Project Pallid (10 page)

“I
don’t know. Not much, I guess. Heading home to Crapsville, and then whatever.”

“Well,
do you want to stay after with me? We can hang out. Maybe head to my house? We
can do whatever you want, and you don’t have to worry about my dad or anything
like that; he always works late. I’m usually asleep by the time he gets home.”

I
was dumbfounded. I had no idea what to say. The logistics of it all ran through
my head, and as I checked off each point of contention, her invitation became a
distinct possibility. Plus, my mom would be more than happy to come to Madison
to grab me, especially if it was
because of a
girl—Catee, in particular.

From
there, my head jumped to her intentions, and I worried about the inherent
suggestion in her invitation. As interested as I was, I couldn’t imagine
rounding the bases with Catee—not yet. And if she weren’t suggesting
that, why else would she have said that her dad would be gone?

I
didn’t know him back then, and I didn’t understand that there weren’t any
sexual innuendos in her revelation; she was only implying that we wouldn’t be
bothered by his need to control her every move and interaction.

“Well?
Are you going to hang out with me or not?”

Lost
in my thoughts, I’d allowed dead air to collect between us, and I hoped she
wasn’t interpreting it as reservation on my part.

“Sorry,
Catee. I completely spaced out for a minute there.”

“No
kidding,” she laughed. “So, are you coming over tomorrow?”

“I’ve
just got to check with my mom to make sure she’ll pick me up and all, but I
don’t think it’ll be a problem. Book me in, and I’ll let you know if there’s an
issue after I ask her tonight.”

“Sounds
great. Don’t you leave me hanging though, Mr. Lawson. I’m a busy girl with
pressing engagements in my calendar. I’ve already shuffled a few things around
to clear up the afternoon for you.”

“What?
You moved things around to hang out with me??” I asked, naiveté
winning its battle with logic.

“I’m
just kidding with you, silly,” Catee laughed and slapped me playfully on the
shoulder. Her hand lingered on contact just long enough for me to feel its
warmth through the thin cotton of my worn t-shirt. “I don’t have anything
pressing planned. Never do. I’m new here. Remember? And for all I’ve seen,
there aren’t many kids I’d want to spend any more time with than I already have
to, trapped in this dump,” she added with a look to the concrete walls and the
drab, gray lockers that surrounded us.

“Ha!
I knew you were kidding! I was just playing, too,” I tried my hardest to cover
my stumble. “And I completely get what you’re saying about this place and all
the kids here. I could care less about any of them.”

“Well,”
she replied, “I suppose that makes us a team now.
A
duo. A pair. A fighting force for everything that
isn’t
Madison High
lame!”

“You’re
on, Ms. Laverdier.”

“So,
tomorrow? Same time? Same place? And then it’s Damian and Catee vs. the
World???”

“Sounds
perfect, but I’ve got to run if I’m going to catch my bus. I’ll see you in the
morning!” I exclaimed, turned, broke into a trot, and then a run, as I adjusted
my backpack and navigated the hall’s swarms of students, en route to the bus
station.

“Stay
on your feet, Mr. Lawson!!” Catee yelled from behind, inciting a thumbs-up
response from me as I rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

September
14
^th:

It
turns out, I was right about my mom and her receptiveness to the idea of me
staying after school the next day. When I relayed my conversation with Catee,
she pulsated with excitement at the promise of my first high school connection.
She even offered to pick me up, just before dinnertime, and was so agreeable
that one afternoon would quickly become two … two would turn three … and three would
become a regular, four-day-a-week affair.

Our
first afternoon together was one of the firsts that I’d hung in Madison, free
of my Platsville roots. It was an opportunity to feel equity with the Madison
High natives who’d made me an outcast, just a week before. Granted, Catee and I
didn’t really hang with anyone else that day—or any other, for that
matter—but there was still the feeling that I’d somehow ascended to a
higher link in the high school food chain.

We
lingered at our locker longer than usual that Thursday, with no real rush to be
anywhere at any specific time. Her dad would be working most of the night; my
mom wouldn’t be picking me up until 6:00. We had over three hours at our
disposal and anything was possible. The silent awkwardness of the moment spoke
volumes as we prepared to venture into unchartered territory.

“So,
let’s get out of here,” she finally suggested.

“Where
to?”

“I
don’t know, but I can’t stand breathing this high school funk much longer.
Let’s go.”

Still
leery of the road we’d travel, I followed her lead and stepped from the comfort
of our locker. I left behind my inhibitions and opened the door to a world of
exciting possibilities and untimely ends.

Outside,
we walked past the soccer fields, the tennis courts, and the football
field—each filled with its respective, varsity squads, who prepped for
Friday’s games, meets and matches—and while doing so, we exchanged what
could’ve been our first genuine words with each other. Void of the high school
noise, each one carried greater meaning. Intended for a singular set of ears,
each word was more thoughtfully chosen, and though we’d known each other for
two weeks, it felt like our first interaction.

And
within an hour, as we continued to walk the surrounding blocks of the high
school, all the tension I’d felt going in was totally forgotten. The flow of
our conversations became more fluid. Less forced and methodic, our chemistry was
natural, organic, and funny.

And,
just like our first exchange, each subsequent one with Catee kept me on my
feet, ready for her punch line, and setting up my own in return. It became a
tennis match, and we worked to constantly outdo each another—each line we
delivered made me laugh harder, and I become more pliably hers. I had no way of
knowing what she was thinking or feeling at the time, and there was no way I
was about to ask her own thoughts, but I only hoped she was feeling the same
things I felt coursing through me: things that would’ve sounded completely
inappropriate, had I given words to them so soon. And so I chose to not search
them out, and I vowed to keep them to myself that day.

Eventually,
over two hours later, our walk concluded where it began. Madison High had
become mostly empty by then, with only a handful of cars scattered in its
expansive lots. Its playing fields were empty, too, and the air was quiet and
still.

Our
talk and travel took us to the center of the football field where we laid on
our backs to look up at the blue, September sky. Its puffy, white clouds were
filled with vast and numerous interpretations.

“That
one looks like Mel Gibson,” Catee pointed up and declared.

“What!”
I laughed, thrown by the randomness of her off-kilter observation.

“Yeah,
Mel Gibson,” she repeated, her finger targeted and followed an unshapely cloud
that traced overhead.

“I
don’t see it.”

“What
are you talking about, you don’t see it?!” she asserted. “There he
is—like, from
Passion of the Christ
.”

“Mel
Gibson wasn’t in
Passion of the Christ
!” I laughed and blurted.

“Of
course he was! Remember? He had that half-blue face, and he rode a horse and
led his men in a battle with Danny Glover?”

I
rolled to my side and laughed at the absurdity of her observation.

Still,
she continued to fuel its fire: “He had to save them from aliens, right?” she
asked, fully composed, though I knew she understood the difference between
Braveheart
,
Lethal Weapon, Signs
, and the story of the
Bible
.

“You’re
ridiculous,” I said, after regaining composure. I didn’t need to tell her that
she’d mixed up four entirely different Mel Gibson movies; she already knew
that—plus, he wasn’t even in the last one.

A
collective comfort settled over us in the silence that followed the exchange.
We’d reached a new level of familiarity. It was more personal, but
indescribable, and it would govern our every move and interaction from then on
out. Minutes passed before either of us spoke again.

“So,
where’s your mom?” I couldn’t believe the forwardness of the words that spilled
thoughtlessly from my mouth.

“Huh?”

“I
mean … well … I guess I’ve heard about your dad, and I saw him on Friday, when
he picked you up. I guess I just haven’t heard anything about your mom yet … ”

The
ensuing quiet made me feel like I might’ve overstepped a boundary: like maybe
I’d asked too much, too soon. The hesitation in her response made me wish I’d
never asked the question to begin with.

Still,
I couldn’t just stuff it back in my mouth.

“My
mom?” she asked.

“Yeah.”
I had no other direction to go but forward. “What about your mom? Where is
she?”

“She’s
dead.”

Her
response made my eyes well with genuine pain for her and her loss. I wished I’d
never brought up the subject. “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t choke out anything else.

“It’s
okay. I mean, we’re in family therapy now.” Even then, the word
family
came out sounding uncomfortable for her. “Well, I call it
fractured
family therapy,” she added.

I’d
accidentally opened Pandora’s box and I was completely ignorant to the evils
that would spring from it; her tone suggested there’d be many.

“I’m
sorry,” I repeated.

“It’s
okay. It’s been a few months now.”

I
was stunned to silence by her proclamation. What could I possibly say to make
anything right when the wounds she bore were so raw?

“I’m
sorry.” I repeated a third time, as my hand crept across the midfield line to
wrap around her own. Its movement, independent of my mind, surprised even me.

Her
response was instantaneous, and her hand flipped over. Her fingers interlaced
with mine, and the electricity returned; it jolted up my arm and sent my heart
to palpitations.

“Do
you want to talk about it?” I caught my breath and asked to the clouds overhead
… and to her … an extension of me.

“There’s
not much to talk about.” An uncomfortable pause swooped in before she
continued. “She had cancer. She had it for a long time. Four years. She got
better, and then she got sicker. Eventually, she didn’t get better anymore. She
died in June, right when school got out. Then we came here.”

“I’m
sorry,” I said again, unable to find appropriate words to fill the void she’d
revealed. There were none. “I’m here now.” I squeezed her hand in consolation
and turned to her, across the grass.

She
looked back and, entirely alone, our eyes locked.

And
unlike any time before, and unlike any time I’m likely to experience again, I
knew. I knew she was the girl for me—for life. However short that is now.
And I vowed that no matter what, I’d never allow her to feel pain like that
again.

October 19
^th:

Catee’s
dad discovered we’d been hanging out about a month after our first, football
field rendezvous. She and I’d become quite familiar by then, and it’d become
regular habit for my mom to pick me up from Madison around 6:00—for no
other reason than to allow us time to hang. Of course, Mom didn’t know our time
spent was unsupervised and, for some reason, she never asked. Maybe my
good-naturedness had its own, obvious advantages: one of those was trust.
Naturally, she still pestered me to invite Catee home for dinner, but I stayed
strong and kept my two worlds divided for as long as possible.

Catee’s
dad usually didn’t get home until 10:00, sometimes later, so we were startled
by his unexpected arrival home at 5:00—a full hour before Mom was
scheduled to pick me up.

“What’s
going on in here?” Mr. Laverdier emerged in the doorway to fill it completely
with his broad shoulders and towering height. His wide-set jaw and dilated eyes
were off-putting and intimidating; he appeared from nowhere and spoke like the
Grim Reaper, there to claim his next soul. I swallowed to keep mine from
escaping through my throat.

“Um
… Hey, Dad. This is Damian,” Catee tried to casually introduce me, but the
familiarity in which he found us, camped out on the living room floor amid
mounds of pillows and blankets, indicated we were more than first day
acquaintances.

“Who
is he?” Her dad’s dark eyes emasculated me as he spoke.

“This
is Damian. He and I—

“
Why
is he here?” He asked with stern resolution.

“I’m
sorry, Dad. We just got out of school and—