Do You Think This Is Strange? (19 page)

“She's all yours, sport,” he said in a whisper, leaning in to me. “Then maybe tonight, I'll drop by her place and give her a non-retarded fucking.”

He walked away.

Danny's comment spawned several new threads, and normally I would have frozen for a moment. But these threads instantly vanished. They came in like a flock of locusts, but they didn't stay.

Will he actually drop?

From how high?

What is a non-retarded fucking?

How will he give it to her? What if she doesn't want him to?

Will he hurt her?

When I got to that question, all of my thoughts short-circuited. It was suddenly the only thread that mattered.

Will he hurt her?

I turned and kicked him in the back of the foot. He stumbled, then spun to face me. Rage wrote itself across his face. He raised his hands to hit me.

But he didn't.

I hit him first.

His hands were slow. The hands of his friends were slow.

Danny Hardwick swung at me clumsily and I came back with a left hook to his jaw and a right cross to his nose. I heard the crack of shattering cartilage.

Eleven percent shark was of no use to him either.

His eyes lost focus and he dropped to the floor. His friends hesitated, then came at me. One of them acted angrily and quickly, the other behind him, reluctant. It didn't matter. They swung at me, intentions obvious, next movements telegraphed, trajectories mapped.

I was calm. There were no threads. I knew exactly what to do.

I stepped away and their fists jetted past me like darting sparrows. To the left, to the right. Their fists grazed by me, without contact, and I came down on them like Moses from the mountain.

And I was calm.

Listen
: That's not what happened.

Wait. That
is
what happened. That's exactly how it happened. But that wasn't the thing that was so important. That wasn't the reason I was now happy, even though I was sitting in the principal's office.

This is the reason:

The three of them lay on the floor around me. The cafeteria was as quiet as a morgue. My hand was already throbbing. I was breathing rapidly, but I wasn't afraid. I no longer wanted to hit them. I just wanted to go to class. I picked up my lunch tray, and the remainder of my lunch, and started to walk away.

And
that's
when it happened.

Saskia Stiles looked at me. Directly at me, her eyes unblinking, her gaze unwavering. Her body, ever taut and strung together tight, was now unwound, relaxed. Peaceful.

Goodbye, Freddy
, she mouthed.

I stopped, frozen. Then, after a moment, I spoke. “I'll see you later,” I said and started walking.

I forgive you
, she said silently.

All at once the room seemed to shrink. The clink of glasses from the cafeteria kitchen disappeared. The muddled tromping of feet outside in the hall faded away for me. I was suddenly back, ten years ago, at the door to our therapy room, once again saying goodbye to my friend, Saskia Stiles.
I forgive you,
she said. Time and time again.

“I forgive you too,” I told her and I didn't say anything else because I didn't want that moment to disappear. I was enjoying it. But I found I couldn't meet her gaze anymore. If I did, I might drop my tray. I might buckle at the knees. I might try and sink back into the past and stay there.

So I was silent. But I was at peace.

There were no more open threads in my mind.

I opened my eyes
and I was fourteen years old, lying on my back. A man in light-blue pyjamas stood over me, with something in his hand, and there were bright lights.

His hand fell on my shoulder and I reacted immediately. I knocked away his arm and tried to sit up. When he pushed me back down, I punched him in the jaw. He straightened up, then grabbed me one more time. I kicked and struggled to break free of his clutches. But someone else rushed in, a lady, whom I had never seen before. Together, they pushed me back down on to my back.

At last, I relaxed, but they didn't let go of me.

“Are you okay, sport?” the man asked me.

“No,” I said. “I need to go to the hospital.”

“That's where you are,” he told me.

—

I opened my eyes
and was lying in a hospital bed. My father sat in a chair beside the bed, flicking the channels of the television.

“Where did the car go?” I asked him, because it seemed to me to be the most appropriate question. When I last closed my eyes, I was sitting in the front seat of our car. I was discussing why four boys had beaten me. I concluded that it was because they were angry at me, and my father had concluded that This Was Just Great.

After that I closed my eyes.

Was in car. Closed eyes. Opened eyes. Now in bed. That's
unexpected
.

The logical thing to do was to ask what happened to the car. After that question was answered, the next appropriate question was
Where did this bed come from?

I never asked the second question. I didn't need to. My father knew how I worked.

“You're in a hospital bed, Freddy,” he said, still looking at the television.

“Where's the car?” I asked.

“You were in a car, and now you're here.” He put down the remote and turned to look at me. “You had swelling around the brain. You've been in surgery all night, and now you're in a hospital bed.”

“Which side of my head?” I asked.

He blinked. “What?”

“Which side of my head had the swelling?”

“Your right side.”

“Did they shave off all my hair, or just the hair on my right side?”

“Just the hair on the right side.”

“Will I have a scar?”

My father nodded. “Seven inches in length.”

Exhausted from talking, I closed my eyes.

I was grateful to my father. He had explained a complicated set of events in a way that spawned the fewest number of unclosed threads. I was not overwhelmed by them.

I closed my eyes to rest. Sometime later, I opened them again. The news was on. My father was still in the chair, his head bobbing, as he fought to stay awake.

“Where's Mom?” I asked.

“Go to sleep, Freddy,” he said, his voice slurred as he rubbed his eyes.

—

I peed the bed that night. But I'm remembering wrong.

I remember that I drove home with Dad after the four boys beat me. But I remember staying in a hospital bed that night. But the sun was shining. It was morning.

But they don't send you home the day after brain surgery.

I remember sitting in my bed afterwards, and not sleeping all night. I remember waking up, my father changing the channels, his eyelids dropping.

But I don't remember.

Or, I do remember, and I'm afraid.

None of this is right.

I opened my eyes
and Jim Worley came into his office. This is where I had gone, immediately after the cafeteria.

“My status is green,” I said, before Jim Worley said anything or even stopped walking. I turned pages and didn't look up.

“You need to come with me, Frederick,” he said. I turned the pages of
The Twentieth Century in Review
and didn't reply.

“Put the book down,” he said to me.

“But I'm getting to the best part,” I said, and he closed the book for me, taking it away. With one hand lightly holding my upper arm, he bid me to stand. I did, and he escorted me to a meeting room beside the school office, and sat me down at the table.

“Just be quiet,” he advised. “Just answer the questions. No sarcasm.”

“I don't want to be sarcastic,” I said.

Vice Principal Nelson came into the room and took a seat across from me. He opened the folder he carried, and leafed through it, his frown growing deeper.

“How was your lunch?” he asked.

“I didn't eat my lunch,” I said. “It got knocked to the floor.”

“Is that why you beat the snot out of those three kids?”

“There was no snot.”

“Freddy,” said Jim Worley quietly.

I paused, then said, “They were going to hit me.”

“But they didn't.”

“No.”

“Do you understand what sort of position this puts us in?”

“No.”

He folded his hands together and leaned toward me. “It puts us in a bad position, Freddy,” he said. “A very bad position. Do you understand?”

“No.”

He paused. His eyes narrowed. “Are you being deliberately confrontational?”

“No.”

He clenched his teeth. “Do you know that we have your file from Templeton College?” He lay the folder on the table. “I know all about why you were expelled.” He looked up at me. “Is it true?”

“No.”

“You didn't viciously assault a student?”

“Not viciously.”

“That's a matter of interpretation, isn't it?”

I didn't answer.

He sighed. “Suppose you tell me what happened in the lunchroom today.”

“One of them was sitting in my seat.”

Vice Principal Nelson didn't say anything. He stared at me for a few moments, then closed the folder.

“One of them was sitting in your seat,” he said slowly.

“Yes.”

He rubbed his eyes and let out another sigh. “What am I supposed to do with that, Freddy? How do you expect me to respond to that? Do you expect me to say that it's okay to beat people up because they're sitting where you want to sit?”

“No,” I said.

“Is that why you beat them up? Because they were sitting at your table?”

“No.”

“Then why—” he began. He took a deep breath. “Then why did you start a fight with these boys?”

“I didn't start a fight. I told one of them that he was sitting in my seat. He said he didn't see my name on it. I told him I didn't believe him, because he wasn't looking at the seat, so he couldn't know with certainty that my name wasn't on it. Then he knocked my lunch to the ground.”

Vice Principal Nelson nodded. “Do you know these boys? Do you have any classes with them?”

I shook my head.

“Have you had run-ins with them before?”

“Yes. With Danny Hardwick. Two weeks ago. In the shop wing.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean,
you don't know
?”

“I watched him talking to Saskia Stiles and then he—”

“Who,” interrupted Vice Principal Nelson, “is Saskia Stiles?”

“Saskia Stiles is my chemistry partner.”

“Is she your friend?”

I didn't answer. I didn't want to answer.

A moment passed. He noticed my hand, swollen, the knuckles bleeding.

“You do that on Danny Hardwick?” he asked, his voice softening.

“No,” I answered. “One of his friends.”

Nelson snorted, softly, abruptly. “Okay, Freddy, get someone to look at that hand.”

I opened my eyes
and the school nurse wrapped my hand in a bandage, taped it, and gave me an aspirin. Jim Worley stood behind her and took deep breaths to show his displeasure, then, when the nurse was done, bade me follow him.

“You have to wait in the office now,” he told me. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed and went to the school office. I sat in a chair facing the receptionist, who wore a blue blazer and white shirt, and made no eye contact. I was of no interest to her.

My phone vibrated.

are you there

Yes.

you went away

Yes.

you didn't come to class

No.

are you mad at me

No.

are you hurt

No.

Yes.

I hurt my hand.

are they hurt

I think so.

I hope so.

they don't like you

I don't like them.

they came to my locker yesterday

i could smell them

What did they smell like?

cigarettes

They smoke.

they talk to me

if they walk by me in the hall they touch

sometimes

They won't anymore.

i typed h

Yes.

you came

you said you would

Yes.

i was afraid

they kept looking at me

but then they stopped looking at me

they were not looking at me

say, what were they looking at

What were they looking at?

at you

they were looking at you

there you were

i was waiting

i said h

you came

Yes.

they stood up

they went to you

you didn't run

why didn't you run

I promised you.

—

I opened my eyes
and I was back in my chair, waiting in the school office. I stared at the wall and silently repeated to myself,
Do not say Jesus fuck
.

Do NOT say it.

Just once.

No.

Just softly.

“Jesus fuck,” I muttered.

The receptionist slowed her typing. She looked at me over her reading glasses. “Did you say something?” she asked.

I nodded but did not speak.

—

When I was younger, I sometimes sat in my room and said all the swearwords I knew. I said them slowly, trying to understand the quality that turns swearwords into words I'm not supposed to say.

“FFFFFuuuuuuuck,” I would say, and do a search of my memory for times when I said it in public. In all three cases, my father told me to never use that word, not ever. When I asked why, he said, “Because I goddamn well said so, that's why.”

I hate circular reasoning. I can't close a thread when that happens.