Lucid (6 page)

Everyone turns to look at me. Some actually slide their chairs around to have a better view. It would be a relief if the floor beneath my desk could open wide so I’d plummet to hell.

“Now I haven’t actually spoken to Sloane about this…”

Let’s keep it that way.

“…but I’m going to take the liberty…”

Uh-oh. This is never a favorable sign.

“…of suggesting that any of you who has a personal memory or story to tell about our Bill—perhaps humorous, perhaps poignant, but certainly revealing—”

Is there any possible way that by simply wanting to die in this moment, I could will myself to make it happen? An aneurysm perhaps?

“…might email or text or Tweet or, to date myself, even dare to telephone Sloane with your story, in case she’d like to include it. This memorial is for all of you. And not to put poor Sloane on the spot…”

Just in time.

“…I know that none of you will think the less of her if your stories are not used. Sloane, have you already prepared your remarks?”

“Can we just go back to that polenta thing again?”

One voice laughs from the back of the room. And even though the laugh isn’t overtly cruel, I know that it is mocking my poor attempt at humor, and I am humiliated beyond belief. I didn’t know it was possible for a human blush to last thirteen minutes. Regular color and body temperature don’t return to my skin until long
after the bell, when I dash from the room to the girls’ room to splash my face with cold water.

It is embarrassing how easily embarrassed I am. But this incident was intolerable, especially given the subject matter. James Waters was the only one who laughed out loud, but it felt like the whole room had me tarred and feathered and was chuckling at my discomfort.

As I enter each of my morning classes, I say a heartfelt atheist’s prayer that James won’t be there. He isn’t in French, calculus, AP European History, or physics. I keep my head low in the halls all day, trying to be invisible. As I head off to lunch, I realize that since my fifth period is free study, my only remaining risk is sixth-period AP Lit. The one wild card is lunch. I just have to avoid seeing him or letting him see me.

Lila and Kelly are up on the hill. I join them and plop down on the grass as if reaching home base in a game of tag I’m playing all by myself. It’s not like I have a bull’s-eye on the back of my shirt. It’s not like he or anyone else even remembers homeroom at this point. Get over yourself, Sloane. I just need to push him from my mind.

No. Such. Luck.

“Have you seen him?” Lila is practically foaming at the mouth.

“Who?”

“The love child of Johnny Depp and the most beautiful woman who ever lived, whoever she is. Or was.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

Kelly taps me on the shoulder. She points. He is no more than twenty yards away. He’s not sitting isolated and alone on some demonic throne as I’d imagine but is at a picnic table with a group of kids, apparently engaged in friendly conversation.

“Oh, the new kid in my homeroom. What about him?”

Kelly isn’t buying my casual tone. “Enough with this ‘too cool for school’ shit that you pull incessantly. If you’re not going to admit that this dude is an objet d’art, that can only mean that you have a crush on him so disabling that you’ve lost your will to lie persuasively.”

I pretend to take a long, professionally discerning examination of the art object in question.

“Well, compared to The Weed…”

“That was a cheap shot; he’s a very nice kid and quite attractive.”

“Mmm, don’t have him stand next to the new guy in any group photo if you want to convince anyone else of that.”

“So you admit he is hot,” Lila prods.

“Well. He’s more…unusual…than actually hot. Sort of an off-kilter James Franco kind of thing. Maybe James Dean. But prettier. Maybe a little too pretty for his own good. He has the kind of looks that probably change with the angle and the light, so he might be interesting to photograph.”

“Preferably naked,” Lila adds. “And even more preferably, I’m the one holding the camera.”

“Or holding whatever,” Kelly suggests.

Kelly is the only one of us who has had actual sex. As opposed to, I suppose, virtual sex. Lila is very pretty and very religious, which adds up to total horndog. She would be president of the Everything But Club if one existed. She actually thinks she’s saving herself for marriage. An interesting definition of “herself,” since there’s only one thing she’s saved.

As for me, I’m a virgin for a reason that is personal.

Kelly tucks a strand of Lila’s hair behind her ear and tells her, “Sorry to be the buzz kill. He belongs to, drumroll, please, Amanda Porcella.”

“That can’t be true,” Lila says. “Because as a Catholic, I know that there is a God in heaven.”

“They went on Outward Bound together summer before freshman year. Their dads work together at Pfizer. His folks are divorced, he’s lived with his mom in San Francisco all these years, but now that she’s remarrying, it’s dad’s turn.”

“So I’ve never been on Outward Bound,” Lila offers, “but I’m guessing it takes more than building a lean-to together to ‘belong’ to each other.”

“Depends on what you do in the lean-to after it’s built.”

“Okay, now I know you’re full of shit because Amanda has been in CCD with me since we were six and she’d never ever go all the way before marriage for any reason.”

Kelly turns toward the boy, with a sweep of her hand: “Gentlemen of the jury, I present to you exhibit A.”

I stare at James. And for no reason in particular say, “I don’t see him with Amanda Porcella. She’s homecoming queen. She’s popular and friendly and cheery. I just don’t think he’d find her interesting.”

“Sloane, let me introduce you to a species called ‘male.’ She’s interesting.”

“Not to him.” And then, without thinking, I say, “This isn’t me being cool, and it isn’t sour grapes; there’s something about that boy that…”

Kelly looks interested. She watches me stare. “Are you writing a story about him as we speak?”

“Of course not.”

Kelly laughs. “Bullshit. Okay, if you were writing a story about him, who would he be?”

I think for a moment as I watch him talking with the group, eating his sandwich, unaware that Amanda has angled herself toward him hoping for attention. “He’s not a boy who will ever give himself to anyone. And he’s not going to bring anyone any happiness.”

“Wow.” Lila speaks for the two of them, and I feel embarrassed to have said something so pretentious and judgmental and, well, mean. “Well, the good news is I don’t have to compete with you, and as far as I’m concerned, I could love me a little unhappiness. In the right flavor.”

Kelly turns to me. “You may just be making up one of your stories, but I think you’re right.”

And at this moment, the boy who couldn’t possibly have heard anything we were saying slowly turns. And looks directly into my eyes. For exactly two seconds. And then he walks away.

Those are the eyes of a sniper, or even an assassin. But then we just read
An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge
. And anyway, what does it mean to have the eyes of a sniper? Is he analytical? Is he cool under pressure? Is he cold-blooded? Is he coldhearted? I think that gray eyes don’t absorb any light, don’t give back any color or life. They are self-contained. They care nothing for you. And are therefore fascinating, in the sense that aren’t we all compelled to read the unreadable?

Sixth period. The seat to my left is unaccountably empty. I find myself performing one of my eleven rituals. I move my thumbs to the other fingers of its hand in a complicated pattern I memorized.
Index, ring, pinky, middle, pinky, pinky, ring, and on and on. The sound of that bell is a relief. I stop and reach down to pull out my book.

And then he walks in the door. And sits next to me.

“This afternoon, we welcome James Waters, a new transfer student from California,” Ms. Lambert announces. “James, we are just finishing our postmortems on the relevance of
The Great Gatsby
to modern male-female dynamics in terms of romanticism, class and social status, power relationships, and the tools each gender uses. So for the weekend, if you can read
Sound and the Fury
, the Benjy section, we begin that discussion on Monday.” James nods like he’s read it before, and I immediately bristle. “So, guys, what do we think about Daisy? Does she exist today?”

She looks around the room. Absolutely no hands. Which is usual. They’re waiting for me. Today they’re out of luck.

“Sloane? Are you comatose? I don’t think any of us will know what to do if someone else has to speak first. Does Daisy exist today?”

I used to like Ms. Lambert. Until this moment, actually. No way will I ever speak again in this class. And from the seat to my left…

“She certainly does. I’ve dated her.” Wild laughter. Including our apparently smitten teacher. Damn her. And without realizing that my brain has disconnected from my mouth…

“As long as guys would rather be with a girl they think of as their intellectual inferior, Daisy will live on.”

“Goodness, we have ourselves a debate. And in the affirmative?”

James turns to me, but I keep my gaze fixed on Ms. Lambert.

“Ms., uh…”

Diabolical. He clearly doesn’t remember me from homeroom, or at least my name. I’m now forced to look at him to answer. The sorcerer draws first blood. I turn to the gray eyes, trying to be completely natural and unconcerned, which aren’t really things you can “try” to do.

“Jameson. Not sure the relevance to the question you haven’t started to answer.” Zing.

“I wasn’t being asked a question, actually. I was asked to take the affirmative in defense of a complex female character. And I just wonder why you feel Daisy is intellectually inferior to any other character in that book. Ms. Jameson.”

“Have you actually read the book?”

“Not only have I read it, but I’ve made the distinction between someone who is stupid and someone who is foolish.”

There is actual applause. I never realized that I was actually hated by this class. This is the worst of all possible moments to find it out.

“Well?” Ms. Lambert is loving this.

“If you say so. As long as guys would rather be with a foolish girl, Daisy will live on.”

“An interesting debating tactic. It’s like you’re hoping everyone will agree that the quality you most dislike in the character is the one that attracts men to her. I’d love to hear the list of qualities that attract men to you.”

This is followed by a cacophony of zoo noises so gross and prolonged that Ms. Lambert, the traitor, has to call for order. My anger emboldens me to say:

“Well, I suppose…green eyes. Blond hair. Silky skin. Standard
body parts wrapped in a tight package.” The zoo noises return, but now they are on my side. “Everything that means nothing.”

“And what is it about you that means something?”

“Interesting tactic, switching the subject of the debate to your opponent. Sadly I haven’t been the object of Fitzgerald’s fascination.”

“Okay, fair point. My assessment of Daisy is that she cares about her own agenda and doesn’t apologize for it. She may have many characteristics that Fitzgerald dislikes. She’s careless, reckless, flirtatiously manipulative, superficial, and chooses material things over romantic love. But she’s in control. Maybe her foolishness is a brilliant act to get what she wants.”

The class waits for my response. Unfortunately, I know he’s right. I’ve reduced it too simply.

“I’ve never looked at it quite that way before. But when you don’t care about anything but yourself, you may be more powerful, you may even be more interesting, but you are less worthy company.” I watch him think about what I said.

“I guess. But why is it an admirable quality to be worthy company? Because it’s important that other people want to be with you? I think that’s a dangerous road. I don’t judge people’s worth by how popular they are.”

“Daisy’s selfishness makes it impossible for her to truly connect with anyone. If you’re defending her, admiring her, dating her, whatever, does that mean you don’t place much value on human connection?”

I feel the crowd turning on me again, as if I distorted an interesting discussion into a personal attack. As if. Okay, I sort of did. But he did it first, I think. And even if he didn’t, what, I’m supposed to just get bitch-slapped in AP Lit?

“That’s probably what we are really debating. The basic reason that romantic connection is so difficult is that men objectify women. For Tom, Gatsby, and Nick, and probably the male species in general, it’s all about them. The woman fills a place in his life, and that’s her only value. Basically, she’s just part of his relationship with himself.”

“So all the fault lies with you and your brothers.”

“Except that we couldn’t be the pigs we are if women didn’t buy into it. Women have enabled this situation from the beginning of time. Daisy is actually the man in the book. She’s using Tom to have money, position, and safety. She’s using Jay to feel loved. She’s using Nick to feel worshipped and valued.”

And that’s Amanda Porcella?

“So what’d she use you for?” I can’t resist.

“Sloane…” Ms. Lambert starts to interrupt, but James just looks at me like the rest of class isn’t there and answers.

“I guess we used each other. Read Rilke’s poem about two individuals living side by side, who can grow, if they can love the distance between them, which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky.”

“I read it. In fourth grade.”

Lots of good-natured laughter. Maddeningly, some of it from him.

“Then you know it’s saying that blurring the lines of individuality in a desperate attempt to stay connected is, ironically, the greatest enemy of true connection.”

Every eye on me.

“I have to say I agree.”

He turns to Ms. Lambert. “Do we keep score in this class?”

She laughs. “Starting today.”

She goes to the board, writes
J
and
S
, and puts a hash mark under
J
. There is enthusiastic applause. And I should be feeling like a big loser. But weirdly, I’m excited because I feel somehow connected to him, even though moments ago that was the last thing I wanted.