“No. Get on a plane by myself and fly to Boston.”
“You’re not flying by yourself. You’ll have Max.”
“That’s right, dude!” Max called out from the living room.
“But you think I can do this?”
“I hardly would have agreed to fund something I believed was destined to fail, would I? Yes. I believe you can do this. But whether you’ll return with all your possessions remains to be seen. And please don’t let some pickpocket steal your wallet.”
Just once, wouldn’t it be great if Dad gave a vote of confidence minus the critical add-on?
THIRTY-SIX
The plane rattled down the runway. Was it even airworthy? Would bits drop off? Harry imagined himself trapped inside some alien science experiment that shook humans around as if they were stones in a rock tumbler. Was he going to barf? Suppressing the urge to be a total wuss and grab Max’s hand, Harry gripped the armrests. So many things could go wrong during takeoff. Even more on the final approach.
Sixteen percent of fatal crashes occur during takeoff and initial climb, twenty-nine during approach and landing.
What would happen to Dad if he and Mom died? Would Eudora look after him?
“Dude!” Max said. “Look at the view.”
Harry shook his head. No, no, and no. That meant opening his eyes. Boarding hadn’t been so bad ’cause Max had talked nonstop about how far he’d progressed in Assassin’s Creed IV. But now they were in a metal tube in the air. About to fly too close to the sun and die.
“If humans were meant to fly, they’d have wings, right?” Like that had helped Icarus. Harry screwed his eyes shut even tighter.
Max leaned in close. “Your dad said I should remind you to take another Klonopin on the plane. You did, right?”
“Not working. Not yet.”
“Pop another one.”
“No, dude.” Harry opened his eyes and stared at the headrest in front of him. He had a strange desire to kick the seat again and again, to see how many times he could kick it before the large businessman squashed into it noticed. “Took two already.”
“Take a third.”
“Can’t. These are serious meds. Two is my max, Max.” Shit a brick. He was going to die without holding Sammie’s hand one last time, without smelling her hair, without tasting her breath.
“C’mon. What’s there to get anxious about?” Max started humming Green Day.
Harry tapped his leg. Tap, tap; tap, tap.
“We’re going to rock that campus. And hey—we’re not in school! Love that a college visit is an excused absence.” Max paused. “I need to get me a few more of these,” he said in his best redneck accent. Max, with his finely tuned ear for any sound, had a whole repertoire of accents.
“When’re you going to tell your parents the truth?” Harry said.
“About not going to college?”
“No, that you’re pregnant. Duh. Of course college.”
“Figured I’d wait until after spring break; otherwise, they’ll stop me from touring with the band. Thankfully, they’re not as anal about the college shit as your parents. Dad’s too busy figuring out his soccer coaching schedule; Mom’s too busy with some corporate takeover. When they’re not doing either/or, they’re pecking away at poor Dyly. He’s much happier when he’s alone with me. Our boy Dyly is pretty chill.”
Maxi-Pad was a good big brother. The best. Dylan adored him. “The band really going to tour over spring break?”
“Yup. Well, Greensboro counts, right?”
“Sure does, dude.” Harry never doubted that Max was going to be mega famous one day. “Why do parents have to make everything so hard?”
Max held up his fingers and curled them into animated bunny ears. “Parents know best.”
“Your mom’ll go apeshit when she figures out you’re not on track to be the next Albert Einstein.”
Max shrugged. He pulled out his iPod and scrolled through a playlist. “Math’s great and all that, but who grows up and says they want to be a math teacher? Since I was five years old, I’ve been telling the parentals I want to be a rock star. It’s hardly my problem they never listened.” Max reached into his messenger bag and then scribbled in his lyrics notebook. “Idea for a song.”
Knowing better than to interrupt pure genius, Harry started counting backward from one hundred in his head. He tried to focus on the soothing roundness of numbers and not the impulse to kick the seat in front of him.
“Here’s the problem with the older generation, my friend.” Max put his notebook away. “They don’t understand passion. They just want to bring home the bacon. Yada, yada, yada. If I have the commitment to try for a career in music, and if I want to bust my ass trying, surely it’s on my back if I fail. But I’m not—gonna fail.” Max grinned. “Are you going to sing with us next Saturday?” He jabbed Harry with his elbow. “Sammie’ll be impressed. C’mon, man, you have a great voice. Time to get you in the limelight.”
“And what if I tic and send cymbals flying?”
“I’ll walk you across the stage with my arms wrapped around you. People will assume we’re gay. I’d be down with that.”
The plane lurched and Harry hugged his stomach. “It’s all irrelevant if we die in the air.” Had Mom felt this way on the flight from Florida? Had her life flashed before her eyes? Had she thought of him and Dad before she’d passed out? Harry rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Thinking about your mom?”
Harry nodded. “Can’t stop, you know.”
“She going to be okay?”
“I don’t know, man. But I’m going to prove to her—and to Dad—that they can stop worrying about me. They make everything about me all the time. And I get it, I do. I know it’s not easy being the parents of the kid who’s different, but big newsflash: it isn’t all about Harry.”
“Amen, bro.”
“And besides, I’m okay with this shit.”
“I know you are, dude. I’m proud to have a best friend with seriously fucked-up brain wiring. Makes you fucking interesting. Now, some people think love of math and love of punk music both fall under the category of mental illness. Guess that makes me, you know, extra challenged. And the perfect person to share your Boston shenanigans.” Max wiggled his head back and forth with his Frankenstein expression.
The second Klonopin kicked in, snipping the edge off all that worry. It was still there, but tucked away, like a chocolate bar you were saving to gobble after school. Yeah, they were going to have some shenanigans. What could possibly go wrong?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Killer hike across campus to the freshman dorms. At least, it was when you believed you would never, ever be warm again. For the rest of your life. Harry looked up at the snowcapped, old-fashioned streetlamps and perfectly snow-laden trees. He and Max could have fallen through time into some made-for-TV Christmas movie. Although they stuck out like a pair of mutant misfits—the only people in the group of prospective students and parents not dressed in their Sunday best.
The tour guide led them through a decorative gateway that could have been the entrance to Saint John’s crumbling historic mansion. Off to the left, the white spire of a chapel shone against the brilliant blue sky. Did everything here shine?
The campus was beautiful. Well, Harry knew that before he came; he’d done his research. Dad never expected him to have his shit together, but Harry was about to prove him wrong. Very wrong. He’d even taken the afternoon Ritalin pill so he could tone himself down a notch. Plus a Klonopin for the anxiety.
The thing about having anxiety issues was that you had to prepare, head things off at the pass. It was the opposite of the ADHD impulses, which made him super distracted. Sometimes he felt as if two warring ferrets were loose in his brain. Sometimes Tourette’s was the easiest thing he had to deal with.
Harry shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. No way did he own clothes warm enough for this place. There was more snow on the ground than he’d
ever seen in North Carolina. He had to swallow the urge to scream, “Look at the snow, y’all!”
Max had no interest in the campus, but he was still on the hunt for babes, which seemed utterly pointless since everyone was muffled in so many layers it was hard to tell who was male and who was female. Plus they had to be back in Boston at five o’clock. Mom’s friends were taking them out for dinner.
Beautiful setting; didn’t feel like him. Felt a bit daunting, if Harry was being truthful. Mom always talked about listening to her gut. He’d never really done that before—never really had to, since his life had been bound in Bubble Wrap. Yup, seventeen years of predictable, safe living, if you eliminated the rage attacks. No major decisions to make, ever. Now he had to find his own instincts.
What did he feel? Harry concentrated. Freezing. He imagined Dad’s voice: “It’s a bit nippy.” Okay, different track. Could he see himself here?
No. He felt out of place. Maybe that was his answer; maybe that was his instinct.
The student leading the tour was pretty—not hot, not Sammie cute. A bit preppy. She stopped, and her eyes lingered on Max for a second too long. And just like that, Harry’s decision was made. He was not interested in a place that could judge his best friend by the way he dressed. Yes, Max was a punk, but he was also a math genius. As smart as anyone on this campus.
The pretty girl swept her arm to the left and said something about the Science Center being shaped like an old Polaroid camera from the side. She caught Harry’s eye, and he gave a restrained smile. He’d never cared what people thought of him—take me or leave me was his attitude—but pleases and thank-yous mattered. Both his parents had taught him that.
Maybe they should just break off from the tour, catch the shuttle back to Boston, feel their fingers and toes. Man, would he ever get warm again?
“She’s hot,” Max muttered.
Harry rolled his eyes. “She keeps looking at you as if you’re a Martian.”
“I know. How fucking cool is that?”
The boys giggled; the girl glared. Max yawned.
The girl started spouting facts and figures and dates. Then she said, “Let’s walk.”
“Yes, let’s,” Max replied loudly.
Harry giggled into his hand. Pretty girl was probably memorizing their faces, adding their names to some huge admissions blacklist. The admissions equivalent of Twitter jail?
“Dude,” Harry whispered, “she’s giving us the evil eye.”
“You don’t really want to come here, do you? Because I am not visiting if you apply and get in. Let’s bag it.” Max glanced toward one of the red-brick buildings, one of the freshman dorms. Music pulsed through an open window on the second floor. Two girls with long dark hair were leaning over the window ledge, laughing. People were moving in the room behind them. Quite a few people. Friday afternoon party?
A pudgy campus cop with gray, slicked-back hair leaned against a tree, eyes up, watching the same scene. Waiting for someone to screw up. Waiting to find fault, just as Dad always did.
“I can’t, man,” Harry said.
“I know. But you owe me big for this.”
“If you want to go grab a soda, I’ll text you when I’m done.”
“No way, Jose. I’m going to stay and suffer, and then I’m going to make you feel so guilty that you’ll have to perform with us on Saturday. You know, to thank me.”
As they crossed the yard, the sounds of partying intensified. A group of students spilled out of the dorm onto the sidewalk. One of them clutched a red plastic cup. He glanced at the cop, dumped the contents on the ground, lobbed the empty cup into a trash can.
“Dude. Let’s go party.” Max pulled out his fake ID. “Maybe they’re selling beer.”
“Max,” Harry whispered, “we can’t head back into the city reeking of alcohol. Besides, I can’t drink. I took another Klonopin this morning.”
Max routinely chose to forget Harry didn’t drink; everyone else assumed Harry drank because he hung out with Max. Amazing how people saw what they wanted to see without taking the time to look.
“Come on, dude. We’re here to see student life in all its glory. I bet you’ll learn more from talking to a bunch of students than we will from Miss Perfect Tour Guide. She’s probably a senator’s daughter.”
“How do you know she’s not a bus driver’s daughter and just really, really smart? Like astrophysicist brilliant.”
Max shook his head. “Wearing those huge glittery studs in her ears?”
“They could be fake.”
“You’re not turning into one of those nonjudgmental people, are you? Wait! I forgot. You already are one!” Max slapped his forehead. “Stop thinking nice thoughts. She smells of money.” Max raised his hand. “Excuse me, miss.”
The entire group stopped walking, and Harry hunkered down into his winter jacket.
“You look sooo familiar to me. Is your dad someone, like, mega famous?” Max never used the word like for the same reason he used perfect grammar in texts. He was role playing, acting the dumb punk.
“I prefer not to talk about it.” Her tone was cautious.
“Let me guess. Senator—”
“Weinsteen. Yes.”
Max gave Harry a look. “I rest my case. Go talk to the party animals, dude. I’ll be back.”
Harry rubbed his arms. He wasn’t shy—he’d never been shy—but suddenly he felt awkward, and he just wanted to be home. With Sammie. And Mom and Dad. And Eudora. And Katherine. If someone played “Carolina in My Mind,” he would cry.
“Max?” Harry turned around. “Max,” he said in a stage whisper.
Max had vanished.
“Is there a problem?” Senator Weinsteen’s daughter said. All eyes focused on Harry, and he began to tic. Her smooth forehead wrinkled.
“I’m sorry. I have Tourette syndrome.” Harry’s fingers strummed the air. “And I don’t want to disrupt the tour. I think it’s best if I excuse myself.”
She nodded, her face blank. Was she concerned or relieved? Or had she, like him, spent a lifetime masking facial expressions? Had to be tough being a politician’s daughter. She probably had less control over her life than he had over his tics. And wasn’t that the point, the whole reason that he and Max had taken this trip?
Yes, he was interested in small, liberal arts colleges, but not Brandeis. (Well, he might be after visiting yesterday.) Harry had come to Boston for one reason and one reason only: to visit Harvard and make a point to Dad. To prove that he was capable of being an adult—that he could listen to both sides, take his father’s opinions seriously, but still forge ahead on a path of his choosing.
Yes, I will consider your feelings, but this is my future, and I will make the ultimate decision.
He had seen Harvard, and he didn’t like it. This was not the school for him. All he had to do was grab Max—tear him away—and leave. He couldn’t see Max anywhere in the yard, but he didn’t need to. Max would have followed the music.
Harry turned back across Harvard Yard and headed toward the freshman dorm that throbbed with life. The old campus cop was still there, acting the sentinel. But he pushed off the tree and watched Harry walk past. Something tightened in Harry’s gut, told him it was time to leave. More instinct?
What was Sammie doing? Longing hit like a bullet through his heart. He wanted to be home so bad. Maybe they’d go out to Southpoint Mall again this weekend, hang out at Hot Topic, and catch another movie. Harry stopped, pulled out his phone, sent a text.
miss you
He added lots of smiley faces.
She couldn’t text back, not in school, but she’d get the message on the way home. He wished he were in school, where everything was familiar and comforting.
Harry walked up to the main door of the dorm building, the cop’s eyes still on him. He could feel them. Could the cop tell he didn’t belong? Nothing about this place felt right. It was too big, too overwhelming. Twenty-one thousand students here according to the brochure.
He would be lost among twenty-one thousand. Just another hyped-up, ticcing kid.
He stared at the keypad on the door. Oh.
“Hey,” a girl with glasses said. She stopped and swiped her student ID, then pushed the door open. “Need help?”
“I’m supposed to be on a tour, but I lost my friend. I thought he might have followed the noise.”
Something passed over her face. He must have started ticcing. At least she didn’t ask what was wrong.
“I’m a high school student visiting from North”—throat clearing; yup, he was definitely ticcing—“Carolina. Sorry, I have Tourette syndrome.”
She shrugged. “That’s cool. What does your friend look like?”
“A punk. With dyed black hair and blue nail polish. Can’t miss him.”
“Come on, let’s have a look.”
He followed her up the stairs, and she chatted away. Was she flirting? He almost said, I have a girlfriend. Then realized that would sound stupid.
“What’s going on in here?” Harry nodded at the packed dorm room.
“Pregame fever. I was supposed to meet someone.” She gave a cursory glance around, as if she didn’t much care whether she found the person or not. “Guess he’s not here, either.”
Harry wasn’t sure what to say, so he shrugged.
She juggled the books she was carrying onto her hip. “I have half an hour till my next class. Want to go grab a coffee, and you can pepper me with questions about Harvard?” She gave a really big smile. A great smile. Not as great as Sammie’s, though.
Why not? He’d come this far. Was he really prepared to walk away without even completing the tour? “I just have to t-”—Harry cleared his throat—“text my friend.”
“It’s got to be hard.”
“What?” Harry typed fast: where r u
“Doing college visits with Tourette’s. Trying to blend in and be anonymous when people stare.”
“People have been staring at me since I was a toddler. Doesn’t really bother me anymore. My mom taught me that the people who stare and make rude comments are the ones with issues. Not me.”
The Perfect Son Page 29