Inside the Mind of Gideon Rayburn (2 page)

tiny dancer

The last twelve hours of Gid's life are about as clear as the last twelve hours of my own. That is, they are very
clear
—almost as if I had lived them myself. I am glad I didn't, though, since he spent most of them trapped in the car
with his dad.

Let's go back five hours. We are in the grass-blown, wild-flowered but not especially fascinating landscape of
central Connecticut, and Gid is in the midst of a Things You Love exercise that he got from his mother's
Journal of
the Zen Hut.
The exercise suggests that in times of negativity, you should think of, as the title not so subtly suggests,
things you love. He intones: "Cookies. Street hockey. Kissing. My down comforter that smells like bleach. Kissing
again."

Really? Interesting how he hasn't mentioned sex yet. Told you sometimes boys feel like girls.

"How are you feeling about your new school situation?" Jim Rayburn blurts out, ruining what was for everyone a nice moment. To Jim, everything is a fill-in-the-blank situation. When they're out of milk, it's a milk situation. When
Gid's mother dumped him, he had a messed-up lady situation. Which, from a seminal image conjured in Gid's brain,
has become a no-lady situation punctuated by Saturday nights with other romantically bereaved, similarly pathetic
work buddies. They hang out in the basement den, listening to Neil Diamond and, as the hours tick by and the
Carlton 100s pile up in the amber glass ashtrays, Merle Haggard.

"I'm not worried about school at all," Gid lies. "I think Midvale is going to be a very good place for me."

This seems to shut his dad up for a while. Gid takes advantage of the silence to employ another device he
read about in
Journal of the Zen Hut:
relaxing the mind by listing and categorizing everything he sees. He observes
cows in the field. A Buick LeSabre with a crushed back end, held together with a red bungee cord. A yellow house. A
tree stump, recently cut. The splinters in the stump make him think of a girl's fingernails, and this makes Gid think of
having his pants unzipped.

A jagged tree stump can make a guy think of having his pants unzipped? That's incredibly dirty! However, I am
beginning to see that there are benefits to being in this boy's head. I will never again have to wonder how and why
guys think and
feel all
that weird shit. I'm now
inside
the madness.

Midvale Academy draws closer and closer. They are twenty miles away, then ten, then, much too quickly, one.
Gid starts to panic and can't keep from turning over and over one unacceptable possibility: If my fear is really this
palpable, isn't there a good chance no one is going to like me? What if not one of these twelve hundred students
from forty-two states and eighteen foreign countries wants to be my friend? His exhalations take on a tone of
desperation. His father tugs on his mustache and says, "Hey, Gid, someone got your balls in a vise?"

"Dad, could you please just give me a minute?" Gid says.

His dad shrugs, as if to say,
"Hey,
when have I ever let you down?"

Gid knows that he cannot arrive at school with this much raw terror in his heart. Once again
—I'm sensing that
this flaky mysticism is the one thing Gid and his mom have in common—Gid turns to the venerable
Journal of the Zen Hut
for comfort. Many times,
Journal of the Zen Hut
had counseled that when feeling inadequate, you should merely
focus on yourself, all aspects of yourself, good and bad, and concentrate on being open to those things existing all
together at once.
You will see,
he remembered reading,
that when you accept yourself totally, when you lay yourself
bare and accept yourself as you are, people are open to receive you, absolutely as you are.

Gid closes his eyes and concentrates, starting to get a mental picture of his whole self, good and bad. The bad
comes first. I think that's natural. He thinks about how he can be lazy. That he had cheated on his PSAT
—just one
question that he went back to after consulting a pocket dictionary—
nadir:
the lowest possible point—in the bathroom
during the break. That he didn't know whether he was actually smart, even though people said he was. That he
wasn't all that nice to his father, considering Jim wasn't such a terrible guy. Those were the not-so-painful things.
Then he concentrates on the bad thing, the worst thing. That sometimes he just loathes himself, absolutely. That at
times he suspects he is a total fraud.

In spite of all this, Gid commands himself, I am totally likable and lovable. I am great at math. I have good hair and I don't have those weird fat thighs some guys have. I am energy made by the universe [it is a good thing those
Journal of the Zen Huts
are not going to be in his line of vision for a few months, isn't it?] and therefore perfect as I
am.

Gid really manages to work himself into some kind of trance. I can feel how airy his brain gets at that moment, how his fears are melting away and he's kind of floating on a soft, light cloud of possibility.

His dad pulls onto the campus, and the clock begins to sound out the hour
—three o'clock—in
a
stern, low,
judgmental C. It is at this moment that Gid looks out onto the quad and beholds the spectacle that simultaneously
represents all of his deepest wishes and doubts: the exquisite vast sea of girls occupying the quad of Midvale
Academy.

They are beautiful. They are like sirens on rocks, except they are on the grass, fully clothed, with expensive
handbags. They are everywhere. They sun their smooth, golden legs. They saunter in front of the car carrying toaster ovens and computer monitors and wicker baskets full of Pratesi sheets, patting each other's silky, shiny
heads with their childlike and exuberant postsummer greetings. They are tall and short, brunette and blonde, mostly
white but a few of them black or brown or Asian. They are all ridiculously pretty. There were pretty girls at his school in Fairfax, but they were so hard. They applied eyeliner in the library. They extinguished Parliament Lights in each
other's Diet Cokes. These girls, uniformly slim and bursting with health, appear to have spent the day running up and
down green hills. They have now returned to civilization for the sole purpose of fortifying themselves with
strawberries and soy milk.

He looks and looks again, seeking out bulges, bad bone structure.

Forget it, Gid, you're not even going to find a bad haircut.

A trio of girls separate themselves from the herd and begin walking toward the car. Gideon stares first at the
one in the middle, a medium-size girl, with longer brown hair and a heart-shaped, angular face. She has a red streak in her hair, unnaturally red, like cloth, with some of it spilling down her shoulders. To her left is a tall girl in blue shorts
that hang low on her hips and with blonde hair cut sharp at her chin. She's sort of basic looking and preppy. And to
her right is a small girl with giant eyes framed with eyeliner and dark blonde hair
pulled
back into a messy bun. Gid
thinks, These girls are pretty, but he can't even really concentrate on them, because this prettiness on display has
such a dizzying, hall-of-mirrors effect.

And that's when the Silverado horn
—a custom horn, which plays Elton John's "Tiny Dancer"—blares out, loud
and strong. Gideon squeezes his eyes shut, and he involuntarily clutches his heart, bracing himself for a crash. But
when he opens his eyes, everything is fine. Except that off to the left of the car, the three girls stare back at him,
shocked and wide-eyed.

Gid would have preferred a crash. "Dad, what are you doing? You scared the shit out of me! You scared the
shit out of them!"

But Jim Rayburn is busy rolling down his window. "Hello there, ladies," he calls out, slowing down. He whispers
to Gid, "Might as well meet these cuties, huh?"

This is not happening, Gid thinks. My father is not really this much of a loser.

The girls cast nervous glances at one another and start to whisper. Gid considers giving the girls a friendly
smile, to let them know they aren't in any danger, but then, remembering that they probably hadn't yet gotten a good
look at him, tries to press himself back as deeply as he can into the seat. "Dad," he groans, "I think these girls are a
little freaked out. So can we
—"

But his father ignores him. "Ladies! Hello! I'm Jim Rayburn, and this is my son, Gideon."

Now the girls come forward. They all have on little half-smiles
—the polite, patient smiles teenagers summon up
to mask their hostility for annoying adults. The tall blonde advances with the most brazenness toward the car, her
smile very open, unguarded. But the other two hang back.

Jim Rayburn actually winks. "I don't suppose you could tell us where Midvale Academy is?"

I can't even get my mind around how someone might find humor in that, and I guess I am glad not to be that stupid, though I'd like to laugh right now because I am uncomfortable as hell. The dark-haired girl with the red streak
and the ballet girl whisper to each other. The blonde girl narrows her eyes and tries to smile, but Gid can tell she's
confused. He knows that dumb jokes make her feel guilty, ashamed, and paralyzed with feelings of inaction.

Well, that's how Gid feels. He's projecting. But it's an accurate projection. Very. Gid closes his eyes and
imagines slitting his wrists, dark blood soaking into his father's custom oatmeal square-weave carpet.

Finally, Jim breaks into a loud, overcompensatory laugh. "Okay, okay," he says. "Can't pull the wool over your
eyes. Okay, okay. Now, suppose I was going to relate this story about three lovely girls who made me feel a whole
lot better about leaving my only son behind at this fine institution. If I was to tell that story to someone, what names
might I call you by?"

Now his father is channeling Mark Twain.

"I'm Marcy Proctor," says the friendlier blonde one. "Great-great-granddaughter of Charles Peck Proctor,
class of 1865, the guy who built Proctor."

Gid neglects to mention that's his dorm. I think that's cute.

"Midvale Academy royalty," Jim says, his blatant admiration laying bare his lowly social status for all the world
to see. "Verrry nice!"

"Oh, and this is my friend and former roommate, Molly McGarry." Marcy gestures to her companion.

Molly McGarry performs a slightly sarcastic curtsy. "Of the Buffalo McGarrys," she says. "And if you're going
to put me in a story, please say, 'Once upon a time, there was a haughty and beautiful princess named Molly.' The haughty part is incredibly important." On this last part, she catches Gid's eye, raising one of her eyebrows.

Gid keeps his eyes on her face. He finds himself thinking the word
compelling,
then wonders what book he
read that in because it's not a really automatic thing for a guy to call a girl. Then he looks away.

There is a horn blast behind them. Gid turns to see a white BMW (a big one) revving obnoxiously on their tail.

"Jeez, hold your horses," Jim Rayburn says. "Okay. Well, we've got to get a move on here, but that just leaves
you." He points to the smallest girl, who shields her big eyes and looks ready to melt in the hot sun like a pat of
butter. "My name is Edie," she says. "I hope you like it here."

Gid thinks, You and me both.

And then he/I/we are looking at the chapel. We are thinking about sex or almost-sex and there is the clock
tower and here we are back at the Eagles song and thoughts of Mom. Now he is waiting to go into this dorm, looking
at that hateful doofus conducting the Schubert symphony with the spoon.

I have no idea how I got into Gideon Rayburn's head. And now that I'm here, I don't really have any time to
figure it out. It's taking everything I have to keep up, though Gid's thought process of Tm okay, everything's fine, I'm not okay, everything's falling apart" is not so dissimilar to my own. If it weren't for the nut sack and the girl stuff and
the consuming mortification at the thought of Jim Rayburn, whom I have the luxury of merely finding fucking odd, I'd
say Gid and I are more alike than we are different.

_{cullen and nicholas}

The dorms look grand from the outside. Inside they kind of give up. Gid likes the high windows and finds the fresh
white paint cheery. But the carpet
—lentil-soup brown, rough and short—and the hard fluorescent lights make him
feel a little tricked. In a sense, he has been.

Places like Midvale are all about show. They're about what they're supposed to mean and say. What they
actually mean and say,
well, no
one involved really cares all that much.

Gid joins a line forming in front of a table, above which there is a sign reading KEYS. Like everything else here, this sign bears the Midvale insignia
—a statue of a man on a horse and a Latin inscription, which, roughly translated,
means "Study forever."

Gideon is less than thrilled to see the kid from the white seven-series a few places ahead of him in line. The
guy turns around twice to glare at him from under a lock of black hair. He is Asian but not all Asian. He has
a
chiseled, sleek handsomeness of which he seems acutely aware. He signs for his key, and as he leaves the room
he looks at Gid with something like disdain. Gid narrows his eyes, hoping that will make him look intimidating. The kid
lets out a snorting laugh to let Gid know he doesn't find him a worthy adversary. Gid peeks around, seeking out a sympathetic face. At least no one else is laughing at him. But no one seems to see him either. His fellow Midvalians,
Gid notices, are almost uniformly tall and well formed. The kind of guys who match the kind of girls he saw outside.
It's his turn. He squares his shoulders and steps up for his key.

The man he faces is in his mid-forties, stout but muscular, dressed in khakis (he's sitting down but I happen to
know they're [yuck] pleated) and a white shirt that's straining at the neck and shoulders. His head is bald and pink,
like a ham.

Gideon and Ham Head stare at each other for a moment.

"Gideon Rayburn," Gid says.

"Gideon Rayburn," repeats Ham Head, his tone wary. Tm Mr. Cavanaugh." His thick fingers tap through a
series of small manila envelopes alphabetized in a set of old gray tin boxes. There are a lot of Rs. "You might hear
some people calling me Captain, or Captain Cavanaugh"
—he finds the envelope and peers at it critically, as though
he doesn't trust his own vision—"because that's what I used to be."

"A captain in the army?" Gid asks.

Cavanaugh stiffens. "No," he says. "I was captain of a boat." He frowns again. Gid feels as if he said
something wrong. I feel like, Well, whatever yesterday held for you, today you're hamlike and handing out keys at a
prep school dorm.

"Room 302. Card for outside, key's for the room. Any chance you spoke to your roommates over the
summer?"

Gid had not. He called both and e-mailed each of them twice, but they didn't call or write back. "No," he tells Mr.
Cavanaugh. "We never connected."

"Cullen McKay and Nicholas Westerbeck," Mr. Cavanaugh says. "Tell them I've got my eye on all of you." He
winks, the least friendly wink in the history of winks.

Gid takes the lentil-soup brown stairs two at a time, his heart light with anticipation. From the second landing,
he can see his door, 302. It is slightly ajar.

I sense intrigue.

Gideon slowly guides it open with his foot. The room is large, with that fresh white paint and, Gid is pleased to
see, polished hardwood floors and dormer windows. On one side, the ceiling slopes charmingly over three school-issue plain black iron single beds. Gid's room at home had
BaWestar Galactica
wallpaper and
green-and-blue-flecked shag carpet. These hardwood floors make him feel clean and smart.

There's a black suitcase on one of the beds and a few more on the floor. And...someone is standing in the
closet. No, there are two people. Are they making out?

Holy shit. They are. They are really making out too. Lots of hands in lots of places and lots of things undone.

"Excuse me!" Gid stands in the middle of the room, unsure of what he just saw. The girl had long dark hair, and her shirt was unbuttoned down to her navel, which was pierced. But the guy
—so tall. Even in the half-light, Gid could
see that he definitely had to shave daily. (Gid shaves about once a week, if that.) Wasn't he kind of manly to be a
boy? I am only a boy, Gid thinks. My roommates should only be boys.

"Sorry," Gid stammers, "this is my room, and..."

The closet door opens and the guy steps out. He lunges for the door, which Gid has left wide open, his long
legs carrying him across the room in about one and a half strides. God, he's big. He has strong cheekbones, green eyes, huge shoulders, and hips so slim they're almost not there. "You always gotta watch out for that," the guy says.

'The fucking teachers around here are totally after us."

Gid takes a step back. The black-haired kid might have been technically more handsome than this guy, but this
combination of aristocratic beauty, sexual maturity, easy confidence, and sheer physicality, well, it is really alarming.
"Especially Mr. Cavanaugh
—Captain Cavanaugh," the guy intones in a perfect imitation of the Ham Head's
voice—angry, low, but with a certain pathetic tightness to it. "Ha! Captain Cockweed! He can blow me! You must be
the new guy...Gilbert, is it?"

The girl goes to the mirror and starts to smooth her blouse and hair.

"Gideon," he says. Until this moment, Gid's been pretty oblivious of the fact that he has a body. Now, suddenly,
in one sickening wave, he feels like a giant, disgusting amoeba.

"I'm Cullen McKay." He blinks, and then, as if noticing her for the first time, says to the girl, "Katie, you gotta get
out of here." He taps Katie on the ass
—if you ask me, Katie was put on this earth to be tapped on the ass—and to
Gid's utter amazement, the girl blushes and smiles.

That's what I need to be like, Gideon thinks. I want to have girls so into me that when I tap them on the ass,
they smile at me.

Oh see, now, that's kind of gross. But I get it. What teenage boy wouldn't want that? What teenage girl wouldn't
want her version of that? I know I would.

"Anyway," Cullen continues, "Cockweed tried so hard to get me kicked out last year, but shit, he could never
catch me!"

"Catch you?" Gideon says. "Catch you doing what?"

Katie laughs and, keeping her eyes on Cullen the whole time, struts out of the room. Her butt in red pants is like
an upside-down box of Valentine candy.

"Does that girl go to school here?" Gideon asks.

Cullen laughs. "Her brother does. I know her from the Vineyard. She was dropping her brother off, and she just
came over to say hi."

When girls say hi to me, Gideon thinks, they really just say hi.

The wall opposite the door has two large windows, one of which leads to a fire escape. Gideon sees a green
rim of the quad; a few branches touch the edge of the outer pane. The wall to his left, the plain wall, has two doors to
reveal one large (the make-out place) and one small closet. The small one has a pull-up bar in the doorframe. The furniture is all standard campus issue, but there's a white iPod attached to a stereo and a pair of freestanding Bang
& Olufsen speakers.

"Nicholas and I chose this room especially for ease of exit," Cullen says, gesturing at the fire escape. "That's
White, the girl's dorm where our friends live," he says, pointing through a window on the side of the room, down to a
modern brick building across another expanse of grass.

Ease of exit? Gid wonders. This means sneaking out, right? A nervous-making, exciting idea.

Right, Gideon. Prep school is the site of the cool euphemism. You'll get used to it.

Jim Rayburn walks in, swinging his truck key around his finger. I think it says something about fishing, but I
can't read it. Jim Rayburn's face falls when he sees Cullen. Not in an "I can't believe my son's living with this obvious
delinquent" kind of way, but in a "Why did this actually-not-so-obvious delinquent get a higher rung on the male food
chain than I did?" way. Jim Rayburn is deeply insecure. Hence Gid's panic. Gid hopes (somewhere deep down) that
he's getting away from Jim soon enough so as not to absorb this trait.

"A pleasure," Cullen says. The big hand grips Jim's with confidence and warmth. "Nicholas and I have been
looking forward to meeting your son." Jim Rayburn widens his stance, his body opening up a little under Cullen's
disarming friendliness.

The door squeaks and opens a crack. Gideon sees a sliver of a head with shiny straight black hair and one
unnaturally blue eye. The door opens some more. A boy's face. The boy is not smiling. He's carrying a large jug of
water. He uses a brown leather duffel to nudge the door open farther and walks into the room. He hoists the duffel
up onto a low wooden dresser, then, still without a word, disappears into the hallway, returning with an identical duffel.
He sets it down, then walks over to the middle bed and pulls it all the way across the room, setting it in a shadowed area where the roof slopes down. He stands back, stares at it for a second, then moves the bed about two inches to
the left. He drinks deeply from the jug, then puts it under the bed.

"I'm Nicholas," he says to Gideon, still not smiling. "I assume you're Gid." He nods at
Jim.
"And I assume
you're Gid's dad?"

"When you assume...," says Jim, even though there's really no joke to be made here. Nicholas's smile is thin and tolerant as he shakes Jim's hand, then Gid's. Nicholas is smaller than Cullen, about three inches shorter and
about two thirds as wide, but somehow he's more intimidating. He has fantastic posture.

Nicholas goes to the duffel and places his hands on top as if to steady himself. He unzips it and removes first
a hammer, followed by a single nail, which he proceeds to pound into the wall with just a few short, sound whacks.
Next he produces from the duffel a black wooden
8><10
framed black-and-white photograph of a young, pretty girl.
As Nicholas arranges it on the wall, Gid leans in for a closer look. The girl has dark hair and bright, sparkling eyes.

"Wow," Gideon says. "Is that your girlfriend?"

Cullen throws his head back and howls. Nicholas says nothing and rummages in his duffel again. He removes
a white sheet and, with a firm, almost angry shake, tosses it over the bed. "No," he says, without a trace of warmth in
his voice. "It's my mother." He constructs two perfect sets of hospital corners. Then he sits down, unties and
removes a pair of
New
Balance sneakers, and, as if in pain, eases himself onto his back.

"I apologize for not being more social," he says. "Being in a car with my stepmother emotionally exhausts me,
and I have to rest."

Cullen is still giggling into his hand, and Nicholas throws him a disapproving look before he closes his eyes and
pulls the sheet up under his chin. Within a few moments he's snoring.

Cullen reaches into his pocket and produces a tiny silver camera. "How about a picture of me and your son on
our first day as friends?"

Jim loves this. He forgets himself for a minute, grateful that his son is in caring hands.

Or so it seems.

Mugging for the pose, Cullen throws a heavy arm around Gid's shoulder. "Hey," he whispers in Gid's ear, "say
booze, bongs, and bitches."

Minutes later, when his father drives away, Gid watches from the window.

Cullen squats in front of the open CD changer. "Sad?" he asks. He puts on Cat Power. Which is really sad.
Too sad. It's good, though, because Gid knows he's not
that
sad.

"No," says Gid. He doesn't know exactly how he feels. There's some guilt, but only because he's so relieved.
He watches his father drive away partly because it seems like the right thing to do, but also because he wants to
make sure he's really gone.

Cullen nods. "There comes a certain age in a boy's life..." And with this, he reaches under the bed and
produces a contraption, like a plastic vase with tubes coming out of it, "where Dad steps out and the Vaportech
steps in." Gideon is about to ask what the Vaportech is when Cullen reaches into his pocket and produces a very
large and heavy-looking Ziploc bag full of pot.

Gid is speechless. I feel a strong responsibility toward him, and I will him, as hard as I can, to say something
like, "You know, I thought I would have a little bit more time to figure out the extent to which I'm interested in
misbehaving," or, "Let me figure out what the rules are before I start breaking them." But I'm clearly not reaching him,
because he not only says nothing, he smiles, takes the Ziploc, and opens it.