Folie à Deux (4 page)

I shrug. The gravity of the evening too much to articulate, compounded by new confusion. “Are you going to the dance?” she asks.

“I am.”

She smiles, “Maybe I’ll see you there and if not you always know how to reach me.” I’m tempted to tell her what I’m really upset about but cannot, still creating vicarious apologies for my parents.

Monday after the dance is the funeral. Although my parents seem reluctant for me to miss a day of school they agree since I’ve arranged my own transportation. Mass is at my parish, providing a small amount of comfort but I’m still unable to concentrate on anything except Kevin’s family sitting in the front pew. I think I feel Miss D. looking at me but it’s hard to tell because she’s on the other side of the church. There is audible weeping as she sings the hymn, “And He Will Raise You Up on Eagles Wings” and most specifically during the recessional hymn, “On the Last Day.” I know she isn’t here for me but just having her present adds comfort, like I’m in a safe place where my childhood is meeting my future.

After mass, we go directly to the cemetery where Mrs. Sumac is being interred. When the priest says his final blessing and Kevin and his family return to their limousine everyone is left
standing at the grave, lost. The first person I lock eyes with is Frank, ironically the person who broke this news to me. I feel the panic of knowing the day is coming to an end and the uncertainty of the next phase. He looks at me and with tears welling in his eyes, embraces me in a hug that shakes both of us with his sobbing.

Once home, at one o’clock in the afternoon, I take off my suit, lie down and sleep as though I have not in weeks. I know my late night conversations are contributing to my fatigue. I sleep for hours until my sister comes home from school, followed by my parents and my brother shortly after dark. My mom makes dinner, we eat, take our showers and not one word is mentioned about my day. Nothing about the funeral, Kevin, or his family is spoken.

As I lay down in bed I decide to address my feelings with my parents. It still hurts to recall the image of myself sitting alone at the wake. I’ve been trying, in vain, to articulate something all day. When only their bedroom television illuminates the hall I stand in my doorway deciding how to present my thoughts. I rehearse several openers before I decide on the most concise; crippling fear drives my internal resistance. I walk into their room, stop at the foot of their bed and they both look directly at me.

Nobody speaks a word during an uncomfortable silence that I must break, “I just wanted to tell you that I felt lucky today. I realized that life is fragile and can end anytime. I’m glad I have both of my parents.” It’s staccato, disjointed and lacks the preamble that might have made it succinct, but it’s the best I can do. The moment freezes for me and I become hypersensitive to every reaction. My mom puts her head back on the pillow as though collecting her thoughts.

My father, still sitting up, legs crossed says, “Well,” and pauses as though he has no idea what should follow, “It’s good you realized that. Some people take a lot of things for granted and miss them when they’re gone.” He seems to squirm, looking in vain for something else. Mom closes her eyes either satisfied or desperate to escape.

That is apparently the only response. A pat on the back for coming to a realization through the tragic death of my best friend’s mother is my reward. There is no hug, no invitation to discuss and no reciprocation. I walk back to my room and lay in bed. I pick up my phone and call Miss D. apologizing profusely for calling so late but she stops me mid-sentence, “Jimi, I told you to call me whenever you needed,” this time emphasizing, “Whenever.” I never tell her what happened in my parent’s room, unable to think about my feelings. I want to bury them and hope they go away without ever having to actually face the truth.

Each time I dial her number becomes easier and the conversations shift to more normal topics. When we discover that my second period study hall coincides with her free period she tells me, “Stop by first thing in the morning and I’ll give you a pass. You can come to my room in case you wanted to do homework or just talk.”

I seize the opportunity to spend more time with her. We discuss less death and more of our lives. How long she has worked at the school and the arc of her career. She sporadically asks me about Kevin and his family but the topic ends quickly regardless of my answer. Our nightly conversations resemble the small talk that two friends would share but I have difficulty viewing this as typical friendship.

She enjoys talking about how well we communicate and reiterates constantly, “I never have to dumb anything down when I’m talking to you.” She compliments my broad vocabulary and how speaking to me isn’t even like talking to a fifteen year old, “I feel as though I’m talking to someone in their twenties if not my own age,” she elaborates. I’m tempted to ask her age but avoid being impolite.

On the tail of a similar conversation she asks, “What are your feelings on getting together sometime to talk?” The idea confuses
me because we talk so often. She clarifies, “Well, I mean being able to talk outside of school.”

I ask innocently, “Where do you mean?” still confused.

She stammers. She is very good with words, knowing exactly what to say at the right time so I feel bad for putting her on the spot. “Well, I just thought that it might be nice if sometime we could, uh, maybe get together and like, have a cup of coffee, or maybe a bite to eat?”

She’s right. Our conversations are always cut short and there never seems to be a lack of things to discuss, our uncomfortable silences having vanished long ago. There are a wealth of topics that we have yet to complete and even more that have never been broached. I wonder what made her want to become a French teacher and what summer vacations are like for an adult. I want to know what kinds of cars she has driven in the past because the one she has now is cool. Where did she grow up and what is Paris like? How hard it is to be fluent in French, why isn’t she married and so many other things that need time.

For some reason our conversations always revolve around me. Not just my past but also my life now. How I’m so different from other boys my age and how I’m able to get along with them despite my unique personality. These topics, of course are nice to hear but make me uncomfortable once belabored.

I respond naturally, “Sounds good, let me just ask my parents.”

She ends our conversation to grade tests. Not too long after we hang up, as I’m sitting on my bed, my dad comes to my room. As he places clean laundry next to me, I run the idea by him, “Dad, do you remember my French teacher from last year?”

He doesn’t. “Miss Danza,” I remind him, “Dark hair, very pretty.”

“Ok,” he says because he knows no description will help.

“Well she came to Mrs. Sumac’s funeral and has been a big help getting through things recently,” I pause to wait for verification. I wonder if he feels any remorse when I tell him I’ve sought help from another adult. “Anyway, she asked me if I’d like to get together with her outside of school so I told her I’d ask you first,” I continue.

He has the same initial question, “What do you mean outside of school?”

“Well like a cup of coffee or a bite to eat,” I repeat her words because it’s all I can say.

He thinks again, as though struggling to find an answer, “Let me talk to your mother and I’ll let you know.” His typical answer whenever I make plans.

I relay his answer when I speak to Miss D. to say goodnight, “I’ll let you know as soon as he gets back to me but he doesn’t seem to have a problem.”

It isn’t until two nights later that my dad comes into my room, ironically while speaking to Miss D. I put my hand over the mouthpiece in case I’m about to be scolded. Instead he says, “I spoke to your mother and we’re not sure it’s a good idea for you to go out with a teacher. I understand that there’s nothing going on but I’m afraid how it would look.”

He leaves no room for debate but I don’t have a counterpoint anyway. I hadn’t accounted for the appearance of impropriety and he raises a good point. I put the phone back to my ear, apologize and allow her to finish what she was saying.

When she pauses I say nonchalantly, “Hey, my dad just got back to me about dinner or whatever. He didn’t think it was a good idea.” I don’t think to speak gently and don’t think it’s an upsetting answer. It’s an invitation and for circumstances beyond
my control I have to decline, similar to countless others on the grounds, “My parents said, ‘No.’” Annoying but not terrible.

I’m mistaken.

I wait for her to say something but nothing comes. Her silence becomes unsettling, open-ended. I finally hear what I think sounds like crying but cannot imagine what would cause such a reaction. Before I can ask I hear an audible and unmistakable sniffle.

“Um, are you crying?” I ask, afraid she’ll laugh at my question.

When she says, “No,” I know she’s lying.

I fall silent, bewildered. I’ve never been good at consoling anyone in tears. Despite the fact that we have crossed some lines into becoming a friendship she is still my teacher. “Why are you crying?” I ask. Her silence lasting so long.

During the pause I retrace our conversation to recall if there was something I said that could have upset her. I’m scared I did something wrong. If it weren’t for definite sobs I would think our call got disconnected. After letting out a deep staccato sigh she says, “What you just told me made a reality of something I’ve been afraid of.”

She doesn’t say anything else so I ask, “What’s that?”

“Jimi, there’s so much I’m afraid of when it comes to you,” she responds immediately.

Youthful ignorance prevents me from understanding innuendo. I’m nothing more than a student going through a rough time and she reached out to help. What about me could possibly cause this visceral reaction? I feel the sensation of spiraling when she says, “I’ve been feeling some crazy feelings toward you, Jimi. I’ve been fighting telling you because I was hoping to do so in a different setting. I really didn’t want to do tell you over the phone but I guess I have to.”

Her repetitive use of my name draws me in and continuously bridges the chasm that my parent’s prohibition created. She tells me, “What I’m most afraid of is that I’ll never be able to act on the deep emotions I feel every time we talk.” Her cryptic speech is maddening and makes me feel like everything is happening at Fast-Forward speed.

“What are those emotions?” I naively ask, surprised by my quick draw response.

Silence again.

Another long sigh, “Oh Jimi, the feeling I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to act on is that I’m falling in love with you.”

Now it’s my silence ringing in my ears. Is this really happening? I need a second. This comes out of nowhere. “What the fuck?” rambles through my head. My heart pounds, I feel it in my feet. My ears burn. This is Miss Danza. Every boy in the school talks about how hot she is. The two boys I sit next to in History class tell me all the time about how badly they want to, “Lay her on her desk and fuck her.” The Miss Danza that causes boys to crane their necks and almost fall out of their seats when she bends over to pick something up in her tight pants. The same teacher who is crying to me.

I ask her, trying to start small, “What can I do to make you feel better?”

She answers immediately almost snapping, “Please stop calling me Miss Danza or Miss D. Call me Carla.”

I think I can do that, though it will probably feel weird.

“What else?”

“Do you love me too?” she asks too quickly. She dictates the cadence of the conversation and I can’t keep pace.

“Yes.”

She’s crying on the phone and it’s my adolescent answers causing these tears. I definitely feel something I can’t describe. I know I look forward to seeing her. I like talking to her at night. When she walks by me and says, “Excuse me,” placing her hand on my shoulder I feel chills. I guess that’s love. So my response seems the truth. She doesn’t ask me to elaborate and doesn’t ask me how I know, she just takes my one word answer and runs.

I hear her cry again and although I’m afraid of the answer, I ask, “Why are you crying now?” This time sounds like a low grade wail out of sheer agony. I feel bad for having said, “Yes.”

She says through sobs, “In some ways I wish that you didn’t say that you loved me.” Her calculated pause allows my mind to wander feverishly. “Now that I’ve told you that I love you and you have told me too, I’m tortured by having to wait until you’re eighteen to kiss you.”

Through a tornado of thoughts it occurs to me that I did not tell her I love her. I didn’t say the words, “I love you.” She asked and I said, “Yes.” I see a distinct difference. Also, when did we arrive at the topic of kissing?

“Well, I guess we have to wait but eighteen isn’t too far,” I say.

Wrong answer. What I thought was a valid response, elicits a full-fledged sobbing fit.

“Ok, wait, wait, why did you just get more upset?” I ask.

“Because that is a long time and I don’t want to wait because I’m in love with you now,” she snaps before I’m done with the question.