Tangled (13 page)

Munchie break was wrapping up. As Jason solicited a few kids to help him push the food table off to one side, Abby corralled the rest of us into a wide circle on the carpet. I leaned against the wall, my knees bent in front of me, and listened as she explained how, for this activity, we had to reveal something about ourselves that no one else knows.

A girl raised her hand. She had freckles and bangs cut straight across. “No one here or no one at all?” she asked.

“No one here, Cassandra,” Abby said.

“But we’ve just met,” the girl said. “No one here knows
anything
about me.”

Except that people don’t need a ruler when you’re around,
I thought.
We can just use your bangs.

“Try to think of something interesting,” Abby said. “A little factoid.”

“I’ll go first,” Jason said, squeezing in next to Abby. “I’m obsessed with table tennis.”

“And I play intercollegiate field hockey,” Abby said.

A guy to Abby’s left said, “I love to water-ski. I may compete later this summer.”

What is it about sports? Even here, in this bastion of extreme geekdom, people still need to prove they’re all jocks deep down.

Cassandra said how she liked to fence and the kid next to her told everyone he’s a vegetarian. And then, this small girl with reddish hair and glasses looked up for a moment. “I don’t wear underwear on Thursdays,” she said.

Everyone stared at her. A few kids laughed, but Abby quickly shushed the room. “This is a safe space,” she said. “You can be whoever you want here.”

When it was my turn, I said, “Pass.”

Abby shook her head. “You have to say something.”

“I did say something. I said ‘pass.’”

Abby looked over at Jason. “Fair enough, dude,” Jason said, shrugging. But he said it in this stiff way, like he came from another planet and read in an instruction manual that guys on Earth call each other
dude
.

When the confessions were over, Jason clapped his hands together. “So here’s the deal,” he said. “We’ll call out two names at a time. You’re going to pair off and initiate a casual conversation based on the facts that each of you just revealed.”

Abby glanced at her clipboard and began reading names.

Of course, I wound up with the girl who doesn’t wear underwear on Thursdays. We sat across from each other on the floor. She said “Hey” and I said “Hey” and then she began picking her fingernails. I glanced at her name tag.
Hello, my name is Julia Nicholson. I can’t wait to be your friend!
My palms were clammy and my tongue was heavy in my mouth. She wasn’t exactly cute. In fact, she bore a strong resemblance to a chipmunk. But she was wearing a skirt. And today was Thursday.

Abby squatted down next to us. “Hey, you two. How’s it going?”

“Fine,” we both said.

“Julia,” Abby said, “did you ask Owen why he passed?”

Julia bit her thumbnail.

“Why’d you pass, Owen?” Abby asked me.

I stared at her. What was her deal with me? I can’t
stand the kind of people who think the best way to summon a shy kid out of his shell is to ask him lots of questions. She probably chucks small children into deep water to teach them how to swim. Man, she was going to be one terrific therapist.

“Is it that you don’t want to be here?” Abby pressed.

I shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

“It’ll get easier.” Abby smiled at Julia and me. “By Saturday night you guys will be having the time of your lives.”

Abby slapped me on the back so hard it made me cough, and then she ambled away. The problem is, once I start coughing I have a hard time stopping. I considered digging through my duffel for my inhaler. Always a fun moment, being the pale skinny guy with the inhaler.

Finally, I got hold of myself, and just in time because Julia was looking at me funny, almost like she was about to perform mouth-to-mouth, which would not be good given her current underwear situation.

“It’s just asthma,” I assured her. “I was born premature.”

“Me too,” she said.

The silence hung awkwardly between us, but where
were we supposed to go from here? Compare notes on our neonatal intensive care experiences?

Just then, Jason clapped his hands and announced that it was time to get our roommate assignments. He explained how we had an hour to bring our bags upstairs, relax, and get ready for dinner and the luau tonight.

Cassandra’s hand shot into the air. “We’re having a luau?”

“We decided on the theme at the last minute,” Abby said. “But don’t worry if you didn’t pack any Hawaiian gear. We’ll pass out flowered shirts, grass skirts, and leis after dinner.”

I shuffled into line for my roommate card, silently cursing my mom for sending me to this place where it was acceptable to assume that some of us, by mere chance, brought along Hawaiian clothing. Because that’s just what real life is like, after all.

I didn’t get the buzzing kid, which was no small relief. My roommate turned out to be the vegetarian. John something or other. Husky Asian guy. Friendly enough. We said hi to each other and then he got on his phone.
Damn,
I thought, watching him. I was stupid to use mine in front of Abby. I mean, it was printed all over
the orientation material.
No cell phones WHATSOEVER
.
Turn off your phone and be present
. And my favorite:
Don’t get trapped in the cell of your cell
. I assumed they were referring to prison cells and not, like, mitochondria.

After a few minutes, there was a knock on the door. John clicked off his phone and crossed the room. It was another guy from the seminar. All I knew about him was that he told everyone he once went to juvenile court for hacking into his school’s network.

“What’s up?” the guy said, nodding at me.

I was sitting on my bed, watching television and dealing a hand of solitaire. At least I’d thought to bring along my brother’s cards, which he’d left behind the last time he stayed over. “Not much.”

“You have it?” John asked him.

The other guy unzipped his hoodie and produced a slim laptop.

“Contraband computer!” John declared, pushing an extra chair toward the heavy wooden desk.

The two of them began playing a futuristic role-playing game where aliens are invading the planet. Max and Nigel, my friends from Alty, are really into that game, but I’m just not a sci-fi guy. Five minutes later, there was another knock. This time it was the
water-ski kid. He cruised toward the computer and began playing, too.

I watched them for a while. Where was I when they made this plan? We were all in the same conference room this afternoon. But, as usual, I was oblivious to the cliques forming. I can’t help but wonder how people pull it off. Like my brother. Our whole life, if our family went camping or to some police ball game that my dad was in, the second we got out of the car Dakota would hit the ground running with a pack of kids, leaving me stranded in the parking lot.

I scooped together my cards, dropped them in my bag, and reached for the room key.

“Where’re you going?” John asked, looking over. The other guys were staring at the screen.

“Business center,” I said.

“Proceed with caution, bro,” John said. “Those facilitators seem hardcore.”

I closed the door and headed down the long hallway toward the elevators. When I got to the third floor, I walked completely in the wrong direction, of course, before following signs to the business center. I swiped my card to unlock the door. There was no one inside, just two dingy desktops and a printer with the red light flashing, jammed paper fanning out of every crevice.
I settled into a swivel chair. As I entered the password for my blog, I immediately felt better. This was me, after all. This was home.

I started Loser with a Laptop when I was thirteen, relatively new to Rochester, and didn’t have any friends yet. I wrote about missing my old bedroom and discovering which grocery stores gave free samples and how I lived in constant fear that my voice would crack. I’m sure it was boring drivel, but cathartic nonetheless. That’s why I keep writing, nearly every day. Usually I write about personal stuff. Like when my brother’s girlfriend was in a fatal car accident in February, I wrote a lot about that. Not that Natalie and I were best buddies, but it still shook me up. I’d never known anyone who died before, not even a grandparent.

Every now and then I get visitors. Fellow bloggers from Akron or Dallas or even Europe, telling me to
cheer up
or
keep on keeping on
or whatever emotional vitamins people shove down your throat when they think you’re having a tough day. They’d usually comment for a week or two, all caring and
I’m here for you
, before vanishing into the blogosphere.

But then, in late April, Miz J left her first comment. Pretty soon, she was visiting every day. She told me
she was sixteen and from a town called Topeka, north of New York City. She’d post short comments, but they were really insightful, like she was actually taking the time to think about what I was writing.

A few weeks later, Miz J asked if she could IM me. I gave her my screen name and we began chatting. She told me that her grandmother had just had a stroke and all these terrible feelings were pent up inside of her. I said I’d give her posting privileges if she wanted to blog. Later that night, she put up a post that was so heartbreaking, all about how her grandma had always encouraged her to love herself as she was, but she never really
got
it until now. After that, I said she could post anytime.

I glanced through the window of the business center to make sure Jason or Abby weren’t anywhere nearby and then looked back at the screen. Sure enough, Miz J had posted a few hours ago.

I was cracking up as I read Miz J’s post. She’s always funny in this self-deprecating way. Definitely my style. I went onto Instant Messenger and, sure enough, she was online.

After we signed off, I wrote a quick post, all about the fascist facilitators and that girl who doesn’t wear underwear. But the whole time I was describing ReaLife to a Real Life, I was thinking about Miz J’s suggestion that I tunnel out of here and meet her in New York City. Even so, I didn’t mention anything
about it in my post. Maybe because I was worried she’d read it and laugh at me for taking her invitation the slightest bit seriously. Or maybe because if she commented back and said
please come
, there’s a good chance I’d jump on a bus.