The Tragedy Paper (9 page)

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Meade,” Mr. Simon said. Duncan quickly scanned the room. It was big, with desks pulled into a semicircle facing the blackboard. The first thing Duncan noticed was that Daisy was not there. The second thing he noticed was that there must have been at least four or five students still missing—depending on how many were actually in this class—because there were so many empty desks. Mr. Simon waited while Duncan chose his desk. He decided on the one to the far right next to Tad. Duncan gently tossed his books down on the desk and smiled at Tad, who grinned back and then nodded his head toward the door. In the window of the door were three scared faces peeking in with wide eyes. They were the latecomers. They had already lost something, though no one was sure what yet. And those people might never know. Mr. Simon had a reputation for remembering everything. He knew who was here and who wasn’t, no question.

“Okay, now that everyone is settled,” Mr. Simon said calmly, his back turned to the door and the panicked faces with the pleading eyes, “I want to welcome all of you bulldogs to the most thrilling, the most exhilarating, the most magical classroom experience you might ever have. Welcome to senior English.” He paused for dramatic effect, and there was a frantic
knock knock knock
on the door. Mr. Simon didn’t even flinch. Duncan looked up, and there was Daisy’s face pressed against the glass. She must have pushed everyone else out of the way. Duncan wanted more than
anything to stand up and let her in. Why did Mr. Simon have to be so unbending? Couldn’t he have started this craziness on the second day of classes?

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan to keep those disrespectful poky students out in the hallway forever,” he said. “But let me tell you this … and I suggest you write this down.… If you manage to work the word
magnitude
—and I hope you all begin to think about that word and how important it is—into your Tragedy Paper exactly seven times, using it correctly, of course, I will add ten points onto your grade. That means, young students, that if you write a paper deserving of an A, you will get extra credit. Now, you know the rules: if any of you utter this to any of them,” he said, for the first time turning slightly toward the window in the door, “then you will all lose those extra points. Understood?”

Mr. Simon meandered over to the door, slowly released the dead bolt, and opened the door. By now the faces out there were no longer panicked, but defeated. They knew they had missed something important—something that could never be gotten back. Daisy was in the room first.

“I have an excuse, if you’ll let me tell you about it,” she said kindly to Mr. Simon as she chose a seat across the room from Duncan.

“I’m sorry, Miss Pickett, but you know the rules,” Mr. Simon said, also kindly.

The other students took their seats, and it turned out the class was full—fifteen students in all.

“And so we begin,” Mr. Simon said, launching into
Moby-Dick
without a moment’s pause. There would have been a time when Duncan would have felt good about being in on the secret. To mention the word
magnitude
seven times and get ten extra points! That could mean the difference between a D and a C, or a C and a B. He knew that there would be a few more chances to increase his grade this semester, though none as big as this one. But as the minutes ticked away slowly, Duncan felt worse and worse. What was Daisy’s excuse? And had he done anything to delay her? If he had let her into his room, would that have made a difference? He tried many times to meet her eyes, but she wouldn’t. She was fully engaged in the discussion, taking notes, answering questions, and offering ideas. It became clear to Duncan that she had already read
Moby-Dick
, and yet she was the one playing catch-up here. It didn’t seem fair.

“Read at least the first two chapters before our next class meeting,” Mr. Simon finally said. And then he paused. Everyone waited, on the edge of their seats.

“Now go forth and spread beauty and light,” he said, his regular dismissal from class, but this was the first time he was saying it to them. A few kids smiled; a few leaned back in their seats clearly relishing the moment. And then everyone was off. Daisy was the closest to the door, and Duncan was surprised when she bolted. He had expected her to try to offer her excuse again. He grabbed his books and took
off after her. He had a free period and hoped she would too. Maybe they could take a walk or something. But when he got within reach, he turned and started walking back to his room. What did he have to say to her anyway? And, besides, Tim had just landed in New York. He had to know what happened next.

Yes, believe it. Mr. Bowersox picked me up at the airport. He stood at baggage claim holding a sign that said
MACBETH
, as if he might mistake another albino for me. I still had my phone in my hand hoping to channel Vanessa, and as it had been doing for a few hours now, one word kept running through my mind—the simplest word, and yet I had no idea what it meant:
good
.

In the end, I was glad he had the sign because I spotted him before he saw me. You are probably so used to him by now that you don’t even think about it, but he looked just the way I would expect a headmaster to look—jolly, with a round crown of hair surrounding a shiny bald spot, and a red tartan plaid scarf around his neck.

“Mr. Bowersox?” I said a little too eagerly, before I had even reached the bottom of the escalator. I was so happy to
see him. Finding a cab and getting to school by myself would have pushed me over the edge, I was sure of it.

“Tim!” he said, offering me his thick hand. I took it without hesitation and shook enthusiastically.

“Welcome to New York, welcome to the Empire State, welcome to your new home,” he said, smiling wide. “We are so happy to have you join us at the Irving School this semester.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling myself relax for the first time in what seemed like forever. In a weird way, it was such a relief to be in the presence of a grown-up. I could actually feel myself slouch.

“Shall we?” he asked, folding up the sign carefully and putting it in the pocket of his blazer. “Do you have any bags?”

“Just this one,” I said, pointing over my shoulder at my big backpack. “Everything else was sent ahead.”

Mr. Bowersox took a hat the exact same plaid as his scarf out of his other pocket and pulled it over his head, warning me about the cold. All I could think was that he should try hanging out in an igloo. We were quiet while we settled into the car and he started to drive, navigating the winding, complicated ramps of the airport. And then we were on the highway.

“Let’s get some dinner on our way back. I was thinking we could stop in the city for Italian, if you like,” Mr. Bowersox said. “Or we could head back to Westchester and
have Italian there. There’s a good place in Yonkers that I hear makes a mean gnocchi.”

“That sounds good,” I said, having no idea what or where Yonkers was.

He asked about my old school. I told him about my teachers from my first semester of senior year, how there was only one I would especially miss. That teacher chose a theme every month and everything we did had to do with that theme. He was an English teacher, but he didn’t focus only on that—he brought food into it and sometimes science and history. But, I assured Mr. Bowersox, I was happy to try something new.

I think it was possible that thirty or forty minutes had gone by and I hadn’t thought of Vanessa, but after I said that about trying something new, I had to stop talking for a minute; I felt like the wind was knocked out of me. I guess I
wasn’t
so happy to try something new. I’d tried something new for half a day and a night—or maybe for just about forty-five seconds in that elevator at the hotel. And now I wanted to go back to before I knew what that could be like. Or maybe I wanted to go back to before I knew what I was missing—that was more like it.

Mr. Bowersox seemed so genuinely interested in me, asking about my favorite themes, really listening when I told him. I remember telling him all about the Greek gods we studied, and about how we had a whole month’s unit
focused on baked goods. And that was when he told me about Mr. Simon.

“In that case, I think you will like the senior English teacher very much,” Mr. Bowersox said. “He’s the token adult on your dorm floor too, so you will get to know him very well. His name is Clark Simon. He doesn’t teach through themes like that—although he might argue that the
Moby-Dick
unit could be looked at that way; he does bring in food and a bit of science and history there—but he believes in becoming fully immersed in whatever you’re learning at the time. You will see that there are days he’ll come down to breakfast dressed as one Shakespearean character or another, or days he will choose to eat only things that Captain Ahab might have eaten on the
Pequod
, though I’m not sure what that would be. I think he might end up a little hungry on those days.”

I nodded, forcing myself to focus and not wonder where Vanessa was at that moment and, worse, what it would be like when we ran into each other. “So, what are they studying now?” I remember asking.

“Well, you missed the section on
Moby-Dick
and the introduction to Shakespeare. They read
King Lear
and
Macbeth
before break. I think you move into Greek tragedies now as he really gets you guys geared up for the Tragedy Paper.”

“The Tragedy Paper?”

“Ah, well, you’ll learn about this soon enough,” Mr. Bowersox said.

(I hope you’re getting a kick out of this part, by the way. I worked hard to impersonate Mr. Bowersox’s voice. I think I do a pretty good job. Close your eyes and listen. Don’t I sound just like him?)

“It is meant to be a culmination of your high school years—your reading comprehension, your writing skills, your method of analyzing material and then formulating and communicating your own thoughts,” he told me. “It’s great fun, really. And I’ve taken a look at your transcript. You should have no problem keeping up. But let’s not talk about that now. Are you hungry?”

I
was
hungry. When was the last time I had had a good meal? The steak that morning? Maybe if I got a little food in me, I would feel better.

We drove in silence for a long time. On occasion Mr. Bowersox would point out landmarks—this bridge or that tall building off in the distance. The highway looked different, but if I closed my eyes halfway, I could almost convince myself that I was in Chicago and pretend I was on my way home. We ended up having a nice dinner at some small Italian restaurant in what Mr. Bowersox kept saying was Yonkers. What a strange name for a town. I ordered spaghetti with meatballs and worried it would be messy. Mr. Bowersox got the baked ziti and spent most of the meal with strings of melted cheese hanging down his chin. I’m
sorry I couldn’t get a picture. It would be great to have if you ever need to blackmail him.

After that, everything sped up, and before I knew it, we were getting back in the car and school was our next stop. I actually thought about running, literally running down the sidewalk and away from Mr. Bowersox. I wondered what he would do. Would he run after me? Call the police? Hang around Yonkers until he found me? I knew it was all crazy. I would run around the corner and be alone, in a strange city with a strange name that rhymed with
bonkers
. School had to be the better choice.

We drove for about twenty-five minutes before Mr. Bowersox put on his turn signal and got off the highway. There was a strange merge at the exit. He was getting off, but a car came up behind him that was getting on. For a moment I thought we were going to crash right into it, but we didn’t. And then we were on small streets going up a hill.

A big sign said
THE IRVING SCHOOL
. I could make out an athletic field off to our left, and what I guessed was the gym. We drove up a twisty road, and then I saw the main buildings I had seen on the school’s website so many times. He pointed out his house. Finally, he pointed out the senior dorm.

He drove around the small circle and pulled up to a stone arch, then paused, letting me take it all in.

“Enter here to be and find a friend,” he said dramatically.

“What?”

“Enter here to be and find a friend,” he said again, pointing to the inscription in the stone over the wooden door. “It is one of our driving principles at the Irving School. I just didn’t want you to miss it.”

The whole time I kept wondering, how close exactly was I to Vanessa? Was she twenty feet away, a hundred, a thousand? She couldn’t have been far. Assuming she made it to school, she had to be there somewhere.

It was so quiet. There was a rustling in the trees, but I wondered what would happen if I started screaming her name. I imagined pounding my fists on the door and yelling for her.

I followed Mr. Bowersox inside. I noticed the woodpaneled walls and the big carpeted staircase in front of us. I followed Mr. Bowersox up the stairs. At the top, he turned to the left, pointing out the girls’ side to the right as we went by.

“You’ll get all the house rules,” he told me. “But you can probably guess that hall is off-limits.”

Again, I had that crazy urge to do the unexpected. I wanted to run down the girls’ hall calling Vanessa’s name. And, again, I didn’t. I followed Mr. Bowersox, past room after room. It was so quiet and all the lights in all the rooms were out except for one; I looked at the bottom of each door as we walked by. At the farthest end of the hall, I saw a door open and light coming out.

“That’s your room, young man,” he said, stopping and letting me go ahead of him. I walked into the room. The one you are probably sitting in right now. It was tiny but seemed nice enough with that minuscule round window. I wondered if it got any light during the day. We both know the answer to that. The bed was made, which surprised me, and my bags were neatly stacked in the corner. On the desk was a plate with cookies and a glass of milk set in a bowl of ice.