In sixth period a kid falls asleep and slides all the way to the floor before he wakes up. In seventh I watch the clock for twenty-two straight minutes until the bell rings. Flake isn't around before I get on the bus to go home, and nobody answers at his house when I call him from my room.
7
When they first brought Gus home from the hospital they had him in a little bassinet by their bed. When I couldn't sleep, instead of wandering around the house all night I'd creep in there and watch him move around. He looked like a little turnover. They left him right in the streetlight. I don't know how he went to sleep. He'd move for a while and get quiet and then move a little more. My mom slept with her face in the pillow and whimpered every so often. My dad always looked like he'd washed ashore in a storm. Sometimes I sat in the chair in the corner. Sometimes I went back to bed.
In the mornings we had this thing we did when we all woke up. When I heard Gus making his noises I got up and went into their room. By then he was in their bed between them, and I'd climb over my dad and get next to Gus. I'd push the mattress with my hand to make his head move. He kept an eye on me. He grabbed my hair when he could reach it.
I'd say, “Gus, do you
like
Mommy and Daddy?” and give the mattress a few pushes and it would look like he was shaking his head. My dad especially laughed. I think I was nine then.
“What's wrong, honey?” my mom would go sometimes. It always surprised me.
“Nothing's
wrong
,” my dad would go. “Why does something have to be wrong?”
“Are you okay?” my mom would go. She'd be lying on her pillow looking at me over Gus's head. He'd reach for my hair and I'd tip toward my dad, to make him reach farther.
“I'm fine,” I'd go.
“You seem worried,” she'd go. Or “You seem sad.” That happened five or six times.
“
Are
you worried?” she said one time a few hours later, when my dad was upstairs changing Gus.
“I guess,” I said. It felt like I was always worried.
“About Gus?” she asked.
I must've looked so surprised that she asked if it was something else.
“You think you need to see somebody?” she asked another time. She meant like a psychiatrist. She was always frustrated that she never got anywhere with me.
“I had this dream where I rolled Gus down the stairs,” I told them once at breakfast. “Except he did this stair-luge thing. Then we were all doing stair luge.”
There was this pause before anything else happened. My dad had the paper, and my mom had her coffee mug halfway to her mouth.
“What's a stair-luge thing?” she finally said. She still had the mug up by her chin.
Like luge, like the Olympics, I told her.
Of course I couldn't explain so they both had a cow and a half though they tried not to show it. My mom spent the next week telling me how much everybody loved me and my dad dropped by my room every night before dinner to see how things were going. When they moved Gus into his own room that summer I'd go in there when I couldn't sleep. They had a big chair with a hassock next to his crib, and I liked to sit in it and stick a hand through the bars. My mom caught me in there once, in the middle of the night.
“You scared me,” she said. Then she got all teary. She got a blanket and tucked me in. “I just wanted to sit in here,” I remember telling her. I found out later that after I fell asleep she came back and took my picture.
Or maybe it's this: I remember we hiked up to this park on the top of a hill one Saturday in October when all the leaves were down. It was hot and we all had our sweatshirts piled on the back of Gus's stroller. We took turns pushing him up this steep path. It was so steep he was almost lying down. My dad joked about us getting nosebleeds. At the top there was this great view but a storm was coming so we couldn't stay long. Going back down I jumped on this tree branch to swing on it but slipped off and hit my head. I landed on the grass but it felt like cement. Everybody asked if I was okay and I thought I was. But later I kept feeling like I had to open my eyes wide and squeeze them shut. And when I shook my head it was like I was still shaking it when I stopped. I got more headaches after that, too. I was talking to Flake about it once when he complained that I got a lot of headaches and I told him about falling. I made it sound like I'd been higher up than I was. I told him I thought I might've really fucked up my head. I expected him to make a joke but instead he asked me all these questions like he was a specialist. He asked if I got dizzy for no reason. He asked if I saw all right. He asked if I got extra horny.
“What's that got to do with my head?” I asked him.
“You're fucked up normal,” he said. “I don't think you're fucked up abnormal.”
I knew what he meant, but since then I asked him if he sleeps all right and he does. I think it depends on what day you catch me.
“You know what a clit is?” Weensie asks Flake out on the playground. We just got off the buses and it's raining a little, but everybody still wants to hang around outside.
Flake stands there strumming the seam of his pants with his thumb.
“I think he does,” I go.
“You think he does?” Weensie goes.
“Duh,” I go.
Dickhead wanders up. The two of them are wearing T-shirts with the same cartoon guy's face on them. Neither of us know what show it's from. Flake's eating a Go-Gurt, which is his breakfast.
“You know how many holes a girl's got?” Dickhead asks. I can't tell if he heard Weensie's question or not.
“Yeah,” Flake goes.
“You do?” Dickhead says.
“Yeah,” Flake goes. He squeezes the yogurt up into his mouth while he watches Dickhead.
“So how many?” Dickhead says.
“I know,” Flake goes.
“So how many?” Weensie says. By this point three or four other kids have drifted over, thinking there may be a fight.
“Fuck off,” Flake goes.
“He doesn't know,” Weensie says.
“I think he does,” Dickhead says. “I think he's got 'em himself.”
I'm worried somebody's going to ask me.
Flake's maybe waiting for the bell, but if he is, it doesn't ring. “Three,” he finally goes.
“Where are they?” Dickhead asks.
“He
said
three,” I go.
“Where are they?” Dickhead asks.
“One in the front, and one in the back,” Flake goes.
We're all standing there. He wraps the flattened Go-Gurt tube around his fingers.
“Where's the other one?” Dickhead goes.
“One on the side,” Flake goes.
“The side?” Dickhead goes. “The side?” Weensie goes. “The side?” the other kids go. It starts raining harder. Flake goes for Dickhead's throat and knocks him onto his back on the pavement. Weensie takes a swing at my head, and when I grab his hair and pull him over me I can feel some of it tearing. He's screaming in my ear and the other kids stop saying “The
side
?” and start saying “Fight! Fight!” and Weensie and I try to kill each other until adults come along and break us up. “He pulled out some of my fucking hair,” he screams at the vice principal, who's wrestling to keep him off of me. Flake and Dickhead are already gone, or I can't see them because of everybody else. Somebody's got me around the neck and it turns out to be the new gym teacher. He's got me so I can't breathe, and when I struggle he squeezes tighter.
“Well, this morning's episode will help focus our discussion,” the vice principal says at the parent-teacher conference that afternoon. I've been suspended for a day and my mom's crying. My dad says her name and she stops. Gus's birthday party has been postponed. Gus is with a babysitter.
“His mother's upset,” my dad tells the vice principal.
The vice principal moves the Kleenex box closer to her on the desk. He tells us that one of the teachers, Ms. Meier, wanted to be here as well and should be coming through the door momentarily. “As you can see, things aren't getting better,” he says.
My dad nods like he can see that and would like to move things along a little faster. “Is he unusually problematic, or middle of the pack in terms of your experience with these kinds of problems?” he goes.
“Call me Justin,” the vice principal goes.
“All right, Justin,” my dad goes. “Is he unusually problematic, or kind of middle of the pack in terms of these kinds of problems?”
The vice principal gives him a smile. “I'm not sure I'm ready to handicap him like this is the Kentucky Derby,” he goes.
“I thought I asked a straightforward question,” my dad goes.
My mom asks if he could please stop it, and he apologizes. Maybe because he teaches in a college, you can see that he thinks that people who teach in junior highs are probably not all that smart.
“Can I ask what you've been noticing at home?” the vice principal asks. “In terms of behavior, in terms of the way he's been feeling?”
My mom talks for a while. My dad adds things in here and there. When they're finished they ask me if I think they left anything out.
“Sounds about right,” I go.
Ms. Meier comes clumping down the hall and opens the door like she expected somebody was holding it shut. “Hello, hello, everyone,” she goes. She asks to be called April.
“April Meier,” my dad goes.
“That's it,” she says.
“Nice to meet you,” my mom goes. She sounds miserable.
“And you,” Ms. Meier says. “What have I missed?”
The vice principal repeats what they told him about the home situation. He leaves a few things out and screws one or two things up. “Is that about right?” he asks me.
“Yep,” I go.
“Well. Here's what we've been noticing around
here,
” Ms. Meier says. “May I start?” she asks the vice principal.
He makes a little after you gesture.
“Edwin acts like he's under constant pressure,” she says.
“My little spray can,” my dad goes, almost to himself.
“Is that a joke?” my mom goes.
“No,” he tells her. She looks at him.
Ms. Meier waits for everybody to finish. “He's either very very quiet or acting out in various antisocial ways,” she says. Everybody sits and looks at each other for a minute.
“Could you give us some examples?” my mom finally asks.
Ms. Meier gives them a few. Some I didn't even know she knew about. “He's got a good head on his shoulders,” she says at the end. “He's very bright.”
“He's bright, we know that,” my dad goes.
“He's so bright,” my mom goes.
“He's had trouble in math, but verbally he's tested off the charts,” the vice principal says. “Is that your sense of him, as well?” he asks Ms. Meier.
“It is,” she goes. “Though this year he seems to be actively working, in his essays, to rein in his vocabulary.”
“Are you doing that?” my dad goes. “Are you working to rein in your vocabulary?”
Everybody looks at me. “I'm working to rein in everything,” I go.
Nobody answers. They all look at each other. The vice principal smiles.
“How long have you been noticing this?” my mom goes. “This is a question for either of you, I guess. Do you have some idea when it started?”
“Don't pick at your fingernails,” my dad goes to me.
The vice principal looks at Ms. Meier to see who's going to go first. “I've just started with Edwin,” she says. “I didn't have him last year. But I've checked with Mrs. Fisher, and she said he tailed off badly in the spring.”
“That's been my impression, too,” the vice principal says. My dad jots a note to himself on a little pad of paper he's brought along. “Were there any traumatic events, or did anything in particular happen last spring that you guys know about?” the vice principal asks.
They think about it. They look at each other. “Not that I know of,” my dad goes. My mom agrees with him.
“Was there anything in the spring you can remember that really affected you?” Ms. Meier asks me.
“No, not really,” I go.
“But there
was
something?” my mom goes.
“No, not really,” I go.
“You can't think of one thing?” my mom goes.
“Well, I got older,” I go.
Everybody sits back in their chairs. The vice principal slides his palm back and forth on the desk blotter in front of him. He watches his hand while he does it.
“So where do we go from here?” my mom wants to know.
“Well, there are various options,” the vice principal tells her. “One place to start is with a special-ed program we have for extra work with socialization. It meets one day a week during school hours and one day a week after school hours. So it's not too burdensome.”
“You mean like for retards?” I go.
“I don't know what you mean,” the vice principal says, mad.
“You mean like special-needs kids?” I go.
“Special-ed programs are just that,” he goes. “They're for all sorts of things. Whatever someone needs extra help with.”
“What's it involve?” my mom wants to know.
“It's mostly a workshop,” the vice principal goes. “A workshop with his peers. Other kids who're also having difficulties. They're given tasks to perform together. They do skits and hypotheticals, stuff like that.”
I imagine sitting across a table from Dickhead and Weensie and Hogan and every other asshole in the school and doing skits.
“Is that it? Is that all we're going to try, at first?” my dad goes.
“We also have worksheets and exercises to send home,” the vice principal tells him.
Ms. Meier starts to say something, and my dad interrupts her. The vice principal lowers his head and holds up a palm to my dad and rotates his other hand to let her know it's her turn.
“We find the combination can work very well,” she goes.
“Ms. Meier used to help out in the program,” the vice principal tells us.
“That sound amenable to everyone?” he asks, after no one says anything for a while. “If you guys don't do the work on your end, it doesn't matter what we do here,” he adds. “We can only do so much with the time
we
have him.”