by Josh Berk
“So you take all the credit even though your dad does all the work?”
“That’s how I roll,” I say.
It gets awkward for a moment.
“Listen,” she says, breaking the silence. “I brought you something.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bundle, tied in ribbon. “Open it.”
I do. It’s purple and shiny and oh my Lord. “An ascot?” I ask.
“An ascot!” she says. “You said you might start wearing one. You know, just for fun or whatever …”
“Oh man,” I say. “This is so great!” I flip it on and you know, it really feels right. Perfect.
“I’m not sure that’s quite right,” she says, reaching up and adjusting the ascot around my neck.
I must have gotten a strange look on my face. “What?” she asks, leaving her hand on my neck.
“Just … Dad,” I say.
“Is he talking to you? What’s he saying now?”
“Now?” I ask. “I don’t know. I have to listen.” I listen. It is quiet. The birds are singing. The sun is shining. The bright green trees blow in the wind. Life is going on. “He says to kiss the girl,” I say.
And I do.
EPILOGUE—SENIOR YEAR
I lied before. I do go back to Dr. Waters’s office, but just one last time. I’ll miss you, goldfish who I named Skip. I’ll miss you, comfortable leather couch. I’ll miss you most of all, diploma for Slippery Rock University.
“How are you doing, Guy?” Dr. Waters asks. She’s asked the question many times over the past year. Sometimes I would roll my eyes at it. How are you doing? That’s what they pay you for? And sometimes I’d almost start crying, just knowing I’d have to talk about things I didn’t want to talk about. Sometimes the question “How are you doing” is the most complicated and hardest question in the world. And sometimes, yes, I’d make a joke. I’d say stuff like “I think I’ve developed phobiaphobia, which is a fear of getting phobias, but maybe I don’t actually have it but am just afraid of getting it? It’s complicated, you know? Also, I have gas.” Stuff like that.
But today I answer honestly. And the honest answer is, “I’m doing okay.”
“That’s wonderful to hear,” Dr. Waters says. And I can tell she means it. “Have you spoken to your mother, like we talked about?”
“You know what?” I say. “I did. Mom and I have been talking a lot more. She took off her sunglasses, so to speak. Also literally. It was nice to see her eyes again. She opened up a bit. I opened up a bit. We ate tacos from Taco City. It was cool.”
“That’s wonderful,” she says.
“I didn’t know you loved Taco City too,” I say. She laughs. Finally! I get a laugh out of Dr. Waters. Sometimes humor is a way of hiding from shit; sometimes it’s just fun to make people laugh. I don’t say that out loud, though. I just keep opening up. Might as well. “I figured something out. My father was not a saint. He might not have been a genius. Or he might have been. But what he was, was my father. And he left me with a lot. A whole lot. Not just some coins, not just this beautiful nose, not just a brother. He left me a great deal, even if he didn’t leave me a guidebook on how to live. It’s up to each of us to write our own Rules for Living. Each generation’s guidebook is written in their own hand. The ways of the elders can only do so much.” She nods. I’m deep.
“Can I read you something?” I ask. I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded printout.
“Of course you can, Guy,” she says.
So I read:
“Rules for Living”:
The Guy Langman Story
Life is easy, my friends. Ever since the dragon pooped the fire of earth into existence, a few rules have existed. Scratch that. None of that is true. Life isn’t easy. But maybe it’s not impossible either. Maybe some things never change. Maybe it’s always a simple matter of stopping the bad guy, getting the girl, making peace with your parents, and taking a sweet bubble bath every once in a while.
I can’t pretend to know all the answers, or even some of them, but I have learned this: If you think you can avoid pain by avoiding life, you fail at both. The only way to win the game is to play the game. And okay, there’s no promise you’ll win, or that winning even exists. But it’s the only way to be sure you don’t lose.
When a stranger with a knife appears at your window (or seems to) and you think you’re going to die, you can’t help but get this horrible nervousness. Not just about your future, but your past. Did I spend my time the right way? Did I waste my hours with video games? But really—and okay, maybe now it’s because I don’t feel the metaphorical knife at my throat—I don’t see it that way. All those things—games, books, even fights and even being bored—that is life. And I’ll have some more, please.
So what does the future hold for Guy Langman? Will he go to college? Who are you, Anoop? Fine, I filled out the forms. Applied to a few good schools. Eugene Lang, Slippery Rock, and some others with not-as-fun names. My grades are coming back up and the extracurriculars look pretty sweet: Forensics Squad President, and a letter of recommendation from Mr. Zant.
Zant’s letter makes me blush. Over and over again he said how much I’ve learned, how skilled I’ve become. He doesn’t know the half of it … I’ve lifted fingerprints, outsmarted a doorman, caught a thief, confronted a villain, kissed a girl … Okay, no reason for the letter to mention that last part. And yeah, the villain I caught was sort of actually the nicest guy ever. And the evil cat burglar was just a messed-up kid. Oh, Hairston. All is forgiven. He isn’t perfect (obviously), but he’s trying. Just fumbling and bumbling along. Maybe that’s all any of us can do.
Maybe you can’t expect the leader of the tribe—or anyone else—to sit you down and explain the rules for living. Not now. Not anytime soon. There are no rules for living. The only leader of your tribe is you. We all lead our own tribes, of friends, parents, weird dudes at school, girls. The people you choose to love. This is your life. The world will never give you a dong bracelet. You have to reach out and take it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Imagine my surprise when I learned I’d be working with an editor who didn’t even know how to spell her own last name! But even though she spells Berk with a u for some wacky reason, Michele Burke has been an absolutely fantastic editor (and actually a far better speller than I). Thanks so much, Michele, for your humor, wisdom, gentle guidance, and inexhaustible patience in working with me on this book. Nothing pleases me more than when I find a handwritten “ha!” in the margin of a manuscript and I know I’ve made you laugh.
Thank you to my literary agent, Ted Malawer, who saw potential in this book when it was just a glimmer of an idea and who helped it (and its author) grow in too many ways to name. Thank you as well to Chris Richman, Michael Stearns, and the whole Upstart Crow crew—I’m proud to be associated with you all.
The entire community of authors I’ve been lucky enough to be a part of has been wonderful to me and I’d thank you each individually if I could. Specifically, I’d like to give thanks to Shaun Hutchinson, who generously helped me brainstorm when I was stuck on an early draft of this book. To Suzanne Young, for encouragement and sage writerly advice such as “If you think it’s funny, go for it!” which I have taken to mean “Add more ball jokes.” And to Trish Doller, who is always there for me to bounce crazy ideas off.
And as always, thanks beyond thanks to my family: Mom, Dad, Julie, Matt, Kelly, and the kids. I love you.