Randy smiled in a way that can only be described as Grinch-like and said, “Perfect.”
It’s just typical I’d get paired with Spiotti for an activity called Soul Search — as if he has one! So we’re supposed to silently stare into each other’s eyes for a full thirty minutes.
So far about 360 seconds have elapsed. I know because I’ve been counting Mississippis in the face of Spiotti’s glare. Oh, and there’s a clock next to giant Jesus.
It’s gone from spiritual exercise to battle of wills. Neither of us has changed expression, looked away, or blinked since this started. He’s like a sphinx, only meaner; doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. His upper body remains perfectly still, betraying none of the movement beneath the table.
First, I think it’s an accident as his boot presses on my slippered toes. I flinch, just slightly, and move my foot away, like you do when someone stands a little too close in the checkout line: a minor adjustment.
But when it happens again, I know it’s deliberate, can almost see his foot seeking mine on the nubbly stone floor. There’s more pressure as he grinds my foot beneath steely treads.
I will not blink. Will not speak. I allow myself another shift, this one larger. Lifting my foot, I drape it across the other leg, my eyes never breaking from Randy’s hate-filled gaze.
We study each other like gunslingers. Then his boot connects with my shin, and I buckle in my chair, releasing a sharp chuff of air. Bending, I rub the egg already blooming from the blade of my shin. When I look back up, Spiotti’s grinning.
“Sorry, Gal’.”
“No talking.” It’s one of the monitors, some brother I don’t recognize. They tend to meld, in their dull brown robes, like a flock of giant sparrows.
Spiotti looks at Brother No-name and, innocence embodied, says, “I kept telling him to be quiet.”
Taken in by Randy’s saintly expression, the bro says, “That’s fine, son.” Then he turns to me, frowns, says, “See it doesn’t happen again. The spiritual benefits of this exercise truly depend upon your silent cooperation. Understood?”
Hand clapped to mouth, I offer a serious, slow-mo nod. The brother, satisfied, moves on.
When I face Spiotti again, his eyes are crossed, mouth slack: personification of “Duh.” God, I hate him! I’d love nothing more than to reach across the table, grab his lolling tongue, and yank it clear off his face.
Instead — in what proves a seismic shift in the nature of our relationship — I uncross my leg, ratchet my foot back like a slingshot, and ram my heel squarely into Spiotti’s balls.
For a second, I’m not sure I’ve connected. Randy just sits there: no reaction. Then his eyes widen and all color drains from his face. Slumped onto the table, he emits a tiny, wounded-kitten mewl. Hand over his mouth, he retches softly.
I feel a ripple of guilt, not to mention fear. I certainly didn’t consider the consequences. I’ll be lucky to make it out alive. Glancing over my shoulder (mostly to map an escape route) I notice Kenny Nealson looking our way. Awesome.
In attempted self-preservation, I whisper, “Look, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Randy speaks with great effort. “Don’t … pretend … you’re … sorry.”
“No, I am!”
“Bullsh … it.” He manages to gain his breath, sits a bit straighter in his chair. Pointing a finger in my face, he says, “Okay, I had that coming.”
“But I — ”
“Just shut up. I’m letting it slide.”
“Really?”
“Really. But you tell anybody about it, I’ll kill your ass.”
“Deal.”
The brother glides by our table, and we go into limpid pools mode. All I can think is, It’s a good thing this is a silent process. What if we had to talk to each other? I glance at the clock; we’re halfway through — another fifteen minutes.
My eyes keep focusing and unfocusing (maybe I should get checked for astigmatism) as I stare into Randy’s. It’s probably a defense mechanism, since I’m seriously not into the idea of seeing past his surface. And it could only be a bad thing to allow him access to my deeper self.
Hmm, I never noticed that. Spiotti’s got a hairline scar looping around the tip of his nose; it sort of skids off his left nostril, forming a pucker on his cheek. Wonder what it’s from. I’m staring at it, instead of looking into his eyes. Randy must notice; he lifts his hand from the tabletop and hooks his index finger over his nose, covering the scar. It’s funny; I think I’ve seen him make that gesture before.
I look into his eyes again and see something totally foreign. Could it be? Vulnerability? It scares me, but now I can’t look away. Not because of some battle of wills, but because I’m stunned. Is there really more than just another layer of evil beneath Spiotti’s mask?
He blinks and — Holy Crap! — a single, perfect, chick-flick tear slips from the corner of his eye, trailing down his face. When it hits the glitch on his cheek, it changes direction, meandering onto his upper lip. Very slowly, Spiotti’s tongue emerges to receive the tear, guiding it into his mouth.
I know better than to react, and Randy’s expression never changes.
“Time’s up,” says Father Calvin. He’s on the little platform, looking at a stopwatch.
Everyone sighs and stretches. You’d expect noise — talking, laughter, something — after thirty minutes of intense silence, but the group remains quiet. There’s a sense of fatigue.
“Okay, everybody stand up. Shake it off.”
Now there’s a cacophony of chairs scraping the stone floor, feet stamping, chatter.
“Next we verbalize. I’d like you each to get a couple sheets of paper and a pencil. You’ll find them on the monitor table. Once you’ve gathered supplies, return to your seats and record your impressions of the previous thirty minutes.”
A hand shoots up; it’s a track dude. “What do you mean impressions?”
“Thoughts. Feelings. Insights you had into your partner.”
“Are we being graded on this?”
Father Cal looks a tad miffed. “No. You won’t be graded, but I expect you to take this seriously. You’ll be sharing these thoughts in group. Now gather paper and pencils, and spend the next twenty minutes writing.”
A traffic jam forms at the supply table. I almost miss Jeffrey, but then some kid steps aside and I spot him. He looks haggard; probably the result of his extended Nealson workout.
“Hey!” When I tap his back, he jumps. The relief’s visible when he sees it’s me.
“Hey yourself.” He shoves up his sleeve to show me his wrist. It’s scarlet, classic Nealson Indian Burn. “You go to school with these psychos? How do you survive?”
I don’t have a chance to answer; Father Cal interrupts. “Please take an extra pencil and paper back to your partner, Evan. It seems he’s had a little breakthrough.”
I look at Spiotti sitting head down, face buried against his forearms.
“Wow. Breakdown’s more like it. What’d you do to him?”
Remembering Randy’s warning, “I’ll kill your ass,” I shrug and say, “Nothing.”
“If you say so.” Jeff grabs a sheet of paper and, shoulders slumping, he heads to his table.
Snagging pencils and paper, I rejoin Spiotti. A brother — Lucius, according to his name tag — squats next to Randy’s chair, checking on him. Praying I haven’t been ratted out, I sit down.
Brother Lucius smiles, says, “Good work, boys,” and leaves us.
We spend the next twenty minutes writing. I’m honestly at a loss, especially knowing I’ll have to read it out loud. Finally, I manage to fill a page with stuff like: “Focusing on someone else enabled me to find a quiet inside myself,” “It felt like floating in a peaceful place where I truly understood God’s love for me,” and assorted other groovy stuff I’m sure they’ll love.
Randy seems to have no such issue with writer’s block. He’s filled two pages front and back, and just before Father Cal calls “Time,” he a
sks if he can use my extra sheet.
“Sure.”
I slide the paper across the table, hoping he’s not detailing what it felt like when my foot made contact with his tender bits. Maybe that’s his plan: get me in trouble by telling the whole group I attacked him.
We spend the next hour listening to people’s Soul Search musings. Mercifully, it’s a voluntary situation; we’re not required to read our stuff out loud. Naturally, I opt out.
Father Calvin invites Jeff to begin, saying, “You’ve been through this before, and always seem to have such great insights. Feel like sharing?”
Jeff declines, barely looking up from the table, and I notice Kenny smirking.
Surprisingly, several people volunteer. The hour is filled with amazing testimonials: an even mix of touching and horrific. I’m stunned at the level of risk, the willingness to reveal darkness, speak the unspeakable, like Soul Search has woven this safety net of trust. One guy tells how his father repeatedly humiliated him in front of his Cub Scout troop. Another kid, Rickie from Holy Ghost, confesses the relief he felt when his brother finally died after sixteen months in a coma.
“All I could think was Now we don’t have to spend another Christmas in this hospital. ” Rickie can’t stop crying and keeps asking, “What’s wrong with me?”
Father Calvin guides the session beautifully; he knows just how to talk a kid down, when to ask him to delve deeper. He’s like some incredible umpire of grief. Just as the hour’s coming to a close, Father C asks if anyone else wants to speak. To my horror, Spiotti stands.
All eyes are on him, and I’m sure they expect some wise-assery; he’s already gotten a rep. Nealson and the rest of the track apes start chanting, “Ran-dy! RAN-dy!” ’til Novack yells, “Cut it!”
Spiotti clears his throat and begins. “Uh. I just wanted to say a couple things.” He shuffles his pages, brings them close to his face. He’s never exactly been an eager reader. “I didn’t come here by choice. Me and some of the other guys pulled some shit at school. Sorry, Coach.”
“No sweat, Randy. Just watch the language.”
That was obviously for the benefit of the robe-wearers. Novack’s language has been known to dissolve eardrums.
“Sure. Anyways, I’m glad I did. Come on retreat, I mean. And this activity, even though I thought it’d be total BS at first … ”
Laughter from the crowd, even Father Cal.
“Wait, but it wasn’t. It was sort of cool. My partner was Evan Galloway, this kid from my school.”
I feel sudden heat in my face.
“We’ve never really been friends.” He looks up from the pages, an apparent departure from what’s written. “Actually, I’ve always been a dick to him.”
When Nealson laughs, Coach Novack cracks the back of his head with his clipboard.
Spiotti continues, “But sitting here staring in his face, I guess I realized something. I stopped seeing him as this weak, doofy, little brainiac brownnoser.” Wow, I’m touched. “I started seeing just another kid.” Folding his papers, he’s about to sit back down.
I’m thinking, That’s it?
Father Cal must sense Randy has more to share. In this soft voice he tells him, “Go on.”
And — BINGO — he does!
“Just … I’ve always been kind of … people look up to me. And that’s great, but … sometimes, like I said, I’m sort of a dick — sorry — a bully. And this Soul Search made me see a little better why I act like that. And now I feel like, maybe, it’s time I change. That’s it.”
The room’s silent. I spot Nealson; he’s wearing this queasy look, like he’s discovered pudding in his jockstrap. I feel my own jaw slightly unhinged in disbelief and, closing my mouth, look across the table at Spiotti. He smiles and offers his hand. It’s a real Hallmark moment.
Father Cal leads the applause that engulfs the room. Then we break for lunch. It seems I’ve become an object of curiosity; no doubt, due to Spiotti’s little interlude, everyone’s eager to get a look at the brainiac brownnoser. Happily, there’s no sign of Spiotti himself. Small favor.
As we tuck into our Sloppy Joes and baked beans (only later, in the confessional, will I question the wisdom of serving such flatulence-inducing fare to a herd of teenage guys), Jeffrey still looks shell-shocked. Head down, he rocks slightly, keeps rubbing his wrist.
“Are you okay?”
He looks at me — eyes sad, red — but he only shrugs. “Just tired. Listen, we got almost an hour ’til confessions. And I’m totally wiped from Soul Search. I think that Nealson scumbag may have extracted mine somehow.” This foggy look returns, but when I clear my throat, he offers a smile and says, “I think I’ll grab some Zs.”
“Okay.”
Somehow, watching his back as he trudges down the hallway starts me thinking of Lex. I briefly consider breaking rule #1 — no outside contact — and giving her a call. Instead, after dropping my tray onto the waste conveyor, I decide to spend the free time reading. But I don’t feel like sitting in my room; I plan on the chapel. It’ll be quiet there, and private.
I’ve gathered some stuff from 214. The journal’s in my hoodie pocket and I’m heading to the chapel when I happen to glance out the big glass doors overlooking the back hill. This glorious valley view glints through bare trunks, the ice stained like fruit sherbet by the waning sun.
Staring out, I imagine I can see my house from here (like I know where here is). A pop of red catches my attention as a cardinal shoots from a pine, landing on a half-buried stone wall. The movement draws my eye to a figure huddled against the wind, partway down the hill. Thinking it’s a brother — he’s got that shapeless-brown-lump quality they share — I tap the window. No response. Curious, I put my hood up and step out, feet sinking, toes instantly damp.
As I approach the brown-clad form thinking, Why am I out here in slippers? he turns. First thing that registers: the buttons, his robe’s really a corduroy trench coat. Then I see the cigarette. I’m close to an about-face when he calls me.
“Galloway!”
Terrific.
“Hey, Randy.”
“So, if I embarrassed you before … sorry.”
I’ve begun backing toward the double door. “No big.”
“But … it is.”
I’m almost to the doors when my heel catches the ridge of snow-caked walk and I topple. Luckily, the drift buffers my head as it hits stone.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Fine.”
Randy tries to lift me, but I shake loose of his grip.
“I said I’m fine!”
Standing, I get my first good look at his face, and can’t help asking, “Are you okay?”
Snorting a last clot of smoke, Spiotti flicks his butt into the snow with a tiny sizzz. “I’m great.”
Unsure why I even care, I pursue it. “You don’t look great.”
“Yeah, well, I been thinking.”
“What about?”
I shudder when he says, “You, me. We’re not that different you know.”
“Gulp.” Oops, didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sorry. Just a joke.”
“Whatever. Look, I been realizing we have some shit in common.”
“What type of shit?”
“Your old man, my mother.”
“What about your mother?”
He starts downhill toward this stone gazebo. Ignoring my better judgment, I follow.
“Wait up.”
I join him in the gazebo. He clears snow off one of the benches — these big, carved granite slabs — and sits, head hanging, hands between his knees. I shove the snow, like a big, white sheet cake, off the bench opposite him and sit.
“She … uh … bailed on us. Just like your father.”
“Wait, you mean she killed herself?”
Staring at the painted gazebo ceiling — Blessed Mother, serpent crushed beneath her heel — he sighs. “Might as well hav
e. She’s dead to me.”
“Oh.”
“The bitch walked out on my old man and me when I was six.” The way he sneers, like he’s auditioning for a movie, he almost convinces me he’s angry, not hurt. I wonder, has he convinced himself?
“That’s rough.”
“Yeah. Actually it was the day before I turned six. Some birthday, huh?”
“Wow. I’m sorry.”
He stares at me for a long time, puzzled. I’m beginning to feel like a specimen in a museum case when he finally says, “Shit, you really are, aren’t you? Sorry.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Uh … I guess … I just feel bad for you. That must’ve been — ”
Suddenly he’s looming. “Who are you to feel sorry for me?”
I try to stand, but he pushes me back onto the bench. Certain he’s about to hit me, I sink in defensive posture, hands over face, shoulders hunched. I’m cringing for a good thirty seconds, braced for contact, when I hear it: a blubbery exhalation.
Slowly opening my eyes, I’m stunned at the sight of Spiotti hunkered on the far side of the gazebo. He’s crouched, leaning against the bench, face pressed into the remaining snow. His whole body shakes, like an elastic stretched to snapping.
“Randy?” Stepping closer, fawn approaching rabid wolf, I ask, “What is it?”
He mumbles something I can’t quite understand. When I put my hand on his back, he tenses as if I’ve delivered an electric shock. I pull back.
“I said, just go!”
“Maybe I can help you.”
“No! I don’t need your help. And if you don’t go now, I’m afraid what I might do to you.”
I have a horror movie flash: this guy transforming into a werewolf warns his friend to run. He’s snarling, “Save yourself,” and just like the friend, I’m stupid enough to refuse.
“Just talk to me.”
“Evan, I swear, you better get away from me right now.”
But he’s shaking as he says it, and I sense a part of him, at least, wants me to stay. I sit next to him on the icy stone floor. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists; I honestly believe he might pummel me. But I see something else in his face, something new. His lip trembles as he talks, and I realize what that new thing is: Spiotti at six. Motherless. Broken.
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