Ms. Maynard put us in random pairs in global today because she said we were goofing off too much in our groups. I got put with Tabitha. Everyone’s complaining because we have to do graphs for this activity and we’re only supposed to do graphs in science and math. So then Ms. Maynard tries to explain about concepts that are universal to all subjects and blah di blah blah, but no one cares.
Tabitha says, “How did you set up your x-axis?”
“I put time there.”
“No, I know, but how did you divide your . . . make your divisions?”
“The increments?”
“Yeah, those.”
“I went by fives, with two little lines in between.”
Tabitha leans over my paper. “Oh,” she says. “That’s what I was going to do.”
“I think it’s the best way, because if you count—”
“Yeah, ten would be too much.”
“They wouldn’t fit.”
“Um-hm.” I can never tell how much Tabitha understands. Like, she’ll say she gets something, but then she always has this blank look. As if she’s waiting for you to explain more. But she never comes out and says she’s stuck.
We do our graphs.
“So, yeah,” Tabitha says. “You should have come to Evan’s show. It was hot.”
“I couldn’t go.”
“So I heard.”
“From who?”
“Why? Is it classified information?”
I think that’s Tabitha’s idea of a joke. I’m never sure with her. I can’t quite grasp her sense of humor.
“Not really,” I say.
“No, Derek told me.”
“Oh.”
When I got home from the Dorkbot finals, I called Derek and got his voice mail. I left a message. He never called back. Well, he called back Sunday afternoon when he woke up and said his phone was off all night.
“I didn’t know he was still hanging out with Sierra,” Tabitha says.
“What?”
“They went to the after party together.”
“Are you sure?” That can’t be right. Derek probably just ran into her there.
“Well, they came in together and left together so, yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
There’s no way that’s true.
Except, what if it is?
“Sorry to be the one to tell you,” Tabitha adds.
I go up to Ms. Maynard and get the bathroom pass. I know where Derek is and this can’t wait until after class.
I sneak down the hall to his classroom and stand outside the door so the kids can see me but the teacher can’t. I find Derek, but he’s not looking my way. A few other kids notice me, which means the teacher is going to realize someone’s standing here in a few seconds. I don’t have a lot of time.
Rachel is looking at me. I signal for her to get Derek. She throws her pencil at him.
Derek whips his head around. Rachel points to me. When Derek sees me, I motion for him to come out. I’m about to be exposed, so I run around the corner and wait.
A few minutes later, Derek comes out. He’s like, “What’s going on?”
“Did you go to Evan’s show with Sierra?”
“What?”
“Last Saturday. Did you go to the after party with her?”
“No. Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It kind of does, since someone’s lying about it.”
“Then why did it look like you went with her?”
“I don’t know. She was there, but so were a lot of other people. It was a group thing.”
“Did you leave with her?”
“No.” Derek rubs his face. “Whatever, some of us went out for pizza after.”
“Oh, and by some of you, do you mean she was included?”
“Yeah, but a bunch of us went.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d freak out.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because that’s exactly what you’re doing!”
“I’m not freaking out, I’m just asking.”
“No, you’re accusing me of something I didn’t do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Going to the show with Sierra!”
“You just told me that you didn’t leave with her and then you said you did. Which is it?”
“Okay, now you’re being crazy.” Derek moves closer to me. “Why are you being so crazy?”
“When someone tells me that my boyfriend went out with his ex, I guess that makes me upset. But it’s not crazy. Anyone else would feel the same way.”
“Well, I didn’t go with her. She was just there. It was nothing.”
It was not nothing. It was obviously something that he felt he needed to hide.
When you’re with someone and he really wants to be with you in this way where it’s like you’re the only girl in the world for him, then it’s obvious and everyone feels it. Even people watching you walking down the street feel it. You radiate this kind of happiness that’s infectious, like sunshine. It’s like you light up the whole world just from your own euphoric glow.
And then there’s me. I’m the opposite of sunshine. I’m a thunderstorm. A growling, perpetual thunderstorm, where the threat of rain never goes away and every day is bleak.
“I’m going back to class,” I say.
Even though it’s kind of mean, it makes me feel better to know that other people are suffering, too. Like Dirk. Because Dirk’s identity has been revealed.
Dirk is really Kelvin.
Last night Dirk ranted about how we’re trashing the planet. He totally dissed our country’s environmental policies and complained about how our school doesn’t even recycle. Which are exactly the kinds of things that Kelvin always complains about. Another clue is that Dirk plays these underground New York bands that no one’s ever heard of, and Kelvin always talks about seeing all these cool bands when he lived there. He was even saying how he knew the lead singer from this band Dirk played the night before.
Ever since the show when Dirk read a super-confidential letter that the principal wrote, some school administrators have been listening, waiting for him to slip so they can catch him. And now they’re convinced he’s Kelvin.
Except Kelvin doesn’t agree.
“It’s not me,” Kelvin tells us in global. He burst in late after I came back to class and now he’s just standing in front of the room. Ms. Maynard lets him talk. “But whoever he is, he rocks.”
I’m not convinced. That could just be Kelvin complimenting himself.
“Can I tell you how a roomful of administrators just locked me in the principal’s office and drilled me?” he says.
Of course, we all want to know what happened with that. So Kelvin tells us how he got called into the principal’s office and was questioned for, like, an hour. The principal threatened to have his room searched if he didn’t stop broadcasting his show. Kelvin told him that he’s not allowed to search his room without a warrant, but the principal said getting one wouldn’t be a problem.
“That is a complete violation of privacy,” Kelvin says. “Even if I was Dirk, which I’m not.”
I can’t believe Kelvin was just treated that way. Maybe the principal assumed that if he really was Dirk, he wouldn’t tell anyone about the interrogation.
Of course, everyone is ultra-ready for Dirk to come on that night. And right at eleven, he does.
“Okay, people,” Dirk starts. “Evidently, there’s been some debate about my identity. Someone has been falsely accused of being me. Trust me, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. But rest assured, Kelvin Rodriguez and Dirty Dirk are separate entities. And to prove it, let’s give him a call.”
Dirk calls Kelvin. I’m not sure if he called Kelvin earlier to tell him the plan, but Kelvin answers right away. He’s all, “Yo, Dirk, what’s good?”
“Chillaxin’.”
“A’ight.”
“So I
hear Mr. Principal Man gave you some inhumane treatment today.”
“And on school grounds, Dirk.”
“That’s just wrong.”
“Extremely wrong.”
“Profoundly wrong.”
“Could not have been more wrong.”
“Will you be reporting him to the school board?”
“Hmm. You know, I think I might! Do you think he’s listening?”
“Oh, I know he’s listening.”
“Oooh, let’s talk about him some more!”
“Now, now, Kelvin. That would be stooping to his level. Someone has to be the adult around here.”
I love it. I mean, I guess there’s a chance some technological enhancement could be going on and Kelvin really is Dirk, but I don’t think so. And I don’t think anyone will ever figure out who Dirk is. He’s obviously covered his tracks really well. Which I totally respect, but at the same time I’m wondering if he’s okay with never getting recognition for being who he actually is. But maybe that’s not his goal. Maybe his goal is to help other people in whatever way he can, just doing this. Maybe that’s enough to make him happy.
44
I magine this. You’re married to the love of your life. You have two kids and a great job and everything seems too perfect to be true. And then you realize it is.
The person you were married to for almost twenty years has been having an affair. Your kids aren’t in your life the way they used to be. And the house you’ve lived in all this time is a distant memory.
Dad’s condo complex looks exactly like an enormous pair of dice. They’re these two big, blocky buildings, painted white with black circles here and there. Who designs something like this? Didn’t they realize they were designing a big pair of dice? The whole thing is warped. And the fact that my dad lives here now is beyond warped.
Visiting Dad has gotten less strange, but it still feels like I’m in a movie or something, playing the role of the girl whose dad moved out. Sometimes Sandra and I both come over, but today it’s just me. Sitting on his new couch, I’m impressed that he obviously cleaned for my visit. But underneath the sunlight and colorful couch pillows, there’s something cold and lonely. It’s sad that he has to live here, away from us. All closed off in this impersonal box while everything he used to love is twenty minutes away.
“Do you want something to drink?” Dad asks from the kitchen, which is actually the other side of the living room.
“Okay. What do you have?”
“What don’t I have?” He whips open the refrigerator door to reveal an abundance of beverages. “We have apple juice, grape juice, iced tea, Jones soda, orange soda—”
“Why do you have so many drinks?”
“I get thirsty sometimes.”
“Obviously.” I scan the endless rows of bottles and cans.
Dad goes, “Thanks for coming over.”
“Thanks for wanting me over.”
We go down to the beach and walk to the lighthouse. It’s this thing we’ve been doing for as long as I can remember. There’s a quote I heard a long time ago, something my dad told me. It’s about how you’re like a lighthouse, always searching far into the distance. But the thing you’re looking for is usually close to you and always has been. That’s why you have to look within yourself to find answers instead of searching beyond.
I cuff my jeans and take off my flip-flops so I can walk in the water. It’s way too cold, so I retreat to the dry sand. Dad walks on the wet sand.
“How are things at home?” Dad asks.
“Bad.”
“You shouldn’t blame your mother.”
That’s even sadder than his apartment. Dad calling Mom “your mother.” That’s what one parent says when they hate the other one.
“How can you be so nice about this?” I go. “Aren’t you mad?”
Dad picks up one of those smooth, black stones he likes. He still collects the black ones and I still collect the white ones.
“I was mad at first,” he says. “But not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“It wasn’t really about forgiving her for her benefit. I needed to forgive her so I could move on. And time helps.”
I know he’s right, but I don’t get it. How can things go away and feelings change so drastically just because some time passed by? How can time change what happened?
We walk some more. I find three white stones. I put them in my pocket, where they’ll be safe.
“Your mother’s trying,” Dad says. “You should give her a chance.”
I want to be the kind of person who can do that. Move on and forgive people and be healthy and happy. It seems like an easy thing to do in my head. But it’s not so easy when you try it in real life.
45
This life thing is just too hard. Like right now? All I can do is lie here on my bed, staring out the window. I can’t make myself do the simplest things anymore. Like get out of bed, go to my desk, and start my homework. I can already tell tonight is going to be a total failure. Just like every other night this week.
I haven’t been doing my homework. Sometimes I do some of it, the easier assignments and stuff, but most of it isn’t getting done. And it’s like there’s nothing I can do about it. Somewhere under all this pain I want to do my homework, but that wanting is a tiny light far away that I can barely see. I’m slipping and there’s nothing to grab on to. It’s a scary, horrible feeling to be trapped in your own body when all you want to do is get out.
Every night, I sit in front of the TV for hours. It’s all I do now. I’ve only seen Derek one day this week. The rest of the time he’s stayed after for yearbook or whatever. So I stare at the TV, ignoring the homework I know I’m going to feel awful about not doing tomorrow. I can feel the depression pulling me under and it’s way easier to drown than to fight it.
I’m tired. Really tired. The kind of tired you can feel in your bones. I’m sleeping eleven or twelve hours a night, sometimes more on weekends. The first thing I do when I get home from school is crash on my bed and sleep until dinner. Then I watch TV until it’s time to go to sleep again.
My mom’s in her own world and can’t see how things are changing around her. She gave up on convincing me to forgive her, which is how she always reacts when I give her attitude for long enough. Dad can take it for as long as I can bring it, but Mom crumples under that kind of pressure. I’m sure she’s happier now, not worrying about me anymore. It gives her more time to focus on Jack. And most nights she gets home really late, so she doesn’t know how bad I’m feeling. Or maybe she can sense it and she’s avoiding me on purpose. Maybe she thinks depression is contagious. So Mom’s being more distant when I need her the most. But I’m too tired to clue her in. And I just don’t have the energy to talk to Dad.
I’m fading away into my nap. Except this time, just when I’m drifting off to sleep, I snap my eyes open. This is no way to live. I have to fight this if I want to survive. There’s no way I’m sinking back into the darkness.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed and sit up. My head hurts. Plus I’m dizzy. Maybe I have a brain tumor. I probably have a brain tumor and only two more days to live. What would you do if you only had two more days to live? Then again, if you’re going to die anyway, what’s the point? It’s not going to matter what you did before if you’re dead.
There’s a pink fluffy thing on my wall. I don’t even remember putting it there. I hate pink fluffy things. I want to burn all pink fluffy things.
My room looks like someone else lives here. Did I seriously hang up all of this junk on my walls? It’s making me even dizzier, seeing all of the collages and writing and posters and photos and . . . what is all this?
I start with the corner of one wall that has the most collage action. I start ripping everything down.
Sandra’s like, “What are you doing?”
“Go away.” Oh, that’s another thing. I’m in this perpetual stank mood. It’s like I’m annoyed with everybody, eve
n when they’re just trying to help.
Sandra is unfazed. She goes, “Why are you ripping your stuff down?”
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“Maybe when the door’s not already open.” She watches me yank a collage apart. “But it took you so long to do that!” she yells.
“I can hear you. You don’t have to yell.”
“You’re crazy! Why are you doing that?”
“I’m redecorating.”
“Are you repainting? Because Mom already asked you if you wanted to repaint when I—”
“When you redid your room last year, I know.” Sandra’s still bitter because she picked out a color that she supposedly loved and then she decided she loved a different color way more after her walls were already repainted. But Mom wouldn’t let her change the color because the paint was expensive. So whenever she doesn’t get her way, Sandra still brings up the travesty of how she wasn’t allowed to switch from Tropical Breeze to Valentine Pink.
“She said it was your last chance if you wanted to change your room,” Sandra reminds me.
“I know.”
“So then why are you allowed to redo it now?”
“Because I’m special.”
“That’s not fair. Mom!” Sandra stomps down the stairs. She’s such a drama queen. I didn’t even say I was repainting. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.
I keep ripping stuff off my wall. I’m not throwing everything away, though. There’s some stuff I want to keep, so I pull the tape away carefully from around those things. This is going to take a really long time.
A few minutes later, Mom comes in. “Sandra tells me you’re ripping your room apart.”
“I’m redecorating.”