Not As Crazy As I Seem (7 page)

"Time to get up, Devon."

Where do dreams come from? From the mind somewhere, but which part—the part that wishes certain things to happen or the part that wishes other things wouldn't? I asked Dr. Castelli this question and he said, "Dreams may be the brain's way of getting rid of the odd images and feelings that accumulate during the day so you can wake up refreshed in the morning." If that's so, how come I wake up feeling like a dog that's been run over in the middle of the night?

"Devon, you have to get up this instant."

Why do I have to? Why wouldn't some other instant do just as well? Parents control the house, the money, the car, the food—why do they have to control time, too?

"If you don't get up, I won't drive you to Harvard."

Mom always has a threat like this. She knows I want to go into Cambridge and see what Harvard's like. I'm probably not smart enough to get
in there. She
didn't even make it, and I'm pretty sure she's smarter than I am. Still, it's some place to go on a Saturday. I need a destination.

"All right, I warned you."

"I'm up." I jump out of bed just as she pushes in my bedroom door. My boxers are sticking straight out in front. "Mom!"

"Oh, sorry, Devon."

I grab the blanket off my bed to hold in front of me. "Sorry"? I've always thought that the most useless word in the English language, because it can never undo what's done.

Harvard's cool. The library looks like a monument you see in Washington. The information flier says that it has 3.2 million books. I probably couldn't even read all the
titles
before I die. I walked around Harvard Yard all morning and went in the science building and the chapel and even a class building. I looked in one of the rooms, and the kids were all hunched over their desks writing every word the professor said. And this is Saturday.

But the most interesting thing about Harvard is Harvard Square, which is where I'm standing now. I've never seen so many weird people all in one place. I'm trying to look at
them without their knowing, so I've picked up a magazine at the Out of Town News, which is on a cement island in the middle of the traffic. The kids hanging out next to the subway entrance aren't much older than me. They have spiked hair and nose rings and dog collars around their necks. They're wearing black leather pants and black jackets and black boots. At Amherst we had one or two goth kids, but here there are dozens. How do they get away with it? I mean, don't they have to go home for dinner?

Imagine me dressed like that—Devon the Destroyer! I could do whatever I wanted, and who would mess with me?

"You buying that?" I look up and see a very short man with a pencil bobbing between his teeth. He nods at the magazine in my hands. "This isn't a library, you know."

Crochet World
—why am I holding that? "Ah, no, sorry, I guess I don't want this after all." I slip the magazine back into its clip on the awning.

Behind me I hear laughter and turn to see a girl with silver sparkles on her face, shaking a can of whipped cream. She walks up to a guy holding a sign saying "Jesus Saves" and sprays the whipped cream on his head. The religious guy doesn't move—doesn't even turn around to see what the girl's doing. He just stands there. I know about being picked on, and this is strange. Why isn't he running away or fighting back? Then it strikes me—this guy wants to be picked on. He wants everybody to see how bad the kids are. Maybe he even wants to be persecuted, like Jesus.

This is too crazy, even for me. I cross the street and head up Massachusetts Avenue, past the Harvard Coop Bookstore. When I see C'est Bon I get thirsty. I wasn't thirsty
before, but looking through the window at the big, cold bottles of Coke inside suddenly makes my mouth feel dry. I think I'm very suggestible.

When you think about it, "C'est Bon" is a pretty strange name. I mean, in France do they have "This Is Good" convenience stores?

I head for the door. I don't even stop to count the people going in, and I don't know why that is. Sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn't. New obsessions are like that with me—they take time to take hold everywhere.

A ragged old man jumps in front of me, which is pretty rude. I wait for him to go in, but he just holds the door open, so I slip in around him. I find a tennis-ball can of barbecue chips and a sixteen-ounce Coke, which Mom won't buy for me because of all the caffeine. I pay the girl at the counter, then head for the door. It opens in front of me, and there's the same ragged man holding the handle. This time he has his hand out.

"Can you spare two quarters for my friend here?" He pulls back his old coat, and there's the smallest orange cat I've ever seen.

I want to pet him, but I'm not sure I should. Who knows what this guy might do?

"Go ahead. He won't bite."

I stick my finger toward the little face, and a paw reaches for it. I don't feel any claws. "What's his name?"

The man shrugs. "I don't know if he has one. I found him in the cemetery up the road last night. If you want to name him, go ahead."

The kitten opens his mouth and licks my finger. His
tongue probably has millions of germs on it, but I don't care. I wouldn't let any person in the world lick my finger, but this is a kitten. "Sasha, why don't you call him Little Sasha."

"Little Sasha. I like that."

I move out of the way to let a couple go past me. The man doesn't open the door for them. I don't know what to do next. I don't normally talk to beggars. Dad says they use your money to buy liquor. This guy doesn't look like a drunk. And he has Little Sasha. I pet the kitten again and then reach into my pocket. I pull out a fistful of change and three dollar bills. I keep two dollars and fifty cents for myself. "I need this to get home on the train, but you can have the rest."

The man smiles, and I'm surprised to see very straight, white teeth. "I don't need that much. Sixty cents will buy a small container of milk."

I drop two quarters and a dime into his hand. I hope he didn't notice I was making sure not to touch him. His hand is kind of curled up, like my grandfather's.

"May I presume on your kindness again, young man?"

"I guess."

"Could you buy the milk for me? They don't let you bring animals inside."

"Okay, or I could hold Little Sasha and you could go in and get what you want." He doesn't say anything. Maybe he thinks I'll run away with the cat. "I wouldn't hurt him. You can trust me."

"Oh, I trust you. But see, they don't really want people like me coming into their store." He sticks his finger
through a hole in his jacket to show what kind of people he means. "And I don't like to go where I'm not comfortable."

Think of that—not ever going where you don't feel comfortable. If that were the case, where would I ever go?

His name turned out to be Ben—the kid in my art class who marked the teacher. He must be a real loser in this school, because why else would he be waiting for me again after class the next Friday afternoon?

"Hey."

"Hey."

That's all we say to each other as we walk down the hall toward the gym. Just past the trophy case he nudges me to the wall, then whispers, "I got some ish. You interested?"

I don't know if I am or not. "Ish?"

"Yeah, some tree ... herbal ... smoke—man, where did you come from, anyway?"

"Intercourse."

"You got that right."

"No, I mean the town where I grew up in Pennsylvania was called Intercourse. The Amish named it."

Ben's grinning. Every kid grins when I tell him where I was born. "So you went to Intercourse High?"

"Intercourse Elementary, yeah."

Kids are rushing past us, going both ways. Nobody seems to be looking over, which means he's not a totally weirdo kid. He reaches into his pocket and then opens his hand between us, so only I can see. In his palm is a long, thin cigarette that looks like he rolled it himself.

"I'm skipping next period. Why don't you come with me?"

Skip class and smoke marijuana—is he crazy? "No, I don't do that stuff."

"That's cool. You don't have to. But come with me anyway."

"I've got gym now. I shouldn't miss it again."

"You hate it, right?"

"Yeah."

"So why are you running off to do something you hate?"

He's got a point. I'd do anything to get out of changing into those stupid gym clothes and showing my scrawny legs. Still, what if I get caught with a kid doing drugs?

Ben grabs my arm and pulls me down the hall to a door marked "Janitor." He checks both ways, then opens the door and yanks me through.

It seems like I've fallen into one of those video games where you slide through a pipe into a different world. I follow him down some grated metal steps to a large open area. It's loud and strange, like descending into the boiler room of the
Titanic.

Ben leads us around stacked-up chairs and beat-up old
lockers and a huge box marked "This End UP," with the arrow pointed down. We duck under a large white air duct and turn into a room the size of a bathtub. On the floor is a straw mat and a blue plastic dish filled with butts.

Ben pulls out the cigarette and licks the wrapper to seal a loose edge. "It's my secret place. I never brought anybody here before."

"What about the janitors? Don't they come down for stuff?"

"They're cool. You slip them a few bucks and give them a hit and they leave you alone."

I can't imagine Felix taking a hit of oregano, let alone marijuana, but I figure Ben knows what he's talking about. He strikes a match and lights the cigarette. It takes him a few puffs to get it going, and then he holds it out to me.

I shake my head.

He blows out the smoke and then takes another long drag. It smells like burning weeds.

Ben leans back against the cinder block wall and then slides down it until he's seated on the mat. I squat down so nothing's touching the floor except my sneakers. He flicks the ash off the cigarette. "I know a kid named Hitler."

"Adolf?"

"No, Ron."

"Ronald Hitler? You're kidding."

He takes another drag, squinting his eyes as he does it. "At this camp I got sent to last summer there was this kid named Ronny Hitler, and the thing is, he was really cool, you know. Not a skinhead or anything."

"I'd like to be named Genghis. Genghis Brown—what do you think?"

"How about Ben the Ripper?"

"Or Devon the Hun?"

A clunking noise scares us to our feet, then turns into a hum. Ben leans back against the wall. "It was just the boiler starting up."

"Maybe we should get out of here before somebody catches us."

He looks at the stub of the joint burning toward his fingertips. "One more drag."

He takes a long hit, and we stay there for a minute, listening to the boiler. It's as if we're underground, and the whole world above us has disappeared. Maybe if we were the last two kids alive on earth, I'd try the marijuana. But seeing his saliva on the end of the cigarette makes me feel sick. It's also a little exciting, though—me, Devon the Straight, Devon the Quiet, Devon the Polite, doing something totally wrong right under the feet of the teachers.

I hate my name. "Devon" sounds like a stuck-up WASP rich kid, which I'm not—at least the stuck-up part. I don't feel rich, either. I'm pretty sure my parents are, though, because they have two jobs and only one kid. They bought a big Colonial house in Belford, which is a fancier town than Amherst, and our new place sits high on "The Hill," as everyone calls it, which is obviously the rich part of town since it looks down on everywhere else.

After school on Friday I went to the Belford Free Library and checked out a book called
How to Change Your Name to Anything You Want.
From what I can figure, I could change my name in Massachusetts for less than a hundred dollars. Of course, Mom and Dad would have to give me permission to do it since I'm not eighteen, and that could be a problem because I'm not thinking of changing to Jeremy or Jesse or Josh or Jason or any other
stupid J name. I want something different.
Mozambique
sounds good to me. I like the way it looks in big black letters on the cover of an old
National Geographic
we have at home. Except people would probably just shorten that to Mo or Moe. I could accept Mow as a nickname, but you can't count on people spelling your name like you want. There are other possibilities, such as Sandwich—Sandy for short—or maybe Asphalt, Fur, Soap, Rivet...

Dr. W. taps his desk with his pen. "Devon, can I have your attention?"

"Sure, take it. I'm not using it."

"That's very funny."

"Really? I wasn't even trying to be funny. I'm never funny if I try."

"Well, today I'd like to start with a game."

I figure he means Connect Four or Stratego, like I played with Dr. Castelli, but he takes out a deck of cards. "I want you to pick a card and then talk for one minute about the statement written on it."

"Why do I have to do that?"

"Because it's the game."

"You mean I lose if I talk for fifty-five seconds ... or two minutes?"

"No. There's no winning or losing."

"So it's not really a game."

"Think of it as an exercise."

"That's good, 'cause my dad says I don't get enough of that."

Dr. W. spreads the deck, and I take a card from the middle, exactly between his hands. I turn it over and read
to myself:
Imagine you are taking over as principal of your school. What would you do first?
This is easy. "I'd shoot myself."

Dr. W. leans forward to see what's written on my card. I look at my watch. It only took me two seconds to say this. I still have fifty-eight seconds to go.
I'd shoot myself.
That's all I can think of. I hate this game, because why should I have to talk more than I need to? Once you shoot yourself, time stops for you, doesn't it? So why does it keep on going in this stupid game?

Dr. W. looks at
his
watch. "You have a lot of time left."

"I'd shoot myself. Shoot myself. Shoot myself. Shoot myself. Shoot myself."