What about this has been hardest for you?
Um. See above?
What do you think needs to be done to make things as right as possible?
Is there any data to support the idea that locking the six of us in a room is going to lead anywhere? I mean, sure, I’m all for finding out who did this and punishing him (because it’s not me, and seriously, does anyone think it’s Alice? She IS super weird, but still).
Is there anything at all you’d like to share confidentially with Ms. Lewiston?
I want this whole thing to end. I need it to be over.
Name: Andre Hall
What happened and what were you thinking at the time of the incident?
Still wasn’t there when it happened. Still wish someone had noticed that I wasn’t there so I could get out of this.
What have you thought about since?
Not much. Yesterday was kind of a waste of time. Though Alice’s makeup effects are pretty intense.
What about this has been hardest for you?
When I got home last night my bandmates were wiped out from an all-day session. I asked if they’d hold off today and start later so I can join. If this goes on I’m going to lose my band.
What do you think needs to be done to make things as right as possible?
We need someone to admit they did it so the rest of us can get out of here.
Is there anything at all you’d like to share confidentially with Ms. Lewiston?
Is it possible someone knows that I wasn’t there, but doesn’t want to say it out loud?
Name: Erik Estrale
What happened and what were you thinking at the time of the incident?
Look, it wasn’t me. Like I said, I was thinking about the game against Greenfield. They have a wicked offense, and their center is a freaking giant. So hard to guard. But no idea about the photos.
What have you thought about since?
Yesterday was kind of a trip, man. Molly let one RIP. Hilarious.
What about this has been hardest for you?
Coach had left and locked up the gym yesterday when I tried to join the camp. I did a ten-mile run, but not sure that’s enough. No pain, no gain.
What do you think needs to be done to make things as right as possible?
No idea, but I’m not sure it’s going to happen in this room.
Is there anything at all you’d like to share confidentially with Ms. Lewiston?
What if someone tells, but there’s no proof? What happens then? Just curious.
Name: Alice Shu
What happened and what were you thinking at the time of the incident?
My answer hasn’t changed since yesterday.
What have you thought about since?
Well, I’ve thought about a ton of different things since that day. This is a really imprecise question, you know? You don’t want me to list everything I’ve thought about since, do you? That would take ages.
What about this has been hardest for you?
Not sure, but I will say I’ve been a little obsessed about the idea of Ms. Lewiston getting attacked by a magpie. I kind of want to make a movie of it.
What do you think needs to be done to make things as right as possible?
I wonder if Theo is at all glad we’re doing this. That IS the point, right?
Is there anything at all you’d like to share confidentially with Ms. Lewiston?
This isn’t a school where people feel safe telling the truth, I don’t think.
Name: Jax Fletcher
What happened and what were you thinking at the time of the incident?
SAME ANSWER
What have you thought about since?
SAME ANSWER
What about this has been hardest for you?
SAME ANSWER
What do you think needs to be done to make things as right as possible?
SAME ANSWER
Is there anything at all you’d like to share confidentially with Ms. Lewiston?
SAME ANSWER SAME ANSWER SAME ANSWER
Day two, Justice Circle. If I were a scientist, my observations would be the following: The subjects appear agitated, sullen, unconcerned, and…possibly asleep. Some seem to be dreading the impending psychological battering, while others exhibit symptoms of denial.
It should be noted that the subject known as Alice is currently sporting a nail coming out of the back of her right hand. It should also be noted that all other subjects are trying to check it out without being caught checking it out. It should finally be noted that it looks freaking sick, and I kind of want to photograph it.
Ms. Lewiston comes in a few minutes after we all settle down. She’s carrying a massive coffee urn masquerading as a cup. I’ve seen bathtubs smaller than that thing. I wish I had thought to bring coffee too, but my mom had the travel mug filled with her gross chai stuff. She promised to get us another mug, but somehow every time we go to Target, the bill is $300 before we even get to the fancy cat food we have to buy so Otis doesn’t puke it all up, and I quietly shove the stuff we can’t afford into the magazine rack. (Sorry, Target employees who find the thermos, ironic Captain America T-shirt, organic catnip toy, and other abandoned items I leave there. My bad.)
Anyway, the smell coming off Lewiston’s coffee is enough to give me a contact buzz, so I close my eyes and inhale deeply.
Molly gives an irritated sigh. Then another one. It’s messing with my caffeine fantasies, so I open my eyes and glare at her.
“What’s the problem? This whole thing cutting into your social schedule?”
She glares back in a way that makes it clear she is exactly as interested in Justice Circles as she is in head lice.
I’m about to make a comment about how she must be desperate to send a Snapchat before she gets the shakes from withdrawal when I remember her hands actually were shaking yesterday. My mouth was already open to snark, and I close it again, probably resembling a largemouth bass. I do it a few more times, like I was exercising my jaw. Because that’s more normal. Just Theo, doing his jaw exercises. Like he does. I stop.
She looks at me. “What?” she says, and her voice is suspicious.
“Nothing.” I glance at Ms. Lewiston, who is staring into her coffee cup like it holds the mysteries of the universe. “Just…you know. Sorry your vacation week is screwed up.”
Molly, if possible, looks more annoyed. Her cheeks flame red, and for a second I remember Alice wanting to do special effects bruises on her, and Molly’s horrified look.
Annnnnnnd…my good deed detonates as I snort-laugh in Molly’s face. Even when I’m trying not to be a total snarky tool, I fail. Miserably. I mentally punch myself in the kidney a few times.
“Sorry! I wasn’t…I swear I’m not laughing at you. I was remembering…Well. Never mind. But it wasn’t at you.”
Before I even finish talking, I know that, though it’s a noble attempt, it’s doomed to fail. Molly looks like she could spit nails.
“What. Ever.”
List of things I wish existed in the world:
A DSLR camera that also shoots great video, fits in a pocket, and is waterproof.
A magic money tree in the backyard. (Note: When he still lived with us, my dad used to always say, “What, the car’s busted again? Good thing we have that magic money tree!” And for years I believed him. Yet another cruel awakening. See also: Tooth Fairy.)
A way to not laugh at inappropriate times. See also: my dad telling me he was moving to Central America; Nonna’s funeral; right now.
Ms. Lewiston takes a last desperate gulp of her coffee, then sets it down with a clank and claps her hands.
I look up, because, while this is definitely a World’s Worst Vacation Week for me, it’s no treat for Ms. Lewiston, who is not only also spending her vacation week here but has Davis th
e Humorless Zero Tolerance Troll on her back. I try to make an expression that says I’m both willing to be a part of this process and also I should under no circumstances be called on, because I don’t really feel that bad for Ms. Lewiston. She shoots me a startled look, and I’m guessing that my expression is more like I’m fighting major indigestion or an internal demon for possession of my soul. Finally I give up and settle for low-grade sullen.
“Okay, good morning, everyone,” Ms. Lewiston says once everyone stops shuffling and whispering and, yes, staring at the nail in Alice’s hand. “I really hope that you all got some rest and a chance to think about this Justice Circle and what we’re doing here. I think the first thing I’d like to do, if you’re willing, is to get out of here.”
She stands up.
I should mention that while I’m looking at her, doing my demonically possessed/passing gas/sullen face, everyone else is staring at the floor. At this, five heads pop up like someone yanked them on hooks.
“Where are we going? Are we leaving school?” Jax asks, pushing out of his chair so hard it falls backward. “Sweet, Ms. L. I like it.”
“We can’t leave school. That’s against policy unless our parents agree. Remember when Mr. Ringel thought it would be cool to walk down to the river with the eighth graders for science? Everyone got in so much trouble. Ethan didn’t even have an EpiPen with him.”
This of course from Molly, who I suspect has internalized the Student Handbook to the point where I almost want to quiz her, Jeopardy!-style. “Give me Cafeteria Policies for two hundred, Theo!”
“Sorry, Jax, but we’re staying in the building. So there’s nothing to worry about, Molly. Actually, we’re going to the library.”
Jax gives a barely audible grunt that rhymes with strap, but the rest of us are moderately excited. The school library was recently totally redone with couches, beanbags, and rugs, and some of us (i.e., nerds) spend a lot of time there, chilling out after lunch or “doing research” (i.e., avoiding alpha males like Erik’s friends who like to engage in physical wedgie humor) during recess.
As we trudge through the empty hallways, we walk right by the student gallery, where my photos once hung. Even now, days later, I still get that sweaty-sick feeling looking at it. It was so surreal, walking into school that night, my mom charging in all mama-grizzly-on-the-attack. Everything faded away…Davis’s babbling, my mom’s angry questions, even the stares and whispers of the remaining students, so that all that I could process was the art itself. Knocked sideways, ripped, one with a giant bronze Sharpie zigzag all over it that almost could have been artistic, if not for the words scrawled over and over. I ran into the bathroom and puked, puked out my after-school snack of Sun Chips and yogurt, puked out my lunch, puked out every single thing inside me, hard and fast. I was back before my mom was even done yelling.
And the thing is, I knew it was a bad idea to hang them. I mean, not because they weren’t good. They were. Not saying that to be an arrogant turd, but I worked really hard on the lighting and did all this research into what portrait photographers like Annie Leibovitz do to make her images so dramatic.
But look. I’m not an idiot. I know that giant artsy black-and-white photographs of me, hair down, fedora on, was a face begging for a slap. My face, and the slap came in the form of graffiti that I still sometimes see in the minutes before I fall asleep.
It should be noted that even when you know something is a bad idea, even when you think you’re expecting the worst, even when you’re sure you’re being realistic about the risks, it still hurts like whoa when the slap comes.
And of course Davis the Impaler HELD AN ASSEMBLY, because research clearly shows that idiot tweenbots are always really moved to tears by an assembly. Picture the flaccid and tragic school counselor rambling on about…yes, zero tolerance, and no place for hate, and have a friend, be a friend, and if you see something, say something. Then add the Davis-Troll-No-Tolerance speech, delivered in a shrill yowl.
Obviously, the whole student body was so moved that they stood up as one to cheer me on and to assure me that my work was valued and that I was a special member of the school community. Only it sounded like they were saying I was a freak and a snitch and a loser and so gay (one of my favorites, really, because of course nothing says “sexually attracted to the same gender” like taking photographs, amirite?).
So, sort of the same thing, but not really.
What truly made the whole thing catastrophically stupid is that before this, I was left alone. I wasn’t cool, or popular, but I had a few other loner types to sit with at lunch (Malcolm and Reese) and text with if I forgot an assignment (Mateo) and partner with in science or even the dreaded PE. These are not actual friends, of course. I don’t really have them. But I fit in comfortably enough. I didn’t hate school, at least. And while I wasn’t surrounded by friends, I also wasn’t one of those super-vulnerable kids who seem to get a nonstop stream of what I call mosquito-level bullying. I’m talking about the ones who are laughed at when they dare raise their hands, or have their backpacks thrown on top of the huge bookshelves so that the janitor has to get a ladder to retrieve them. Or the ones who find themselves sitting on ketchup packets on the bus. We’re not talking after-school-special bullying, but still. It goes on all the time, and every time, I say a little prayer of gratitude to the gods of anonymity that I get left alone.
Then, after the photos went up and got publicly annihilated, it was like there was a spotlight on me. It was whispers of “That’s him. OMG, poor Theo,” or “Did you HEAR what they wrote? I would DIE,” or “Dude, thanks to Gustav’s loser pictures getting trashed, there are teachers freaking everywhere.”
My sort-of-friendly-but-not friends were freaked out and didn’t want to be targeted by association. (Except Mateo, who got a little too fired up about revenge and retaliation, and I had to start leaving lunch early so I didn’t have to hear the plans for the overthrow of the ruling class.)
But it’s school, and there’s always some new drama erupting like a zit on Kevin Hellson’s forehead. (Seriously, his last one was the size of a volcano. The dude should see a dermatologist. I’d feel bad for him except he’s a total jerk, the star of the basketball team, and the kind of guy who calls things “gay” when he really means “clean and not covered in pictures of eagles clutching the American flag.”) I guess the point of all this rambling is, people would have eventually moved on, and, without a real culprit or additional information, Davis might have given up.
Then I set up some cool long-exposure pinhole cameras in the darkroom, with the lighting set up just right, and got permission from Mr. Smith to come back in an hour and finish them. But between the time I closed the door and the time I went back, someone had opened the darkroom door. The door that I’d stuck a huge sign on that said, “Do. Not. Open. (No seriously, DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR. Yes, I’m talking to you!)” And my prints were ruined. And it looked like I was being…what’s the word? Ah yes. Targeted. Or maybe bullied.
And here we are.
I never should have hung those photos in the first place. Now Present-Day Theo would really like to go slap Past Theo across the face repeatedly. But I guess it’s too late for that.
When we get to the library, Ms. Lewiston leads us over to the nook, a pretty excellent area with a fake tree built up the wall and overhanging the couches and beanbags. Four-year-old me would have thought he died and went to heaven at the sight of this magic tree house/reading space, but honestly? Thirteen-year-old me is still pumped about it.
The great irony of this coziness is that it’s usually empty. The school got a big grant to make the library so great, and some fancy interior designer donated her time to create the plans for the space. But now that it’s finished, Davis is so uptight about the possibility of someone trashing it that she makes us get signed passes to sit on the couches. Yes, that’s right. We need permission to sit down o
n the couches that the school so proudly purchased for us.
But Ms. Lewiston obviously believes in total anarchy, or maybe she’s just tired (she left the bathtub of coffee behind), and she gestures around her before tucking her legs up under her on the couch. (Another no-no; to quote Davis: “You can put your feet on the furniture in your own homes, I don’t care! I don’t care how you treat your houses. But not here! These couches are your legacy! You’ll be leaving them for the next students who come through!”)
Ms. Lewiston clearly does not care about our legacy.
Once again our seating pattern feels like one of those inkblot tests shrinks give people to figure out if they’re crazy. Or at least, they do in movies. The shrink I saw after my dad left didn’t show me any inkblots, but he did show me some really funny cartoons and also suggested an F-Bomb journal, where I could write down all the really awful things I would never say to my dad or mom or even him. He was cool.
Anyway, Molly sits next to Ms. Lewiston on the couch but keeps her feet on the ground. Her body language is clearly saying, “Seriously? Can you not even sit without all kinds of code infractions?”
Jax has face-planted in a beanbag, Erik is sitting on the arm of another couch (Rule Violation #2, as arm sitting is “disrespectful to the furniture”; I could not even make this up if I tried).
Anyway, Alice is sitting in a yoga full-lotus pose on a round ottoman, and Andre’s in a small armchair, sitting quietly like…well, like an advertisement for how to sit quietly in a chair. If anyone needed to advertise that for some reason.
“This is a little more comfortable, don’t you think?” Ms. Lewiston asks. “I’m hoping as we get our bodies out of the classroom, we might be able to also break out of our shells a bit. What do you say?”
It Wasn't Me Page 5