Solitary: A Novel (9 page)

There is the principal, Miss Harking, who said hello to me in passing on my first day. Next to her stands my gym teacher, whose name escapes me for the moment. He looks like the athlete who couldn't stand to let his high school days slip him by, so he simply stayed around to teach. And to pump iron. Next to him stands a cop. If we were back home I might think this guy is security at a mall, one of those "faux cops," as Brady called them.

"Young man, you are in serious trouble."

A part of me wants to turn around to see if Miss Harking is talking to someone else. The guy in the tie stands right next to her as if this is an intervention.

"Is there anything in your locker you want us to know about?"

I think about the bag lunch I brought and wonder if they're here for that. I shake my head.

"Can you tell me anything about that?" Miss Harking says as she points to her desk.

On it is a revolver, a short stubby kind that looks ideal for hiding in your pocket.

I glance at it, then at the stern faces in front of me.

"We got word this morning that someone saw you take this out of your bag and put it in your locker," the cop-or-not says to me.

"Who said that?"

"Does it belong to you?"

"No," I say with a bewildered laugh.

"You're in serious trouble, Chris," Miss Harking says. "We've called your mother."

"I've never seen this gun before."

It's clear they don't believe me. I stare at the tie guy who led me down here. He looks like he's been itching to take out his own teenage aggressions on someone for about forty-five years, and boom, here I come.

The outsider from Chicago, only here a week, is packing heat.

Come on.

"What are you doing with this, Chris?"

"That's not my gun. I didn't put it in my locker. What else I can say?"

"We've heard you've been making some trouble with some of the boys here," Miss Harking says.

"If `trouble' is trying to avoid getting my face bashed in, then yeah, I've been making lots of it."

"And who has been trying to do this to you?"

"Gus and his buddies," I say.

The cop and my gym teacher look at each other.

"Did you bring this in to hurt one of them?" the cop asks, his nostrils flaring.

I want to flare mine back at him, but can't. "No. That's not my gun."

"You were suspended from your last high school for drinking."

The principal has done her homework.

"That's a lot different from carrying a gun to school."

For a few more minutes, they continue to drill me.

And I continue to say the following: "That is not my gun."

Finally my mother comes in, her eyes red and swollen. Sad to say, I can't tell if it's from being upset or being hung over. She gives me a hug, then stares at the other adults in the room. "What is going on here?"

"Mrs. Buckley, we received three different reports this morning from students who said they saw your son bring in a gun and put it in his locker."

"That's a lie," Mom says to Miss Harking.

"Have you ever seen this gun?" the cop asks.

"Of course not. Are you seriously saying Chris brought this in?"

"I didn't," I say.

"I know that. What proof do you have? Who said this?"

"We have three different sources-"

"Three? Where are they? Get them in here right now. I can tell you one thing. That gun doesn't belong to my son."

"There's going to be an investigation so we can find out if it does."

My mother curses in a way that both shocks me and makes me want to high-five her. She grabs me by the arm. "You're not doing anything with my son. He's not going anywhere with any of you."

"Ms. Buckley, there are certain procedures we have to follow-" the cop begins.

I would bet big money my mother could take him. She's not big, but she's scrappy.

"Your son has had some run-ins with some of his classmates."

Mom stares at me, then looks back at tie guy. "Run-ins? Like how? He's a new kid who sticks out like a sore thumb. Or should I say he's like the normal thumb on a sick hand. When do new students come in and make trouble?"

"It's happened before," the principal says.

"Well, it's not happening here. I can guarantee you that that gun is not my son's."

"But we have to-"

"You listen to me," my mother says, aiming her finger at the cop. "Chris's grandfather was shot when I was eighteen years old and not even out of high school. Shot with a random gun in a random shooting. Chris didn't tell you that, did he? He didn't tell you that he's vowed never to touch a gun, ever. Ever."

"Please, Ms. Buckley."

"No," Mom says. She grabs me just like Tie Guy did earlier.

I want to cry out that I'm not some animal who needs to be pulled around on a leash.

"You do whatever you must, but Chris is coming with me. You have a problem with this, I'll call my lawyer. You touch my son and I'll sue every one of you, and you'll end up on an NBC primetime special on the abuse of power in a hick town."

My mother storms out, still holding onto my arm. I walk with her in silence, bewildered and stunned.

We get into the car and she turns to me, red faced and breathless. "You look at me right now and swear, Chris, you swear that-"

"Mom, stop."

"Just tell me."

"It wasn't my gun. I swear."

"Then whose was it?" She pulls the car into reverse and almost rams a car behind us as she veers out of the parking lot.

"I have no idea."

But on second thought, I do have an idea.

It's an ugly idea, with an ugly face attached to it.

"Are you in trouble?"

"No."

"I mean with some other kids."

"No. I'm fine. Just typical high school stuff. Bullies."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell."

We drive for a few minutes, my mother seeming to realize finally that she's not a superhero. I can see her deflating.

"Thanks," I say.

She grabs my hand. "They're not going to touch you. Nobody's going to touch you."

"Because of your lawyer?"

Mom looks at me and can't help the smile forming on her lips. "Like that one?"

"Yeah. I had to keep from laughing."

"I'd call him. If you were in trouble, I'd call him."

"Really? And you think Dad would actually help me out?"

"He'd help out if I called him," Mom says. "But he's the absolute last resort. Besides, there's nothing to call him about. That wasn't your gun."

"Yeah, but it was someone's. And whoever put it in my locker did it to get me in trouble."

The email goes like this:

HEY, JOCELYN. SORRY ABOUT THE WHOLE EXCHANGE AT LUNCH. DID RACHEL TELL YOU ABOUT THE NOTE?

Her reply is short and sweet:

YES. LOOK-I'M THE ONE WHO IS SORRY. I FEEL LIKE AN IDIOT. CAN I MAKE IT UP TO YOU? PICK YOU UP IN THE MORNING ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL?

The imaginary email.

Her imaginary reply.

I think of what it'd be like to have email or an Internet connection.

Maybe I should be thinking of something else, like how it's going to be back at school now that I'm known as a gun-toting gangster. But instead I think back to Jocelyn, about the conversation and misunderstanding at lunch. I think back to what Rachel told me and how I was looking forward to seeing Jocelyn during history class.

I never had a chance.

Life's all about chances.

Maybe I'm a little too young to fully appreciate this, but that's what it's about.

Chances.

And the element therein.

Dad used to tell me-well, tell isn't actually right, it was more like preach to me-that there was no such thing in this life as chance. That God controlled everything.

I wanted to say, "Yeah, well, if that's the case, Pops, then why did God put you and Mom together?"

I think it's easier not believing in God, knowing that Dad does.

It's easier to pick a side.

Chance.

That's what I believe in. That's the team I'm on.

The random fateful chance that some guy comes across a grandfather I'll never know and puts two slugs into him.

The random fateful chance that one day I'll be accused of having a gun in my locker.

I'm full of questions. Were there rounds in it? Where did their investigation lead? Why haven't they called?

Most importantly, what's going on with Jocelyn?

I'm listening to the second side of an album by Love and Rockets. Strange stuff. I want to use the word psychedelic for it. It's like rock for creepy people.

I kinda like it.

I don't have the volume high.

I wish tomorrow would come. I wish I could talk to Jocelyn right now.

I think of ten thousand things to say.

I know that by tomorrow morning, I probably won't say any of them.

Mom is dressed with her makeup already done and coffee in hand.

Usually I'm the one making her coffee, sometimes leaving for school without even hearing her stir.

"You taking me to school?"

Mom shakes her head. "I talked with the principal last night."

"And?"

"You're staying home today."

"They still think-"

"No," she says, stopping at the kitchen counter and directing her gaze toward me. "At least the principal doesn't think it was your gun. But they still need to talk to some kids, look into it. She said it would be better if you stayed home."

I sigh.

If this gets out, even if they find out it wasn't my gun, I'll be labeled as a troublemaker. Some freak.

Even more than a new student already is.

"We're going to see your Aunt Alice today."

I hear a rumble of thunder. "Any particular reason why today?"

"We should have gone last weekend."

I almost say, "Yeah, that's what I thought too, but you couldn't get off the couch."

Instead, I just ask, "What if the school calls?"

"They can leave a message."

I look at the box of cereal. It's some generic version of Cheerios, as if you could get any plainer than that. I pour some into a bowl and find the milk.

"Are you going to take a shower?"

"Think Aunt Alice is going to care?" I ask.

"I will."

With a mouth full of soggy cardboard bits, I nod and mumble that I'll be ready in just a few minutes.

The only place the directions seem to be getting my mother is lost.

The glaze of rain coming down sure doesn't help. It feels like we're driving in the gray of clouds, turning down a wandering rocky road without a name only to have to back up and go miles over the same ground. We've been driving for half an hour.

"So Aunt Alice is your mother's sister?"

Yes.

"Do you remember her?"

"A little. She was younger than my mother. I remember her at the funeral. She was a wreck."

"And nothing over the years?"

Mom shakes her head, squinting to see the messy scribbles of her own handwriting on the sheet of paper. "A card every now and then. I've spoken with her on the phone a few times. The last being just a month ago."

"How'd she sound?"

"Well, she gave me these directions. Which make about as much sense as she did." Mom puts the piece of paper in her lap and keeps driving.

"She ever marry?"

"No."

The no sounds like "not in a million years." Like Aunt Alice couldn't marry, like she has one arm and horns sticking out of her head and she talks in tongues. Or maybe has several tongues to talk with.

"My mother's death really had an impact on our small family. There were just the two of them-the two girls. Aunt Alice just-she never recovered."

"And she's the only family member around here?"

"There are several from the Kinner side of the family, my father's family. He had a couple of brothers, and I think their families are still in the area, though they'd only be cousins. I lost touch with them."

Without the directions in hand, it seems that Mom does a better job navigating. We drive down a dirt road and come to a small side road with a crooked old tin mailbox at the end of it. The numbers say it belongs to Aunt Alice. The driveway, if you can call it that, wanders way back into the woods. Our car passes over ruts in the muddy road, ruts that are turning soft and gooey like warm fudge. We eventually come to a one-story house that looks as though it's on its way to becoming one with the forest surrounding it.