Changing Michael (2 page)

Jack and I skidded into the student parking lot—Jack's a bit stingy when it comes to using his brakes. After frightening the hell out of several students who heard the squealing tires and spotted Jack's Oldsmobile barreling toward them, he found the spot he was looking for.

“Little close, don't you think?” I asked.

We were at the end of the row, about as far from the school entrance as physically possible.

Jack didn't answer. He lifted himself a few inches from the driver's seat in an effort to get a better view of the yellow lines.

“Damn it,” he said, quietly.

Jack shifted into reverse, backing the car into position for another try.

“There,” he said, happily.

Jack had successfully managed to slide over the exact middle of a yellow line. Most assholes who feel they need two spaces do so to protect their priceless metal children. But I knew how Jack felt about his car.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he said, laughing. “Just feel like being a dick today.”

“How is that different from any other day?”

We walked through the student parking lot toward Alexander Hamilton High School, pushing through the side entrance and past the cafeteria.

“You going to your locker?” Jack asked.

I shook my head. My locker was in the other direction. Considering Jack's comments in the parking lot, I was sure he'd get into some kind of altercation prior to first period, and I wanted to see it. I was genuinely surprised when we made it to my Astronomy classroom without an incident.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said.

Jack nodded.

I watched him make his way down the far right of the hall, near the lockers. I watched him extend an arm, running his hand over the dangling locks, setting them in motion as he walked. Passing a small recess in the wall, Jack latched onto a bulky metal trashcan and pulled. It scared the shit out of almost everyone in the immediate vicinity when it came crashing to the floor.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, smiling.

Just one of the many reasons I enjoyed his company.

His
occasional
company.

The bell rang, signaling the merciful conclusion of World History, a second period full of delightful surprises and riveting information. Nothing like a lecture full of dates and obscure treaties. And judging from our instructor's attire (“costume” is actually more accurate), as well as the unmerciful cosmetic-related beating she gave her face on a daily basis, I'm guessing her memories of high school aren't very Disney-like, because everything about her teaching style seems like an insidious, drawn-out form of revenge.

I collected my books and slowly headed for the door, in no hurry to get to English.

I had stopped in the hallway to scowl at a flyer for some upcoming play when I noticed Michael on the opposite side, pinned up against a locker.

I paused.

A little verbal harassment or a shove from behind wasn't terribly uncommon, but finding Michael up against a locker was somewhat unusual.

I pushed my way to the other side of the hall, wondering who had him.

Leonard.

Now it made sense. Leonard was definitely weird, and in his case there was no question what type. Leonard was the bad kind of weird, the kind of guy who would do something to the family cat.

I decided to see what I could do for Michael. No particular reason, other than an intense dislike of Leonard and a reluctance to go to English. And, as I had
tried
to explain to my mom, I'm generally a helpful person.

“Hey, Leonard . . . Michael. What are you guys up to?”

You had to be careful how you handled Leonard. Actually exhibiting surprise or apprehension about his decision to slowly asphyxiate Michael might make him that much more interested in the process.

Leonard glanced at me without turning his head.

“Nothing.”

Michael squirmed, but there wasn't much he could do. Leonard had a forearm across Michael's throat.

“Just hanging out?” I said.

“He was looking at me,” Leonard said, increasing the pressure on Michael's throat.

Michael made little noises.

“You probably shouldn't strangle him, though.”

“Why not?” he said with a smile.

“Willis is headed this way.”

Mr. Willis is the principal.

“I don't give a shit about Willis,” Leonard said, glaring at Michael as if he'd silently called for the principal's help.

“He looks pissed, though. Someone said he was looking for you.”

“Why?” Leonard said.

“Chemistry lab's missing a few scales.”

Leonard gave Michael's throat an angry shove and released him. “That was Dave,” he said, turning to me. Michael held his throat and coughed.

“Then you'd better say something,” I said, looking down the hall as if expecting Willis any minute.

“I'm not telling that asshole anything,” he said, heading in the opposite direction. Leonard disappeared around the nearest corner. I turned my attention back to Michael.

“Lozenge?” I offered.

He shook his head, still coughing. Eventually, he decided he wasn't going to die and started walking.

“People don't like you much, huh?” I said, trailing after him.

He was headed toward the windows at the end of the hallway. He gave me an angry look and cleared his throat.

“Water?” I asked. “Hot tea? Maybe a little honey?”

“Why are you following me?” he asked, hoarsely.

We were coming to a set of stairs at the end of the hall. I slipped in front of Michael. My next class was on the second floor and I wasn't finished with him yet.

“I'm concerned, Michael,” I said.

“What?”

“I'm a concerned peer.”

He cleared his throat again.

“Would you like a poultice?”

Michael shook his head. Although I was in front of him, he somehow managed to fake me out and make it to the stairway. Rather than follow, I stepped over to the railing, watching him go.

“All right, then. We'll talk tomorrow!” I called.

Michael looked up. I smiled and waved.

He made a frowny face, then disappeared under my feet. The bell rang—a real delight, since it was very close and incredibly loud.

Time for English, I suppose.

I started to push away from the railing but saw Jack trudging up the stairs and waited.

“You're late for class,” I said.

“Eat it,” he replied. As we walked down the hall, he asked,“Who were you talking to?”

“Michael.”

“Michael? Michael who?”

I told him.

“Why?” he asked, sourly.

“I'm not sure yet.”

“Whatever,” he said with a shrug.

We passed a group of girls acting loud and silly going the other way.

“Hi, Jack!” one called.

“Fudgepork!” Jack yelled back.

I looked back. The girls had stopped.

“What'd he say?” one asked.

“Fudge-something?”

“What's fudgepork, Jack?” I asked, stopping in front of my English classroom.

He smiled. “I don't know.”

I watched him walk around a corner, wondering if he'd actually make it to his next class. Jack has some attendance issues.

The bell rang again, this time a little farther from my ear. I found my seat and fell into it. Ignoring Mrs. Brattleborough's request to take out something or other, I put a hand to my chin and stared absently at the front of the room. (I
think
her name's Mrs. Brattleborough, but I'm not entirely sure.)

Anyway, for some reason, I found myself thinking about Michael. Our little conversation in the hall had been brief and unsatisfactory. I'd pulled him out from under Leonard's smelly forearm and hadn't even received a “thank you.”

The more I thought about it, the more it irritated me.

However, being the helpful, forgiving person I am, I decided to give Michael another opportunity to express his appreciation.

I decided I'd give him a day or so to realize the error of his ways and make amends. I'd even be open to accepting a small gift as a token of his remorse.

No sense holding a grudge, right?

I found the perfect opportunity for Michael to make things right the next morning. Mom was working from home for the day, so I had the car, and I spotted him in the cafeteria on my way in from the parking lot.

It was early and the chairs were still upside-down, their legs in the air, their backs dangling over the edges of the tables. I noticed Michael huddled at the far end of the room, partially hidden behind the jungle of silver legs.

He heard me coming and glanced up, startled.

I grabbed a metal leg and flipped a chair down. I sat, facing him.

“Morning, Sunshine,” I said.

No response. I studied him.

“You don't use conditioner, do you?” I said.

“What?”

“Your hair,” I said, pointing.

“So?” he said, smoothing one side with the palm of his hand.

“It wouldn't look so bad if it wasn't plastered to your head.”

He dropped his eyes.

“You do shampoo occasionally, right?”

“Yes,” he snapped.

“Don't get testy with me.”

“What do you want?”

I was about to force a little gratitude out of him when it occurred to me that Michael probably wasn't used to people actually working on his behalf.

So I explained it: “I'm here to help, Michael.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael looked perplexed. He opened his book and tried to read, maybe hoping I'd go away. I snatched it from him instead.

“
Lud in the Mist
,” I read. “Who's Lud?”

“Give me that, please,” he said, as if it was a game he'd played too many times before.

“Not until you tell me who Lud is.”

He sighed. “It's not a person; it's a place.”

“Lud? How pretty,” I said.

“Lud-in-the-Mist,” he said. “It's a fictional English town.”

“It's a ridiculous name.”

Michael held out a hand.

I started to pass the book to him but pulled back when his fingers touched the cover. Then I thumped him lightly on the head.

We stared at each other again.

“Do you like the way things are?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you like being the school weirdo?” I asked, handing the book back.

“Yes,” he said, inspecting it for damage.

“Don't make me thump you again.”

He sighed and looked up. “What people think about me isn't important.”

“But wouldn't it be nice to walk to class without getting assaulted?”

He gave me a blank look.

I glanced at the parking lot out through the windows. Clumps of kids were drifting in from their cars.

“It doesn't matter,” he muttered.

I stood up as voices began to spill down the hall and into the cafeteria.

“It does matter,” I said.

“This world is transitory,” he said, studying a blob of dried mustard at his feet.

“This world is
what
?”

Michael shook his head. Getting to his feet, he gently slid
Lud-in-the- Mist
into his backpack.

“Where are you going?” I asked as he slung his backpack over his shoulder.

“Class,” he said.

“Want me to come?” I said, eager to miss the first few minutes of Astronomy.

He shook his head. Yet another helpful gesture slapped to the ground. It was becoming a pattern.

I watched him head for the door.

“See you soon!” I called.

He didn't turn.

I stood for a moment, considering. I'd now given Michael two opportunities to thank me and had come up empty-handed. There was simply no excuse for such behavior, especially when I had gone out of my way to perform an unsolicited good deed.

I decided we needed another conversation. And this time I was going to get something out of him, one way or another.

I ran into Jack on my way out of the cafeteria.

“What's up?” he said.

“Nothing. Just talking to my buddy Michael.”

“Again?” he said.

“Yep.”

“Why?” he said.

“Just curious.”

We made our way down the hall, a small part of a growing stream.

“Hey, I talked to Jenny last night,” Jack said, suddenly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. That girl wants me.”

One reason I avoid close friendships is the obligation to listen and respond to personal information that holds no interest whatsoever. One of the reasons I like Jack—he almost never shares. The only exception is “Girls Who Want Him.” Apparently, the school is littered with them.

It wasn't hard to tune him out, though. If you're quiet and nod once in a while, people think you're listening. Or that you like them. Usually both.

We made our way around the knots and clusters of students. The halls aren't wide to begin with, so it doesn't take many people to go from almost empty to packed.

“Need to go to your locker?” Jack said.

I started to say “no” but changed my mind. My locker's on the second floor, and Jack's is on the first. I knew I'd see him at lunch, and I also knew I'd probably hear about Jenny again. I decided to pass on a double shot, since I wasn't interested in the first place.

“All right,” Jack said. “See you at lunch.”

“Yep.”

Maybe I'd skip lunch.

“Hey, Matt,” someone said once I was in Astronomy.

I held up a hand. “Got a test,” I said.

“We don't have a test today.”

“Different class.”

I grabbed a dictionary from the bookshelf. “Transitory,” I determined, means “temporary” or “fleeting.”

Anyone who thought this world was “transitory” sounded like a jumper to me.

My interest in Michael grew just a bit.

Now I wanted both a “thank you” and some additional information on this “transitory” thing. I was fairly certain Michael wouldn't be very forthcoming, but perhaps he'd feel different outside of the school environment.
Should I make a house call?

I took out a notebook and added a few features to the doodle I'd started earlier. (I'm an accomplished abstract doodler. I've toyed with the idea of letting the art teacher have a look, but she'd probably make a fuss and want to set up a showing and I'm not someone who needs that kind of validation.)

In any case, a house call seemed a bit much, but on the other hand, it was kind of intriguing.

Boredom is a constant problem for me, and the idea of forcing my way into Michael's house and making him uncomfortable held a certain appeal.

No, not
forcing
.
Finessing
.

I smiled.

Finessing
my way in would be fun. Not only fun, but good practice. Michael had been challenging so far. Actually convincing him to let me in would be quite a coup.

Thinking about Michael's house and how I'd get past the front door almost kept me awake. However, five minutes of Mrs. Hammerschmidt's voice was enough to send me and half the class into a coma.

I tried to fight through it but lost.