Sean Griswold's Head

by Lindsey Leavitt

  I open a box of pictures and thumb back to my last batch of digitals I’d printed off before … before all this. There’s a picture of my dad in his old 76ers T-shirt and blinding smile, handing me a poorly wrapped basketball. And me, feigning surprise. “A basketball, Dad! I’d never have guessed.”

  I own twelve basketballs. Dad has gotten me one every year since I was three—all colors, all sizes. The balls, just like the sport, were our bond. I used to display them on a shelf in my room. They’re in the garage now.

  I rub the picture between my fingers, and for a split second consider ripping it, but instead shove it back in the box. I check that my door is still shut, then kneel down and rummage under my bed until I find what I’m looking for.

  My dad’s old Sixers shirt. I know he’d combed the house looking for it, but I’d taken it out of the laundry the last time he wore it. It smelled like him, like Old Spice deodorant and toothpaste and that Christmas morning when everything was so perfect and yet completely not, and every morning and every day I had with him before MS.

  I’d started sleeping with it under my pillow. I don’t know why. I know it’s weird and probably creepy treating an old shirt as a teddy bear. Maybe my stalker tendencies were stronger than I thought. But it helps me fall asleep, and it’s there when I wake up crying in the middle of the night.

  PFE

  January 25

  Topic: A Flow Chart on Sean’s Head

  Sean seems like a pretty clean guy

  Meaning, he’s always decently dressed (he matches, his clothes aren’t stained and fit him well)

  And he smells good, so he obviously bathes

  Or showers. No fifteen-year-old guys bathe

  And his nails are trimmed and his hair’s cut and styled too

  SO HERE’S THE BIG HEAD QUESTION OF THE DAY

  Why are there random hairs growing on his neck like dandelions in sidewalk cracks?

  It makes no sense that a guy who thinks to wear deodorant and clip his fingernails is unaware of neck hair

  How does it not bother him?

  Shave it, Sean! Pay a visit to your barber

  If not for you, then for everyone who spends at least one period a day systematically investigating your head

  Jac’s mom is just leaving when I arrive for our Saturday sleepover. After pausing for the customary compliment, this time on her turquoise dress exhibiting cleavage bigger than Sean’s head, she mentions to Jac that she might be crashing at a “friend’s” house. This from the woman who used to wear Christmas sweater vests and serve mini sausages at Parents Against Profanity meetings. But that was before her husband traded her in for his office assistant, who Jac knew pretty well because she used to babysit Jac. Back when the assistant/girlfriend was in high school. Which was, like, six years ago.

  “You like my mom’s new Botox fix?” Jac asks as we pass through the hideously ornate house, a bronzed fairy leering at us as we go.

  “It wasn’t bad,” I lie.

  “Whatever. It makes Joan Rivers look natural.” She snorts. “Let’s get on the computer. I feel like doing some self-Googling. I just hope Mom hasn’t posted pictures of me again calling me her little sister. I’ll die.”

  Jac leads me into her safari-themed room complete with a zebra wall, lit candles, and exotic pillows thrown around her canopied bed. I blow out the tiny flames and turn on the ostrich-feathered lamp instead. Jac’s always wanted to date a firefighter. If she keeps those candles burning, she might just get her wish.

  We’ve transitioned out of most of our childhood rituals, but for some reason the sleepovers have stuck. Sometimes we’ll include a few girls from our various circles, but introducing other people can be risky. In seventh grade, Cailee Murphy brought some nasty vodka and Jac drank most of it before wobbling out to the living room to yell at her dad. Who, of course, wasn’t there. I don’t know what I am capable of being peer-pressured into after the week I’ve had, so I’m relieved it’s just Jac and me tonight. We can be silly and stupid and not care.

  “That shirt is huge on you.” Jack nods at my dad’s Sixers shirt that I’ve now taken to wearing as pajamas.

  “Oh. It’s comfy.”

  “Isn’t that your dad’s?”

  “Yeah. I just grabbed it on my way out. I need to do laundry.”

  “You could wear one of my shirts if you want.”

  “Um … I’m good.” I shrug.

  Jac nods knowingly. “I used to wear my dad’s shirts after …”

  The end of the sentence hangs in the air and we both look away.

  “Computer?” she asks.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Good idea.”

  We order some takeout and spend the better part of the night looking up ourselves and everyone we know, getting lost in the chain the Internet creates. Our best find—a guy with my same name is wanted in three states. We think it’s so hilarious that the next morning we download a picture of me and spend the rest of the day figuring out how to merge pictures together so we could put my face on a prisoner’s body. I look fabulous as a three-hundred-pound Hungarian man.

  Then Jac gets the idea to do the same thing to a picture of Sean. We look up his mom’s website again, scrolling down to the “Family First” section. There’s a photo of Sean from about fourth grade, the year after we first had him in our class. He’s sitting on a beach with the sunlight behind him, grinning as he holds up a large seashell.

  “Whoa, look at that thing,” Jac says.

  “Yeah, it’s a big shell.”

  “Not the shell. That huge cut on his head. Have you ever noticed it before?”

  I squint at the computer screen. Sure enough, there is a jagged wound running down his left temple. Hello, big gaping hole in my research. How did I not notice that? “That’s weird. I don’t remember him having a cut that bad. You’d think we’d remember that. Wonder what happened.”

  “It looks like someone sliced him open. Maybe he got knifed.”

  “How many fourth graders get knifed?” I ask.

  Jac shrugs. “Remember, we don’t really know him. He could be a gangbanger. Or a spy.”

  “Or he could have fallen off his bike.”

  Jac taps the screen with her green lacquered fingernail. “Well, we’re going to find out what happened. It’s bound to be a good story.”

  “What, you’re going to Google fourth-grade knifings?”

  “No.” Jac picks up the phone. “I’m just going to call him and ask.”

  SIX

  I lunge for the phone. “You are NOT calling Sean Griswold! You don’t even know his number.”

  “Lollipop.” Jac hides the phone behind her back. “This is for you. Penetrating investigative research requires a leap out of our comfort zones.”

  “My comfort zone is research analyst. You’re leaping into stalker status.”

  She clicks the mouse. “Look, there’s his phone number. It’s a sign. And who are we to defy a cosmic sign?”

  “First off, this is my assignment. And second, I’m supposed to be writing about his head, not calling him on the phone.”

  “Right.” Jac punches in the number. “His head, which is messed up in the picture and we are about to find out why.”

  I grab for the phone again but before I can stop her, someone picks up the other line.

  “Hi. Is Sean there?” Pause. “Do you know where he is?” Longer pause. “This is a friend of his. We go way back. But no message. Thanks.”

  Relief floods over me and I burst into giggles. He isn’t there. He isn’t going to find out about my Focus Journal. “You go way back?”

  Jac starts giggling too. Every time we try to say something, we look at each other and laugh more, until we’re not so much laughing at the phone call as we are just laughing to laugh.

  Jac finally flops down on her bed, her hair spraying across the many pillows. Her pink strappy tank top and retro-print skirt clash beautifully with the olive bedspread. “Third grade is way back.”

/>   “Oh, yeah. You two are soul mates.”

  “What was I supposed to say? I don’t know who I just talked to, but he was weird. Started to tell me Sean was at the movies, then got all secretive and began asking questions.”

  “Well, it was probably his dad. That’s how dads are.”

  “Maybe. Or a cousin. Or a fellow gang member, or … Who else could it be?”

  I shrug. “You’re asking me? How would I know?”

  “Well, if you were a good stalker—”

  “I’m not a—”

  “Fine. If you were a good”—she does air quotes with her fingers—“ ‘Research Analyst’ you would. Anyway, I’m going to figure out that huge scar mystery soon, and then I want to know who that crusty guy I just talked to is.” Jac twists a braid around her finger. “And I wonder what kind of movies Sean likes?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Wrong question. This is fun. So why not?”

  “Maybe we’re taking it too far. I’m just keeping a stupid journal about his head. I don’t need to know the rest of this stuff.”

  “Really? I think you do.” Jac rolls out of her bed and crawls back over to the computer. “Like, a scientist starts with a hypothesis, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But their findings and experiments can take them in a whole new direction. They start off asking why snakes have scales and end up finding a cure for cancer!”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “You’re limiting yourself, that’s all I’m saying. You have a mighty fine specimen with tons of research potential. Branch out. Start with the cut.”

  I glance at the clock and shoot up. “Crap. I’ve got to study for my algebra midterm.”

  “You … you aren’t ready?”

  I avert my eyes. It’s a first, for sure. “Technically … no. But it’ll be fine. I’d better call Trent to pick me up. I’ll figure out what to do with the Sean stuff. And Jac?”

  Jac looks up from the website photo. “Yeah?”

  “Promise me no more phone calls.”

  Jac lets out a theatrical sigh. “You really are taking all the drama out of this.”

  Trent picks me up, but only after Jac spends a good five minutes flirting with him. Trent even goes along with it to humor her. At least I hope that’s the reason. The alternative is too disgusting to imagine.

  Trent sings along with his punk music as we drive home, a clear indicator he’s in a good, nonconfrontational mood. I relax and even join in on the lines I know, which isn’t hard because it’s mostly just repeated, angst-ridden rants against society. I secretly agree with some of the punk theology, although I don’t know how following the anarchist trend is possible. Following any sort of establishment goes against the very definition of anarchy. I’m trying in vain to explain this to Trent when he stops the car in the driveway and sighs.

  “Payton. When are you going to start acting your age?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just used the words theology and angst-ridden to describe music.”

  “That’s not music.”

  “Well, you should be like, Wow, this totally rocks! or something less … less …”

  “Intelligent?”

  “Exactly. No.” He pauses. “Just more teenagerish.”

  “I did teenagerish things all weekend, whatever that means.”

  “Like what? Discuss global warming?”

  “No, even though I should point out global warming is not an age-specific concern. Everyone, young and old, has to share this planet and—”

  “See.”

  “All right. Teenagerish. We did hair. Ate junk. Stalked boys.”

  “My sister a stalker? Doubt it.”

  I bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you don’t exactly walk on the wild side. This stuff with Mom and Dad is the most rebellious I’ve seen you. Caleb didn’t believe me when I told him you weren’t talking to them.”

  “What does Caleb know about me anyway? He lives on the other side of the world.”

  “And before that he lived in the same house as you, and even if he didn’t, everyone knows you’re totally straight edge.”

  “No way! I do outrageous things.”

  “Like what?”

  My mind goes blank. “One time I wore mismatched socks to school for a whole day.”

  Trent throws back his head and laughs.

  “On purpose!” I add. “Someone has to be good after the reputations you and Caleb had.”

  Trent dries his eyes on the collar of his shirt. “True. You’re the glue. That’s why Dad—”

  I open the car door before he can make me feel any worse. “I gotta start studying. Night.”

  But I don’t get much studying done. Instead, I log back onto Sean’s mom’s site and stare at a beaming Sean. I go to bed with the same question that has been bugging me for days—how can you go so long knowing someone without really knowing them at all?

  Payton’s Focus Exercise AKA PFE

  January 28 Right before the departure bell

  Topic: A brief review of last week’s Sean findings

  **Note: After much scientific consideration (and encouragement from Jac), I’ve decided to expand upon my head research and include the rest of Sean in my exercises. For science’s sake.

  SEVEN

  Midterms—an overview.

  1. My highlighting system saves me in English.

  2. Reasoning and guessing get me through algebra.

  3. I’m not sure about the multiple choice in history, but I compared everything to Modern America on the essays. Can’t go wrong with that.

  4. We do a word search in health. God bless whoever schlepped Coach Essary through college.

  5. Español es muy simpatico. Especially since my mom is always speaking it under her breath. Although those words did not appear on the test.

  6. Biology. There are questions from the videos. Unfortunately for me, there is not one question about Sean’s head.

  Another Payton’s Focus Exercise

  We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to broadcast this news:

  Sean Cut His Hair

  • No more neck hair!

  • It’s kind of spiky—makes him look older.

  • And somehow, his head looks smaller. Maybe all that “bigness” was the work of voluminizing shampoo.

  • His scar is SO clear. How did I not notice it before?

  Miss Marietta always returns papers by having the first person in the row pass them back, which is beyond unfair because then everyone who sits in front of you can see your grade. Usually it’s fine, but it’s the written part of our midterm, which I bombed. I don’t need my early-teens crisis broadcast to my whole row.

  Sean turns around to hand me the papers and I stare at the scar on the top left edge of his forehead. It’s how the last week has played out, actually. Ever since Jac and I saw that picture, the scar has become the focus within my focus. It’s so noticeable now—raised with a pinkish tinge.

  Jac’s been pushing me to ask Sean what happened, until finally I promised to do it today. She has all these scar theories she thinks I should add to my findings, but I like to think my Focus Journal is honest journalism, not the National Enquirer equivalent, so I’m not going to include her “Had one lobe of his brain removed” hypothesis to my notes.

  Anyway, Sean hands me the papers, then leans over to Spencer Lund to say something. And it’s like a window of opportunity is closing, like not finding out about his scar will bring a standstill to my research. I’m starting to enjoy my research. I haven’t even done a pie chart yet.

  So I tap Sean on the shoulder and he glances back at me.

  At this point, I have no plan. I avoid the scar by looking at his eyes, which I notice aren’t really brown like I’d originally thought, but almost gold with a brown rim. I should add that to my notes. By now, I’ve been staring at him for five seconds and
his eyebrows are up in a question. So I blurt out the first thing I can think of to say.

  “I just got a paper cut. From those papers you passed back.” Liar. I grab my right pointer finger and suck on it.

  “Oh. Sorry about that,” Sean says.

  “It’s just, I really hate cuts, don’t you? Paper cuts aren’t a big deal, but I’ve had some nasty cuts before. Like, I had to get stitches on my knee once and it stung for weeks. Have you ever had a cut like that before?”

  Sean’s eyebrows remain arched, but now they’ve moved from a question to surprise. I never talk to Sean. He never talks to me. Well, we might say hi or bye or little flickers of small talk, but I’ve never gone off like I just did. My research has reached a new level. As his eyebrows go back down, the corners of his mouth curve up.

  “Yeah, I’ve had a cut like that before.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. You’re right. They suck.” And he turns back around.

  What was I expecting? A heartfelt retelling of how he got the thing? That we’d suddenly be bonded by flesh wounds?

  I crumple up my test without looking at it. I’m sure I failed, just like I’m failing with my Focus Object. Now, if it were Jac, she’d march right up to Sean and ask without hesitation, “So, what’s with that scar?”

  I hope she doesn’t try to “help” like that. Not that I’m into him—it’s just that her meddling could really contaminate my findings.

  So much for that hope. Jac spends our whole lunch yapping about Sean. Maybe I should have written about the pencil sharpener after all.

  “I saw him today. That haircut is smoking hot. And you can see his scar better, which gives him kind of a bad-boy look, don’t you think?”

  “No.”

  “Did you find out where he got it?”

  Jac and I have been friends since the world started turning. And I never lie to her. Well, not big lies. Last week, I did say her purple boots were cute over her jeans, but that was only because I really wanted to leave and she’d already changed a gazillion times. I should have told her about the conversation with Sean but something was holding me back.