Folie à Deux (15 page)

Before I’m through the doorway to the main office the receptionist points to the phone and says sternly, “You have a call. Pick it up on line two.” In the three seconds that it takes me to walk to the phone, pick up the receiver and hit the button labeled, “2” my heart pounds.

I pick up and barely whisper, “Hello?”

I hear my dad say, “Yeah, it’s me.”

He says it as if it’s my turn to respond but I don’t have the experience to guess why my dad would be calling me at school. I say nothing as my mind wanders for explanations. Has someone died? Has something bad happened to someone in my family? What kind of trouble am I in?

The next thing I hear feels like the thud of a nightmare, “A letter came to the house today from school. You’ve been absent three days this year? Neither your mother nor I remember that.”

He is silent, waiting for a response but I’m in so far over my head, truly speechless.

“Where were you on the days that the school says you were absent?”

All I can offer is silence, I have no control over any part of my life. Nothing that comes to mind seems even slightly plausible. It seems as though any response, even if he knows it to be a lie would be better than nothing. Nothing is all I have.

In a voice that I don’t ever recall having heard before he says, “I want you on the bus home right after school and we will talk about this tonight. I don’t care what your plans were. Be on that bus.”

I feel like I can vomit but it’s coming from someplace deeper than nausea. I want to go to sleep, overcome with fatigue as if I’ve been awake for days. I stand still trying to think, only snapped out of my attempt at concentration by the terse receptionist, “Ok, go back to class.”

I cannot though. My feet feel nailed to the floor. Any movement, in any direction is a misstep. I’m absolutely lost in the confines of my own minute life. I leave only to stop the nasty woman from staring at me.

I don’t return to class, I walk directly to Carla’s room. I’m on autopilot not knowing where I’m going until I’ve arrived. I know she’s teaching her French III class but don’t care. There is only one period left for me to figure out what I am supposed to do. She opens the door and upon reading my face, asks, “What’s wrong, Jimi?”

I tell her coldly, “My mom got the letter. She knows I missed school.” I would convey triumph in being correct if I didn’t feel my life is over. A rare glimpse of panic overcomes her face, but its fleeting as she springs into action, “What class are you in?”

She steps back, looks at the clock over the doorway and says, “Ok, there are five minutes left in this period, go get your books and come right here. I’ll give you a late pass to eighth period.”

When Carla told me on Tuesday, “I couldn’t snatch the letter because the stack was on the reception desk but there were too many people around,” I was furious.

She cuts me off before I can express my ire, “But don’t worry hon, I will take you to your house during lunch to grab it from your mailbox.” She says this to provide comfort but instead, shocks me. Although I should no longer be surprised by her incredulity. The thought of pulling in front of my house, stealing mail that will be addressed to, “The parents/guardians of James Cunneely,” drives me to the absolute edge of distress. It’s clear that she sees nothing as an impediment to possessing me.

The last three days we have left school during lunch and driven to my house. We stopped across the street, I leaned out the window, and sifted through the mail to intercept any letter from school. Wednesday and Thursday, no letter. Today, when I open the mailbox to find it empty the look on my face must mirror the panic on hers. She is perpetually astute at knowing exactly what the next move should be to outsmart the would-be saboteurs of our love, this moment of alarm is rare.

“I’ll come back during my free period,” she says to console us.

“And if not, we’ll have to come back after school before we go to my place,” she adds which we both know comes with the implied risk of running into my mother coming home after work.
Obviously my mother came home early today, thwarting her last ditch plan.

During the walk back to class, one phrase echoes in my head, “I’m so fucked.” I’m going to be grounded forever. Missing school is not acceptable in my house. I don’t even know how much trouble I am in because I’ve never tested these waters. I pick up my books and upon arriving back to Carla’s room, Kevin is there and already knows. His cavalier attitude does not help, “Oh just tell your parents you skipped school with me,” and only scares me more that he is not taking this seriously. I stare at Carla to see what she is planning because I have no idea how to survive the next several hours. I consider not even going home. I don’t know where I would go, certainly not with her, but the thought of running away is becoming increasingly conceivable.

Carla closes both doors and stands in between Kevin and me. She starts, “Ok, here’s what I think. You should say that one of the days you were marked absent you were in the building but skipped classes. Some boy wanted to fight you and to avoid him you hid different places in the building. Say you were in the library or the bathroom or wherever.”

I’m buying it until Kevin chuckles, “It’s a good idea but just sounds gay. Why wouldn’t he just fight the kid?” He is right. I’m choosing between being in trouble with my parents and looking like a chicken, completely emasculating myself.

I can hear the minutes tick off of the clock, knowing I must face this alone, embracing every facet of the lie being dictated. When I remind her that there are two absences and her story only works for one she says with almost comical delivery, “Ya, I haven’t figured that out yet,” intensifying my terror.

She looks at Kevin and says, “Ok, go to class now.” He rolls his eyes and says with a horribly rude tone, “I need a pass.” As
soon as the door closes behind him I jump into her arms. I bury my face in the space between her neck and shoulder smelling her perfume and shampoo as I tremble uncontrollably. I am so afraid. Although she is trying to help, I’m nagged by the reality that it was her idea to skip school and have sex all day.

She tells me, “Go to class, get on the bus, go home and I’ll call you when I’ve had more time to think.”

I’m not sure that the phone will still be in my room by the time I’m home. My mom may have already ripped it out of the wall. For all I know, all of my belongings may be on the front lawn after how bizarre my behavior has been recently.

I can’t help but feel like Carla is abandoning me. How can she tell me to go to class as if I can concentrate on anything? How can she ask me to trust her to come up with something believable? I leave after she hands me a pass with the date, time, my name, and the word, “Sorry,” punctuated by a smiley face underneath.

I get on my bus, sit in the same seat as always and stare out the window. My mind is stuck on repeat, “This is so unfair,” involuntarily cascades in my head. I have no problem taking my lumps for poor decisions, but I didn’t choose to skip school. I couldn’t plug all of this into the typical risk vs. reward calculator to see if I was willing to take the chance. I was an accomplice, why am I facing this alone?

“It’s so unfair, so fucking unfair,” keeps reverberating louder as time moves forward because these should not be only my consequences. I put my headphones on and turn the volume up until the music is distorted. I play the same tape that I use in the shower. I carry that tape with me everywhere I go as if the lyrics protect me. I own the songs that soothe me. They feel as though written for me exclusively. It amazes me how someone else could
put down in words exactly the way that I feel so perfectly, making me feel slightly less alone. Someone understands.

I’m the third bus stop like every other day. Today, as I walk the two blocks toward my house all I wish is that I could have the life of any of the other kids who walk with me. They aren’t worrying about how to cover up a day long sexual tryst. I’m sure not analyzing how their lies will be perceived. They’re not petrified about what type of reaction they will receive when they walk in their door. I smile and nod along with the latest gossip, pretending like I care. All I can really think about is what awaits.

When I walk through the back door my mom walks into the bathroom. This is not a coincidence. It’s her nonverbal cue to leave her alone. She is so disgusted that she doesn’t want to look at me. I walk to where she was sitting and see the letter. I pick it up, needing to see exactly how it reads.

It’s cold and formal yet mentions nothing of what really took place. As I read I play the video in my mind of what these days represent. I wish the words could convey the same to my parents. If I can put it on the page then I never have to speak the lurid truth. I know my mom will not come out of the bathroom until I leave so I walk upstairs to await Carla’s call.

Surprisingly, my phone is still next to my bed. Just like late at night I put the ringer on low and bury the phone under all my pillows. I fear that if my mom hears the ringing she will remove it immediately. I sit on my bed to avoid collapsing. While waiting, still washed over with fatigue I fall asleep. It’s not restful but provides a much needed escape. I fight the nap because I know what it’s going to feel like when I wake.

There is going to be a second’s worth of blissful ignorance where I will have forgotten the chaos. But then will come the
rush, the feeling of transforming from a fifteen year-old to the man Carla wants him to be. Followed by the sickness.

I awake to the phone but not mine, my parents’. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs. I want to know if it’s my dad but I can tell by the decorum in mom’s voice that it isn’t. After the greetings and pleasantries, she’s silent for what feels like a long time. I hear a perplexed, “Oh?”

Then, “Well, that’s interesting and makes me feel much better.” I still have no idea who it is but the ambiguity of her responses piques my curiosity. I lose interest in the conversation due to her prolonged silences but dare not move for fear of being heard.

My mind wanders back to the fear of my father’s arrival until she says, “Well, thank you, Miss Danza.”

I think I might faint. I kick myself for not paying closer attention. What did I miss?

She hangs up and I hear her slippers shuffle across the floor, she opens the fridge and I take the opportunity to return to my room. Within minutes my phone rings. I pick up and softly say, “Hello.”

Absent a greeting Carla’s first words are, “I talked to your mom.”

“Ok,” I reply thinking we don’t need to play this charade.

She continues, “I told her I was walking through the office today and heard the principal on the phone. I heard him say your name which prompted me to listen more carefully. When I heard how Jimi missed those days of school, I remembered one day I saw him in the library several times and asked him if everything was ok. He told me that he was avoiding a fight over some girl. I didn’t think anything of it at the time other than it was a noble reaction but now knowing the story it makes sense. Also, he named the other date that Jimi was absent and I knew that I saw
him that day too because I handed out paperwork for the forensics competition. Perhaps, when I pulled him out of class to give him the handouts his homeroom teacher marked him absent. But I’m certain that he was in school both days.”

Carla tells my mother that I am to go to Dr. Bencevengo’s office on Monday morning where he will give me a slip to take to each one of my teachers. If my attendance can be verified by what they have individually recorded then I will be given credit for the day. I will still receive an absence for avoiding the fight but will not suffer disciplinary action. Looks like neither of us will.

I feel skeptical relief, “Did she seem to buy it?”

“Yes, I’m sure she did,” Carla replies with levity, “Your mother seemed very thankful that I was able to put her mind at ease.”

The disgusting irony makes me irate. I understand lying. I have lied to my parents over the years, even prior to Carla to avoid trouble although never good at it. I’m now being groomed as a better, more seasoned liar. Underneath my mom’s anger, she was genuinely worried about me. Carla assuaged her fear but I was far from safe. Those two days, like every other day that my mother ever watched me walk out the door, she put her faith in the knowledge that I was being turned over to someone who would care for me, In Loco Parentis.

Carla feigned control over everything. She alleviated any parent’s worst nightmare not only hiding it in plain sight but also implicating me. This is the first time I really feel hatred. My Catholic upbringing makes hate a dirty word, reserved for evil. Like so much else I’m afraid to admit the truth to myself, Catholicism is great for making any normal emotion seem wrong. But my loathing is the only emotion that seems to make sense. In this instance, perhaps subconsciously the bystander evil I am witnessing makes my hatred permissible.

I hang up, tempted to go downstairs. I want to see if Carla’s call worked, maybe my mom has softened but I shouldn’t know this call even took place. My father comes home and I hear both he and my mother walk past my room into theirs. I don’t dare step out to listen although I’m shaking with fear.

After fifteen minutes of anxiety my dad walks into my room, “Where were you those two days?” He uses no introduction, his voice dire.

He forewarns, “I already know the truth so your only chance to lessen the severity of this is to be honest.”

I regurgitate what I have been rehearsing for the last two hours, “So Dad, there was this kid who wanted to fight me because he saw me talking to his girlfriend. To avoid him I hid in the library all day.”

I play complete ignorance about the other, “Dad, I swear I was in school the other day. I cannot imagine why I would be marked absent.”

I save my explanation about the third day to try to tug on his heart strings, “And the third day,” which was actually the first chronologically, “Was the day I missed school to attend Mrs. Sumac’s funeral.” I keep every explanation short to seem neither nervous nor rambling.