[sic]

by Scott Kelly

  I felt my hand connect with something, then focused enough to see a police officer clutching his jaw, looking shocked.

  Punched a cop. I stopped fighting, before someone shot me.

  A second set of arms rolled me over then forced my arms back before a knee was planted on my spine. I rubbed my flaming face into the cool concrete, realizing handcuffs now restrained me. A moment later, I was lifted to a standing position and marched off the field. A kind of reverse graduation, really.

  They put me in the back of a police cruiser. Glad to be out of the public eye. I propped up against the seat and waited, crying out the pepper spray. I didn’t want to go to jail.

  The next few hours passed in stop-motion; I remembered individual frames of activity but none of it felt real, felt connected. The police had me, first—the principal talked them out of an arrest. They dropped me off at the school, on a Saturday.

  The principal was pissed. More at David than us, I think, but David wasn’t in his office. No one knew where he was, apparently.

  I didn’t really care. I was emotionally dead, just staggering through the day.

  Steven went first; I’d sat and listened through the door as I waited in small chair outside. Dreading my turn. The principal’s voice modulations were a good sign of how angry he was; each line of low whispers was punctuated by a roaring finale.

  When it was my turn to sit in the single chair at the opposite end of the administrator’s desk, he didn’t speak for a long time. I studied the poster of Lincoln behind him, counted the leaves on the small fern in the corner. The phone sat disconnected on his desk, little plug dangling uselessly off the side of the table.

  After several minutes, he spoke. “Why are you incapable of behaving decently in public?”

  Because I grew up in a trailer park, sir. Because I have no mother, sir. And so it went. I nodded when necessary, waiting in the corner of my own mind for this ordeal to pass.

  Somewhere in the litany of lectures and threats, the principal made a comment. “I tried to check his file. David’s, I mean, to see if he was disturbed or something. You know what I found? One page. One goddamn page.” Red-faced, lights on his ceiling reflected on the bald circle of his scalp.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He dug into a desk drawer and pulled out a single sheet. Plain white copy paper, marred with two words: all caps, bold, underlined.

  David Bloom.

  “This is what’s in David’s permanent record. Makes us look like idiots.” He put a hand to his beet-red forehead, then plugged the cord into his phone. It rang immediately; he picked up the receiver and slammed it down. “I’m going to take some phone calls. You stay here. I’m not done with you. Wait in the hall.”

  He led me outside his office. I took a seat next to Steven, waiting for the next round.

  My fury at Steven lay cold. I was still pissed at him—but I’d punched him, repeatedly, and had no other way to express my anger. Because I’d done all I could, my mind seemed to reset itself, and we fell back into our old ways.

  “What’d you get?” I asked him.

  “They tried to give me long-term detention. No thanks,” he answered. “I’m dropping out of school. They can kiss my ass.”

  “Bold. I got long-term, too.”

  “I’m making ten grand a year now, fixing computers. I can double that if I don’t have school. I’ll get my GED and move out of the foster center; I’d rather do that than go to detention. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess,” I said. “What about David, where is he staying?”

  “Not in foster care, I can tell you that. They’ve pretty much given up looking for him. He used to disappear every other weekend, then every other night. Now, I never see him.”

  “I need to talk to him,” I said. “Make sure he’s all right.”

  Steven was silent for a moment. “I think I’m going to quit.”

  “What? Why?”

  He looked down at the gray tile floor. “What’s next for Eureka? Do I need to do something like that? No way. I’m not throwing away everything for some game.”

  “So why’d you tag him, then?”

  Steven stared at the ground. His glasses sat crooked, bent from my fists.

  “Wait,” I said, “were you hoping David would back out? That’s it, right? You thought tagging him during the valedictorian’s speech would make him quit.”

  “I just wanted to know. David is great, don’t get me wrong. But…I mean, come on. Would you do what he just did? Would you throw it all away for a game?”

  “Let me get this straight—you tried to call his bluff?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And it didn’t work?” I pressed.

  “Yeah.”

  “And now you’re quitting?”

  Steven sighed, palms in the air. “If this is what Eureka is, if that’s what it takes to be David’s friend, I’m not sure I want to do that. If I keep playing, whatever I do next will have to be better than what David did. So, what do I do? Shoot myself in the head? That’d change things.”

  I shook my head, disgusted, and didn’t say anything else. In truth, I hadn’t worked out all my own feelings about what happened, either.

  The principle opened the door. The rest of the day passed in a blur. Endless lectures. I could tell from the onset, this was serious.

  The administrator was furious. I tried to argue out of my sentence, but they wouldn’t budge. My fate was sealed: for senior year I’d be in long-term detention. The ‘bad kids’ school. Probably where I belonged, anyway.

  17. The talented Mr. Bloom

  I imagine some parents would’ve grounded their kids, or taken away their privileges. But, my dad seemed convinced he didn’t have any kind of control over me. Instead, he simply condemned me wholesale, and seemed to write me off as a lost cause. By the end of the first week of summer, we just stopped talking.

  As to what happened to David—I still didn’t know what to think. David was a hero, but Steven should’ve known better. Why would Steven be so desperate to push his buttons? If David was a pyromaniac, would Steven hand him a lighter? We had to play the game within reason, right? Otherwise we’d all end up in jail.

  The Broadway plot where David’s trailer sat was empty. The grass was dead in a big rectangle where the home rested all those years; a trail of trampled lawn led toward the woods.

  Tire tracks led me through the forest. I followed the impressions until they ended at a small clearing, nearly half a mile into the wild lands.

  David’s trailer sat beneath an oak, dingy and yellowed, windows cracked and wheels flat. His laundry was strung up on a long line connecting to a neighboring tree. In addition to the flannel shirts and worn jeans, a single black bra hung from the clothes line. Go David.

  I paused outside and took a deep breath before knocking on the door. A moment later, he answered, smiling down at me.

  “Hey,” he said, stepping back so I could enter.

  Paintings lined the walls of the narrow trailer; explosive splashes of color. Some of the oils still looked wet. I tried to ignore the artwork—didn’t want to seem overly impressed.

  “What brings you by?” David wasn’t surprised by the visit, which wasn’t surprising.

  “I haven’t talked to you in a while, is all,” I said. “Wanted to see what you were up to out here. Broadway is kinda lonely without you.”

  He turned to face one of the paintings. “Foster care made me realize I’d rather be alone. Easier to live this way, even if it’s in Mom’s old trailer.”

  “How’s your mom doing, anyway?”

  “She’s dead,” he said simply.

  “I’m sorry.” A silence settled.

  Everything in the trailer was yellow with age; the windows were open and it was humid inside, so much that my breath felt wet. A pair of thick spectacles sat on a small kitchen table which jutted from the wall, glass lenses cataract with scratches. An old design, big teardrop frames made of metal, be
nt from sitting uneven all those years.

  I tried to revive the conversation: “So, did you paint these, or what?” Three colorful canvases covered the available space in the mobile home. They were composed of lines and colors which didn’t seem to signify anything in particular, yet all had some untraceable common theme.

  “Yeah. Have a seat,” he said, smiling. “Want some water or something?’

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I sat down on a cushioned platform.

  “They’re music,” David said.

  “What?”

  “The paintings. I draw music. Usually other people’s songs, but I’ve started to compose, too. See? This one is Beethoven, the fourth movement of the Ninth Symphony.”

  The painting ran in a linear fashion from left to right, with the left half made of foreboding shades of blue and gray. Large, thick black and red lines consumed the right half, the climax. Graceful swirls of color, just like the song.

  “That one is old. Here’s a newer one—the 1812 Overture.”

  This painting did not seem linear, but rather a summation of the entire song. Soft cascades of fingerprints laid out the gentle rise of violins, until the piece erupted into burnt orange and brown holes like cigarette burns. Jagged lines across the top of the painting presented the ferocious melody. Giant black polka dots along the bottom, perfect circles, were the bass. While I looked at the painting, I could almost hear the song.

  “This one is an original,” he said, motioning to a different canvas.

  This one was circular, but made sense; the image felt like a song. Abstract, but it clicked somehow, musically.

  “I’m impressed. I can hear them.”

  David smiled again. “Good. That’s the idea.”

  “So is this what you do now? Paint?”

  “I’ve been trying new things, lately.”

  “I noticed.” I paused, unable to hold back the question burning through my brain, then blurted: “So, did you really cheat?”

  He laughed, stuffed hands in pockets, slouched his shoulders. “No. Just wanted to give them a kick in the ass on my way out, you know. Only had fifteen minutes to come up with that.”

  “Don’t you regret it, though? You had scholarships, college and everything. I mean, can you still go?”

  “What if I told you something I’ve never told anyone before?” he asked.

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t feel anything,” David said, leaning forward as he did so, lock of hair falling in front of his right eye.

  I stared ahead, unable to speak for a moment. Then: “What?”

  “I don’t feel feelings, not like other people do. There’s just nothing there. When we broke into the school office, you were terrified—I could see it on your face. I didn’t feel anything. When my mother died, nothing. Not since I was very young. So when you ask me if I regret what I did at graduation, that question is kind of lost on me.”

  “You don’t have feelings?”

  “Not as such.” He said this matter-of-factly, like explaining math to a child. “I’m not some monster. I have a code I live by, and I don’t mean to harm people. But I think people are harming themselves, and Eureka can help with that. You should know—you were the first person to realize what it could be. I didn’t understand the effect it has on normal people, I mean people with feelings, until you showed me. It forces people to embrace the thing they fear most, the same thing that makes up the realness of life. Change. Think of every abused wife who sticks with her husband because she doesn’t see any way out for herself. Think of everyone stuck at a miserable desk job, rotting from the inside out. People who are paralyzed by life—nearly everyone. People stuck to their pasts, to their possessions, to their relationships, and all they need is permission to change.”

  “I’ve seen the same things,” I admitted. “I’m just worried about this going too far.”

  “You’re right to be concerned. Because of my predicament—with my feelings, or lack thereof—I have to be very aware of myself. Being careful doesn’t come naturally to me, I find, because I don’t know when I am supposed to be scared. But you always have, and you’ve always been there to warn me. Remember when we broke into that house? You told me to stop. You were right; that got out of hand. I should have listened. People seem to get hurt when I ignore your advice.”

  “I didn’t do much good during graduation,” I countered. “You didn’t ask me.”

  “I’m asking you now. I’m ‘it,’ right? What if I let you decide? What if I let you hold onto it, and then you’ll be able to tell me—is this right? And if you never tag anyone, well then, I guess that’ll be my answer. But I mean this, Jacob. I’m giving you something very important. This is me.”

  “You’d trust me like that?”

  “I know what you’ll choose,” David said. His hand rested on my forearm. “You don’t have to change right now; I want you to decide if it’s the right thing to do, first. But, you’re ‘it’ now.”

  That day, David left the future of Eureka in my hands—and I wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  18. High hopes

  Now

  I look Mr. Aschen in the eye. “Can’t you see? David trusted me. He gave me the power to decide what would happen. How could he have been using me, if I had control?”

  “Those are only words, Jacob. He only told you something to make you feel important. He’s a manipulator. How did this end? Did you get to decide Eureka’s fate? You have to look past the words. You have to look at the numbers, at the math. The math doesn’t lie.”

  I lean back in my chair. If I try, I can reach the opposite end of the room with my foot. I don’t want to answer this part.

  Mr. Aschen sighs and folds the manila envelope closed. “Do you mind if I ask you a somewhat petty question, Jacob?”

  I cross my arms. “That’s all we’re doing here, right?”

  “Why did you stop coming to counseling sessions with me?”

  “You don’t need counseling when you’ve got Eureka,” I tell him.

  “Did David tell you that?”

  Well, not directly. I don’t answer this, either.

  Mr. Aschen puts the black and silver pen into his shirt pocket and folds his hands, all graying dignity. “I only ask because I stopped doing volunteer work when you stopped coming to our sessions. I was a bit disappointed to learn David was a suitable replacement for me. Well, not suitable, obviously.”

  “Not David. Jesus, Mr. Aschen, I keep trying to get this across to you. It’s not all about David. It’s Eureka. The idea might have come from anywhere. You just keep bringing up David because you think I’ll say I secretly hated him, that I killed him. I didn’t.”

  Mr. Aschen only raises an eyebrow and grins again, like a poker player who’s confident in his hand. “You found me out. But, really—I miss our sessions. This may be bad of me to say, but I never managed to connect with the others in your gang.” The aging psychologist emphasizes the word. “You’ve always been my favorite. I think you have the most potential, even more than David.” He speaks into his folded fingers.

  “Now you’re the one who’s manipulating. Isn’t it bad form to pick favorites?”

  “They aren’t my clients anymore,” Mr. Aschen informs me. “Society failed you, Jacob. You and your friends have been mistreated. But, out of the whole sad mess of Broadway Trailer Park, you’re the one I thought I had the most hope of reaching. Unfortunately, David took the opportunity from me. You can’t see it, Jacob, but you’re infatuated with him. He’s the only male role model you’ve ever had, and you’ve come to think of him as your father figure.”

  Denial springs eternal. “Let me just tell you what happened next, all right?”

  *

  Senior year, August

  Late during the summer, I finally got a bit of good luck: Dad got arrested for drunk driving. With his license revoked, he couldn’t drive for the next year. I had to take him to his community service, to the corner store and back—but out of
necessity, I got the car.

  Had to suffer some awkward conversations. Counted every stitch on the steering wheel during the red lights. He was not happy about my getting sent to long term. I think for him, this signaled some sort of change in me. I was on the wrong path, officially. At least I wasn’t drunk-driving down it.

  Still. A car.

  Although—my car wasn’t like other cars. Other cars guzzled gasoline and belched black smoke that blazed holes in the ozone. My car, on the other hand, sipped petrol with a pinky in the air and covered its mouth when it coughed. It started like a suspicious lump and stopped like a slow death.

  I drove my little blue box up to the long-term detention parking lot and took a deep breath. My first day. I resisted the urge drive away from—hell, maybe through—the school.

  The sign out front read ‘Hope High School.’ As in, ‘I hope you’ll be tried as adults.’

  The first day of school, and Hope High was silent. Students walked listlessly, feet dragging, staring blankly ahead. I thought they’d at least see a friend, get excited—but, no. Like summer never happened; this could have been any day of the year. No one made eye contact.

  Seemed like everyone around me had been there forever.

  I made my way to my first—and only—classroom, and sat down in the back. The moment my ass connected to the chair, time began slipping by, out of my grasp. The first day became the first week, just like the next, and the one before it. Apathy nation. Everyone cared so little and talked so seldom; I lived in the personification of the word whatever. The vocabulary was as slim as…it sucked. It sucked, was all.

  Something about it lulled me into a kind of gray state of being, where the passage of time slipped by meaninglessly.

  The ‘teachers’ acted more like babysitters, and keeping riot level pandemonium to a minimum seemed to be good enough for them. Like they knew the students stood on a keen edge, and given the right circumstances, might actually have an emotion about something.

  But, the staff seemed to understand the one thing keeping them from being locked into closets and the school from being burnt down was the fact no one cared about being screwed over. As long as the students didn’t care, they were fine. And it was easy to not care, really. Every day was exactly the same; blink your eyes and another week was gone. Nothing happened worth remembering.