Unforgettable (10 page)

A Message

On the ride home Halle babbles more about the movie. I use the word “babble” because I can't really pay attention to anything she's saying while we're holding hands. I look away nervously, hoping mine isn't getting too sweaty. This is way different from kindergarten. For one thing, there wasn't a lump in my throat at the thought of being this close to Halle when I was five. Not only are our hands laced together, but our legs are touching. When the van takes a rough corner, she leans into me; her hair brushes my cheek. I'm so glad Eddie takes the corners fast.

“Grandpa used to tell me that one person can make all the difference in the world. I'm glad we're doing this. It sounds weird, but I feel like he's helping us, you know?”

“You must have been close,” I manage to reply. Flashes of my grandpa appear in my mind; a thin, balding man with tight lips and a constant irritation in his eyes that made him blink constantly. He never had much to say to me, and his spare conversation with Mom seemed to always lead to an argument with her storming out of the room.

Halle's eyes fill with wetness when she talks about her grandfather, and the daffodils in her voice stand up taller. I envy her.

Eddie drops me off first. “See you tomorrow,” I say as I get out, reluctantly letting go of Halle's hand. She waves and I back away, almost stepping on the rake Mom left out front in her enthusiasm to do fall raking. I stop near the tree, pick at some brown leaves, and peek as they drive down the street.

When I get inside, I check the clock above the sink. It's two minutes slow. I stand on a kitchen chair and reach up to change the clock to match my watch. I'm on the chair when it occurs to me: obsessing over time like this is only going to make me look strange, or stranger than I already am. I have a girlfriend now. Okay, we only held hands, but there's potential and I don't want to do anything to blow it. I turn the clock back the way it was before and get off the chair.

I've never felt this way: giddy and lightheaded and … happy. I've never been so happy before. Dink is thousands of miles away; I'm sure of it, and tomorrow I'll see Halle again.

I think about calling to see if Halle got home all right. It's been seven minutes since they dropped me off. Kind of a lame excuse for wanting to talk to her. And I'm not really good at small talk. Which makes me wonder why Halle would be interested in me in the first place. She's intense, focused, and outspoken. Not to mention rich and beautiful.

I'm not bad-looking and I'm starting to bulk up from lifting hay bales, but my tan is fading and I'm not athletic. As far as Halle knows, I struggle in class and need a tutor. We're not close to rich, even if I count the sixty-five thousand, three-hundred fifty-eight dollars and ninety-seven cents that I stole from Dink.

The giddiness fades quickly.

I remember how Gatsby tried so hard to impress Daisy, of how she cooed and cried at his collection of shirts, and I wonder what I can do to impress Halle that way. I don't have a big mansion, or even a motorcycle like Hunter. All I have is the money in my closet and the ten dollars an hour I'm earning at Brad's. Maybe I should buy Halle a gift. Something that would make her happy. Something that would impress her.

That's when I notice the light flashing on the phone. I tap the message button, wishing that Halle had somehow already called, even though I know that's not possible. Or maybe it's Brad telling me I don't have to work this weekend after all. My arms tighten just at the thought of lifting another bale of hay.

“Hi there.” The muddy voice sounds fake friendly. I gasp at the sound, as if his voice has reached right into our kitchen and grabbed my throat. He knows our phone number! How did he get our phone number?

“I know you probably don't want to talk to me, but three years have given me time to think, and I just want to say hi from California. I'm sorry, Mary. I think we have some things that we need to talk about if you're willing. Oh, and I'd like to talk to you too, Baxter. Bye now.”

I reach over as though the machine is possessed and press the delete button. It's a gut reaction, anything to get rid of that sound. If he has our phone number, what else does he have? Does he know where we live? Should we move again?

I put my head in my hands, trying to think. I could just send him the money. He'd probably leave us alone if I did that. Crap! We can't move now that I've found Halle again. I'm just starting to make a new life for myself and Dink has to go and mess it up.

I stare at the machine, wishing I could make it all go away. I was so happy just a few minutes ago. I'm not telling Mom, not until I've had a chance to think it through.

I check the money again. It's still there. Then I check all the locks on the doors and sit down to do my math homework at the kitchen table, but Dink's voice keeps breaking in. Mom comes home at 5:17 according to my watch; 5:15 according to the clock on the wall. She's carrying two white plastic containers.

I look up from the linear equation worksheet. I've never been so grateful to see her. I try to keep my voice even. “Chicken and rice night.”

Mom has a sly smile on her face. “I knew you'd remember that, so I brought home something else.” She places the containers on the table and I open one. A pork tenderloin sandwich and the Tin Cup's famous seasoned fries cut into oval shapes. I like chicken and rice better, but I have to give her points for originality.

“Surprise!” she shouts. Only my mom could get so excited about surprising me with food.

“Is anything wrong?” she asks, because even when I think I'm doing a great job of hiding my emotions, Mom can always tell.

“No. Just tired.”

“Maybe you're working too hard, taking on too much.”

“No. Our meeting got over early today.”

“So how did it go?” she asks.

“Okay.” I stuff fries into my mouth.

“What do you do there? I've never even heard of an environmental club.”

“We're making a movie. I'm the cameraman.”

“A movie? About what?”

“Mesothelioma. It's a cancer caused by the taconite dust in the mines.”

“What happened to the dragonflies?”

I pause. “They're still there.”

I stuff more food in my mouth, but Mom isn't eating. She's watching me.

“What?” I ask through a mouthful.

“Nothing. I'm glad you took my advice and got involved.”

“It's just a club.” I don't want her to get too excited. We might have to move soon. The thought makes my stomach grow tight, knowing it could all disappear. The school, the friends, the club. I swallow a lump of bread. Even Halle. Dink is a looming threat that overshadows everything.

“I know. But we need people in our lives. You do. And so do I.”

I stop eating. The sandwich is poised in front of my mouth. “What people do you need?”

She fingers her sandwich, pulling out pieces of lettuce. “Oh, I don't know. All sorts of people. I'm making friends at work. And I'm thinking of taking an art class at the community college.”

Oh. I relax and take a bite. “That's good.”

Mom puts down her sandwich and wipes the crumbs from her hands. She clears her throat. “Okay, don't get upset. I have a date next week.”

I almost choke on my sandwich. “A date?”

“Well, it's not a date, really. My boss asked me to go to a new club opening on the other side of town.”

“Oh. What's your boss like?” I can already feel the tension building, the familiar tightness in the pit of my stomach. I think of Dink, of how he seemed nice when I first met him and what a jerk he turned out to be. He's the reason we moved to Minnesota. You'd think Mom would learn. But here she is, considering dating again.

“He's responsible and has a good sense of humor, but he doesn't tell stupid jokes all the time. And he's not uptight like …” she stops and shakes her head. Maybe it's that easy for her to get rid of Dink, just shake her head and he disappears forever. It's not that easy for me.

I almost tell her then. I want to blurt out the whole story, to tell her about the money, to warn her against ever dating another guy, because her last boyfriend ruined our lives.

“So, what do you think?” she asks me.

“What do I think? This is what I think.” I throw down my sandwich, grab my books, and stomp to my room.

Tackling Football Players

“We don't hear Gatsby's voice until chapter three. We don't learn about his childhood until chapter six. Then in chapter seven we find out about his criminal dealings. Why do you think the author waited that long to reveal his character?”

Mr. Shaw walks back and forth in front of the classroom. His blue T-shirt flashes between the desks like a piece of California sky. I've been thinking about California since last night, wondering if Dink is still there or driving his beat-up Camaro to Minnesota. What would Dr. Anderson say about the sixty-five thousand, three-hundred fifty-eight dollars and ninety-seven cents I took? Would he say I'm a criminal like Dink who deserves to be locked up, too?

I was awake most of the night. Every little noise pricked my skin: the click of the lock when Mom turned the bolt on the front door, the uneven hum of the refrigerator, the wind hissing through a window, the creak of my bedsprings. I imagined Dink in my closet, the money in his hand, ready to pounce. We left California to get away from Dink, but he's here, behind every corner and closed door.

“Baxter, do you agree with John?”

I look up blankly. “I have no idea what John said.”

Sudden laughter explodes behind me. Mr. Shaw nods as though he knows I haven't been paying attention. I hate when teachers do that. “John said that one of the reasons Fitzgerald waited that long to reveal Gatsby's character was to keep up the suspense. Would you agree?”

I'm tired. Not in the mood for a discussion. Especially not in the mood to keep up this charade.

“Yes. I agree.” My voice is monotone.

But Mr. Shaw won't let me off easy. “Why?”

I sigh. “Gatsby is a celebrity, a rich man who throws lavish parties, but no one knows anything about him. So all these rumors and gossip fill the first part of the book, and that's part of the mystery of Gatsby. He becomes a legend before we even meet him.”

Brad flashes me a thumbs-up sign. Mr. Shaw nods as he passes by my desk. His blue jeans rub up against my backpack. “So this legend of a man formulated his own blind conception of Daisy, who represents the dream that he created ‘Jay Gatsby' to achieve. Why can't he see her for who she is?”

The girl in front of me, Louise, raises her hand. “Because he still thinks of her as the girl he fell in love with all those years ago?”

“Exactly. And because he has this false concept of her, he doesn't accept that she will never desert her own class and background to be with him.”

“That's stupid on her part,” I blurt out.

Mr. Shaw stops behind me. “What?”

I know I should keep quiet, but I can't help myself. “She would have been better off with Gatsby instead of her lying, cheating husband.”

Mr. Shaw sticks his hands in his pockets. “We'd like to believe that, but I'm wondering if their affair wasn't doomed from the start. Even with Gatsby's money, he didn't have the social class that her husband had. And that was important to Daisy.”

“She loved Gatsby,” I insist.

Louise looks at me as she speaks. “But in chapter seven she can't decide between the two. If she really loved him, wouldn't she have told her husband to take a flying leap off the end of the dock?”

“Yeah,” Brad adds. “And didn't she promise to wait for Gatsby when he proposed? Then she goes and marries this other dude the minute he's gone. Seems like she was a big flirt.”

“She does appear to be fickle, doesn't she?” Mr. Shaw agrees. He leans against his desk and runs his hand through his beard, a slight smile on his face.

I shouldn't get so worked up about this, but I feel as though it's me being attacked and not Gatsby. My breath comes in short spurts, building up inside.

I grab my book and stand. “No! She was just confused. She tells Gatsby she loves him. On page 116, ‘As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured.' ”

“Oh my God. You memorized that? That's so weird,” Louise says, and her eyes mock me.

“Why is it weird? Because you can't?”

“What do you mean? Who'd
want
to memorize it?”

Jeb Danner, a JV football player, laughs. “What did you do? Memorize the whole book?”

The entire class bursts into laughter. I feel every eye turn toward me and I shrink back down into my chair.

“No,” I say, but who can hear me through the laughter?

“That's enough!” Mr. Shaw quiets the class.

The bell rings. “Great discussion,” he says. “Read the last two chapters for Thursday and be prepared for a pop quiz.”

“We don't have to memorize it, do we?” Louise asks, and the class laughs again.

Brad nudges my shoulder. “Don't be mad, dude. They're just teasing. I mean, it's cool that you're into the book.”

I grab my backpack and hurry from the room. My chest feels tight as I run down the hallway.

I pull out
Gatsby
and start reading even as students spill into the hallway and brush against me. I'd put it down last night because I was tired. Or maybe I hadn't wanted to read the ending. I wanted to believe that Jay Gatsby and Daisy end up together, that Halle and I will end up together even though Hunter is a sports jock who drives a motorcycle and has more money than me and is an upperclassman and is clearly into Halle by the way he spoke to her. I want to believe that I can get Dink out of our lives and out of my head, that I can live a normal life like everyone else, that I can stop the memories from replaying like a bad sitcom for the rest of my life.

Someone bumps into me and knocks the book out of my hands. It hits the ground and slides across the floor, and I lose sight of it among the trampling feet. I push my way through the crowd to retrieve it and smack into four guys walking by.

“Watch it!” they yell and shove me back against the lockers. My elbow hits metal, sending a searing pain up my arm. That's when I lose it. No words come out. Just a primal scream from somewhere deep inside. A scream against them and Dink and everyone who has ever done something to me that made me mad, and I can remember every single episode, every injustice, every hurtful comment. Just as they start to replay in my head, I explode. I have to get them out.

I run full force at the four guys in the midst of a wall of students. I jump and land against them. The impact knocks two of them over with me falling on top.

Other students trip over us and fall on the human pile. The heel of a shoe hits my ear, bringing a sharp pain. A knee crushes into my back and I gasp. Papers fly in the air.

I try to get up. My arms are lost among books and backpacks and limbs. Students are screaming. A girl shrieks and hits me in the stomach when my hand accidentally grasps her leg for support.

“What's going on?” A voice that sounds like a tank scatters the crowd. The knee is hoisted from my back. A hand grabs my shirt and pulls me up. I turn and see one of the deans.

“He started it,” a guy yells and points at me. “He body-slammed us.”

I'm waiting for the dean to let go of my shirt, but his hand stays put and he guides me into his office along with the kid who ratted me out.

I'm deposited into a chair. My ears are hot. The adrenalin flows through my body like water. I want to run, to go far away from this place, where Dink can never get into my head, where the memories will just stop for a while. But they don't.

Mom picked me up early from the Institute on a Wednesday afternoon.

“What are you doing here today?” Usually she picked me up early every other Thursday so I could meet with Mrs. Rupe, my therapist.

“I thought we'd go out for an early dinner. How about Rogio's? Your favorite.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Already my heart was racing. I mean, your mom doesn't take you out to your favorite restaurant unless she has some news. Something great or terrible to tell you. I racked my brain to think of any good news she might possibly have.

“Did you get a raise?”

“No. Can't I take my favorite boy to dinner?”

“Is Grandpa okay?”

“He's fine, Baxter. Don't be such a worrywart.” But her voice quaked. I had reason to worry.

It wasn't until I'd inhaled a dozen breadsticks and their special tortellini alla primavera and she was paying the check that she broke it to me. Dink was getting released from prison early. It'd only been three years. But it's white collar crime and he had been a model inmate.

Mom should have waited until we got home. I screamed and stood up so fast that I knocked over the table. Breadsticks flew across the floor and sauce splattered Mom's purse.

“We have to get out of here. We have to move!” My hands were flying everywhere. The other patrons were cringing and the waiters were trying to back me into a corner, but I wouldn't go. Nothing could calm me down. Mom finally got her arms around me and squeezed me until I relaxed.

“We'll move, Baxter. We'll move far away from here if that's what you want,” she said into my shirt.

“Mr. Green!” The man shouts my name and I'm back in the dean's office. How long has he been talking? How long have I zoned out this time?

“I just wanted to get my book,” I say.

“Then why'd you tackle
me
?” the older kid asks. He has on an orange-and-black letter jacket. “I didn't have your book.”

“You pushed me.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Enough!” The dean has a thick neck. His face is red from yelling and his necktie is so tight it looks as though it's cutting off the air supply to his brain. “The disciplinary action for fighting in school is suspension.”

“But I wasn't fighting,” the other guy objects. “I was on my way to football practice when he jumped us for no reason. Ask Zach Mennen. He saw it. Honest, Mr. Jackson. Coach Smalley is going to be mad if I'm late.”

“I was attempting to retrieve my book,” I say through gritted teeth.

Mr. Jackson leans back against his desk. His face relaxes; his composure returns. “Scott, you go ahead to practice. I'll deal with you later.”

Scott jumps up and sprints past me; a blur of orange and black. Right before he goes out the door, he turns and grins. I'm left with Tank Voice staring down at me.

The room is silent. I study the walls decorated with orange and black tigers, ones with sharp fangs dripping blood. Is it meant to scare students? Outside his office is the sound of laughter and voices that meld together; one voice sounds like a rectangle, another sounds like a poached egg.

“I didn't do anything wrong,” I say. “Why did he get to go and I'm stuck here with you?”

Mr. Jackson puts up his hand. “As your dean, Mr. Green, I see that I should have met with you before. You obviously don't understand the rules and regulations of our school.”

He stands. He's tall and solid, the type of guy who looks like he played football when he was younger. I decide he's against me from the start.

“I understand the rules and regulations. Does your football star understand them?”

“You're out of line.”

“No, I'm pissed.”

“You can be pissed in detention.”

Mr. Jackson picks up a thick pamphlet from his desk. “I want this year to be a good one for you, but you're starting off on the wrong foot. Since you're new, I won't suspend you.
This
time. However, make no mistake, if it happens again, you'll receive the maximum penalty.”

Tank Voice shakes his head and hands me the pamphlet. “I'm giving you a week's detention, starting today. You'll use that time to learn every single rule and regulation of Madison High School. All one hundred and twenty-five pages. And next week, you will report back to me to answer questions about those rules and regulations.”

Mr. Jackson stares down at me as though he's given me the worst punishment anyone could imagine.

I put my head down and hide a smirk.

Tank Voice claps his hands together. “That will be all, Mr. Green.”