The Blue-Haired Boy (4 page)

AFTER
today, I can’t believe in circumstances or accidents.

Maybe it’s because this morning started out normal. With normal Dad suckage. I went to the bench. But there was an army recruiter guy who had never been at my bench before. Lieutenant Williams. And without knowing it, he sent me to Gerry.

I take his card from my pocket along with the torn-off section of my bus ticket and put them in the plastic sack from 45 Pizza. Gerry bought a scratched copy of the eX-Files for me as part of the dollar deal.

Souvenirs from my day.

I’m in Huntsville, Alabama, with . . . I look to my right: Gerry Lennox.

And she is crying. Elephant tears. My eyes are leaking, too.
I don’t want to go home, but I know I have to cross the street and board a bus headed north. I also know we are supposed to be on these steps in our green and blue hair and brokenness. No circumstance. No accident. Just necessity.

“Hey,” I say.

Gerry won’t look at me. She hugs the peeling wooden railing as if it’s a flotation device.

“Hey,” I say again, and touch her shoulder. “You’re okay. This was a good day.”

“No.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and the sight of her breaks me. I slide over next to her until our knees touch. Slowly, I unpeel her fingers from the post and ask her to look at me.

“Tell me,” I say.

“Why did . . . you follow . . . me here?” she asks.

It’s my turn to squeeze her knee for a second. “I told you. Because you were smiling.”

“I’m not smiling now. Sorry,” she says, shaking so hard that the step beneath us vibrates.

“Don’t apologize.”

“I’m crying because I lied to you.” These words come out in one breath.

I’m not sure how, but I instantly know the lie. It comes together in my mind like some crime show. The flash of her license. How different she looks now. The third-person talk. The scars on her stomach.

“You’re Lewis, aren’t you?” I whisper into her ear.

I can’t tell if she’s saying yes or having an emotional collapse until she says, “Gerry’s mom loved her so much. And I always wanted that. My mom . . .”

Burns her with cigarettes
. I know why she’s pretending, and I understand why she laughed when she fell off the bus. That’s what Gerry—the real one—would have done.

“I get it,” I say.

“The postcards are my journal. What I think Gerry would tell me if she were still here,” she says. “She had the best way of seeing the world.” Lewis reaches up and pulls on a strand of my blue hair. “You know, she would have loved you.”

“I wish we’d met,” I say.

This makes her sob, but she continues, “Kool-Aid Kids forever.” A smile cracks at the edge of her mouth.

“I’m just glad I made the journal,” I say.

“Made it? More like changed it,” she says.

“Me?”

“Question! And bullshit,” she says, and we both almost laugh.

“Why?” I say, expecting her to bust my chops for asking another question.

“Because you figured out how to be here anyway. No one’s done that since Gerry died.”

“Well, you’ve got one hell of a smile,” I say.

“The size of Alaska.” Gerry takes out her wallet and hands me the license that started this whole adventure. “Geraldine Lennox died in a car accident on February seventh at eight
forty-two p.m.”

She says this as if it’s the police report, and then adds, “I was . . . supposed to be with her.”

“No, you weren’t,” I say. “Because you were supposed to end up here with me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. In the bathroom. On the bus. Over pizza.”

“It’s okay,” I say.

And, I think, given the fact that she takes a deep breath and wipes her nose on my shirt, she believes me.

“So did
her
mom know about you?” I ask.

“’Course.” Gerry unzips the duffel bag and shows me the stuffed bear again. “Gerry’d have told the whole world about us if I would’ve let her. I’m the one who couldn’t tell. Her mom gave him to me at the funeral. Meet Dee Dee.”

“Telling is hard,” I say, thinking about my own family.

“Telling
is
hard,” Gerry repeats. “But I wish I had before she died.”

I palm Dee Dee’s head, and pull the old rotten bear into our hug, and say, “You’re telling now. That counts.”

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

Part of me wonders which things Gerry said belonged to her and which to Lewis, but it doesn’t matter. Or it doesn’t matter most. The people we meet, if they’re special enough, leave something on us. Something visible.

I hope what Gerry’s given me doesn’t wash out with the Berry Blue.

We’re quiet as we walk back across the street to the bus station.

Gerry beelines it to the vending machine and donates one twenty-five to Huntsville so I can have caffeine for the way home. She chooses Mello Yello and explains with a ton of pointing to it and me and her, “Yellow and blue make green.”

I accept the drink and perfect logic.

“I owed you a beverage.”

“I owe you . . .”

She puts her fingers over my mouth. “Shush it.”

As I’m getting on my bus to Rickman, I say, “Hey, Gerry Lee Lewis, two truths and a lie.”

She smiles, and I continue, “One, I’m going to work my way through every box of Kool-Aid there is. Two, this has been the best day of my life. Three, I’ll see you around.”

“Keep holding on, Kool-Aid Kid,” she says, and blows me a kiss good-bye—we both know this is the very end of us—and she backs away, still facing me.

We wave until we are specks.

Bodee’s story continues and intertwines with Alexi Littrell’s in the searing, poignant debut novel from
COURTNEY C. STEVENS

LIFE
starts during fourth period.

It’s not because of AP Psych or the fact that this is the one class I have with Heather or that lunch is next. It’s all about the desk and the lyrics. And since it’s Monday, I get to start them.

What should I write about today? The funeral? Girls who talk to boys they don’t really know? Sex? Girls’ fear of sex? No. I’ll keep the illusion intact, since most guys would rather believe girls are just as horny as they are. This flirty masquerade with Desk Guy is like reading a romance novel. Love in pencil is safer than love in life. So I settle on a piece of pop culture that describes my entire weekend after the funeral.

Heather leans over to read my words. “There’s no way Desk Guy’ll get that. And if he does, it’s totally some girl jerking your chain.”

“It’s not a girl. I asked already.”

“You can’t count on a desk to be honest,” Heather says. “Mine has ‘Mark loves Lisa’ carved on it, underlined. And, uh, everyone knows the only person Mark loves is Mark.”

Heather’s desk sucks, but I do count on my desk to be honest.

“Dang,” Heather says when she sees my face. “If you want it to be a guy that bad, it’s a guy. I’m sure Captain Lyric will totally complete you like he does those pretty little verses you write each other. But just in case he doesn’t, Dane’s going to the soccer game with us tomorrow.”

I erase the word
minute
in my lyric and rewrite it so it’s easier to read.

“Why do you always do this to me?” I say. “I don’t even know Dane.”

“Well, he’s Collie’s cousin, and I’ve given you almost two months to manage a date with Captain Lyric here. Since you haven’t even tried to figure out who he is, I’m in charge of your social calendar. There’s a ladder to climb, sweetheart, and you’re standing still. At least he’s cute.”

“Just because you have Collie doesn’t mean the rest of us want what you do.”

“It’s a soccer game, not a proposal,” she says.

“Thank God.”

“Oh, you know you want what Collie and I have.”

“Uh, no. I don’t.” The idea of anything resembling a relationship gives me hives. First dates are pretty safe, because any guy who wants to mess around on the first date’s a jerk. But a guy who’s been dating you for six months and who doesn’t want to mess around has orientation issues. At least that’s what Kayla says.

“You and Collie still talk?”

Heather knows the answer is no, since it’s hard to peel the two of them apart, much less for him to have a conversation without her knowing. But she’s still fishing for an answer to the lull in Collie’s and my childhood friendship.

“Not since summer,” I answer honestly.

“Weird,” she says, but accepts my answer with a shake of her head. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just nothing to talk about lately.”

“You could talk about me.”

“That’s all we ever did,” I say.

“So you don’t want a boyfriend, but you want Captain Lyric.”

“I don’t even know who he is,” I say. “School’s boring, and this desk stuff’s the only thing that keeps my curiosity aroused.”

I blush even before Heather says, “I’d say it keeps more than your curiosity aroused.”

“Ladies in the back of the room,” Mrs. Tindell, our substitute, interrupts. “Could you please keep your voices to a dull roar? Other groups are trying to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

Heather writes
WORK?
in big letters on her notebook and then raises it to cover her grin. Only two brown braids are visible behind the book, and she looks a little bit like Heidi at the library. I put my head down to keep from giggling at her antics.

Heather inches her desk closer to mine, and it screeches like a hoot owl. We both duck behind books and wait for Mrs. Tindell to look down. “You might not like Dane yet, but you’ve got to do something to recover from your funeral rescue mission of Bodee Lennox. Trust me, you hook up with Dane and nobody will remember a thing.”

I stare at her hard enough to re-part her braids.

Heather rolls her eyes. “Hookin’ up means kissing, Lex. I know you’re all virgi-terrified.”

“I am not.” Mechanically, I lower my voice as Mrs. Tindell goes fish-eyes on us again. I make the first excuse that’s believable. “I just want it with the right guy. You know? Too many guys running around Rickman with the crawlers.”

“Man, you and Liz are gonna be ancient before I can talk to you about this stuff.”

“Liz is not gonna sleep with a Rickman, Tennessee, boy.”

Heather adds, “Thus sayeth the Lord.”

Liz has a pile of blond curls, a collection of vintage T-shirts, and a desire to
wait
. Heather doesn’t go to church with us, so she hasn’t been privy to all the stuff about waiting rings and promises. She thinks even the people who wear the rings slip them on and off as if they’re coated in butter. But Liz is the real thing. She has convictions in all the places I’ve got fears.

“I’m sorry,” Heather says. “I’m not being fair. I wouldn’t want you to do it with someone you don’t love. I just wish I had someone to talk to.” Her eyes waver between rainy and cloudy, and I realize we’re having a moment. “Collie and I have come pretty close,” she says.

Heather doesn’t take her mask off very often. She’s the verbal beast of our threesome, but under all those bold, sexy words, evidently there’s still a virgin. I try not to sound too surprised. “If you both want to, then why haven’t you?” I ask.

Heather is barely audible. “I’m afraid he’ll move on.”

“Then why are you still with him?” I know the answer before Heather says it.

“Because I hate being alone.”

Heather’s beautiful where I’m ordinary. She could find someone else in a minute who would love her, but Collie’s her flypaper; she’s been stuck on him for years. “Alone isn’t terrible.”

“I don’t know.” She sighs. “I wish I could talk to Liz about this, but she doesn’t get it.”

I’m a good second-place friend, so I say, “She gets it. You should talk to her.”

Heather doodles her own name and then Collie’s on a blank sheet of paper. “Is that what you do? Call Liz?”

“No.” I put on an exasperated face. “As you pointed out earlier, I’m not even on the social ladder. So there’s nothing to say.”

Sucks to be Heather. Her best friend is a teetotaling virgin, and her second-best friend is on lockdown.

“But there could be,” she says.

From the way she’s winking, I know she’s thinking about Dane. And me. Being all sexually deviant. I can’t think that way about Dane. Or anyone. But I can’t tell her that.

“No, you don’t get it,” I say.

“You’re the one who is never going to get
it
. And I’m not either.”

She sounds exasperated with both of us. But Heather doesn’t understand. Even if I got up the nerve to tell her everything about why I’m not interested in going to Victoria’s Secret, or talking porn, or dreaming of Dane wearing only his socks, it wouldn’t help.

He
would still be in the hallway, and I’d still have to pass him. He’d still be a part of my life. Which would only change for the worse if I told them.

Because then they’d know, and you can’t un-know something.

“Maybe someday you’ll meet Captain Lyric and you’ll be
ready,” Heather says. “And when that day comes, you have to promise to tell me everything.”

“Of course.”

“You mean it? ’Cause it would make me feel so much better if I knew I wasn’t the only one.”

My heart pounds as I choose my phrase. “I promise I’ll call you first.”

A wicked little smile plays on Heather’s lips, and just like that, her uncertainty disappears. “Even if it’s Bodee Lennox.”

“Even if.” The piece of paper Mrs. Tindell gave us at the beginning of class is still blank, so I say, “Hey, we’d better do this.”

“I’ll do one to five if you’ll do six to ten.”

I nod and open the book to the right page. This plan has gotten us As so far. When our regular teacher, Mrs. Tomlin, returns from maternity leave, this worksheet crap will finally end. I read this chapter over the weekend, so my answers take only a few minutes. I’m left with ten free minutes to consider Captain Lyric, Dane, and Bodee.

Soul mate. Date. Question mark. In that order. None of them would want me if they knew the truth. And I don’t really want them, either.

I know I’ll make myself go out with Dane tomorrow night to keep Heather happy. Liz takes some martial arts class I can’t pronounce on Tuesday nights, so I can’t count on her to help. Damn her Karate Kid skills.

“What should I wear?” I whisper.

“Something that shows your boobs.”

“What boobs?”

“Just wear that bra I got you for your birthday and a tight shirt. Maybe that red one with the snappy buttons.”

I don’t have that bra anymore, but I shake my head. Maybe I’ll ask Liz what to wear.

This dating thing is a problem. What if Captain Lyric knows who I am? He might think I’m into Dane. Then what if he stops finishing my lyrics on the desk? This date with Dane could ruin the one thing that’s getting me through junior year. It could mean Captain Lyric never confesses he wanted to be a priest until the day he saw me in the hallway, and I never get the chance to assure him his call to celibacy suits me just fine. Because I wouldn’t let that keep us apart.

I’m more like Heather than she knows. Scared shitless and hoping a boy will love me someday even though I’m a mess. And Dane’s probably not looking for love.

Besides considering how mad Heather will be if I find a way to blow Dane off, I’m stuck on what I ought to do about Bodee. If anything.

Mom said it perfectly when she said, “Oh, that poor boy.” People have poor boy–ed him all day today. Rumor is that somebody on the football team even asked him after homeroom if he wanted to eat lunch at their table. And I overheard a teacher say she picked him up for school today. I figure he’s got maybe a week of grace before he goes back to being the Kool-Aid Kid and everyone at school moves on to
the next tragedy.

Turned out today was a blue hair day. Fitting, I’d thought, during our conversation this morning. Which made me part of the pity party Rickman High is throwing for him.

I’d said, “Hey.”

He’d said, “Hey.”

Then I’d said, “See you around.”

And he’d said, “Thanks for, uh, you know.”

Then I’d snapped my locker shut and walked away.

Bodee’s like this tall dead tree among a forest of green. Or an evergreen in winter surrounded by oaks. I can hardly ignore him anymore, because he’s like those trees. You notice them first.

After sharing that slab of concrete on Saturday, I’ve started wondering about all the things I don’t know about him. And that’s a long list.

I don’t even know what color his eyes are, since Bodee doesn’t really look at anyone. Green? Blue? Brown, like mine? Funny how people value eyes, when really, their colors are super limited. I doubt anyone would enjoy a new box of crayons if they came only in eye-color shades. And maybe his teeth are jacked up, because on rare occasions when he smiles, his mouth stays shut.

Besides pain, what’s under that mop of Kool-Aid blue?

Across from me I notice the absence of pencil sounds when Heather stops scribbling. She says, “Do you read these lessons ahead of time or something?”

Of course I do, which is why I always finish before she does. I can’t help it; my mom’s a teacher. But I say, “No.” Because I’m not admitting to this level of responsibility.

And because the homework distractions help keep me out of the closet.

The closet is both my curse and my sanctuary. For at least an hour every day, I hide there. Folded and tucked. Arms wrapped around my knees while I will my mind not to live in whacked-out “before and after” mode. Which is hopeless. Because hiding behind my comics, football cards, stuffed animals, or my old copy of
Superfudge
never really works.

“You thinking about Dane?”

“Can’t stop,” I answer.

The bell rings, and Heather tosses her folder into her overlarge purse. “Yay, lunchtime. Pizza or prepackaged?”

Prepackaged food is generally safer, but my stomach can’t handle a bag of Heather’s favorite white cheddar popcorn. “Pizza.”

“See you in there.” Heather splits while I take the time to straighten my desk. Tomorrow, if the universe hasn’t forsaken me, his handwriting will appear below mine. Then I’ll have fifty-three minutes to escape from reality into his words.

I walk the hallway with my head down and earbuds in and don’t stop until I get to my locker. Too many people drop trays when they try to carry both books and food, so I’d rather unload my stuff and then deal with the long lunch line.

I notice that Bodee’s not at his locker.

Maybe he doesn’t have my lunch period, or maybe he’s already enjoying his new status as the football player’s friend. Then again, if it was my mom who died, I’d be in the bathroom crying off my mascara.

Knowing Bodee’s location is not my job, but somehow the silence we shared on the bench connected us, and I find myself wanting to know if he’s okay.

Or only pretending to be okay.

Bodee is really none of my business. But I did follow him out of the funeral. And as I ask myself why I did, or why I’m thinking about him now, I know the answer.

Because I’m pretending too.