Folie à Deux (16 page)

He asks rapidly, “Who is the kid who wanted to fight you?” I hesitate, having forgotten to invent that detail.

Before I can think of a name or an excuse to withhold it, he interrupts, “I understand if you’d rather not say, as long as it’s resolved I don’t need to know.”

“It’s over, Dad. I promise.” I hope to God as I say those words that that it could be the truth.

His tone softens as he tells me that my story matches the school’s. I know what he means by, “The school.” Before he
speaks again I wonder what would happen if he really knew. I cannot focus on that, my survival is chief.

He asks again, almost begs, “Can you please be honest with us? If you’re having problems with anyone you should tell us. That way it can be resolved without this headache.” He walks out of my room and I wish so badly I could tell him who’s causing me problems.

It’s a long and cold weekend. The worst is over but my mother speaks not a word and my father is distant. I feel the chasm grow wider between us, grasping that I have taken tremendous steps away from them and another giant one toward Carla. Another shared secret has created a stronger bond. This is a big one that fooled a variety of people. The further we journey from the shock of the letter it seems, amazingly, as though we are going to make this work.

Monday morning, I knock on Dr. Bencevengo’s door and he beckons me to enter. He does not know me so I introduce myself and he offers a seat. He walks around his desk and sits next to me, lecturing on the importance of attendance, “I understand the fear that you felt and the avoidance of embarrassment at a potential fight,” he consoles.

“I am going to refrain from asking you the other boy’s name as long as you can assure me that the issue is resolved and there will be no further interference with your attendance.”

I tell him with as much conviction as I can convey, “I promise, it’s over.”

He continues, “You must also realize that if the problem does persist I will investigate on my own and bring the boy in to conclude it.” With that, he hands me a slip of paper that has the numbers one through eight written on it and two columns of lines. One column represents absent and the other present. If I bring it back at the end of the day and my teachers have me recorded as being in class then I will receive credit, if not, disciplinary action.

My first period homeroom teacher initials the absent column with no discussion and I go to my seat. I avoid thinking about what will happen the rest of the day if other teachers follow suit only because I am fairly convinced that Carla has contingencies. Second period is study hall, where for the last few months I have gone to her room but today she’s in a meeting.

Third period is Geometry and when I hand Mr. Paul the slip he asks, “What’s this?”

I explain the problem, he looks at me with a nonchalant smirk and asks, “So what do you want me to sign? That you were here, or absent?”

His question stuns me. I know the correct answer and I know the only answer I can give so I follow the plan, “Here,” and he signs accordingly.

When I enter Carla’s’ room for lunch she asks immediately, “How’s it going?” I am too numb to answer, caught in the current of this story. I have absorbed this cover-up into my existence, each time someone asks me why I’m holding this slip of paper I say with nimble clarity the yarn that Carla spun. I detach from that whole day naked in her bed, my face buried between her legs while she writhed and bucked underneath. Those visions are buried somewhere in the limbo of my alternative reality. But the new images seem equally as damaging. They chip away more of my psyche because I’m trying to convince myself, other classmates and my teachers of the delusion.

I look at other boys in my classes and instead of wondering what their normal existence is like, I imagine if it could be them who were threatening me, wondering if they would be a formidable opponent. The story I’ve now adopted, I cultivate to keep interesting, altering inconsequential details with each audience to avoid monotony. The tales I tell about the origin of my quest
for signatures border on gossip but since I’m already the topic why not participate in the enjoyment?

Carla takes the slip and says without hesitation, “Well I’ll sign for study hall. You’re with me at lunch. I know you were in French eighth period, so those are all yeses.” My verification slip went from one absent and one present to one absent and four marks for present. With her check marks, a day of my life is erased. My entire existence went from evil to good as though it’s a shopping list she’s checking off.

As I leave her room in a daze, headed for the cafeteria I pass Dr. Bencevengo. He is speaking with another teacher but raises his hand to stop me, “How are you making out?”

I show him and he quickly tallies both columns, crumbles the slip of paper and says, “I’m sorry for the confusion, James. You were obviously here. I’ll take care of it in the attendance office.”

He couldn’t have seen that three of the four signatures were by the same person. The same teacher hovering over this whole discrepancy. It seems suspicious to me but who am I in comparison? This is Carla Danza. An original member of the vanguard. Head of the foreign language department. Her picture adorns the trophy case memorializing all the Teachers of the Year. The driving force behind a study abroad trip every three years. She organizes the holiday concert where all the language classes sing in their respective languages, has participated in faculty talents shows and lends her hand in all types of philanthropic work that bring nothing but accolades to the school. It’s underwhelming to say that she is Lenape Valley Regional because she is larger than the school. Even if he had noticed that her signature was peppered all over that piece of paper would it have caused him to question? Can this episode of my life be any more byzantine?

Despite my new reluctance our trip still approaches and every conversation revolves around how much I am going to love France, listing details of all we’re going to see. I want to share her excitement but simply cannot. I’m unable to grasp what I should feel, waiting to be told my emotions as well as their root. Classmates tell me, “You are so lucky.”

“I guess,” I reply after a shrug.

Other times I speak how I truly feel, “Not really,” and either response is received with equal confusion at my ambivalence.

Carla’s plan is orchestrated infallibly well. Jean-Michel, the director of the exchange program is led to believe Carla is my aunt. She tells him I’m afraid to stay alone so it would be best if I lived with her. We’re staying in a town called Fontainebleau, forty-five minutes outside of Paris. Jean-Michel knows the administration of our sister school so he arranges for Carla to stay with one of the principal’s friends, Luce. Luce has one son, Jean-Registe, who is about to begin his mandatory military service so I assume, older than me.

Our home-stay trip is eleven days, encompassing Easter vacation, we will miss one day before break and return the Saturday before school resumes. This is the longest I’ve ever been away from home. My parents are excited but I can tell my mother is anxious also. She comes to school to see us leave, providing
incredible comfort. I see her wipe away tears as our goodbye hug ends, this is the first broken heart I’ve ever felt.

Neither of us knows that we’re saying goodbye for longer than just eleven days. It will be quite longer and a much further distance traveled until the person that gives her this hug will be able to return to either of us.

Seating assignments on the plane are randomized except for mine. I’m right next to Carla and several rows away from any other student. Anxious chatter lasts until we reach cruising altitude when the movie comes on and the lights are turned down. When the mood becomes sedate she tells me all she is planning. It sounds fine but I have nothing with which to compare. There are some things I want to see but only tourist attractions so I placate her. The planning tapers and she asks about my recent confirmation ceremony. I tell her about the classes and why I choose my godmother as my sponsor.

Only a moment of silence precedes, “Do you know the only sacraments that can be performed by a laic person according to church law?”

I don’t.

“Well, in the event that a baby is born sick, and it doesn’t seem like a priest will arrive in time, anyone can perform a baptism so they don’t die with original sin,” she explains. That makes sense but I don’t invest much thought.

She continues, “There is another sacrament that doesn’t need a priest,” her pause dramatic.

“Two people can carry out a wedding ceremony,” she reveals. That seems odd because there isn’t the same urgency as a dying child. I say nothing but instinctively put up my usual guard when strange segues lead to unknown topics.

She explains that two people are needed with a desire to commit to one another. “That and a ring are all you need to betroth yourself in matrimony,” she purrs. With the full weight of my stupidity I know I’ve walked right into her trap.

“I love you Jimi, and I have never felt this way about anyone. You are the first person I have ever made love to and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

With the real pressure continuing to build in my head I feel the figurative type reach a level of new pain. Being left speechless is a type of disarmament with which I am becoming sadly familiar. I’m reminded of the feeling in my stomach at Christmas when she bought an unrequited present for me.

“Carla, I don’t have a ring,” is amazingly the first concern I blurt out, the first manageable idea to reach my mind. I have no concept of forever. She is older than my mother and only another fifteen year-old kid knows about her presence in my life. How would she tell her parents? What would she tell her employer? How would I tell my parents? These questions are all hurried from my mind because they require real answers.

“Oh sweetheart, you are so kind to think of that,” she coos immediately. “I will buy you a ring to put on my finger if you want to marry me,” she continues.

I look straight ahead and think of grabbing the barf bag from the pocket in front of me for security. There is a feeling that is starting deep in my stomach that may cause a wretch. I can feel that her eyes have not left me for an instant. They are burning right through me so much that I’m afraid she can read my thoughts.

She gently taps me on the hand so I look, “Will you marry me? And can we perform the ceremony ourselves?” She asks
very slowly and softly. Her eyes that were scorching the side of my face are now blazing right through my own.

“Yes,” I say softly, with a reservation that must be imperceptible.

She smiles and winks as she mouths, “I love you,” then turns her head to look out the window. I place my head back against the seat and my mind begins to race. My thoughts arrive in no set intervals and with no discernible pattern. I think I need to have vows. What will I do for a ring? Where will we get married? When are we going to land? Should I invent an illness to force her to send me back to New Jersey? Will I have to wear a ring? What will I tell my parents? Does this count as our real wedding or will we get married in a church someday too?

I close my eyes to feign sleep until the flight attendant hands me a warm towel. Carla is already awake and smiles at me when she says, “Good morning. Did you get any sleep?” I nod and immediately think that we’re already married and this is the first morning that I’m waking up to her. My quivering stomach intensifies.

Once off the plane everyone leaves with their counterpart students except me. I’m left with Jean-Michel, Carla and the principal of the school, Agnès. After our luggage is loaded Agnès drives too fast, through narrow alleys with unfamiliar street signs. The adults converse the entire ride and although I can pick up some words I am, in all ways, lost. We arrive at the apartment complex and walk up to the seventh floor, stopping on the fifth to put the suitcases down and rest. I notice a television playing loudly to remind me how far from home I am.

Agnès is clearly a good friend of Luce because she walks to the refrigerator, takes out a carton of juice and drinks a healthy gulp without using a glass before leading us to our room. As I walk down the hallway I run my fingertips along the dark
textured wallpaper, peeking into a uniquely decorated parlor, a tiny bathroom with a bidet and what I assume is Luce’s bedroom. Our room is small, painted dark blue with two twin beds that barely allow the door to clear when opened. Baby blue sheets and a darker blue blanket on each match the decor. The room is illuminated in broad daylight by two huge windows without screens that swing open wide into the room. Agnès opens one and wind rushes in. I smell things that I have never before. I don’t know if it’s pollen from European trees or foods with which I am unfamiliar but my senses go wild. Nothing about my surroundings is recognizable which causes overstimulation that leaves me feeling infantile.

The bright sunshine of noon hurts my eyes and I begin to feel the effects of having been awake for almost thirty hours. I hear the front door close and Carla’s footsteps walking back down the hallway. She walks over and stands in front of me, wrapping her arms around my waist, “Well, what do you think? Do you love France as much as you thought you would?”