I laugh at that. "God, Rache, it's all speculation right now. I haven't even heard from Stanford or MIT or Yale."
"All known mostly for their baseball teams," she jokes.
"Seriously, Rache. I might end up at Maryland with you. Especially if I don't get the baseball scholarship for Stanford. If I don't get it ... Really, it's like 'College Park, here I come.'"
"That's not going to happen."
"Why not?"
"Because you've got skills, Josh. Beyond me or Zik. I'm not talking about baseball. I mean the way your head's like a computer. It's unreal."
"But if I want to play baseball—"
"Josh, if you want to play baseball, no one can stop you. But you'd be wasting your brain if you went to college based on who has the best ball team."
She's not telling me anything I haven't told myself over the past couple of years, but I guess it helps to hear it in another voice. And to hear the other side. Zik thinks he and I are headed to the Show. He thinks we're going to get drafted right out of school. And he's spent a good percentage of his time convincing me that this is a good thing. "You can always go back to college," he tells me. "You can do online classes and stuff like that. Your brain isn't going anywhere, but in ten years, your swing will be slower, your eyes will be weaker, and your shoulders won't be as strong. Play now. Think later."
"Rache ... All those schools you mentioned, the ones I mentioned..."
"What about them?"
"They're all pretty far away. From here. From each other." There. It's out.
"Yeah," she says after a bit. "Yeah, I know."
"So, not to be a dickhead again, but what I said tonight about how it doesn't make sense—"
"You were doing really well, Josh. Just shut up now."
"But—"
"Look, my dad has a saying—we'll burn that bridge when we get to it. OK? You get it? Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow."
"But—"
"No. No buts." She's serious. "We'll only talk about now. Right now. This moment. Prom. The summer. Everything after that is after that. We'll burn that bridge when we get to it."
I'm silent long enough that she checks in: "Josh? You still there?"
"Yeah."
"Then say something. Something here and now."
I don't know what to say. I'm thinking of Georgia Tech and Stanford and MIT and hitting the ball and quantum theory and the Mandelbrot Set and NASA and modeling simulations and why is it that the world gives you so many options, so many choices, and then forces you to cut them all away?
"Did you fall asleep? Talk to me, Josh."
I say the first thing that pops into my head about right now. "My mom's asleep on the sofa."
Silence for a moment. "It doesn't ... It doesn't necessarily ... My parents went through something like that a few years ago," she says. "But they're still together."
It shouldn't make me feel any better, but it does. "They've been through a lot. They used to fight all the time, even before the stuff with Eve. It's just gotten worse. My mom's out of the house a lot."
"It'll get better," she promises me. And for some reason, I believe her, and it lets me sleep at last.
Session Transcript #215
Dr. Kennedy: I didn't think we were originally scheduled until next week.
J. Mendel: I asked your secretary if she could fit me in earlier. Is that all right?
Kennedy: It's fine. What's on your mind, Josh? Last time we talked, Evelyn Sherman was being released from jail. How are you handling that? Are you thinking about her? Worrying about her?
Mendel: Not really.
Kennedy: Thinking about revenge?
Mendel: No. No. Look, I guess I am thinking about her a lot.
Kennedy: I thought you might be. What are you thinking?
Mendel: But that's not why I came in today.
Kennedy: All right. I think it's bothering you more than you think, but we can move on.
Mendel: It's about Rachel.
Kennedy: Ah.
Mendel: This is weird, but ... Well, I've been sort of ... dating her, I guess.
Kennedy: Really? Well, that's ... For how long?
Mendel: About three weeks. Pretty much since the last time I saw you.
Kennedy: And how did this come about?
Mendel: I'm not even sure. She pretty much tricked me into it, I think. But that's OK. I'm ... It's OK.
Kennedy: But something's bothering you.
Mendel: She ... She sees us picking up where we left off, OK? Five years ago, when everyone thought we'd—I don't know— be boyfriend and girlfriend someday.
Kennedy: Do you enjoy spending time with her?
Mendel: Yeah. I mean, it's tough. She, uh, she kisses me and sometimes I freeze up. You know.
Kennedy: You're having trouble trusting your instincts.
Mendel: Yeah. I mean, a part of me wants to ... I can't ...
Kennedy: Take your time. I get paid by the hour.
Mendel: Heh. I can't ... I want to throw her down and ... That's what Eve—Eve wanted things a certain ...
Kennedy: So you fight against yourself. You're afraid to do anything at all because it might be the wrong thing.
Mendel: Yeah. It's like the one time Zik set me up on that double date. And I couldn't even hold the girl's hand—
Kennedy: That was, what, three years ago?
Mendel: About, yeah.
Kennedy: Don't you think you've changed since then?
Mendel: I'm still afraid.
Kennedy: Have you tried talking to Rachel about this?
Mendel: How? "Hey, Rachel, remember how I almost raped you a while back? Would it freak you out if that happened again?"
Kennedy: Just by talking about it, you're going to demystify it and take away a lot of its power. If she's able to approach you at all, then she's able to talk about this.
Mendel: I don't know.
Kennedy: You're eighteen. How old is Rachel?
Mendel: The same.
Kennedy: You say she pursued you for this relationship. Don't you think she might at least be interested in the possibility of some sort of physical intimacy?
Mendel: We kiss ...
Kennedy: I mean beyond that.
Mendel: I know.
Kennedy: What Evelyn Sherman did to you wasn't about intimacy. There may have been times that she made you feel like it was, but it was all about satisfying her needs. You were a means to that end. You've had a lot of experience in the physical actions that comprise sex and sexuality, but you have next to no experience in the emotional component. Evelyn Sherman was an authority figure. She was able to manipulate you into doing things that you wouldn't have done under normal circumstances. It's like ... Look, how do you hit a baseball?
Mendel: What?
Kennedy: Humor me. How do you hit a baseball?
Mendel: It's complicated.
Kennedy: Start with the easy stuff. How did you learn how to do it?
Mendel: God, you—you square your shoulders, OK? And you watch the pitcher's movements. They telegraph what kind of pitch—
Kennedy: No.
Mendel: I think I know how to—
Kennedy: What's the most important thing you learned about hitting a ball? Weren't you told to keep your eye on the ball?
Mendel: OK.
Kennedy: Everything else follows from that, right?
Mendel: Yeah.
Kennedy: Think of keeping your eye on the ball as the most basic precept you have to understand before you can succeed. Everything else—squaring your shoulders, watching the pitcher, whatever—comes later. You can learn it all, but if you can't keep your eye on the ball, you'll never be a hitter. Right now, when it comes to issues of intimacy, you're like a player who's learned everything there is to know about hitting ... except to keep your eye on the ball.
Mendel: Sounds like you're trying to help me score.
Kennedy: You can make jokes all you want, but this is serious, Josh. I've been wondering
when we would get to this point. You're in a relationship now, only you don't know how to be in a relationship. You don't trust yourself. You know too much. But you need to get back to basics. Keep your eye on the ball. Don't worry about everything else.
Mendel: But I can't help myself. It's like I want to swing even though I'm blindfolded. Or something. I don't know. That didn't make any sense.
Kennedy: It made perfect sense. When you get a bad pitch, you don't swing, do you?
Mendel: No.
Kennedy: Then think of this as the same situation. You want to swing. You know how to swing. But you're going about it all wrong. You're locking up when Rachel needs you to be receptive. Don't swing at the bad pitches, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't swing at any pitch.
Mendel: So you're saying I should wait for my pitch.
Kennedy: Exactly.
Mendel: It's just that ... Prom is on Saturday. And I'm nervous.
Kennedy: Why? It should be a great time. What are you doing?
Mendel: We're going with Zik and Michelle to this restaurant first ... And, see, here's the problem. Michelle booked a hotel room for the night, so that we could all go there after the prom. Stay off the roads, you know?
Kennedy: That sounds responsible.
Mendel: I—It's a suite, OK? And Zik and Michelle are getting the bedroom. And the sofa folds out and I guess that's where Rachel and I are supposed to sleep, but ... I don't know if I'm ready for that.
Kennedy: Have you talked to Rachel about this?
Mendel: No.
Kennedy: You need to.
Mendel: It just—It all seems so pointless! I tried telling Rachel, but she got upset and I don't blame her, but ... We're graduating in a couple of weeks. And then we're all going off to college—
Kennedy: Have you heard from all your schools?
Mendel: No. Not yet. Still waiting for the Holy Trinity.
Kennedy: Where is Rachel going to school? Does she know?
Mendel: Probably College Park.
Kennedy: So she'll be near home and you'll be ... in Massachusetts. Or California.
Mendel: Maybe. I haven't gotten in yet. And the money—
Kennedy: You'll get in. You're a smart, talented guy.
Mendel: Well, I hope so, because I want to get the hell out of this town. This state. But if I'm going to be so far away, then how can Rachel and I keep seeing each other? What's the point of getting all involved now, when we're going to have to split up anyway?
Kennedy: Do you have to split up?
Mendel: Come on. Three thousand miles apart, if I'm at
Stanford? Eight hundred at MIT?
Kennedy: Maybe the better question is: Do you want to split up?
Mendel: I don't see what the choice is.
Kennedy: Keep your eye on the ball, Josh.
Mendel: Yeah, right.
Kennedy: And have fun at prom.
Chapter 17
Prom
As much as I try to make it not happen, despite my best efforts to bend the space-time continuum with the force of my brain alone, it happens: prom arrives.
It's the last thing in the world I'm ready for right now. I still haven't heard from the Holy Trinity of colleges, and Mom and Dad are getting antsy. Antsier than usual, at least. Dad has dropped several broad hints that maybe I should just take the College Park offer for the first year or so, see how baseball treats me there, and then transfer after that. Or go to Lake Eliot, where I've got a full ride since Mom works there. All of which just sounds like a nightmare to me, besides the fact that I want to get as far from here as humanly possible. Half of Lowe County's graduating seniors will be at College Park next year—what's the point of just putting myself right into a situation where everyone knows me again, where everyone knows about Eve?
And they don't know about my deal with Kaltenbach. Unless he's totally messing with me, I have to figure that Graves's interest means I'm in at Stanford. It's just a question of the money now.
Rachel drives to my house on prom night, where Michelle and Zik are going to pick us up in Michelle's dad's big Mercedes SUV. For a little while, things are cool at my house again—Mom's actually home on a Saturday, and she runs around like I'm two years old and just figured out the whole talking thing. Dad acts like I just hit my first single. They both scramble for cameras—Mom the still, Dad the video.
"So adorable together," Mom gushes, snapping away. "For God's sake, Josh, put your arm around her!"
I edge closer to Rachel and put my arm around her waist. Rachel sighs and leans into me.
"Turn this way," Dad coaches, filming away like a pudgy Spielberg. "Say something for posterity."
"My tux itches," I announce.
"Do the corsage," Mom urges.
I didn't know what Rachel's dress would be like, so I played it safe and went with a wrist corsage. It doesn't make for terribly dramatic footage when I slip it onto her wrist, but Mom and Dad are there to record the event for future Mendel generations anyway. Rachel pins on my boutonnière without jabbing me, even though Mom and Dad's constant exhortations to "be careful, careful, don't stick him!" make her hands tremble. We somehow come through without bloodshed or the need for an EMT unit.
Just when I've hit my boiling point for pictures being taken, at the exact moment that I'm about to scream bloody murder, a horn beeps. Zik and Michelle, waiting in the driveway. Thank God.
Once in the car, things go from annoying to bad. Because now we have to go to Rachel's house.
I haven't been to Rachel's house in five years. I haven't seen her parents since that day in the closet. The last time I saw them, Mr. Madison was pulling me out of the closet by my arm, bellowing, What the hell is going on? I saw Mrs. Madison for the last time as I was dragged out of the house; she stood in a corner, crying, holding Rachel.
Rachel wasn't crying. I remember that very well. Rachel's eyes were wide and confused, but she wasn't crying. Weeping, Mrs. Madison clung to her like I was a wild wolf ready to lunge.
I'm not looking forward to seeing them again, even though Rachel's told me all's forgiven.
Rachel sidles up to me in the back seat and squeezes my hand. "It's fine," she whispers, leaning in close. "Everything's fine."
Rachel's parents are standing out on the front porch when we pull up, waving. Michelle and Rachel are the first to get out. "Oh my God!" Mrs. Madison exclaims. "Michelle, you're a vision! We just have to get pictures of you and Isaac."
I figure this is my last chance to break free and run for the hills. But instead I sigh, square my shoulders, and come around the side of the SUV with Zik.
"Isaac, stand over here with Michelle!" Mrs. Madison says. Zik obediently lopes over to Michelle and throws his arms around her for a picture.
Mr. Madison meets me halfway to the porch. I experience a watery moment of unreality—five years ago, he seemed gigantic and powerful as he grabbed my arm and yanked me around the house. Now he's an inch shorter than I am. What seemed to be gigantic is now merely blubbery. I know I've changed. I know he's changed. The question is who's changed more, I guess.
"Joshua," he says, sizing me up. I feel guilty—he's the father.
He should have some sort of position of superiority here, but I'm pretty confident I could beat the crap out of him if I had to.
So I settle on giving him a little authority. "Sir," I say, as respectfully as I can muster, and extend my hand.
He shakes it. Good, firm grip. There's muscle under all that fat. Maybe I can't beat the crap out of him.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
—the hell is going on—
His eyes narrow. "Are you OK?"
Goddamn it! "Yes, sir. I'm fine."
"You haven't been drinking, have you?"
"God, no! Sir. We're still in season."
He nods cautiously, as if he wants to believe me, but can't quite bring himself to. "Nice corsage. You have good taste."
"Thank you, sir." r />
He sighs. I'm pretty sure it's the sigh of a man who is painfully aware that his daughter is eighteen years old.
"Well, let's get some pictures and get you on your way."
I hop the steps up to the front porch, where Mrs. Madison already has Rachel posed against one of the oak columns. The lighting is perfect. I bet Mrs. Madison spent the past three weeks scouting locations in the house and all over the property. That's just her.
"Hello, Mrs. Madison."
She leans toward me and instigates an instant heart attack by pecking me on the cheek. "Josh. It's so good to see you. Stand there."
Rachel's beaming as the guy who almost raped her five years ago stands next to her and—at the direction of her smiling mother—puts his arms around her. It's surreal.
"Smile, Josh," Mrs. Madison scolds. "Aren't you happy?"
Believe me when I say that no one is more surprised than I am to realize that the answer is yes. I smile for the picture.
Michelle's as good as her word and has not just gotten reservations at Paradis, but has managed a table on the exclusive veranda that overlooks an artificial lake and a golf course.
Michelle, of course, is breathtaking. She's wearing some sort of blue and cream gown that has straps going around her neck from the waist, the net effect being that her breasts are covered only minimally, with acres of cleavage as far as the eye can see. Her back is completely uncovered—she's been doing pilates for months, Rachel told me, and the result is an expanse of nothing but toned and sculpted back along with an exposed belly that is just the slightest bit rounded. I honestly don't know how Zik manages to keep from tackling her and dragging her under the table. The man's willpower is a marvel to behold.
Zik, meanwhile, looks like a refugee from a science fiction movie. He's wearing a metallic blue tuxedo to complement Michelle's gown, along with shirt, tie, and cummerbund in cream. I feel like I need sunglasses just to look at him, but somehow, when he stands next to Michelle, it works. Michelle had to have figured this all out; Zik's idea of high fashion is clean socks.
Me? I'm in the most boring standard black tuxedo you can imagine. The guy at the tux shop seemed a little disappointed when I rented it, as if he'd missed some opportunity to show the world something with some style. My tie and cummerbund match Rachel's dress.