Finally the Duke turned around, and his eyes widened when he saw Gran. Gran realized the Duke was on the telephone. He held a large black receiver in his hand, its long spiral cord dangling on the ground.
“We have to do what we can,” the Duke said, and hung up. He stepped toward Gran. “Gran, how are you, my friend?” He looked at his watch. “You’re early, or I’m late.”
Gran looked at his watch. He was right on time. He’d been coming to the Duke’s office every day, at the same time, for a week at least.
“I’m sorry,” the Duke said. “You’re probably on time. Things have just been busy around here, with the sinkhole and all. You hungry?”
The Duke put a record on, and the music overtook the room. The Duke relaxed, and Gran did too, and when they were done eating, the Duke exhaled loudly. He was sitting on the couch and leaned toward Gran, who was sitting on a folding chair across from him.
“You seem sad,” he said.
Gran shrugged.
“Is it about what’s happening at school?” the Duke asked.
“Not really,” Gran said.
“Something at home?”
“I don’t know,” Gran said.
The Duke leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “My mom and dad used to fight. Maybe once a week, they’d argue to the point where my sisters and I had to leave. My parents made us stay upstairs while they fought, so we crawled out onto the roof and climbed down the latticework on the side of the house. We’d go to the river. You know the river, in the middle of town?”
Gran nodded.
“We’d throw sticks in the water for an hour or so, and then come home.”
The Duke brought his eyes back to Gran, and they were wet. “I don’t know if that helps you at all. But I know that at your age, you can feel powerless. And the powerlessness can make you angry.”
Seeing tears in the Duke’s eyes, and knowing how right he was about what Gran was feeling, Gran almost cried himself. But instead he got up quickly.
“I have to go,” he said, and left.
Gran sleepwalked through the rest of the day, and at home, he went straight to his room and stayed there until he fell asleep. His mother didn’t wake him up for dinner.
“You looked like you needed the rest,” she told him the next morning.
“You were talking a lot in your sleep,” Maisie said. “And kicking. And you punched your pillow. And who’s Catalina? You said her name a bunch of times.”
Catalina wasn’t at school that day. Not that Gran could see, at least, and that was just as well. He avoided the Duke too, though his feelings about the Duke were complicated. He wasn’t mad at the Duke, but Gran didn’t feel like talking about whatever the Duke wanted to talk about.
For the first time since Gran had come to Carousel Middle School, he joined the boys in the circle at lunch, and he stood while a boy ran from the other side, leapt, and kicked him in the chest. It hurt, but not as much as Gran had expected. Then it was his turn. He ran from his side of the circle to the boy opposite him, jumped, and kicked him in the chest. It felt good, but not as good as Gran had hoped.
The next day, where the kicking circle had been, there was a hole. A hole the exact circumference of the kicking circle. Gran arrived at school to find half the school circling the gaping chasm.
“Okay, show’s over,” Ms. Rhapsod said. She herded the kids away from the hole and into the school.
“My class, follow me,” she said. “We’re having a special program today.” Gran and the rest of his class followed her into the library and to the grid of study carrels at the back of the room. “Everyone take a desk.”
The carrels, a grid of cubicles, each built for one student to work on one computer, were an oddly comfortable place for Gran. There, he couldn’t be seen, and he could relax and work on lessons at his own pace.
Ms. Rhapsod went on: “The administration here at school is aware that recent developments involving gaping sinkholes and collapsing buildings might be troubling for some of you. So the school will be offering counseling to all students. Of course, due to budget cuts, we have no school counselor, so the district has provided us with an automated counseling system that you’ll be using today.”
Gran and the other students put on headsets that were attached to each cubicle. Each headset had a microphone on a cord that connected to the desk.
“This will be our morning,” Ms. Rhapsod said. “You’ll stay and be counseled by the machine until lunch. No getting up. No monkey business. Okay? Okay. Commence counseling.”
“Greetings, student,” a woman’s voice said through Gran’s headphones. It seemed to be a recording of an actual woman, as opposed to a robotic voice. The recorded voice explained that she would be offering 340 questions, and the answers provided by the listener would determine the direction of the questions that followed. “By the end of our session, I am confident that our conversation will help you…” there was a long pause, as if the computer was attaching the appropriate end to the sentence, “…cope with this difficult time.”
Gran waited for the first question, but realized the first thing he needed to cope with was his bladder. He needed to pee. He raised his hand.
Ms. Rhapsod shot him a sharp look and shook her head. She pointed to the headphones.
“How are you feeling today?” the voice in the headset said.
Gran answered, “Fine.”
“That’s good to hear,” the voice said. “Have you been troubled by…” again there was a pause as the computer sorted through possible ends to the question, “…recent events at your school or town?”
“No,” Gran said.
His bladder roared. He pushed his legs together. He could hold it. He was twelve years old. Of course he could hold it. If he got through the automated questions quickly enough, he might be allowed to leave class early.
“Have you found yourself unable to concentrate in school?” the voice said.
“No,” Gran answered.
“I’m noticing that your answers are monosyllabic,” the voice said. “This can be a sign of depression. Do you think you are depressed?”
Gran was stuck. The answer was no, he didn’t feel depressed, but he couldn’t answer with one word.
“I feel happy,” he said.
“What’s that? I didn’t catch it,” the voice said.
“I feel happy,” he repeated.
“What’s that? I didn’t catch it,” the voice said.
The automated system didn’t seem to be able to recognize this sentence. Gran tried another way of saying it.
“I’m okay.”
“I think I heard you say ‘I’m okay.’ Is that correct?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Hm,” the voice said, as if both disappointed and concerned. “I’m noticing that your answers are monosyllabic,” she said again. “This can be a sign of depression. Do you think you are depressed?”
“I feel happy,” he said again.
“Great. Happiness is a positive sign,” the voice said. “But sometimes happiness can also mask sadness. Especially when you are dealing with…recent events at your school or town.”
By now Gran’s bladder was screaming. He didn’t know how the system counted its questions—did “What’s that? I didn’t catch it” count as a question?—but he was sure he hadn’t made it far. As far as he could tell, he’d answered four. He raised his hand again. Again Ms. Rhapsod shot him a terrifying look. He lowered his hand.
“Sometimes events around us seem out of our control, and that’s okay,” the voice said. “You are a young person, and very little is within your control. You must release yourself from responsibility for these things and acknowledge your powerlessness to affect the adult world around you. Do you think you can do that?”
Gran didn’t know what to answer. Again trying to avoid one-word answers, he said, “I believe I can.”
“Did I hear you say ‘I play kick the can’?” the voice said.
This went on far longer than Gran’s bladder could hold back the tide. Somewhere in the middle of the session, Gran felt a warm fluid streaming down his leg. Even though he knew this might happen, when it did, there was a brief moment when he imagined it might be a flood overtaking the school. But he knew this was not the case. He knew it was his own doing. He was wetting his pants. And he couldn’t stop. He had no chance to make it to the bathroom in time to finish. He could only wait it out. Which he did, calmly, until he realized he was wearing khaki pants, and they would darken tragically.
At the end of the morning, after Gran and his soaked khakis had answered 340 questions from the automated counseling service, he watched as his classmates began to stand up.
All he needed to do was wait for them all to leave and then he’d race to the bathroom, or to the Duke’s office, or home. Anything. But then Ms. Rhapsod spoke.
“The counseling system has determined it best for the whole class to eat lunch together, as a bonding exercise. So let’s line up at the door.”
Gran’s cubicle was in the darkest corner of the library, so he thought he had a chance of hiding and avoiding notice. After all, Ms. Rhapsod hadn’t said his name since the day of the nicknames.
He kept his head low and listened to the movement of the class toward the door. In thirty seconds they would be gone. He counted to ten. Twenty.
“Who’s missing?” Ms. Rhapsod asked loudly.
“No one,” a student said. Gran knew this was the voice of Emma Thewlis, who sat in the front of the room and acted as a kind of assistant to Ms. Rhapsod.
“We have twenty-two students,” Ms. Rhapsod said. “And there are twenty-one lined up. Someone’s missing.”
Under normal circumstances, having the entire class unable to identify him as the missing student would have been upsetting, but at that moment, Gran’s invisibility gave him hope. He heard shuffling near the door, and was sure the class had left the library. He exhaled.
“Here he is!” a voice boomed from just behind him. He startled. It was Ms. Rhapsod. Her hand was now on his head, as if he were a carrot she was about to pick.
“Get up,” she said. “Alacrity, alacrity.”
“I can’t,” he said.
Gran decided he would appeal to the sympathy of this teacher: if she saw that he’d wet his pants, she would understand his need to wait till his classmates were gone. She would nod, would put her hand on his shoulder, say that she understood, and allow him to sneak away to the bathroom, to the nurse’s office, somewhere. So he pushed his chair back to reveal to her his soaked lap and leg. It was the first time he was seeing the damage himself. It was far more extensive than he’d imagined.
“What happened?” she asked, far too loudly.
“Nothing,” he whispered, and gestured to his lap again, making a downward gesture, to indicate the flow of water down to his shoes. He didn’t know how else to get her to understand what had happened. Wasn’t she a teacher? Shouldn’t she know something about situations like this?
“Okay, if it’s nothing,” she said, “then line up at the door. Before I have to give you a check.”
The checks were her system of demerits. Notice of each and every check was emailed to the student’s parents. Three checks in any given week meant you were sent to Mr. Juan, who was the school’s behavioral expert.
He knew his mother would be devastated by even one check, and she had had enough to deal with recently.
He stood.
“Alacrity!” Ms. Rhapsod said, and strode to the line at the door. Gran’s mind raced for a plan.
“Can I use the bathroom before lunch?” he asked.
“No, we’re already late,” she said.
He followed her to the line, staying directly behind her so the other students wouldn’t see what he’d done to his khakis.
It worked. It worked in part because he was hidden behind Ms. Rhapsod, and in part because none of the other students in the class were watching them approach. They weren’t the least bit interested in Gran, or where Gran was, or whether or not Gran had been found. They were ready for lunch.
So the line made its way down the hallway, past the sinkhole, and toward the cafeteria. Gran could see the double doors ahead, and knew that once he entered, anything could happen. Ms. Rhapsod would peel off and head to the teachers’ table, or return to the teachers’ lounge. She could offer no more protection.
And when she peeled off, the 380 kids in the cafeteria would see that Gran had wet his pants.
Then he had an idea.
If he could get himself to the trays, then he could slide himself down the cafeteria line, with his front facing away from the tables and kids. And then, in a stroke of brilliance, he had a second idea. If he could make it to the fridge containing the milk, then he could get a milk out and open it.
And spill it all over himself.
And if he could spill it all over himself, the darkness all over his khakis would look like milk, not urine. And anyone could spill milk. Everyone did spill milk.
And that is how it happened.
Ms. Rhapsod peeled off. Gran rushed to the trays, pushing himself against the rails. He looked around. No one had seen him. He put a bowl of chili on his tray. He got a side salad. And then he grabbed two milks, opened one—as if he was so thirsty for 2 percent he couldn’t wait—and made a show of spilling it all over his pants.
“Aw man!” he roared.
Because he was near invisible, not a lot of people cared. He heard someone say “Smooth!” and someone else giggle, but that was it. He grabbed some napkins, dried his legs a bit, and then, at the closest table, he sat down with his tray.
He felt pretty proud of himself. No one, it seemed, had noticed. He sat there, eating his chili—because he wanted to act so casual that even with a wet lap he couldn’t be torn away from his delicious lunch—and while he ate, he actually did feel pretty good. He had pulled off a fairly ludicrous plan to disguise a truly horrific mishap. It had worked. All was reset to zero. To neutral.
He sat, eating his chili with great nonchalance, occasionally sweeping his eyes around the room to be sure no one was secretly laughing at him. He saw no one looking his way. No one cared.
But then he saw one pair of eyes watching him. They were tilted in amusement, and the mouth below these eyes was set in a smirk.
It was Catalina Catalan.
He looked down. His neck burned, his face burned, sweat soaked his armpits. There was no part of the skin covering his body that was not in some state of change. His legs were still wet. His whole torso was marshy with sweat. And his face and neck were on fire.
He looked up again, hoping Catalina was looking away, that she didn’t really care so much about what she’d seen, but her eyes were still upon him, the smirk still a laughing stripe across her oval face. He wanted to leave, but knew he couldn’t. Or shouldn’t. He’d just barely gotten away with the ruse of the spilled milk, and if he left the cafeteria early, with his pants still wet, he’d risk attracting attention.
So he sat, avoiding Catalina’s eyes, avoiding everyone’s eyes, and he finished his lunch and waited for his khakis to dry, hoping they would dry in a way that didn’t reveal what was now a combination of urine and milk. What kind of stain would that produce? He hoped for the best.
When lunch ended, Gran waited till the last person left the room, then got up, carrying his tray below his waist, hiding his lap and legs, and brought it to the trash and recycling area. The trash can was near the door, and the door was not far from the hall bathroom, so if he could make it to the door, and then to the bathroom, he could finish the job of drying himself.
He bussed his tray, put it back in the rack, and made it out the door. He was a few feet from the bathroom when he felt a plaid shadow nearby.
“That was good,” she said.
It was Catalina. She’d been waiting. Gran assumed she’d seen him spill the milk. He didn’t mind that. As long as she hadn’t seen the whole thing—
&
nbsp; “I watched the whole thing,” she said. “I saw you come in with your wet khakis.” She winked, as if she were in on a secret. “Then I saw you spill the milk on purpose. I liked how you sat down all quick-like. And how you waited till the last kid left the cafeteria. All of that was very clever.”
Gran felt sick. He wasn’t sure he could stand up for much longer. He wanted to get away from her, from the school.
“My respect for you just went up ten points, Gran. Maybe twenty,” she said. “That showed some seriously innovative thinking on the fly. Where are you going?”
Gran was trying to run, to get to the bathroom, but something was holding him back. He realized it was Catalina. She was holding him by the shirt.
“Let go please,” he said.
“I’m sorry I called you names the other night,” she said.
“Fine.” He tried to escape, to no avail. She was strong.
“I just thought you were some rich kid.”
“Okay,” he said, and again tried to leave. She was very strong, and she kept talking.
“I saw your fancy watch,” she went on, “and I made assumptions.”
Gran paused in his struggle to escape. This was interesting to him. This was the first time anyone had made an assumption like that about him. People had always assumed he was shy, or unathletic, or poor, but they had never assumed, looking at the old watch his father had given him, that he was wealthy. He almost felt good about it.
“Listen,” she said. “I actually need your help.” There was something softer about her tone, her eyes, now, and he took the opportunity to yank himself free.