Part 10 (1/2)

Lillian Biggs said she thought we were supposed to be answering questions while writing our papers. She said she thought that was the whole point of writing a paper.

”School is stupid.”

”So f.u.c.king stupid.”

”This is all so stupid.”

”The next person who swears, to the princ.i.p.al's office,” Mr. Basketball said.

”Tampon!” someone cried from the back. ”That's not a swear.”

Mr. Basketball sighed. I looked out the window, watched the sun slip behind a tree, and convinced myself that the world was ending.

Dr. Killigan knocked on the door and walked in with a student I didn't recognize.

”We have a visiting student today,” Dr. Killigan said. ”Do you mind if she looks in on your cla.s.s?”

Mr. Basketball looked around for an empty seat. The cla.s.s was full, so full in fact that Lillian Biggs had to sit on top of a table in the back of the room.

”Emily,” Mr. Basketball said, ”will you run to the bas.e.m.e.nt and grab another chair?”

I had become Mr. Basketball's errands girl. I didn't mind. Every time Mr. Basketball sent me to the bas.e.m.e.nt, it felt like an affirmation of his love for me, an I-trust-you-with-big-things gesture. Like when my father would unload the car after our trips to Long Island and he'd call to my mother and ask her to hold something for him. My father needed the help of another person and my mother had agreed to be just that until death did them part, even if she failed and dropped the laundry basket on the ground.

I got to walk the halls when other students didn't. I went to the art studio and ran my finger over other people's dried paint. I peered into cla.s.srooms that weren't mine. I learned that everyone was equally bored at all times. This was comforting. I went to the courtyard and saw Marianne Stein and Nick Ross making out. Their tongues crossed. I went to the bathroom and picked at my hair, applied lipstick. ”I can't believe I am you,” I said to myself in the mirror. ”I am you.” Sometimes, I practiced my lines from ”The Waste Land.” ”You cannot say, or guess, for you know only a heap of broken images.”

I rubbed the lipstick off as soon as another girl came in. Sometimes there were girls already in the bathroom when I arrived, and I had to pretend to use the bathroom. I stood in the stall, flushed unnecessarily, and walked out without was.h.i.+ng my hands because what was the point if you didn't even take your pants off, and I heard the girls in front of the mirror say, ”Ew, she doesn't even wash her hands. Don't touch her or you'll probably die.”

”I didn't actually mean my mom was gay,” Mark said in the bas.e.m.e.nt after a long period of silence. I was searching for a stack of chairs. There was an edge to his voice, something alien about him. ”She's not gay gay. But you know what I mean.”

”I didn't think you meant she was actually gay,” I said.

”You gave me a funny look when I said it.”

”Did I?”

”If my mom was gay, then that means your father is a transs.e.xual.”

”That's not necessarily true,” I said, hoping to put an end to the conversation.

”I'm just joking. You don't know how to take a joke anymore?” I couldn't open my mouth without breathing in the entire bas.e.m.e.nt, the dust, the dead moths stuck to the dirty windows, the mold painted on books.

”Joke,” he said. But we couldn't laugh or look at each other, not even in the dim bas.e.m.e.nt light that made everything look and feel and taste like a stale performance of someone's past.

Richard appeared out of a dark corner in the bas.e.m.e.nt, licking the top of a vodka bottle.

”Did you know that Socrates could drink a shot of vodka every hour and still perform basic tasks?” he asked. Richard stepped fully into the light from the half window and revealed a wide and sloppy grin on his face. ”It's twelve thirty.” He took a shot. He counted to three with his fingers. ”One. Two. Three. Basic task.”

I just stared at him.

”Do you want some?” he asked.

”I came down here for a chair, actually,” I said.

”That's too bad,” Richard said. ”These chairs are ours.”

”They aren't yours.”

”The thing is, Emily, we spend three-quarters of the school day down here. And possession is nine-tenths of the law. You do the math.”

Mark broke into a crazed laughter. ”That makes no f.u.c.king sense, d.i.c.khead.”

I walked toward the chairs, which were stacked in neat piles behind Richard.

”Oh, no, no!” Richard said, stepping in the way and blocking Mark completely from my view.

”Move,” I said.

”Shake my hand,” Richard said. He stuck out his hand.

”Why?” I asked.

”Basic task.”

I shook his hand.

”Say you're sorry now,” Richard said, his grip tightening around my hand.

”For what?” I asked.

”For what?” he mimicked. He stuck my hand under his s.h.i.+rt. I felt the scar from his burn all over his chest. Mark was still laughing, not even paying attention. ”For this,” he said. ”Feel it. It covers my entire chest, you b.i.t.c.h.”

”Richard,” I said. ”Let go of my hand!”

”Feel it.”

”No,” I said, kicking him away. ”It was your own stupid fault!”

He pushed me against the wall. I pushed him back. He cupped his hand around my throat.

”Don't be stupid, Emily,” he said. ”Do you know what I could do to you?”

”I'm not scared,” I said. ”You're pathetic!”

He laughed. His hair fell in front of his eyes. The bas.e.m.e.nt door swung open.

”Hey,” Mr. Basketball shouted, the light flooding the room. Richard released his grip. ”Emily, cla.s.s is over! Where are you?”