by Zach Wyner
“Awesome,” said Bill. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“I’m fucking with you. Good luck.”
Bill nodded and stared through windshield at your clean, tree-lined street. “Let’s roll. Time to report to my corporate overlords.”
*
By 4:30 the Homework Club was teeming with teenagers, cramming for their first big tests of the semester.
Sophie crashed through the door, still flushed and damp from swim practice. “Josh! I need you!”
You dug your head out of the history textbook you’d been frantically scanning in an attempt to quickly glean everything you’d forgotten about the Magna Carta, without revealing to your new student, Rafi, that you didn’t know what the hell you were talking about.
“Nice to see you too, Sophie,” you said. “I’ll be with you in about twenty.”
“Ugh!” she exclaimed. She dropped her heavy book bag into the chair next to you. “This is my seat,” she announced to the room. “I’m just going next door for some fries. No one else gets Josh before me.” Gazelle-like, she strode out the front door.
Rafi, a distractible fifteen-year-old boy whose long yellow hair had egregiously split ends and who never stopped bouncing his legs or gnawing on his pencils, stared after her.
“Does she like you or something?” he said.
“No.”
“She sure acts like it.”
“She acts that way with all the boys.”
“You’re not a boy.”
“Here,” you said, thrusting the open book in front of him and pointing to its pages. “Read the stuff about Lord Denning. He knew more about the Magna Carta than I ever will.”
Obediently, Rafi leaned over the book and tracked the text with his pencil, underlining every single word on the page.
Eric emerged from his office, pushed his glasses up his nose and ensnared you with a meaningful nod. You got up and traversed the familiar olfactory ménage of perfume, bubble gum, and a recently smoked cigarette. You were rapidly approaching three smoke-free weeks, hallowed territory on which you’d never set foot during your previous attempts at quitting.
Eric closed the office door behind you.
“Have a seat, Josh.”
Already lowered into a folding chair, the only thing this suggestion did was put you on your guard.
Tim offered an apologetic smile as Eric sat down and tied back his hair in a ponytail with a rubber band. “Adrienne says that you’ve been a big help with the acting stuff.”
Tim leaned forward, belly folds hanging over his belt. “Actually, there have been a number of other students’ parents that have called us recently to say that their kids really enjoy working with you.”
You bowed your head and focused on a yellow stain on the carpet. “Adrienne’s a special kid. All I have to do is show up.”
“Adrienne’s a pain in the ass,” said Eric. “But she’s a cash cow. Do you realize how much money her parents spend to send her here every day?”
You sat up straight, lifted your gaze from the ground, and looked at Tim to gauge how comfortable he was with this characterization. Tim didn’t say a word, just watched Eric and chewed on his thumbnail.
“Must be a lot,” you said.
“Forget it,” said Tim. “We didn’t call you in here to talk about Adrienne. We wanted to talk to you because Haley Joel has a big shoot coming up. Eric is going to have to be on set five days a week for three months.”
“At least,” said Eric, reclining in his chair and resting his hands on his belly.
Haley Joel Osmont, child actor from The Sixth Sense, was Eric’s not-so-secret celebrity client. Since the law required that child actors get the same amount of schooling as other children, when Haley Joel was shooting a movie, Eric administered three hours of grade-appropriate curriculum per day. It was almost enough to make you pity the fifteen-year-old movie star—the idea of getting a break from work only to find Eric waiting in your trailer with a protractor in one hand and your leftover ham and cheese croissant in the other.
Tim said, “We thought that maybe we could pull you out of the study room in his absence, let you take on Eric’s other private clients until he gets back.”
“Except the higher math and science ones,” said Eric. “Tim would absorb those kids because you just don’t have the credentials.”
“What about the study room kids?” you said.
“We’ve got other people that can step in and do that work. It hardly qualifies as tutoring anyway, right? All you’re really doing in there is keeping them on task.”
“It’s more than that,” said Tim.
“Well,” said Eric. “It certainly helps pay the rent.”
“How much would I make as a private tutor?” you said.
“More,” said Eric, a sloppy grin spreading across his face.
“What happens when you come back?”
“Listen,” said Tim. “It would really help us out if you did this. We don’t want to lose any of Eric’s students and we think that if it’s you that steps in for him, there’s a good chance we can retain all of ’em.”
“I get it,” you said. “But I want to know what happens when Eric’s job is done. Do I just go back to the study room?”
“We can figure out what happens in a few months in a few months,” said Tim.
“Don’t worry about it now,” said Eric. “Just take the extra money, right?”
You took a deep breath and reclined in the metal chair. They raised their eyebrows and leaned forward. There was no good reason to refuse their offer, but the promotion would be temporary. The prospect of getting ahead, just to be moved back, depressed you. It seemed like just the kind of thing that kept Amare from leaving the house.
You nodded. Tim shook your hand; Eric patted your back.
“Thanks, guys,” you said. “For the vote of confidence.”
“You’re a good tutor,” said Tim.
“It’s true,” said Eric. “Just don’t get too friendly with Sophie and everything will be fine.” He laughed at his joke and smacked you on the back. Tim scratched his bald spot and looked at the floor.
“Why’d you say that?” you said.
“I was kidding.”
You took a deep breath. “Being friends with these kids is very different from ‘being friendly.’”
“I don’t mean with someone like Adrienne,” he said. “Go ahead and be friends with the weird ones who need a little self-esteem boost. It’s just that Sophie’s a different animal, you know? One of those women whose sole mission on earth is to drive men crazy.”
You winced, turned away, and reached for the cool brass doorknob, but the recognition of your instinct to flee forced you to remain. Your hand dropped to your side. “But we have to keep in mind the fact that Sophie is just as fragile as any of them, right?”
“‘Fragile’?” said Eric, chuckling. “Sophie?”
Your stomach tingled. “She’s a kid. I realize she doesn’t much look like one, but it’s what she is.”
“All right, all right. I was just joking around.”
“But it’s not a joke. If we treat her like she’s something other than a kid, we’ll be sending a harmful message. We’re her teachers after all.”
“He’s right,” said Tim.
Eric threw up his hands. “Jesus! I know he’s right, but it’s just us guys in here.”
You fought the urge to back down. “We’ve got to be better men than that, right? While these kids are here, we’re like caretakers.”
“In loco parentis,” said Tim.
You looked at him quizzically.
“It means ‘in place of the parent,’” he said. “It’s our responsibility, legally, to take on the functions and responsibilities of the parent when their child is in our care.”
“Ch
rist,” grumbled Eric. “I know what it means.”
“Well I didn’t,” you said. “Thank you, Tim. But it’s more than that. It’s our job to make sure they’re safe and to help them finish a homework assignment or prepare for a test, but we have the opportunity, if we take it, to give more than that. And whatever that more is, I get the feeling that it’s what really helps them in the end.”
“We’ve promoted an idealist,” said Eric, swiveling back to his desk.
Tim scratched his head. “We don’t disagree with you, Josh. It’s just that there’s not always time for that. Right?”
“There is out there,” you said, nodding toward the door that led to the study room.
“I’ve got to plan Haley Joel’s chemistry unit,” said Eric. “You should get back out there, Josh. Just make sure that before you bond or counsel or whatever it is you do, those kids have finished their algebra.”
Tim stood up, stuck out an awkward hand, and you shook it. “Thanks for stepping up and helping us out.” As you turned to leave, he patted your back. “You’re gonna do a great job.”
Considering the amount of time they’d been unsupervised, the study room was relatively quiet. Rafi gnawed away on ravaged pencil number two; the first one, its eraser severed by the same incisors that had depressed deep trenches along the length of its shaft, lay discarded by his notebook. A trio of new recruits, here to hone their college application essays, patiently did their homework and awaited their ten-to-fifteen minute windows of individual attention while Caspian and Adrienne huddled in a pocket of poorly-restrained giggles, defacing some kind of flier. Bent over her plate of fries, Sophie caught you out of the corner of her eye and gestured wildly. She pulled the vacant chair beside her back from the table and beckoned you to sit.
Soon the parents of all these kids would have to pay extra to get your attention. You wanted to feel okay about this, it wasn’t as if the study room was pro bono work, but there was an honesty between these kids that you would miss—the solidarity derived from the public acknowledgment of the need for help. The Adriennes and Sophies of the world would never in a million years be friends at school and yet, under this roof, they were family.
You sat down next to Sophie and filched a French fry.
“Finally,” she said.
“I need you to do something for me, Soph.”
She raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Before we start whatever it is that’s so urgent…”
She unleashed a torrent of words. “I have a huge essay due next week on The Old Man and the Sea and the outline is due tomorrow and I have no…”
“Hold it,” you said. “We’ll get to that. I just…” You leaned in conspiratorially and whispered. “I need you to help me get the word out about Adrienne’s play. It opens tomorrow night and you wield a lot of influence in here. If you could just talk to a few people…”
Her eyes got wide. She swiveled in her seat and shouted, “Adrienne!”
Adrienne and Caspian looked up from their task, mouths agape.
“You bitch! I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me that your show opens tomorrow!”
Adrienne’s face turned pale and she tugged at her studded collar. “I was totally gonna to tell you, Sophie. I’m sorry. I just…”
Eric stuck his head out the office door. “What’s going on out here?”
Sophie pointed at Adrienne. “Adrienne’s play opens tomorrow night and she wasn’t even going to tell us!”
“Look!” said Adrienne, producing the sheet of paper that she and Caspian had been hunched over. It said: Forbidden Fruit, An Original One-Act. Beneath the title was the defaced picture of a square-jawed, high cheek-boned boy, who, at the impish hands of Adrienne and Caspian, had lost a few teeth, sprouted a pair of horns and acquired a thought bubble containing the words: “I am so like handsome.”
Sophie looked perplexed. “Why did you mess up your own poster?”
“I was just making some improvements to his stupid face,” said Adrienne.
“Girls,” said Eric.
“Oh no!” Sophie jumped up, grabbed her plate of fries, and moved to Adrienne’s table. “He rejected you?” She offered the fries to Adrienne, who quietly pushed the plate away. “I’m so sorry!” Caspian grabbed a handful and chomped away, eyes and lips glistening. “That guy’s an idiot.”
“I was stupid,” said Adrienne. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Eric threw up his hands. “Am I completely invisible?” he said.
If you have to ask, you thought.
“I’ll take care of it,” you said.
“Good.” He shook his head and closed the office door. You sat at the far end of the long table as Sophie, Caspian, and Hope—Caspian’s older sister who had materialized out of thin air at the first hint of gossip—crowded around Adrienne like she was a wounded kitten. They held her arm, stroked her hair, injected their voices with cooing, soothing lilts and prodded for more information. You averted your eyes and scanned the bookshelf in an attempt to give them some semblance of privacy but the gesture went unnoticed. As the minutes elapsed, you wondered if they’d forgotten you were there, or if the whole thing was some kind of production intended to demonstrate to themselves, as well as any witnesses, just how adult their concerns had become.
“Hey everybody,” Sophie suddenly announced to the room. “Please come see Adrienne in her play tomorrow night, even though the lead is a total douche bag.”
The kids snickered.
“You must be freaking out!” said Caspian, holding Adrienne’s hand.
“About the play?”
“I can’t imagine having to perform with that guy after what he put you through.”
Caspian’s choice of words made you smile. From what you’d overheard, it sounded as though this guy’s greatest offense had been having the gall to ask out another girl after calling Adrienne a couple of times for help with an English test.
“I probably would be freaking out if I thought about it like that,” said Adrienne, “but it’s not me on that stage.”
The coterie mulled this one over, squinting and chewing lower lips. Adrienne elaborated.
“I mean that I’m whatever character I’m playing, you know? That’s one of the reasons I love acting. It liberates me from my own little crises.”
There was, amongst her listeners a not-so-subtle lifting of the eyebrows, as their expressions evolved from befuddlement to admiration.
Adrienne’s gaze wandered to the ceiling, then back to her rapt audience. “And hey, if, for some reason, my feelings for him happen to surface while I’m up there, I’ll use them. Like in method acting, when actors summon old wounds while they’re on stage in order to embody the right emotions. But this will be even more legit because my emotions and the character’s emotions will be in perfect alignment. The timing is actually super serendipitous.”
The girls were silent for a few beats, each one staring at Adrienne as though they were either in awe of her or afraid that she might suddenly assume her natural, alien form and bite their heads off.
“Holy shit,” said Sophie.
“Yeah,” said Hope.
Caspian gripped Adrienne’s arm. “That was like way super smart.”
Adrienne blushed and bowed her head.
“Uhm, no offense to Josh,” said Sophie. “But do you think you can you help me write my Hemingway essay?”
“Ewwh, no way,” said Adrienne. “Hemingway was a total misogynist. He makes my skin crawl.”
They laughed and Adrienne beamed. It was only when she caught your eye and smiled that you realized she’d been aware of your presence all along.
*
That night the weather turned. After work you walked along the edge of the park. The fog lay thickly upon the trees like a hangover. Beads of condensation plunge
d from leaves and splashed the dirt track with the solid thwack of summer-fattened insects colliding with lamp-lighted windows. Near the corner, where the track curved severely to the left, a woman sat rigidly on a concrete bench, bathing in the green glow of a traffic light. She had long dark hair and, even at a distance, an air of tragedy about her, as though her trials resided both in the present as well as the past, and the view from where she sat was a bleak expanse of more of the same. You stopped about fifty yards away and nudged an acorn back and forth with your shoe. Could it be her? It wasn’t hard to imagine June haunting your neighborhood, waiting for a chance encounter to lead to one thing and then another.
You thought about Adrienne and about character—about the ways in which she’d recently grown, and the ways in which pretending to be a different person might have bolstered her sense of self. When the lights dimmed and the curtain fell, the actor shed her costume and changed back into her own clothes, mannerisms, speech patterns. There’s knowledge to be gained in a return. Perhaps the person to which she returned was concrete in a way she never had been before. When an artist finishes a poem or a painting and they put it aside for a period of time, their return to the work accommodates a new perspective and clarifies what they were trying to express. A version of that is possible through acting. The character was her sculpture, poem or painting. Therefore, her return to Adrienne came with a heightened awareness of the ways in which she was different. By identifying who she was not, she could discover who she was.
For two weeks you’d stepped outside of a role you’d played for far too long. Now the question was, with your time with June ostensibly over, were you at peace with the person to which you’d returned? The answer was no. The person you were before her had always been searching for a June to care for. If you were going to change from that guy into the man that you wanted to be, the one you were in the process of defining right now, you would need to imagine something different. But imagination can be dangerous; it can limit you if you let it. Socrates said “the unexamined life is not worth living,” but you had witnessed the other side to that coin. It was your friend Amare, paralyzed by the fear of relinquishing his imagination of himself, of allowing his head to be filled with their ideas about what he should want. You understood his fear. They can be very convincing. And once they’ve supplied you with the means to purchase those creature comforts that are so difficult to jettison, you’ve commenced an implacable march toward death.