The Opposite of Geek (9 page)

Sky bright white outside —

muddy black inside my chest
.

Clouds cover over
.

He is gone he

is gone he

is gone

he is

gone he

is gone he

is gone he is

gone

he is gone he is gone

he is

gone

he is gone

he is

is

is

gone

if you look at it,

say it,

write it

long enough,

it starts

to change shape,

and sound,

and idea.

To detach

from its meaning.

What is

gone?

gone is being
not

are shifting grey, a sandstorm,

a handful of dust in the eyes.

Dean drives me to his place in silence.

I don’t have the strength

or guts

to check my phone for new messages.

I know they’ll think

I’m dead or kidnapped.

I’m too exhausted,

too consumed by the grey

to care.

We fall into Dean’s bed,

cold, smooth, boy-blue sheets,

still in our coats,

and crash.

to shifting light through curtains. The clock says 3:17 P.M. We’ve slept for hours — through the whole day. Dean is motionless, slow-breathing beside me. He looks so peaceful, so young. His cheek is pink and pillow-creased. I want to touch the lines, but don’t want to wake him.

I’ve pushed all thoughts from my mind, and this in-between place is nice. It’s calm, it doesn’t hurt. I know when he wakes up, the spell, the grey sand we’re floating in, will dissolve. We’ll have to talk about what happened. Reality will flood everything. I push these thoughts from my brain for one last moment. Get up to find some breakfast.

in the kitchen, munching dry cereal

out of the box.

“You want a shower?” he asks,

rubbing his eyes.

I consider this, my first shower

at a guy’s house. A boyfriend’s house.

He doesn’t ask to join me,

but he does give me

a big, long kiss in the doorway

that makes me desperate

and sad and want to be close

to him forever. I fight

to stay in the grey place

a little longer.

“I’m out of milk,” he says,

surveying the kitchen.

I squeeze his hand.

He smiles, slowly, as if it’s

not just like breathing, to smile.

Dean won’t talk about it. I sit with him on the couch, try to reach him with my hands and my voice and finally tears. He won’t talk about it.

As I cry, last night comes clear, the grey cloud evaporating around me, making everything too bright and loud and sharp. The beep of machines, shouts of nurses as they wheeled James down the hall, James’s mother, her eyes, her sobs like tearing fabric in my ear.

We have to call her. It feels like I’m underwater, weighed down by a thousand stones, but I still try to move.

Everything takes so much effort.

But Dean gets up to have a shower.

He hasn’t left the grey place.

wants to go back there too,

to be with him

and forget all the terrible sounds

and flashing pictures.

But I can’t.

I’m here,

we’re still here, and James

isn’t.

I spend the next two hours tip-toeing around Dean. He’s trying to pretend nothing happened. I’m not allowed to mention it, and if I look like I’m going to cry, he leaves the room. I cry alone.

I creep into his bedroom to find him reading a sci-fi magazine, a slight frown-line across his forehead.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Uhn,” he answers. “You hungry?”

I shake my head, tell him we should call James’s mother, make sure she’s okay.

His face turns to stone.

“Come on, Dean —”

“No. Just stop.”

I start to explain what I know is true, what he knows: James is gone, gone, gone. We’re sad, sad, sad. My jaw aches from trying not to cry and for a second I think he’s shifting to hug me —

he grabs me by the shoulders, his arms shaking, growls, “Shut up, okay?” He throws me back on the bed. “Just leave me alone.”

I scramble up, adrenaline pulsing in my muscles. I want to run, get out and keep going.

He looks guilty, rubs his face like a little boy.

He holds out his hand, pleading.

I so want to reach for him, but I can’t, I can’t.

I reach for my phone.

Mum comes into my room

with a tray: orange juice,

toast and jam. A piece

of chocolate. She lays it

on the floor because she thinks

I’m sleeping.

Chocolate is not usually

a breakfast food, even

around here. But it’s a new era.

None of us knows the rules yet.

That feeling

of carefully manoeuvring

around someone so you don’t upset them —

watch what you say,

what you do,

what you don’t say or do.

That’s us. We all have light shields around us

to deflect incoming missiles.

Layla’s afraid to look at me.

My mother talks to her hands, the wall,

my ear, like I’m someone

she’s just met, doesn’t know how to gage.

My dad thinks I’ll run away again,

but he also wants to punish me —

I can see the battle on his face.

I wander aimlessly

trying to get away from the ache

between my shoulder blades.

We have a stalemate. Except it feels

like everyone loses.

Funeral.

Sunday.

James’s mother calls, gives details,

tries not to break down

on the phone. I nod to her questions

as if she can see me.

Remember my voice to say goodbye.

Sunday.

I wake up from a daydream

(daynightmare?)

at the kitchen table,

my Cheerios a soggy beige mush,

and realize I really don’t know

how Dean is.

I haven’t talked to Dean

— in two days?

Why haven’t I thought of him?

Guilt rises in my throat

and I toss the Cheerio mush

down the sink. Grab

the phone.

Hey, it’s Gretchen. Sorry I’ve been out of it for a while. I guess you have too. Just call me when you get this, okay? I miss you.

to get me cornered

and talk about my situation.

My mother stares at my chin

and murmurs words

of forgiveness followed by an if-clause

Dad gets frustrated,

not knowing who I am

and leaves the meeting

early.

I don’t know who I am,

I want to say

but all they do is push words

at me

words that tell me who I should be:

You’re always so responsible,

mature, honest, blah

blah

blah

I don’t have the energy

to speak, argue, breathe

“We’ll drive you to the funeral,”

Mum says as she gets up.

This I didn’t expect.

“Come with me,” I say.

White fingertips clutch

glossy oak casket, while birds

sing life into spring

James’s mother lost

in a wide sea of green grass
.

Her black heels sink in
.

Dean’s not here. Dean is

nowhere. Dean has forgotten

himself, somewhere else
.

We get there early,

my parents and I.

I’ll give it to them — they are sad

about James. They don’t know him

but they wear black.

James’s mother

hugs me, greets others,

shakes hands. Ms Long

appears, gives me a shoulder squeeze

and then heads for James’s family.

It’s a gathering for a dead boy, with carnations,

baby’s breath, soft music.

But everything is colourless,

like I’m wearing

black-and-white glasses.

The ache between my shoulders

makes me reach for two Advil.

I swallow them dry,

but the ghost of them sticks

to the back of my throat.

Funerals work on different time —

an hour taking a day, an afternoon

lasting a year, all the seasons

going by as you watch

in slow motion.

We wait for the far-flung family

to arrive — cousins and grandparents,

shaking hands, mopping faces,

each saying thank you (for coming),

thank you (for waiting), thank you (for being here),

thank you (for being his friend)

and I want to yell

I’m not his friend — I let him down.

He was
my
friend

and I let him drive away.

Just as the minister is about to start,

his book open in front of him,

a head bobs into view behind a break

in the crowd.

For a second I think it’s Dean and relief floods through me.

But then another head, and another —

mourners turn and move aside —

and I recognize

a girl from my English class

and another guy who’s a Legwarmer.

They stare at anything but the box

that holds James’s body

and I can’t take my eyes off them.

Then another clump of students dressed in black,

so their cliques are temporarily erased,

come into view from behind the hedge —

some girls already crying,

clutching their boyfriends

so they don’t trip in their high heels.

Pretty soon

a group almost as big as the rest of us mourners

is crowded awkwardly

at one end of the congregation.

Guys stand uncomfortably in wrinkled suits

too big for their shoulders,

whisper to each other

as their girlfriends sob into wads of tissues

beside them.

but I’m standing in the front of the crowd,

next to the coffin and across from James’s mother.

I can’t make a scene.

The murmuring stops, the family sends grateful-sad smiles

across the space to the newcomers.
Oh good, James’s friends

have come after all
.

No, I want to scream. Those tears aren’t real.

Those guys never gave him a second glance —

those girls wouldn’t be caught dead

speaking to him in the hall.

How dare they act sad — or even
be
sad —

they’re hypocrites, pretenders.

They don’t belong here.

My fingernails dig

into soft leather as sun

dries my dripping face
.

Ashlyn’s voice disconnects me

from my new normal.

But it’s nice to hear her voice.

She asks suitably compassionate questions.

“I’m okay,” I say automatically.
Okay as in empty
.

I rearrange the pillows on my bed

and sink into them.

When the socially appropriate amount of time

has elapsed, she starts blabbing about the Spring Fair,

short days away, and how hard everything

will be to pull off. Screw you, I think.

You don’t know hard. Who the hell cares

about a stupid cake stall anyway?

But I listen to her soap opera stories

about batter and fondant. It takes me

out of my black thoughts.

“So, if you think about coming back to school,

it would be great to have your help.”

I pick at a toothpaste blob on my shirt.

“If you feel up to it,” she adds.

I roll onto my back and wish I could melt

inside the mattress.

“Or not — whatever you want.”

I sigh.

Ashlyn pauses. “Look, I’m here, Gretchen. Call me

if you want to talk.”

I wait until I know my voice won’t waver,

say, “Thanks, Ashlyn,”

but I’ve already hung up the phone.

sleeping, staring, waiting, thinking, not thinking, not eating, crying, closing the curtains after Mum opened them, trying not to listen to Mum and Dad discuss me, my mental state, my academic state, my nutritional state. Layla’s whines about going shopping and Mum’s whispered response,
Stop it — can’t you see it’s not about you right now?
Wondering about Dean, worrying about Dean, battling myself not to call him ten times a day.

At least in the grey place

everything was frozen.

Nothing was harder than just
being
.

Now I’m stuck

in a new place

where everything
feels
.

And it’s not just James.

Dean hasn’t called

or emailed

or shown up

to say he’s going to be okay now.

I go to bed exhausted

every night and wake up

still tired.

My parents

exchange sidelong glances

when they think

I’m not looking.

I’m always looking —

even when I sleep

I dream things I can’t

turn away from.

James’s face. His clean,

motionless hands.

Dean’s curled-tight body

on the floor

of the hospital basement.

Sometimes I see

my own face

underwater, still and drowned.

I look so peaceful,

so unaffected.

I’m so sorry about your friend. I understand if you want to be alone right now, but I wanted to say if you need a hug I’m here. I’m not supposed to bug you and I don’t want to make you upset. I know I would be if I lost one of my best friends. I’m just worried about you. It’s like you’re someone else. If you need to talk, or hug, I’m one door over.

Love, Layla

On my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I meet Layla in the hall. She rubs her eyes en route to the bathroom.

“You …?” she mumbles.

“Water,” I say.

“Hmmm.”

“Thanks,” I say, “for the note.”

“You’re welcome.”

She holds out her arms, like she assumes I want a hug just because we’re both in the same place so late at night.

But I walk into her scrawny kid frame and we hug and hug and it feels good to be close to something so warm.

The next night we sit down to our

macaroni and cheese with ham,

my dad’s favourite, and we could be

any family. We pass the salt, we chat

about the weather, what to have for dessert.

Or: I listen while my family

does this. I focus on getting

food into my mouth. Even so, it tastes

like salty goo.

My sister keeps looking over at me

as if I’ll blow up like a bomb.

I push away my plate.

Mum makes noises about my wasting away.

I make noises back, but she doesn’t

agree with my reasoning.

Dad keeps his head down.

“Do you think you could go

to school on Monday?” he asks.

I feel the familiar stomach drop usually reserved

for chemistry tests.

I almost forgot school was my job in life.

It’s clear they’ll consider

forgoing the planned punishment

of hanging, drawing and quartering

in the hopes I will ease back

into school and be normal again.

I’ll have to break it to them that I am not,

maybe never was, whatever normal means —

there was a geek inside me all the time.

The phone rings. It rings

like it’s for me, so I get up.

Maybe it’s Dean. I pray to hear

his voice on the other end.

“Gretchen? It’s Ms Long. How are you?”

How random, I think.

But then I see it’s not random.

My family stares at me hopefully.

I smell a setup.

through the phoneline from the tooth fairy’s mouth into my ear. She has the best “so sorry” voice.

“I know this might feel too soon, but it’s important we talk about what’s going on, how you’re feeling.” She waits for me to speak.

I don’t.

“I’ll try not to get all grown-up on you, Gretchen.”

I walk into my room with the phone, and the comforting dark stuffiness envelops me. Why can’t I just stay here forever?

“I know school might seem like a big thing right now, but how about we just meet for a chat?” She wants to meet in her office. I say no.

She suggests after school hours.

No.

She asks if I have any other words in my vocabulary.

“What do
you
want, Gretchen?” She waits.

I imagine her perched somewhere. I look at the clock; it’s seven-fifteen. This can’t be part of her job description. Tiny, committed Ms Long. An idea forms in the foggy recesses of my brain. I ask for her email address.

I remember that from a letter I once saw

on her desk. I stare at my computer screen

for hours (it seems). How do I start this email?

Dear Jenny? Dear Jenny Long? Ms Long?

Dear Tooth Fairy
sounds best, but then

I remember that Nemiah and I gave her that name

together —

god, I haven’t seen Nemiah in so long.

Were we ever really friends? What does friends mean?

I pull the choking-throat feeling in

for later, when I can soak my pillow.

Dear Ms Long …

When Layla and I were kids

we’d play in the ravine by our house

all day and all evening,

dragging ourselves home tired, hungry

and happy. We dreamed up new worlds

down there. And that’s where I go

for my first real trip out of the house

in a week. The cedars rustle

in the wind and the air

smells like pine needles and wet dirt.

I wander the thin trail along the ravine,

which we used to think

was a huge valley. What other games

would we have played if James

and Dean had grown up with us?

I sit on a stump and the cold seeps

through my jeans. What would

we be doing right now

if he was still alive? I imagine

these non-moments, so perfect,

and the trees twist around me,

dropping needles.

I know nothing can really take away the pain you’re feeling, and I won’t pretend I can do that, but I thought these might be something to read, to think about. They helped me when I lost my father a few years ago. The haiku masters really knew how to make things resonate. I can lend you a few more books of them if you like. And keep writing. It seems to be helping you.

Ms Long

Insects on a bough

floating downriver
,

still singing
.

– Issa

That wren —

looking here, looking there
.

You lose something?

– Issa

Coolness —

the sound of the bell

as it leaves the bell
.

– Buson

Coming back —

so many pathways

through the spring grass
.

– Buson

My mother drops me at Ginger’s coffee shop, hovers on the corner, unable to leave in case I get snatched up by bandits or just blow away in the wind. Ms Long sits in the window and waves as I walk up, and I wave at my mother, who inches away from the curb.

I order an apple cider and play with the stir sticks while it gets made. Now that I’m here I don’t know what to say. What if she gets all Guidance Counsellor on me?

When I get to the table, she’s poring over a gossip magazine. “You know, I hate this garbage,” she says. “Here are the most expensive houses fought over in Hollywood — a six-page article.” She looks up at me. “A waste of my time, right? And yet I read it.” I slide into the empty seat. I tell her we’re not allowed to read that stuff at my house. Ms Long pushes it over to me. “Then you need it more than I do.”

about the weather — how rainy/windy/cold it has been/will be/should be. What we hate about school. Ms Long remembers high school really well for an adult — but then, she does work in one.

We dance around the subject of James for a long time by talking about poetry, and she hands me another book of haiku. I put it in my bag with the one I carry next to my wallet.

“James came to see me a few times,” she says after a moment. “He had these fascinating theories about the social networks of high school.”

I look out the window.

“But he had some rough days,” she says. “When people don’t understand something, exclusion or fear can drive their reactions.”

“Is that what it was?” I mutter.

“What’s that?” Ms Long peers at me.

“Nothing.”

She waits. Glasses clink behind the coffee bar.

“They didn’t know him,” I say. “They judged and harassed him and made school hell for him.”

“You were an antidote to that,” she says.

“But I saw them do it. Three idiots on the lacrosse team. They cornered him every chance they got.”

I put my mug down because my hands are shaking.

“They didn’t kill him — you know that, right?”

“Well, he wouldn’t be dead if they’d left him alone. And those kids at the funeral had the nerve to look sad — like they
knew
him. Those girls were sobbing like he was their brother!”

“Gretchen, you don’t hold the patent on grief.”

I want to smash something. “How can you defend them?”

Ms Long puts a hand on my knee. “I understand their reactions might seem false to you. I’m just saying that
everyone
is sad about James’s death. The whole school is affected.”

I take a breath. Two. “But why should the people who acted like he never existed, who laughed at him while he was standing in front of them, be able to grieve as if they’re as broken as I am?”

Ms Long closes her eyes, as if to focus, before she speaks. “It was an accident, Gretchen. The road was incredibly slippery. The car that hit James was going way too fast. It’s a tragedy and everyone knows that.”

“No, they don’t.” I snap. “
They
know nothing about tragedy.”

as if she’s seeing something new,

something hard to look at.

I don’t think what she’s seeing

is something I want to be.

“You need to get past this,” she whispers.

“Find a way — because I know you can —

to create a path out of this.

“I am here, your parents are here.

Any support you need you will have.

But you need to take the steps.”

She takes my hands,

hers cool while mine are too warm.

“Poets are made for this.

You have it in you. Find it.”

when my mother arrives right on time