Sean Griswold's Head

by Lindsey Leavitt

  “The pool was packed and the lifeguard didn’t see me. But Grady did. He jumped in, dragged me out, and even got the cute lifeguard to do CPR on me.”

  “So now you’re indebted to him,” I say.

  He shook his head. “I paid him back. See, Grady was there with some other foster kids from the state. I convinced my mom to take him in. But the thing with my mom is she starts all these projects and never finishes them. Like she’ll volunteer to do a charity luncheon but she’s not going to stick around to clean up. So once she realized that a foster kid requires … effort, she flaked out.” Sean flicks a bug off the log. “Grady got sucked back into the system until his dad got out of jail last year. Now he lives with him, but spends a lot of time at our house still. I think he wears all black so you can’t tell he only has three shirts. He’s … There’s more to him than he puts out there.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Really. You’ll see.”

  Right. Like I have any plans of hanging out with Vampire Boy ever again. Schedule it in right after my lunch date with Lord Voldemort. “And what is that scar now? Some symbol of your friendship?”

  “Honestly?” Sean looks down. “The day I almost drowned was the day I decided I wanted to do triathlons. I remember feeling so … weak and powerless in the water. A total scrub. I never wanted that again.”

  “Oh,” I say, because I’m lousy at thoughtful remarks. The scar story explains a lot about Sean, but it’s still a bit of a disappointment. Some of Jac’s wild ideas had managed to rub off on me, and even though a near drowning is newsworthy, I’d been hoping for a knifing.

  “Doesn’t Grady ever get to you, though? The whole I-am-death thing?”

  “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s not him at all, just how you perceive him. It’s like, you could go dress yourself in a potato sack, and you’d still look …”

  Say good. Or if I’m being greedy, beautiful. But good will do.

  “… like you. It doesn’t change who you are. Haven’t you ever looked past your first impression and seen more?”

  Exhibit A was sitting right in front of me. My initial impression of Sean, the impression that’d stuck for almost seven years, was that he was blocking the board. That’s it. No thoughts about his likes or dislikes. Who he was. He was the boy with the head. How many people do I know like that—the school counselor with the Afro, the teacher with a hangover, or the goth kid with the fangs. Yet, through Sean I was seeing them as different people with their own stories.

  Sean rests his chin on his knees before picking up a stick and drawing a circle in the dirt. “Okay, so your turn.”

  “My turn? What do you mean?”

  Sean turns his head to the side and smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle, like my dad’s but in a very I-don’t-think-of-you-like-my-dad sort of way. A chill runs down my neck. “Oh, c’mon. You’re always asking me questions. And I don’t know anything about you. Where’s the dirt?”

  “There is no dirt. I’m totally clean. Boring. Sorry.”

  “It’s the boring people who have something to hide. Tell me why you quit basketball.”

  I lick my lips. Suddenly my mouth is dry. “I just wasn’t into it anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Something changed and it just felt … fake.”

  Sean goes back to drawing in the dirt. Although there’s enough moonlight right here to make out shadows, I can’t see the detail in his artwork. I fumble in my jacket pocket for my flashlight and shine it on the ground. He’s adding lines to the circle, curves spanning the interior until it looks like a basketball. Next, a stick figure of what I assume is me, hands arched like I’m following up a shot. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, but the silence is creeping up on me, choking me until the only way I can breathe is if I talk.

  “My dad has MS,” I blurt out. “Do you know what that is?”

  Sean stops drawing and gives me a slow nod.

  I keep talking, the words that I’ve held in my mouth for so long rolling along like pebbles in the nearby river. “Then you know what it does. It takes your life away. He used to be this athlete—he played ball in college and does rec leagues. Or, he did. Now he can’t do much besides shoot baskets. And even that will probably change and soon he won’t … he won’t … be doing any of it. Which everyone in my family seems to be ignoring. And he knew. About his MS. My whole family knew and kept it from me. Like I’m some little kid who needs to be protected.” I stop to brush the tears away. Oh my gosh. I’m full-blown crying in front of Sean. I bury my face in my hands, hoping to shield myself from the mortification.

  “Keep going,” Sean says gently.

  I look up at his face, which is soft and earnest and kind. I swallow. “So part of me feels like I need to stop sports because he can’t do them, but this other little piece of me is trying to hurt him. Which is awful, I know it’s awful. But if I’m not mad, then what am I? What do I feel then?”

  I sniff and wipe my eyes on my jacket. That late-night bird chirps again and I contemplate chucking a rock at it. When the irritating lullaby ends, Sean rests his hand on my knee for a moment so brief, I’m not even sure it happened. He stands and picks up my bike.

  “This bike really is a joke, you know that?” he asks.

  “Whatever. It was expensive.”

  Sean snorts and kicks the tires. “First off, it’s a mountain bike. The gears suck and it’s heavy. If we’re going to have you riding more, I’ll have to get you my old road bike. It should fit you if I lower the seat.” He rubs his chin. “And that helmet, well, maybe you can borrow Grady’s. It’s too bad it’s supposed to snow again this weekend, but it might be good to get you into a spin class first to get you in shape before spring. I’m not sure the team will—”

  “Hello!” I wave the flashlight beam in front of his face. “I’m not a cyclist.”

  “Not yet.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “And why the sudden need to go into this right now, after I bare my soul to you. Trying to change the subject?”

  Sean blinks. “I know about MS. I’ve done a lot of rides and runs for it—for all sorts of diseases. For the last two years, I’ve done a ride called the City to Shore. Starts near Philadelphia and ends in Ocean City. Obviously, you won’t be able to do the whole thing, but you can do part of it. Maybe 25K.”

  “How does me riding a bike have anything to do with MS?”

  “You get sponsors and donations and the money all goes to MS research. And you can ride for someone you know. Last year I biked for this guy my mom sold a house to. Really got to know him and I felt like … like I was doing something right. So I think if you commit to this, it could help you with everything you just talked about. You might not be able to make your dad better, but you can still help.”

  “How do you know I want to?”

  “Well, don’t you?” he asks.

  I avoid his gaze by shutting off the flashlight and stuffing it back into my pocket. How did this conversation balloon so out of my control?

  “Or are you going to keep moping about it?”

  I grab the handlebars of my bike from Sean. What a punk! I tell him all that stuff and he shoves it back at me. “I am not moping!”

  “You’re totally moping.” He pulls the bars back. “But it’s cool—you’re entitled to a mourning period. Maybe now is a good time to get over it. For your dad. Look, that guy I rode for had a much more advanced stage. He found out and boom, three months later he couldn’t walk. So if your dad isn’t like that, if he’s still trying to play basketball and stuff, then I say take advantage of what time you have, you know?”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. “It’s none of your business,” I say, trying to pull my bike but Sean keeps a firm grip.

  “I think you just made it my business,” he says.

  I tug on the seat of the bike and try to yank it away but it doesn’t budge. Sean’s just watching me with this weird look
on his face, like he’s amused and sad at the same time.

  “Let go.”

  “No. I mean it, let me help. You still have a choice here.”

  “Stop.”

  I ease up a bit on my grip. When Sean does the same, I give one more firm tug. Sean is not holding on as tight and my momentum throws him off balance. The bike flies on top of me, along with Sean.

  We’re face-to-face, with nothing between us but the middle bar. I can see his scar so clearly now, see how deep it really is. I want to run my fingers over it, to feel the mark that has made such an impression on his life. He makes no effort to move, just stares intently into my eyes.

  I’m not sure what is supposed to happen next. The whole thing is too bizarre. One moment I’m admitting more to him than I’ve admitted to myself. Then we’re fighting, and now he’s close. The closest he’s ever been. And up close like this, with the moonlight turning his hair almost an iridescent white, I think for a moment I wouldn’t mind being even closer to Sean Griswold.

  I have no idea what Sean is thinking because, like me, he hasn’t moved. He isn’t leaning in, but he’s not moving away. Definitely not moving away.

  He’s still staring. Into my eyes.

  The only movement either of us makes is to breathe. Until we hear a twig snap in the distance, at which time Sean scrambles up and lugs the bike off me.

  “Told you your bike is too heavy.” He chucks it on the ground.

  Jac stomps around the path, Mark in tow on his cell phone. Her arms are crossed and her brow is furrowed.

  “Grady okay?” Sean asks, brushing dirt off his shirt.

  Jac flips her hair. “Grady is just fine. We would have been here sooner but Mark’s girlfriend called.” She grabs my wrist and lowers her voice. “That’s right. His girlfriend. Here he is flirting with me the whole time and then this chick calls and he turns to mush. And I have to sit and talk to Grady the Goth the whole time, who is just as charming one-on-one as he is in a group. Where does Sean find these people?”

  “Tell Caroline I say hi,” Sean says to Mark, before turning to us. “I’m surprised it took that long for her to call him. She’s got him on a leash.”

  Mark gives Sean a dirty look. “Stop it,” he says. “No, not you, sweetheart. No, I’m not talking to a girl, I—”

  Jac rolls her eyes and smiles at Sean. “Well, should we get these bikes down the path? That was so impressive how you handled everything.” She squeezes his elbow. “Smart and cute all in one package, right, Payton?”

  “Whatever,” I grumble.

  Sean gives her a goofy grin and shrugs. “Well, I try.”

  “And I think present company would agree that you succeed.” Jac nudges me. I can’t tell if she’s flirting with him or trying to flirt on my behalf. I step away.

  “Um …” Sean’s grin gets wider. “Thanks.”

  There he is, just eating up Jac’s … Jacness only two minutes after whatever just happened … happened between us. Seriously, what did just happen? My head hurts. I grab my bike and ride it down the path as fast as I can.

  “Hold up,” Sean calls. “We’re coming too.”

  “No worries,” I yell back. “I’ll meet you down there.”

  I pump my legs, not even bothering to clip my helmet straps. I have to get far away so I can think and not listen to Sean’s reactions to Jac’s stupid flirting.

  Once I’m alone in the darkness, I consider the possibility: maybe that whole thing back there was progress. Maybe Sean wants the same thing I do. Now I just have to figure out what that “thing” is.

  FIFTEEN

  I never used to understand the expression “float through the day.” People don’t float. They stand. They walk. Maybe run. Feet leave the ground for a moment, but not indefinitely. But somehow, I find myself floating.

  I talk to Trent when he drops me off at school. I pretend to listen to Jac as she details her sister’s new tattoo. I take notes in math, more scribbles and abstractions than anything legible. Because I’m not there. I’m back on the hill with Sean.

  I’ve never liked a boy before. I’ve thought boys were cute and I’ve had crushes, but I’ve never gone beyond that to the Land of Like. I’d seen Jac go through it so many times and it seemed like so much effort: the doodled notebooks, dissected conversations, trying to look good for that person all the time. I’d rather use energy like that on basketball or something. But now basketball is gone, and here I am.

  Was Sean going to kiss me? If not, did he want to? Did he feel any differently about me now than he did a few weeks ago? What did he think of Jac? Did Jac like him too? Should I tell Jac I like him? Do I like him?

  Obviously, in Like Land, all sentences end in a question.

  PFE

  February 12

  The pros and cons of Turning Your Focus Object into Your Crush

  Pro: I’ve gotten to know him better lately, and for the most part, I like what I’ve learned.

  Con: I’ve gotten to know him better because he’s my FOCUS OBJECT and thus, I should maintain a safe distance. I mean, it’d be like that gorilla lady falling for one of her apes. Ew, never mind, it’s not like that at all.

  Pro: I feel like he knows what I’m thinking, like he understands things in a way no one else does.

  Con: I’m not at a point right now where I want someone, least of all a crush, to know what’s going on in my head. I don’t even want to know what’s going on in my head.

  Pro: He suggested I do that bike ride for my dad. I’m not sure if I will, but it shows he’s a problem solver.

  Con: What if I’m one problem that can’t BE solved?

  Pro: He really is cute. Nice body, nice features, nice … niceness.

  Con: He really is cute! How can I focus on focusing with all his cuteness distracting me?

  Pro: Sean has confidence without cockiness. He’s funny, smart, sarcastic, and interesting.

  Con: Crap. I’ve got nothing.

  I work on my chart all through biology. Miss Marietta explains our cell project, and since I plan on recycling Trent’s (another act of rebellion; I’m on a roll), my fuzziness is more justified. When she faces the board to draw a diagram, Sean turns around.

  “Hey,” he whispers.

  “Hey.” I tuck my Focus Journal underneath my biology book.

  “Doesn’t Miss Marietta kind of look like Jerry’s girlfriend in episode 165? The one who walks around naked all the time?”

  I look at Miss Marietta and stifle a giggle. “Do you think they’re related?”

  “Hope not.” Sean smiles. ”The nudity thing might be hereditary.”

  This time the laugh escapes and Miss Marietta stops talking. “Do you find the nucleus entertaining, Miss Gritas?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean … sorry.”

  She goes back to lecturing and Sean gives me a wink. Usually, winking is something my sicko uncle does after he compliments my “blossoming.” I’m not usually a fan of the wink. But Sean’s wink says a million things all at once. The fuzzy floating feeling returns, but this time with a scent of peppermint and tire rubber.

  A piece of paper hits my head and I look around, confused. Jac’s giving me the eye, so I pick up the note and read.

  Hey, what were you two just talking about?

  I make eye contact with her and mouth, “Seinfeld.”

  She shakes her head and scribbles on another sheet of paper. She launches and I catch it just before Miss Marietta looks up suspiciously. I’m all innocence as I unfold the paper under my desk.

  Research tip/boy tip number one million—even if you say you don’t like Sean, it’s generally a good idea to avoid the Seinfeld references when talking to boys. No one gets them.

  I shrug at the paper, not bothering to look at Jac. She doesn’t get it, but Sean does. Sean gets me, maybe even more than anyone else.

  My stomach flips at that thought and a haze settles over my float. Sean gets what I’ve put out there, but if he knew the rest, the therapy s
tuff and the PFEs, he might not be winking my way anymore.

  Jac’s at least taught me one thing about boys: they don’t want a girl with issues. The MS drama makes me high maintenance enough as it is; therapy catapults me into a whole new arena. So I need to convince Ms. Callahan I’m sane or cured or whatever I’m supposed to be so I can get out of these chats.

  And make sure that Sean never, ever finds out about my research.

  PFE

  February 14

  Topic: My “I Am Cured!” Speech

  Ahem. I’ve solved Sean’s mysteries, and by doing that have explored my own inner child. Or my inner demons. Whatever inner thing I was supposed to look at. Except my innards, because that’s just gross.

  I shall now continue a normal adolescence consisting of frequent mall visits, vast consumption of Doritos, and countless hours devoted to various Internet addictions. Or something like that.

  Okay, maybe I went too far with the inner child part. I’ll have to work on it, on my whole show, to really pull the speech off. Part of that is reassessing how I view my Focus Journal. It’s not a therapy ploy. It is a regular ol’ journal. Which means I’m normal for writing in it. Which means anything I write about a boy should induce no guilt because I’m not using Sean. Girls write notes about boys in journals all the time.

  It’s required. It’s a rite of passage. I really have no choice.

  I’m jolted from my speech preparation by the aroma of pancakes and sausage. Mom’s new way to promote family togetherness is to exploit my weakness—food. Except I get emotional when I’m hungry, and I can use that to fake-cry better today during the Imposter Dad chat at my counseling session. A few tears coupled with my carefully prepared words and Ms. Callahan will finally, finally proclaim me sane.

  I wear a mature and polished outfit—gray skirt and black top—so it looks like I’ve grown up and transformed. And I match. Progress. I’m looking at myself in my full-length mirror when Trent weasels into the room.