Dark Rooms (13 page)

Which makes perfect sense because the Chandler Health and Counseling Center is where I picked it up, one week ago today.

I'd just driven down from Williams for my surprise celebratory visit to Dad, hadn't even dropped off my overnight bag at the house yet. My appointment with Dr. Simons was for three o'clock and I was twenty minutes early, so I was camped out in the waiting area, sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair somebody must have dragged in from a classroom, looking for a way to kill time. There were no regular magazines in the rack, only a couple course catalogs from last spring, a back issue of
The Rag,
a pamphlet on irritable bowel syndrome. I picked up
The Rag
. Smirky, ready to have a good time, I opened it, knowing exactly how I was going to react, not just to the pieces inside but to the me of ten months ago who did her utter earnest best to edit—and occasionally churn out—those pieces: with affectionate disbelief. Imagine taking any of this crap seriously?

The magazine didn't disappoint. There was more than enough to inspire lighthearted contempt: a short story in which nothing happened except a girl watched the sky and thought about her life, and
as her thoughts grew darker, so too did the sky; a travel essay that read like an upmarket version of “What I Did on My Summer Vacation”; and, my personal favorite, the first chapter of an as-yet-to-be-completed novel about a couple of buddies on a hunting trip, the buddies making ample use of the words
nice
and
good,
signaling that the writer thought Hemingway was pretty terrific. I flashbacked to Mom's response to my news that the graduating board of
The Rag
had just voted me editor: “Teenagers should stick to sports and bands.” I was hurt at the time, of course, but now I saw she couldn't have been more right, and I started to laugh, in on the joke at last.

The laugh stuck in my throat, though, when I flipped to the next page, the poetry section. A word about
The Rag
and poetry. The poems that were submitted to the magazine generally fell into one of three categories: self-loathing (eating disorders, substance abuse problems, cutting, etc.), alienation (writer feels insufficiently loved/understood/appreciated), and sexual ambivalence (self-explanatory). The poem I was looking at now fit squarely into category number three.

And now a word about
The Rag
and anonymous submissions. There's no such thing. Not anymore. My freshman year, someone turned in an unsigned short story that had been copied off
Seventeen
's website. It was accepted by the editorial board and the plagiarism wasn't identified until the issue had already been printed and sent out to parents and alumni. Embarrassing for the school. Even more embarrassing for
The Rag
. To be caught stealing was bad enough, but from a teenybopper magazine? Never mind that it was the liveliest, most entertaining piece of fiction ever to grace our pages. Because the perpetrator was nameless, he/she remained at large. Since that day
The Rag
has instituted a strict policy: student-writers are allowed to publish anonymously, but not submit.

I remember the day “A Flower's Lament” came up for discussion.
The
Rag
's board was sitting around the office, a cramped room on the top floor of Noyes, the winter issue deadline looming. The radiators were on at full blast, making the air hot and dry. At the beginning of the meeting, I'd ripped open a giant bag of off-season candy corn, thrown it on the table. Now everyone was dull-eyed and cranky, having crashed from the sugar high.

“I think it's powerful,” Benny Quintana said. Benny, who one day last year had up and quit the Catholic Student Fellowship Club, pierced his right ear—his queer ear, as he called it—adopted a bored, lockjawy way of talking, and started wearing T-shirts with slogans like
SIZE QUEEN
and
POWER BOTTOMS FOR JESUS
, was our literary editor. He'd campaigned hard for the editor in chief position. Unsuccessfully, obviously. (I'd won less because people liked me, I think, than because people really didn't like him.) At present he was sprawled across the ratty velour couch a former staff member had rescued from a Dumpster, languidly fanning himself with a copy of the meeting agenda I'd printed out. “I want to publish it.”

“Veto,” Ethan MacLellan, our managing editor, said.

Benny let out a theatrical sigh. “Reason? Other than that you're pussy-whipped?”

Ethan claimed to object to the poem on the grounds that its religious imagery was heavy-handed, but, as we all knew and as Benny already alluded to, he was really objecting to it on the grounds that earlier Benny had shot down Ethan's girlfriend's piece about her struggles with bulimia, Benny saying that he did not need to read another first-person account of a girl finger-fucking her own throat because she didn't get enough hugs from daddy and neither did anyone else at this school, thank you very much.

“You've missed the point, as usual,” Benny said, when Ethan was finished talking. “The strength of this poem isn't in its imagery. It's in the way it shows what it's like for a young male to realize he has feelings that don't fit into the heteronormative paradigm.”

“A young homosexual male, you mean,” Ethan said. He was wearing Buddy Holly glasses and a gas station attendant jumpsuit, the name BUCK stitched in script across the breast pocket.

“No, a young male. The experiences and emotions the poet's writing about are universal and don't deserve to be ghettoized.”

Ethan shook his head. “You gay guys, always thinking that there's no such thing as an actual heterosexual. Just repressed homosexuals.”

“You straight guys,” Benny snapped back, “always pissing the shit out of me.”

The two traded insults for a while. Finally, I stepped in, came down on the side of Benny since I had to come down on the side of somebody, and since, I guess, I didn't think anyone at school needed to read another first-person account of a girl finger-fucking her own throat because she didn't get enough hugs from daddy, either.

“Benny,” I said, “will you just verify that Anonymous is actually a Chandler student? Then we can accept the poem, move on.”

“Moi?” Benny said.

“You have the submission sheet.”

“I do?” He started riffling through the papers scattered across the armrest of the couch. Picked one up, scanned it. “Ah, I do.” His laugh came out high-pitched and explosive. “Oh my God. You've got to be kidding me.”

“What?” I said.

“I did not see this one coming.”

“See what one coming?”

“The kind of flower that doesn't survive in gardens but apparently just
thrives
in crappers.”

“Benny, what are you talking about?”

Addressing the submission sheet rather than me, “So that's what you've been doing in Burroughs. I should've guessed. You little imp.” He smiled, shook his head. “Oh wow. Wow, wow, wow.”

“Wait,” I said, confused, “is it bathrooms this guy hangs out in or libraries?”

“‘A Flower's Lament.' Sammy Jay would not approve.”

Sammy
who
? Benny was being deliberately cryptic here, clearly wanted me to keep asking questions he wasn't going to provide answers to. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, I said, impatient, “You do know the poet then? He does attend this school? That's, like, confirmed?”

“I've known him since we were in diapers. Didn't know him as well as I thought I did, though, obviously.”

“Great.” I turned to the other end of the table. “Ethan, where are we on layout?”

Slowly I closed
The Rag,
the words “A Flower's Lament” reverberating in my head. What if the poem's title was actually a pun, the lowest form of humor, according to Dr. Samuel Johnson, the eighteenth-century English essayist and critic (“Imagination in the Romantic Age,” Mr. Dudley, seminar, junior fall)? What if “A Flower's” was, in fact, “A. Flowers,” A. as in Armando, which Manny was short for, and Flowers as in Flores?

I stood, a tunnel forming before my eyes, my ears filling with a dull roar. The magazine tumbled from my lap to the floor. Leaving it there, my bag, too, with my wallet in it, my keys, my phone, I walked straight out of the Health and Counseling Center, across campus, and into Burroughs Library. The boys' bathroom was in the exact same spot as the girls', one floor above. Without knocking, I opened the door, not knowing what it was I was hoping to find, only that this was where I would find it, my heart going so hard and fast and heavy I could feel it beating in my fingertips, all over my skin.

The bathroom was empty. Immaculate, too, every inch of it bright and fresh and gleaming. The walls had been repainted. The stalls, also, that or replaced. No
so-and-so was here
s, no
for a good time call
s, no dick markers or swear words. Just blankness. Naturally, I thought, it was the start of a new school year. All traces of last year would be gone—scrubbed away, scraped off, painted over, or junked altogether—like it had never even happened. I swallowed my disappointment, moved to the sink to splash water on my face. A. Flowers was a reach, anyway, I told myself, twisting the spigot. A stupid, made-up clue, like how a crime got solved in an Agatha Christie novel, not a crime in actual life. I must've been out of my mind to think it meant anything, had any sort of significance to be uncovered or decoded, or that if it did I'd be the one to do it.

Raising my head, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, thin-cheeked and big-eyed, scarred from the other dumb shit that I'd done, younger and more useless-looking than I'd even imagined. Dripping wet, too. And it was as I was turning toward the paper towel dispenser that I saw it, saw them rather, the two words:
MANNY
and
FLORES
, the
FLORES
only partial, up to the O, the
RES
blocked out by the newly installed dispenser. They were scratched into the tile wall that separated the urinal section from the washing up. Just the name, nothing else. No phone number followed or inflammatory remark. One or both of those things had likely been attached originally, but it or they were now covered by the dispenser along with the second half of
FLORES
.

For several seconds I stared at the writing without quite knowing what it was. Then, blinking, I reached up, pressed the dug-out letters, spindly and crooked, with the tips of my fingers, needing to feel them, make sure they were real.

My thoughts were simple and definite in my head: it was Manny's name that I was touching; which meant that Manny was A. Flowers; which meant that Manny wrote poetry about swallowing another
guy's liquid grace; which meant that Manny was gay; which meant that Manny was not in love with my sister; which meant that Manny did not kill my sister; which meant that someone else did.

It was just as I'd connected the final shocking dot that the door flew open, and a maintenance man, walkie-talkie squawking in his belt, entered, fumbling with the fly on his heavy khaki work pants. Seeing me, he froze. And we stood there, staring at each other, both of us caught in a place we weren't supposed to be: me in a bathroom for guys, he in a bathroom for students. I moved first, snatching three or four sheets of paper towel, hurriedly wiping off my face, then rushing past him.

I wanted to ditch the physical, go directly home, hole up in my room with what I'd just found out. I'd left my bag in the waiting area, though, right outside the doctor's office. And when I attempted to sneak in and grab it, I nearly collided with the nurse. She was looking at me, mad-faced.