Grand & Humble (7 page)

She shook her head—not enough to make it seem like she was dying to hear what he had to say; just enough to make her seem sincere.
I won’t
, she said.

My life is all screwed up
, he signed.
I don’t get to decide anything for myself. I don’t have any control.

Sounds pretty normal to me.

This is exactly what Amber had said; it’s what
everybody
said. Everyone seemed to think that his problems were just the same as any other teenager’s. But he’d seen his friends’ lives up close, and yeah, they all had their shit. But his situation—his
mother
, that is—really
was
worse. Or maybe he was just being arrogant—poor little rich kid? It’s not like he was being raised by a crack whore.

But it must be tough
, Elsa went on.
Being the son of a senator
.

He looked at her, swallowing her with his eyes.
You have no idea. It didn’t used to bother me. But suddenly it does.

She stared at him too, not taken aback, just curious and genuinely sympathetic.
Why? What’s going on now?

I have these feelings
, he said.
That something terrible is going to happen to me, and I have no way to stop it.

Feelings?

Premonitions
. Why had he told her this? Was it still the sign language thing? And what if she told others?

But she wasn’t going to tell. Somehow he knew that. His secrets were safe with her.

I need to do something
—
a specific thing
—
to keep them from coming true
, he went on.
But I don’t know what it is.

You need more control
, Elsa said.
Boy, do I get that.

“What?” Without thinking, Harlan had spoken out loud.

What what?

“What do you mean about control?”

Isn’t that what you just said?
Elsa said.
That you feel like you don’t have any control? I thought that’s what you thought was causing the premonitions.

Harlan kept looking at Elsa. If anyone understood the whole issue of control, it would probably be a deaf person—someone who lost the ability to communicate when the other person’s back was turned, and who always depended upon the interpreter’s showing up on time. But was Elsa right about him? Was that really what the premonitions were all about?

It sure
felt
right. The two issues were definitely connected: the premonitions made him feel out of control, and his mom didn’t let him
have
any control.

He needed to stand up to his mom. What did Harlan have to lose by doing that? If that was the answer, his premonitions might stop for good—and he might also be preventing some very real disaster. And if he was wrong, well at least Harlan would have stood up for himself at last!

What about you?
Harlan asked.
Are you going to tell that guy you’re hot for him?

Elsa smiled.
God, no! Besides, we’re talking about
your
problems, not mine!

Harlan smiled too, even as they went on signing. For the first time in a long time, he was actually having fun. It felt like he’d come up for air at last and he could finally really breathe again.

The head of a camel. That’s what was inside the jack-in-the-box: the grinning head of a silly, big-nosed camel. Manny knew that now, but not because he’d seen the thing again. No, he’d searched all over the house and, sure enough, there’d been no sign of it anywhere.

Finally, Manny had had the bright idea to look it up online. He didn’t have much to work with, just his memory of what it looked like on the outside—the colored sides and the carved letters. It had taken a while to track it down, but eventually he’d found it on eBay—a classic Shropshire Sahara jack-in-the-box, made in England in 1912.

The current bid was four hundred and twenty-five dollars.

In other words, it was an
expensive
jack-in-the-
box. He wondered if his dad knew that. For that matter, how in the world had he bought it for Manny in the first place? He sure didn’t have that kind of money now. Had he been a lot richer when Manny was a kid?

Seeing the inside of the jack-in-the-box, knowing it was a smiling camel’s head, hadn’t triggered any repressed memories of his childhood. At least the on-screen image hadn’t done it. Manny knew he needed to see the actual jack-in-the-box. He needed to hold it in his hands, feel it, turn the crank and watch the camel head pop up out of the box.

He heaved a sigh and pushed himself away from the computer. Manny felt a little like a jack-in-the-box himself: if he didn’t get out of his house right then, he was sure he was going to burst right up through the roof.

It wasn’t until after he’d bought a burger and onion rings, then taken a seat in the dining area, that it occurred to Manny how ironic it was that he’d chosen this particular restaurant. Out of all the restaurants in the city, even all the different fast food restaurants alone, he had to come and eat at a damn
Jack in the Box
? Apparently his subconscious mind had a sense of humor. Between that and his nightmares,
his brain was just a barrel of laughs.

But Manny was starving and he’d already bought his food, so he figured there was no sense in wasting it.

He took a bite from his burger. As he did, he spotted a second reason why coming to this Jack in the Box had been a bad idea. Ricky Loduca, a jock from his school, was over by the order counter. He was carrying a tray heavy with food and scanning the seating area for an empty table.

Manny immediately looked down at his onion rings. This was just what he needed: to be hassled by a jock. It was impossible that Ricky wouldn’t see him—the restaurant only had six tables. But maybe he’d pretend like they didn’t know each other. For that matter, maybe Ricky really
didn’t
know him. After all, Ricky was a star swimmer at a school where the swim team was actually a pretty big deal, and Manny was just a theater geek.

“Hey!” Ricky said, stopping in front of Manny’s table, grinning from ear to ear. “I know you!”

Against his will, Manny looked up. “Oh. Hey.”
Did
they “know” each other? Yeah, they went to the same school, but they’d never even said three words to each other before.

“All by your lonesome, huh?” Ricky said, and Manny shrugged. “It’s Manny, right?”

“Yeah,” Manny said, surprised that Ricky knew his name. And that’s when Manny remembered something important about Ricky. He was gay. He’d come out the year before, in an article in the school newspaper. Manny wasn’t quite as shocked as everyone else; after all, Manny
was
in the theater, so he knew openly gay people. But it wasn’t every school where one of the star jocks comes out of the closet, so Manny had still been surprised.

“You alone too?” Manny said.

Ricky nodded. “Yeah.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Awkwardly holding the tray in one hand, Ricky scratched his nose.

“You wanna sit?” Manny said. He didn’t want company—he had too much to think about already. But it did seem like Ricky was waiting to be asked.

Sure enough, Ricky said, “Yeah, okay!” Then he took the seat across from Manny. There was no hesitation in Ricky’s eyes at all. Looking at his face was like looking right into the sun itself, all bright and warm and open—too bright, if you asked Manny. Still, he had to admire the fact that the guy had come out. Unlike the guys in theater, Ricky had had a hell of a lot more to lose.

“So,” Ricky said. “What’s goin’ on?”

Manny took a bite of his burger. “Nothing much.”

There was another silence. Manny was already regretting the situation. They were from such different worlds. What would they have to talk about? What if Ricky thought Manny was trying to pick him up? What if Ricky was trying to pick
him
up?

“You’re a swimmer, huh?” Manny said. Even across the table, he could smell the chlorine.

Ricky nodded. “You do sports?”

Manny shook his head. He barely knew how to swim. His dad had never been able to afford lessons, or even admission to the pool. “But I did this video about a soccer player once,” Manny said. “No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t kick a goal. Even when she got up really close.” Hearing himself out loud, Manny was struck by how stupid he sounded.

But Ricky laughed anyway. “You make movies, huh?”

“Yeah. Plus I do web design. And lighting design for the school plays.” Why did Manny suddenly feel the need to justify his existence?

Ricky nodded. “That’s cool.” He ate his French fries five at a time, like a jock would, not like a gay guy. “Funny. We’ve been at the same schools for years, but I don’t think we’ve ever talked.”

Yeah, Manny thought. And now they knew why.

“How are things?” Manny asked.

“Things?”

“You know. At school.”

“Oh,” Ricky said. “Okay, I guess. I mean, I have friends—more girls than guys, but still. Everyone’s cool. But it’s hard sometimes. I know people are watching me.” Manny hadn’t meant the whole gay thing. Or had he?

“How are things with you?” Ricky asked.

Manny crunched down on an onion ring. “Me? Oh, I’m great. Fantastic.”

“Yeah? Then how come you’re eating dinner by yourself?”

For a second, Manny felt defensive. Then he saw that Ricky’s face was just as sunny as ever, that he hadn’t meant anything by it. “I don’t know,” Manny said. “I just needed to get away for a while.”

“Parents?”

“Parent. I don’t have a mom.”

“Yeah? I don’t have a mom either. Well, I have one—she’s just not around. People always say it must suck, but I’ve never known any different.”

“Yeah,” Manny said, nodding. “That’s it exactly. How can you compare it to something you’ve never had?” Could it be that he actually had something in common with Ricky Loduca, Gay Jock, after all?

“What’s goin’ on?” Ricky asked. “With your dad?”

Manny didn’t want to have this conversation. He had things to think about, antique jack-in-the-boxes to figure out. He shook his head. “It’s a long, boring story.”

“Come on!” Ricky said. “I still got half a thing of French fries left.”

Manny had to smile. He had a feeling that Ricky had that effect on a lot of people. Could Ricky be one of those legendary high school students who were rumored to exist, but whom Manny had never actually encountered before: a popular kid who was also genuinely nice?

“He’s hiding something,” Manny said. He told Ricky about the nightmares, and the way his dad had reacted when Manny had told him about them.

“Dude!” Ricky said. “That heaps!” This was an expression popular lately—short for “heaps of shit,” or something like that. Neither Manny nor any of his geek friends had ever used it.

There was another silence, but not as awkward this time. Ricky’s French fries were gone, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave.

“What about you?” Manny asked. “How come you’re eating dinner all by yourself?”

“Huh? Oh. Well, my best friend, he’s been kind of distracted lately.”

“That’s lousy.”

“It’s okay,” Ricky said. “After last year, I owe him. Mostly, though, it’s my dad.”

“What about him?”

Ricky wadded the foil wrapper from his hamburger into a ball. “It’s stupid.”

“Come on!” Manny said. “I told you my long, boring story!” He could hardly believe it. Was he actually joshing around with a jock? And it didn’t seem all that strange! In another place and time, Manny could almost imagine being friends with a guy like him.

Ricky smiled. “Okay, okay!” he said. “My dad makes windows. Stained glass, custom-made. It’s the family business, and he wants me to take it over. Loduca and
Son.
But I don’t wanna take it over!”

“What do you want to do?” Manny asked.

“Teach, maybe? But I know what I
don’t
want, you know? I mean, I’ve watched my dad work glass my whole life, and it’s just not fun. And then there’s the whole gay thing. No son of his, and all that crap.”

“That heaps,” Manny said quietly. So he’d used the expression at last. And the thing was, it didn’t feel all that weird.

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t
adopted. I hate that he can tell himself that I’m not ‘really’ his son—that ‘his’ son wouldn’t be gay. ’Cause I know that’s what he thinks.” Ricky turned and tossed the crushed foil wrapper at a garbage can on the other side of the room. He made it perfectly—a natural athlete.

“You’re adopted?” Manny asked.

“Yeah. You?”

Manny shook his head. But halfway through the shake, he froze.

“What?” Ricky said.

“Am
I adopted?” Manny said out loud.

“What do you mean? Don’t you know?”

“No baby pictures! And no toys, except for that single one!”

Ricky was confused. “What?”

“Don’t you see?” Manny said. “Maybe that’s what my dad has been trying to hide from me!”

“Really?”

Manny was thinking out loud. “I mean, that’s why there wouldn’t be a crib or a trike! And that would explain the jack-in-the-box! I mean, there’s no way my dad could have afforded that thing!”

“Okay,” Ricky said.

Manny stood up. “Look, I’ve got to go! But it was really nice talking to you!”

Ricky smiled. “Sure. See you at school.”

Would
Ricky talk to him at school? Probably, Manny had to admit.

“And Manny?” said Ricky.

Manny turned.

“Good luck!”

Manny smiled back. Then he headed for the door. He was going to confront his dad. And this time, he wouldn’t take anything for an answer except the truth.

Harlan was certain he was being watched. It was Tuesday of the following week, and he’d just arrived home from swimming and walked into his bedroom. His dad was away in Washington—of course—and his mom wasn’t home yet. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was someone staring at him. It was crazy: the curtains in his room were drawn, and his webcam wasn’t turned on.

He sat down at his computer to check his e-mail. There was a message from Ricky about some cool guy he’d had dinner with. Could it be that Ricky had a boyfriend at last—or was at least finally talking about his love life?

Harlan glanced back at his room. Why did it feel like he wasn’t alone? Maybe his mom had installed some kind of hidden camera—like when parents
hide camcorders inside teddy bears to spy on the baby-sitter.

Now he really was being crazy.

He turned back to stare at his e-mail inbox. There was nothing from Amber, just like there hadn’t been anything from Amber in days. Two weeks ago, before the party and the Ouija board, there would have been five e-mails just from one afternoon alone—links and pictures and stupid jokes. His relationship with Amber was over. So why didn’t he have the guts to officially break it off?

Harlan shivered. He could
feel
an eye on him! But whose? He was all alone in his bedroom. Or was he? Maybe it wasn’t some
one
watching him—maybe it was some
thing.
He turned his chair around to face the empty room.

And that’s when he saw it. His mom had left his mail on his bed. The envelope on top was glossy white, with a close-up photo of a large eyeball. The eyeball looked like it was staring right at him.

Harlan
was
being watched—by a piece of mail! He almost laughed out loud.

He rolled his chair closer to the bed and picked up the envelope. It was from the local eye bank—one of the largest in the country. It held an annual fund-raiser called the Eye Ball, which was taking place
that weekend. One of the highlights was the Retina Raffle, where people bought tickets for a chance to win these really expensive prizes—trips and cars and weekend getaways. Then, at the end of the dance, there was a drawing. The organizers brought out this big clear plastic bin filled with Ping-Pong balls that had been painted to look like eyes. Each eye also had a little number on it.

Ever since Harlan was nine years old, he’d been the one to draw the winning Ping-Pong ball. It had all been his mom’s idea, of course. People got such a kick out of seeing the senator’s little boy dressed up in his tuxedo. That idea hadn’t used to bother Harlan; maybe it had even made him a little proud, knowing that his mom was so pleased with him. And this year, now that he was seventeen, the coordinators had also made him one of the Eye Ball’s eight honorary “Cornea Corporals.” But they were just throwing him a bone. They really wanted the cute kid in the tux.

He sighed. Yet another charity event. His mom hadn’t asked if he wanted to go—not this year, not any year. She’d just signed him up. And now he’d have to be there for hors d’oeuvres, and he’d have to stay for the raffle. It would all take four hours at least—four hours of his precious weekend.

He tore open the envelope.

There was a letter inside that began, “Dear Harlan: I wanted to thank you in advance for joining us yet again at our annual Eye Ball fund-raiser.”

Harlan started to crumple up the letter. But then he stopped. He looked at the signature at the bottom. “Sharon L. Blakely,” it read, “Special Events Coordinator.”

He stared at it for a second, thinking. What would happen if he told them he couldn’t do it this year? After all, he had surely already done his part for the charity itself, going to eight Eye Balls in a row. And they had seven other “Cornea Corporals.” It’s not like anyone would even notice his absence. They could get some other kid to dress up in a tux and draw the winning Ping-Pong ball, or maybe get a girl—strike a blow for equality while they were at it.

Harlan turned toward his phone and punched in the number of Sharon Blakely. It was after hours, so he got her voice mail.

“Mrs. Blakely?” he said when the time came to leave a message. “This is Harlan Chesterton. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. I’m not going to be able to make the Eye Ball this year. Sorry about the late notice.”

He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he
hung up the phone and sat there, staring at the receiver.

Had he really just done that? Had he really withdrawn from a function that his mom had committed him to? And had the world really not come to a screeching halt?

He crumpled up the letter and the glossy envelope with the picture of the eyeball on it. Then he tossed them both into the wastebasket, breathing easy again now that the eye of the world had moved off him at last.

Harlan was on fire, which was quite an achievement given that he was underwater at the time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d swum so hard or with such focus. He felt like a dolphin on
Ginkgo biloba
.

All through the first set, he and Ricky had been pushing each other, going back and forth for the lead. But now they were on the last 100 of the set—their last four lengths of the pool. And Harlan was determined to beat Ricky to the end.

Kicking was the key to speed, Harlan knew: the harder you kicked, the faster your arms moved and the quicker you went through the water. So Harlan kicked furiously. But Ricky knew the key to speed too, and he was kicking just as hard. And by the end
of the second length, Harlan wasn’t getting any edge.

Suddenly Harlan imagined that the black tile stripe along the floor of the pool was alive, that it was some kind of giant leathery alligator gliding behind him in the water. It rose up underneath him, mouth opening, teeth gleaming in the crystal-clear liquid.

Harlan panicked, but it was a good panic. He fought the creature with his stroke, kicking deep and hard, pulling fast and tight. His legs churned, and his arms plowed deep trenches in the pool.

The creature chased him. It was a shadow underneath him, just out of reach, trying to snatch him with its teeth.

Harlan made the next turn and kept kicking, but he wasn’t pulling ahead. In fact, inch by inch, Ricky was slowly pulling ahead of
him
! The black alligator was chasing Ricky too.

Harlan hit his last turn right on the mark, then headed for home. It was all coming down to the last length of the pool, just as it so often did. Ricky was half a body-length ahead now, but Harlan was determined to catch him. He held his breath and kicked. He felt like Moses parting the waters of the Roosevelt High School pool. As for the black leathery alligator, he’d left it far behind in his wake.

Ten yards from the end, Harlan passed Ricky. And
he outtouched his friend by at least a yard.

In a second, Ricky was up and gasping for air, but smiling too. “That was excellent, man!
Excellent!
I haven’t swum that hard in
months
! What the hell got into you?”

Harlan was panting and grinning. “I don’t know, man! It was just
there
, somewhere inside me!” It wasn’t just a question of swimming well; Harlan hadn’t been this
alive
in months. It was one of those moments that you want to preserve and display under some kind of glass dome, there to examine whenever you want for the rest of your life. And for the record, Harlan knew exactly what had gotten into him: by pulling out of the Eye Ball, he’d stood up to his mom. And now he couldn’t remember ever feeling so free.

He turned to the pool, looking out at the lane, ready to continue the workout.

But a voice said, “Harlan? Can I see you a second?”

Harlan looked up. The swim coach.

“Sure,” Harlan said. “What’s up?”

Coach Cleveland grew orchids. And there was something about the heat and humidity of the pool area that worked wonders for his flowers. As a result, whenever he had a problem plant, he brought it with
him to work. His plants must have been doing really badly lately, because the pool office was full of potted orchids now.

“What’s up, Coach?” Harlan asked.

“Uh, Harlan,” the coach said. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

He wants me to swim the 500 in the meet with Lincoln, Harlan thought. Harlan hated the 500—five hundred yards was twenty lengths of the pool. But there were only so many guys on the team who could do it even halfway well. And if the team wasn’t at least competitive in the distance events, all the points would just go to the other team.

“Coach?”

Coach Cleveland picked up an orchid pot and fiddled with the pink blossom. Every year, some new swimmer teased him about his flowers and the whole team wound up having to listen to an impassioned lecture from the coach about just how fascinating orchids really are. It always shut everyone up, if only because no one wanted to hear the orchid lecture again.

“You have to go,” Coach Cleveland said at last.

“Go?” Harlan didn’t understand.

“You have to leave the pool area. The locker room. You’re off the team.”

Now Harlan
really
didn’t understand.
“What?”

“Look, it’s not me. It’s the principal.”

“Wait a minute! What’d I do?” But even as he said this, he knew what this was all about: his mom. He had pulled out of the Eye Ball. And his mom had found out about it and called the school to have him thrown off the swim team. It was her way of getting back at him. He had expected her to be upset, but he at least thought she would talk to him first!

“Harlan—”

“Look,” Harlan said, “I know it’s my mom, okay? We’re just having an argument about something. This is her way of getting back at me. It doesn’t mean anything!”

“Fine. But, Harlan, you’re still seventeen, and she
is
your mom. If you don’t have her permission to be here, you can’t be here. There are legal issues.”

“But she’s not being fair!”

“Then talk to her. The minute you get her permission again, of course you can come back.”

“But—”

Coach Cleveland slammed down the potted plant. “There is no ‘but,’ Harlan! For God’s sake, your dad’s the damn senator, okay?”

Harlan found his mom in her “Activity Room”—a small sunroom off the back of the house. She had
a whole staff of people to do absolutely everything that needed doing around the house—a maid, a gardener, a cook. Everything except the house decor, which she handled herself. And it was here in the Activity Room that she did her work—her way to “unwind.” It was here that she created her elaborate flower arrangements, replaced throughout the house every five days like clockwork. And here, of course, was where she turned out the dozen or so tasteful holiday wreaths that festooned their house each Christmas: tightly wound wire rings of carefully positioned cookies or tiny gifts or shellacked sugarplums—anything but actual evergreen boughs, which she deemed too tacky. Today his mom was working on her “mosaic table”—a small end table that she was resurfacing with a pattern of broken porcelain and glass bits.

Harlan stepped into the room. “What did you do?” he said. He wasn’t about to greet her, not now, maybe not ever again.

She didn’t look up from her work, didn’t greet him either. “What do you mean?”

“Mom, please don’t play dumb.”

Carefully, she pressed a bit of orange glass into white plaster; the pattern reminded Harlan of a spiderweb.

“You’re going to the Eye Ball,” she said.

“Why?” he said. “Why is it so damn important that I go?”

“It’s important because you made a commitment, and I expect you to honor it.” Her voice was as calm as an alpine lake, and just as cold.

“No!” Harlan said. “
You
made a commitment!”

“Harlan, being a member of this family means we all have certain responsibilities. We ask a lot of you, yes. But in return, we provide you with advantages that other children can only dream about.”

“Oh, I’ve done
plenty
for this family! So I take one weekend off. What’s the big deal?”

Suddenly she grabbed a plate off a nearby worktable and threw it down to the ground—hard. It shattered on the tiled floor. Harlan jumped in surprise.

Then, without batting an eye, his mother reached down to the floor to retrieve a piece of the broken porcelain—for her mosaic table, of course. “This isn’t about the Eye Ball,” she said, just as calmly as before.

Oh, very good, Harlan thought. She’d probably been planning that thing with the plate all afternoon—the perfect way to knock him off-balance. But he knew what his mom had said was absolutely right: this
wasn’t
about the Eye Ball. It wasn’t even about his dad’s election. It was about control. Her control of him.

“Well,” Harlan said. “It’s too late now. I already
told Mrs. Blakely.” He could hear the nervousness in his own voice, which meant his mom could certainly hear it too. As much as he hated to admit it, that thing with the plate had rattled him.

“It’s not too late,” his mom said. “I called Sharon back and told her there was a misunderstanding, and that you will definitely be there.”

“You
what?
”

She looked up at him at last. “What part of that didn’t you understand?”

“You didn’t even talk to me first?”

“Why would I talk to you?”

“That’s it, mom! Don’t you see? That’s it
exactly!
Why would you talk to me? Because it’s
my
life!”

“Don’t raise your voice. Ludmilla might hear.” Ludmilla was their Russian maid.

“I don’t
care
if Ludmilla hears! I’m not going.”

“Fine.” She looked down again. “Then you won’t be swimming either.”

She had him. He knew that immediately. He had no leverage to use against her whatsoever. Why hadn’t he seen this before? Of course she would win this argument, because she had a strategy. Why hadn’t he thought to have a strategy?

“All right, I’ll go,” he whispered.

“What?” she said. Of course she’d heard him. She
just needed to humiliate him a little more.