Every Exquisite Thing

  “Booker is an old man. You can’t ask an old man to advise you on something that a young man needs to do. But you can read The Bubblegum Reaper. You can sure do that. And I’ve read it a million times!”

  A mania had taken up residence in Alex’s eyes. It frightened me, but at the same time, it was attractive—the honesty he brought to the conversation. Not even jail could make him put on a mask and lie for everyone else. It was madness, plain and simple, but an alluring sort. It was like standing next to a great fire that dances and warms and illuminates everything—but it also threatens to consume you in the process. How much more of this could I take?

  Finally, Officer Damon came back and said we had to leave.

  Alex gripped the bars of the prison cell and in a calm voice simply stated, “I love you, Nanette.”

  A boy had never before proclaimed his love for me like that, and I froze.

  We were in a jail.

  Oliver and the police officer were there.

  But mostly, I wasn’t sure whether I loved Alex anymore, and I didn’t want to lie, so I just nodded and followed the officer out of the police station.

  “Why do you have a black ribbon on your thumb?” Oliver asked the officer when he raised his left hand to buzz us out.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” I said to the officer.

  “No,” he said. “It’s okay. I tie it there so people will ask me that exact question. My son was abducted and killed ten years ago. He was six years old. Hence the sixth.” One at a time, Officer Damon wiggled the fingers and thumb of his right hand. Then he held up the sixth digit—his left thumb. “Six. Would’ve been about your age now, Nanette. Joshua was walking home from school. He was snatched right in broad daylight. Pulled into a van and then driven away. Just like that—my son was gone. I can’t bring Joshua back to life, but I can be a police officer, trying to keep the neighborhood safe. I went into law enforcement because of that incident.”

  “So you didn’t beat up the abductor?” Oliver said. “That’s the moral of the story? You did the opposite of what Alex did.”

  “I wanted to kill my son’s abductor. He’s in jail now. For life. But no, I didn’t beat him up. I try to protect others and help kids like your friend Alex back there. People pay a heavy cost for bad decisions. Oftentimes, it’s strangers you hurt most.”

  “I’m sorry your son was taken from you,” I said.

  Officer Damon nodded and said, “Your friend Alex. He made a bad decision. He doesn’t have to make a string of them.”

  Oliver and I both nodded and left.

  I saw the kid home and told him again that the bullies wouldn’t be after him now that things had gotten too public, and even though Alex’s plan was foolish, it probably would work out the way he wanted it to—meaning Oliver would stop being bullied. “Everyone’s paying attention now,” I said.

  When I had him back in his bedroom, Oliver looked through his window and said, “If Alex gets locked up for a long time—”

  “He’s not going to—”

  “But if he does, will you help me solve the mystery?”

  “What mystery?”

  “The Bubblegum Reaper. The Thatch twins. Sandra Tackett.”

  “Yeah, I will,” I said.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  In spite of our last sour meeting, I pedaled my bike to Booker’s and was relieved when he seemed happy to see me.

  “My god, Nanette, why are you shaking like that? Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but something awful has happened.”

  “Come inside. Tell me everything.”

  We sat down in his living room, and the words poured out of me. Booker grew more and more tense—like a catapult being tightened before it slingshots its load at an enemy.

  When I finished, Booker shook his head. “So he’s using my novel as an excuse to go all vigilante on the world. Doesn’t he see that I’m a peaceful man now? Why doesn’t he emulate me instead of my literary character? That’s why I pulled the book off the shelves in the first place. Everyone started to go crazy after they read it!”

  It was a rare moment of honesty from Booker about The Bubblegum Reaper, so I decided to push the issue. “It wasn’t because Louise Tackett died? Your refusing to reprint The Bubblegum Reaper?”

  “Of course not! I can’t believe Alex is in jail. How could this have gone so horribly wrong again? It’s like I’m cursed!”

  “What do you mean, ‘again’?” I said.

  “Oh, there have been others.”

  “Others?”

  “Young men who have done stupid things after reading my novel. I really thought Alex was smarter than that. That he understood. I’ve been so selective lately. Do you know how many people contact me about my book? I only interact with the peace-loving ones now. And you—you of all people should have understood and prevented this.”

  I thought about Alex’s violent poetry—wondered how much Booker had read, or had Alex only shown Booker what the old man wanted to read? Then I said, “Understood what?”

  “That I help young people with words! Words can help, and kindness and letters and dinners and games of Scrabble and love and talking with others who feel the way you do and sitting in the garden with Don Quixote. We can all learn a great deal from turtles! The book makes you feel. You have to figure out the feelings for yourself. You ponder. Discuss. Reread. And if you do it right, you have a catharsis. That’s supposed to make you feel better. It’s a soul-cleansing! Purification. That’s what catharsis means in Greek. Don’t they teach you anything in high school these days? What’s Oliver going to do if Alex ends up in jail? Does he really think the kid would be better off? Oliver would choose spending quality time with Alex even if it meant being bullied. How obtuse can a young person be? I’m not taking the blame for this one. I never encouraged violence. No one would blame Shakespeare if kids started drinking hemlock and killing each other with broadswords. Why do I even try with you young people? I think I may be done with teenagers altogether. We may just be a doomed species. Maybe we all should give up. Quit. Wrigley was right about that. What’s the point of trying to communicate when it leads to misunderstanding and violence? Even the smart kids don’t get it. And Alex is brilliant!”

  He was red hot and raving.

  Practically foaming at the mouth.

  He was even scarier than when I’d pressed him about the Tackett twins.

  Suddenly, Booker was sounding a lot like all the other adults in my life—defensive, exhausted, resigned—and I didn’t like it. It made me trust him less. And depressed the hell out of me.

  “I’m going to go now, Booker. Okay?”

  “Very well. Just go home, then. Quit on me! And never come back. I’m no good for your type—youth.”

  I was stunned. “Are you defriending me? Like, in real life?”

  “In light of recent events, what else is there to do? I’ll spare us both any further difficulties. You and me—we’re finished,” he said, in a way that was mean. Palms up. Shoulders raised. Eyes squinted. I could feel the anxiety and frustration coming off him. I needed to get away, which was a new feeling, because I had always felt calm around Booker before—drawn to him.

  I shrugged and then left.

  My eyes started to water on the ride home—and it wasn’t because of the wind.

  When I arrived at my house, my father was in our living room, sitting on the opposite side of the same white couch my mother was occupying.

  “Why did you skip school?” they said, almost in unison. “Where have you been?”

  “You know what? I’m going to tell you the truth,” I said, and then I erupted, telling them everything—from Shannon spreading rumors about me being a lesbian, my hatred of soccer, my love of The Bubblegum Reaper, kissing Mr. Graves, how practically all the girls on the soccer team were alcoholic sexpots, my love affair with Alex, his defending little kids and ending up in jail, all the way to my not being sure t
hat I actually even wanted to go to college next year. “The truth is I’m not sure about anything anymore. I have no idea what I want to do tomorrow let alone next year or any year after that and now you two are splitting up and it’s like I’m starting from scratch with absolutely no map and I’m scared, okay! I’m fucking scared!”

  I started ugly crying, and I couldn’t stop.

  It felt like so many years’ worth of anxiety and worry were trying to escape all at once—maybe like an emotional volcano, only my mom and dad, they didn’t run away to save themselves but sprinted right into my lava. They both jumped up off the couch and wrapped their arms around me even though it meant touching each other. We stayed like that for a long time, and it felt good—almost enough to justify everything that had precipitated it, but not quite.

  Later, in my room, I looked up the word obtuse.

  Imperceptive is a synonym.

  Maybe I was obtuse.

  18

  My Fist Rattling the Skull

  THERE IS POWER IN KNOWING

  By Alex Redmer

  I went to the homes of four fathers

  Whose boys were terrorizing

  A friend of mine

  And I said, “Can you make it stop?”

  “Make WHAT stop?” they said

  “The terrorizing,” I said

  All four laughed like I had

  Told the greatest joke

  Next, platitudes were offered

  Like cricket-sized Band-Aids

  To the bleeding man

  Whose hand has been cut off

  “Boys will be boys”

  “Kids need to learn to fend for themselves”

  “Just part of growing up”

  “There are two sides to every story”

  “Not my boy”

  “What did he do to provoke them?”

  And when the little terrorizers

  Were forced to face me

  They proved to be liars gifted well

  Beyond their years

  Who could light up their parents’ faces

  With a powerful, blinding pride

  The glow of which

  Couldn’t be beat

  And it was then that I

  Realized why these pretty boys

  Felt invincible, because

  I envied the way their fathers

  Believed in them, defended them

  Even though they were lying

  So when I realized I had lost

  And would continue to lose

  Forever and ever and ever

  I took a swing at the fourth

  Father—having already endured

  The first three, whose bleached teeth

  Glistened in mockery

  Which needed to be answered

  And spit flew from his mouth

  When his head jerked back

  My fist rattling the skull

  Of that pretty man maker of pretty boys

  He dropped to his knees

  No longer seeing the glow

  And his son began to cry

  Like pretty boys do

  As I asked him how it felt to

  See someone you loved hurt

  He had no answer

  Of course

  Because he had never known

  Before

  But

  Now

  He

  Knows

  There is power in knowing

  And I’m sure his pretty boy friends

  Now

  Know

  Too

  PART TWO

  19

  Kill the I

  Alex is being sent to a school for troubled boys in western Pennsylvania. In orange crayon, he writes me a multipage letter and sends it via the United States Postal Service. The words are scrawled much too big and messy and wild and heavy-handed, and say that Alex is technically not allowed to communicate with me (or anyone) now. His iPhone and computer have been confiscated by his father, who is also selling his Jeep. Alex was made to apologize to Mr. Mandrake, who agreed to drop the assault and harassment charges if Alex leaves for reform school immediately and stays there for at least the remainder of the school year. Reform school costs a lot of money, Alex’s father keeps saying over and over again. “Roughly the cost of a brand-new Jeep.”

  What else is there to say? Alex writes toward the end. Should I ask you to wait for me like I’m a soldier headed to war? I don’t know what will happen to me “out west.” (Maybe I am like a prospector chasing gold, leaving his lady behind? Ha-ha!) I’ve been told that I can “earn” the right to communicate with the outside world but will not be able to do that for at least six weeks from my “start date” and maybe even longer if I do not reform, which I am unlikely to do! I’m going to have to sneak this letter into the mail when my dad isn’t looking. He thinks you’re a bad influence on me. Hilarious! Especially since I know you don’t approve of my choices. You AGREE with my dad. But that’s adults. Senseless people. I don’t regret what I did. Maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know. I do already regret not being able to see you. I really do love you, Nanette. You are the best thing that has happened to me in quite some time. You are perfect just the way you are. The first flawless woman I’ve ever met. I’ll contact you when I can, but I completely understand if you can’t wait around for me. Can you look in on Oliver and maybe take him to see Sandra Tackett again? Solve the mystery of The Bubblegum Reaper, if only for the kid. Maybe you two can go to the movies—the good kind that they show at the art houses in Philly. Or take him to finally meet Booker, if you can talk the old man into it. I don’t think the pretty boys will be messing around with Oliver anymore. I’m happy to do time if it means putting the pretty boys in their place. And in the meantime (MEAN TIME! Get it?), don’t let the bastards get you down!!!!!!!

  There is a short poem added on as a P.S.

  ZOO MAN EXHIBIT

  By Alex Redmer

  Lions, giraffes, zebras

  King cobras, gorillas, camels

  Elephants, tigers, polar bears

  Killer whales, dolphins, eagles

  Llamas, cheetahs, orangutans

  Giant pandas, springboks, ostriches

  Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc.

  We cage and display

  All the animals in the world

  Regardless of what they do

  But maybe it’s only the best of men

  Who refuse to behave

  The ones who take a stand

  Who get locked away

  (Animals unite!)

  What am I supposed to do with those mad words?

  Alex’s act of violence and departure from me—do those make my first boyfriend one of the bastards, too?

  I don’t know.

  But I don’t want to date someone who punches other people’s dads in the face and then gets sent to reform school.

  I do not want to date a “Zoo Man” locked away, even if he does think I’m “flawless.”

  I thought I knew Alex, and what we had felt so right. For a while there, I was never surer about anything in my entire life. But Alex wasn’t who he seemed to be at first, which ironically is exactly what he claims to be against—posturing, or “pageantry,” as Wrigley says.

  My parents are up to speed now thanks to my screaming fit and have been very attentive—concerned enough to take me to see a therapist named Dr. June Westerfeld, who is youngish and insists on being called June instead of Dr. Westerfeld. June is skinny with long dirty-blond hair and vivid green eyes, and she wears tight yoga pants that show off her strong, well-shaped legs and tight sweaters that enhance the look of her small, young-looking boobs, and she also wears the perfect amount of makeup, which highlights her stunning cheekbones without drawing too much attention—all of which makes it hard to like this woman at first, especially because she has a well-respected practice in Center City Philadelphia, right around Rittenhouse Square, and seems to have everything figured out, unlike me, Nanette O’Hare, who has abso
lutely nothing solved. And so our conversations are very awkward at first. June asks endless questions, and I watch clouds pass by through the fourteenth-floor window. I’m not really trying to be a bitch; I just don’t have many answers these days.

  If words are air, I’m a flat tire.

  There is talk about me being an introvert and having a rebel personality that I had previously suppressed.

  When asked if in general it’s true that I do not like my classmates, I think, It’s like she’s asking if I have ten fingers as she looks at my hands or whether I require the regular intake of air through my nose or mouth as she watches me breathe.

  And yet I nod with enthusiasm.

  Just to be a bitch, I ask June why the word therapist can be changed to the rapist simply by adding a space after the e. “Do you rape minds?”

  Without breaking eye contact, June says she won’t waste time on pointless games meant to distract from the work at hand and looks displeased as we end our second session.

  June asks about The Bubblegum Reaper during my third visit, which lets me know that my parents have been filling in the blanks when I’m asked to sit in the waiting room at the end of my sessions, because I haven’t mentioned my favorite novel once during the first few appointments. Apparently, June would like to read The Bubblegum Reaper; this surprises but greatly pleases me. As a missionary for true good literature, I can’t help it. And because I have Mr. Graves’s paperback copy on me, we decide to photocopy all 227 pages right there in June’s office, disregarding the legalese printed at the beginning of the book, violating copyright law with authentic rebel fuck-all glee as the machine flashes repetitively and churns out pages full of a much younger Booker’s words.

  I enjoy our photocopying the novel more than seems reasonable, although I’m not sure why. Mine is almost a religious zeal. Maybe literature is my religion? Can being a missionary for fiction become my vocation? Maybe engaging with true art is a revolutionary act, as Mr. Graves once suggested. Booker may believe that there is no such thing as fiction, but Nanette O’Hare, well, she believes.

  For some reason, I start talking about Alex, telling June everything as we work. My parents pay three hundred dollars for the hour-long session even though we don’t do anything except make illegal photocopies and discuss my love life. Can such therapy actually help? June’s willingness to read The Bubblegum Reaper makes her seem a bit hipper than I originally thought. I wonder why my parents have not asked to read Booker’s novel. My parents are not rebels, I decide, and that is part of the problem, although I want my parents to be stable and remain committed to the very conventional idea of marriage until death do they part. The irony is not lost on me.