The Long Wait for Tomorrow (15 page)

thought for you this morning …,” Bill Montague began, looking away from the window and addressing his homeroom class. “Henry David Thoreau once wrote ‘Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.’ ”

Patrick thought it might be mere imagination, but for a moment, Bill’s eyes lighted on him. On him and the Armani suit, a knockout ensemble even in this wrinkled state. He glanced around to see if anyone else had caught on.

Nobody had, and Bill continued. “I had a friend once, name of Addison. Addison was a man who lived as best he could, following another one of Thoreau’s famous tenets: ‘Simplify, simplify.’ He was a white T-shirt-and-jeans kind of guy. One-pair-of-shoes kind of guy. One-jacket kind of guy. He had very few actual
possessions.
He liked food and cigars, rum and fireworks, he always told me, because they were gloriously temporary.

“One day, Addison went in for a job interview. Bought himself a suit, and fastened the tags out of sight with safety pins, hoping to return it after he was done. Thing was, he got the job. And what he didn’t realize is that, generally, the suit that gets you the job is the suit you wear on the job. But a job’s not a lunch hour, it’s nine to five, five days a week. So Addison had to buy himself a few more suits. Spend a little extra on dry cleaning. Cutting his
own hair wasn’t doing the trick anymore, neither was shaving with an electric razor. To cover his new expenses, he worked all he could to get a promotion. Which he got, followed by a new briefcase for work. Followed by better suits, more suits, because now he had to look the part of a manager. He even had to buy ‘casual’ clothes, the things he was expected to wear when not wearing … well, what he was expected to wear.

“And it didn’t end with clothes. New apartment, which began as a lease and ended up as a mortgage. New furniture, decorations for when he had company over. Had to hire a maid service once a week to keep the place up to code, it kept on and on …”

Bill stopped then, glanced up at the clock.

Saw that the time was getting away from him, and wrapped things up. “Not to say that he isn’t a very successful man. But every now and then he comes down to visit. We go fishing together, and damned if he doesn’t always have something he’s got to buy before we head out to the mountains.”

Bill didn’t add anything more.

He glanced at the empty seat next to Patrick, then shook his head. Reached over to a nearby table and picked up that morning’s business.

“Some quick announcements, then you-all can get on out of here….” Bill flicked the first item on his list. “For the prom … the school has requested that all students park in the Marriott garage. I know it ain’t free, but that’s where the security we’ve hired is going to be concentrated, so help us out if you could.

“Item two. As you all know, we’ve hired out a fleet of buses for any students who want a ride out to Charlotte tonight for
the game. Lots of seats, not enough to go around; be sure and sign up by the end of lunch if you don’t want to waste your own gas. Buses leave at five. Game starts at eight. That’s all I know on
that
subject.

“And item three. We’d like to remind you not to leave campus without signing out. I don’t care if you’re heading to a sporting-goods store to buy me a new set of clubs,
everybody must sign out
.” He folded the paper in half and stared directly at Patrick, and the empty seat next to him. “Remember, we know where you live.”

Patrick averted his eyes, pretended to search his pockets for a pen.

“All right,” Bill concluded. “You-all can go. Have a good day, and”—the students were already rising from their seats, heading for the door—“don’t forget to study for those finals next week!”

Patrick made a valiant effort to collect his things as fast as he could.

“Don’t kid yourself, Patrick …,” Bill advised, standing by the door. The rest of his homeroom filed past, and with the last student, he closed the door and leaned against it. “I think we ought to talk.”

Patrick didn’t bother feigning innocence. He let his saxophone case fall to the floor with a loud thud. Took off his satchel and deliberately dangled it over the table before releasing it. It dropped on the table like a flaccid body bag.

“Feeling a little haughty today, Patrick?” Bill asked.

Patrick watched him walk toward the center of the room.

“I don’t blame you,” Bill said, coming off as more of an
insult than anything. “Principal Sedgwick told me what happened. You and Kelly are in the clear, so it’s not as if
I
can get you into any trouble…. Where
is
Kelly McDermott?”

Patrick gave Bill a hard stare. “He’s sick today.”

“You’re pissing me off, Patrick.”

Patrick considered getting a little pissed himself, though he knew straightaway he wouldn’t be able to match Bill Montague’s steely indignation.

“You know, I did what you asked,” Bill said. “I told the staff yesterday to lay off Kelly. That I thought he was acting a bit strange. That maybe he was a little rattled. Headed off to Ohio State, new start, lots of pressure, especially with this game tonight. God help me, I actually used
the game
as a way to keep Kelly safe.”

“What do you mean, keep Kelly safe?”

“Seemed to me you were trying to protect him. From what, I don’t know. I was just doing you a favor. I wonder now why I bothered. Seems to me Kelly knows he can do whatever he wants as long as Redwood is there to bail him out.”

“It wasn’t
like
that. Kelly wasn’t trying to get
out
of being punished yesterday. I actually think he was a little surprised when Redwood intervened. I’m as confused as you are….”

Bill waited for Patrick to finish.

Patrick glanced down, wishing he’d found the time to change that morning. Trying to find a way around this conversation. Trying to find a way around an explanation.

Bill’s face softened all at once. “Patrick, where’s Kelly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see him this morning?”

“Yes …” Patrick wouldn’t allow himself to divulge the details, skipped straight to the crux. “He got into his car and took off. I used his father’s car, drove here with Jenna.”

“Do you know where he went?” Bill glanced over to the door’s small rectangular window and saw a collection of faces waiting to start their first class. He waved them off. “Patrick, do you know what’s wrong with Kelly McDermott?”

“No.”

Bill crossed his arms.

Patrick prepared himself for another verbal assault.

Instead, Bill dropped all questions, along with his arms. “All right.”

“What do you mean
all right
?”

“I mean all right, as in
here’s the deal…
” Bill turned his back to the door, as though there might be spies taking an interest in his proposal. “I can hold off the staff, Principal Sedgwick, for a while. Until lunch. But once they’ve got a little free time on their hands, I’m going to have to give some answers. So I want you at my place right at the start of lunch.”

“Uh … I thought you weren’t supposed to have people in your—”

“Just knock on the door.” Bill walked backward toward the entrance. “If Kelly isn’t here by then, I’m going to need some answers. And if you want to help Kelly, you’d better supply some.”

Patrick felt his mouth go dry. “You said Kelly was in the clear around here.”

“Sedgwick is looking for a reason to bring Redwood down a
peg….” He reached back and turned the handle. “And Redwood’s looking for a scapegoat. My advice … Don’t give them one.”

The waiting students began to file in, and Patrick wearily fought against the current, struggling with each step toward the exit.

Patrick, Jenna, and Kelly all shared a free period on Fridays.

Both Patrick and Jenna convened at their normal spot, outside the main counselor’s office, second period, at ten-twenty. Jenna had been the first to arrive. Patrick found her sagging against the wall, head tilted to the side, resting on the sign-out sheet. Good as asleep, no telling what was going on behind her sunglasses.

“Jenna …”

Her stance didn’t change, mouth opening just enough to croak. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Jenna.”

“Have I died?”

“No.” Patrick scribbled his name on the sign-out sheet. “I’ve got to stop by my house. You feel up to coming with me?”

Jenna nodded.

“You going to sign out?”

Jenna pointed limply to the slot right above Patrick’s name.

Patrick took a closer look at the mess Jenna had left there. “I didn’t know you spelled your name with three wavy lines. I always thought it was just two.”

Jenna moaned and followed Patrick to the car. “Aren’t we going to wait for Kelly?”

“He got held up. Told us to catch him later.”

“Why are we going to your house?”

“I wanted to talk to you …,” Patrick said cheerfully, hoping to throw Jenna off the scent. He opened the door to the borrowed SUV and helped her in. “See if we can’t get you a cup of coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” Jenna mumbled.

“You also don’t drink alcohol, best of my recollection.” Patrick closed the door and went around to the front seat. By the time he started the car, Jenna was curled up against the window. Sunglasses askew, fast asleep.

She remained unconscious for the entire ride, hardly stirring.

Patrick pulled up to his house, parked out front. Careful not to wake Jenna, he slipped out of the car and tiptoed his way to the mailbox. A quick peek inside revealed nothing. He glanced around, hoping to catch sight of the mail truck.

Nothing but empty lawns showing off their perfect haircuts.

Patrick knocked on the passenger’s-side window. Jenna’s tongue and upper lip were splayed along the glass, the orifice of a giant squid caught in a mad scientist’s shark tank. Patrick knocked again, harder. Jenna’s face peeled back, leaving behind a dripping work of art. The door opened, and Jenna leaned out, seat belt saving her from an ugly fall. Her sunglasses slid off her nose, into the gutter. She wiped her face off with the inside of her arm.

“I’m so disgusting,” Jenna apologized, eyelashes half-glued together.

Patrick took her by the hand, led her up the slight incline to his house.

Minute though it was, the change in elevation had an adverse effect on Jenna. By the time they’d made it through the front door, she had her hand over her mouth. Wide eyes forecasting an unfortunate accident that sent her running up the stairs. Patrick barreled after her, yelling
“end of the hall, end of the hall.”
Whether she heard or not turned out to make no difference. He saw the strands of Jenna’s hair stream into his room, and made it through the door just in time to see Jenna on her knees, firing a poorly aimed stream of vomit in and around a small teal wastebasket.

Patrick leaped to her side, gathering her hair out from the path of destruction. A little too late, sadly. Some of the puke had already bonded with a couple of unfortunate tangles, not to mention the goodly amount that had soaked into the carpet and spattered along the nearby bookshelf.

All over your little brother’s books
, Patrick’s angels admonished.
The curators aren’t going to like that.

He waited patiently as Jenna’s convulsions subsided. With shuddering breath, she reached out a blind hand, clutching the front of Patrick’s jacket.

“You’re not going to pull me in there, are you?” Patrick asked.

Jenna shook her head.

“Hang on …” With his hand still holding Jenna’s hair, he stretched his other arm out, grasping for a tissue box. He managed to knock it down, pull out a few sheets. He handed them to Jenna, and she accepted with a trembling hand.

Wiped the corners of her mouth clean.

“Oh man …” She raised her head, eyes watering with white gone red. “I am so
sorry.”

“Never mind,” Patrick reassured her. “Come on and lie down.”

They made their way over to the bottom bunk. Patrick kept Jenna’s hair away from her neck, holding on to it as if it were a vomit-soaked leash. She sat down, then slowly sank onto her side. Patrick got down next to her, on his knees, keeping a handle on her hair. Keeping the space between them at an awkward minimum.

“I’m going to drip barf all over your bed,” she moaned apologetically.

“It’s not my bed,” Patrick told her, reaching for her hand and guiding it to his. “Hold on to that for a second.”

Still on his knees, Patrick shuffled to the tissue box. Shuffled back, and reached out to relieve Jenna of her duties. Their hands met with a tiny shock. Patrick sucked in his breath through his teeth and began wiping Jenna’s hair with multiple sheets of double-ply.

At the far wall, Miles Davis remained frozen in time, trumpet blaring at Birdland.

Jenna’s eyes moved around the room. “I don’t think I’ve been in here for years.”

“You and Kelly usually take the guest bedroom,” Patrick said. Worried about the connotations, he added: “Whenever my parents are out of town.”

“So it’s been years.”

“Yup.”

“You sure?”

“Sure as I can be …”

“It’s just that …” Jenna coughed, clearing her throat of
residual waste. “It hasn’t changed. I remember thinking how young this room looked even back when we were freshmen. All the kiddie books, models …”