Forgive me, Leonard Peacock

by Мэтью Квик Q

  Two presents left to deliver, and then I can open the P-38 and go out on the same day I came in.

  Happy birthday to me!

  God, I can’t wait.

  “Leonard?” Mrs. Shanahan says.

  My guidance counselor is wearing a lemon-yellow dress and has her red hair up in a bun today. She has these sky-blue glasses that dangle from her neck on a silver chain in a crazy ironic way, because she is way too young to wear her glasses on a chain. I wonder how she dresses when she’s not in school and I see her as an after-hours punk rocker maybe. She’s younger than most faculty members—Herr Silverman’s age, probably.

  “I’m hearing reports that you’ve been acting strangely today. Is that true?” she says to me right in the hallway as tons of kids pass by.

  “What? I’m always strange, right? But I’m fine otherwise,” I say, mostly because I don’t want to miss Herr Silverman’s Holocaust class, which is where I’m headed now.

  I usually don’t mind going to Mrs. Shanahan’s office because she keeps a jar of lollipops on her desk and I always enjoy a root beer sucker midday, but I have to say good-bye to Herr Silverman before I exit the planet, and I don’t want to miss his class. It’s the one class I actually like. So I decide to put on a show for her.

  “What’s going on under that hat?” she asks.

  “Just a haircut.”

  “Mrs. Giavotella said—”

  “I’m not a very good barber, I’m afraid,” I say, smiling and looking into her eyes all Hollywood. I’m a convincing actor when I need to be. “I’d show you my new look right now, but I’m a little self-conscious about it, hence the hat. Can I swing by eighth period? Would be happy to show you then and talk about whatever you’d like.”

  She looks into my eyes for a long time, like she’s trying to tell whether I’m bullshitting her.

  Deep down she absolutely knows I’m bullshitting her, I’m sure of it. But she has a million problems to solve, hundreds of students who need her help, endless asshole parents to deal with, mountains of paperwork, meetings in that awful room with the round table and the window air-conditioning unit they run even in winter because the meeting room is directly over the tropically hot boiler room, and so she knows the easiest thing to do is believe me.

  She’s fulfilled her obligation, assuaged her conscience by finding me in the hallway and giving me the chance to freak out, and I’ve played my role too, by remaining calm, pretending to be okay, and therefore giving her permission to cross me off her things-to-do list. Now she can move on, and I can too.

  Once you understand how adults are controlled by the system, manipulating them is elementary.

  “I’ve put aside a few root beer lollipops for you, because I was getting low,” she says, and then smiles back at me.

  If only you could solve all of your problems with candy, I think, Mrs. Shanahan would be relevant.

  “We’ll talk eighth period, right? Promise you’ll come see me. I always look forward to a visit from Leonard Peacock.”

  She says that last bit almost like she’s flirting with me, like we’re going to have sex in her office if I show up. A lot of female teachers do this—flirt with male students. I wonder if that’s the only way they know how to interact with men. Like they use their sexuality to get what they want. And I have to admit it works, because I really want to go see Mrs. Shanahan now, and if I hadn’t already decided to kill myself, I would most certainly go to her office later—if only to collect my root beer lollipop and fantasize.

  “Absolutely,” I lie. “I will definitely come see my favorite, most beauteous and astute guidance counselor later this afternoon.”

  She sort of blushes and then smiles at me all pleased with herself.

  When she turns, I say, “Mrs. Shanahan?” because I can’t help myself.

  “Yes, Leonard,” she says, and spins around all Marilyn Monroe—her dress even flares out and rises a little.

  “Thanks for checking up on me. You’re a good counselor. One of the best.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says, and then lights up like the sun at noon, because she doesn’t understand what I’m really saying.

  She’s just a high school guidance counselor after all. She can tell you what grade point average you need to get into Penn, but expecting more than that is pushing it. I was lucky to receive so many lollipops.

  Just before she goes, almost as if she wants to acknowledge the fact that we’re playing a game here—one with rules—she adds, “You will come visit me eighth period, right?”

  “You know it,” I lie.

  I think about how she probably has my birthday written down in a file somewhere, but she deals with so many kids that I can’t really be mad at her for forgetting.

  In elementary school the teachers always remembered your birthday, and that was nicer. There were cupcakes or brownies, or at least cookies, and everyone sang in a way that made you feel really special and a part of something, even if you really hated all of your classmates deep down. There’s a reason the elementary teachers did that. It wasn’t just for fun. It was important.

  And I wonder at what age it’s appropriate to stop keeping track of everyone’s birthday. When do we stop needing the people around us to acknowledge the fact that we are aging and changing and getting closer to our deaths? No one tells you this. It’s like everyone remembers your birthday every single year and then suddenly you can’t remember the last time someone sang the birthday song to you, nor can you say when it stopped. You should be able to remember, right?

  But I can’t pinpoint an exact year. The whole deal just sort of slipped away from me somehow without my noticing at all, which makes me sad.

  I watch Mrs. Shanahan stride down the hall. She seems bouncy, like my compliments validated her self-worth and made her feel as though her career is actually germane.[28]

  And then she’s gone.

  SEVENTEEN

  LETTER FROM THE FUTURE NUMBER 3

  Hi, Daddy!

  It’s S, your daughter. This is so weird! I don’t understand why I have to write you because you just left on the boat with Papa, and Horatio the dolphin was there, like always, to keep you company.

  Momma says you’re sad, but she also says that we’re writing to you when you were a little boy, which I don’t really understand. She makes me do a lot of strange school assignments, so I guess this is just another of those. You tell me to listen to Momma, so I do. She’s helping me write the letter. She says I should tell you things you already know about me, which seems dumb, but here it goes.

  My favorite color is dolphin gray.

  My favorite constellation is Cassiopeia, because it’s so much fun to say!

  My favorite food is corn chowder with bacon. (Ha-ha! Joke!)

  My favorite game is Who lived here? I love listening to the stories you make up about what it was like to live in the city underwater—what you call Philadelphia.

  Once we found an apartment in an old skyscraper you called Liberty Place and you told me how some people used to live like kings and queens in the sky, looking down on all the people who had to live near the ground, but now you have to be really rich to live on the ground these days, which you said is ironic.

  We went through the home and found dresses that proved a queen had lived there. The dresses were shiny and colorful. There were so many! And you said your mother had designed one of them, which was nice because you never talk about your mom.

  And we found a chest of gold jewelry in the bedroom too. You let me keep the gold we found. We’ve been collecting gold from chests like that all over Outpost 37. I keep it under my bed just for fun in old poly-frozen food containers, although I really don’t understand why people in the past loved gold so much, other than it’s shiny. You call me a princess and sometimes we put on as much gold as we can, and you call me “Jay-Z,” and then laugh so hard.

  My favorite bedtime story is Philadelphia Phyllis, the little girl who used to solve crime mysteries back at t
he turn of the century. You tell me so many Philadelphia Phyllis stories, and my favorite is the one where she stops a bully from picking on kids at school when she finds a magical weapon that gives her power. I often wish there were other kids here, but your stories about bullies make me wonder if I’m lucky it’s only me.

  My favorite song is the one your dad wrote called “Underwater Vatican,” which you sing for me sometimes, because you miss your dad. (Mom helped me spell Vatican and says it’s where some important guy used to live but she couldn’t really explain why he was important. She says we don’t have guys like him anymore.)

  Daddy, I can’t think of anything else to write.

  I love you.

  I’m sorry that you were sad when you were a little boy, but you’re hardly ever sad now, which is good, right?

  Momma says I should tell you to hold on.

  Hold on to what? I wonder.

  I don’t know.

  But hold on.

  There, I wrote that. Mom better give me full credit for this assignment.

  Can’t wait to see you at dinner tonight. I think we are having corn chowder with bacon AGAIN, because that’s what we have the most of, so we have to save the other types of food for special occasions like birthdays, and mine’s coming up in a week or so. You said you have a really special surprise for me.

  I wonder what it is!

  You never ever forget my birthday and you always make it special.

  Is it true you don’t have a birthday, like you said?

  I wish I knew when your birthday was, because I would find you the best birthday present ever. Horatio would help me search Outpost 37 until we had the perfect prize.

  Why won’t you tell me when your birthday is?

  Mom says it has to do with bad memories.

  Why don’t I have any bad memories? I ask her, and she says it’s because I have such a good dad.

  That makes me smile.

  You are a good dad!

  Love ya!

  S, your “Jay-Z Princess”

  (What is a “Jay-Z”? You never tell me!)

  EIGHTEEN

  Herr Silverman stands tall at six foot three or so. His body type would best be described as wiry. His hair is prematurely salt-and-pepper, and in ten years or so it will be entirely silver, at which point his last name will be appropriate. He always wears a solid-color tie; a long-sleeve white shirt; green, tan, or black pants with no pleats; black or brown suede lace-up shoes with a clunky heel; and a leather belt to match his shoes. Simple, but elegant—and most days he looks like a waiter at a fancy restaurant. Today he has on black pants, tie, shoes, and belt, and has shaved the beginnings of a goatee.[29]

  At the beginning of every class he greets all of his students at the door, shakes everyone’s hand on the way in, smiles at you, and looks you in the eye. He’s the only teacher who does this, and the process often creates a human snake in the hallway. Sometimes the handshaking takes so long that there are still people lined up after the bell has rung, and this pisses off the other faculty members something awful.

  Once our principal saw the line and yelled, “Get to class, all of you!” because he didn’t see Herr Silverman in the door.

  Herr Silverman said, “It’s okay. We’re just in the middle of our daily greeting. Everyone deserves a hello. Hello, Andrew.”

  Our principal made this really weird face, finally said, “Hello,” and then walked away fast.

  Today, when Herr Silverman shakes my hand, he smiles and says, “I like your new hat, Leonard.”

  It makes me feel so good, because I believe he really likes it, or rather he likes the fact that I’m expressing myself—that I’m wearing something no one else is wearing, and I’m not afraid to be different.[30]

  “Thanks,” I say. “Can I speak with you after class? I have something for you.”

  “Certainly.” He nods and gives me an additional smile—a real smile, the kind that uses all the muscles in your face but doesn’t look forced. Herr Silverman’s smiles always make me feel better for some reason.

  “Why does he have to shake everyone’s hand every day?” this kid Dan Lewis says about Herr Silverman as we take our seats.

  “He’s so fucking weird,” Tina Whitehead answers under her breath.

  And I want to pull out the P-38 and blast them both in their übermoronic heads, because Herr Silverman is the one teacher who cares about us and takes the time to let us know that—every day—and these stupid asshole classmates of mine hold it against him. It’s like people actually want to be treated poorly.

  Although once when we were talking after class, Herr Silverman told me that when someone rises up and holds himself to a higher standard, even when doing so benefits others, average people resent it, mostly because they’re not strong enough to do the same. So maybe Dan Lewis and Tina Whitehead are just weaker than Herr Silverman and really need his kindness because of that, but I certainly wouldn’t take the time to look them in the eye and smile every day if they talked like that behind my back. Herr Silverman is smart enough to realize that being different has consequences. He’s always talking about that in class. Consequences. But he never bitches about the consequences he has to deal with, which makes him stand out.

  “So,” Herr Silverman says to the class, and I notice that once again he has refrained from rolling up his sleeves. “It’s ethical-question day. Who has a question?”

  We do this thing where someone asks a hard question related to the Holocaust—one with no clear right or wrong solution, like a moral dilemma—and then the class debates the answer.

  Mine is the only hand in the air today, and so Herr Silverman says, “Leonard?”

  “Let’s just say that an American teenager inherited a real Nazi gun from his grandfather, who captured and executed a high-ranking Nazi officer. What should be done with the gun?”

  I’m really curious to hear how my classmates respond. I’m sure their answers won’t match mine. It’s amazing how different they are from me.

  Also, it’s sort of thrilling to mess with their heads—to see how stupid they are, because they would never dream I have a gun, even though I basically just told them I do. Tomorrow they will look back on this discussion in a very different light, and they will realize just how unbelievably moronic they are.

  This girl Lucy Becker is the first to answer, and she basically says that my gun belongs in the Holocaust museum in DC, and makes a speech about the importance of documenting our mistakes so we are not doomed to repeat them.[31]

  “Counterpoint?” Herr Silverman says.

  This kid Jack Williams who is kind of smart and interesting argues that the gun should be destroyed and talks about the rise of neo-Nazis who collect such things. Jack argues that if all Nazi propaganda were destroyed, no one would be able to use it to recruit new Nazis. “That’s why President Obama buried Osama bin Laden at sea,” Jack says. “So no one could use his grave as a symbol.”

  “Very interesting rebuttal, Jack,” Herr Silverman says. “Responses from the class?”

  Kids in my class go back and forth about what to do with the gun, and—even though I asked the question—their answers start to freak me out a little. I mean I have a real Nazi gun in my backpack and everyone is talking about what to do with it, only they don’t know that my hypothetical ethical question was real—they don’t know that I have the gun on me right now.

  They are all so remarkably stupid—but still, I start to worry that maybe one of them will put it together and guess why I asked that question on this particular day, and then they’ll all lynch me.[32]

  I worry so much that I start to sweat in my seat.

  I feel really mixed up, and it’s like I just want it all to end—everything.

  And yet at the same time, I want someone to figure it out, to piece together all the hints I’ve been dropping all day long, for years and years even, but no one ever figures it out, and I’m beginning to see why people go mad and do awful things—like the Nazi
s and Hitler and Ted Kaczynski and Timothy McVeigh and Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold and Cho Seung-Hui all[33] did and so many other horrific people whom we learn about in school and—You know what? Fuck Linda for forgetting my birthday—FUCK HER—because how do you forget giving birth to someone eighteen years ago today and IRRESPONSIBLE and IRRESPONSIBLE and selfish and culpable and inhumane and—

  “Leonard?” Herr Silverman says.

  Everyone has turned his or her head and is looking at me.

  “Concluding thoughts?”

  I’m supposed to summarize the points of view regarding what to do with the P-38 and say which side I think won the debate, but I haven’t been listening and I can’t exactly say what I really think.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know anything today,” I say, and then accidentally sigh.

  Herr Silverman looks into my eyes until I look back into his and then I sort of plead with him using mental telepathy, thinking, Please just move on. It’s my birthday. I only have a few more hours on this planet. Please. Be kind. Let me off the hook.

  “It’s a hard question, Leonard. A good one. I don’t know either,” Herr Silverman says, totally saving me.

  The übermorons roll their eyes and exchange glances.

  He moves on to the lecture part of the class, discussing the concept of doubling, or being two different people at once—the good WWII German dad who eats a civilized dinner with his family at a formal table and reads bedtime stories to his children before he kisses their foreheads and tucks them into bed, all after spending the entire day ignoring the screams of Jewish women and children, gassing away, and heaving corpses into awful mass graves.

  Basically, Herr Silverman says that we can simultaneously be human and monster—that both of those possibilities are in all of us.

  Some of the stupid kids argue with him, saying they aren’t like the Nazis and never could be, because Herr Silverman says we all double in some ways. And everyone in the class knows exactly what he’s talking about, even if they pretend they don’t.