,” he explained.
“Oh, Ret,” Pauline interjected softly, making certain not to sound upset or abrasive. “It’s only been the first week.”
“I have no friends; everybody stares at me; and even my teachers can’t look me in the eye,” Ret began to list his reasons.
“I’m sure things will change soon.”
“Change? Change?” Ret asked quietly, sounding a tad defeated. “I’ve tried that, and I don’t look any different.”
“I wasn’t implying that you would change soon, silly,” Pauline clarified, her continued patience evident in her playful voice and caring smile. “I don’t want you to change. I like you just the way you are.” His spirits seemed to perk up a bit. “Truth has a way of changing things, Ret, especially when it’s the whole truth.” The conversation ceased for a few moments, as if Pauline intended for her verbal cliffhanger to spur deep reflection.
Ret’s attention returned to the hungry seagull who had been shunned by his feathery friends. He wondered how this creature managed to survive, being subject to such foul treatment. He assumed that the bird would succumb to desperation and seek a scanty meal from the litter strewn a little further away, lowering his standards from meat to rubbish. Instead, the seagull remained at the water’s edge, bracing itself against the next surge of salt water. When the outstretched wave recoiled and the froth dissipated, the gull stood motionless for a moment before taking one quick snap at the sand. Ret had seen no burbling of bubbles, neither scurrying of critters; yet the bird munched victoriously on the first of many sand crabs, each procured in like manner. Ret marveled; the seagull knew something that he did not.
“It was cloudy—that day, ten months ago,” Pauline resumed the conversation, as if her fi
xed stare into the hazy sky reminded her of some story. She was totally unaware of the scene that Ret had been observing so intently—a scene whose analysis had to be put on hold as Ret’s flustered mind prepared to focus on yet another new subject. “It had been a restless night for me, as most were when Jaret was away on duty. He was an officer in the Coast Guard and had been sent on an urgent assignment to some of the islands in the Bahamas. A hurricane was approaching—a severe one, predicted to tear through the Caribbean islands before regaining strength and making landfall somewhere on the Florida panhandle. Jaret and his crew were needed to help with the evacuations, the rescue effort, the cleanup—”
Ret interrupted: “The other day, you told me that I was named after him…”
“That’s right. He always wanted a son.” Pauline patted Ret’s leg tenderly to reassure him that she did not mind him asking questions. In fact, she welcomed them the more she tasted of the vindicating power of confession. Her eyes glistened with pure love as she spoke of her departed spouse. In the past two minutes, Ret had learned more about his namesake than he had gathered in the last ten months. Pauline hitherto possessed neither the power nor the desire to resurrect the tragic tale of her spouse, and Ana remained mum to spare her mom the grief. As a result, Ret often questioned the character of the man who was pictured in the family portraits.
“It was about midday when the telephone rang to tell me the news: Jaret had been involved in a ‘freak accident,’ they called it. While on patrol, he and his crew received reports of a ship that caught fire several leagues east of Miami. The craft had sent out no distress signal, but even landlubbers like you and me know that a burning ship isn’t a good thing. Through radio, Jaret conferred with the other vessels in the area to see what should be done to help the ship in danger. The hurricane was getting too close for ships to be in the area anymore, and everyone agreed that it was an unidentified boat that hadn’t responded to any of their attempted communications.”