Paul Griffin - Burning Blue

“As in rhymes with S bar ro?”

“Ex act ly, as in, exactly.”

I found it hard to believe she didn’t know my last name after I was the YouTube sensation of freshman year, spazzing out in the middle of the gym floor at the pep rally. Could she not have seen the video? Maybe she wasn’t at the pep rally altogether?

“Nazzaro,” she said. “I think I knew that. Wait, I’ve seen that name somewhere. Somewhere else, I mean.”

“My father, maybe. It’s a lame paper, but you ever read the Clarion ? He’s the art critic.”

“Your father is Vincent Nazzaro?”

“Steven, but everybody always thinks his name is Vincent too. Not like I mean he has two names.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

I shrugged.

She stumbled. I grabbed her arm. She regained her balance but kept her arm hooked through mine as we walked. “Was it as lame for you as it is for me, home school?” she said.

“My father just let me read whatever I wanted, as long as I passed those tests the state makes you take.”

“I have to take them if I don’t head back next quarter. How were they?”

“I took them all in the beginning of the year to get them over with. I home schooled online. This pilot program thing.”

“And you passed everything, no tutors?” she said.

“Tests were designed to let a moron pull at least a B. You’ll kill them. If you don’t come back to the Hollows. Are you? Coming back, I mean?”

“I’m not sure. I’m being told I need to hunker down for a while, hang home with my mom. She’s been awesome, total rock.”

“Why didn’t you call her? You know, to pick you up?”

“I can’t have her dropping everything for me anymore. As it is, she’s pretty much stopped her life to help me get through this. She needs to take a break from me every once in a while. From it.”

I wondered how I’d react if I saw it. I’d read that burn wounds were the worst. Catastrophic disfigurement. Identities just erased.

We came to where the main road tied into a tunnel of very old, well-pruned elms, no cars at the curbs. A sign said: PRIVATE COMMUNITY, NO PARKING, VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED. “I’m just down the street,” she said.

I lived on a street. This was a drive with estates on either side. I had a cousin who lived in Englewood, plenty of money there but gaudy rich, lots of lawn statuary, half the saints in the Gregorian calendar sticking out of the Ficus benjamina . Nothing so cheesy as a prefabricated statue in this part of town, though. Just wide fields of flawless lawn. The mowing lines were invisible, as if the grass had been hand-combed.

“Your clothes are soaked,” she said. “You can borrow some of my father’s. We’ll go visit my friend, and then I’ll drive you home.”

“Your car’s in the shop,” I said.

“Our housekeeper’s. We have this old Subaru wagon for when she runs errands.”

“Why didn’t you call her for a ride?”

“She’s in Florida for the week.”

“Your friend,” I said. “The one in the hospital?”

Nicole clicked her phone to play me a message. “Nicole Castro, I wait for thee. Will I be eleven by the time you show up? This is my subtle reminder that E-Day is next week. I’m currently soliciting several presents, with a new OtterBox topping the list. Pink preferred, though lemon yellow is fine too, anything bright. Also, all forms of gift cards will be accepted, but I definitely wouldn’t mind a Dolce and Gabbana certificate.”

Nicole laughed. “She’d so never wear Dolce, you know?”

I laughed and nodded, like of course I knew the wardrobe inclinations of this person I’d never met. We’d come to a guardhouse in the middle of the street. The attendant came out with an umbrella for us. “Nicole, let me call the car to take you to the house.” His eyes ticked toward the main road. An older model Civic was parked off the shoulder, somewhat camouflaged by the woods. Somebody was leaning through the driver’s-side window, aiming a telephoto lens at us. The guard frowned. He shined his flashlight toward the camera as he clicked his radio. “John, he’s back again.”

“I see him,” came back through the radio.

A tug on my sleeve. Nicole pulled me behind the guardhouse. “Rag mag reporter,” she said. She peeked around the gatehouse.

Across the road, a security company SUV zipped up to the photographer’s car, and the photographer sped out of there. I memorized the plate number, MBE-7921. “Let’s go,” Nicole said.

“Can’t. I’m running seriously late for work.”

“So that much was true.”

The west side bus was coming. “See ya,” I said. I started for the pickup spot.

Nicole hurried alongside to cover me with the umbrella. “Next week, right?”

“Next week?” I said.

The bus rolled in with foot-high waves. We backed up to keep the water from rolling over our ankles. “At Dr. Schmidt’s,” she said.

“Right. Take care, Nicole.”

“I hate it,” she said. “That they call you Spaceman. I’m sorry. That must have been awful for you. The thing at the pep rally.”

I was seeing it all over again, and so was she, apparently. No hoping anymore. Nicole Castro had seen me wet my pants.

“On or off,” the bus driver said.

I stuck my foot in the door to keep it open. “You must be really into art to know my father. It’s not like he works for the Times .”

“My mother’s an artist. She calls herself a hobbyist, but she’s good. She’s serious about it anyway, reads all the reviews. She likes your dad. Says he’s one of the nice ones. You freaked me out, following me like that.”

“I was just trying to-”

“I know why you did it. What’s your number?”

I gave it to her. A second later my phone vibrated. “There’s mine,” she said. Nicole Castro had just given me her phone number. How was this possible?

“My friend,” the driver said, “stay and play, or let’s be on our way.”

I hopped onto the bus. Nicole tossed me the umbrella the guard had given her.

“You keep it,” I said.

“I have this one.” She opened the crummy umbrella I’d put together for her. “Hey, Nazzaro? You’re my hero.” She saluted me with the messed-up umbrella.

The bus doors closed and I grabbed a seat with one last wave to Nicole.

“Excuse me, hero?” the bus driver said. “That’s two seventy-five.”

I dunked my card, a slug, but the machine showed PAID $2.75 because I was palming my phone as I leaned onto the card reader. That junky little Nokia with the cat-scratched display could work some minor magic.

From the notes of Dr. Julian Nye, MD, PsyD:

Thurs, Oct 21, third session with Nicole Castro, begun at 8:30pm, at Castro residence. Patient initially appeared withdrawn and expressed that she was exhausted, complaining of a headache with pain 8 out of 10, but very quickly became agitated when I suggested I could write her a prescription for Relpax.

Per NC’s mother, NC was AWOL after session with school psychologist Dr. Schmidt, for approx. one hour. I expressed concern that patient was walking around in the rain, alone. Patient said she wasn’t alone. I asked who was with her. She frowned and said, “People. You know, just people on the street.” Patient then asked what I thought about liars. I asked her to be more specific. She asked if I thought a liar could be a good person. “You know, if he or she is lying to do a good thing.” When I asked for an example of a “good thing,” patient stared out the dining room window and said, “I can’t think clearly. I’m afraid to picture it. His face. If they ever find out who did it, I mean. I don’t know whether I’d have a heart attack or claw his eyes out. We’re doomed, the human race, when you have people like that walking around. Absolutely zero empathy. I want to live on the Moon.”