Ziggy, Stardust and Me Page 3

  The good news: The room’s been in total darkness since class started. Makes it that much easier to disappear in the shadows and be forgotten amongst the Ape Troop.

  The bad news: Today’s special guest star is Officer Andrews from the Creve Coeur Police Department, hosting an exclusive screening of some archaic filmstrip from the fifties. It’s like we’re watching one of my family’s old home movies:

  “What Jimmy didn’t know was that Ralph was sick. A sickness that was not visible like smallpox. But no less dangerous or contagious. A sickness of the mind . . .”

  A mustached man with dark sunglasses smirks and skips on the screen. “You see, Ralph was a homosexual. A person who demands an intimate relationship with members of their own sex. And Ralph is about to be arrested.”

  Apes grunt and giggle and whisper strategic plans for their upcoming prom-date sexcapades. I sit in the middle, a driveling ferret that’s played with every so often when they remember I’m there. Coach Peterson lounges in the corner reading The Godfather, oblivious as always.

  “Public restrooms can often be a hangout for the homosexual.” Two boys skip off the screen. “Be careful who lurks in the shadows . . .”

  SPLAT. Some Ape nails me in the back of the head with a slimy spitball. It slithers down my neck. A few more grunts. I do not flinch; I do not turn around. Best to ignore. A few desk neighbors I sometimes play hangman with turn their backs on me, snickering.

  I know why.

  “One never knows when the homosexual is about. He may appear normal and it may be too late to realize he is mentally ill. BOYS, BEWARE.”

  The filmstrip flipflipflips in the background; the screen flashes a bright white, blinding us. Officer Andrews saunters to the front, eclipsing the room. It’s possible they modeled the Incredible Hulk after him. “Folks, this is not a game,” he booms. “These guys, they’re dangerous. Pedophiles. Pathological. Sick. They’ll do anything to get what they want. And when they want you, you don’t have a prayer in hell.”

  A palpable silence in the room.

  “Any questions?” I take it back: He looks like Mr. Potato Head. Like some kid forgot to put his lips on. All I see is a thick mustache in their place.

  No one moves. Except I guess the Ape who nailed me in the head shoots his hand up.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you still get arrested?” he asks.

  “Bet your ass, kid,” he says. “You get caught, you’re going to jail. Period.”

  “Like Jonathan’s uncle?”

  The Apes pound their chests and grunt so loud Coach Peterson actually glances up from his book. I slink farther in my seat, intensely enthralled by the ratted curlicues left behind in the spirals of my notebook.

  “Hey hey hey . . .” Officer Andrews says. “Settle down . . . settle down . . .” I know he’s looking at me. I know because he’s the one who arrested my Uncle-Who-Cannot-Be-Named Collins ten years ago. And because it’s a small town, the story is an everlasting scar on our family’s name. Dad’s still flipped out about it.

  All I know is this: My aunt Marie and uncle Blank were picnicking on the beach at Creve Coeur Lake when my uncle walked into a public bathroom and, while standing at the sink, touched the shoulder of Hulk-man Andrews here. Next thing you know—CH-CLINK—he’s being carted off. Aunt Marie thought he’d been kidnapped when he never returned, so she went to the police to report him missing and they told her why he was there. She was so humiliated, she took two razor blades to her wrist a week later, and these combined incidents threw my Uncle-Who-Cannot-Be-Named over the cuckoo’s nest. All because of a single touch.

  “Settle your asses down,” he says. “Let it be a lesson to all you boys. Keep your eyes open, report any suspicious activity, and beware.”

  I hear nothing else; I don’t even look at him. I’m one wrong move away from sharing a room with my Forgotten Uncle, so I keep my eyes down and play dead for the rest of class.

  Officer Andrews eventually flips on another filmstrip, this one about how to properly put on condoms. “You gotta put it on, before you put it in!” This throws the Apes into a hormonal frenzy, but at least their attention’s been diverted—

  That’s when I see it: His scuffed-to-hell Converse scoot across the floor and dart away. A folded piece of paper is left in their place. And scribbled on top:

  To my Toilet Time-Traveling Bud

  Oh man. The new kid’s sitting behind me? When did he sneak in? Must’ve spaced out again. It’s too dark in here to see anything anyway but WHAT IS THIS PIECE OF PAPER?! I slap my shoe on top of it and wait. I want to turn around, but I dare not move. Best to stay still, to stay forgotten . . .

  Minutes later, the bell rings. Lights buzzzzz and flicker on. I slink further in my seat. As the Apes bumble away, I slowly pick up the paper and unfold it to read:

  FORGET EM. WHERE TO NEXT?

  When I look around to thank him, he’s already gone.

  5.

  AFTER LUNCH. FIFTH PERIOD. English Lit with Mr. Dulick. Honors. I say this not to be an asshole, but because (a) it’s my only honors class and (b) it’s my favorite class.

  Anyway. I’m pretty sure I just created a tsunami in Vietnam with my empty-stomach gurgles. And why does it happen when it’s most quiet in the classroom? A few girls giggle. I look around to see what idiot is causing a ruckus.

  Quick rewind: Just before lunch, as I slinked through the halls to my private bathroom booth, Mr. Dulick noticed I didn’t have a tray of food and asked me why. I told him about Scotty. Not to be a rat, but because I still had to get that dollar back: if not to save me, to save all of humanity from the Wrath of Dad. So when the final bell rang for class to start, Mr. Dulick sat on the edge of his desk, tugged at his flower-power polyester, and with his arms folded simply said, “Beam it back, Scotty.” So cool.

  Now we wait.

  Scotty grunts, smooths his hair back with his fingers.

  “Come on, man, life’s too short for this kinda shit.” Mr. Dulick, the teacher in our high school closest to our age, is also the only teacher who allows us to cuss in class. With one rule: It has to accentuate a passionate belief.

  Scotty huffs for all the class to hear as he empties out the pockets of his red-and-white letterman jacket. And each thing is like a countdown on New Year’s Eve:

  5) A condom

  4) A pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum

  3) A rumpled pack of Camel cigarettes

  2) A Blues Note Tavern matchbook

  1) My wadded-up dollar bill!

  I almost cry. I swear a chorus of angels starts singing from the clouds Dulick painted on the ceiling. Scotty slaps the dollar in my palm, and through gritted teeth whispers, “Faggot,” before turning back to face the front. Whatever. I can just make out the scrawled heart overlaying Washington’s ascot as I stuff it back in my pocket.

  GURRRRRGLE. Dammit. The noise is so loud I make sure I haven’t split my desk table in half before looking around again. This would be the moment I’d see Starla give me a reassuring smile to put my mind at ease. But she’s still MIA. Sick maybe? Abducted by aliens? The mind boggles.

  We stare at Mr. Dulick; he stares at the ceiling. His face is extra-dewy, with thick sideburns glistening on his cheeks, and his eyes—normally bright blue—are full of red squiggles. Secret: He smokes a lot of grass.

  Aaron Worthington, my desk neighbor, who’s sometimes called Aaron Worthlesston because his father gambled all their money away and now they live by the lake, elbows me. He puts his fingers up to his mouth and sucks in real deep like he’s smoking and choking on a joint, then laughs.

  Jane-Anne Halstead giggles next to him. They call her Firecrotch either because (a) her hair is a crazy bright red, or (b) because she got caught having sex under the stadium bleachers one day and for weeks she couldn’t stop scratching herself.

  I
ignore them both and stare at Mr. Dulick. He swishes some brown curls behind his ears, then looks out the window. The trees outside sway, brushing the sky with little pink flowers that pirouette from their branches. The last signs of spring.

  Nobody moves.

  Everyone stares at him, then at each other, then back to him.

  Mr. Dulick wipes his eyes. Is he crying?

  “To fly as fast as thought, to anywhere that is, you must begin by knowing that you have already arrived,” he writes with orange chalk.

  “Five years,” he shouts. Jane-Anne jumps. “That’s all, man. Five frigging years.” We stare unblinking, frozen in time and space, wondering, waiting . . .

  “The planet. Mother Earth, man, you know? Us. We’re all dying. Our resources. They’re just running out.” He ambles around the desk. “The pollution, the people, it’s all too much. And there aren’t enough resources to help. Five years, man. That’s it. That’s what they say is left of us. Nineteen seventy-eight’s our last year on Earth . . .”

  Jane-Anne starts crying. And a few other whimpers echo through the otherwise still and silent room. I don’t blink. Afraid if I do, I’ll miss something.

  Mr. Dulick presses his hands against his head, squeezing them tight, then lifts them away with his fingers spread wide and—“POOF. All gone. Everything. The A-bomb, man, it had nothing on this. Sneaking up on us this whole damn time . . .” He shakes his head and looks out the window again.

  The whimpers in the classroom grow louder. He doesn’t hear, stuck in his mind someplace else. It’s Lacey Tarrington, in the first row, who raises her hand, and after not being seen or called on by him, clears her throat to speak for us all, “Mr. Dulick, sir . . . you’re scaring me.”

  He snaps back. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—Oh man.” His hands forage through his thick curls. Two huge pit stains look like a Rorschach test under his arms: I’m thinking bat wings.

  “Listen, I’ve been reading this book,” he says. “This world. It’s become overpopulated. We’ve hit our limit. We can’t keep up. But listen—” He flies behind his desk. “This,” he says, pointing to the quote. “This is how we will survive. This is how you can make a difference. Now. To change all that. This.”

  He’s smiling again, gazing into our eyes. Eyes still shell-shocked from whatever just happened. Dulick’s known for Shakespearean-quality dramatics, but this is over the top even for him.

  “You guys,” he says. “You guys are all so beautiful, man. You know that, right? You are the future. You are the ones who can change all this. You.”

  I don’t believe him. And as he scans each face, inching ever closer to mine, I dart my head down, whistling “The Girl from Ipanema” in my head.

  Then: The classroom door creaks open, and a gigantic needle scratches across the planet’s vinyl. Because as Mr. Dulick leans against the blackboard, I see the scuffed-to-hell Chucks saunter in.

  “Heyheyhey,” Dulick says. “You made it!”

  Time stops.

  He stands in the doorway in bright blue jeans and a white tank that both cling a little too tight. And his long black hair and amber skin radiate against the sun streaming through the open blinds.

  Oh . . . man.

  He hands over a pink slip of paper, his eyes locked on Mr. Dulick.

  Dulick scans the note, then grabs the new boy in a tight embrace. “Welcome, man, welcome. I’m so happy you’re finally here. We’re lucky to have you, Webster.”

  He mumbles something into Dulick’s chest, arms dangling at his sides.

  Dulick pulls away. “What’s that, my man?”

  “Web. That’s it. That’s my name.”

  “Me Lone Ranger,” Scotty says. Idiot.

  Everyone laughs, of course. Almost everyone.

  “That’s enough,” says Dulick. “Webster, why don’t you—”

  “Web,” he says, not backing down. This kid’s tough.

  “Web. Sorry. Why don’t you take a seat. We’ll try to catch you up.”

  He shuffles to the back of the room, and as he passes me I lift a small Hey, it’s totally far-out that we met in the bathroom smile, but I don’t think he notices. Instead, he slumps into the chair a few down from Starla’s empty seat.

  Mr. Dulick claps his hands. “Let’s get to it, shall we? Jonathan Livingston Seagull.”

  I half listen, tracing my fingers along the seagull’s feathers on the book’s cover, and as I trace, I ever-so-maybe-not-at-all casually inch my head around to get a better look at him.

  He has no books, no satchel, no pencils, nothing. He just sits. Staring at the desktop. A castaway on his own Desk Island. Something about him looks sad, lost even. But also, it’s strange: He shimmers. Like a transporter or—

  His eyes flit up, smacking mine. I quickly look away.

  My stomach rumbles again, but I ignore it. My wrists start stinging: another one of Dr. Evelyn’s enduring side effects. I ignore that, too.

  His neighbor, Samantha Jordan, the Quintessential Queen of Everything, has pushed her books and macramé purse as far away from him as she can. If Starla were around, she’d shove all her stuff over in its place. If I had any nerve at all, I’d walk over and do the same.

  But I don’t.

  Instead I stare, and soon my eyes glaze over and—

  I fly over Desk Island, soaring through the fake painted clouds.

  The new boy is far ahead of me. He’s been doing this a long time, you can tell, a master flier: loop-de-loos and somersaults and skyward bolts at breakneck speed. He looks back to make sure I’m okay. “Look at you!” he yells. “Heard you were a rock-n-roll star, man, but didn’t know you could fly, too! You’re doing beautifully!” “Oh yeahyeahyeah,” I yell back. “I come from the stars, so it’s easy-peasy for little ol’ measy. Follow me, I’ll show you where I’m—”

  “Earth to Mr. Collins. You there?” We’re back in the classroom. “Jonathan?” And Dulick’s yelling my name. The new boy stares back, a slight smile curved on one side. I flip around, wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Hey, man, you ever going to answer me or are you just waiting for the bell to ring?”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Jonathan . . . Jonathan Livingston . . . ?”

  “Are you talking about me or the book?”

  Titters all around. Cheeks flush. I turn myself into a seagull and flap madly through the room, poking eyes out with my beak like everyone’s Tippi Frigging Hedren from that scary Birds movie, before busting through the window and disappearing in the clouds forever.

  “Both,” Dulick says. “I’m asking you, Jonathan Collins, to talk to me about the paragraph in Jonathan Livingston Seagull. You know, the book we’ve been reading the past few weeks?”

  I don’t move. More titters. GUURRRGGGLLLE. Dammit. I look around. Aaron snickers and points at me.

  “Soooo . . .” Dulick’s sitting on the edge of his desk, book in hand opened to some page I do not know, radiating a smile. Okay, he’s a good guy.

  “How ’bout this,” he says. “Why don’t you come up here and read it for us. Refresh our memory.”

  He’s an evil villain.

  I’ve made it the entire school year without once having to stand up in front of the class, and now with only three weeks left to go my worst nightmare’s coming true.

  “Hellooooo . . . lost in spaaaaccceeee . . .” Aaron raps his knuckles on the table and chuckles. He has a piece of spinach stuck in his teeth, but I don’t tell him. Asshole. Some friend. I mean, I guess we aren’t friend friends, but at least we’ve never broken the unspoken “protect your classroom neighbor” rule.

  I scrape my chair against the linoleum. My brain screams RUN; my feet drag me toward Dulick; the result is some weird twitchy thing I can’t seem to control. I somehow make it to the front of the room without high-kicking someone in the face. I’m defi
nitely short-circuiting.

  Mr. Dulick hands me his book—I forgot to bring mine up with me—and whispers, “You got this, man.”

  I clear my throat. In my head my voice is Winston Churchill orating to a crowd of thousands. Instead it comes out like Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In:

  “‘You can go to any place and to any time that you wish to go . . . I’ve gone everywhere and everywhen I can think of . . . The gulls who scorn perfection for the sake of travel go nowhere, slowly. Those who put aside travel for the sake of perfection go anywhere, instantly . . .’”

  Mr. Dulick’s crying again. I’m not sure the rest of the class notices, though. Being so close, I can feel the heat from his face. Secret: His breath does in fact smell like grass.

  “Should I go on?” I ask.

  The second he opens his mouth I’m ready to dart back to my seat. Instead he says, “What do you think it means, man?”

  “Oh. Uh. I don’t know.” I don’t even know what I just read. Too focused on not puking all over Lacey Tarrington. Or creating a sinkhole in the classroom from my stomach rumbles.

  “Sure you do. Think about it,” he says. “Read it again if you have to.”

  “I guess . . . I don’t know . . . I guess it means when you put a limit on something, you’re trapped. But if you think bigger, you’re free.” I keep my eyes on the book. Mr. Dulick doesn’t move, so I’m sure it makes no sense. The giggles in class confirm it. “I mean, I don’t know . . . I’m probably wrong. Right?”

  “No, my man. You are very right.” I lift my eyes. “Very good, Jonathan. With a name like a seagull, you’re going to fly freakin’ far.”

  “Can I sit down now?”

  “Yes, you may sit down.”

  Without looking at anyone, and carefully stepping over Scotty’s canary-yellow Pumas that he’d stuck out in the aisle, I walk back to my desk and sit quietly for the rest of class, not moving an inch.