Every Exquisite Thing Page 9

  “It’s out of print, like we said,” Oliver said. “But we made you a photocopy.”

  Alex held up the photocopied manuscript. “Again, we’re hoping you’ll be willing to read it and then answer a few questions for us.”

  “Well, it certainly sounds interesting. And I have nothing but time these days.”

  Alex gave her the manuscript, we agreed to return at the end of the week, and then there was no turning back.

  “Shotgun!” Oliver yelled, relegating me to the backseat.

  Alex and I went inside to speak with Oliver’s mother when we dropped him off. Oliver marched straight back to his room and pulled the door shut a little harder than necessary. Alex said he would visit the fathers of the boys who had broken Oliver’s glasses, but she needed to talk to his school. She agreed, but I got the feeling that she wasn’t going to follow through, because she kept saying, “I’ll call in a few days—once everything calms down,” even though Alex kept saying it was important to call right away.

  “He needs an advocate. Two would be even better,” Alex said, and I could tell that he was really trying to do the right thing, to make a difference in Oliver’s life, but at the same time I wanted to remind him that he, too, was just a kid and not Oliver’s father.

  Oliver was in his room, but the house was so small that he had to have heard the whole conversation. At one point, I got up and checked on him. He was pretending to read The Bubblegum Reaper, although he glanced over at me real quick when I knocked and opened the door.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I went back into the living room and waited for Alex to finish. He phoned Oliver’s school, and when the answering machine came on, he held out the phone to Oliver’s mom, but she wouldn’t take it. Alex left a message asking the school to call her as soon as possible.

  When Alex parked his Jeep in front of my home, he said, “You didn’t really say anything to Sandra Tackett when we visited her today. Oliver and I did all the talking.”

  “I don’t think you should go visiting the fathers of those boys tonight,” I said, totally changing the subject.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not Oliver’s dad. Because you’re still a teenager like me. And we have eight months of high school left and—”

  “The kid’s getting killed every day. We have to do something.”

  “Kids get killed in every middle school in America.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I feel like I’m getting killed, too, Alex.” The words were out of my mouth before I really had a chance to think about what I was saying. “I don’t even know what’s happening to me anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So many things are going on all at once, and I just sort of feel unmoored or something.”

  “Unmoored? Because your dad left?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “And?”

  “I’m worried that we just lost Booker, too.”

  “We didn’t. Trust me,” Alex said, and then he kissed me on the lips.

  He tasted warm and a little sweet from the gum he was chewing.

  “Is that Wrigley’s Doublemint?” I said, because he was always trying to emulate his favorite fictional character.

  “Of course!” he said. “What else would it be?”

  For some reason, I got a bad feeling. Chewing that brand of gum was no big deal in and of itself, but I had begun worrying that Alex was taking his hero worship of Wrigley a bit too far.

  “What are you going to say to those kids’ dads?”

  “I’m going to play the Cyclops.”

  “By doing what, exactly? Waving your hands over your head with one eye closed?”

  I didn’t mean it to sound sarcastic, but it definitely did.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to be Oliver. Someone has to do something. I’ll talk to those fathers. Try to reason with them.”

  “When I was Oliver’s age, everyone used to cough into their hands and say ‘dyke’ really fast when I walked by. I pretended that it didn’t bother me, but it did. I don’t know if that’s worse than having your glasses broken or not, but kids call me even worse homophobic slurs today.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I have no idea, since I’m not a lesbian. I don’t know why being called a lesbian is such a bad thing anyway. And since I’m not homophobic, why does it even bother me? I can’t figure it out.”

  “What are the names of the boys who do this?”

  “Girls do it, too.”

  “Give me all the names.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “There are dozens. What would you do if I gave you a list?”

  “I’d take care of it.”

  “What does that mean? You can’t fight everyone, Alex.”

  “Sure you can!” he said, and his voice cracked a little. “You fight everyone who needs fighting or nothing changes! Nothing!”

  We were silent for a time, and then I said, “Don’t get into any trouble tonight. Promise me.”

  “What sort of trouble do you think I could get into by having a conversation with a bunch of suburban dads?” He smiled at me in a way that let me know the anger had subsided and he had control of himself again. “Will they make me mow their perfectly manicured lawns? Wash their minivans? Have a catch with them?”

  “I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling, that’s all.”

  “Well, then let’s give you that good feeling,” he said as he leaned in to kiss me.

  We made out for a little and then I said I had to go.

  When I went inside, my mother was drinking a bottle of wine alone in the kitchen. Two-thirds already was gone. “You okay, Mom?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, slurring her words just a bit, but not too bad. “I was saving this 2002 Diamond Creek Gravelly Meadow for a special occasion, and then I thought tonight could be special if I opened it. Do you think we should update the kitchen? I’ve been sitting here looking at the appliances, and I feel like they say we’re living seven years in the past. We need to catch up!”

  “Okay?”

  “So update immediately, correct?”

  “Like—right now?”

  “No time to be in the present like the present.”

  “Can we just keep things the way they are until I graduate? I’m not sure I can handle any more change.”

  “So wait until summer?”

  “Yeah, if possible. I’d appreciate it. There will probably be newer updates by then anyway. Better appliances. Maybe they will have robots that cook the food for you and then clean everything up. Could we wait for those?”

  “For you, Nanette,” she said, pointing a finger at my face, “I will do this. For you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Are you using protection with that boy?”

  “What?”

  “Do you need to be on the Pill?”

  “Um, I’m going to my room now.”

  “Be smart, Nanette. We’ll talk more in the morning over breakfast. No unprotected sex! No glove, no love, we used to say!”

  I shook my head in disbelief, went up to my room, and lay down on my bed. So many thoughts were swirling around in my mind—I started to feel like I might vomit from dizziness.

  I picked up Mr. Graves’s copy of The Bubblegum Reaper, randomly opened up to page seventy-one, and read these words: “I knew that I had reached the end of childhood once I realized that the adults in my life didn’t know any more than I did—and then in a flash I knew that everything that had preceded that exact moment was a sort of game played by the so-called adults who winked at each other when you weren’t looking… people who pretended to be things they were not, like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, athletic coaches, teachers, our heroes, too. But the sad truth was that they were no better than we were, and more often than not, they w
ere much worse because they had been here on this planet longer than we had and therefore were able to collect more vices, worries, and sadness.”

  The words stopped the spinning feeling in my head, if only because it felt as though someone had had all my thoughts before, which was comforting, like knowing that people had survived a tornado using the same basement you were currently locked away in, so I read on until there were no more words left in the book—just as I had so many times before—and only then could I fall asleep.

  17

  They Didn’t Run Away to Save Themselves but Sprinted Right into My Lava

  I called Alex’s cell phone first thing the next morning, and when he didn’t answer, my stomach began to churn. As I walked to school, I kept calling and texting, saying it was important and he should please call as soon as he could. No response. When I checked my cell phone during study hall, there was a voice message from Oliver’s mom.

  Alex was arrested last night. He punched the father of one of the kids who was picking on Oliver. Police came to interview Oliver this morning. I’ve kept him out of school. He’s home alone because I have to work. Oliver is scared. Can you come over to be with him? Alex’s father told the police to keep him locked up so that he would learn a lesson. I’m not sure what’s going to happen. If you can help get Oliver through the day, I’d really appreciate it. Even if you just check up on him after school. Thank you.

  I walked right out of the building, cutting school for just the second time in my life. When I arrived home, I pulled my old ten-speed out of the garage and started pedaling furiously. It took me just over an hour to get to Oliver’s home. I locked my bike to the chain-link fence in his backyard and then knocked on his bedroom window three times, like Alex does.

  The shade went up, and I could tell by the look on Oliver’s face he was disappointed that I wasn’t Alex. He opened the screen anyway, and I climbed in.

  “You okay?” I asked Oliver.

  He nodded, but he didn’t look even close to okay.

  His hair hadn’t been combed, and he was still in his one-piece pajamas, which were spotted with pink roses, so probably intended for girls. I wondered how his mother even found a size that big. And why in the world Oliver would wear them—especially when his mother wasn’t around and he was free to do whatever he wanted. The only answer was that he must actually like them.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I didn’t want Alex to go to their houses. He made me tell him where they lived. He said it would be okay. But now he’s in jail.”

  “What did they say he did?”

  “He hit Pete Mandrake’s dad. Punched him in the face.”

  “Why?”

  “He doesn’t like the pretty boys, or the terrorizers, as he says. I don’t like them, either, but this isn’t good. He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Is he still in jail?”

  “I think so.”

  Jail.

  It sounded so horrible.

  Like a place for other people, but not the ones you know.

  “They’re going to kill me when I return to school,” Oliver said, which was when I noticed the tears forming in the corners of his eyes, so I hugged him and we cried it out. I found myself smoothing his hair, as if I were his mother, which shocked me. I had never thought of myself as maternal before. And yet here I was, comforting this kid.

  “This has gotten way too big. Those kids aren’t going to touch you now. Everyone will be watching them—their teachers, the police. You’ll see. They’re going to leave you alone now.”

  “But what about Alex?”

  “How far away is the police station in this town?”

  “It’s only maybe a twenty-minute walk.”

  “Do you have a bike?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Put on your broken glasses. We’re going to the police station to see Alex. They might let us in if they feel sorry for you.”

  It only took us ten minutes to ride our bikes to the police station, but the woman behind the glass there said we weren’t allowed to see Alex. “Can’t do it.”

  I argued with her and showed her Oliver’s broken glasses, but she kept shaking her head.

  Just when I was about to quit, a police officer behind her looked up and walked over toward us.

  “That’s the officer who interviewed me today,” Oliver said as he waved.

  To the woman, the officer said, “Let them in, Cheryl.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why have rules if you’re just going to break them all the time?”

  “Lunch is on me today, okay?”

  “If you say so.”

  Then we heard a buzz, the door opened, and I was introduced to Officer Damon, who had long, skinny sideburns and a small black ribbon tied around his left thumb. We were taken to a back room that looked like the type of place where they interrogate criminals on TV. The walls, ceiling, and floors—everything was concrete except for a wooden table and four chairs. No windows. A bright light hung down from the darkness above. The odd thing was that there was also a small refrigerator in the corner.

  “Is this where you try to break criminals?” I asked. “Play good cop and bad cop?”

  “No,” the officer said. “This is our break room, but not like break break. It’s where we eat lunch. We don’t break anyone down mentally here. We only break bread.”

  He gave us a big, honest smile.

  Despite all that was going on, I smiled back. I liked this cop.

  “You’re Alex’s girlfriend?” he asked.

  “We don’t use labels, but for all intents and purposes, yes, just to make this go easier. Can we see him?”

  “He asked for his ‘one phone call,’ saying he wanted to contact you, but since he’s a minor, we had to contact his parents, and his dad is calling the shots now. But I passed on your cell phone number to Oliver here and his mom. Alex asked me to do that.”

  “Alex was only trying to make the bullies stop hitting me and breaking my glasses. You don’t put people in jail for that,” Oliver said. “Like I said this morning. Let him out, please!”

  “No, we don’t put someone in jail for standing up to bullies,” said Officer Damon. “But we do put people in jail for assault and harassment. I’m afraid your friend is in some serious trouble. I’ll let you speak. So try to talk some sense into him. We want what’s best for everyone. I’m starting to think that he’s proud of being in jail. That won’t play well when he faces a judge.”

  “A judge?” I asked.

  “He assaulted Mr. Peter Mandrake. He’s already confessed to the crime. And Mr. Mandrake is pressing charges. It’s very real.”

  I felt my stomach drop again.

  “So try to help Alex see the seriousness of it all.”

  The police officer led us to a small sand-colored jail cell—maybe eight feet by five. There were no windows and the ceiling lights were outside the cell, so shade striped Alex’s face. It was horrible to see him locked up like an animal. And yet I was pretty sure he’d acted like an animal that needed to be caged, which scared me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Never been better,” Alex said as he hopped off the small bed. “I’m like Henry David Thoreau in here. Nelson Mandela. Jesus Christ, even.”

  “This isn’t a joke. They’re pressing charges,” I said.

  “Let them.”

  “What?”

  “I said let them.”

  “You could go to jail.”

  “Already here.”

  “But for good.”

  “I doubt it. I’m a minor, first of all. And if they put in jail everyone who ever punched someone, there would hardly be anyone left outside. Why don’t they put the kids who punched Oliver in jail? Why isn’t anyone asking that?”

  “I didn’t want you to do this,” Oliver said.

  “I know,” Alex said. “But I had to. And I’ve never felt more alive in my life. Like I’m finally calling the shots—like they know I won
’t put up with it anymore.”

  “Put up with what?” I asked.

  He smiled and quoted Wrigley from The Bubblegum Reaper: “‘They can’t make me into a joiner without my permission.’”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I had underlined that bit many times because I loved it so much, but when it led to seeing the only boy you ever kissed being locked behind bars, the quote took on a different connotation. And I wondered if that was the problem with literature—it made sense only in theoretical situations and didn’t often help in real life, where it took a hell of a lot more courage to live than to turn pages all alone, hidden away from the world in a corner or a bed or under a tree.

  “I’ve been writing poetry in here. This experience has been like a muse,” Alex said. “Words are bursting out of me. I wrote one about last night called ‘There Is Power in Knowing.’”

  I noticed the notebook on the bed. A pen was resting on top. I was surprised they let him have these things in a cell.

  When he saw me looking, he picked up the notebook, ripped out the poem, folded it up, and handed it to me through the bars.

  Worried the cop would confiscate Alex’s words, I quickly slid the poem into the front pocket of my jeans. “You can’t write poetry in jail, Alex. Have you lost your mind?”

  “What are you talking about? Jail is the perfect place to write poetry! Poetry is the language of the oppressed!”

  He sounded insane.

  “But what about our mission?” Oliver said. “What about Sandra Tackett and figuring out the mystery of The Bubblegum Reaper?”

  “All in good time, my friend. All in good time.”

  “Alex,” I said. “You’re in jail. Jail! This is serious. You can’t just go around punching people in the face.”

  “I didn’t ‘just go around punching people in the face.’ I was defending Oliver and the rights of all who have ever been in Oliver’s position. A principle is at stake here. I’m not afraid to pay the price for my convictions. Wrigley would agree.”

  “Did you ask Booker what he thought of your ending up in jail?” I asked.