Wilson was the first Stanton suicide that year and the second death. Most of the school’s suicides occurred between January and May, when college acceptance and denial letters are mailed to students. This is the time that scholarships are awarded, rankings are established permanently, and social awkwardness and loneliness are highest. This is also the time when the kids start thinking about Valentine’s Day, the spring dance, the prom, and the pressure builds.
After school, Delancey and I went to the city for Indian food. We went to Sixth Street, an entire block of Indian restaurants. She picked out a restaurant on the lower end of the street, called Yama. It was her favorite. Delancey was very upset about Wilson’s death. She confessed that he had asked her out on a date, and she had turned him down. Guilt was deep in her teary eyes.
“Delancey, it is not your responsibility to follow every boy that calls out your name. If Wilson was headed down this path, it would’ve happened anyway.”
I ate the naan bread with curried chicken. Delancey hardly touched her tandoori chicken. We were somber for the entire meal.
“The last thing he said to me was that he was afraid to fail in high school, and in life,” Delancey said.
“How long ago was that?”
“Before Christmas.”
We left the restaurant and headed uptown to her neighborhood.
We held hands as we walked to her building. The doorman greeted her, and ignored me, as usual. The doorman said that her father wanted her to call him right away. I went up the elevator with her, to the top floor. We walked into her apartment, and I was immediately blown away by the views, and the size. Awestruck would be an understatement.
The apartment appeared designed by an interior decorator. I glanced around and saw Central Park from the windows. My reflection shimmered in the polished beige marble floors. The apartment had rich mahogany doors with furniture to match. Her kitchen was out of
Architectural Digest
.
A feeling of anxiety overtook me. The apartment was a reminder that Delancey and I came from two different worlds. She was still out of my league, even though we were friends. If I ever brought her home, it would be the end of our friendship. The stark reality of my lifestyle would painfully remind her of how poor I was.
She was on the phone with her father, and my feelings of inferiority increased. I looked at the dining area, and marveled at the fancy china with gold accents. I felt poorer and poorer with every glance. I started walking backwards, toward the door, as Delancey hung up the phone.
“My dad wants me to meet him later.” She noticed that I was heading out the door.
“I have to leave…I’ll see you tomorrow.” I walked out and shut the door as she called out my name. I bolted the stairs all the way down. I ran out of the building, and into Central Park. I walked south, trying to breathe the cold air. I thought that maybe the whole thing was a mistake and I should just end our friendship then. We were just so different. This relationship was just going to end badly. I never should’ve asked her out to begin with. But I was happiest whenever I was near her. I was falling for her, more and more each day. I sat for an hour on a park bench. It was too cold to sit in Central Park, and contemplate how different we were. I finally headed home.
The next day, there was a lot of talk about Wilson. The students were talking, but the school officials and teachers were silent. I went through it every year at Stanton, and I never got comfortable with it. Student deaths, especially suicides, were always a shock.
Doreen knew Wilson well, and explained that he had been rejected from his top five choices for colleges. She said Wilson did not interview well, and his essay displayed lack of a well-rounded character. He had been accepted to all the state colleges, and second tier private colleges. But his goal, like all Stanton students, was to be accepted at a top Ivy League school.
Rumor spread that his father had lashed out at him, and his mother had expressed extreme disappointment. Wilson left a suicide note in the school library, apologizing for the shame he had brought to his family and his school. The note said he could not go on shaming anymore in this life. The school, under pressure from the teachers and Wilson’s friends, finally made an announcement. Mash announced over the PA that Wilson was a fine student, that they were very proud of him, that he would be missed, and that he was ranked number 97 of the graduating class out of seven hundred. I moved up to #299 and it felt awful.
I carefully assessed every kid in the hallway, trying to detect anything about them that would give some indication of emotional fragility. Everyone had the same indistinguishable dismal look. Anybody could be the next Wilson.
Sam was disturbed by Wilson’s suicide. He’d had a conversation with Wilson the previous week. Sam told Wilson that if he wasn’t accepted into Harvard, his future was over. Sam thought that this may have influenced Wilson’s decision. I remained silent, unwilling to rekindle my friendship with Sam, or alleviate his guilt.
At lunch, Delancey asked if we could hang out together after school. As much as I wanted to, I told her that I could not. I didn’t want to be reminded how different we were, and how hopeless our future together was.
Instead, the boys and I were going to the movies in Astoria. Six of us went by subway to a movie theater on Steinway Street. There was a Greek diner next door where I ordered a spinach pie, one of my favorite dishes. The waitress served us beer. This was a good situation for me because it was a short walk from home. I never had more than one beer anyway. It was very different from being on a ski trip with people that I didn’t know, in a place that I was not familiar with. My father always said there was a time and place for everything. Fridays at the diner with my close friends were good times for a beer.
Sam came to the movies, and so did Carlos. I was planning on ignoring Sam. John rarely came out; he had to work most Fridays, but this week he joined us. He explained that January was a slow month for their store, and his father gave him all Fridays off. Two other boys came, acquaintances from school – Steven, and William.
I ate a gyro and drank my beer, with a side of spinach pie. I was stuffed. Carlos had three beers in the same time that I finished one. As usual, we bought a ticket for one movie. Sneaking in to see a second movie was always a bonus.
All I could think about was Delancey. She lived in a palace on Central Park West. I lived in a small house in Astoria. She was out of my league. We were worlds apart.
John left early. Although he had the entire month of January off, he felt guilty about it. We left the theater at about 9:30, and started walking. We were joking around about girls we knew in school, and the subject of the prom came up. William said that he was going with Cherry, a girl that I vaguely knew. Steven mentioned that there was a school dance in April and that he was taking Vivian.
Sam thought his parents would give him a hard time about attending the dance. Sam’s parents did not want him to assimilate and end up with an American girl. This was their biggest nightmare.
Outside the subway on Steinway Street, four hoodlums stood blocking the entrance. One approached us and started taunting and pushing William, who was the smallest of our group. William was black, and extremely dark complexioned. His parents were from Africa, and his complexion often got him teased, especially by African Americans hoodlums. This was the case on this day.
The thugs covered their faces with bandanas. All I could see were the whites of their eyes. One of them had a belt buckle with the letter “D” on it. These weren’t ordinary hoodlums; they were Deceptors.
They grabbed Sam and William and demanded our money. I yanked William away by his sleeve, and things got interesting. One of the Deceptors pulled a knife and lunged toward me. It was four inches in length, with a jagged edge, and red handle. I kicked him in the hip. He stabbed toward my leg. I fell down, feeling a sharp pain shooting from my shin, and immediately jumped back onto my feet, fully prepared for a fight. When I stood up, no one was moving.
The Deceptors stepped back, slowly retreating and shouting at us. They turned around and walked away. Sam asked if my leg was all right. I told him I was fine, but the stinging continued. I didn’t understand why they had backed off, until I turned around. Carlos was holding a gun. I assumed it was the gun from Halloween.
“You still have that thing?” I said in disbelief.
“I usually do. This thing just saved your life.” Carlos laughed and put it away, revealing its jeweled handle. It was Delancey’s gun. I couldn’t mention the gun to her; it would make me look like I hung around delinquents.
My shin was bleeding, but the actual cut was superficial. The rest of the guys took the subway, and I walked home. I went into the kitchen and put rubbing alcohol on my leg and wrapped it with a bandage. My father asked what happened and I said that I banged it into a tree. I couldn’t tell him the truth; it would mean the end of my Fridays with the guys.
I wondered if Carlos would’ve used the gun. I really wasn’t sure. A part of me was glad that he had it tonight.
I told John about the Deceptors. John reminded me that Carlos had said that he did not have bullets.
“That was months ago, after Halloween. He could’ve bought bullets by now.”
Chapter 12
That weekend at the café, I worked with a sore leg. Christine wasn’t forth coming with conversation. She was probably aware that I knew about her and Eddie stealing merchandise and gave me the cold shoulder.
Mike finally awoke at lunch time. Mike asked about school and I mentioned Wilson’s suicide.
“Some kids are entirely too wrapped up in high school. They live in a very small world, and their self worth is determined by their high school success. Whether it’s academic, or athletic, or social, they don’t realize that high school is not the real world. They don’t live long enough to realize how much better life is after high school,” he said. Mike might have been lazy, but he was definitely a smart guy.
On my way out of the café, Mike wanted to talk to me. We went into the lobby of the World Financial Center, and stood near the entryway.
“Don’t worry about college. There are lots of benefits to going to a state school. Listen, I had a friend in high school from a poor family that was accepted to a private school. He received some scholarship, some financial aid, work study, and washed dishes at college for four years. In the end, he had thousands of dollars in loans to repay, graduated in the middle of the pack, and never really fit in socially or within any student groups. College gave him an inferiority complex, and he was broke with a fancy degree. That was just his experience. Go to a college where you are comfortable and where you will fit in. These expensive private schools are ideal for the wealthy. No wealthy kid at a private college is gonna invite the dishwasher from the dining hall to a party or even to study with. If you want to go to an expensive private school, go there for grad school.”
“Mike, I’m not going to commit suicide, and I’m perfectly happy with my choice,” I said guessing Mike’s true concerns.
“Are you sure? Because we really need you to bake on the weekends.” Mike and I both laughed.
“Colleges are a modern day caste system. The whole convoluted acceptance process is a throw back to the feudal system. They break people down into social hierarchies. The kids with rich families go to the best colleges, not because they are smarter than anyone else, but because they do not need financial aid. The middle class go to the public colleges. The elite schools maintain tradition with nepotism and donations. Do you know what a Legend is?” he asked. I shook my head no.
“If your father went to an elite college, you would likely get in as well. These elite schools are supposed to be for the best of the best, and yet they admit kids that have mental breakdowns, and sell drugs to pay tuition. It’s a lot of nonsense. Something else bothering you?” Mike asked.
“I’ve been spending a lot of time with a girl from Stanton.”
“So what’s the problem?” Mike asked.
“What makes you think there’s a problem?” Mike crossed his arms, as if to suggest that I was insulting his intelligence.
“She’s rich, and I’m…not,” I confessed.
“Oh, I see. Look, that’s tough. If the situation was reversed and you were rich and she was poor, would it matter to you?”
“I don’t think it would.” I felt a little better as Mike had a point.
“David, at your twenty year high school reunion, you don’t want to look back and regret anything. So many people do. So many people spend the next twenty years wishing they could’ve done things differently in high school. You can’t go back in time and fix things twenty years from now. Do it now. Go out with her now, and don’t look back. Whatever happens…happens.”
I thanked Mike for his advice. I went home and called Delancey. We spoke for a while, I apologized for my recent behavior, and we made plans to hang out after my upcoming Spanish test.
John called and asked me if I could do him a favor. “I think I like Natalie Morales,” he confessed.
“What’s not to like, she’s beautiful,” I said.
“I know that she’s friendly with Delancey.” John was beating around the bush.
“Spit it out John.”