13 Is the New 18 (13 page)

One of the examiners leaned toward him. “We're here because we're all very concerned about you,” she said. “We don't understand what's going on.”

Taz refused to make eye contact. But like any animal under attack, he puffed himself up as big as he could. He lifted his chin up to the ceiling, stretched one leg out to the side, and began bouncing the other knee up and down. He was wearing a sweatshirt so big it practically
hung down to his knees. He stared at the ceiling, and shook his head. His backpack was in his lap and he put his arms across it.

“Well?” his inquisitor asked.

He shrugged and mumbled something like “ion-hwanbehi,” which we all instantly understood to mean “I don't want to be here.”

“Is something going on? Are you having any problems? Because we're here to help,” another one of the ladies said.

Around the table, manicured nails tapped on coffee cups, lipsticked lips were pursed, pantyhosed legs were crossed, pocketbooks were zipped open and closed. Yes, we were all there to help, but it was clear to me that no self-respecting thirteen-year-old boy would take help from this group of middle- aged females.

A long, uncomfortable minute ensued. Finally, he responded, shrugging again. “I just wanna get to high school.”

There was nothing more to say or do. I went to work, he went to class. Later that day, I got a call from Mrs. L, who had been scheduled to attend the meeting but who hadn't been able to make it. She wanted to let me know that the other teachers had wanted to put a disciplinary letter in Taz's record, with a copy sent to the high school he was expecting to attend. If that happened, there was always a chance the high school could revoke his acceptance. Mrs. L said she'd argued against the disciplinary letter, and had prevailed— for now.

I thanked her for looking out for Taz. I told her I felt like she was some kind of guardian angel, and I thanked her for her call.

We hung up. I felt like crying.

Mrs. L was the same teacher who'd told me and Taz's father just a year and a half earlier at the parent- teacher conference that he was an extraordinary boy.

It seemed like that had been long time ago.

Back when he was eleven.

ighth grade. Those two words have long been a code among friends from my own adolescence, because that was the year that we all acted out, drama queens and poseurs all, starring in our personal one- person plays about becoming teenagers.

There were the window- ledge sitters, the 3 a.m. phone callers, the ten- page letter writers, the spaced- out druggies, the stinking coughing smokers, the uncon trol lable gigglers, the traumatized-by-dark-secrets mutes, the tough- girl authority challengers, the catatonic depression queens, the twitching overcaffeinated knee jigglers, the glittery eye- shadowed lip glossers, the obsessed- with- a-band fans, the long- haired bohemian poets, the grade grubbers, the porn readers, the guitar- playing hippies, the angry politicos, the in- your- face feminists, the sing-to-yourself weirdos, the change-the-world organizers, the pink- sweatered blow- dried preppies, and the sexy-dressed boy chasers.

On top of all of that, most of us were klutzy. We
called each other “spaz,” for spastic. We spilled things, dropped things, broke things, lost things, and forgot things. We had bumps in places we didn't expect them, and arms and legs that seemed to elongate overnight; we accidentally smashed our heads on locker doors, our kneebones on desks, and our fingers in drawers. A few were too skinny, a few were too fat, and a few were still stuck in their little girlness, with white tights, ribboned pigtails, and patterned prim and pleated frocks. The rest had dandruff and pimples and BO and bad breath. We all needed tampons and bras, and the really bad girls needed birth control.

There were random victims who got inexplicably laughed about, picked on, and cruelly excluded; there were queen bees whose fingernail polish color choices were studied and whose sleepover guest lists were memorized and analyzed as carefully as the White House dinner seating chart for Queen Elizabeths visit; and there were bullies who threatened and shook down and occasionally even hurt someone else. Some of us acted like we couldn't care less about anything: we were nihilists, existentialists, dreamers, and Buddhists. Others acted exactly the opposite: dramatic neurotics to whom everything mattered— every song lyric, every weather forecast, every headline, every calorie. Eighth grade was the year I learned the meaning of the words
histrionic
and
paranoid,
because they so often described the mental states of those around me.

And who was I? I wore leotards, hip- huggers, clogs, and
a smile; I wrote really bad poetry and played the guitar; and like a lot of kids I knew, I tried on all sorts of personas in pursuit of myself. I was bad, I was good; I was wacky and sane, moping one minute, silly the next. I talked too loudly or not loudly enough; I crouched and slithered and tried to be invisible when I couldn't bear the attention of those closest to me; or I stretched and sparkled and sang loudly in front of strangers. Sometimes I thought I was so smart I couldn't understand why the world hadn't noticed; other times I realized I'd been such an idiot that I fantasized about running away, changing my name and starting a new life in some exotic place like Minneapolis.

I got chicken pox in eighth grade and thought I'd rather die than go to class with all those marks on my face; I was worried everyone would think I had developed a terrible case of acne. Then I found out the French teacher thought I'd cut school all week in order to avoid a test. That raised my standing in the eyes of my peers. I wasn't pockmarked; I was delinquent! How cool. I figured it was worth returning, despite my disfigurement, to bask in my newfound status as a truant.

Even though I carry around all these memories of my own eighth grade inside me, for some reason they didn't help me when I was trying to make sense of my son's eighth- grade year. Maybe it was just too painful or embarrassing to admit that this had once been my reality, too.

I wonder sometimes if there's something to the old superstition about the number thirteen. Maybe that
superstition was originally created by the mothers of some tribe who noticed that in their children's thirteenth year, they suddenly became possessed by evil spirits. Because it did seem that whenever Taz was around, things spilled and shattered, calm turned into chaos, and tempers were lost.

Noises came out of nowhere and material objects were inexplicably disturbed. Phones rang, music blared, alarms beeped, people were cursing, important papers tore, clothing was damaged, pictures fell off the walls.

Sometimes this spooky trail of destruction directly involved him, sometimes it involved his friends, and sometimes it seemed like pure physics. It was as if he were surrounded by a cloud of magnetic energy that caused lightning to strike, objects to tip over, and people to scream in his wake.

Perhaps it was the sudden bigness involved in turning thirteen; perhaps it's not being able to anticipate how much room you take up in a space that leads you to step on someone's toes or accidentally brush a glass from the counter to the floor as you pass by. Perhaps you become so obsessed with yourself that you can't think about those around you.

As a result, thank- yous and hellos go unsaid, and the general impression you leave among others is one of obnoxiousness. Or perhaps when you turn thirteen, you really, truly are possessed. I remember reading about teenage poltergeists and kinetic powers of adolescents,
and I actually think I have experienced something like that living with a thirteen- year- old boy.

It was hard to remember sometimes that Taz had done well in school just a few months before. Once he turned thirteen, he just didn't care. Teachers who knew him from sixth and seventh grade were willing to cut him some slack, and he had a relationship with them, so if they said to him, “Hey, man, get with the program!” he would often straighten out.

But there were a number of new teachers who hadn't known him before. If he was being disrespectful, they were all too ready to write him off as a bad boy. After those blissful sixth- and seventh- grade reports, parent-teacher night had started to be painful again. Taz wouldn't listen, Taz wouldn't sit where he was supposed to, Taz was missing homework, Taz was hanging out with kids who smoked and cut class all the time, Taz was leaving the room without permission, Taz had told a teacher she was “retarded.”

I was mortified at the description of the person they were telling me my son had become. I apologized to the teachers, and agreed with them that this was unacceptable behavior. I told them this wasn't how I had raised my son, but I'm not sure they believed me. At home, I yelled and screamed and even wept. I pleaded, cajoled, threatened, bribed, rewarded. But none of it did any good. The problem was, he wasn't listening. He had a look on his face that said, “I just don't care.” I might as well have been talking to myself.

But I knew there was one big- ticket item that would get his attention. He desperately wanted a laptop for high school, and I wanted to get him one. There was a lot of competition in our house for use of the computer in the evenings, and most of Taz's teachers now routinely expected kids to use the Internet for research. Teachers wanted every paper typed, starting in sixth grade, and his father and I wanted to use the computer in the evenings, too, for e- mail and to catch up on things at work. Even his little brother liked using the computer to play games. A laptop for Taz would help ease the congestion.

So I told Taz I wanted to get him a laptop, but that I wouldn't if he kept getting in trouble at school. I was getting calls from teachers once a week, sometimes more than that. I needed him to improve his behavior at school, stop challenging the teachers over stupid things like whether he could have a soda in class, and get his homework done.

Where we live, there is no neighborhood public high school; you have to apply to high schools, just like college. Some of the schools have themes— they specialize in the arts or science, or they have a great sports program or are vocationally oriented. Taz had been accepted to a good school, with strong academics and a few bells and whistles like filmmaking classes and an interesting community service program. But with a couple more months of eighth grade to go, I had to remind Taz that it was not out of the question that this
high school might revoke its acceptance if his middle school sent along a complaint. There was really a lot at stake, and not just the laptop.

But the way out was clear, I told him. Just cooperate, I begged, just do what they say. Just play by the rules. You don't have to love it, you just have to get through it.

Taz promised to change. We went a week, two weeks, then a month with no calls from school. I breathed a sigh of relief. Every time my phone rang at work and the caller ID showed a number that wasn't his school, I smiled.

Finally, we were literally down to one day left, graduation day, a Friday. I couldn't possibly get any calls that day— we were going to be at the school with him, for commencement in the auditorium. The day before, I'd even said to a colleague at work who enjoyed following my stories about Taz, “One day left and he graduates eighth grade! What could happen in one day?”

“You're home free!” my colleague agreed. “Congratulations.”

The graduation was standard middle- school fare— blue nylon caps and gowns, a slide show, barely audible speeches from the valedictorian and salutatorian, cheers, songs, teachers crying, parents proud. Taz wasn't graduating with honors; his grades that year hadn't been good enough. But at least he was graduating. He'd gotten through it, and I planned to make good on my promise and get him the laptop over the weekend. His name was called, he went up on the stage, they handed him a diploma, and the deal was sealed.

The prom was that night. (This is another difference between being thirteen now and being thirteen a generation ago: now eighth graders have proms.) This was a ritual I had missed out on in my own teenage years. There was no prom at my all- girl school, so everything I knew about proms, I knew from TV and the movies. Limos? Tuxes? Corsages? I braced myself for all of that, even while thinking it would be absurd for middle school. But Taz said only the girls were getting dressed up, and he thought buying his date a bouquet was what was expected, not a corsage.