Sean Griswold's Head

by Lindsey Leavitt

  Lindsey Leavitt

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Theirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Acknowledgements

  Imprint

  To Curry,

  Every day I love you.

  But today, you get a book.

  ONE

  Nothing creates a buzz like an Executive Deluxe day planner. Not that I have much experience with buzzes, especially of the chemical variety, but my brother did double-dose me on NyQuil once when I was eleven. That thirty or so minutes of faint inebriation had nothing on this feeling. Pure, organized bliss.

  I hug the planner to my chest and slowly brush the leather. It’ll cost me a third of my Christmas money, but this baby has monthly and weekly calendars, financial graphs, to-do checklists … and did I mention the sweet, sweet leather?

  “I can’t believe you are spending that much money on an organizer, Payton.” My best friend, Jac, leans against the store counter. We’re at the mall, taking advantage of post-Christmas sales, and I’m itching to prep my organizer for the new year. “You can get an electronic one for like fifty bucks more. And what do you really need to plan, anyway? You’re a freshman, not a CEO.”

  I smile serenely at my cute, ignorant friend. “I can’t use my new highlighting system on a computer screen. And there’s something about crossing off a task with a nice ballpoint, you know?”

  “No. I really don’t. But I love you all the same.”

  Of course she doesn’t get it. Jac just spent eighty dollars on these ridiculously impractical red boots that will match two outfits, tops. Now, my well thought-out purchase? I’ll use it every day.

  “So you probably aren’t interested in my highlighting system for our English readings. It’s genius, really. Yellow for literary devices, pink for plot points, orange for conflict—”

  “Why orange?”

  “Because I look like crap in that color. I’d fight anyone who made me wear it.”

  Jac nods. Clothing—now that’s something she understands. “Why not save the school stuff until we’re actually back in school.”

  “Midterms are only a few weeks away.”

  “So let’s enjoy our freedom while we have it.” Jac fingers a green wallet. “I’m actually surprised your parents didn’t get you a planner for Christmas. They’re usually, like, the best present-givers. Unlike my parents. This is the third Christmas in a row that my dad gave me diamond earrings.”

  “Diamonds. Whoa. Daddy McThrifty strikes again.”

  “Hey, I was going to regift them to you for your birthday, but—”

  “Okay. Yes. That does suck. In a non-sucking way.”

  “You know what I mean.” Jac checks the price tag on the wallet and sticks it back on the shelf. “Your parents know you as, like, an actual person. It’s almost weird how functional you all are.”

  “True. But my dad got me a book on rocks. I haven’t collected rocks since I was ten. TEN. If he had it his way, I would still be four. I bet he slipped antigrowth hormones into my eggnog last week.”

  Jac giggles. “You hate eggnog.” Her phone buzzes with a text. She checks it and points toward the counter. “We better hurry, schnookums. My sister’s waiting and I want to walk by Cinnabon again and see if Hot Freckle Boy checks me out.”

  I hand the cashier my money with a post-holiday coupon and tuck my new planner into my messenger bag. Once we’re by the food court, Jac achieves her desired catcall. And yes, I’m positive it’s directed at her. I might get an occasional look from guys, but Jac … Jac gets the whistles.

  Fifteen minutes later, she leans out the window of her sister’s Jeep. “Call me tonight! I need you to tell me what happens in A Tale of Two Cities before break ends.”

  “You could read it, you know. Or buy the CliffsNotes.”

  “Forget Cliff. Payton Notes are much better.”

  I laugh. “I bet you wouldn’t say that if Cliff was cute.”

  “He’d have to be way cute to pull off a name like Cliff.”

  I hug her good-bye and race into the house, excited to show off my toy to Mom and Dad. They’re always teasing me about my organizational skills, but I know they love my neurotic tendencies. They never have to worry if I’ll get my homework done.

  “Dad!” I call. “I’ve taken anal retentive to a whole new level! Mom?” I bounce through the hallway, photos of the family from now back to my great-grandfather’s infancy watching me as I go. No one. I peek into the garage. My brother Trent borrowed Mom’s minivan because he claims it delivers the ladies. Dad’s Acura waits alone in the darkness.

  Huh. They were home when I left. Maybe they went on one of their ever-increasing walks along the Schuylkill River. They’ve been kind of weird lately, out together day and night. Gazing at each other like they do in a bad soap opera during a long good-bye.

  Sometimes, I get a little worried that something is seriously up.

  I mean, they’re always pretty lovesick around each other, but what if it’s more? A good soap opera would throw in a murder cover-up or an unplanned love child. Which would be gross, because that means my parents are still capable of … doing the act that produces babies.

  I hear murmuring coming from the bathroom, then laughter. My paranoia melts. They’re laughing. Just like always. In fact, Mom’s probably shaving Dad’s head, a biweekly event almost as entertaining as color coordination. I jiggle the doorknob, and since it’s unlocked, throw the door open. “Hey, baldy!” I sing. Then stare.

  My dad is bent over the toilet seat, pants pulled down just enough that I see the top of his left butt cheek. Mom is standing behind him with a hypodermic needle in her right hand, poised to make a poke. They both startle when I barge in. Mom jerks so the needle grazes Dad’s skin. His pants slide lower and I almost see Way Too Much. I slam the door shut.

  Not paranoid. Something was up. But I thought “something” was more along the lines of my parents sharing a cute midlife crisis. Not shooting each other up with drugs.

  “Payton!” Mom yanks the door back open. “Honey! Wait!”

  I’m still standing at the door, my mouth hanging lower than my father’s pants. He’s behind her in a second, fumbling with his zipper. “Sunshine. Let’s go to the living room. We need to talk.”

  There is talking, but none by me.

  The good news: My parents aren’t drug addicts.

  The awful, horrible, what-the-freak-just-happened-to-my-life news: The needle was filled with medicine. Medicine for my father’s multiple sclerosis, aka MS. A disease that, up until about ten minutes ago, I was completely unaware he had.

  “We’re sorry we didn’t tell you—” Mom starts.

  “And we were going to!” Dad says, flopping down next to me on the leather couch. Mom stands behind him, arms folded. “We were just—”

  “—waiting for the right time. There’s still so little we know about it. We wanted to get a clearer idea of where this was going. And
now to find out like this—”

  “—we wish you hadn’t—” Dad says.

  “—but since you did—”

  “—we’ll just have to make the best—”

  “—of an unfortunate situation,” Mom finishes.

  Unfortunate situation? Are they kidding me? It’s a crippling disease. Isn’t it? I’ve always lumped it in there with cerebral palsy and Parkinson’s and … a bunch of other diseases I really don’t know anything about.

  Seriously. Unfortunate situation. Highlight that line yellow for use of a literary device: Crude Understatement.

  “Well, I’ll just spill it.” Dad sighs when I give no sign of responding, other than finally closing my mouth to relieve my aching jaw. “The numbness in my left hand started last spring when your mom and I went to Cancun. It went away when we came home so … I didn’t do anything.” Dad picks at a loose string on his T-shirt. “I forgot about it. Tried to forget about it. But then, during the summer, my hand started tingling again. For weeks. And I kept it to myself, just like I’ve kept the fact that I’ve felt … off … tired for years.

  “I finally told your mom and got tested and they found these sheath lesions—they’re kind of like tumors—on my spine. The doctor sat us down and told us about MS.”

  Tingling. Numbness. Tumors.

  Mom eases down next to me and smoothes my hair. I flinch.

  “I know it all sounds scary, but there’re different kinds of MS. Right now, your father will have a relapse, then go into remission, then relapse again. So far they’ve been spread out—it’s still a manageable case. But some people”—Mom glances at Dad—“decline faster. Continually. It can get better, or it could get worse. Nothing is predictable. So this medicine helps. Well, he just started, so we hope … we hope it’ll help.”

  Summertime. Like six months ago. That’s how long they’ve known. They knew. And I had no clue. No clue. How … how could they?

  “Mi sol, there is no way to tell you how sorry we are,” she adds. “We feel horrible. I guess there never really is a right time to hear this. We told your brothers, and then we were going to tell you too. We just hadn’t decided … when.”

  They told my brothers? There’s a steady pounding in my ears, and my stomach—no, my guts—feel like I’ve swallowed a kitten and the little fur ball is trying to claw his way out. This is such crap. Parents don’t keep things like this … how could they have … and my brothers knew! This somehow makes it even worse. Once again, I feel like I’m just this stupid little girl. They all shared in this knowledge, walking around knowing while I just continued on with my regular life. Everything they’ve said is tainted now. Every day was a lie.

  I’m going to explode in a minute. Explode from the pain.

  Dad paces. “I know how much you worry about things. Remember the time I sprained my ankle in pickup basketball and you called every orthopedic surgeon in the city? I didn’t want you worrying about me until we had a more concrete plan.” Dad stops pacing and kneels down in front of me. “Sunshine, I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I’ll fill you in from here on out. Every detail. Things are going to be fine. I promise. All right?”

  My mom shifts on the couch. “Is there anything you want to say?”

  I leave without answering and lock myself in the bathroom. Dad’s medicine is still balanced on the sink. I knock it over. I promise. Yellow highlighter again—irony. How could they promise me the truth when my whole family has lied to me for the last six months? Six months I spent believing everything was as perfectly aligned as my highlighting system, not blackened with an unknown illness.

  I lean over the toilet bowl and throw up.

  Fine.

  Fine was my color-coded life before. Things will never be fine again.

  TWO

  I’m sitting in a vinyl chair outside the school guidance counselor’s office, tapping my foot in rhythm to the smooth hits station blaring from the secretary’s computer. The note that got me out of Spanish didn’t say why I’m meeting the counselor for the first time, but I already know what this is about. It’s been two weeks since I’ve said one word to my parents. Two weeks since I found out about my dad. So my mom, no doubt, called the school, asked what resources they had for parents who screwed up and need another adult to come in and fix it, and arranged this little meeting. A meeting I wasn’t going to let happen.

  Ms. Callahan rushes into her office, coffee mug in hand. “Payton! I’m so glad you’re here! Won’t you follow me?”

  I stop tapping my foot and plant it firmly on the Berber carpet. “No. I won’t.”

  Ms. Callahan, who is already halfway through her door, does a double take. “You won’t?”

  “I’d rather not. Uh … Fifth Amendment.” I have no clue if the Fifth Amendment can really save me from unwanted guidance, but she sits down next to me, so it must apply. God bless you, Founding Fathers.

  “Well, I suppose we can schedule another meeting later. But there will be a later. I’ve spoken with your mother about your father—”

  I glance up at the secretary to see if she’s listening. She’s typing and grooving away to Lionel Richie.

  “—and so I want us to set up some friendly chats. Since today wasn’t planned, I’ll give you this and we can meet up to talk about it tomorrow.”

  She digs through a monogrammed canvas tote and finally comes up with an orange-striped notebook. I snort. Orange is my highlighter color for conflict. Of course.

  “It’ll help you open up a little. Until you’re ready to talk. It’s a Focus Journal.”

  I stare at her blankly. Focus. I don’t need this. I can focus. I’m the Queen of Focus. Well, former queen. Princess maybe. Duchess. Oh, who am I kidding? These last two weeks I’ve been so lost, I couldn’t cook in the Royal Focus Kitchen.

  “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “You write your Focus Exercises in it. So you pick something to focus on. It can be anything. A memory, a place, even something as basic as a pencil sharpener. You don’t have to tell me what it is—we’ll just call it your Focus Object. Once you’ve detailed your reactions and emotions on something you’re not emotionally invested in, you should be ready to start addressing deeper issues.”

  I run my fingers along the spiral binding. Right. Like describing the door in my Spanish class has anything to do with the fact that my dad’s hand gets so messed up he can’t even turn a doorknob.

  The next day, Miss Marietta wheels a TV across our biology classroom and I plunk my head down on my desk. I didn’t mind TV time in elementary school. I looked forward to it. Really, I could watch a Stop, Drop, and Roll rap video a million times over. But a documentary on cell division in freshman biology? Not so much.

  But it does give me an entire period to work on my Focus Exercises, which I’m supposed to present to Ms. Callahan next period. I’ve decided to meet with her, partially because I’m curious, and partially because I’m scared that if I don’t, she’ll write something horrible on my flawless permanent record, which would keep me from getting into a good college, which would limit my job options to trimming mustaches at Supercuts and my dating options to the creepy guy who sweeps up the hair. Even the Fifth Amendment couldn’t save me then.

  I turn to the first sheet of paper in my new notebook and count down ten lines—there are twenty-nine on standard notebook paper, so ten lines is a third of the way down. You know, give or take.

  PAYTON’S FOCUS JOURNAL

  On the next page I write …

  Payton’s Focus Exercise

  January 17

  Topic:

  I pause. Topic. Suck. This woman gives me a notebook; why couldn’t she have given me a topic? Really, how is one object going to fix my family and life and mental condition anyway?

  The voice of the video narrator drones on about the miracle of cell division. I doodle an amoeba in the corner of the page. Miss Marietta has her head down on her desk. Ah, maybe I could write about her.

&nb
sp; Topic: Miss Marietta

  Miss Marietta is new and trying to save the world one organism at a time. But once a month, she puts on some random video and takes a nap in the corner. We call these days “Hangover Thursdays” because the first Wednesday of every month is Ladies’ Night at the local clubs. It is here that Miss Marietta trades in her world of microscopes and lab reports for a night of dancing and drinking. I know this because Jac’s sister sees her out all the time, and apparently Miss Marietta is a closeted wild child. I told my parents about it back when we were speaking, and they were beyond scandalized. Who cares what she does in her personal life, so long as she keeps sticking in the videos?

  Nope. Won’t work. That’s all I know about Miss Marietta, all I want to know, right there.

  I tap my pencil. Topic. I could write about all the MS clues I didn’t pick up on over the last six and a half months. Dad’s lunch breaks that turned into nap time. The doctor visits I thought were dental conferences. How Dad was always sick on Sundays because of the medication’s side effects. How he asked me to help him with the can opener, probably because his hand was numb. How my parents were gone all the time. How I knew something was up but had no clue it was this. How I charged him one time when we were practicing for my school basketball tryouts and he stayed down longer than normal and that probably made his MS worse.

  No. I’ve already chosen not to go THERE. I went there when I walked into that bathroom, and now the incident is safely filed in the Do Not Process cabinet of my brain. The file’s contents might mention how stupid I feel that I didn’t know, how mad I am at my parents … at everyone, not to mention scared and lonely and just … yeah. Focus Journal or not, I’m not going THERE again. Drawer locked.

  The only way I can really approach this is to pretend it’s a school assignment. So, we just talked about the writing process in English. Before you write, you prewrite. Brainstorm.

  I rip out a sheet of notebook paper and draw a word web.

  Now I just need inspiration. I survey the classroom, noticing first the pink suede jacket Sarah Sheckler is sporting that literally puts the as(s) in nasty. I sigh and write school uniforms in the web, drawing a separate line to add my belief that uniforms would create social balance in this district and save poor Sarah from herself. Except I already expressed this revolutionary idea in my student council speech, and I lost. So writing about it again might make me bitter. Well, more bitter than I am now.