Edward Bloor - A Plague Year

Jenny Weaver was there, which really surprised me. She’s basically the perfect kid—Student Council representative, honor roll member, office assistant. She’s also in most of my classes.

Chris Collier was there, too. He was president of the Junior High Student Council last year, but I don’t think he’s running this year. At least I haven’t seen his name on any posters in the halls.

Angela Lang walked into the room. She was carrying her own folding chair, which she set down by the door. Angela had been my “girlfriend” back in the sixth grade, although we never actually went on a date. Our whole relationship went something like this:

Angela: Do you want to go out with me?

Me: Okay.

Angela: I think we should break up.

Me: Okay.

And she has barely spoken to me since.

Finally, and best of all, that cute girl from my English class walked in and stood next to the leader. I had a much better view of her now. She did not look like the girls from around here. She had bright blond hair and a golden tan. She had blue eyes and very white teeth. She actually seemed to sparkle.

The leader woman reached over and touched the girl’s golden arm. (I suddenly wished I could do the same.) She directed her, for some miraculous reason, to the chair next to Lilly.

The leader then cleared her throat softly and spoke. “Before we get started, I would like to announce that I do not have the plague. Any of you who would like a comfortable seat around the table, please join us now.”

No one moved.

The woman went on: “Okay. My name is Catherine Lyle, and I am a mental health professional. I have a master’s degree in counseling from USC.” She stopped for a moment, wondering whether she had to explain that to us. She concluded that she did: “The University of Southern California.” Then she added, like it was some big deal, “My husband is Dr. Richard Lyle.”

We just stared at her. Arthur muttered to me, “Didn’t he play linebacker for the Steelers, back with Mean Joe Green?”

Catherine Lyle explained, “He is a well-known lecturer in the field of psychology.”

Arthur continued muttering, “What? He works in a field? Hey, I might know him, then.”

Mrs. Lyle told us, “I just want you to know how much I appreciate this opportunity to put my degree to work. And I hope this group will be a benefit to all of you.”

She pointed at the door. “First things first: As a counselor, I adhere to a code of ethics. We will have strict confidentiality in this room. Does everyone know what that means?”

Arthur said loudly, “What we say in here stays in here.”

“Yes. That’s very well put.”

Arthur liked that. His scarred cheeks reddened.

Catherine continued: “If I see you in public, I will not acknowledge you. If I did, people would think, That person must be in counseling , and that’s nobody’s business but ours. So if I do not say hello at Starbucks, I’m not being mean; I’m just following my counselor’s code of ethics.”

I’m sure I wasn’t the only one thinking, We don’t have a Starbucks here, lady .

She opened a large leather notebook with gold-trimmed pages. She slid a silver pen out of a slot in the middle, clicked it, and said, “Now let’s go around the room. Please say your name and one quick thing about yourself so we can get to know each other.” She turned and looked at Chris Collier. He shrugged and said, “I’m Chris Collier, and I work at the Strike Zone.”

Catherine Lyle beamed a white smile. “Now, what is that? A batting cage?”

Chris looked confused. He answered, “No. It’s a bowling alley.”

“Ah. Of course.”

The next kid, a high school stoner, mumbled his name as Terry something, but he didn’t add anything else. He looked so stressed-out that Mrs. Lyle changed her mind on the spot. “Okay. Let’s say that the one quick thing about yourself is voluntary. You’re free to just say your name.” She smiled kindly at Terry and moved on.

All around the wall, kids started mumbling their names and nothing else.

When the kids sitting in the wall chairs were finished, Catherine Lyle looked at me to start at the table. I said, “I’m Tom Coleman, and I work at the Food Giant.”

“I’m Lilly Coleman. And I work there, too.”

“I’m Arthur.”

Finally it was the cute girl’s turn. “I’m Wendy, and I am new here at Haven.”

Catherine Lyle concluded by saying, “Thank you all. I know that was difficult for some of you. It’s difficult to talk about yourself, isn’t it? You think no one really wants to hear about you and what you are feeling, but that’s not true. Not in here.

“In this group, we will talk about low self-esteem, low expectations, and many of the other factors that can lead to teenage drug abuse. But I will not be doing all the talking. If we’re going to have a successful group, you’ll all need to talk, either in the large group or in smaller ones. I will be inviting some guest speakers to come in, too.”

She consulted her notepad. “Finally, I want this group to be an information resource for you. Information is power when you are dealing with drugs and addiction. I’d like to ask for a volunteer to do a report on a drug that has recently emerged in this area—methamphetamine.”

Most kids looked away. I could have researched that word on our Gateway computer and written a report on it if I’d been planning on coming to another meeting.

The cute girl finally raised her hand and said, “I’ll do it.”

Catherine Lyle said reluctantly, “All right, Wendy. Thank you.” She stood up very gracefully and moved her hands in a circling motion. “I know it is easier to talk to a few people than to many, so let’s arrange ourselves right now into groups of four.”

The cute girl took the initiative. She held out her arms so that they encompassed Arthur, Lilly, and me. “How about if the four of us form a group?”

I replied eagerly, “Sure. Okay.”

Arthur just frowned at her.

Lilly didn’t even do that. I could tell by her eyes that she had checked out completely.

Still, the girl smiled gamely and told us, “I’m Wendy Lyle. And… you guys must all be related, right?”

I smiled back. “How did you know that?”

She pointed to Lilly. “You two have the same last name, and the same face.” She looked at Arthur. “And I’ve heard you call him ‘cuz’ in English class. Am I right?”

“You are,” I assured her, then added, “That’s very perceptive of you.”

She beamed at me, so I tried, “And you have the same name as our group leader, but not the same face.”

She gave me a short finger point. “That is very perceptive of you. Catherine is my stepmom. We just moved here for my dad’s job. He’s a professor at the university.”

Arthur said sourly, “My dad’s a drunk.”

Wendy looked right at him. “I’m sorry. I hope that will change.”

“I don’t think so. He’s dead.”

She kept looking at him. “Sorry again.”

I liked how Wendy kept her cool in the face of this open hostility from my cousin, and the open indifference from my sister. I didn’t know why they were being so rude. Because she was an outsider? Because she was cute? Because she was kind of a teacher’s pet? I turned to Arthur, determined to ask him what his problem was, but I stopped when he waved at someone outside.

Looking through the window, I saw Arthur’s stepfather, Jimmy Giles.

Jimmy is a wiry, scraggly guy who always looks like he just woke up. He was standing in the school office, wearing a threadbare jeans jacket. Jimmy’s brother Warren was out there with him, jangling a set of keys. (Jimmy had his driver’s license revoked by a judge, so Warren has to drive him around.)