Hell is high school.
High School High is a public school. Originally Mom and Dad wanted me to go to this big-deal private high school that cost about forty grand a year and where the students wear uniforms but I refused. I’d already gone to a big-deal private middle school that cost about fifty grand a year and I’d absolutely hated it. Being surrounded by oblivious, hormone-crazed nitwits is bad enough. Being surrounded by oblivious, hormone-crazed nitwits in identical blazers, chinos, and plaid skirts had made me want to climb an electrical tower and cauterize myself.
Still, we have a lot of well-to-do, self-entitled kids at good ol’ High School High, and the ones that aren’t, the ones that are mostly bused in and ignored, the social mutants, the Mexicans, and the black kids who have been recruited to play football and basketball, wish they were.
Because I wouldn’t get a driver’s license if they were giving them away, I ride a skateboard to school. I consider it nothing more than an acceptable means of transportation. If you ever see me hanging around a parking lot doing ollies, for God’s sake, or attempting to destroy my testicles by sliding down a banister with the board sideways, please shoot me.
I will confess to the occasional game of chicken.
It’s like this. At the top of a decent hill you wait until a car is coming up from the bottom. You take a moment to consider the fact that the wheel is a circular device capable of rotating on its axis. It’s one of man’s oldest and most important inventions. You push off, aiming down the middle of the approaching car’s lane. You do a little side-to-side to establish a rhythm. The car is getting closer now and usually the driver is leaning on the horn. You go into a crouch to gain speed. The car swerves. You swerve with it. It starts to turn. Too late. You go into the grille. You hurtle forward into the windshield, which crumples with the force of your body. You’re aware of the driver screaming as you’re thrown up and over the roof and then you’re airborne, aware of the street flying beneath you, aware of how rough it is and how much it’s going to hurt your already badly broken bones when you land.
Of course, that isn’t remotely what happens.
The car either stops, in which case you ride around it, or the car swerves and you keep going. Either way, you’ve won. Stupid, really. Crazy even. But here’s the thing. Starting around the age of fourteen, human beings become certifiably insane. Really, they’ve done tests. A teenager’s brain waves are the same as that of a psychotic’s. They used to think this was a temporary condition, that if you made it to your twenties, you’d straighten out. But starting around the beginning of the twenty-first century, mostly due to the deleterious effects of twenty-four-hour global news coverage, not to mention the iPod, Netflix, and the Twilight Saga, young people started hitting puberty and never got over it. Ten percent of all teenagers today have been prescribed medication for depression. Eight out of every one hundred thousand teenagers commit suicide. Sixteen percent of all teenagers actively consider it. We are, as a generation, a bunch of deranged, isolated neurotics destined to live long lives of self-medicated, Internet-addicted lunacy. I’m not immune to the statistics but I do consider it a personal challenge to fight my generation’s psychosis as much as possible.
And so I do.
I start by being not popular. The need for attention and celebrity based on questionable achievement is a dangerous drug. No. Better to avoid attention. Make no waves. Stay under the radar. Don’t speak unless spoken to and then with as few words as possible. Do not volunteer. Do not join in. Get Bs and Cs, not As. Never raise your hand, and if called on, answer all questions with a puzzled expression. Run from the light. Keep to the shadows. Stay as far away as you can from the line of fire.
It doesn’t always work.
“You haven’t applied to college.”
It’s the second week back from summer vacation and I’ve been called into the guidance office. The guidance counselor, Miss Barber, is new this year. She’s young and sort of attractive and she obviously thinks she can make a difference.
She’ll get over it.
Right now, though, she has my transcript up on the computer screen in front of her and she has me on the spot.
“Well?” she says. “Why is that?”
“I thought I’d take some time off,” I say.
“It seems to me you have been,” she says. “Reading and math at a college level by the fourth grade. Over the top on your S10 series in fifth grade. You hit sixth, you disappear completely.” She seems not so much puzzled as suspicious. “Care to explain?”
“It got tougher,” I say.
“Mmm,” she says. Which is a way of saying both something and nothing at the same time.
She studies the computer screen for a moment and then glances at me, eyes never quite settling on my face, not wanting to stare. One of the polite ones.
To consider.
We unconsciously distance ourselves from disfigurement, even when we know the condition is not contagious.
“Any ideas what you’d like to do, any plans for the future?” says Miss Barber.
“I’d like to find a deep cave and hole up in it for about eighty years,” I say.
Actually, I don’t say that.
“I’m not sure yet,” I say. “But I’m working on it.”
What I’d like to say is that planning for the future, any future, but especially one where it’s predicted that by 2050 the worldwide population will level out and start dropping as if off a precipice, is ridiculous. This is because by 2030, thanks to out-of-control birth rates, bankrupt economies, and a global lack of natural resources, fresh water, and food, people will have begun getting very busy killing one another.
Just another thing to look forward to.
Miss Barber “mmms” again. She sits back in her chair. She taps a pencil. She looks at me as if I’m a question she’s supposed to answer. “So how are things at home,” she says. As if it’s a casual question and not a fully charged death ray.
“Good,” I say. “Really great.”
“Get along with your parents?” she says.
“Mmm-hmm,” I say. Which is a variation on “mmm.”
“You’re the only teenager I know that does,” she says. Miss Barber looks down a moment and then she looks back up at me and I know exactly what’s coming.
“May I ask about your sister?”
Dorie.
I’m eleven years old and I’m in a hospital room and my twin sister, Dorie, lies in a hospital bed. Even with her hair lost to chemo, she’s really beautiful. She’s pale, almost translucent, unblemished. Like a Dresden doll.
Point of reference.
A Dresden doll is tiny, collectible figurine whose body is made of fabric, whose head is made of unglazed porcelain, and whose eyes are made of clear glass. Dresden is a city in Germany that was firebombed by Allied Forces at the end of World War II. A minimum of one hundred thousand people died. Most of them were civilians. Most of the civilians were women and children.
Sidebar.
Porcelain is inflammable. People aren’t.
Dorie opens her eyes. It’s silly how bright they are. Fever makes them this way. She sees me and smiles her Dorie smile.
“Hi, Billy,” she whispers.
Acute lymphocytic leukemia is the most common type of leukemia in children.
“Mom and Dad say you’re going to help me,” Dorie says.
A bone marrow transplant replaces diseased blood cells with healthy cells from a compatible donor. Fraternal or dizygotic twins are often but not always compatible. Apparently I’m a very good match.
“You don’t have to if it hurts,” she says.
“I want to,” I say. “I want you to get better.”
“Me too,” Dorie says. She holds out her hand to me and I take it. I hold her fingers tight in my palm.
Mom says Dorie and I came out of the womb together holding hands. Dorie came first, pulling me firmly but gently after her. I believe it. Dorie was always the brave one.
> “Billy?”
I look up. Miss Barber is staring at me. I don’t know how long she’s been waiting for me to speak. The side of my face feels cold and numb and my voice sounds far away, even to me.
“Yes?”
“We were talking about your sister?”
“Yes.”
Miss Barber glances uncertainly at her notes. “I understand she was ill?”
“Yes.”
“She’s better now?”
As if people always get better.
“She’s dead now.”
Only sometimes they don’t.
“I am so sorry.”
People usually are.
“No problem.”
I was only supposed to save her.
5
One of the unusual things about Mom—Linda—is that she always insists we have dinner together as a family several nights a week.
The housekeeper will cook something before she leaves and Mom will set the table and light the candles in the big dining room and she’ll serve what the housekeeper has made, like pork chops in a chili-verde sauce, which is actually really good, as if she made it herself. Dad—Gordon—will sit at the head of the table, a bottle of insanely expensive cabernet in front of him, swirling his wineglass, as if he actually knows what he’s doing. Mom and I will be on either side of him. Sometimes we’ll all even try to get a little pleasant conversation going. It can be pretty nice, really. At least it’s a nice idea.
But this is one of those nights when Mom clears her throat and smiles at us and you just know the evening is turning horrible.
“Well,” Mom says. “Did anyone have an interesting day today?”
Dad and I share a quick look. I don’t think Dad ever has interesting days, and if he does, they’re not the kind of interesting he’s going to share with Mom. And so, just to be safe now, he doesn’t say a word. Following in his footsteps, neither do I.
“All right,” Mom says. “How about this? What’s the best and worst thing that happened to each of us today?” Mom is trying to look cheerful. This is obviously some line of questioning she’s gotten from a friend who probably got it from some daytime talk show where women discuss their feelings.
Dad, who hates discussing feelings, especially Mom’s, sticks his nose into his wineglass and sniffs. This is called “catching the bouquet.” It’s a good way to stall for time if nothing else.
“All right,” Mom says, still all pleasant. “I’ll start. Betsy Mirrens broke her foot and will be off the tennis court for six weeks.”
Dad frowns. “Betsy who?” You get the feeling that whoever she is, he doesn’t like her.
“The Mirrenses.” Mom sounds impatient. “We’ve joined them for any number of dinner parties.”
Dad shrugs. “All we do is join people for fucking dinner parties.” He takes a sip of wine and begins to gurgle it in the back of his throat. This is called “aerating.” To aerate means to add oxygen. Oxygen changes things.
Mom, who doesn’t like it when Dad starts tossing around F-bombs, is beginning to look sort of pinched and frustrated. I figure it’s time to help her out.
“What’s the best thing?” I say.
Success. Mom looks pleased.
“Thank you for asking. The best thing is…” She pauses dramatically. “I got a clean bill of health from Dr. Knight today.”
This makes Dad and me really share a look.
It’s like this.
About two and half years ago Mom was getting a basic medical checkup and they found a lump in her left breast. Coming after Dorie, this news was a total bitch. They did a biopsy and it was cancer and so they did a lumpectomy and also took out her lymph nodes. Mom was in the middle of doing hormone therapy when they found another lump. This time they did a mastectomy, which removed all of her breast, and even though they did reconstructive surgery at the same time, she was pretty bummed out about it. This time she followed it up with chemo as well as hormone therapy. She lost most of her hair. She spent a lot of time vomiting.
Like Dorie.
For the last eight to ten months or so Mom’s been looking and feeling pretty much like her old self which has been nice because it’s made it easy for Dad and me to forget what she’s gone through.
“Is he positive?” asks Gordon. Like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“As positive as anyone can be about these things,” says Mom. She eats a bite of pork chop. She chews it carefully. She swallows. She wipes her mouth with her napkin.
“So,” she says. “Anyone else? Best thing, worst thing?”
Dad sighs. “I don’t want to play this stupid game.” He pushes his plate aside and tops off his wineglass.
Mom looks like he’s slapped her. “All right,” she says, her voice all tight and strained now. She turns to me. “Billy?”
I decide to lie. Really, it’s such an easy thing to do.
“I didn’t have anything bad happen,” I say, because I am not going to tell them about Miss Barber. “But the best thing is sitting right here, having dinner with you guys.”
Mom beams. She looks pleased. Really pleased. So does Dad. He actually smiles. “If that’s the case, kiddo,” he says, “you really need some new friends.”
Success.
Everybody grins and chuckles as if that’s the last thing in the world I need. Because who needs more friends when obviously I already have so many I’ve lost count? Who needs friends when we all have each other?
“Actually I did have something kind of funny happen today,” says Dad.
It’s not funny at all but the three of us have a good moment or two pretending it is. And then we sit there, pretty much in silence, aerating and changing, for the rest of the meal. For better or for worse, who’s to say.
6
For some reason, usually after dinner, though sometimes later, Mom always asks me if I’m going to bed anytime soon.
“Sure am,” I say. Even though I’m not.
“Sleep well,” Mom says.
“Sure will,” I say. Even though I won’t.
The reality is I don’t sleep much and Mom knows it. Several hours a night here and there. Sometimes not at all. I try but I just don’t. I haven’t since Dorie died. It’s a problem.
Fact.
Insomnia is defined as the difficulty in getting to, and staying, asleep. Learned insomnia is when you worry about not being able to sleep, primary insomnia is when there’s no reason for you not to sleep, and chronic insomnia is any insomnia that lasts for over a month. Sleep dread is when you’re afraid to go to sleep to begin with. I have the entire package. So do the vast majority of institutionalized psychiatric patients.
Just another thing to look forward to.
Tonight, once Mom and Dad have gone to bed, I go back downstairs to the family room where the family never gathers, and with Dorie sitting on my shoulder, I watch TV far, far into the night, never sticking with any one thing for too long. I keep the sound low. Sometimes I turn it off altogether. I go back upstairs around four. I lie in bed. Maybe I doze a little. When Mom asks how I’ve slept in the morning I’ll tell her what I always tell her.
Like a baby.
7
“Hammurabi!”
It’s a Thursday, sixth period World History, the horse latitudes, and the teacher, Mr. Monaghan, knows he’s going down with the ship.
“Hammurabi reigned over the Babylonian Empire until his death in 1750 B.C. And he did what, people? Anyone?”
No one is remotely paying attention. Mr. Monaghan, small, slight, possibly gay, and one of the few male teachers at High School High who wears a tie every day, and raises his voice like a tourist who thinks shouting will make him understood in a foreign language.
“He created laws, people! The code of Hammurabi. The fundamentals of which—”
As Mr. Monaghan turns and paces and lectures to the ceiling, I glance around. I see twenty-eight teenagers who look like they’re taking a collective dump of tedium. It’s as if their j
eans, skirts, and underwear are down around their ankles and they’re sitting on toilets with painful, constipated looks on their faces. Of course, part of this might be that no one, except me, has read the assignment. And I’m not about to admit to it.
“… two hundred eighty-two laws, written on twelve clay tablets in—what? Anyone?”
If Mr. Monaghan is waiting for an answer he’s going to be waiting a very long time.
“Akkadian, people! The language of Babylon! The foundation of modern civilization!”
He might as well be speaking in Akkadian. If one moron brings an accusation against another moron, and that moron leaps into a river, if he sinks, the first moron shall take possession of his house. Some foundation of civilization. Maybe people have always been insane.
And now, just in time to prevent us all from killing ourselves, there’s a knock on the door. Mr. Monaghan sighs. He looks discouraged. It must drive teachers crazy to have to spend so much time teaching something that no one really cares about. Of course, the study of ancient Babylon doesn’t present a lot of job options to do anything else.
Mr. Monaghan crosses the front of the room, opens the door and steps out into the hallway. Everyone gives a collective sigh of relief. Maybe he won’t come back. But then Mr. Esposito, the school principal, sticks his head in, wrinkles his brow, tightens his lips, and squints at us. It’s like he’s a displeased police detective and he’s trying to decide whether or not we’re worth making his day. Apparently we’re not because after a second he ducks back out. You can hear him and Mr. Monaghan murmuring at one another. I can just see some papers change hands.
“Yes, all right, come in,” Mr. Monaghan says. He steps back into the room. With the guy.
You feel a stir of interest in the room.
The guy is tall. He wears black jeans and a RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He wears heavy motorcycle boots. The jeans, shirt, and boots look like a uniform on him. His dark hair is sort of long and wavy, a lot of it different lengths. He has steel closure rings in his left ear and one in his right eyebrow.
The Tragic Age Page 2