Changing Michael (18 page)

“Yes,” Michael said.

“You need to come with me,” Mr. Pawpaw said. “Are you going to have a problem walking down to the office?”

“No.”

I could tell he was waiting for something to happen, but Michael just walked over and stood quietly in front of him.

“I want you to stay right in front of me,” Pawpaw said, pretending he was a cop.

Michael nodded.

“Okay, let's go. You,” he said, pointing at me, “get to class. Now.”

“But I have to go poopy,” I said.

“Get to class,” he said, then disappeared with Michael.

I stood at the sink for a minute. After that, I walked into the stall and sat.

How can he not want to change?

I shook my head.

Michael just couldn't understand that changing your image doesn't mean changing yourself. Image is an act—a smokescreen. If you have to, quote Gandhi and get all out of breath about science-fiction with a trusted adult, but why make your life so hard?

Everyone's got secrets—just do your thing in private. Only when they know what you're really like, do you have problems.

Like I said, I think I might be gay. Does that mean I need to hand out fliers that say, “Hi, I'm Matthew. I might be gay. Please feel free to give me shit about it if you don't like gays”?

But Michael wasn't happy unless everyone knew what books he was currently reading and why, his views on all subjects of social/moral importance, and any other scraps of information he had floating around in his head at the time.

I hopped up from the toilet, deciding it was time to stop hanging out in the school bathroom. Going to class might be helpful. Listening to a teacher drone on and on about something we'd never use again sounded kind of comforting at that point, like a bedtime story.

I passed Michael's locker again on the way. The janitor was already sliding a mop across the hall floor, slowly erasing all traces of the fight. It's weird. All it takes is a mop to remove all physical remnants of something with that much social importance. Just twenty minutes ago, this place was clogged with people. Now it was just me and the janitor.

“You need something?” the janitor asked, looking sideways at me.

“A martini.”

“Amen, brother,” he said, and went back to mopping.

Class was like I'd hoped—half the kids already hypnotized, the other half talking quietly. I opened a notebook and copied some drawings and symbols I found on the whiteboard. They could have been from yesterday or three days ago, but I figured I needed something in case Mrs. Hammerschmidt started to wander around the classroom.

I copied a chunk from the board, using a pen to mark the spot, then flipped to an unused section near the back of my notebook.

Time to plan—but not for Michael. Time to plan for Chrissy.

But once again, I didn't get very far. The Michael Fight was too fresh, and our conversation in the bathroom too perplexing. I just couldn't help wondering what would happen next.

He'd get suspended—that was a given—but for how long? He'd probably spend most of his suspension time at Flap's bookstore, telling him what a horrible person I was, so that would be fun for both of them.

And Wanda—I had an unpleasant feeling she'd be seeing Michael again. Quite soon, I imagined. In fact, he'd probably have more visitors than he could handle. His mom would probably hover over him. Gut might even show some interest now that Michael had actually stood up for himself. Flap would probably bake a fresh batch of science-fiction books for him every afternoon.

I imagined Flap in an apron. There would, of course, be a message on the front—something like, “Kiss My Flap.”

So here I was, stuck in school, while Michael would very shortly be relaxing at home and collecting “concerned visitors” like flies over a fresh carcass.

I scowled. Leaning back, I tossed my pen into the open notebook. Somehow, Michael and his life had found its way into my bloodstream.

Fantastic.

I crossed my arms, closed my eyes, and wondered if there was a cure.

I sighed and waited for the answer to come.

I woke up late on Saturday. I opened my eyes, realized it was Saturday morning, and was happy for about fifteen seconds. I smiled and started to drift back to sleep when Friday hit me like a cold shower. All at once, I remembered Michael, the Fight, and (of all things) Mom's stupid papers.

I flipped over and jerked the covers over my head.

I tried to shove everything into that smelly little bathroom in the back of my head, but there was just too much. Not a chance the door would shut.

I heaved a massive sigh and tossed the covers to one side. I lay still for a while, hoping I might manage to trick my body into falling back asleep if it knew I intended to get up, but no such luck.

I rolled out of bed and trudged into the bathroom. I spent a good half hour in the shower wondering what I was going to do with myself the rest of the day. Stepping out, I still wasn't sure, but I did know I needed to get out of the house.

I was throwing on some clothes when I remembered the Chrissy appointment.

Do I feel like social work today?

I wasn't quite sure. I shrugged and decided to see how I felt in a half hour or so.

I made my way down to the kitchen, hoping to catch either Mom or Dad before the cars disappeared. And yes, I was desperate enough to ask Dad for his car if necessary.

Maybe I'll see if Jack's around
, I thought. I wasn't about to hang around the house, but I wasn't sure about going up to Baltimore either.

I slowed a little as I got to the bottom of the stairs. I wasn't in the mood for a Mom encounter, and I was absolutely certain she'd be parked at the kitchen table.

I stopped at the landing and peered in. Then I came out from around the corner and stood in the doorway.

Excellent.

The kitchen was empty and Mom's keys were on the hook.

I almost started to wonder where she was and why she hadn't left an armed guard to look after her piles, but then realized I'd left my phone upstairs in my bedroom. It was ringing when I walked in. Without thinking, I picked it up off the nightstand.

“Matthew's phone—you've reached Matthew's assistant. Who's calling please?” I said crisply, walking around the bed and toward the door.

Pause. “Hello?”

A girl's voice, tentative.

“Yes?”

“Oh . . . I think . . . Is Matthew there?”

It was the pauses that gave it away.

“Chrissy?”

“Hi.”

I stopped in the doorway, shoulders slumping dejectedly. I turned back and shuffled back into my room, toward the window.
Why the hell did I pick it up? I
always
look at the number first.

“Hey, what's going on?” I asked, slipping into my best sick voice.

And how did she get my number, anyway?

“Not much,” she said. Then, a few beats later, “I guess.”

“You guess? You're not sure?” I asked, smiling a little.

At the window, I lifted the end of a slat. Peering out through the opening in the blind, I began to reconsider. It might be possible to muster up the energy for a trip to Baltimore; at least it would get me out of the house.

“No,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, laughing a little. “Any reason you're not sure?”

Talking to Chrissy was so different than talking to Wanda or Jack. What with the pauses and processing, it was like listening to an interview on satellite phone. I wasn't used to the pace or the down time between our sentences. It was like playing a team so far below your skill level they keep tripping you up.

“I wanted to talk about today,” she said.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, keeping a trace of illness in my voice in case I needed an out.

“I don't . . .” she began.

I waited.

“I don't think we should see each other this weekend,” she said.

I dropped the slat I'd been holding.

“Why?” I asked, one eyebrow up. “Got some other plans?” I walked to the other side of the room. “Ditching me for some other guy, maybe?”

“Matthew . . .”

“Kidding,” I said, adding a fake laugh just to illustrate what a kidder I am. But it sounded atrocious.
What the hell?

I sat down on my bed and started fiddling with the alarm clock on my nightstand.

“Still there?” I asked, smiling. But it was all teeth.

“Yes,” she said, her voice soft.

“Oh. Got something going on with Dad,” I said, nodding.

“No.”

I stopped nodding.

“So what's up?” I asked.

I should have sounded breezy, but I didn't. I stopped playing with the clock and straightened some pillows.

I waited, but not long enough. Just as I finally said “Hello?,” she said, “Michael called last night.”

I stood.

That explains the phone number.

“Did he now?” I asked, wandering into my bathroom.

“Yes.”

“What for? To talk to your dad?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Okay. How'd that go?” I said, stopping in front of my sink. I glanced at myself in the mirror, but quickly turned away. I hopped up onto the counter instead, feet dangling.

I waited.

“It was fine,” she said, then added, “He talked to me, too.”

“Ahh,” I said, quietly.
Now I get it.
“What did you guys talk about?” I asked.

And before she could answer:

“Did he need some information? I think he's doing a paper on seahorses.”

Pause.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said, closing my eyes. “So, what did he want?” I said, loud and slow.

“He wanted to talk about you.”

My turn to pause.

I hopped down off the counter.

“Bet that was fun,” I said.

“No. Not really.”

“You sure about that?” I asked.

Pause.

“Why would it be fun?” she asked, and then added, “What's that noise?'

“What noise?”

“That one.”

“What . . . my mouth?” I said.

“No, that tapping.”

“‘Tapping'?”

I was in front of the mirror again. There was a toothbrush in my hand. Apparently, I'd been hammering it on the counter.

“I don't know,” I lied, tossing the toothbrush into the sink. “Could be the front door. Michael comes over on the weekend for our counseling sessions.”

“Matthew?”

“You know me,” I said, voice rising. “Always trying to better myself.”

I came out of the bathroom and over to my dresser.

I should probably skip Baltimore
, I thought, opening drawers.
Maybe see what Jack's up to. Or Wanda.

Pause.

“Still there?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“So you talked about me, huh? Sounds fun,” I said.

“Matthew, please stop saying that . . . We didn't talk
about
you,” she said.

“You lost me,” I said. Then, “Hey, now I know how it feels to be—” I stopped myself, but I couldn't tell whether she caught it or not.

“We . . .” she began. “He just wanted to tell what happened.”

“Ah, yes. What happened,” I said, sagely, shoving a drawer back into place, then pulling out another. “What happened when? At lunch? During our sessions? I hope not, because he promised our sessions were confidential. He signed a paper, you know.”

I looked down into the open drawer.
What am I looking for anyway?

“No, you don't understand—”

“It's okay, Chrissy. I get it,” I said. “Michael called to ‘warn' you, right? He called to tell you what a shithead I am and a grifter and that I'm a dangerous influence and how you shouldn't—”

“That's
not
what happened!”

Oops. She's angry. Maybe even aquarium angry.

I plopped down on the foot of my bed, a hand on my forehead.

What the hell? How did I let this get away from me?

The answer was right there, of course.

Michael.

“Sorry,” I said, pulling my shit together.

I put the ass-kicking Michael had earned to one side and shook my head.
Get into the game, for Christ's sake!

“No,” she said, “I'm sorry. I can't say what I—”

“Don't apologize,” I said, gently,
thinking how great it would be to call Michael this afternoon when Chrissy and I were sitting on her couch in Baltimore, enjoying a beer and a music lecture from Dad.

I just needed a new approach.

“It's my fault,” I admitted. “Guess I was just upset. I think I was just looking forward to our da—to today,” I said sweetly. “And got pissed when you canceled. Sorry. I know I'm a jackass.”

“Matthew . . .” she said, but I could tell she was smiling.

“There you go,” I said. “That's better.” Then, just a little softer: “Remember the first time I saw you.”

Pause.

“Yes.”

“Remember what happened?”

I waited.

Eventually, she laughed.

“Are you laughing at me, young lady?” I said.

“No!”

“Because as I remember it, you got to go to your room. I had to stand in the hall.”

She was really laughing now.

“That's better,” I said, lying back on the bed. “I'll have to remember that.”

Wait for her . . .

“Remember what?” she asked.

“Remember to say ‘jackass' whenever you're angry at me.”

She laughed again. I awarded myself a point.

Okay, easy now . . .

“You say it,” I said.

“No!”

“Come on. Don't be shy. It's fun.
Matthew's a jackass.
”

I waited. “Well?”

“No,” she said, her voice flat.

And just like that, we were where we'd started.

Damn it
,
I thought, standing.
Too much. Idiot.

I had to stop making so many mistakes.

“Matthew, you have to let me explain,” she said, for about the fiftieth time.

“Of course,” I said.

“Michael just wanted—he wasn't trying to be mean or anything—he just wanted to tell me about . . . about what happened.”

“I get it. Seriously, I do.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Michael just wanted to fill you in. Kind of let you know what's been happening with him, right—him and me,” I added, graciously.

“Yes,” she said, sounding relieved.

A half-point for me.

“And you just want some time to think. About what Michael said.”

“Yes.”

“So you want to reschedule our da—I mean, put off our . . . visit.”

“Yes . . . well, I don't know if we . . .”

“No, you're right,” I said.

I was by the window again.

What's it like outside? I wonder if I should wear shorts?

“Listen,” I said, “if Michael thinks we should put it off until next weekend, then I think we should.”

Pause.

“Well, that's not—”

“No. I think he's right,” I said.

Pause.

“Michael didn't tell me to do that,” she said.

I smiled.

“Oh, he . . . Sorry, I thought he wanted you to . . .?”

“He just told me—”

“What happened. Right. I get it. Makes sense,” I said, wandering past the dresser to the other side of the room.

“Do you? Really?”

“Of course,” I said. “Absolutely. You talked to Michael, he decided I was a terrible person, and—”

“No!”

“Oh . . . sorry,” I said, adding just the right amount of confusion. “But I thought . . .”

“I do like you, Matthew.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Thanks.”

I waited a moment. Then: “Because that's what—I mean, I thought you and Michael had decided . . .?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I decided. I'm the one who decided we shouldn't see each other today.”

I jammed a hand into the side of the dresser as I walked by.

Damn it!

“That's why I don't want to see you today,” she explained.

Okay
,
I said, forcing myself to breathe.
Not a problem. I just need a different angle.

“I just need some time,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“To think about things.”

“Sure.”

Okay, where's that different angle? I had her a minute ago. Why isn't anything coming?

“Thanks, Matthew.”

“Yeah, sure. But wait a minute—don't I get a chance to give you my side?” I said.

Pause.