Paul Griffin: Burning Blue

About a minute later, Dave Bendix came in. He did a double take on me and said, “Heya Jay, glad you’re back, man.” He grabbed my hand for a palm grip, pulled me up out of my chair and did the bud hug thing. “How come you never called me back? I must’ve reached out to you ten times.”

“I know. I appreciated it.”

“Jay, if you need anything, let me know. I’m serious.”

“Thanks.”

He spun back for Nicole. They whisper-fought for half a minute or so. Nicole kept saying, “I can’t. I can’t do that, David.” Dave exploded with, “Well, that’s just messed up, Nic. Seriously. You know what? Forget it.” His lips were quivering, and his eyes were wet. “I can’t believe you,” he said, and then stormed out.

“So I’m taking the bus home, then?” Nicole said. “Dave, c’mon, it’s pouring.” But he was gone. Nicole dropped her head into her hands.

I didn’t know what to do: Pretend not to see her crying? Get her a cup of water? She’d probably be like, what are you doing, I don’t know you, get away from me.

Schmidt’s door opened and slammed with this girl hustling out, Angela Sammick. She often wore her hair in cat’s ears, lots of piercings, lips, nose, eyebrows, tongue, her speech thick. I knew her, sort of. I nodded hey.

She looked at me like she kind of remembered me, and then remembered how she remembered me, from this weird thing we got into together two years before, shortly before I started home-schooling. She hurried away. When she saw Nicole she stopped like she’d stumbled onto a rape in progress. She gulped and said, “Hey, Nicole.”

“Hey,” Nicole said, trying to cover a sob.

After maybe five seconds that felt like five minutes, Angela stopped gawking and headed out.

“Later,” I said.

At the sound of my voice, she looked vaguely embarrassed. The history of our night together had come back to her full force, I’m guessing. “What’d you say?” she said, absently.

“Later. As in, good-bye?”

“Sorry about that, Spaceman,” she said, “I was. .” She turned for the door and said “Welcome back” as she slipped out.

Before I left the Hollows for home school, pretty much everybody called me Spaceman. I’d gotten used to it back then, like whatever. What freshman doesn’t have a derogatory nickname pinned to him? But now that I was two years older, I don’t know. It stung. I felt even more humiliated since Angela had alluded to my spacing out-my seizures-in front of Nicole Castro. I know that was dumb, the idea that Angela was revealing something new to Nicole, as if Nicole hadn’t heard about my attack at the pep rally. But being trapped in that waiting room with her, and her being reminded that I was the Spaceman who’d pissed himself in front of three thousand people? Not cool.

I really wasn’t ready for this, being back at school, starting over, pretending that everything was great, that I was this happy-go-lucky junior at one of the top five public high schools in the country, my ticket to an Ivy practically punched-until the next time I seized in front of everybody. I was meant to be a hermit. I was cool with this, a life of self-imposed isolation. I really was. I was deciding this was going to be my last day at school when she spoke to me. “Sad or mad?” Nicole whispered. Her hair was swept back a bit more now, and I saw the edge of what must have been a pretty big bandage covering her cheek.

“Huh?” I said. Brilliant comeback. I remembered to take my earbuds out. I put my hand in my jacket pocket and pretended to turn down my nonexistent iPod.

“That look in her eyes?” Nicole said, sniffling. “Was she mad, or sad? I’m gonna go with sad.”

She had Angela Sammick figured out. Angela was definitely lost. Face jewelry looks very cool on some people, but Angela’s piercings looked like they were meant to hurt. This scythe-like thing hooked one of her eyebrows. I don’t know how she didn’t cut her eyelid every time she blinked.

For those few months I was in school, back in freshman fall, Angela and I were in the same comp sci class. I was pretty sure she’d failed that one. She never took notes, never seemed to be listening to the teacher. She was forever biting her fingertips, chewing off bloody hangnails as she stared out the window. Meanwhile I’d be staring at her, as I had nothing else to do. I’d kind of found my calling at the age of ten with the hacking and had taught myself everything in the textbook years before. Some days Angela would come in dressed simply, khaki pants and a blouse, no jewelry. She was really pretty those days, when you could see her face. But most days she’d be in her getup, the lip metal, the jet-black hair, or sometimes it was green or red. She dyed her hair a different color every week. I had no problem with the coloring. I really wasn’t judging her. I just felt bad that she felt the need to pull her hair down to cover her eyes. She was hiding, but at the same time she seemed to need attention. Her clothes were eye-catching. She was small boned to begin with but seemed to be starving herself, and she wanted everybody to know it with her skinny jeans and tight T-shirts. She struck me as the actress who’s constantly trying out for very different parts, never sure of which role she’s supposed to play. I figured she was like me, on meds, not exactly compliant. I’d actually kissed her once a few years earlier. Or she’d kissed me.

She was always hanging around practice, sucking a Blow Pop. The guys, of course, invited her to this party with-I found out at the party-the intention of having her pull the train. I saw it coming and snuck her outside with the intention of walking her home. She was smashed, tackled me onto the hood of this Mercedes sedan, rammed her tongue down my throat. Maybe three seconds later she started to heave, literally almost regurgitated into my mouth. She fell to all fours and barfed all over the lawn, and I was rubbing her back, telling her it’s okay, get it out, whatever stupid stuff you say when somebody pukes, even though you feel like a total loser, because you were just kissing her before she puked, and you could only conclude that you were THE PUKE TRIGGER, the tag that would show up under your yearbook picture, right next to SPACEMAN. This other girl had seen the whole thing. She said she and Angela lived in the same neighborhood, and she would take her home.

We put Angela into the car, a junker that must have been getting into annual crashes since the 1970s. Angela said she loved me-“love you so, so much, Brett”-and kept saying it over and over, even after I told her my name was in fact Jay. They were halfway to the corner before I realized it might have been nice if the other girl had asked me if I needed a ride instead of stranding me at a party where all the guys hated me now because I had just screwed up their night, the purpose of which was to screw Angela Sammick. I still had the taste of metal in my mouth, Angela’s tongue stud. Better than puke, though, I guess. Only girl I ever kissed. I mean, I’d gotten hand jobs before, from this chick in my building who was a year older than I was, but when you kiss a girl on the mouth, even if it’s only for three seconds and she pukes after, that’s kind of serious in my book. I know, I’m a loser.

I got back to my Maximum Ride , but I could hear Nicole every time she drew breath through her tears, this kind of slee sound. It was after 3:30 now, and the door to Schmidt’s office couldn’t open soon enough.

“Sorry about that,” Nicole Castro said.

“About what?” I couldn’t believe this girl was talking to me again. That she actually seemed to want to initiate a conversation.

“Fighting with David like that in front of you. Really rude. I hate when people do that. What’s your name again?”