BAM! BAM! BAM!
I roll my eyes. “Why don’t you make, like, more noise?”
Alice cuts in, “How about we all make less?” She looks a bit frazzled. With a brother like that, who wouldn’t? He’s dribbling and moaning like he’s in pain, rocking and bobbing in the corner like a one-man boxing match. A head taller than Alice, but just as skinny. Same blond hair under his goofy orange hat, same blue eyes. Only his are totally spaced out.
Hogan stops and looks at me. “No one gets in,” he turns to Alice, “or out.”
“Fine,” I say. “But how the hell are the police supposed to get in? Ever think of that?”
“Our plan right now,” he says, “is to keep quiet. As long as that crazy guy out there doesn’t know we’re here, we’re good.”
Then the spazzy brother turns and, I kid you not, strips. He, like, totally pulls down his track pants and underwear—all the way to his ankles—and starts peeing in a urinal. Right in front of me.
“Ew.” I turn away and cover my eyes. “Seriously?! Does he have to do that here?”
“It’s a men’s washroom, Izzy,” Hogan says, like I don’t already know. “Where else is he gonna go?”
The sound stops. But when I look back all I see is his hairy butt as he bends over to pull up his pants. “Ugh! Totally gross.”
Click.
“Oh, come on, Xander!” I turn towards him still sitting on the floor. “Why? WHY?”
“Dude,” Hogan shakes his head. “It’s a butt.”
“No,” Xander corrects him, “it’s a wide-angle candid of you all discussing his butt.”
“This!” I gesture at him with both hands. “THIS is the kind of insane crap he was giving me for the yearbook. Can you believe it?”
“I already told you.” Xander shrugs. “I don’t choose. I just shoot. The Tank sees what it sees. It doesn’t lie.”
“Who is Tank?” Hogan asks.
“His dumb camera!” I say, rolling my eyes for emphasis. How idiotic. I mean, who names a camera? Even if you have no friends.
Think about it, loser. Maybe that’s why you don’t.
HOGAN
It’s not that weird. I mean, lots of musicians name their guitars, like B.B. King had Lucille and Jimi Hendrix had Betty Jean. So he calls his camera the Tank. Dumb name, if you ask me. But I’m guessing he’s never known a girl well enough to name it after.
“Alice! You’re bleeding!” Izzy points at Alice’s bare leg. Below her shorts there are red streaks from the back of her calf down into her sock.
Alice lifts her foot up on the sink and twists awkwardly to get a better look. Blood drips in splatters on the floor.
“Totally. Gross,” Izzy says, leaning in like she’s gonna help. But instead, she backs away and flaps her hands like Noah. “Ew! Ew! There’s something in it! I can’t even…”
Alice looks at me, her big eyes asking, and before I know it I say, “Want me to check?”
She nods, thankful.
I lean in. See a glint in the gash. “Yeah…looks like there’s a piece of glass in it.”
Alice unzips her fanny pack and pulls out a few Kleenex. “Can you get it?”
I look at her other three options. Izzy grossed out. Noah spaced out. And Xander zooming in and out.
“I’ll try.” I hold her leg steady in my left hand and pinch at the corner of the glass. It takes a few tries with my thick, stupid fingers. “I think I got it.” The shard slides free easily enough, but the cut is pretty deep. I step on the sink pedal and turn on the taps. “Can you move closer to the water?”
She stumbles a bit, and I catch her with my arm, wrap it around to steady her as we try to rinse off her leg the best we can. Izzy continues her ew-ew-ew chant behind me, and Noah starts to play in the spray. He strums the streams like guitar strings until I lift my foot off the pedal and the spray stops. But he’s still rocking to whatever water song keeps playing in his head. I wonder what it sounds like.
Alice hands me the Kleenex and I wad it over the cut. Already the white tissue is blood red. “It might need stitches. Got any Band-Aids in that fanny pack?”
She shakes her head.
On the floor, Xander unzips his backpack and hands me up a roll of gray duct tape. “Will this work? Duct tape is used by NASA. The Apollo 17 crew used it to repair their lunar rover when—”
“Yeah, okay,” I snag it from him. “Thanks, Spock.”
He frowns. “I just wasn’t sure if you were familiar with the many uses of duct tape.”
I rip a strip and press it to my fur a few times before sticking it over the tissue and around her thin leg. “My football initiation involved duct tape—I’m more than familiar with this stuff. Probably still missing a few layers of skin. Hopefully, this one won’t stick as bad.” I press around the edges. “It’s not pretty, but it oughta hold for now.”
“Oh, it will hold,” Xander continues. “MythBusters were able to suspend a car and build a functional cannon out of duct tape. They even made a sailboat, canoe, and…”
Alice lowers her foot as Xander rambles on. I turn on the taps again, this time to rinse the blood off my hands. But as the water rushes over my fingers, I don’t hear Xander’s babbling or Noah’s moaning, just a whooshing in my ears as red pools and swirls around the drain. Circling down, down, as the panic rises.
Stop.
Stop!
Stop the bleeding!
Alice puts her hand on my arm for a second. “Thanks.” Her touch, her voice brings me back to the present, and I look at her. Embarrassed, she lets go.
“It could be worse,” Alice says. “I bet there are a few kids right now who wish they were locked down in a bathroom instead of a classroom. At least we have toilets…”
Izzy folds her arms. “Rrrright. I am NOT using those.”
“…and a sink with water,” Alice continues as I dry my hands.
Izzy sneers. “Definitely NOT drinking from that!”
“Well, if we were in Ms. Carter’s class,” Alice jokes, “we’d probably have to pee in the garbage can.”
“Actually, it would be blue bin for liquids,” Xander states, like it’s clearly the obvious choice, “black bin for solids.”
We all stop and stare at him. The guy is totally serious.
“You know,” he explains, like there’s a logic to it, “because feces are biodegradable.”
“You are, like, SO disgusting,” Izzy says. “Seriously. Don’t even talk to me.”
He shrugs. Takes a notebook and pencil out of his backpack and starts writing. I glance at the page. Sure enough, he’s written his recycling plan.
“Why are you writing that down?” I ask, like there’s a hope in hell he’s gonna have a good explanation.
He looks up and blinks. “I am recording it for the autopsy.” Then he goes back to his book.
And people think I’m crazy.
XANDER
Writer’s Craft Journal
Xander Watt
March 11, 2016
REFLECTION: Of the writing genres studied so far, which one most appeals to you?
—
Social Autopsies. You may not be familiar with this genre. We don’t learn them in Writer’s Craft. But maybe we should. I first learned about them in grade 9.
You may not have noticed, but I have a hard time fitting in. It was worse in grade 9. Back then, I had a lot of meltdowns. But then Mrs. O’Neill in the Resource Room taught me how to write a Social Autopsy.
It’s a dissection (just like a real autopsy), only this one does a postmortem on a conversation.
Conversation Facts
1. What is said often is not what is heard.
2. What is said often is not even what is meant.
3. People lie. A lot.
4. Even if they ask for the truth, most people don’t want to hear it.
No wonder conversations leave me so confused.
Mrs. O’Neill also used photographs of facial expressions. For example, in S
ocial Autopsy #27 she held up two photos and asked, “Was your teacher looking more like this or this when she said, ‘Oh, sorry, Xander, am I boring you with this lesson?’ ”
I pointed to the expression most like Mrs. Brown’s. Mrs. O’Neill said that usually when both eyebrows are up it is a “literal question.” The person wants an answer. But that same question asked with one eyebrow up is a “rhetorical question.” One you don’t answer. Especially not with the truth. Especially not when it’s, “Yes, actually, Mrs. Brown, this is the most boring lesson you’ve given to date. And you’ve done a lot of really bad ones.”
Mrs. O’Neill told me that Mrs. Brown was being sarcastic.
—
sarcastic
/sa:’kæstik/
adjective. using irony to mock or convey contempt. Snide.
Scornful. Smart-alecky.
I wonder why it’s okay for Mrs. Brown to speak sarcastically, but it’s not okay for me to speak the truth? Either way, that Social Autopsy taught me a few things:
Observations
1. Don’t yawn loudly in class. Even if you are bored or tired.
2. Don’t give feedback unless asked. Even if it’s something amazing that you think everyone should know.
3. If a teacher asks for feedback, 9 times out of 10, it’s probably a trick.
Conclusion
Seek clarification. Ask, just to be sure. Always.
Social Autopsies help me make sense of the illogical, things like Mrs. Brown’s moods, or group work, or even girls. I’m still dissecting that one—trying to crack the code. But Mrs. O’Neill tells me that even boys with the highest communication skills do not understand girls most of the time.
If that’s true, then there’s no chance I ever will.
Then Mrs. O’Neill asked me if I enjoyed our conversations, and I said yes.
“Well, I’m a girl,” she continued. “So, what does that tell you?”
I thought about that for a minute.
Observations:
1. Technically she is a female. Even if her hair is cut like my bus driver, Pete’s.
2. My mom is female. I like speaking to her.
Conclusion
I am quite comfortable speaking to middle-aged, overweight women.
But when I shared that insight with Mrs. O’Neill, something in her face made me think I should have asked for clarification first.
I do Social Autopsies on my own now. I even started collecting photos of sample expressions. Like the “you’re annoying” face. I get that one a lot. I know that one now without even looking at my face charts.
I’m more skilled with the Tank and more invisible. I have collected a wide range of expressions. But I don’t ask the subject for explanations (that usually leads to further Social Autopsies). Instead I take my photos to my grandfather at Pinehill Nursing Home. Grandpa Alex has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t remember me or our conversations, but he does know how to analyze expressions pretty well. I show him a picture and he defines the emotion: greed, joy, regret.
A group photo: “Angry mouth. Sad eyes. See how he’s looking at the other guy who is talking to that pretty girl? Jealousy if I ever saw it.”
A woman at the dinner table staring into space: “Tired. Sad, but bitter. Maybe vengeful. I’d say that poor girl got her heart broke.”
He knew all that, even if he never recognized his own daughter in the picture.
So, of all the genres, I most like Comics…but I most need Social Autopsies.
HOGAN
“I’m surROOUNded by EEEdiots,” Noah mutters, eyes up on the ceiling. “Surrounded by EEEEEdiots.”
I didn’t think he could speak. I mean, just the way he acts. I didn’t think he knew how.
“Did he just call me an idiot?” Izzy says, offended.
“No. It’s Scar,” Alice says. “From Lion King. It’s his favorite movie. We’ve seen it a million times.”
The way she says it makes me think she’s not exaggerating.
The alarm sounds on Noah’s watch and he heads for the door.
“No, Noah,” Alice says, “we have to stay here.”
Ignoring her, he yanks on the handle and, of course, being wedged shut, the door doesn’t budge. He pulls harder, moans long and loud. His hands start flapping open and closed as he bobs back and forth, like that’s gonna open it.
She looks at me apologetically as she tries to calm him down. “It’s just…well, he knows it’s library time. This is when he shelves the books.”
She grabs his hand and leads him to the corner by the towel dispenser. I think he’s going to freak again. Run at the door or who knows what. Instead, he starts cranking out paper towel. Working the handle around and around, yelling out and clapping as the brown paper piles up on the floor.
Izzy looks at me. “How long do you think this will take?”
I like that she thinks I know. I wish I did. “No word from Bri?”
“No. Not about that. She’s too busy bragging about all the fun she had at Kate’s party last weekend.”
“Kate Howard?” Alice asks, over her shoulder.
“Seriously? Don’t tell me you were there!” Izzy looks at Alice in shock. “I mean, no offense but—”
“No. We’re just neighbors.” Alice cuts her off before the offense happens. Smart girl. “Gran had to call the police that night. The bonfire got way out of hand. It wasn’t safe.” She blushes then. Busies herself with cleaning up the paper towel. Probably feels stupid that she just ratted out her Gran.
Alice perks up. “Shh! Do you hear that?”
All I can hear is the squeak of Noah’s cranking. But then I hear it too. Metal on metal. A slithery kinda clinking not far away. We freeze in silence, watching each other glance at the door. Finally it stops. And all is quiet again. Even Noah.
Alice whispers. “It sounds like—”
“Chains,” I say.
“Chains?” Izzy goes. “For what?”
Is it part of his stupid prank—locking in everyone who is on a lockdown? I keep my mouth shut. There’s no point in freaking them out even more.
Alice piles the paper towel in a heap on its rusted box as Noah starts pacing the small room. He drags two fingers along the brick wall like a car on a racetrack.
“There has to be a logical resolution to all this,” Alice explains as she sits down beside me.
“This isn’t a movie, Alice,” Izzy argues, gathering a few of her scattered flyers to cover a spot on the floor. She settles herself on them, like they’re a yoga mat. She crosses her tanned legs, careful not to touch the tiles. “This is real life. Not everything has a story.”
Alice smiles. “But every person does.”
I guess she’s right. We all have one—even if it’s one we’d rather forget.
“Think about it,” she continues. “Whoever this guy is, he has a plot.”
“You mean like a plan?” I ask.
“Exactly!” Alice nods, excitedly. “It’s like The Hero’s Journey, remember, Isabelle? Ms. Carter taught us that last week.”
Izzy looks at her, confused. I guess she missed that lesson.
“Every hero reaches that point of no return,” Alice explains. “And once he acts, once he crosses that threshold—everything changes.”
I know all about that. Hell, I’ve spent the past two years regretting the moment I hit that point. The moment I hit my brother.
Maybe she is on to something.
“Wait, wait,” Izzy interrupts. “Yeah, I remember now. But that’s for heroes. Like Luke Skywalker, or Katniss, or Frodo. This guy, this psycho, whoever he is—he’s no hero.”
“Well, not in our stories, no,” Alice agrees. “But he’s probably a hero in his.”
Ya, Hulkster. Just like how you’re a real hero.
We sit in silence for a moment. Noah walks around the room tracing his finger through the grooves between the dingy bricks. He comes to the edge of the next brick, stops for a second, then changes direction. Up. St
op. Forward. Stop. Like he is finding a pattern in the chaos even if he is literally going in circles.
I think about what Alice said. It kinda makes sense. “So, what?”
“So,” Alice rolls her eyes like it is so obvious, “if we knew a bit more about him, we could probably predict the ending.”
Xander nods. “The Resolution.”
Alice counts the possibilities on her fingers. “If he was bullied, he’d want revenge. Or if he was feeling insignificant—maybe this is his way of making his mark, like you said earlier, Hogan.” She smiles at me.
I said that?
Yeah, I guess I did. I might not know the stuff teachers want, like this journey thing, but I do know what it feels like to be a nothing. A nobody. I know all about that. I can tell you what it feels like to grow up in someone else’s shadow. And with all the things Randy did so well, that shadow was huge. It sucked to feel invisible when Randy was alive. But it’s nothing compared to living in the total darkness of a dead brother’s shadow.
Alice counts off her third finger. “Or he’s just pulling a prank.” Her pinky. “Or maybe he had a test and he didn’t want to write it.”
Or maybe he’s a psychopath on a rampage. I don’t say that one out loud.
Izzy pouts. “Well, even if we knew anything about this guy—which we don’t—what good would it do?”
“Unless…” I say, as the idea clicks on like a bare bulb, “unless you know his fatal flaw.”
Silence.
I look up to see all of them staring at me in surprise.
“What?” I shift, suddenly uncomfortable. “I read Hamlet in Dunne’s class. And I didn’t even read the play, okay? It was the graphic novel or whatever.” I cross my arms.
Yeah, I listen in class sometimes. So what? I’ve skipped her class more times than I’ve sat through it.
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