The Namesake (23 page)

“NO!”

I just gaped, because I knew she was lying. And if we were still playing by her rules, that was the only unforgivable offense.

Finally, she ran her hand through her new hair (courtesy of Tyler’s criticism, obviously) and, just above a whisper, said, “Okay. He might’ve said that … some of his friends thought my taste in music was lame.”

“And?”

“And? What?”

“Why should that matter? You never cared what those morons thought before! He’s screwing with your mind, Alexis! Is he screwing more than that? Is he? Are you and Tyler — ”

She smacked my mouth before I could finish. I’m not sure which of us was more shocked. For a second I thought she’d apologize; maybe we’d even laugh about it.

But then her eyes narrowed to slits and she said, “What if we are?”

“Just don’t catch anything. I doubt you’re the only one.”

Now she looked like she wanted to cry. “Why can’t you understand? For the first time in my life, I have friends!”

“Oh.”

I guess she realized how that sounded. “Evan, I didn’t mean — ”

But it was too late. She reached for my hand, but I slapped hers away.

“Forget it. I don’t even know you anymore. I hope you’re happy.” And I walked out.

It would’ve been better if I’d just slammed the cube door and kept going. But she’d started crying, and I couldn’t leave her alone like that. I turned around, stepping back inside. I swear I intended
Sorry
, but then she actually smiled and said, “I knew you’d come back.”

For some reason, that made me madder than anything, as if she had a right to know anything about me now. So I looked at my best friend like she was less than a stranger and, in a dead monotone, I said, “And I don’t want your records. I’ve always thought they were stupid.”

Then I left her sitting there in the silent music box and went to my locker.

I resisted calling her as soon as I got home. I mean, what’s the point? Now all I can think about is what Mister P said, how he was too efficient when it came to saying hurtful things. When did I get to be like that?

I sprint up the walk into the kitchen, check the phone one last time. “You have no messages.” I’m staring at the flashing red zero when the horn honks. After sticking my Post-it to Mom — “See you Sunday! Love, E” — on top of the answering machine, I run down the walk to the Bonneville.

Gramp cracks the window, peers out. “You sure about this?”

“Nope.” He just looks at me, waiting for the rest. “But take me anyway.”

“All aboard.”

I slide in, and we head for the school lot to catch the bus that’ll take me to answers. Or at least a weekend of emotional thrills and chills.

“Your grandmother and I are going away next week.”

“Atlantic City?”

“Yup. You’re on mail duty.”

“Okay.”

“So, make sure you come back from this thing in one piece.”

“I’ll try.”

I clutch the duffel to my chest, picturing Dad’s face, voice, words inside. Gramp spares us further interaction, and I’m nearly asleep when we get to school.

In the lot, he gives me a shove and says, “Last stop: Rowayton.” Maybe he really does have a second life on the rails. I kiss his cheek and jump out. Tooting, he drives away minutes before the red Blazer pulls into the lot.

We’ve been lurching over dark roads for what seems like days, country station blasting on the radio. The retreat house is apparently like some covert destination; I swear the bus circled for the first half-hour to throw us off. According to all the handouts, Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center should only be about a forty-minute ride from Sebastian’s. I check my watch; we’ve been on the road nearly two hours.

I take a furtive peek at my fellow passengers: varying stages of zombification. Some are asleep; most blankly stare at their reflections in the frosted windows. The mood is less than celebratory.

Then again, it’s not like this is the monorail at Disney. I think everyone’s anxious about what to expect, what’s expected. This is it. Encounter. We’ve all heard the stories. You’re grilled about every bad thing that ever happened to you. You pray ’round-the-clock, bunk with strangers. Sometimes you have to stare into another guy’s eyes for a full thirty minutes — no talking. It’s like Guantanamo, but with stained glass.

Adding an extra layer of awkward: guys from other schools will be here too. We’re expected to bare our souls for total strangers. As if “sharing” with fellow Sebastianites isn’t daunting enough.

They say this kid named Allan went crazy at HFMWC, tried to burn the place down. Supposedly, he was taken away in an ambulance and never returned to Sebastian’s.

I have to keep reminding myself why I wanted to come, refocusing on the reason I’m doing this. It’s a Journey of Dad (not self) Discovery. Eyes closed, I prep for what lies ahead, forcing myself into rhythmic breathing. It’s almost working; I start to feel relaxation enter my brain. Then Lex’s voice intrudes. “I think you need to put it behind you,” and I’m right back in the school lot, ambushed.

Gramp had just driven off, leaving me with no bus in sight. Guess I shouldn’t have made a point of being here at 4:30 for a 5:15 departure. The lot was mostly empty, except for two cars parked in the bus lane: other early birds, but with the benefit of warm cars.

As Lex’s mom approached, I regretted telling Gramp to go — I was cornered. They pulled into a spot and, before the Blazer even came to a stop, Lex jumped out and ran toward me.

“I’m so glad I caught you!”

“Hey.”

“I couldn’t let you leave that way … with us fighting, I mean.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Me too.”

We took a step toward each other; Lex did a “one potato,” bumping my chin with her mittened hand. Suddenly it was just us: no Tyler, no Mrs. Bottaro idling twenty feet away, no long, yellow bus pulling up to the curb.

Then my big, fat mouth joined us. “So. I’m in love with you.”

Silence. Lex tipped her head back, stared up at the thickening gray.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Looks like snow.”

“That’s it? You’re going all friggin’ meteorological on me?”

“What do you expect me to say?”

“Nothing. I’d better go.” I stomped toward the bus.

“Ev!”

I didn’t turn around, didn’t want her pity. “What?”

“Your bag.”

Spinning, I walked right up to her, and said, “It makes me sick to think you’re really with him.” It was a total blurt; even I was stunned I’d said it out loud.

Praying Lex would just let it go — the way she ignores it if Mrs. S-B-C spits on the desk while reciting the Bard — I tried to “two potato” her, to salvage the moment.

But Lex batted my hand away and said, “I like him. He’s fun to be with, which is more than I can say for you lately.”

“So that’s why you’d rather be with him than me? Well, excuse me for not being my usual bag o’ laughs. Learning about my dad’s molestation’s put a bit of a dent in my sense of humor. I thought you of all people would understand.” I bent to pick up my duffel.

“Look, Evan. What your father went through was horrible, and I
can
relate. But it’s not like it happened to you, okay? I think you need to put it behind you.”

“Now you sound like my mother: ‘Get over it.’ Yeah, that’s great advice.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Bullshit! That’s exactly what you meant. You think you’re in love — or whatever — so all of a sudden everybody’s supposed to just … ta da! … get happy?”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Well, no matter what you say, it
is
like it happened to me. Because the things that pervert did to him left a mark, broke him somehow. So Father Fran didn’t just fuck
him
over, he fucked
me
over, too. He left me with half a dad. And finally with no dad at all. So forgive me for having a little trouble ‘putting it behind me.’ ”

She tried to grab my arm, but I pulled away, yanked my bag off the sidewalk, and banged on the bus door. The driver looked up from his magazine and gave me a “hang on” look. I could practically feel Lex’s eyes drilling into the back of my head. Couldn’t she just leave it alone?

“Evan, wait.”

“It doesn’t make a difference. You’re better off with Tyler anyway. It’s obvious I can never make you happy like he does. Just forget it, Lex.”

When the door finally folded open, I vaulted onto the bus; sat on the other side from where Lex was standing; put up my hood. Suddenly there was movement on the stairs. I looked up expecting her, but it was just some kid getting on the bus. As remorse registered, I understood how bad I needed her to come after me. I also knew she wouldn’t. Looking out the window, I watched her stalk across the lot and disappear into the Blazer. Mrs. Bottaro backed out of her space, and I slouched to avoid Lex’s gaze — not that she was looking at me anyway.

So that was roughly two hours ago. My butt’s gone numb from sitting here, and I’m doing my best not to interact with anybody onboard. It’s not exactly my dream group.

The driver’s toothless and stubbled, his eyebrows obscured by this knit cap, a jingle bell suspended from one long piece of yarn. He’s like an escapee from
Canterbury Tales
: “The Man of the Bus’s Tale.” Jolly-bawdy, it’d relate how he heartily drove as the rowdy teen pilgrims squabbled and swore and listened to iPods, while one traveler stared out the window wondering just what kind of crusade he was on.

This burly supporting character, Sir Novack, Knight of the Track and Field, would chuckle at their antics and say, “You shut yer piehole when I’m talkin’, Randy!”

Whoa, that’s hardly Chaucerian. Didn’t I mention Spiotti’s here? No doubt that was intentional. I’ve been trying to will him off the bus ever since he boarded with that shitbag grin and “accidentally” stepped on my foot walking up the aisle. He’s alternated between whispering my name, burping “loser,” and pelting me with candy wrappers for the last fifteen minutes.

Finally, he pegged Novack with a half-eaten Chunky and got sent up front, just behind Old Jingle Cap. Every few minutes he turns, sneers, makes this hand gesture, a finger-prongs-to-eyes thing. Not sure what it means exactly; fairly certain it’s not friendly. Novack’s plugged into a pair of headphones — either doesn’t notice or more likely doesn’t care.

So I guess encounter will be a weekend of torture, basically. Even worse than expected. It’s not fair; they should let you see a list; tell you who else is attending before you sign up. I’d probably have waited ’til it was a non-mortal-enemy situation.

Hey, maybe we’ll bond. Yeah right, the only way I’d ever bond with Spiotti is if those track goon pals of his crazy-glued us together as a joke. Oh shit! What if we end up together? I’m sure there’s no choosies when it comes to roommates, and it seems to be my destiny to be stuck with this guy. That’s it; we’re bunking.

I contemplate the tilt-out window, wondering if it’s large enough to facilitate escape. I’ve almost convinced myself to leap from the bus and crawl home, when we hit a huge pothole and the vehicle shudders. Looking out, I spot a silver marker that says Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center. Hoopla.

Jingleman hits the brakes, and we exit the interstate, just as the snow resumes. The bus shimmies sideways. No one else seems to notice our slide toward the guardrail, just me and The Capped One. He steers into the skid like they teach you in driver’s ed. Holding my breath, feet jammed under the seat, I brace for impact. It’s almost a letdown when none comes.

Mister Jingle succeeds in straightening the bus and, as our eyes meet in the rearview, he winks me a toothless grin. Taking it a mite easier as we head down this big old hill, he hooks a slow-mo left into the entrance.

The driveway’s long, straight, lined with perfect rows of sculpted evergreens. Softly haloed by an occasional streetlamp in whirling snow, they’re like winter saints lighting our way.

The bus slows more as we approach the circular portion of the drive, and there’s a collective inhalation as the outline of the Center emerges from the snow gloom. I’m not sure whether anybody else knew what to expect, but I certainly didn’t think it’d look so much like someplace the Wicked Witch might call home.

As we get closer, the sinister impression fades. Still, the place literally looms out of the dark. I’m really beginning to regret signing up for a weekend here; it’s not exactly Motel 6.

We skid to a stop. The main building looks like your classic stone fortress, complete with Rapunzel-ready turret. Wide, stone steps lead to a pair of massive doors. Above them hangs a giant steel sculpture of the Holy Family. It’s done in this semi-abstract, ’70s style. Looks like something the Bradys might’ve had, if they were into oversized religious iconography.

And speaking of oversized religious icons, I’m thrilled when Father Brendan appears in the doorway. It’s a relief to see a familiar face; hopefully, with him here, Spiotti’ll be on his best behavior.

We trudge up the stairs, totally silent, Mister Novack bringing up the rear. Miraculously, even Randy seems respectful as he climbs toward Father Brendan, head slightly bowed. Then I notice he’s giving me the finger behind his back.

As the fourteen of us cluster outside the doors in the night chill, Father speaks. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He pauses, waiting.

Coach Novack clears his throat, and we reply in unison, as if we’ve rehearsed, “Good evening, Father Brendan.”

Father raises his arms in blessing. “Let us bow our heads in gratitude for your safe arrival here tonight.”

We do.

He launches into a major prayer medley as we huddle on the steps. This sense of reverent unity seems to settle over the group as we stand there, backpacked, duffeled, waiting for the big finish. He ties it all up with a sung Hallelujah — the old guy’s got a very decent baritone — and then gestures us inside.

Novack closes the doors behind us. Everyone stares at the cavernous interior, taking in the stained glass, the rose-stone walls, the statues. As Father B makes his way to the base of the staircase across the foyer, we instinctively gravitate toward him, in horseshoe formation.

“This weekend represents a great opportunity for you as young Catholic men. In coming here, you make a covenant with Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”

I love how he says it, like one word: ourlordandsaviorjesuschrist. The word
covenant
, however, has new significance thanks to Dad. My stomach rolls at the thought.

“In the spirit of the Holy Family, we shall embrace one another.”

A vague muttering comes from the back of the group — the Spiotti cluster. Novack shoots them a look; the noise dies out.

“Over these next two days we shall become a spiritual family.” Father scans the crowd as if cataloging faces. “A family, a collective, is, however, still made up of individuals. And as individuals, you have each been called here for a specific reason. Some, perhaps, are here out of longing, a deep hunger for God’s intimate love.” This is met with snickers from the rear. “Others hope to quell doubt.” His eyes narrow as he looks at the track boys. “Some of you were brought here for atonement.”

He looks directly into my eyes then, as he says, “And, naturally, you seek answers.”

Eeeeeee! How does he do that?
He holds my gaze momentarily, his gray eyes penetrating mine. I shiver. Finally, he looks away and continues.

“Regardless of the nature of your personal need, you will find fruition only through faith, prayer, and self-examination. Coach Novack, do you wish to add anything?”

Novack’s not prepared for this. He spins his wedding ring distractedly, looks at the floor. “Uh … like Father says … keep your eyes on the prize and … uh … remember,” his face blanks, like he’s mentally fishing for pocket change, “there’s no I in team.”

Well, that was inspirational.

Spiotti says, “Yeah, Coach!” and the goons start a chant: “No-VACK, No-VACK!”

The coach seems to be enjoying it, until he glances over at Father Brendan, who looks less than amused.

“Sorry, Father.” He makes a slashing motion across his throat. “Enough, guys.”

Father B nods as if to say, “Indeed it is,” but instead, announces, “The other students have already arrived. There are a total of fifty-two fine, young men from Saint Bernard’s, Assumption, and Holy Ghost Academy. We will be celebrating Mass with them shortly. Please proceed to the library for registration and to receive room assignments.”