The Art of Hero Worship

by Mia Kerick

  My bedroom is hot and stuffy as the screen in the window above my bed tore the first time I forced the stubborn window open this summer, and, in order not to invite in bugs, I’m forced to keep it closed. There’s no cross-ventilation in the room and it feels like a late-August sauna in here, but I continue to pack my boxers and socks as neatly as I can into a rolling suitcase. This less-than-demanding task has left me with the solitude I’ve been avoiding since I returned from Cape Cod. A perfectly unwelcome environment for thinking.

  After my short trip to Cape Cod, I’d improved psychologically, and I did so rapidly. Therapy sessions became incredibly useful, where before they were exercises in futility. I got in touch with my friends from high school, Kendrick and Dan; we went to a Red Sox game, a couple of hometown barbeques, and swimming in the local reservoir. I even reached out to Mom in an effort to let her know I’m on the path to recovery, despite the fact that she never really listens to much that I say.

  And I visited Ginny’s parents. We grieved together. It was painful but brought about some closure in that aspect of my life.

  I slid back into regular eating and sleeping habits, and I even hit the gym in an effort to get in shape. And maybe I’m not planning on going into a theater any time soon, but overall, I’m like a different guy than I was before I went away with Liam.

  I have no clue why I returned from Cape Cod so much changed for the better in terms of my mental health, but I try not to question it because it’s a good thing. All I can say is that my improvement had something to do with hope. The only problem is that I’m not sure I like the guy I’ve become.

  And maybe because I know I’m going to see Liam face-to-face within the next few days, as we’re going to be living in the same dormitory, I finally level with myself.

  Better late than never, right?

  I used Liam to again rescue me from my life at the sludgy bottom of the barrel, which was where it had ended up by mid-July of summer break. I took just enough from him to gain the sense of hope for the future I needed to rejoin the world of the living. Once I had that precious hope, I tucked it against my chest and ran off with it, refusing to acknowledge that I got it from him… and thinking I could pretend it was mine all along. But the new mentally stable Jason isn’t even close to being as genuine as the terrified, needy one who went away for a weekend with the friend from college who saved my life, time and again.

  But like I said, I don’t ask too many questions. Closely examining the ins and outs, the why’s and why not’s—it’s just not who I am.

  Needless to say, I haven’t stayed in contact with Liam. He has my cell number, and used it a few times to check on me. Likewise, I have his number, but I never returned his calls. I heard them come in, waited as they rang, and watched as they went to voicemail. Where they’ve remained, never having been listened to. And I’ve sat alone on my bed a hundred times, a thousand times, staring at the cell phone on my desk, wanting so badly to dial his number. But I’ve never followed through.

  I’m not sure of the exact reasons for my inaction—maybe it’s because Liam reminds me of the violence and terror I want to forget, but more likely it’s a personal sexuality issue. When I think about him, I first get warm and soon become overly hot, my stomach tightens and my throat grows an enormous lump. Then I start to feel vulnerable because, not only has Liam seen me at my lowest point, he’s taken me to my highest with his hand and his mouth and his simple words. I’m caught in an awkward place between wanting him, needing him, and feeling compelled to reject him, because I am not gay and what Liam represents is a totally new kind of life that I’m not sure I can embrace. And no, I’m not homophobic—shit, I never even set my sights on being traditional! This whole having romantic feelings for the man who saved my life thing has taken me by surprise, that’s all.

  Apparently, my avoidance of Liam has much more to do with sexuality issues than unwanted reminders of the shooting.

  I’m a coward in more ways than one.

  In any case, my girlfriend from high school, Carrie Dodd, and I, have gotten together a few times, and I won’t lie, our single attempt at hooking up felt more wrong than right… more disappointing than sweet. The best way I can describe it is “it got the job done” but even that’s a lie because it didn’t. Still, I’ve done my best to roll with it… with her. Carrie’s gorgeous and sexy and reasonably intelligent and only slightly annoying when she drones on and on about how much all the guys at her college wanted her freshman year. But her presence doesn’t require me to think too hard or question myself, and I guess I like that part.

  I’m normal Jason Tripp again, right?

  I’m the guy I was before I met Ginny—the first girl to make me laugh and think and look at the world in a different way—and before I was nearly shot in the head twice. And before I was touched by the hand and the heart of a man who I simultaneously crave and abhor.

  Sure, I’m normal Jase….

  Mom peeks her head into my bedroom. “I think that’s all of it, dear. I have your clothes pressed and folded into the two large duffle bags, and I baked enough double-chocolate fudge brownies for you to share with your entire floor. They’re in the green and white Tupperware containers, and I want the containers back, you hear me? Tupperware doesn’t grow on trees.”

  Mom has gradually come to accept that I’m returning to Batcheldor College to study journalism. I’m glad to be returning. I seriously need some space from her. The woman is great in many ways, but suffocating too. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “That poor sweet Carrie looked so dejected when she left here this morning. I hope you plan on staying in touch with her. She would make me an excellent daughter-in-law.”

  I barf in my mouth, but swallow quickly and offer my mother a noncommittal shrug. When Mom sends me a stern look I smile dumbly.

  “Good girls like her don’t grow on trees, either, young man.”

  I know it’s more likely that I hang onto the green and white Tupperware containers for the long haul, than I hold onto Carrie, but I still nod. “I think it’s time we headed to Vermont.” Sometimes changing the subject is the only way out of these types of unwanted heart-to-hearts with Mom. “Jack expects me to be back at school in time for the club soccer meeting.”

  Mom smiles and it makes her look a decade younger. “Well, keep in mind that if a certain soccer player invited a certain mother to watch a soccer game or two, she wouldn’t say no.”

  “Not subtle, Mom. But I’ll let you know when I get my soccer schedule.”

  I receive a quick squeeze before she heads for the driver’s seat of our minivan.

  “Mom, I can drive back to school.”

  She shakes her head with something close to vehemence. “The way you apply the brakes makes me ill. Now get your bottom into the passenger seat and buckle your seat belt.” I can’t argue with that, and like a kid, I’m driven away to college in our family minivan for the second time in as many years.

  ***

  I wondered if I would freak out when we drove past the Harrison Theater on our way to RetroHouse, but I didn’t. I just held my head stiffly and stared straight in front of me, allowing residual numbness to encapsulate me.

  Now, I’m in my new dormitory room, which is slightly bigger than my basement room of last year, and on the main floor, as well. Mom made my bed, which will probably never be made again this year, unpacked my freshly ironed clothing into the standard issue bureau, and passed out her brownies to anyone and everyone on my floor.

  I found myself eager for her to leave so that I could go upstairs to where most of the seniors are housed, and find Liam before the soccer meeting. I’d been surprisingly obsessed by this desire, and the very second Mom was out of my room, I ran for the stairs.

  Seniors all have good-sized single rooms; the reward for three long years of sharing space with roommates. I walk down the long hall on the fourth floor and read the nametags on each door, none of which have Liam Norwell printed neatly across its width. I find
this odd, because when we were at the beach last summer, he’d told me that he was going to be in the senior singles in RetroHouse this year.

  I’m left with no choice but to ask someone. I linger in the hallway until a hipster-looking guy saunters out of his room. “Hey…excuse me, I have a question.”

  He looks at me strangely, probably wondering what on earth this lowly sophomore is doing up on the senior floor. “Yeah?”

  “Do you know Liam Norwell? He’s supposed to be living up here and I don’t see a room with his nametag on it.”

  “Norwell bailed on living in RetroHouse at the last minute. He got an apartment off-campus, from what I heard.”

  I’m surprised. No, I’m fucking shocked. And hurt… but I’m not sure of the reason. “Do you know where his apartment is?”

  “Do I look like a frigging address book?” He walks straight past me to the stairs and I pick up a distinct “get a life” vibe.

  “Uh… thanks.” For nothing. I’m stunned, feeling like I’ve been slapped hard in the face. Not only does Liam refuse to live in the same dormitory as me, he didn’t even tell me about his change in plans.

  I know… I know… I never returned his calls. But still… he could’ve texted me.

  12

  I can’t find him.

  He doesn’t answer or return my phone calls, but I realize I can’t complain about this since it’s exactly what I did to him at the end of the summer. I already went to the Registrar’s Office and asked for his new address, but the secretary told me she couldn’t disclose that information. I really never knew who his roommate was, or any of his friends—but I do know that he had gone to see Ginny’s roommate, Mariah Craft, perform on the night of the theater shootings. It doesn’t take much of a detective to figure out where she’s living. The sophomores are housed in RetroHouse and Hamilton Hall, and since I know she isn’t living in RetroHouse, I stop by Hamilton Hall on my way home after the first day of classes.

  It’s like the bad kind of déjà vu. I walk up and down the halls of the girl’s floors in Hamilton Hall, reading the names posted on the doors of the young women who live there, and I don’t see Mariah’s name. So, I’m forced to camp out in the lobby until a girl I recognize as a sophomore enters the dorm.

  “Hi… you’re Emily, right?” I’ve never before put myself out there like this. But I really want to find Liam.

  “Yeah… weren’t you… uh, like Ginny Blankenship’s boyfriend?” She seems to realize how stupid a thing to ask it is halfway through saying it. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry I asked that!”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay, I guess.” It strikes me that Ginny would likely be living in this very hallway if she hadn’t been killed last spring. For a moment, I think I’m going to lose it and barf in the water fountain on the wall. It hurts to think about Ginny and it also brings back the memories of trying to survive last summer. But I pull myself together because I have a purpose here. “Do you know where Mariah Craft is living this year? I haven’t talked to her since… last spring and I wondered if you knew which room is hers. I want to say hi.”

  “Oh, you don’t know?” The girl is pretty with her blue eyes and light brown hair, but I have no interest whatsoever.

  “Know what?”

  “Mariah transferred out of Batcheldor College during the summer. She couldn’t deal with what happened to… you know, to Ginny… and she’s going to school somewhere in Massachusetts now.”

  “Mariah’s gone?”

  Emily nods. “Like… my friend Jenna might have her number.”

  This isn’t going to help me find Liam. “I… I think I can figure out how to reach Mariah if I need her. But thanks, anyway.” Without waiting for a response, I walk down the hallway and out of the building.

  If I want to find Liam Norwell, it looks like I’m going to have to bump into him on campus by chance.

  13

  I have the same roommate as last year, BJ Landon. He’s a good guy, and was especially cool after the theater shooting. He packed all of my stuff in our dorm room into cardboard boxes and loaded them into Mom’s minivan so I wouldn’t have to come back to the school and face things I wasn’t ready for.

  But BJ is wild. W.I.L.D. And sure, I like to have a good time, but I’m not all about crashing into my bed, or on the floor in the vicinity of my bed as is often the case for BJ, in a drunken stupor. Every night of the week.

  It’s the first weekend since we’ve returned to Batcheldor College, and BJ is growing crazier by the minute. For the most part, all week I have steered clear of parties, as my attitude toward learning, and maybe even toward life in general, is much changed from last year. I’m a much more serious and focused guy now. But BJ has pretty much begged me to hang out with him tonight—there are three keg parties in RetroHouse alone that he knows of—and a late night pizza bash with some freshman girls in the basement.

  I want to be excited about the parties and the pizza and the girls, and to be lighthearted like BJ. I want to be the uncomplicated college student I thought I could again be, or at a minimum, impersonate. But the apathetic reaction I’ve had to all the welcome-back parties and crazy coeds during the past week lets me know that I’ll never again be able to pass for a fun, easygoing guy.

  “You’ve been hitting the books too hard this week, Jase. And you know what they say about all work and no play, don’t you?”

  I laugh. “It makes Jase a dull boy, but also a boy with straight A’s.”

  “Here, drink this.” BJ hands me a shot of something amber, and even though I’m not in the mood, I swig it down. Apparently, I’m still something of a follower. “Now, word is out that you’ve been looking for some senior dude. What’s the deal with that?”

  I certainly did put the word out this week. I did everything short of hanging signs on trees that say LOST: One Valiant Hero to let the Batcheldor community know that I’m looking for Liam Norwell. I’m still not exactly sure what I’m going to say to him, but I know I need to see him. Badly. Obsessively badly. “The deal is that I want to see the guy who saved my butt last year.”

  I now have BJ’s attention. “This Norwell dude saved you? In Harrison Theater?”

  The police know what Liam did for me, but the details have not gone public on campus. “Yeah. And I need to talk to him.”

  “Sure as shit you do! And after you guys talk, you gotta get him bombed off his ass, that’s what you need to do! You owe him that much….”

  “BJ, I just want to talk to him, that’s all.”

  This first week back to school has been almost as hard for me as the week after the two shootings, which seems like a dramatic claim, but it’s true. I thought being back in the college environment might tear me apart because of the reminders of Ginny and of the shooting, but what’s tearing me apart is knowing I messed everything up with Liam because I was confused… because I wasn’t ready to see myself in a new, nontraditional, as in possibly gay, way.

  “Well, I know a few seniors, and I’ll tell them to kidnap him and deliver him to our dorm room, then we can treat him to one hell of a rowdy night—I might be able to score some weed—and we can cap it off with a freshman girl happy ending!”

  I sigh in frustration, and the sound is yet another reminder of Liam. Why didn’t I return his calls? I must be crazy—my inaction this summer with regard to Liam just doesn’t make sense. After one of the best weekends of my life, where I turned a major corner and began to recover from emotional devastation, I literally ignored the person who gave me this peace of mind. “Not a good idea, BJ. I don’t think kidnapping him would be much of a thank you.”

  “Here.” He hands me another shot. “Down the hatch, dude.”

  And this is how I end up getting drunk. Just talking nonsense with BJ, sucking down shots in between lines of meaningless dialogue. Within an hour I’m following BJ out the doorway of our dorm room, on our way to the first of three keg parties.

  ***

  By the time we hit the third party all I wan
t is to be is asleep in my bed. And for the room not to be spinning. Maybe not in that order.

  “Dude—I found myself a pretty friend to keep me company tonight!” BJ is all over this cute little red-haired girl. He already has the top button of her jeans undone from what I can see. “Listen, Tripp, me and Dacia need the room… so you gotta find yourself another place to crash tonight.” He looks down at his tiny, carrot-haired conquest. “We’re gonna be real busy….”

  “Hey… wait up, BJ! I… I got nowhere to go….” I’m drunk and exhausted and about to vomit into the plant pot.

  “Hit up those freshman girls in the basement. They’ll let yah sleep on their floor… B-12. It’s room B-12….” BJ is every bit as drunk as I am but he’s motivated by what’s lurking beneath Dacia’s tight jeans. “Good luck with it, dude!”

  I vomit in the plant pot. This is going to be a long night.

  ***

  It’s two in the morning, and for all intents and purposes, I’m homeless.

  “Hey, kid, you’ve gotta vacate the premises, in other words—take a hike. My room ain’t a bed and breakfast.” I recognize the voice. It’s the same hipster senior who told me sarcastically, if I remember correctly, that he had no clue where Liam is living this year.

  All I can do is moan. I’m literally sick and tired.

  “Hey, Liam, do you know this kid? He was here looking for you last week but I had no frigging idea where you lived… in fact, I still don’t, so send me an email with your addie.” Hipster-guy laughs. “It’s late and I want the kid to get the hell outta here. He already barfed in my plant pot.”

  “Liam?” It’s the only word he said that made sense. “Liam….”

  And then Liam is beside me, lifting me, holding me beneath my shoulders. “Jason… which dorm room is yours?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t. But I can barf…. I’ve had to face that I’m the kind of guy who barfs too easily. Always have been. Whatever…. I try desperately to avoid hurling on his cool brown boots. I’m reasonably successful.