Be good, Rembrandt,
Angie
Lex and I stare at each other for a minute, then she says, “What now?”
I just shrug. If I had any integrity, or pride, I’d go back down there and throw the money in Angie’s face. But this is it: my ticket to encounter. I look at Lex and, despite my continuing ride on the anguish coaster, I crack a smile and say, “Popcorn?”
It’s 3:55 Friday afternoon, and I’ve officially overpacked.
It’s not the clothes either; I’ve got the bare minimum, which according to Mom means five pairs of underwear for a two-night stay. Not sure what she’s thinking. I mean, I’ve heard encounter can get messy; still, I don’t intend to soil myself.
Besides abundant briefs I’ve got the basics: sweats, jeans, socks, toothbrush, paste, deodorant. Journal of angst. Cassette of horrific narration. And for extra motivation, a copy of Dad’s Sebastian self-portrait; I snapped a shot of the painting and printed a copy. Those last three add impressive heft to my duffel. And I’ve found his anguished face to be a great motivator. Prolonged staring causes emotional numbness, which makes it easier to contemplate actually going on encounter.
Because, now that it’s a reality — and one that begins tonight — I’m freaking out. It’s almost comforting pretending I have a choice, like there’s a chance I’ll listen to that tiny, sane portion of my brain whispering, “Don’t go.” But I’m ignoring it; no way am I turning back.
Since last Saturday, when Angie paid me off, my plan’s ratcheted into high gear. I spent the rest of the weekend compulsively counting: three fifties, six twenties, four singles, a neat stack. Thirteen bills. Hope that’s not an omen. Poor thirteen, supposedly its history as unlucky goes back to the Last Supper — Jesus and the Boys numbered thirteen. And we all know how that played out.
The week’s flown. Usually the first days back from break drag; not this time. Between getting into the swing at school and obsessing over encounter, Lex and Tyler, dead baby Ev, and Father Fran, my brain’s in overdrive.
I haven’t heard from Angie; I doubt I will. I took a chance, swung by the hospital Monday after school. Lex offered to come with me, but I figured I’d have a better shot as a lone intruder. I talked her out of coming and she seemed to understand. I, however, instantly regretted it. As she rode off with her mom, I almost chased the Blazer, begged her to join me.
As it turned out, Lex or no Lex, the trip was pointless. In ICU, they told me Zio’s condition “necessitated transfer to an extended care facility.” That’s hospital-speak for lost cause. They wouldn’t even give me the name of the place; the nurse said they couldn’t release that information to just anybody. Ouch.
I phoned Lex the minute I got home, but she was on another call and “couldn’t really talk.” I knew it was Tyler. We planned to meet Tuesday in free period before Spanish, but she showed up late, so we didn’t have much catch-up time.
I’m trying to be understanding, even happy for her, but I have to admit: without Lex, I’m rudderless. And even though she’s back — and the other night felt almost like old times — things’ve changed. Example: Our standing lunch date’s pretty much been toppled.
That became clear on Tuesday when she broke formation in the caf and headed to Tyler’s table, “just for a sec.” I ended up eating solo, keeping an eye on her backpack.
I guess I’ve got no right to be jealous, but somebody should tell that to my guts. They pitched uncontrollably as she sat three tables off, giggling with Wattrous and the gang. At least Spiotti’s been scarce. He has some major league detention or something — who knows why? He’s been spending most of his time in Father Brendan’s office. That’s a mercy. If the Wattrous party included Lex and Randy, it might kill me.
Anyway, after today’s incident, I’ll be lucky if Lex even speaks to me when I get back.
The rest of Tuesday was pretty typical. We saw each other in Father B’s class, met in the stairwell twice. And we sat together in study hall. It was silent study, but Mrs. Koothrappally was monitor, so we managed a bit of whispering. I told Lex my plan to reschedule encounter.
“I figure there’s no point waiting ’til late March now that I’ve got the cash. I’ll stop by the office after homeroom, see if Mrs. Teague can make the switch. If there’s an open space, I can go this weekend.”
Alexis fidgeted and bit her cheek. “So this is it, huh?”
“I guess.”
“What’d your mom say?”
“I haven’t told her.”
“Oh.” She stared past me then, eyes wide, unfocused. Then she looked at me like I’d just told her my execution date.
“What is it, Lex?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. I’m just … I’m a little creeped out about this whole encounter thing. You don’t think it’s a giant mistake, do you?”
“Great. Thanks. That’s just what I need.”
“No, don’t get mad. I know it’s important to you. I’m sure it’s nothing. My premonitions almost never come true.”
“What premonition?”
She tried to smile then, but her eyes were uncooperative. “Um, I got this image of you just now, kind of like a vision … You were really crying.”
“That’s fascinating, but I don’t think you’re ready to join Psychic Friends just yet. What are the chances I’ll go on encounter and NOT cry? They practically guarantee it.”
“I guess you’re right. But … be careful, okay?”
“Yes, Madame Fortuna.”
She had to leave then; her mother was picking her up early — some appointment. As she stood to go, she squeezed my arm and said it again, “Be careful.”
She spooked me. Honestly, I was happy to be left alone. In homeroom, I kept folding and unfolding my permission form; tracing Mom’s signature; checking my pocket for the envelope of bills. When the bell finally rang, I fought the crush of bodies like an eager salmon, elbowing my way officeward.
As I spread my creased form out on Mrs. Teague’s desk, she said, “What is it, Evan? Did you have a problem with the application?”
“Not exactly.” I fanned out the money on her blotter, like a royal flush. She smiled as if it was a Valentine’s gift.
When I said I’d like to attend encounter this weekend, the Teaguester gave me a that’s-impossible-on-such-short-notice frown. I countered with my patented, son-of-a-dead-guy pout. She made some quick calls and got things straightened out. Scooping my cash into her little lockbox, she plugged me into the last remaining slot and sent me on my way.
I sprang the news on Mom at supper. It’s becoming a tradition with us, the kitchen table debate. But she reacted with atypical calm. She agreed it might be good for me to go sooner rather than later, “especially with the added stress you’ve been through lately.”
I assume she was talking about Mister Alberti, though she never truly talks about him, just hints around the edges. All in all, it was a successful day, and as I lay in bed Tuesday night, I tried not to think about Lex’s premonition.
Wednesday was an almost-normal high school day. The highlight reel would look like this. Standard classroom scenario: Long, boring stretches, moments of extreme disinterest, occasional disrespectful outbursts. Oh yeah, and Mister Pettafordi pointedly NOT looking at Lex and me.
Anyway, I came straight home after school and dove into homework. Miss Delateski laid it on thick: four chapters to read and annotate.
After supper, Mom and I watched a movie. I think we both craved a slice of normal with all that’s been going on. So we carefully chose a title devoid of meaning. Finally picking a Marx Bro flick, we kicked back for an hour or so. It’s been a long time. I kissed her good night and headed to bed around 10:15. I swear I conked while shutting off the bedroom light. And, mercifully, I drifted dreamless ’til morning.
Yesterday, Lex passed me a note in Father Brendan’s class. It said:
She almost got me in trouble, because I sat trying to puzzle it out ’til Father B said, “Mister Galloway, a
m I disturbing you?”
“Sorry, Father.”
After class, I grabbed Lex in the hall and said, “What’s with the hieroglyphics? I want to comb balloon?”
“It says, I WANT TO COME OVER LATER!”
“So balloon means ‘over’? Poetic, but kind of vague.”
“It’s not a balloon. It’s an ova — Jeeesh. Did you not read Chapter 29 last night?”
“Oh.”
“So, can I?”
“Come over? Of course! What’s up?”
“Tell you when I get there. So how do you like it?”
“What?” I knew exactly what she meant, and I didn’t like it. But I’d decided not to comment, in the old, “don’t say anything at all” tradition.
“The hair, doofus! How do you like my new ’do?”
“Oh. Fine. Very … becoming.”
“Wow, thanks for the rousing endorsement.”
“No, it looks nice. I’m just used to it being long and, sort of … well, frazzly. I always thought that look suited you.”
“Well, thanks.”
Just then, Bethany Breton and a couple other girls we used to call “track sluts” sidled up. Bethany tugged Lex’s sleeve.
“Oh hey, Beebs. Be right there.” Turning back to me, she whispered, “Okay, I’ll stop ova after supper.” And then she was gone.
As I wandered the hall, I tried to convince myself her whisper wasn’t for their benefit, so they wouldn’t know she was coming to my house. It didn’t work.
But by the time the doorbell rang, I was past it; just glad to have Lex over. I figured it’d be nice to spend encounter eve with my best friend. And I was happy thinking she understood what it meant to me. It set my mind at ease, like we really were okay.
So it was a bit disappointing to find Mrs. Bottaro on the stoop, Lexless. She was struggling with a big, cardboard box. As I opened the door, she nearly fell inside.
“Where’s Alexis?”
Mrs. Bottaro’s voice always goes up about two octaves when she’s nervous, and she was definitely in soprano territory. “Hey … I know … you must be surprised to see me, huh?”
“Sort of.”
“Listen, Lex can’t make it. She called me about an hour ago. Some ‘thing’ came up with one of her girlfriends — can you say boy crisis? But she asked me to bring you these.” She hoisted the box into my chest, nearly knocking me over.
“Thanks.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry to see these go. Okay, hasta la vista!” And she skidded down the front steps, looked back over her shoulder, and fake-whispered, “I’ve got a date!” As she waved from the car window, I couldn’t help thinking how much she looked like Lex.
I recognized the box immediately; I’d seen it in Lex’s room a zillion times, but why’d her mother bring it here? I dragged it down the hall to my room and opened it on the oval rug. Inside was a sizable share of her record collection: several Neil Diamond albums, some Carpenters, The Very Best of Gordon Lightfoot, Simon and Garfunkel, most of her faves.
Closing the lid, I set the box in my closet on top of Dad’s footlocker. Before going to bed, I checked if Lex was online, to ask what this was about. But near her name on my buddy list was a little snoozing icon. I figured I’d try to sleep too, and catch up with her at school.
At lunch, I asked about the albums; she shrugged it off, promised to talk later. Later was free period. After Modern Lit, we slipped back to the choir cubes. I could tell she was reluctant to go there, so I promised I’d “control myself” this time. That made her laugh.
Now, shivering on the curb awaiting my habitually late grandfather, I replay this afternoon for the hundredth time and savor that laugh. It may be the last time I hear it.
After we closed the cube door, Lex sat on the piano bench and started plinking keys. Then she smiled and said, “So?”
“So why’d you give me your records?”
She spun back to the keyboard, but before she could continue playing, I closed the lid, sat next to her, and said, “Why, Lex?”
She let out an exasperated huff, saying, “God, Ev! I’ve just outgrown them, that’s all.”
“I don’t understand.”
She wouldn’t look at me, and she used this voice I’d only ever heard her use on her mom. “I’m listening to newer stuff now.” She shrugged. “Tastes change.”
“Tyler doesn’t like them?”
Her complexion replied. Before she could say a word, her face went deep pink. Knowing it was futile to lie, she still soft-peddled.
“Well … no. He’s not crazy about my collection, but it doesn’t matter. I really like his music anyway. He’s going to take me to hear this band, Penalty Box. They’re cool. He saw them with his cousin in Boston. They’re playing an all-ages show next month at The Lizard. It’s a double-bill with Cloth Mother Monkey. Tyler’s really excited — we may get backstage passes.”
“How awesome.” All of a sudden I thought I might cry. I’m such an asshole.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, I’m glad for you. I’m just surprised. Those records always meant a lot to you.”
She avoided my eyes. “Honestly, I think those old songs were more of an … affectation than anything. Like a love-me-I’m-quirky type of thing. I don’t need them anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because! I don’t need to be different. I don’t want to be different anymore! I have a boyfriend. I mean, he’s popular, Evan.”
“And you’re afraid of?”
“Nothing!” She stood, moved toward the door.
I blocked it; no way was I surrendering so easily. “Well, I think you are. I think you’re afraid to tarnish mighty Tyler’s reputation by being too different. Too weird. I think maybe he even told you that, didn’t he Lex? Didn’t he?”
“NO!”
I just gaped, because I knew she was lying. And if we were still playing by her rules, that was the only unforgivable offense.
Finally, she ran her hand through her new hair (courtesy of Tyler’s criticism, obviously) and, just above a whisper, said, “Okay. He might’ve said that … some of his friends thought my taste in music was lame.”
“And?”
“And? What?”
“Why should that matter? You never cared what those morons thought before! He’s screwing with your mind, Alexis! Is he screwing more than that? Is he? Are you and Tyler — ”
She smacked my mouth before I could finish. I’m not sure which of us was more shocked. For a second I thought she’d apologize; maybe we’d even laugh about it.
But then her eyes narrowed to slits and she said, “What if we are?”
“Just don’t catch anything. I doubt you’re the only one.”
Now she looked like she wanted to cry. “Why can’t you understand? For the first time in my life, I have friends!”
“Oh.”
I guess she realized how that sounded. “Evan, I didn’t mean — ”
But it was too late. She reached for my hand, but I slapped hers away.
“Forget it. I don’t even know you anymore. I hope you’re happy.” And I walked out.
It would’ve been better if I’d just slammed the cube door and kept going. But she’d started crying, and I couldn’t leave her alone like that. I turned around, stepping back inside. I swear I intended Sorry, but then she actually smiled and said, “I knew you’d come back.”
For some reason, that made me madder than anything, as if she had a right to know anything about me now. So I looked at my best friend like she was less than a stranger and, in a dead monotone, I said, “And I don’t want your records. I’ve always thought they were stupid.”
Then I left her sitting there in the silent music box and went to my locker.
I resisted calling her as soon as I got home. I mean, what’s the point? Now all I can think about is what Mister P said, how he was too efficient when it came to saying hurtful things. When did I get to be like that?
I
sprint up the walk into the kitchen, check the phone one last time. “You have no messages.” I’m staring at the flashing red zero when the horn honks. After sticking my Post-it to Mom — “See you Sunday! Love, E” — on top of the answering machine, I run down the walk to the Bonneville.
Gramp cracks the window, peers out. “You sure about this?”
“Nope.” He just looks at me, waiting for the rest. “But take me anyway.”
“All aboard.”
I slide in, and we head for the school lot to catch the bus that’ll take me to answers. Or at least a weekend of emotional thrills and chills.
“Your grandmother and I are going away next week.”
“Atlantic City?”
“Yup. You’re on mail duty.”
“Okay.”
“So, make sure you come back from this thing in one piece.”
“I’ll try.”
I clutch the duffel to my chest, picturing Dad’s face, voice, words inside. Gramp spares us further interaction, and I’m nearly asleep when we get to school.
In the lot, he gives me a shove and says, “Last stop: Rowayton.” Maybe he really does have a second life on the rails. I kiss his cheek and jump out. Tooting, he drives away minutes before the red Blazer pulls into the lot.
It feels like we should be blindfolded.
We’ve been lurching over dark roads for what seems like days, country station blasting on the radio. The retreat house is apparently like some covert destination; I swear the bus circled for the first half-hour to throw us off. According to all the handouts, Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center should only be about a forty-minute ride from Sebastian’s. I check my watch; we’ve been on the road nearly two hours.
I take a furtive peek at my fellow passengers: varying stages of zombification. Some are asleep; most blankly stare at their reflections in the frosted windows. The mood is less than celebratory.
Then again, it’s not like this is the monorail at Disney. I think everyone’s anxious about what to expect, what’s expected. This is it. Encounter. We’ve all heard the stories. You’re grilled about every bad thing that ever happened to you. You pray ’round-the-clock, bunk with strangers. Sometimes you have to stare into another guy’s eyes for a full thirty minutes — no talking. It’s like Guantanamo, but with stained glass.
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