Playing Tyler (7 page)

SlayerGrrl, you out there somewhere?

My fingers hover over the keys.

 

CHAPTER 8

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 29

TYLER

Saybrook College isn't really a college. It's a lie. I guess saying “dorm” is just too lowbrow for Yale. They even each have their own dining halls and shit. Probably separated by income bracket. Like the George W Bushes and the John Kerrys are kept on one side of the campus and the kids of the doctors and lawyers and the Asian kids on scholarship are kept on the other.

I kick a pile of dead leaves. Check out the fliers on one of the poles in Saybrook College's courtyard. Blowing air into my hands to warm them. I should have worn gloves, man, it's cold.

Scanning the rain-beaten multicolored fliers tacked up on the post I see nothing, nothing that looks like SlayerGrrl would be a part of. Foreign film festivals and fundraisers. Guess they don't advertise the secret societies, huh? Too bad, would have been fun if I snagged one of their fliers for B. He likes that stuff.

I shove my hands into my pockets and walk over to a bench. Guess I'm gonna wait here. I sit. My ass is cold. Stupid jeans. Stupid fall. Stupid Tyler thinking that the whole stalker routine is gonna work. Peanut and Alpha told me not to come, maybe they were right.

“Hey.” A guy walking as he talks on his cell stops, comes over to me on the bench. “Hey, man, I know you! You're that guy, MacIvrish, no, wait, MacCandless, right? With the show… the vlog? I loved it, man, what was it called,
Divergence
? Why'd you stop?” He looks so happy. Black hair and thick black glasses and short leather coat contrasting with the wild yellow of the leaves on the tree behind him. Like a black spot on the sun, almost. His eyes are wide, like I'm somebody.

I get even colder. “Nah, man, that's my brother, Brandon.”

“Oh, man, sorry.” His eyes narrow, just a bit. His enthusiasm leaks away. “Hey, where is he going to school, does he still have a vlog?”

My fingers clench into a little ball and try to find the right words, the nice words, the words that will be nice to this poor guy and to Brandon. But I can't. What would Brandon say? Damn, he's good at this stuff. Everything was always so easy. Especially with words. I say, “Nah, he doesn't do that anymore. He's” – think, Ty, think – “on sabbatical.” Totally a word B would use.

“Oh.” His face softens, and he shuffles his feet, breath leaving cotton-ball puffs in the air. “Well, if he ever starts one up again, let me know, just post it on the Yale message board, OK?”

“Yeah, sure.” God, please let that happen. He walks away, and I wonder what it would be like for Brandon to have been here. He would love it here. He would love all of this. His grades were good, too, man. He belongs here, not… not where he is now.

I should sit outside the buildings that have the classes. No. They have class all over New Haven. Could be anywhere. Damn. I don't even know what she's studying. I don't even know why I'm here, really. It's not like Ani's answering any of my emails. Rick always talks about persistence paying off, a real soldier never accepting defeat. And I know in gaming, if you go at a level enough, you'll beat it. So hopefully the same rules apply to girls. Well, to this girl, anyway. The conversation about Brandon's messing me up. Can't think. Why did I come down here? This is stupid. I should have printed out a copy of her class schedule or something. I am such a moron sometimes.

I grab a flier off of one of the poles on my way out. Upcoming events. Perfect.

 

CHAPTER 9

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2

TYLER

PPT? Why do I need another PPT? Planning and Placement Team? What a joke. I hate these things. I have to sit here while they list off this long string of issues. ADHD, apraxia, all that crap. An overgrown parent-teacher conference where I have to sit here and listen to all the stuff that's wrong with me. I'm sure I have all the problems going on that they say that I do, but it's me, it's all that I know how to be. Why are we here? “Mom.” I pull out the chair for her. It's the right thing to do, help your mother. Mom's cool. Works a lot, tries really hard. Not easy to pay bills. She sits. She smells good. Mom always smells good, like some perfume she's always worn, she smells like home.

“Mrs MacCandless, Tyler, we're so happy that you could join us today.” The second Dempsey hits the door he sends those marble-like little eyes rolling all over my mother. I hate him. I sit beside Mom. I lean in close to her. Want to look imposing. “Would you like some water? We just have to wait for the school psychologist.”

Ugh. I'm seventeen now, do I really have to sit here and deal with Dempsey and his crap?

My foot starts under the table. I hate this, hate waiting. There's nothing to do when you wait. Except lose time that could have been spent actually accomplishing something. It's like dying. Only I imagine that dying is nicer because if you're dead then at least you won't be bored. Or worried about the way Dempsey's eyes are hanging on my Mom's rack like an overcoat. Sick bastard.

Look at her, all clearing her throat, he doesn't get it, just keeps staring at her chest. Damn. Can I throw something at him? It's not like she's wearing anything tight even, just a dress shirt.

I hate him. Hate him even more now. My foot goes crazy under the table and I shift in my chair again so I won't just leap across the table. Smack that leer right off his face.

Mom reaches her hand over, grabs mine. Be cool, Ty.

I love Mom, and she wants me to be here, so I'm here.

The school psychologist, Ms Kinney, walks into the room. It's about time. Hate Kinney. She's almost less cool than Dempsey. She's always asking these questions like she cares and tells you that everything you tell her is confidential but it's not. She tells Dempsey, my mom, anyone who will listen.

“Tyler, so nice to see you!” she greets as she pulls out a chair. Concern oozes from her like honey-covered pus.

I shift in my chair again. At least Dempsey doesn't pretend, just sits and pulls out his notes. “As I mentioned in my email, Tyler has been missing a lot of school lately. In fact, he has only been to school four times in the past two and a half weeks.” Dempsey eyes just freaking glow when he looks at my mother's face.

“Yes, you did mention that.” She looks at me. Thrusting my feet into the floor, I brace myself. Her soft voice, asking, “Tyler, is that true?”

Can't look at her face, there is more than enough disappointment there normally, don't need to see any more of it now. I nod.

“What have you been doing?”

The fear. The fear in her voice. It tears me right through the middle.

“Nothing, Mom.” How do I make this clear to her? “Nothing bad, just hanging out.”

I look into her eyes. Wide. Blue. Pained. I'll tell you later, Mom, I promise.

Ms Kinney clears her throat. “Also,” her voice filled with sweetness so intense it sounds like rot, “Tyler mentioned that he hasn't been taking his prescribed medication, and I felt that it was best to make sure that you are aware of the situation.”

Why do I keep talking to her? Why do I tell that woman anything? I am such an idiot. Grinding my feet into the tile I lean back so that I'm looking at the ceiling and not at her. I know I shouldn't trust her. Why does it piss me off every time? Can't trust anyone. Ever. Should know that by now. Well, maybe Mom. Maybe Rick.

“Has the doctor suggested anything to help Tyler, Mrs MacCandless?” Dempsey now, voice low, playing the part of vice principal who gives a damn. Just wants to come off that way so he can get into Mom's pants. I should punch him. So smug.

“Medication, but Tyler doesn't like the way it makes him feel.” Mom, voice like a cord wrapping its way around my middle. She can't say that B used to steal it. Leaving me with an empty bottle and a prescription that I could only fill once a month. So I just gave up filling it. Had to deal without it. Like things better without it now, anyway. Used to it.

“Yes, well, we're afraid that his recent string of absences may be the symptom of a deeper problem.” Drugs. He doesn't say the words. But he leaves the thought. Leaves the thought right there. On the table. Playing on Mom's worst fears in the world. That sick fuck. I am going to kill him. “Statistically, students who have ADHD are more likely to… experiment with other things.”

“That's bullshit, there's no deeper problem and you know it,” I say, leaning forward across the table.

“Tyler, your language.” Ms Kinney shakes her head. “And we never insinuated that you–”

“Fuck you, Kinney. You say all that stuff is confidential and here you are lying to my mom.” Words flying around my head a thousand miles an hour. All of them fighting.

“I'm not lying, Tyler. We are just making your mother aware that your behavior is consistent with certain patterns…”

Thoughts pound at the back of my skull. Can't grab them. They're trying to come out but all I can do is look at my mom.

Her face is like ice. Like glass. Cold and numb and broken. I want to scream, want to kill them for hurting my mom. They don't know me. Don't know that I would never do that to my mom and now they're telling her that I'm doing drugs and I'm not. Why are they doing this to her now? They are all idiots. All of them. Brutal. Freaking. Idiots.

They keep talking, accusations flying around me. “Always late.” “Distracted.” “Disrespectful.” “Displaying some of the same behaviors as his brother.”

Each word they say hits me like a club, beating me down until there is nothing left. There is one thing in life I would never do and it's drugs. Ever. I can't even get the words out to say anything. I just sit there like a punching bag and listen to my trial. Witnesses lined up condemning me in front of my mom. And it's not true. Do they know that I can't defend myself? They know.

All of them trying to ruin my life. They need to leave Mom alone I will hurt them if they hurt her how could they hurt her? How could they hurt her now? I can't believe I trusted Kinney. I'm a moron.

“Tyler.” Mom's voice breaks through the chaos inside my head and tugs at my heart. She reaches out and holds my hand. “Focus for me, baby. Look at me. Just at me.”

The whirlwind quiets. I don't know if everybody else stops talking. If they finally shut up. All I see is Mom. She used to do this. Holds my hand and tell me to squeeze, hard, to help me focus, to help bring the thoughts into order and be able to get them out. I turn her hand over in mine. God, it's so small, her hand. Soft skin drawn tight over little bones, like a bird. My hand is massive, like I could hurt her if I held it too hard. My heart pounds. I am so pissed right now.

The blue of Mom's eyes melt together like an ocean I just want to drown in. Her lips curl up at the edges and she puts her other hand on top of the one already holding hers. She knows how hard it is for me. She knows. Damn, I love her.

Dempsey's voice stays low, like a jaguar waiting for the kill. “As it is, he'll have to do summer school to get enough credit to graduate.”

I stand up, pulling Mom up by the hand beside me. Standing feels good. Not good enough, though, I wish the ground would push back on me sometimes. Make things easier. I ram my chair back into the table. The movement feels good. Need more. I push Mom's back in, too, and she stands beside me. I grab her hand, again. Yes, I hold my mom's hand. Love my mom. My words come in short, frantic bursts now that I'm up. “I'm seventeen, right? Well, I want to withdraw from school.”

“But–” Mom starts.

I look at her. “I can take the GED, it'll be fine.”

Ms Kinney, that voice going all sticky sweet again, “Tyler, the test is very difficult, I'm not sure you understand–”

“I'm not stupid,” I say. Voice sharp. Not stupid. Just scattered. “Besides, I get extra time.”

I pull Mom out of the door behind me and slam the door as their voices rise up in protest. We march right through the office. Down the hall. Across the entryway and right out of the front door.

We walk, not saying anything. Silent. Still holding hands. We get to the car. Walking to Mom's side to open the door for her, she meets my eyes. Pain and hurt and worry all mash around at once. They think I'm a moron, a druggie, a loser. The words. So much I want to say and just can't put into the right order and I am a moron if I can't even tell Mom that I love her and wouldn't do that to her and that I'm not stupid and that I can pass the GED but that sometimes I feel stupid and I can't stop this pain inside of me that eats at me like a rat in the pit of my stomach every time I think of B and I want to just…

She sees. She wraps her arms around me and I bend down to hug her. I want to speak. Really want to. But I can't. So I hold onto her as tight as I can and let her love me any way that she can.

 

CHAPTER 10

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 4

ANI

So what if I'm totally obsessed with checking my email? I know that it's wrong, on a certain level, and I should concentrate on the lecture Professor Jimenez is giving about the Golden Age of Spanish Literature. I'm sure that Gongora's poetry is fascinating, but it's really just nowhere near as fun as checking to see if Tyler's sent me another email.

I look up at the SMART Board, red circles surrounding the bits of the poem and the metaphors that I should be taking notes on, and open my Gmail. Three new messages, one from Tyler.

SlayerGrrl, Sometimes I wonder if all this is worth it, you know? School. Worrying about the “future.” How bad can it be, really? I mean, my cousin never graduated and owns his own bike shop, he does alright. This probably sounds stupid to someone at Yale. Never mind. Meet me at Criterion on Saturday, please?