Changing Michael (17 page)

“Are the kids nice?”

“Some.”

“Are the teachers nice?”

“Yeah.”

Okay, I was done, and I sure as hell wasn't going to throw out, “What's your favorite subject?”

“I haven't been held in over a year,” she said.

“Oh yeah?”

What does that mean?

“Some kids get held every day,” she added.

I guessed that being “held” wasn't like getting a hug.

“I don't get like that anymore,” she said.

I wanted to pursue the holding thing, though it was a little unsettling, but I could tell she was done.

We spent some time outside, looking at the water. I liked it outside, near the open water, but Chrissy was anxious to get to the seahorse exhibit and we were back inside after ten minutes.

Considering her obsession with seahorses, I figured we'd be staring at them for the next three hours, but I was wrong. We started at a pretty good pace, and didn't stay long near any of the tanks.

Chrissy talked as she moved down the row of tanks, eyes pressed close. She talked, but she wasn't talking to me anymore. She was like an employee making her rounds. Actually, she was pretty good company. Sometimes she directed a comment to me, but most of the time, she seemed to be lecturing an imaginary group of tourists. And even when she was talking to me, it didn't seem to matter much if I responded or not.

After a while, my thoughts started to wander.

Chrissy had agreed to come on the condition that I'd make at least one follow-up visit. I started to plan. Should I take her to the aquarium again, or someplace different? Like Gut, Dad needed a little work, but I'd have to be careful; Dad would probably be a bit more challenging. He was definitely touchy, and touchy people are like an unfamiliar dog: ears cocked, blocking your way, just looking for a good reason to latch onto your forearm.

Lost in thought, and only half-listening, I trailed behind her.

“Why do they have you two together?” she said, leaning forward to examine a tank.

I glanced over but wasn't sure what she meant. A big chunk of reddish-pink coral accounted for almost every inch of space. I leaned forward but couldn't see anything.

“You don't like it in there.”

Something in her voice tugged at my sleeve. It wasn't the words—it was the tone. There was something dangerous there, like a sliver of flame jumping to life near a baby's crib.

Chrissy was close to a tank, her index finger pressed against the glass, staring intently at something. I stepped up beside her.

“You don't like it in there,” she repeated.

A very small seahorse clung to a thin branch of coral. Since the occupant didn't seem terribly upset, I searched the tank, looking for an explanation. Coral, gravel, seahorse—just like all the other tanks. What was the problem? Was the tank too small?

“Why doesn't he like it in there?” I asked.

“
She
.”

I sighed. “Okay, why doesn't
she
like it?”

Five seconds. No answer.

“Lonely?” I guessed.

Nothing.

“Hungry?”

I was thinking about hot dogs again when Chrissy stabbed the glass with a finger, hard, like she meant to break through it if she could.

“That one! That's why!”

I scanned the room. A few faces turned toward us. A guard at one end was suddenly interested. I looked at Chrissy, then back at the tank. Her finger was still jammed up against the side, the tip white from the pressure.

“What are you . . . What's wrong?” I asked.

“She
shouldn't
be
in
there with
that
one!” She punctuated the words
shouldn't
,
in
, and
that
with additional stabs at the glass.

More faces now, and a guard headed our way. I scanned the tank again, desperate for something, anything.

“I don't understand,” I said. “What . . .?”

And then I saw it: another, bigger seahorse just above the little one. Exactly the same color as the coral. Turned sideways, tail around a branch, and one chameleon eye pointed down at the little one. Sizing up its roommate.

“Everything okay over here?” the guard asked.

I began to answer, but Chrissy broke in: “That little one shouldn't be in there with him.”

The guard looked at Chrissy, paused, and bent forward, staring into the tank. “Hmm . . . I think you might be right,” he said. “I'll let someone know, okay?”

“Thank you,” I said, as if he and I both understood how difficult children could be.

The guard frowned at me, then turned back to Chrissy. “One of the biologists should be in soon. I'll make sure she takes a look as soon as she gets in, okay?”

Chrissy nodded, but her eyes never left the tank.

“Okay, well, thanks for your help,” I said. “We'll try to keep our fingers off the glass. Right, Chrissy?”

No response. I smiled ruefully at the guard. He frowned.

“So. . .” I tried. “Maybe we should go see the . . . other stuff?”

I reached over, thinking I might take her elbow.

Didn't work.

She twisted away and continued her inspection, picking up right where she had left off. I followed at a safe distance, watching for any sudden movements. I'm not sure what I would have done if she had suddenly decided to sprint back to the other tank and free the threatened seahorse herself, but I sure as hell wasn't thinking about food anymore.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually, we found ourselves at the end of the exhibit.

“So,” I said, “any more seahorses we need to . . . check on?”

She shook her head.

I looked at my watch, but I don't actually wear one, so I ended up looking at my wrist. “Your father wanted us back at two, right?” I said.

“Three.”

Well, at least she's talking now.

“Anything else we have to . . . we should see?”

She shook her head again.

“So I guess . . . Should we . . .?”

We did—out the front doors, back across the cement, and past the silver carts one more time. As hungry as I was, I decided to wait. The desire to drop her off was much stronger than the need for food.

On the ride back, Chrissy looked out the window and I played with the stereo. I had plenty of time to wonder if spending additional time and energy on another member of Michael's family was such good idea. Eventually, we turned down her street and passed her building. I hooked a U-turn and rolled to a stop not too far from the front door.

“You don't need to walk me up,” she said, just as I was reaching for my seat belt.

“You're just trying to avoid a goodnight kiss, aren't you?” I said.

Horrible joke. I realize that now, but these things happen when I'm nervous.

Five seconds.

“You can kiss me if you want.”

My turn to be caught in the five-second delay—that is, until I saw a hand over her mouth, trying to cover the edges of a smile.

“Hey . . . that's mean!” I said, so relieved I almost did a little dance.

She smiled at her window. I gave her shoulder a little push. And just for a second, as I watched her laugh, kissing her didn't seem so funny anymore. For just a moment, Chrissy was pretty enough to break anybody's heart.

“Remember,” she said, still smiling.

She unbuckled her seat belt.

“Remember what?”

“Remember that you're coming to see me again.”

“Oh . . . yeah, of course.”

Her eyes held me in place—a velvet touch tighter than a hand against my cheek. She smiled and opened her door.

“Next Saturday,” she said.

“Next Saturday? Well, actually, I don't know if . . .”

But she was already closing the car door over my excuse.

“Hey . . . wait,” I said. “Won't your dad be pissed if I let you walk up alone?”

She leaned back in through the open window. “I'll take care of my dad,” she said.

I watched her walk down the sidewalk toward the front door. I made sure she was in before I started to pull out. I could just see her inside the little entryway, pulling her keys out of the second door, then slipping inside and out of sight.

I drifted through town, headed back toward the highway, and twisted around the ramp and into the familiar sludge of traffic. Thinking about it on the way home, I tried to decide whether I had actually agreed to see her next Saturday.

The results were inconclusive.

However, just in case I did end up in Baltimore again, I reluctantly decided to do some planning while I had the time.

Now, what does Chrissy need?

Time away from Dad—that was a given. But what else?

I didn't get very far, though—my mind kept looping back to replay parts of our first “date.” Eventually, two images beat out the others. The first: her profile as she poked the tank. The second: her face as she looked back into my car.

“I'll take care of my dad.”

I tried to brush them off and wave them away, but they were persistent. I pulled up song after song, trying to block out the images, but I couldn't settle on anything else.

Planning for Michael had been relatively easy. The only real difficulty had been the occasional distraction of an Astronomy lecture.

But Chrissy . . .

I realized her little incident with the fish tank was preventing any real thought. I killed the radio with a poke that would have made Chrissy proud.

What the hell was I whining about, anyway? Even though her “aggressive sightseeing” was a bit of a surprise, as a client, Chrissy was perfect. Well, maybe not perfect, but she would be far less trouble than Michael.

Michael was far too obstinate. He seemed intent on doing “the right thing” in most situations. I wouldn't have that problem with Chrissy (or if I did, I knew I could get around it pretty quickly). She was much more malleable than Michael—just look at her progress after only one session. Okay, so I'd have to deal with some poking when she got cranky. So what? I could just take her by the pet shop when got mad and let her go to town on the aquariums.

There was nothing to worry about. I had at least a week to plan for our next visit. More if I decided to blow her off.

I
knew
Chrissy would listen to me, unlike Michael. It was obvious that she already had a thing for me, which could be an insurmountable advantage if played correctly. Between her and Dad, it was the perfect summer project—guaranteed not to bore.

Crossing back into Virginia and back on familiar ground, I started to feel more like myself again. I set the possibility of a Saturday visit in the corner, telling myself I'd address it just as soon as I had the time.

Or maybe I'd just slap something together on the ride up.

It didn't really matter, did it?

As it always does, Monday morning came much too quickly.

But instead of my usual Monday mood keeping me under the covers until Mom got pissed off, the thought of Michael's forthcoming apology helped me pry myself out of bed. I gave Mom a break, too. I was feeling generous. I even told her in advance that Jack was picking me up (but apparently, not soon enough to avoid a disappointed look).

But strangely, there was no Michael waiting at my locker. In fact, I only saw him once all day, and that was from a distance—not nearly close enough for a pointed rebuff (or rebuke, or whatever).

And although I was really looking forward to swatting his apology attempt right back in his face, I tried to remain positive. No apology on Monday gave me something to look forward to on Tuesday.

But I didn't get one on Tuesday, either. When I arrived, I expected to find him pacing up and down in front of my locker, wringing his hands and putting the finishing touches on his lengthy but heartfelt apology.

No Michael, though—just some owlish kid who looked vaguely familiar in an annoying sort of way standing way too close to my locker.

“Hi,” he tried, raising a cautious hand.

“Eat it,” I said, borrowing a line from Jack.

Needless to say, I could only be expected to stay positive for so long. And needless to say, it was an unpleasant surprise to find that Mom's papers were starting to contribute to my poor frame of mind.

There was no reason even to think twice about them. For one thing, I seriously doubted Mom would actually go through with something like that. But on the off chance she did manage to show a little backbone, I grudgingly gave the whole thing a few moments of my time. The first thought that surfaced was the possibility of new living arrangements. This was a bit of a bother, since I'm more or less satisfied with my current room. The idea of a downgrade was unappealing to say the least.

And having to deal with Mom or Dad's eventual replacement partners was rather unsavory. But then again, finding ways to torment The Replacements made me smile.

Even so, I was doing my best to avoid Mom, actually using my alarm clock and getting out of the house with the smallest amount of contact possible. By grabbing something on the way out the door and avoiding the breakfast table, I eliminated the possibility of “the conversation” during breakfast.

I could just imagine how she'd break it to me. I'd look up from my burnt toast and notice Mom brushing a tear away. I'd go back to my toast, only to be interrupted by a hoarse request.

“Matthew? Can I talk to you for a moment,” she'd say gravely, with just a slight hitch in her voice.

Ignoring my “no,” she'd continue.

“Matthew? You know your father and I love you very much. You know that, don't you? But there's something we need to discuss. Something difficult. Something very, very difficult.”

God! No one should be subjected to that garbage. It was wretched. It was unconscionable. It was something you'd do to war criminals. Or Michael.

But when nothing like that happened by Wednesday, I let myself relax a little. Dad, as usual, was barely home during the week, and Mom spent most of her time at the kitchen table trying to double the size of her piles.

The subject didn't come up and I didn't ask why. I just put my head down and kept moving.

As for Michael, although we had a close encounter Wednesday—passing each other in the hall, going in opposite directions—I skipped the opportunity to make eye contact. The longer he put it off, the more difficult I was going to make it for him.

I didn't see him at all Thursday.

Friday rolled around, but I was thinking about Saturday. Driving to school in Mom's car, I realized I didn't have any plans yet, either for Chrissy or her father. I decided I'd probably opt out; coming up with an excuse was far less work than drafting a plan on the fly. I hoped Chrissy wouldn't be too upset. Maybe Dad had a fish tank in his room as part of an anger management program.

Walking through the student parking lot, I had a feeling I'd be struck by a mysterious illness Friday evening/Saturday morning and, unfortunately, would be in no condition to travel.

I didn't have time to polish the excuse, however. As soon as I pushed through the doors and into Hamilton, I realized something was off. It was the atmosphere. It just wasn't a typical Friday vibe. In fact, it felt almost exactly like a Monday.

The inside of the school had a gray, rainy feel to it. Almost everyone I passed looked groggy and spent. Usually there were little knots of people everywhere making too much noise and clogging up the halls, but today most of the kids were either by themselves or in twos or threes. And nobody looked very happy.

In Michael's section, the kids seemed even more depressed. I had the same thought every time I passed his way: Did the school purposely herd all the Michaels into one specific location? It's like they were trying to contain a nuclear disaster.
“We've got to find a way to keep them from spreading. We can't have the popular students inhaling their fumes.”

Then, up ahead, I saw a really big knot.

A really big knot of people in the middle of a hall means only one thing: fight.

And somehow, I knew. Even before I started knocking people out of my way, I knew I'd find Michael right in the middle of it.

I have to say, I'm not a big fight fan—school fights are almost always mismatches. Usually, it's some tough guy beating on somebody who doesn't want to be there. Every once in a while, though, two guys who really want to beat the hell out of each other get together, and then it's on.

But I wasn't expecting that kind of fight. The closer I got, the sicker I felt. I may have been through with Michael, but that didn't mean I wanted to see him pounded into the ground.

I pushed through the outer rings and into the final layer. It's weird the way I remember the fight. It's like my mind took still pictures instead of filming the whole thing. The first one probably took the longest to process: Michael standing, someone else on the ground. It looked wrong. My brain kept trying to reverse the two kids, but eventually my eyes insisted and my brain gave up.

I flipped to the next picture. Leonard was on the ground. Michael's arm was cocked and ready. Leonard's were up, trying to soften the impact of the next blow.

On to number three: Leonard lying on the ground, trying to cover his head.

Number Four: Michael's face. His jaw was set and his eyes wide. I didn't like any of the pictures, but this one bothered me more than the others.

And then the pictures went back in time.

I flipped through a stack of them. Leonard pushing Michael into a locker. Leonard hanging out a bus window, shouting at Michael as he walked home. Leonard's face a repulsive mixture of anger and glee. Michael huddled on the ground, Leonard standing over him.

And that brought me back to the moment and the last photo.

Wanda was standing in the first layer of spectators. Like everyone else, she seemed to have trouble accepting what was happening right there on the hallway floor. In my picture, her mouth is slightly open, her eyes wide.

“I wish Michael had let
me
kick his ass,” Wanda said afterwards. “That kid would have been way more embarrassed.”

But Michael did a pretty good job on his own of humiliating Leonard. Eventually, Leonard stopped moving, but Michael's fists didn't. And even though I hated Leonard, I decided it was time someone stepped in.

I called Michael's name a couple times, but he didn't respond, so I had to get pretty close to the action. Even when Michael heard me and finally tore his eyes from Leonard, it took him a second to come back to earth and recognize what was happening.

“Better clear out,” I said, quietly.

He nodded and turned, heading through the ring of people who couldn't get out of his way fast enough.

About thirty seconds after Michael left, my Astronomy teacher, Mrs. Hammerschmidt, showed up.

“What's going on here?” she demanded, her voice shrill.

Then came our P.E. teacher, Mr. Humdinger. (I'm sure if my life depended on it, I could probably remember his name, but let's hope the situation never comes up.) He pulled up beside her, out of breath and definitely not expecting to see Leonard on the floor.

Fortunately, there were plenty of kids who couldn't wait to fill them in. It was definitely a big one: “Local Dork Gives Area Tough Guy the Beating of a Lifetime.”

I slipped around the remaining spectators, looking for Michael. Don't ask me why. I just did. I walked down a few hallways, checked the cafeteria, stepped outside, and scanned the student parking lot.

No Michael.

I walked back in, took another tour of the first floor, and gave up. I found myself near an out-of-the-way bathroom and decided I might as well use it. I pushed through the swinging door and reluctantly took a look.

Michael was sitting in a stall, the door opened.

He was just sitting there, staring into space—his pants, by the way, were up, so it wasn't like he was in the middle of something.

“Howdy,” I said.

He looked at me but didn't answer.

“Guess I don't have to make up any more stories about what a badass you are, huh?”

One of his hands was swollen as hell. It looked like a big lump of meat on a stick. I leaned against a bathroom sink and waited for him to say something.

When he didn't, I asked, “So what happened out there?”

He sighed and hung his head.

“You'd better tell me now and get your story straight,” I said, “because you're going to have to tell it to a bunch of cramped-up administrators in a few minutes. So what the hell happened?”

He gave in. “I don't know,” he said. “It was like getting hit from behind. When he said that thing to her . . . The whole thing was like fighting through a wave to get back up.”

Wanda filled me in later in the day. Apparently, she'd been talking to Michael when Leonard showed up. As usual, Leonard started to give Michael a bunch of crap, but this time Wanda stuck up for him. They went back and forth a bit, then Leonard tossed a racial bomb, and that's when Michael went crazy.

“Well, at least you won't have to worry about getting hassled so much anymore,” I said.

“I shouldn't have done it,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I shouldn't have hurt him.”

“Michael, I would have done the same thing,” I said. “So don't sit here and act like you did something horrible. I just wish you'd done it a long time ago and saved yourself a lot of trouble.”

“You can leave if you're going to try and convince me fighting's justified,” Michael told the floor.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Look at me, Michael.”

“No.”

“Michael.”

“No!” he said. “I'm done listening to you.” His eyes flashed. “The experiment's over.”

“It wasn't an experiment!” I said.

“Then what was it?”

“I was trying to help you!”

“I didn't need your help!”

We both stopped and listened as our voices ricocheted off the bathroom walls. The place seemed built for sound, which is pretty strange if you think about it. It took our words a while to lose their edge.

“I just felt bad for you, Michael,” I said, quietly. I could hear voices outside the door. Our time was almost up.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“I just don't get why fighting back is such a big deal,” I said.”

“Because it's practicing an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” he said. “Gandhi said that taking an eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind. Jesus said if your enemy slaps your right cheek, offer him your left.”

“He wasn't talking about butt cheeks, right?”

Michael looked up, apparently disgusted.

“Okay, sorry. Inappropriate.”

He stared for a minute, then said, “You know, this whole time, there's one thing you never really understood. But I don't think I did either until just now.”

He made me wait.

“And . . .?” I said.

“I like who I am, and I don't want to change, even if it means getting beat up all the time.”

“I wasn't trying to change you—” I started to say, but I was interrupted by Mr. Pawpaw, our overweight, loudmouthed vice principal, charging through the bathroom door. Again, I guess he has another name, but he's also probably the only one who cares.

“You the only one in here?” he sputtered.

“Yep,” I said.

“No.” Michael's voice came from inside his stall.

I shook my head.

“What was that?” Mr. Pawpaw asked.

I pointed to the stall. Michael peered out.

“Are you Michael Dumb Ass?”

Of course, Dumb Ass isn't Michael's real last name. But it should be.