Forever for a Year

by B. T. Gottfred

  First off, she was smart. Probably really smart. The junior high I went to in Los Angeles (which actually wasn’t in Los Angeles but in this small town called La Cañada Flintridge near Pasadena) was super elitist; every parent there was a successful doctor, lawyer, or businessperson. So the cool kids were just as smart or smarter than the not-so-cool kids. But Riverbend was more like the cliché you see on television: the athletes and partiers were popular, the smart kids were geeks, and everybody else fit somewhere in between.

  Second thing, she was so serious. More serious than my dad even. Just watching her in health class, while everyone else was laughing at Mrs. Maya talking about sex, she was writing down every note, not smiling once. She had the look of someone who thought everyone else was doing pointless stuff and she was the only one doing important stuff. It was awesome, her giving me those sheets of paper in biology, but to be so caught up in school and being the perfect student that she couldn’t even say one word to me in history? Not that awesome. And probably intimidating to most people, especially the ones making the popular-kid lists.

  Third and last thing: Carolina didn’t wear any makeup, she wore these green square glasses during class, and she dressed like my seven-year-old sister. Either she didn’t want to look like high school girls did on TV or she didn’t watch TV at all. So unless you gazed at her like I did, you might think she was plain or boring-looking. Maybe Henry, Jake, and the rest of the freshman football guys at lunch weren’t as blind as I initially thought. Maybe they just weren’t looking at her close enough. Because Carolina Fisher was beautiful. She just was. If experts on faces, with no bias against being smart or serious or not wearing makeup or not being popular, were to come to Riverbend High School and pick the prettiest face, I’d bet every dollar I ever make that Carolina Fisher would be number one. Everything just looked like it was in the right place, and it glowed. Her eyes were so deep. Golden brown. And her eyebrows were so dark, and eyelashes so long. Each eye was like a mini-painting. That sounds lame. But it’s just what I saw. And then she had these cute brown freckles, and this one bigger mole high on her left cheek. Someday, she would look at those girls on TV, realize she was just as pretty or prettier, and learn how to use makeup to highlight what was there naturally. Then everyone who ever saw her would see what I was seeing right now.

  My dad has a younger brother, my uncle Ernesto (he’s trying to be an actor), who just had his ten-year high school reunion. He told me there was a girl nobody paid attention to back in high school, even though everyone knew there was something special about her. Well, he said, when she showed up at the reunion, nobody could look at anyone else, even the married guys. My uncle Ernesto told me to look out for that girl, because every high school has at least one, and the guy smart enough to find her will be the one guy the girl could fall for.

  When health class began, I planned to talk to Carolina again. Just to show her that I didn’t care that my cousin Henry said she was a loser. (She didn’t know Henry said that, but that’s not the point.) But after staring at her the whole period, fixated on who she was every second, I started to think that Carolina was the most beautiful girl in the world, not just the school—the world—and that she was my soul mate and insane things like that, so then I couldn’t say anything to her because it was too damn important to say just anything.

  She sorta turned my way as she walked out of class, but I looked the other direction. I hoped she thought I was ignoring her. I wanted her to feel insecure and unstable, like I felt. But there’s just no way she did. She was perfect, wasn’t she? I wanted to be above all these petty teenage social games, but I wasn’t. I was a total fake. Weak. Listening to Henry like a brainless follower. But Carolina was above it for real. Didn’t care what she wore, didn’t care what people thought.

  Then, out of nowhere, I got mad at her. Carolina had everything figured out and never had a moment of doubt about who she was or what she wanted in her life. Screw her.

  * * *

  My last period of the day was gym class. The teacher, Mr. Pasquini, said that the scheduling office must have screwed up because only kids who were on sports teams should have gym for eighth period. (My gut says my dad marked that I’d be in a sport when he registered me.) Mr. Pasquini said I could go to the office and try to switch my classes around so I could take gym earlier in the day or I could join a sports team. Most teams were already set, as tryouts took place before classes started. There were only two teams that let everyone join: football and cross-country running. Mr. Pasquini told me I could go talk to Coach Pollina about joining football or I could join the cross-country team. Part of me wanted to join football to shove it in Henry’s face, not just since he said I wouldn’t be able to join but also to show the other guys I was pretty good. But then that sounded like so much effort, and so petty. And clichéd.

  Cross-country was for losers. So no way was I doing that. Not losers. I don’t want to label like that. But let’s just say it’s not for me.

  So I went to the front office and said I needed to change my schedule around. The lady rolled her eyes. Whatever. Adults always take their crap out on kids.

  When she came back and showed me the new schedule, gym was where history was, history moved to biology’s spot, biology to health’s, and now health was last period. I stared at the schedule a long time. The lady even asked me if everything was okay.

  I didn’t tell her yes. I didn’t say no either. What was going through my mind was that I would now have no classes with Carolina Fisher. None. If I had gotten this schedule before today, I would have never met her and it would have been no big deal. But now to move everything … to not have any classes with her … I don’t know. I didn’t like it.

  Crap.

  Life is pointless. I’ve said this, but even I have to delude myself once in a while into believing it’s not one hundred percent pointless one hundred percent of the time or I would just melt away. So maybe one of those few times where life had a point (or at least I wanted it to have a point) was when I was put in Carolina Fisher’s biology class, on the first day of school, with no backpack, and she slid two sheets of paper to me without me even asking.

  I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. Who cares? I should just switch the classes. Right? She’s a snob, thinks she’s too good for me, all that. Right?

  “Mr. Santos, is the new schedule okay?” the front-office lady asked again.

  7

  Carolina gets a request

  “Carolina,” my mom said as she stopped the car on the side of the road even though we were still a block away from our house.

  Before she even said another word, I started crying. Why would I start crying? I didn’t even know what she was going to say! Maybe my first day was more stressful than I realized, but THEN I realized I knew exactly what she was going to say. I just did.

  “I’ve told your dad he can move back in.”

  “But, Mommy,” I started. Mommy? I never call her that anymore! Wake up and grow up, Carolina! “Mom, he hurt you so much. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Don’t say that. He’s been a very good dad to you. He loves you and your brother so much. He’s just made some mistakes. We all make mistakes.”

  “But some mistakes shouldn’t be forgiven!” I screamed this, without meaning to, but I really needed my mom to understand.

  “Calm down,” she said, “calm down, okay? If he ever hurt you in any way, I wouldn’t forgive him. But—”

  “He did hurt me!” Then my crying just exploded. I didn’t even know who I was—it was like I was a tiny monster baby who couldn’t speak, only scream and cry. But I could speak, so I did, but I couldn’t stop crying. “He hurt me because he hurt you! And I know he’ll do it again and you’ll be even sadder and I’ll have to take care of you again and who will take care of me?”

  Then I stopped talking and my whole chest just heaved up and down. I couldn’t breathe. But I could, obviously—it just felt like I was going t
o suffocate from so much craziness pounding under my skin.

  Then my mom said, “Okay. Okay. I won’t let him move in.”

  Then she didn’t say anything. I didn’t either. My breathing was almost normal again. I wiped my snotty, teary face with my sweaty soccer shirt. It was drenched.

  “He did ask … to bring dinner over tonight. Is that okay?”

  My face wanted to cry some more, but I was too tired. I didn’t want to see my dad, I didn’t, but I didn’t want to make my mom’s life harder. She’s fragile, you know? So I nodded yes, it was okay. Then my head, without me even telling it to, fell across the seat onto her chest. She laid her chin on the top of my head.

  * * *

  My mom works as a nurse in the emergency room at the Leary County Hospital. When I was eight, my dad lost his job at Northwestern University, and for a while my mom supported the whole family. How could a man hurt a woman who supported him like that? The worst part is that we were all so happy when he got a new job at Northern Illinois University, not knowing the new job would ruin everything. See, NIU was almost two hours away, so some days he would stay the night near the school. And eventually he stayed more than he used to. I tried not to think about it, but my mom kept getting sadder and sadder. On nights he didn’t come home, she would make me food but not eat any herself, then watch TV in bed when she used to read next to me while I did my homework.

  When my brother, Heath, came home for spring break last year (he goes to college in Colorado), my dad made sure to be home the whole week—because he really does love his kids, I think. But my mom couldn’t turn off her depression anymore, even though she kept saying everything was fine. Heath talked to my dad, who then talked to my mom, who then talked to me, and I was the one who cried the most and yelled at my dad, who couldn’t say anything to me, couldn’t even look me in the eyes, and I told him to leave and never come back, and he left, even though my mom never officially kicked him out.

  * * *

  When we pulled into the driveway, my dad’s car was already parked in his old spot in the garage. My mom squeezed my hand before we went inside and said, “I’ll tell him he can’t spend the night. A really big favor to me would be if you were nice to him, Carolina. For me. Please?”

  I didn’t say yes, and I didn’t even nod, but I decided, maybe, I would try.

  Then we walked inside, where my dad had set the table, which he never did, and put out Indian food, which he picked up a lot before I kicked him out. When he saw me, he sung my name: “Carolina!” Hearing him, and seeing him there making the house warm before we got home, and singing Carolina not Carrie, and my mom smiling even though she didn’t want to smile, made me smile even though I didn’t want to either.

  While I went to the bathroom my mom must have talked to my dad about not staying over. Because when I came back to the kitchen, he was not quite as jumpy/singing happy as when we first came home. But he tried to pretend he was and kept hugging us while we ate, and I told him about my first day of school. About the classes, not about Shannon Shunton or the new boy. My dad thinks popularity is even dumber than I do, so he would just make me feel dumb for caring or even mentioning it, probably, or convince me to not become friends with Shannon, which I sort of wanted to do, even though it is dumb.

  As I talked, he especially hugged my mom, petting her almost. And this made her giggle, and it was cute, but, I don’t know, I didn’t want her to fall in love with him again. But then I realized she probably never fell out of love with him, so she couldn’t help it, and I decided to not think about it. And just let them be for tonight. They were both grown-ups, right? Well, at least my mom was. I’m kidding. I can be funny, even though I’m smart.

  My dad did the dishes and then he got ready to leave, even though he looked like a sad dog who didn’t want to go in his cage.

  “Bye, Scott. Thank you for dinner,” I said, and then hugged him for only a second.

  “Carolina, I really enjoyed hearing about your first day of school,” he said, and I could tell he would keep talking so I went to get my laptop from my bedroom, leaving my mom to say good-bye to my dad alone. When I came back and he was gone, the house felt so hollow, like a tornado had sucked out a whole room.

  I set up my computer in the living room. For the first time in a long time, my mom got a book and read next to me on the couch.

  After I finished my math homework, which I always do first because it’s so dull, I gave myself five minutes to look at Facebook, which some people say isn’t cool. But I think people are just trying to be cool by saying it’s not cool because everyone still uses it. Maybe in, like, the future when cars fly nobody will use it, but they probably will.

  So after I signed in, I saw a new friend request.

  From Trevor Santos.

  Who I totally didn’t know.

  Wait a minute.

  Until I clicked on his page.

  And saw it was the new boy.

  Wait a minute!

  THE new boy.

  Oh. My. Gosh.

  8

  Trevor runs even though it’s pointless

  “Who coaches cross-country?” I asked Mr. Pasquini, the gym teacher, after I had the front-office lady switch my schedule back. Just in case. Right?

  “Well, that happens to be me,” Mr. Pasquini said. One side of his long-bearded mouth lifted up into a grin. He was a strange dude.

  “And it’s just running, right?”

  “Oh no, young man, cross-country is not merely running. It is pushing the limits of the human spirit.”

  Whatever. Don’t overthink this, Trevor. So I said, “Okay, I’ll run.”

  Pasquini did another freaky grin thing.

  * * *

  I didn’t have any running stuff with me, so Coach Pasquini lent me some old gym-class T-shirt and shorts. It was as disgusting as it sounds. And dorky, epically dorky, which I tried not to care about. But I just did. What made it worse was that after I changed, I joined the team out on the steps of the gym and discovered that not only was every boy on the team a total outcast or nerd, but the girls’ team practiced with us too. I don’t even know what to say about that.

  Two years ago, I’m quarterback of my eighth-grade football team, I have a pretty girlfriend named Dakota (who was super nice; a bit superficial, but super nice and super pretty), my mom at least pretends to be happy, I’m basically the king of junior high, and I’m in California, which is where everything happens. Now I’m in smelly, old, torn gym clothes that are riding up my butt crack and strangling my neck, I’m on the cross-country team with girls and geeks, my mom wishes she was dead, and I’m stuck in Bumblefuck, Illinois.

  And I swore I wouldn’t be judgmental anymore, except I feel like judging everybody, so I feel like crap for that on top of everything.

  “Gentlemen! Ladies! Gather up!” Pasquini hollered like he thought he was some kind of Civil War general. “We have a new warrior in our midst! You treat him with respect. You encourage him. You challenge him to be the best runner and human he can be. Stand up, Trevor.”

  Please just kill me. But I stood up and Pasquini led the team in applause, which only made me feel like a bigger idiot. “It’s Murder Monday, runners. Murder Monday. Five miles. Down Kirby Street, up Jeske Ave, back down Fridell Road, and then through the practice fields. Up! Up! You go! You go hard! You never stop moving, you never cut corners, and you never stop fighting! Go! Go! GO!”

  And then the lot of us—probably forty kids, from freshmen to seniors—just started running. I had no idea where the hell any of these roads were, so I just followed the pack. Not that I would have wanted to lead even if I did know where I was going. Because I know sports are just another way to pacify the masses. One hundred percent. Watch ’em. Play ’em. Either way, they exist to distract people from their empty lives. You think you’re better than someone because your NFL team won or you beat someone in a five-mile run? Then you’re an idiot. Why are we so competitive? What’s wrong with people? Why can’t p
eople just be chill? It’s because everyone is insecure. So pathetic.

  Except I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to stay near the front, just behind the leaders. Want to know why? Because I’m more pathetic than anyone. I know it’s all BS, yet I can’t stop myself. Moments like this, where I just have to stay at the front, when I can’t let anyone see me as weak, even if it’s a bunch of strangers, remind me how weak I am, even if I’m fooling everyone else into thinking the opposite.

  By the time we made the turn onto the forest preserve bike path, there were only five of us in the lead pack. The senior captain named Randy Chung, who had a shaved head and tattoos of Bible verses on his arms. A quiet freshman named Conchita Piniayo with thick black hair down to the middle of her back. And the other senior captain, Craig Billings, who looked like he should be related to the Kennedys.

  But it was clear to me that the best runner was this junior named Todd Kishkin. He was no taller than five six, with rounded shoulders almost pointing to the ground and a beak for a nose. If I had seen him in the hall, I would have pegged him as a violin player or a math club president who had never seen a sport on TV, let alone played one. But this kid could run. My chest was burning, my legs were going numb, and this Todd Kishkin looked like he was just floating above the ground. When we turned down Fridell Road, he said, as if getting off an elevator, “I’ll see you guys in a bit.” And, pow, he went into another gear and out of sight.

  I wanted to ask Craig about him, but I didn’t have the energy to speak. Eventually Randy and Craig pulled away from Conchita and me, and I made sure to stay side by side with her. Couldn’t lose to a girl. But then, as we crossed the practice fields, just when I should’ve been able to outsprint her since my legs were twice as long, I had nothing left. She cruised ahead as if I were cemented in place. Everything hurt so much. I wanted to drop this pointless sport, get another gym period, forget about Carolina Fisher anyway. Who does this crap? Run five miles for no reason? This isn’t a sport! It’s torture!