“After you told me about Adrian yesterday, I went to talk with Dr. Lewis, my shrink,” I admit. “I realized why I reacted so weird, distant and all. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“I was definitely out of it too,” Chelsea says.
What a relief. She’s the one friend I have here.
She pops up from her seat on the windowsill. “You know what? Why don’t we go see Ms. Carter in the office? I bet she’s feeling even worse than us.”
The school secretary’s face lights up when we walk in. She gets up and hugs Chelsea.
“Hi, Ms. Carter,” I say, extending a hand toward her. “I’m Sean. Sorry we haven’t met sooner.”
“I’m so glad y’all came to see me,” Ms. Carter says. “It’s been a long, lonely morning. I’ve been doing some heavy soul searching since yesterday, going over and over in my head if I did everything I should have to support Adrian and his parents.”
“I started off being angry at all the things that are not right at this school,” Chelsea says, nodding her agreement. “Like, what is the job of school? It seems like the only point of school is passing us along to the next level of school. Any failure, the school claims it’s ours—not theirs. Student lives don’t matter. This whole thing is making me want to wake up, get out of the fog, and say what I think it all means. Like Adrian dying is so terribly sad … and wrong!”
I say to Ms. Carter, “I could have come up here with Adrian during lunch. I feel bad I didn’t reach out to him more.”
Two grey-haired men in expensive-looking suits exit the principal’s office. Anger is in the air, and they wear determined expressions as they make their way out.
“You two better leave now, but thanks so much for coming,” Ms. Carter says softly.
We walk out quickly, and as we head down the hall Chelsea says, “Those guys looked serious. I’m going to tell my parents about what went on for years with Adrian and say they should demand an investigation of the principal’s lack of action all that time. If they say they don’t want to rock the boat, I’m going to tell them I will.”
“I wish I could do the same,” I say, looking down. “My parents are new here, and my dad would be afraid of jeopardizing his job. They won’t do anything. But I’m going to think of something I can do.”
Saturday is Adrian’s funeral. Chelsea and I sit together. A couple of other students come in, each with their parents, and look like they definitely don’t want to be here. During the service, as the priest talks about Adrian’s love of hiking, I decide what I want to do to honor Adrian: I’m going to organize a hike on the Appalachian Trail for Hilltop students and faculty in his honor. I’ll plan it for Earth Day, which I hope will give me enough organizing time. I’ve never done anything remotely like this; in fact, I’ve never been responsible for anything before.
When I tell Chelsea after the service, she agrees it is a perfect idea. Then she invites me (for the third time, so I guess she means it) out to her house to go cross-country skiing.
The next day, she picks me up from my house since I’m not old enough for a driver’s license yet—there’s an ego downer—and as soon as I get in the car, she starts talking.
“Hey, Sean, look, I’m really sorry I didn’t respond to you in the cafeteria Friday when you were talking about your visit with Dr. Lewis,” she says. “I’ve really been off my game the last few days, really zonked from no sleep. So Dr. Lewis was helpful?”
“Yeah, he’s a great listener, like you are—usually, anyway,” I say, laughing so she knows I’m teasing. “He helps me think things through, like Adrian’s death uncovering my fear I might slide back into another deep depression.”
“My friend Cora has been my great listener over the years,” Chelsea says. “On our Free Will walk today I caught her up with my knotted feelings of anger, sadness, and fear of my future for next year. She said it sounds like I have PTSD, caused by Hilltop as a place of threat.”
“Wow, that’s heavy.”
“Listen to what Cora told me today about Stone Creek High School dealing with the February blahs hitting, like happens at Hilltop,” Chelsea says, getting more animated. “They decided to have a week of everyone getting involved in a school-wide Model United Nations. They do this at some point every year, so the seniors are the leaders and the freshmen are the newbies. The topic this year is Ebola. Each team has a junior ambassador who speaks for a designated country in the committee meetings; a sophomore, like Cora, who serves as the negotiator for the team, talking behind the scenes with representatives of other countries; and a freshman team member who’s responsible for research on that country’s views and situation. The seniors run the different committee meetings to decide things like giving money to affected countries, coordinating medical volunteers from all over the world, helping refugees, and resolving travel issues. Is that not cool?! The Model UN will be over this coming week, but then she said the whole school has a ‘theme’ each quarter that every class addresses in some way. The fourth quarter theme is, ‘Do computers think?’ I wouldn’t even know where to start with Ebola or computers thinking. They are learning, and DOING, adult things.”
“I’ve never seen you so amped, Chelsea,” I say, looking at her beaming face.
She laughs. “You haven’t seen me away from Hilltop, except at the funeral. Driving is an upper, too.”
“Look at the blue heron in the creek, on the rock covered with snow,” I say, sticking my head out in the freezing wind for a better look.
“Good eye!” she says, and turns onto a gravel road. She points to the right. “There’s Jake’s and his dad’s house. Neat cabin, huh?” Further up the road she points again—“Look, here come my girls. Ayla is the black hound type and Lily is the light brown collie-whippet-terrier. Check out those tails welcoming me home.”
Chelsea’s cross-country skiing plan for the afternoon is another challenge to my ego. “You know,” I say, “I’ve never been cross-country skiing, but it doesn’t look too hard on TV.”
She laughs. “Let me know what you think when we’re done.”
For the next half hour, she gives me pointers and I practice. Then we’re off, heading into an aged, mixed hardwood forest. It’s hard to talk when we’re skiing, me gasping for air and Chelsea with a scarf wrapped around her head. She points to a lake in a distant clearing with a questioning expression. I nod my head yes, grumbling under my breath at how far away it looks.
Watching Chelsea and learning from actually doing, I’m able to get some rhythmic movement going. Finally, I can concentrate on other things—like the amazing silence, only hearing the whoosh-whoosh of the skis.
The edge of the lake is large rock boulders; it looks like a former quarry. Snow is covering the iced-over surface. We pause to take it all in. The dogs scare up a rabbit and it takes off across the ice-covered lake, Ayla right behind. There’s a deafening splash and then the sound of paws frantically hitting water.
“Lily, come!” Chelsea cries, trying to keep her other dog back. She takes off her skis and runs for a fallen tree reaching a ways across the frozen lake, trying to get to Ayla. I follow right behind her.
Ayla is paddling in a circle. She looks terrified.
“Take off your skis and wrap your jacket around the end of one,” Chelsea says. She is crawling out along the fallen tree trunk and limbs. Ayla is pounding the water with increasingly frenzied paws, the boulder shoreline preventing her exit in that direction.
“Talk to Ayla to calm her,” I yell as I slide the front end of one of my skis in the sleeve of my oversized, bulky coat. Californians don’t know how to buy winter coats. Chelsea’s is a slim, waterproof jacket appropriate for skiing.
“It’s okay, Ayla,” Chelsea croons. “I’m coming. Swim a little this way.” She grabs the ski from me and extends the coat end out to Ayla. Ayla is able to claw into the coat enough to hang on as Chelsea pulls her toward the tree, ice breaking along the way. When she gets close enough, Ayla scrambles up smaller limbs until she reaches t
he trunk, at which point she jumps over Chelsea, who’s still sprawled on her stomach, and sprints back to land.
Chelsea pops up and runs past me. “Come on, Sean!”
When we’re all back on shore, Chelsea grabs Ayla’s collar and hands it off to me. “Hold on so she doesn’t run off,” she says. “We’ve got to get her warm.” Chelsea takes off her coat and wraps it tight around Ayla. Hugging the shivering dog, Chelsea grabs her phone and calls Jake. Luckily, he answers right away.
“Jake, this is Chelsea. We’re at the quarry and Ayla fell in. Can you bring the four-wheeler up here to get her back to warmth quickly? Thanks.” Turning to me, she simply says, “He’s coming.”
Underneath Chelsea’s competent and strong demeanor, I think I detect nervousness. Another trauma for her to deal with?
Jake arrives faster than seems possible. With Ayla wrapped up in Chelsea’s coat, we ride in the four-wheeler to his house, where a fire burns in abundance. Just what Ayla needs, and me too—California boy is still not adjusted to winter, and my jacket’s soaking wet.
“This place was built in the late 1800s, and Jake’s dad has remodeled and added on to it several times since they’ve lived here,” Chelsea tells me as I look around.
We’re surrounded entirely by wood, except for the fieldstone fireplace; it’s like sitting at a campfire in the woods. The sparse interior decorations seem functional—like, for instance, there’s no need for curtains when there’s nobody nearby to look in the windows. I admire the antique tools hanging on the living area wall and the cast-iron cook stove at one end of the kitchen.
“My dad is a traditional, but not too tasty, cook,” Jake says. “I prefer fresh and local foods, no frying stuff in fat.”
Fidgety, Chelsea paces in front of the glowing fire. “I’m still shaking,” she tells Jake. “What if something had happened to Ayla? I couldn’t take that. I would just fall apart, really.”
“But you didn’t, Chelsea,” I say. “You were amazing, thinking what to do.”
“It has been a long time, but I don’t remember you as a nervous type,” Jake says.
Chelsea, moving her eyes in line with Jake’s, says, “Yes, way too long.”
An edgy silence hangs in the air between Chelsea and Jake, with me on the outside of the moment, witnessing.
“A student at Hilltop died this past week,” Chelsea finally says. “He was bullied for years for being gay, without anyone putting a stop to it.”
Jake offers a slow response. “I heard about that. What about the students he was close to?”
“Nobody was close to him,” she says.
“How could that go on for years?” he asks. “That would seem so weird and uncomfortable at Stone Creek, almost everybody would do something, anything, to try to fix the situation.”
“What would they do?” I ask.
“Talk about it,” he says. “Students, teachers, parents would figure out a plan to pursue why someone was bullied and how we could change things.”
“Stone Creek sounds like a very odd place, where people really care about each other,” I say.
“This is my second year there, and it only seemed strange for about a day. Funny how easy it is to change to what is truly good for you.”
Despite the fact that Jake is a muscular country boy a foot taller than me, he speaks softly. He’s easygoing, yet he zeroes in on the heart of an issue so quickly.
“Losing someone you love turns life inside out,” he says. “I was only three when Mom died. I still cling to the comfort of remembering her rocking me to sleep each night. In the winter, right here in this rocker, in front of the fire.”
Just then a man opens the elegant and heavy pine front door with seemingly little effort, even though he is a small-framed guy. He has one of those mountain-man beards. Jake told us earlier how his dad made everything in the cabin, including the stone fireplace, the wood staircase up to the loft, the cathedral ceiling, which is a modification of the original cabin, and the front door.
“Hey Mr. Deacon,” Chelsea says, “this is my friend Sean, from California.”
Standing up to shake his hand, I say, “From here, now, since August.”
“You live in town?” he asks.
“Yes sir. Wish I lived out here. It’s beautiful. Back in the fall, I rode my bike all over the county, exploring, and this is the best I’ve seen yet.”
“I grew up outside of Lee Village, in the north part of the county. Youngest of a pack of ten kids. Dirt poor. Kept my eye on this neck of the woods until I could afford to buy this place.”
“I met a woman on a farm outside Lee Village. She makes cheese.”
“I know Sue. Good woman. Two high-energy, rascal kids.”
“Yeah, they made me play with them for an hour. Great kids.”
“Sue was a Tolley from Iron Creek. Married a Turner, William. The farm they live on is the old Turner place from William’s grandfather.”
Chelsea tells Mr. Deacon about Ayla jumping in the quarry lake as he sits in a shaker-style chair, petting her and drinking sassafras tea made from a tree root he harvested in his field.
Her story done, Chelsea switches gears and asks, “How’s farming?”
Mr. Deacon shrugs. “I get by, with Jake’s help and some construction work on the side for my neighbors. Jake wants to move us into the future with sustainable farming practices. To me, the ideas sound like the old ways of farming, but with fancy words and higher costs.”
“It must be nice to have a sense of past connected to future and all of it wrapped up in this beautiful land.” I turn to Jake. “And to know for sure what you want to do.”
A big old smile spreads across Jake’s face—enough said.
On the way home, Chelsea drives much slower, seemingly still rattled from the Ayla experience. “I liked what you said to Jake,” she says after a long silence. “It’s so true that he knows what is important for him and is going after it. Me, I don’t have a clue. I’ve thought about college as freedom from my parents, this small town, and our lifeless school. But the past few days I’ve been thinking, freedom to do what? Where am I going? No clue. And it makes me angry at myself, that I don’t know what I’m looking for, who I am really. Lately, probably because of Adrian, I feel everything more deeply. It’s both freeing and scary.”
“What I cared about, the sea, was taken away from me,” I say, nodding. “Like it didn’t matter. I didn’t count. So I quit caring. I guess because I’m worried that if I care about something again, it will be taken away too. Even if I had the power to make something happen, I’m not sure what I would do. I feel like I’m just existing—way different from Jake’s sense of direction.”
“My parents took something very important away from me, too,” Chelsea says. She pauses to look at me as if deciding whether to continue, then says, “Jake and I were very close in elementary school. We knew each other so well, the listening to each other was effortless. We laughed all the time. I haven’t laughed like that since, not with such openness and comfort in my own skin. And now, since Adrian’s death, I’ve wanted to talk with Jake. I don’t know why, exactly. Being with him today, I felt that old closeness wasn’t entirely dead. I don’t know why I didn’t stand up to my parents breaking up our friendship. Ever since then, I’ve kept everyone else at a distance, except Cora—but I only see her once a week.”
There’s a pause where each of us digests the obvious love she still has for Jake.
Stepping back from the deep emotion in the air, I take my dad’s intellectual tack and say, “I’ve been thinking, Chelsea. Do you think part of the reason we have no direction is that school isn’t teaching us to think for ourselves or to work on things that really matter to us?”
“Definitely,” she says. “And I know for sure I’m furious with Hilltop right now. Adrian should not have died.”
“Stone Creek sounds so different from Hilltop. What Jake was saying about how what happened to Adrian never would have happened there …”
“Maybe we should go ahead with the plan to interview Stone Creek seniors,” Chelsea says, her face lighting up. “It’s all set up by a counselor there. You could do the interviews with me.”
I grin, grateful to be included. “Sure! We’ve got nothing to lose—and I wouldn’t feel like a shy little sophomore doing it with you, Chelsea.”
Since I have a day off from school—it’s a teacher planning day—and my mom has a doctor appointment, it’s my job to walk Sarah to preschool.
On the way, she asks, “Why do they call it Sunday school? It’s nothing like a school, nothing like my preschool.”
I know what she means. I went to my class for Sunday school here only once and balked. Told my parents I wasn’t going back to it, but I would go to church. Compromise. What Sarah means is that she has to sit quietly while the teacher in Sunday school reads a long story about people and times Sarah knows nothing about. The real point is not to understand their experiences but to get the moral of the story at the end. This is the church’s idea of how to preach to children.
We arrive at the preschool building, and Sarah tugs at my hand. “Come in and see!”
I hesitate. “Will that be okay?”
“Sure, lots of people come and go. We don’t care. Some come to play games with us.”
When we walk through the preschool doors, Sarah drags me to the teacher, who gives her a big hug.
“Sean is going to stay and play with me!” Sarah says.
I look at the teacher. “Is that okay?”
“Of course,” she says.
The classroom looks so different from the ones at Hilltop. There is a library in the corner with a rocking chair for the teacher to sit in to read stories. The children sit on pillows on top of the thick carpet.
“The teacher picks a book to read in the morning, and she lets one of us pick a book to read after nap,” Sarah explains eagerly. “We get to look at books we like before going to sleep at nap time, too.”
School Tales Page 5