• “No, I get enough sleep—about six hours. It’s hard to get everything done—homework, after-school sports, volunteering—so I’ll be well-rounded in colleges’ eyes. I’m under a lot of stress, but it will be worth it.”
• “I catch up on sleep on the weekends.”
• “For fun? I play video games with the guys I’ve known all my life.”
Personal notes from friends written during class
• “The pace is so slow in class, I can take lecture notes and at the same time carry on conversations with friends by writing notes. Passing notes in class is against the rules, so we exchange our notes in between classes. The disconnect in what we say, compared to give and take conversation, is sometimes pretty funny.”
• “I get enough of what the teacher is saying to make good grades. But mostly I’m not interested enough to ask questions. And it is hard to get a real conversation going. The teachers just want to draw some ‘point’ out of me.”
• “Yeah, texting would be easier but it’s against the rules. And text language is more limiting. We really get into some heavy, personal stuff in the notes. I’ve known these people a long time, so it’s easier to open up a little.”
• “Yeah, I feel safe. I’m a big guy and I got friends to stand by me when there’s a problem. Even though my buddies tease me all the time about being fat, they’ve got my back. There are a few bullies, but they pick on the outliers, not me.”
• “The outliers are the gay people and the retarded girl.”
Glitz Queen—quiet—little eye contact—trendy, sexy dress pushing the requirement of professional dress
“It’s none of the school’s business what I have in my backpack. It is my personal, private space and should be illegal for them to force us to show them… . I’ll show you because you have always been nice to me and I’ve seen you stand up to teachers before. So I believe you won’t rat on me… . My mother would never stand up to the school authorities to come to my defense. She’s all about ‘do what everyone else does and don’t make waves.’”
Backpack—usual textbooks, etc.
Phone
• “They better not try to confiscate my cell phone. I’ll make them get a search warrant first. My whole life is in my phone.”
• “My phone is always on, even at night. I want to be there for my boyfriend. I would worry and not be able to sleep if my phone was turned off.”
Birth control pills
• “I can’t leave these at home. My mother would snoop around in my room and find them. Then all hell would break loose. She already thinks I’m going to ruin my life by hooking up with a loser. A loser in my mother’s eyes is someone who is lower class and doesn’t care what she thinks.”
• “I’ll have to figure out a way to disguise these pills because of the school rule against having medications that are not checked in at the office.”
• “It would make me feel ashamed for them to be going through my stuff.”
Mace
• “Yes, I’m afraid in school. Guys make nasty, sexual remarks to me all day long. My boyfriend goes to Stone Creek, so there’s nobody here to stand up for me.”
• “You can see how these same bullies treat gay kids in school. Always have, ever since elementary school. Nobody stops them. Teachers and administrators just look the other way.”
• “Girls don’t feel powerful enough to stand up to guys. Besides, the other girls don’t like me. They don’t like the way I dress, say I look low class, and my beliefs are ‘out there’ for them. For one, I’m a Buddhist.”
Star Tech—aloof—self-absorbed—nerdy dress
“If they are just looking for weapons, I’m not opposed to backpack searches. But if they start poking around at everything to find violations of other rules, I’m very opposed. They try to regulate too much of a student’s life.”
Backpack—Very expensive leather. Hidden compartments, and one is locked. None of the usual textbooks, notebooks, etc.
iPad, in the locked compartment
• “I’m trusting that you will not reveal to school administrators what is in my backpack. But, if you do, I’m prepared to fight their policy of no personal computers in school. I use technology for all my learning.”
• “I have Internet access through their WiFi connection. They have very lax security setups. Most businesses, even small ones, are light years ahead of this school.”
• “Someday soon, I hope, I will have my own business in the computer field. I am getting no assistance from this school in furthering my personal goals. What I am learning is from other geeks online and my father, who is head of technology for the university.”
Car keys
• “I have a Mercedes Roadster. I like going for drives on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Sometimes I hike the trails. Once I was chilling at one of the overlooks and saw an eagle streaking toward a triple rainbow. But mostly my adventures are about the driving, with the top down. That clears my head.”
• “My car and my computers are my life. I don’t care about the boring humdrum of this school.”
Picture of friend in iPad
• “We are close friends, we message each other every day. He’s a freshman at MIT.”
• “We met at a summer program three years ago and really clicked. We see each other in person several times a year, on holidays and vacations.”
• “I’ve applied to MIT.”
Listening to these three students blows me away. Even though they have been in all my classes for many years, I’ve learned intriguing new things about each person just from a simple conversation. They were willing to be so open about what’s in their backpack, how they see school, and their life. Between the hardened boundaries around cliques and total classroom focus on academic lectures, so much of who we are is usually invisible in school.
The sad thing about the interviews is that nobody brought up the gun incident. We all seem to focus on our own narrow concerns and kind of act passive, letting time go by, waiting for … exit.
Standing in the lunch line after the interviews, I get caught up on the morning gossip. Hilltop students continue puzzling about who brought the gun to school as a novelty for discussion. The general consensus emerging in the rumor circuit focuses on Hiker, who has not been in school since a few days before the new backpack policy was announced. Everyone seems to assume he is hiking the Appalachian Trail, as he does often. According to gossip, his parents allow him to take off school and hike when he is feeling really depressed. At school he is presumed gay and everyone knows he’s been bullied over the years. One student allegedly saw him recently enter the office of a psychiatrist.
Lunch with Biker seems way more attractive than lunch listening to gossip reruns. I wander straight over to him when I get to the cafeteria.
“Hey, Biker, can I join you in the window?” I ask. “I won’t hog the rays. I actually bought lunch today. Love their chili.”
“Hey, Listener, what’s up?” He tosses me a couple pieces of saltwater taffy.
“I just finished survey interviews with three students here. Their views of the backpack search policy are interesting. Want to play ‘what’s in your backpack’?”
He brightens at the prospect of a show-and-tell game. “People actually showed you? Okay, let’s see …” He reaches in his backpack, past the textbooks and notebooks, to a cloth case. He unzips it and carefully sorts through treasured items till he finds a photo he was obviously looking for. His usual friendly smile becomes a smile of excitement and self-satisfaction. “It’s me standing next to my surfboard, the sea in the background.” Within moments the smile completely disappears. He continues to stare at the picture, blank-faced. “Not being in California is depressing. Looking at this picture makes it worse, so I don’t know why I carry it around.”
Biker’s usual go-with-the-flow nature turns to numbed paralysis. It bothers me to see him this way. Slowing down my typical speaking pace, I say, “Did you, like, surf a
ll the time, every day?”
“Pretty much,” he says, no emotion in his voice. “Since moving here, I started riding my bike every day as a replacement, to help the depression. Now it’s too frigging cold, ice and snow everywhere, and I’ve taken a nose dive.”
I don’t have the nerve to ask about his depression. “Where do you ride to?”
“All over the county,” he says, perking up a little. “Here’s a map I keep with me. All the starred spots are places I’ve stopped and met really cool people. Some amazing old hippies, tucked away in the hills, do unusual things—like one guy smelts ore for sculpting. I met a shoe maker who used to live near my home in California and used to go swimming in the ocean where my friends and I surfed.”
His speech reaches a particular sparkle at the word “ocean.”
I have an idea. “Hey, want to try something new and come cross-country skiing at my house?” This is the second time I’ve invited him to come to my house. Am I being too pushy?
But Biker smiles. “My shrink would approve. He says I need a winter hobby. I don’t think he gets it that surfing was not a hobby. It was my life.”
So now he mentions a shrink. He’s got more courage than me.
“I hate it when adults dismiss our feelings, like we aren’t people,” I say. “That reminds me … I wanted to tell you what my parents said last night. They heard the student brought a gun to school because he was constantly bullied and afraid. Everybody’s been talking today about Hiker, and he has been bullied for years. Do you think Hiker’s the one who brought the gun to school?”
Biker leans closer to me, like he wants more privacy, even though the closest table to us is pretty far away. I’ve noticed people looking at us today, one even rudely pointing, as if we are a spectacle. I guess that’s what happens any time there’s a new event in the cafeteria scene, though. People have nothing more important to focus on.
“I don’t know,” Biker says. “But a few weeks ago I went to the restroom and some seniors were messing with him. I acted like the teacher had sent me to get him. One of the bullies says to Hiker, ‘We’ll get you next time.’ Hiker looks the guy straight in the face and says, ‘You guys are just cowards.’ As we leave the bathroom, he gives me a high five. I smile at him, having no clue what to say.”
Doesn’t sound like Hiker was afraid of the bullies. So why would he bring a gun to school?
“Do you think we should do something, like report the bullying?” I ask.
Biker drags the fingers of his left hand through the hair partially covering his eyes, thinking. “Maybe I can get my science teacher to give me Hiker’s phone number, saying I want to catch him up on assignments. I bet he’ll give it to me … He tries hard to be nice to Hiker but gets little response from him.”
“That sounds like something we can do,” I say, encouraged. “Everyone else is losing interest now they think it’s Hiker. They’ve been dismissing him for years.” I’m ashamed to say I have too. Well, not dismissing him so much as just not paying attention to him. My usual shutdown to most everything.
“Why does everyone dismiss him?” Biker looks genuinely confused. “I know he is kinda different, but that’s one reason I like him. He sees things in ways I’ve never thought of, and he stands up for himself.”
Refreshing to hear someone think for themself and not just go with what the crowd says. I hope Biker can hang on to his individuality here at Hilltop. He still has two years to go.
I tear a piece of paper out of a notebook and write down my number, then hold the paper out to Biker. “Here’s my cell number. Will you let me know if you talk to Hiker?”
“Sure.”
Compelled to know more about Hiker, I head to the school office before the bell rings to see if I can find out why he eats lunch there. Through the glass door of the office, I see Ms. Carter, the school secretary. She works all alone, all day, in this office that almost nobody enters. Usually cheerful, today her face projects overwhelming anguish.
The source of pain seems to be an authentic hiker’s backpack sitting on a chair outside the principal’s office. A picture hangs awkwardly from the zipper: Hiker and his golden retriever next to an “Appalachian Trail” sign.
Confused, but counting on this being misplaced drama—this is my nothing-happens school, after all—I enter and look around for Hiker.
Ms. Carter seems to read my intent. With great effort, she says, “He’s gone. They found his body this morning at the bottom of a cliff overhang. They say suicide.”
Instantly my leg muscles weaken, my stomach jumps in a fitful spasm, and my mind comes to a dead stop. Our eyes lock, all four begging for some alternative way to grasp what is meant by her words. I have never heard anything more frightening. All I can think is how I want to run back to boring, away from desperation.
“His parents brought in a journal he kept in his backpack for the principal to read,” Ms. Carter says. “I know he was working through feelings of being different, with the help of a psychiatrist, but I can’t believe he would take his own life.”
I can’t listen to any more. I failed to see that the backpack searches were not the important thing. Why couldn’t I dig down deep to understand? I f-ing don’t know how. All I’ve been taught is destructive not-ness. I deaden myself at school through sleep, not caring or thinking, not speaking up, not acting from true desire, afraid to be myself here, my spirit buried.
I take a last look at the backpack, noticing the embroidered name.
I say it aloud: “Adrian.”
“Yes, Adrian,” Ms. Carter invokes, a tiny footprint of light in her eye.
Chapter 2: An Unwavering Pivot
Once upon a time, I was pulled down deep below. My fight to oppose the force resulted only in greater fear. Relaxing, my inner pivot aligned with the world as it truly is. Now, my journey is to replicate that awareness over and over.
SEAN
Text from Listener: “Biker, Meet me at Java NOW!”
Walking out of math class and school and nobody even notices me. I could feel bad that nobody cares but I’m feeling too good about a summons from Listener. In the middle of the school day, no less.
It’s a short walk down the hill where the edge of campus meets downtown. Java, in the first block, is a quiet coffee shop usually frequented by adults, unlike noisy Mountain Mama’s Ice Cream Shoppe, where Stone Creek teenagers hang out, or Gelato Café, the after-school spot preferred by Hilltoppers.
Entering Java, a long and narrow shotgun style building, like most of the downtown shops, I can see all the way to the back, but don’t see Listener. Waiting for her to arrive, I take in the works by local artists displayed in the cafe. The bay window in front contains a six-inch-high sitting baby doll perched in the center of an altar, a large muted Madonna wood carving behind it. The Madonna’s central feature is a disproportionately large tear slipping off her cheek. This art piece reminds me of one artist I met on a bike ride whose studio was in a treehouse. Her appearance clearly identified her as a hippie, like the ones I grew up seeing in California and others living throughout areas of this mountainous county.
More traditional art on the walls are paintings showing scenes, some of which I recognize, like an oversized barn and an antique pickup truck in the field. Farmers I’ve met on my rides usually have other jobs, too, needed to support their families. But their hearts are still firmly planted in their farms.
Java this time of day attracts only a few college students and professors huddled in deep conversation. The shops in this four-block-by-four-block town cater to the two colleges that sit at the edge of its center, along with tourists who come to indulge in the trendy restaurants and hotels on Main Street.
In a ring out from downtown are city neighborhoods like the one I live in, groceries, a small hospital, and medical offices. Next layer out, which I can get to by car or bike, is strip malls and a few small industries along the two main highways, which cross in the center of town. Beyond is the county, where I d
o my exploring. People are amazed how much I know about the county, since I’m a townie.
The clock on the church steeple next door chimes, letting me know I’ve only been waiting for a few minutes. Churches are everywhere in this city and county. After one bike ride I looked up how many; there are more than ninety in all. One is Buddhist, one Quaker, one Unitarian, one Jewish, and one Catholic. The rest are Christian churches, with the greatest number tilting toward fundamentalist.
One of the college students sitting at a table near me is clearly from a large city, wearing and speaking the glamour of a big city. The map I use on my bike rides says the county, including the city, is about 600 square miles—“a lot of nothing to do,” people my age say. I’ve heard Hilltoppers say they feel sorry for locals who don’t get to travel, but the locals I’ve met on my bike expeditions say the global travelers are just full of themselves, on a race to go everywhere, ending up right back here.
Next to churches, schools are a big deal to residents of the community, not just because the kids go there but because they are the largest employers in the county. My dad is a professor, and I know both of Listener’s parents are too.
The bell hanging from Java’s front door rings in Listener. She has dark circles under her eyes, and her feet are dragging a little as she walks.
I frown. “Listener, you don’t look good. Are you okay?”
“My real name is Chelsea,” she says, ignoring my question and looking down.
“Oh,” I say. “I’m Sean for real. So … what’s up?” My usually upbeat voice starts to match hers in seriousness.
“Hiker’s name was Adrian.”
I tense. “Was?”
“He died,” she says, her eyes finally meeting mine, unmasking deep shock. “I mean … suicide.”
What Chelsea knows comes out in jumbled pieces, between tears as big as the Madonna’s. With each new bit of information, I become more and more numb, purposely sealing up and putting the emotions away in cold storage.
School Tales Page 3