Not As Crazy As I Seem (14 page)

"Did you see someone else spray the graffiti?"

"Yes, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I saw this person spray a little."

"And you didn't stop him?"

"I didn't say it was a him."

"You didn't stop this person?"

"No."

"You didn't leave the building?"

"Not right away."

"You didn't report him or her to the headmaster or any of your teachers the next day?"

"No."

"And you won't tell us now who it was?"

"No—I mean yes, I won't tell you."

The cop gets up and leaves the room.

"Oh, Devon."

I can't look at Mom because I know the expression on her face. I'm always disappointing her—every time I eat four of something, every time I wash my hands, every time I refold the clothes in my drawers. You'd think I'd get used to seeing disappointment on her face, but I never do.

She takes a tissue from her pocketbook and wipes under her eyes. "How could you do this?"

"Mom, weren't you listening? I said I didn't do it—the other kid did."

The cop comes back and sits down again. He picks up his pen. "Now, you admit you were at the school the night the graffiti was sprayed?"

"Yes."

"And we have a witness who saw you go in the locker room—you and only you."

Goose bumps break out on my arms. My face starts to burn. They're going to try to pin the whole thing on me.

"You say there was another person, Devon, but you won't tell us his or her name. Why should we believe there was someone else in the school that afternoon who committed all of the vandalism?"

"Because I told you, and I don't lie."

Mom leans forward between us. "Devon
is
very honest."

The cop shakes his head. "Even honest kids make mistakes, Mrs. Brown. I'm afraid that's the truth."

Dad comes through the door at six p.m. as usual, shouts "I'm home," then veers into the living room to turn on the television. He likes to see the news before eating. Mom rushes in from the kitchen and turns the TV off. "No news tonight. I mean, dinner's ready, so let's skip the news."

"Dinner's ready?"

"Yes, barbecue chicken—your favorite."

So we sit and eat. Of course, I know what's coming.

Dad forks up a piece of chicken. "How was school today, Devon?"

"Okay."

Mom shoots me a look. I'm supposed to say more.

"I got a B+ in my algebra quiz, and I handed in my story for English—it was six pages, which is double what it had to be. And I think I'm going to climb the rope in gym on Friday. I really will."

Dad spoons rice onto his plate. "Just remember to use your legs. Climbing is all in the legs, not the arms."

"I'll remember, Dad."

"Well, I had a sad one this afternoon."

Now I know all hope is lost that he has come home in a cheery mood. It was stupid to expect it—embalmers don't have happy days at work. "It was a seven-year-old girl. She had leukemia. It broke my heart to work on her."

Mom jumps in and changes the subject. She talks of going into Boston Saturday. She says it would be a family outing, like we used to do back in Amherst.

The meal goes fast. I try very hard to eat everything right. When I see there are just three turnips left on my plate, I don't panic. I just cut one turnip in half, and now there are four.

Mom brings in apple crisp for dessert, with vanilla ice cream. She says it's nice to eat early and Dad says it's nice to watch the local news, too. Mom says there's never anything new under the sun anyway, then laughs like she said something funny.

I clear the dishes and load the washer. Mom tells me to go up to my room while she breaks the news gently to Dad. I wonder how she plans to do that.
Now Frank, the strangest thing happened today when I picked up your suit at the cleaners—your pants were missing! On my way home I saw a wild turkey crossing the road—can you imagine that? And oh, I almost forgot, the police questioned your son about spraying "Nazi" all over the walls of the school.

In my room I sit on the floor, lining up my sneakers and shoes under the bed. I have only four pairs—three of them
sneakers, one hard shoes. I know some kids who have twenty pairs. I guess they do a lot more running around than I do.

It's quiet downstairs. I figure the longer the conversation goes, the better. Mom's good at talking, which is why she's a lawyer. She almost always gets her way with Dad. I'd say she runs the house pretty much, at least—

"Devon! Come down here!"

I jump to my feet, but before I can go anywhere I hear Dad running up the stairs, and he throws open my door. "I can't believe it—you did this?"

"No, Dad, let me tell you what happened."

"We've tried very hard with you, Devon."

"I know, you've been great."

"You have all your little ways of doing things—we don't interfere most of the time, do we?"

"No, Dad."

"You'd drive some parents crazy, I'll tell you that."

"Most parents, probably."

"Yes, most parents. But we've tried to be understanding. When things got out of hand in Intercourse and Amherst, we moved. That was for your sake. Do you realize that?"

"Yes."

"We moved to give you a chance in a new environment with another psychologist who's experienced with this kind of problem. We paid for you to go to a great private school where the kids might be a little more understanding, and now you do this. What was going through that crazy head of yours?"

"I don't know what was in my crazy head, I—" Wait a minute, why am I apologizing? I didn't do it. "Dad, listen..."

"No, I'm done listening. It's time for you to listen for a change."

"But..."

"Be quiet before I really lose it."

I wait until he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself and then blurt it out—"I really didn't do it."

"You have the nerve to say that? You were seen, Devon!"

I'm starting to feel really weird. I remember my self-esteem tapes—
Whatever you say or do, I'm still a good person. Whatever you say or do...
Dad keeps ranting on and jabbing his finger in the air. Why doesn't he believe I didn't do it? I need some space to think about this. "Dad, I'd like to be left alone now."

"You would, would you?"

"Yes, it's my room."

"
Your
room? Your room is in my house. That makes it my room, understand?"

No, I don't understand anything that's going on. I just want him to go away and calm down and then later I can explain everything, and he'd see that I didn't do anything except try to be friends with a weird kid. It's their fault, really, and Dr. Wasserman's, for bugging me about making friends. I'd never get into trouble if I could just stay home.

Dad pulls up my comforter on the side and leans down to look under my bed. "You still line up your shoes."

"Yes."

He opens up my closet door. "You still button every shirt."

"Yes."

He opens the top drawer of my bureau. I don't think he
should be able to do that without asking. "You're folding your boxers now, your socks, your T-shirts..."

"Yes, yes, yes."

He nods in a way that scares me, like I've just confirmed something bad he always knew.

The headmaster wants an explanation. And an apology. He says that's the least that's required to resolve the situation.

He's pacing his office, which is so small he can take only five steps before he has to turn around. Each time he reaches the window and whirls about, his hand almost knocks into the picture on the sill of his big happy family—three perfect kids and two perfect dogs and one perfect wife. What would happen then? What if the glass breaks and flies up to his neck and slices his jugular? What if he starts spurting blood on everybody? It could happen, and would that be my fault, too?

Dad taps my knee. "Devon, answer Dr. Marion."

"Okay." The thing is, I don't remember what he asked. Something about why, I think. "Sorry, can you repeat the question?"

Everybody sighs—Dad, Mom, even the headmaster.

"The question is simple, Devon: Why did you deface this institution with such hateful words and symbols?"

I can't believe I have to say this for the hundredth time: "I didn't deface anything. I didn't spray anything. Does everybody understand that now? 'Cause I'm not going to say it again."

The headmaster throws up his hands. Dad shifts his chair away from me.

Mom leans toward me. She's the only one still talking to me, I guess. "I'm trying to believe you, Devon. But if I do, it would really let me down if I found out later that you were lying. I'd be devastated. So look at me now."

It's easy looking at her. She has the nicest brown eyes and the friendliest cheeks of any mother I've ever seen. I don't feel perverted for thinking that, either.

"I'm asking you, did you spray the school with that word?"

That
word? She can't even say "Nazi."

"No, Mom, I didn't. I was in the school, like I said, but I didn't spray anything, not one single word."

She smiles at me and I feel wonderful because she believes me.

A half-hour later, the headmaster still doesn't. He keeps talking about "the preponderance of the evidence" and "the plain facts" and "common sense."

What preponderance? What facts? Whose sense? There was just one kid who saw me go in the school, and how reliable could he be since he didn't even see Ben?

The headmaster smacks his lips, which sounds disgusting. I'd like to tape his mouth shut. He whirls again at the
end of the room. "I've considered expulsion, but that would just open up a legal can of worms that I don't want to get into."

A legal can of worms? What's that? Why not a can of legal worms?

"So I've decided on a two-week suspension. I also expect you, Devon, to pay restitution for the cleaning service we used to remove the spray paint. Finally, you must write an apology to the student body, which will be printed in
The Banner.
Do you have any questions?"

I have plenty of questions: How can you punish someone when you can't prove he did anything wrong? How can you force him to pay for what somebody else did? How can you embarrass him in front of the whole school where he just started?

Dad stands up and shakes the headmaster's hand. "I think that's very fair, given the situation, and I'm sure Devon feels the same way." Then he turns to me. "Don't you?"

No. They don't know what happened. They just think they do. Adults always think they know.

"Devon?"

"Okay, it's very, very, very, very fair."

Nobody speaks on the way home. It's only a few blocks' drive, but still, somebody should say something. It's not like we're coming from a funeral. So I lean forward in the back seat of the Camry into that little space between them. "Have you ever tried tickling yourself, Mom?"

She shakes her head.

"How about you, Dad?"

He grunts, which I take as a no.

There—they've both responded, sort of. The next step is to get them actually talking. "Well, you can't tickle yourself. It's impossible. And they just found out the reason."

Dad turns a corner. "Don't say 'they'. If you're going to relate something that someone said, say whom you are talking about."

"Okay, well I don't know his name, but it was a scientist, probably a tickling expert. I think he was from Sweden, and he did a study with the brains of people and found out that a part of the brain lights up when somebody else tickles you because you're worried he'll never stop. So the reason you can't tickle yourself is because you know it's you and you know you'll stop."

We're home. Dad steers into the driveway of our house and shuts off the car. "I don't think we'll be doing any tickling tonight."

"Right, Dad. No tickling for us anymore, but I just thought you'd like to know."

I'm trying hard to be a good son. I made my special stuffed mushrooms for dinner, which is actually the only thing I know how to make. Granddad taught me. I set the table and poured the water glasses. I even uncorked a bottle of chardonnay and took Dad a glass in the living room. I know it makes me look guilty being so good, and the strange thing is that I feel guilty. I did go in the school, after all. I saw Ben write "Nazi" on the trophy case. I could have told him to stop. I could have turned him in. I didn't do either and I'm not sure why.

Dad isn't eating any of my mushrooms. He usually takes just one on his plate, eats it, and then says, "What the heck?" and takes three or four more.

I pick up the plate and hold it across the table, but he shakes his head. "No fungus tonight, Pop?"

"I'm watching my cholesterol. You see enough people dying from clogged arteries like I do, you start paying attention to what you eat."

I offer them to Mom, but she shakes her head. "I've already had two."

So I dump the rest of the mushrooms on my plate and start eating. I don't stop until I devour every one, and I don't even count them.

After dinner Dad turns on the late news and I stay down in the living room with him rather than going to my room as usual. I figure I should show my face.

Then I get the great idea to do sit-ups. Dad loves exercise, especially for me. So I hit the floor and start doing crunches like he showed me one time, with my knees up and my hands behind my neck, holding my head. I count off fifteen, and I'm rolling. Then I hear on the news, "At The Baker Academy, the mystery is solved today..."

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. I keep crunching because I know if I stop they'll say my name and Dad will throw a fit.
Please don't say my name. Please don't say my name...

"School officials here report they have identified the perpetrator of the shocking graffiti that appeared on the walls and doors of this elite private school last week."

I glance at the screen, and there are the same pictures
as before—"Nazi" on the trophy case, "Nazi" on the flag, "Nazi" on the locker.

"The culprit has been described as a tenth-grade boy at the school..."

Thirty, thirty-one.
Please don't say my name.