Sons of the 613 (6 page)

He was, his body half-turned to me as if he had started to walk home and then stopped to watch. He was too far away for me to read his expression, but I knew he was disgusted with me. Then, without a wave, he turned and walked off.

Since then the day has had a veneer of normalcy: furtive passing of dirty homemade manga drawings between me and Paul in homeroom; furtive sidelong glances at Ellen Healy's growing boobs in English; similar behavior in social studies. The only difference between today and other days is I can't properly move my limbs, and I can't stop worrying about what surprises are waiting for me when I get home.

 

“Dude, you all right?” Danny is gently shaking me by the shoulder.

“Mmm?” I sit up, wiping the drool off my mouth and the table.

“Were you asleep?”

“No. Maybe.”

“You don't look so good.”

“You look like shit, dude.”

“You look like if shit could take a shit.”

My peeps.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Dude,” says Paul, “what if during your bar mitzvah you throw up and crap your pants?”

“Would you please?”

“Oh, man, do you remember the YouTube thing with Weinberg?” says Danny, as if we haven't been discussing that very thing every day since it happened.

“Oooooh!!” say Paul and Steve, reacting to the memory with renewed horrified glee.

“The way he's, like,
blaarrgh!
” says Steve, acting it out, “and then he's, like—” He hits the table with his open hand to illustrate Eric's now-legendary faint.

“Yeah, he's totally like,
bleeehh,
” starts Paul.

“Baaarrrff!!”
adds Danny.

“RRraaaalph!!”
retches Steve, everyone getting into the act.

“Dude, that would totally
suck
if you did that!”

“That'd be the worst!”

“In front of all those people like that?”

“Heeaaavvve!!”

“Haarrrrrrgghhh!!”

“Bllaarrrggggaaahh!!!”

“Could you just—”

“Rrraaaaaaaaaahh!”

“Huuuurrrrggg!”

“Booooooooorrrhhuhuhuh!”

“ALL RIGHT ALREADY!!” I shout.

“Geez, dude, you have to chill out.”

 

As we're walking out of the dining hall we spot Eric Weinberg and fall silent. He's sitting alone near the windows at the end of one of the tables, a pallid, solitary example of how cruel life can be, his gaze fixed on the tabletop as if wandering lost inside the dense, squiggly, bacteria-like pattern on the surface. No one is within a dozen seats of him. If you squint, you can just about see the poisonous cloud of doom above his head.

“Man, look at him,” whispers Danny.

“You know what he should do? Move. Move to another state,” says Paul.

“I think I'd just kill myself,” says Steve.

“C'mon, let's go,” I say. They've all slowed to a crawl, and I try to urge them forward, fearful that Eric is going to notice me. And just as I'm thinking it, his head turns slowly toward us and his eye line floats up from the table, unmoored and unfocused, as if searching for a dim, distant light in a dark cave, some promise of hope in the endless night, and what he finds is me. I can see the stages unfolding: his eyes acquiring me and focusing up, the moment of recognition, his eyebrows raising and lips parting as he draws in a breath to call out to me—and then I'm looking away, rejecting him and his desperate neediness.

Next to me, Steve makes a wet, bubbling fart noise with his lips. Danny shoves him, and we all stumble away, giggling. I'm a terrible person.

In the hallway we pause. “Everyone's in for tonight, right?” says Danny, lowering his voice and looking around furtively. The makeup D&D session. We all nod. “You're not going to miss this time, right Isaac?”

“I'll be there.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I'll be there.”

“And you're coming Thursday to my birthday party, right?”

The annual tradition: Danny's birthday party at a local pizza place.

“Of course.”

The mention of the party sparks something in Steve's head. “Dude.”

“What?”

“Your parents are both gone, right?” he says.

“Yes.”

“Dude,” he says, “you should have a party!”

It stops Paul and Danny dead in their tracks. Obviously they think this is a fantastic idea. None of them know about the no-party contract.

“Dude.”

“Dude.”

“Dude! Girls and booze!”

“Invite Heather Paulson! She'll friggin' sleep with anyone!”

“Invite Sarah Blumgartner.”

“OOOOH!!!!!”

Hideous Sarah, fellow tribe member, another troll at the elf party. She never leaves me alone, which is a source of great hilarity for my friends.

“Gotta have a party,” Steve says.

“Dude! Think of the tail!”

“Let's get wasted!”

“We could get weed!”

“Think of the pussy!”

“Weed, dude!”

I look at my friends. Baby-faced Steve has pizza sauce in the corner of his mouth. Not one of us has ever smoked a cigarette, or even
seen
a real joint. I've had a few sips of gloppy sweet Manischewitz wine on Passover. Paul once French-kissed with his second cousin.

“We'll totally get
laid,
” says Danny, whispering it.

I pause for a moment, as if I'm actually considering the idea.

“Yeah, maybe I will have a party,” I say, nodding, and they cheer and we high-five, because we all secretly know that our fantasies about weed and getting wasted and having sex are no more real than fighting Orcs and that we're perfectly safe, because we never will have that party.

The instant we've parted ways I check my watch, curse, start racewalking. I have to hurry or I'll miss my daily moment of happiness, and I really need it today.

I move as quickly through the halls as my rubbery legs will let me, keeping myself at a pace just under that which would draw the attention of a hall monitor. I pass the basketball courts and the music room, then cross the wide common area near the auditorium, walking along the endless glass display case with its rows of hockey trophies and framed magazine covers indicating that our school was once again selected as one of the top ten in the country. As I hurry along I keep an eye out for danger: the Assholes and their crew; or worse, Sarah Blumgartner, who lurks around here and will lock on to me like a remora if she spots me.

I make it to the corner near the auditorium just in time and assume my customary position, leaning casually against the dark brown brick wall. Hands in pockets today? No, out. No, one hand in, the other arm hanging at my side. Slouch a bit more. Good.

My brother has goals for me. I have goals for myself.

Or at least one goal.

And here she comes now.

Her name is Patricia Morrison.

She's rounding the corner from the hallway that branches off about thirty feet from where I'm standing. Her locker is number C-138, and every day she goes from there to Mrs. Halgren's English class at this time, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Today she's alone. I'll have about twenty seconds to look at her: ten as she approaches, and then another ten as she disappears from view.

She has sandy blond hair that falls straight to her shoulders, and perfect skin. She is slim but not skinny. She's athletic but not a jock. I've seen her smile—a great smile, absolutely great—and she's cool, but not mean cool, not one of those vicious popular girls, walking around with their copies of Gossip Girl and The A-List books. A few following-in-her-wake-in-the-hallway research sessions have confirmed that she smells good. Her eyes are grayish blue, or at least I think they are, because I've never really been close enough to get a good look.

I've never spoken to her.

Not once, not in four years.

I am embarrassed to admit this.

I've known her, or at least watched her, since I was in third grade. I saw her one day during recess, playing foursquare, and it was like someone flipped a switch. You know that really old song by the band the Police, called “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic”? Listen to it. It pretty much says it all, especially the part where he talks about feeling like a total idiot and not being able to talk to the girl he's in love with.

I have never told anyone—anyone—how I feel about Patty.

So, my goal. My goal is to talk to her. That's all I have to do, talk to her. Have a conversation of some sort. I decided at the beginning of the semester that I would do it before summer vacation, no doubt, no way out. Of course, I made that same decision last semester and the semester before and the semester before that, and so on and so on and so on, back to the day I first saw her. And now here I am, standing in the hallway each day, waiting for my big chance. I'm not exactly sure what form that chance will take, but here are some potential scenarios I've been working through:

 

• She drops something. I pick it up. This naturally leads to talking.
  
• She is walking with someone I know. This is unlikely. Our social circles don't overlap in the least. But somehow she is    with someone I know, I greet that someone, and talking    with Patty follows.
  
• There is an incident: maybe a fire, or a wall collapses, or a rabid dog, tornado, flood, geologically unlikely earthquake,    crazed shooter, et cetera, and I pull her to safety. Again,    talking.
  
• I say hello to her as she passes. This is the least likely scenario of them all.
  

 

She's getting closer. I deepen my slouch and try to look at her while giving the impression that I'm looking elsewhere. Josh, I've noticed, looks very cool when he stands this way. I'm hoping that, at the very least, I've been registering somewhere in her mind, slowly building up an unconscious impression so that when we do finally talk, she'll already be thinking,
Hey, it's that cool guy.

Here she comes. She's passing. She's past. She's walking away.

I sigh. None of those scenarios will ever happen. There will be no fire, no building collapse, no dog, I'll never say hi to her, she'll never drop anyth—

And then she drops her textbooks.

The world goes slow motion.

My heart begins to pound like it wants to leap out of my chest and run away. It's here. It's happening. It's now. Now is my chance. Now. All of this is racing through my mind before her books have even hit the floor. They're hitting now, splaying open to random pages, and she's turning, realizing what's happening, and I have to go help her
now now now,
but I can't, I'm stuck to the wall and the floor, but then I manage to push myself up from my slouch and I'm taking a step—

“Hi, Isaac!”

NOOOOOOO!!!!

Sarah Blumgartner looming in front of me, blocking my path with her braces and big nose!
NOOOO!!!

“What are you doing? Are you going to math now? Did you do the homework? Did you figure out number seven?” she's saying, her movements mirroring mine as I dodge back and forth, trying to get around her or at least see past her explosion of thick, wiry, Airedale terrier hair.

“What? Uh, I just—I need—” I splutter, watching Patty gather her books, and now—
NO!!!
Someone's helping her!
ARGH!
It's Tim Keavy! Tim Keavy, with his blond hair and nice sweaters, retrieving the books and saying something as he hands them to her, something that makes her giggle.
ARGH!

“ARRGH!” It escapes from me before I can stop it.

“Whoa. Are you okay?” says Sarah. “You're acting, like, psycho.”

“What? I'm fine!”

Now Tim and Patty are talking. They're laughing and smiling and talking and walking off together.
NO, NO, NO!!

“Hey, are you ready for—what are you looking at?” She twists to follow my gaze.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Oh.”

Patty is vanishing with Tim, along with any hope I'll ever have of talking to her. I realize that Sarah is still standing in front of me, expectant, grinning stupidly at me. “So, are you going to math?”

OF COURSE I'M GOING TO MATH, YOU IDIOT! AND NO, I DON'T WANT TO WALK WITH YOU, AND YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE!

“Yes” is what comes out.

“Great. Let's go.”

I grind my teeth as we walk together, Sarah babbling on about whatever. I had one chance, and she destroyed it. I'd be talking with Patty right now if Sarah hadn't materialized like a Semitic nightmare. Without a doubt.

“So I'm, like, totally tripping about my bat mitzvah,” she's saying, but I'm not paying attention, because I've spotted Patty up ahead. She's not with Tim anymore! She's stopped in the hallway, talking to two other girls, kids swirling past on either side! She's talking to . . . who is that . . . Gina Ueland and . . .

Kelly Thorenson!

I
know
Kelly Thorenson!

It's my
second chance!

“Are you?” Sarah says next to me.

“Whu?” I say.

“You know, freaked out.”

“Uh, no. Not really.”

“You're not?”

“Not what?”

“Freaked out.”

“About what?”

“Your bar mitzvah?”

“Oh, yeah, totally freaked out, totally . . .”

Patty's conversation with Kelly Thorenson is ending. They're saying goodbye! I have to get to them!

“Isaac, what's going on?” says Sarah, once again twisting around to figure out what I'm looking at. “You're truly acting psychotic.”

“Nothing. I have to use the bathroom.”