Read A Trick of the Light Online
Authors: Lois Metzger
A Trick of the Light (6 page)
IT’S THE HEIGHT OF AUTUMN AND MIKE IS HAPPY.
He’s never felt like this before, not in such a pure, undiluted form. Bursts of absolute joy fill his chest. He sees his boring old neighborhood in a whole new way. The slanting light makes everything pop as if it exists in more than three dimensions, a kind of super diorama—front lawn, sidewalk, street, bus, trees, sky, universe, beyond-the-universe. Tamio once told him that when he first put contacts in, he could see the veins in leaves. Mike thinks this is way better than that. When he looks at trees, he can see their life force, how mighty and solid they are. Colors are incredible. The awning over a fruit stand isn’t simply green, it is glowing-green, green-on-fire. After a run in the park, Mike stops and stares at some flowers. The bright yellows and oranges look otherworldly, as if he has just landed in some distant galaxy and this is the plant life. He wonders, What are those flowers?
An old lady stands next to Mike. She has short white curly hair and so does the poodle she has with her.
Old Lady: “Don’t you just love chrysanthemums?”
The universe is truly on your wavelength these days. You were wondering what the flowers were, and now somebody has told you.
Mike feels like he’s living in an alternate reality, a reality he never knew he wanted. Here, things go right; here, everything feels new and mind-expanding; here, everything is in its right place.
Old Lady: “You know, you should rest, young man; you’re bright red.”
Mike gets mad. What is she, he thinks, my mother? He leaves without a word. He goes back to running even though he has finished his run. Amber told him he’d be able to run faster without all that dead weight holding him back. He runs until he can’t run anymore.
But always finish the lap.
He runs. His legs cramp and there’s a sharp pain in his chest. He can barely breathe.
Run past your endurance. That’s how you build up strength.
He runs some more.
When Mike gets home, his phone is ringing.
Mike: “Hello?”
No answer. He sees a number he doesn’t recognize on the caller ID.
Mike (louder): “Hello?” He finds it hard to catch his breath. He’s practically gasping into the phone.
There’s a low voice on the other end: “Hello.”
Mike: “My mom’s not home.” He doesn’t know if she’s home or not. “Do you want to leave a message?” Though he has no intention of writing anything down.
On the other end: “A message? No. It’s Val.”
Mike actually has to sit down.
Valerie: “I hope it’s okay that I’m calling you.”
It isn’t. What could she possibly have to say?
Valerie: “I’ve been talking to Tamio. He says you’re, I don’t know, having a hard time or something. We both thought maybe you’d talk to me. You were so nice to me when I first came to school. So I thought I’d return the favor.”
Mike can’t get this straight. First Valerie’s friendly. Then she’s freaked out by him. Then she ignores him. Now she’s friendly again. And she and Tamio have been talking about him behind his back?
She’s far too unstable to be trustworthy. She could turn on you at any moment.
Valerie: “Are you there?”
Mike: “Where else would I be?”
Valerie: “Um . . . what?”
She heard you, all right.
Mike: “So you called me. You returned the favor—happy now?”
Valerie (big sigh): “Just forget it.”
Mike: “Fine.”
Valerie hangs up. The phone rings again. Another unknown number, though vaguely familiar—because it’s the same one as a moment ago? Is it Valerie with Tamio beside her, both of them cracking up?
Mike (answering the phone): “What?”
On the other end: “My man.”
It’s Mike’s dad. They haven’t talked in weeks. It feels to Mike like a hundred years.
That’s because time is passing more slowly for you. You’re living your life more fully, absorbing every moment.
Dad (tapping the phone): “Hello?” The clicks are really annoying.
Mike: “I’m here.”
Dad: “I’m glad I finally reached you. I called your cell and always got voice mail. I tried the house and always got the machine.”
Mike wishes he’d let the machine get it this time, too.
Dad: “How are you?”
Mike: “Fine.”
Dad: “How’s your mother?”
What does he care?
Mike: “Fine.”
Dad: “There have been some . . . changes.”
Mike doesn’t care about his dad and his changes. Why should he?
Dad: “We—well, there’s no ‘we’ anymore. Laura and I split up.”
Is he kidding? Mike tries to remember how long they were even together.
Dad: “She had this ex-boyfriend. He was out of town when we met. Anyway, he came back and, well, he’s back.” He’s waiting for Mike to say something. But Mike has nothing to say. “It, uh . . . it wasn’t easy for me. This thing with Laura—well, for one thing, I had to find a place to live. I floated around awhile, finally found an apartment on Belle Boulevard near the expressway. Mike, it’s good to talk to you.”
This could go on forever. Hang up.
Mike: “Dad, I’ve got a lot of homework.”
Dad: “Okay, I’ll let you go. Let’s have dinner soon—I’m close to some good Chinese restaurants.”
Mike: “Sorry, I have too much work.”
Mike unplugs the phone.
IT’S TOO BAD MIKE CAN’T UNPLUG THE REST OF THE
world.
Mom (at dinner): “Why are you wearing a sweatshirt? It’s hot in here.”
But the house is so cold, Mike thinks maybe the pipes burst. That happened one winter and they lit the oven to keep warm.
Mom: “You’ve even got your hood up.”
Mike: “I’m fine.”
Mom: “You look tired. Under your eyes, you look . . . bruised.”
Mike: “I said I’m fine.”
It’s none of her business, if he’s cold or not, how much sleep he gets or doesn’t get. He does homework and studies at night, and works even better without Tamio around as a distraction. Three-page paper on insomnia in
Macbeth
? No problem—and unexpectedly appropriate. Test on free-body diagrams in physics? Easy A. Mike’s grades have never been better. She’s not complaining about that.
Mom: “Your father told me he spoke to you. He wanted to tell you himself, that he broke up with that woman.”
Mike: “More like she broke up with him.”
Mom (clearing her throat): “Maybe you’re wondering where I’ve been these days. I’m making and keeping appointments. Isn’t that good?”
Mike stares down at his chicken potpie. He takes his fourth bite. One more bite before he can go back to his room. Too bad it’s a potpie—he can’t make a clock face out of it. The bites in his napkin are burning his leg, but at least it feels warm.
Mom: “I’m seeing a therapist. Her name is Nora.” Pause. “Are you listening?”
Mike: “You’re working. You see a therapist. Nora.”
Mom: “You sound so angry.”
Mike: “I’m not angry!” Not about that, anyway. He’s trying to keep count. He wonders, did I just eat my fifth bite, or put it in the napkin?
Don’t let her ruin your concentration.
Mom: “Does it bother you, that I’m seeing a therapist?”
Mike: “Half the kids at school are in therapy.”
Mom: “Do you want to know why I’m doing all this? Trying to pull myself together?” She’s actually waiting for an answer.
Mike: “I give up.”
Mom: “To help you.”
Mike: “What! Why?”
Mom: “Because I can tell you’re unhappy. You don’t sound like yourself. You don’t act like yourself. You need help, Mike.”
Unbelievable. You’ve never been happier. This may be the first time in your life you don’t need help. And where was she when you did?
Mom: “I wonder if you should be in therapy too.”
Mike: “I’m doing great.”
Mom: “You don’t eat.”
Mike: “I eat. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He realizes he forgot to cook this afternoon and throw food out. That must be what this is about. He thinks fast. “Today was Tamio’s mom’s birthday. I was over there for a party. There was pizza and cake.” He gets a sudden ache, remembering Tamio’s house, the sunny dining room, pictures of flowers, Tamio’s mom, always so friendly. . . . He shoves a huge bite into his mouth.
That one counts as a double. You’ll have to run extra laps tomorrow.
Mom: “How much do you weigh?”
Mike: “I don’t know.” He never gets on the scale. Numbers aren’t important.
Mom: “You went to the doctor last spring. I’m going to look up your health record. Then I want to see what you weigh now.” She pushes her chair back.
Mike doesn’t want to get on the scale. She has no right.
Call Amber.
Again Amber answers on the first ring.
Mike: “My mom’s making me get on the scale. What should I do?”
Amber: “Are you wearing clothes with pockets?”
Mike gets on the scale.
Mom (bending down to read the number): “It looks like you weigh—”
Mike: “I don’t care.”
Mom: “Well. You lost fifteen pounds. I thought you lost more.” She doesn’t sound too pleased.
Mike lets out a breath of relief. Those brass paperweights his dad left behind weigh a ton. They fit right into his pants pockets, front and back, and in his sweatshirt pockets too. The metal hunting dog is hidden in his fist.
Good dog.
ERIC, FROM THE BASEBALL TEAM, SEES MIKE IN THE
hall and invites him over to watch the World Series. Mike doesn’t even know who’s in it this year.
Mike: “No, thanks. How’s your . . . uh . . .” Eric is the kid who broke something and is out for the season.
Eric: “Growth plate.”
Mike: “Right.” He has no idea what a growth plate is. Does this mean Eric will stop growing? But Eric towers over him. He’s tall enough. Mike wishes he were taller.
Eric: “It’s healing.”
Mike: “What is?”
Eric: “My growth plate.” He laughs a big laugh. “You’re kind of out of it.”
That’s rather insulting.
Mike: “I don’t think I’m going to play this year, either.”
I couldn’t be prouder. Mike’s getting his priorities straight.
Eric: “Why not?”
Mike (with a shrug): “Just doing my own thing. Running, working out.”
Eric: “But you’re so good.”
So what? You’re good at something that doesn’t mean anything.
Eric: “You always saved my ass out there, catching those long flies. You tell the coach about this?”
Mike: “Not yet.”
Eric: “He won’t be happy.”
But you’ll be happy. That’s the important thing.
Eric: “Why are you so fidgety? It’s like you can’t stand still.”
Start wearing headphones in the hall. That way people will leave you alone.
At lunch, Mike sees Amber and she’s got on layers and layers of clothes. It reminds him of that homeless man. Mike pushes the image away.
Amber: “My mom’s such a bitch. I made the mistake of telling her I want to be a nutritionist. She laughed—she actually laughed!”
Mike: “But you’d be a great nutritionist. You know everything about food.”
Amber: “I do, right?” She tears open a pack of saltines. “Get this.” She spits cracker dust when she talks. “My mom eats at Burger King. She says it’s because of her job but I don’t believe it. I think she actually likes Whoppers.”
Mike: “Your mom works at Burger King?”
Amber runs her fingers through her hair. Several strands come loose and float to the floor like bits of cobweb.
Amber: “If I tell you, you won’t tell anyone?”
Mike: “Who am I gonna tell?”
Amber: “Tamio?”
Mike: “I told you. We’re not friends.”
Amber: “Well, all right.” She whispers something Mike can’t understand.
Mike: “She’s a cool hunger?”
Amber (annoyed): “A cool hunter. She’s hired by advertising companies to observe teenagers and see what they find cool. Isn’t that the dumbest thing you ever heard? She goes to Burger King to see the clothes kids are wearing, the shoes they have on, the phones they’re using.” Amber has chicken soup today. She spoons out the noodles and puts them on her tray. “I hate her.”
Mike nods.
Amber: “She hates all the friends I ever had.”
Mike: “Anna?”
Amber: “Oh, she hates Anna more than anyone.”
Mike: “What about your boyfriend?”
Amber: “We can’t even talk about it. It makes her crazy. She hates everything about me. She hates what I wear. She wants me to look like Melissa Sacks, with her tight little skirts and thigh-high boots. Melissa is the daughter my mom had in mind when she thought about having one.”
This is heartbreaking. Amber’s mom should be so proud of her. Amber, who is her own person, who doesn’t want to look like everybody else. But Mike doesn’t really like the way Amber’s clothes hang on her, like she’s got on a pile of laundry.
Mike: “I don’t know . . . maybe your mom could get you some new clothes.”
Amber: “It’s never about me! It’s about her. When she talks to me, I count the number of times she says ‘I.’ Then she gets mad and says I’m not listening. Even then it’s all about her. ‘I can tell,’ she says. ‘I always know.’ See what I mean?”
Mike (nodding): “My dad can be like that—”
Amber: “Anyway, why should I listen to her? I could care less what she has to say.” She rips open another pack of saltines. “I was really close to my aunt Claire. She died suddenly from an aneurism. You know what that is? It’s when an artery fills with blood and bursts. My mom kept telling me to get over it. ‘Look at me,’ she said, ‘I’m moving on.’ God, I’m such a pig. My mom makes me crazy.”
Mike: “Hey, are you crying?”
Amber: “No! I just hate her so much.”
Mike thinks she sure looks like she’s crying.
Mike: “What about your dad?”
Amber: “He’s worse than useless. He thinks what my mom tells him to think.”
Mike: “Well, it’s good you have friends.”
Amber: “Friends? When I was in the hospital last summer, for four whole weeks, no one came to see me. No one!”
Mike: “Why were you in the hospital?”
Amber: “What do you care?”
Mike: “Four weeks—that’s a long time. What happened?”
Amber: “It did so happen. Are you accusing me of lying?”
She wasn’t hearing Mike right. There’s that lazy lip, rearing its ugly head, so to speak.
Mike: “I asked you what happened. If you don’t understand me, just say so.”
Amber: “I understand you better than you think!”
Mike: “Huh?”
Amber: “Drop dead.” She stands. She nearly falls over.
Mike grabs her by the arm.
Mike: “You okay?”
Amber: “Let go of me!” She leaves the cafeteria.
Amber is emotional and she feels things deeply. All the most interesting people are like that.
Mike cleans up after her: the saltine wrappers, the crumbs, the soggy noodles.
Tamio’s in the hall—the last person Mike wants to see.
Tamio: “Look at this.” Tamio has his cell phone open. There’s a picture. It’s a guy, hunched over, in a jacket that’s too big for him. He looks old and wasted. Homeless or something.
Mike: “Um, okay. What is this?”
Tamio: “That’s you.”
Mike: “No way.”
Tamio: “Look again if you don’t believe me.”
Mike: “I don’t need to look. I already know it’s not me.”
Tamio: “See, it’s your black North Face jacket—”
Mike: “Everyone has a jacket like that.”
Tamio: “Maybe, but nobody else is wearing theirs yet.” He starts waving at the air. “What’s that smell?”
Mike: “FireBalls.”
Tamio: “What’d you say?”
Mike is stunned. Tamio always understood him, or so Mike thought.
Tamio: “I only took your picture so you could see for yourself. You look terrible. Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”
Ha. If Tamio only knew how many hours Mike spends in front of a mirror. Anyway, Mike only looks in his mirror at home, which tells him all he needs to know. He doesn’t trust other mirrors.
Mike: “I look fine. What’s your problem?”
Tamio: “What’s my problem? What’s wrong with you?”
Tamio’s jealous. You’re getting yourself together, without his help.
Mike: “You wish you were me, asshole.”
Tamio: “What?”
But Mike can tell—Tamio heard him that time, all right.
After school Mike wants to run, but it’s raining.
You can run in the rain.
Mike runs. The rain is exquisite, the way it’s highlighted against the streetlights, a spray of glistening drops against silver-white light.
See what you would’ve missed if you stayed home?
Mike works out in his room. Seventy-five crunches, fifty push-ups. When he breathes in, he can feel his ribs.
Strong body, strong mind. Infinitely strong.
Amber calls. Mike thinks maybe she’s still mad, but she says, “I’m so happy! I lost four pounds. I hated being in the hundreds.”
Her voice drops to a whisper:
“I love that there is less of me.”