Chapter Text
Everything stank of weed and Axe Body Spray and the old rubber of bus seats that had been in use since the late 80s. It was still dark outside. A few kids mumbled to one another, but most had their eyes glued to their phones, if their eyes were open at all. Muffled music from somebody’s too-loud headphones played across the aisle, but Charlie couldn’t tell the song. All he could hear was the pounding bass.
He slouched lower and lower in his seat, until his shoulders were flat against the bottom. His lanky legs crunched up in the narrow space between seats. It wasn’t comfortable, but he was too tired to care.
“Hey Mey…” Charlie elbowed the smaller boy next to him. “What if I don’t get off the bus? What if I just never move again? Would they let me stay here?”
Meyer—who had a textbook open on his lap—glanced down at Charlie. There were dark bags beneath his eyes, looking like it took all his energy just to keep his lids up. “Close your eyes,” he said, the threat of a yawn behind every word. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”
He returned to studying, but Charlie was not satisfied with that answer. As always, he persisted. “I’m not talkin’ about a nap. I’m talkin’ about livin’ on this bus seat for the rest of my life. D’you think I could do it?”
In his state of exhaustion, the hypothetical made perfect sense to Charlie. But not to Meyer, who didn’t even look up. “You can’t live on the bus. You have to graduate and go do things. Now will you let me study, so that I can graduate and do things, too?”
The thought of graduation made Charlie sink even lower. If high school bummed him out, graduation made him feel worse. At least in high school, they let him slip by with his mediocrity intact. His grades were shit—you’re a bright boy, Charlie, but you need to apply yourself, had been a frequent phrase since the 5th grade—and his disciplinary record was reaching encyclopedic lengths. School wasn’t for him; nobody seemed to believe otherwise, though.
He wanted out. He wanted to leave the halls and the bells and the way too early mornings. He never wanted to feel the cold metal of a locker door as he shoved someone into it or was thrown against it himself. He didn’t want the stiffness of Principal Van Alden’s office chairs that always followed.
But he didn’t know where else to go and he didn’t want to go there alone. It would be weird, graduating without Meyer. The kid was only a sophomore, but they’d grown up together. They rode the bus together, spent nights at each other’s houses, and bummed around together every weekend. Sometimes Meyer did homework while Charlie watched, smoking out of his bedroom window so his parents wouldn’t smell it. Other times, they wandered the streets, talking, kicking at garbage, and finding shit to do that they shouldn’t do. If Meyer learned anything from Charlie, it was how to run like hell at the first sign of cops. And how to steal an extra large Slurpee from 7-11 without anybody noticing.
His life was lived in crowded hallways, too-small apartments, and cracking sidewalks at dusk; all those places included Meyer at his side.
“You could live on this seat with me,” he whispered. Thoughts of college rejection, parental disappointment, and best friend separation pressed down on him.
“No, I really can’t,” Meyer shot back. “Because I have a history test and you are keeping me from studying.”
The unsteady lurching of the bus was making him sick to his stomach; Charlie zipped his sweatshirt all the way up to his chin as he sunk deeper into the fabric.
“Yeah, but Meyer—”
“Charlie—”
“No, Mey, listen—”
“Charlie— Hey! What the fuck!”
Before Meyer could realize what was happening, Charlie snatched the textbook from his lap. He shut the page on his thumb and locked his arms across the cover, sealing it to his chest and out of Meyer’s clutches. This was punishment for ignoring him. No one ignored Charlie Luciano and got away with it—least of all, Meyer Lansky. The boy fumed and cursed and clawed at Charlie, who just pushed him away with a rough nudge of his shoulder.
“Do not make me gouge your eyeballs from your head,” Meyer said in a low, dangerous voice. Charlie only beamed at him, petulant and confrontational and absolutely charming in his arrogance.
“Lemme quiz you or somethin’. All I’m tryin’ to do.” The placating sweetness dripped from his voice as he thumbed through the pages of his friend’s textbook.
Meyer still looked murderous, but he softened at Charlie’s promise and reclined against the rubbery seat in acquiescence. “Start with the Progressive Era and go from there.”
Charlie leaned the textbook against the bus seat, propping it against a Sharpie drawing of an ejaculating penis. He skimmed the page, while Meyer slumped against his shoulder with a tired grunt. Charlie fought a smile as he flipped through the end of the 1800s.
“Okay. Tell me about Ida Tarbell,” Charlie began, absently kicking the seat in front of him with the tip of his worn sneaker, until the kid finally turned around and snapped, “Can you not?”
“We’re tryin’ to learn about Ida fuckin’ Tarbell here, fuck off!” Charlie stomped the back of the seat with the heel of his foot. “No fuckin’ respect for leanin’! You gotta problem with history or somethin’?”
The kid turned back around, muttering. Charlie continued to swing his foot, with a little more persistence and aggression, but the boy wouldn’t dare cross him again. Charlie smirked at Meyer over the pages of his history textbook.
“You are a maniac,” Meyer whispered, half-reverence, half-frustration. Charlie’s smile widened.
“I’m just passionate about your education, is all,” he answered with mock-solemnity that made Meyer laugh and mutter “you fucker” before reciting a string of facts about the late 19th century.
Arnold kept his hands folded on his desk, following the grain of the wood with his eyes. First period appointments were difficult. He found it near impossible to do his job when he was still barely awake. But a guidance counselor should not fall asleep in the middle of counseling, no matter how strong the temptation. He felt his eyelids flutter and shifted position, sitting upright and stiff to force himself to attention.
“How are you coping with the changes, since our last session together?” He made a valiant effort to avoid yawning in the middle of his sentence.
Jimmy Darmody drummed his hands against side of his plastic chair, slouching with his denim-clad legs stretched across the laminate floor. The outline of a knee brace could be seen beneath the fabric, adding bulk where it didn’t belong. “Still think it sucks.”
“You mentioned that you’ve switched into an art class. Has trying to find a new hobby helped?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Art’s not so bad. But I miss football... And I hate this thing.” He gestured down to his leg brace without meeting Arnold’s eyes. “Wish I could still play.”
Arnold nodded in sympathetic understanding, even though he had never played a sport in his life. He did not place much value in the proceedings of a high school football team—others teams, however, were another matter. Mr. Gordon the geometry teacher was an ardent Eagles fan, to the extent that every Casual Friday saw him clad in an atrocious forest green jersey. This did, of course, often go in Arnold’s favor. There was a small betting pool that occurred in the faculty lounge. Mr. Gordon often bet excessively on the Eagles out of misplaced team loyalty, despite how seldom they won their games. Arnold reaped the rewards.
But he had worked in education long enough to understand the pressure on student athletes, particularly when they tore tendons and could not play. Jimmy never seemed enthusiastic about going to see the guidance counselor—few did—but Arnold had specific instructions to ensure regular sessions. Mrs. Darmody was, after all, head of the PTA and possessed a large degree of influence. She was worried about him. With his sullen attitude, Arnold could understand why.
“It’s natural for you to feel some sense of disorientation. Would you say that your position on the team was an integral part of your identity?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.
Jimmy rambled through a response—he guessed so, yeah maybe—as Arnold typed a few notes on his iPad. He had been seeing Jimmy for about a month, ever since a rough tackle during a game left him injured and unable to play. It was difficult to gauge whether Jimmy was just a surly adolescent, or whether the loss of football had left him despondent.
“I just don’t know what to do with myself—used to have practice every day, games on the weekends, hanging out with the guys. I still see them, but… It’s not the same. I don’t like it,” Jimmy concluded. Arnold looked up; it was perhaps the most honest thing Jimmy had ever said to him. He considered Jimmy a boy of few words, but if he was starting to open up, that had to be a good sign. Unsurprisingly, the boy’s eyes were trained on the floor.
“Without something that has been important to you for many years, you may experience a loss of self, a shift in your priorities, your visions for the future…” Arnold explained in his soft voice, absentmindedly twisting his wedding band around on his finger. “Change is difficult for all of us, Jimmy.” He continued to fidget as Jimmy spoke. He pulled his wedding ring off his finger, rolled it between his forefinger and thumb, before sliding it over his knuckle and back into place. “That isn’t to say,” Arnold continued, his thoughts returning to his office, “that you won’t play football again. The injury will heal sometime, won't it?”
It seemed that was not a helpful statement. Jimmy ground his teeth together, sitting up as a hard look crossed his face. “What’s it matter?” he spat. “The season’ll be over by then. It’s my last chance and I can’t even play! There were recruiters from Princeton at the last game and I’m on the bench.”
Arnold understood. “You’re worried this will preclude you from college.” Jimmy confirmed it with an agitated shrug. Arnold had since learned this was confirmation in teenage language. “You do have the grades to get into a good school, even without a recruiter watching you play. You have years of involvement with the football team—extracurriculars always look good, and I’m sure Coach Thompson could write you an excellent letter of recommendation—”
“Coach Thompson hates me ‘cause I’m not on the team anymore.”
That did sound like Eli. For as long as Arnold had been working in the guidance department, Eli had been coaching the football team with a misplaced vigor that was almost frightening. “I’m sure he would still write your letter,” he said, even though he was anything but sure. Arnold didn’t hold either of the Thompson brothers in particularly high regard; they cared little for the actual needs of students. But that was not something he could say about a co-worker, or about the Superintendent for that matter.
“Would you like me to send your transcripts to Princeton?”
Jimmy sat forward, looking eager. “You think I could get in? I finished the Common app, and their supplement app, but I thought—without football, I wouldn't—”
Arnold gave a small smile and typed a quick note to himself. He rooted around in his desk drawer, until he found a stack of bright orange leaflets. Amid clip art of diplomas and graduation caps, there was a checklist of the college application process. Arnold looked only slightly apologetic as he handed one to Jimmy. “I presume you know this information already, but it is my job to facilitate the admissions process however I can…”
Jimmy skimmed it, folded it in half, and shoved it into his pocket. “Thanks. Fingers crossed, okay?”
“I don’t think you need any luck from me. You’re an impressive applicant all on your own.”
Jimmy finally smiled.
The dry erase marker squeaked as Margaret copied several quotes onto the board, pinning the book in place with her elbow. “Can anyone explain to me how these selections illustrate Joyce’s—”
The door slammed. Margaret sighed, capped the marker, and turned around. “The bell rang five minutes ago. You are to be in your seat by the start of class,” she reminded, tired of making these same remarks every day. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get any cooperation.
Charlie shrugged, as he ambled to his desk, throwing his backpack to the ground and his body into the chair. “Had to piss. That so wrong?”
“Then you should have come to class first and taken the hall pass.” She decided to leave it at that. She didn’t believe his excuse, but there were other students and they deserved her time much more. Margaret was starting to reach the end of her rope with the frequent disruptions of Charlie Luciano. “As I was saying, what do these quotes show about the role of art? Maybelle?”
“I think what Joyce is saying, is that art is all about solitude. He thinks you have to be all by yourself,” Maybelle answered, glancing between Margaret and her copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Margaret confirmed her response with a smile—thankful that at least some of her students did the assigned reading—and turned to jot more onto the board.
“And how does this relate to the overall structure—”
“Darmody. Hey, Darmody—”
Margaret ignored the sharp whisper and continued to teach. “—the structure of the novel and Joyce’s attempts to illustrate—”
“Darmody! You break your fuckin’ ear and your leg?”
She gripped the marker tighter between her fingers, determined not to reward Charlie’s need for attention. “—his childhood and the growth he experiences—” Jimmy was not as resilient; there was the scuffle of a chair turning around and the murmur of conversation. She slammed the marker onto the tray and wheeled about. “Boys! Please! Is there a problem? Do I need to move your seats?”
Jimmy looked guilty; Charlie did not. “I’m just tryin’a borrow a pencil, but Darmody won’t give me one.”
Margaret passed a pencil from her desk. “You should have come to class prepared,” she reprimanded, noticing that Charlie was also without a book. “Will that be all?”
Charlie nodded, and Margaret returned to the discussion. The next fifteen minutes passed without incident. She elicited another insightful answer from Maybelle—the only student who already knew the definition of modernism—and prompted the rest of the class into participation with several questions. Julia just finished speaking when Jimmy raised his hand.
“I didn’t get that whole part about The Count of Monte Christo,” he confessed. He thumbed through the pages, searching for the section, while a one or two hands bobbed upwards with uncertainty. “It seemed kinda random.”
“Pearl? Can you explain?” Margaret asked, pointing to the girl diagonal from Jimmy.
“Well, it’s like you were saying, about how art is really important to Stephen. So he’s reading this book and that’s how he figures things out, that’s how he grows. It’s all through art.” She blushed, and then added, “It’s his first time thinking about girls, too. It’s supposed to be a— you know, it’s the first time he’s thinking about anyone that way, right?”
Charlie scoffed. “‘Course Darmody don’t know nothin’ about that…”
“The fuck you tryin’ to say?” Jimmy whipped around, knocking his book to the floor. Margaret attempted to direct the conversation elsewhere, but the boys were insistent.
“Joyce is havin’ wet dreams about the Count of Monte Christo, while you’re waitin’ around for your balls to drop,” Charlie said, leaning back in his chair. He eyed Pearl and smirked. “Me, well—you can ask Jimmy’s mom about what I’m doin’ every night.”
Jimmy leapt to his feet. His chair clattered to the ground. Charlie readied himself for a fight, but Margaret hurried between them.
“Charlie, that is not appropriate and you will leave class immediately. Jimmy, sit down.” In a huff, Margaret grabbed the phone from the desk and dialed the office. She explained in a clipped tone that there was a disciplinary issue and she was sending a student to see Principal Van Alden. Charlie gathered his things together with a general air of indifference, as Margaret filled out a slip and thrust it into his hands.
He forced a jagged smile and thanked her, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He stooped to retrieve Jimmy’s fallen book and slapped it onto his desk. “Later, Darmody,” Charlie said, ruffling his hair as he made his exit. He seemed determined to waste as much of their class time as possible, leaving Margaret gritting her teeth by the time he finally slammed the door.
“Now,” she said brusquely. “Back to James Joyce…”
Meyer forced his over-stuffed backpack into the tiny gym locker. He required Benny’s strong shoulder to shove the door closed.
“You need to stop schlepping around so much shit,” Benny remarked, rubbing his shoulder. Meyer just shrugged as he changed out of his jeans and into sweatpants; he didn’t have an alternative with his workload. Books and binders were heavy.
The pack of boys changed in a rush, knobby elbows awkwardly bumping in the cramped locker room. They oozed into the gym, sneakers scuffling against the waxed floor and leaving streaks behind. Some boys set immediately to being stupid. They took turns jumping to see who could grab the basketball nets. But Meyer stood off to the side with Benny, not moving until he absolutely had to. He could see Benny watching the net-leapers, and he knew Benny probably wanted to clamor on top of the backboard himself, just to prove a point. But they had long ago decided that gym class was not worth it; they could prove their points elsewhere.
There was only one good thing about gym class: it was all different grades mixed together. This was especially useful for Meyer, who had a tendency to befriend people who were not his same age. Last year, he and Charlie were lucky and wound up in the same gym class. This year, there was no Charlie. But there was Benny, which was nice, even though most people thought he was just an overly aggressive freshman. But Meyer had known him even longer than Charlie and he appreciated that they could share at least one class.
Still, only one period with Benny—or Charlie—was not enough to undo all the awful parts of gym class. Meyer had compiled a rather extensive list of grievances, which he could rattle off at a moment’s notice in protest of mandatory gym classes. Changing was an aggravation, getting sweaty in the middle of the day was distracting to his education, the lockers were too tiny to accommodate anyone’s belongings, and his classmates were all larger and more competitive and therefore posed a danger to Meyer’s health. He couldn’t afford getting his nose broken by some bulky asshole trying to prove himself by aggressively playing an ill-advised game of indoor tennis. It wasn't that he couldn't handle their aggressive sportsmanship; it was more that Meyer had better uses for his energy and wanted to keep his disciplinary record clean.
Once the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms were empty, Coach Thompson blew his whistle to call the class to order. “Alright. I want everyone gettin’ into groups of three. Go!” They scrambled into small clumps, everyone afraid of being the awkward kid without a group. Meyer glued himself to Benny’s side, and the pair looked around in desperation for a third.
“You mind if I join?” Frank Capone stepped up to them. He towered above both Meyer and Benny, his biceps about the size of Meyer’s head and his manner exuding all of the outward charm Meyer lacked. “Figure you two could use a little height, since it’s basketball.”
“You callin’ me short, you fuckin’—”
Meyer elbowed Benny into silence and offered Frank a wide, polite smile. “We’d love to have you.”
Frank took his time looking Meyer up and down. A slow, easy grin spread across his face as he clapped Meyer on the shoulder. “In that case, I’d love for you to have me.”
The temperature in the gym seemed to shoot up a couple hundred degrees as Meyer blushed and stammered. Frank just chuckled—low and deep and smooth—as Coach Thompson passed out the basketballs and directed each team to one of the many small nets lining the gym. Meyer was still dazed as they ambled over, along with the two senior girls and a freshman boy who would be their opponents.
Meyer couldn’t help but eye him as Frank dribbled the ball, keeping it steady and controlled under one hand, without the least bit of effort. He was one of those rare people who managed to look attractive in sweatpants, whereas Meyer just felt bulky and disproportionate. There was something Charlie-like in Frank’s build—tall and lean and casual in his manner. But he had a strong set body and wider shoulders, where Charlie just drooped inwards on himself.
“Hey asshole, you ready to start or what?” Benny snapped his fingers in Meyer’s face. Embarrassed, he nodded, looking anywhere but Frank as he tried to refocus. He had no idea how long they’d been waiting and his cheeks burned redder.
Frank just laughed and passed Meyer the ball. He caught it, dribbled, and tried to assess the other team’s defense. But he was distracted, too self-conscious about his body and what his limbs were doing and whether he looked as awkward as he felt. It was expected that Meyer felt uncomfortable during gym class, but it was another matter altogether when Frank kept looking at him that way.
He knew Frank a little bit from Mr. White’s class. AP Calculus was not offered to sophomores but Meyer had permission to take the course early, due to his exemplary grades. Frank sat behind him. They had only ever spoken of derivatives, but Meyer found himself wishing he had said more.
Meanwhile, one of the girl’s from the other team preyed on his hesitation and swatted the ball away from him. She turned and charged down the small stretch of court to score.
“Next time I give you the ball, try and hold onto it,” Frank advised with amusement. Meyer tried—and failed—to ignore the innuendo.
Everything moved much faster from then on. The opposing team rushed at them again. Frank hurried to guard the girl with the ball, his long arms outstretched and muscles flexing from beneath the sleeves of his tee-shirt. He stole the ball, pivoted on the spot, and scored. It was much easier when they were only playing with one net, Meyer reasoned. All the same, he was impressed by the grace with which Frank moved.
They went on like this for some time. The other team scored several baskets; Meyer was not good at defense, as his arms could only reach so high and block so much. Benny’s verve and energy was intimidating enough to compensate for his height. Had they been playing a refereed game, Benny would have been fouled twenty times over. But his tactics of yelling in the opposite team’s face and elbowing them out of the way were effective for gym class.
Frank was their unquestioned asset. Even with the other team bearing down on him, he still seemed so calm, as he let the ball fly through his fingers and sink down into the net.
“What’s the score?” Benny demanded. Meyer was scorekeeper at Frank’s behest, who knew his knack for numbers.
“Six-to-four, us,” he answered. Benny whooped with vicious glee.
Frank winked to Meyer as he passed him the ball. “I’ll cover you,” he called out, blocking the opposite team with the girth of his muscular body. Aware that Frank was watching and counting on him, Meyer took off down the shortened court. His sneakers skidded to a halt and he tossed the ball up, just as a hand rose to block him. The dingy ball flew up, rolled around the rim, and plopped through the net.
“Nice one!” Frank congratulated, jogging past Meyer and rubbing his hand along his back. Meyer beamed.
By the time Coach Thompson blew the whistle near the end of the period, the score was ten-to-seven and Benny was leaping up and down in triumph. Frank congratulated the opposing team on a good game while Meyer tried to catch his breath. The three of them entered the locker room together. Meyer struggled again with the door of his jammed locker, until a warm hand pressed against the small of his back.
He glanced up, meeting Frank’s half-lidded eyes as he stared back. “Good game, Lansky. Didn’t realize you could hustle and solve differential equations. I’m impressed.”
Meyer blushed and chuckled nervously. “I’m much better at the latter than the former, however.”
Without any embarrassment, Frank ripped off his sweaty tee-shirt and dropped it to the ground. He raised his arms above his head and liberally applied deodorant, his eyes locked on Meyer all the while. “We ought to team up more often.”
Meyer couldn’t agree more.
“It says here that you made inappropriate remarks to another student during class. Could you please explain this incident to me, Mr. Luciano?”
Charlie slouched down in his chair. He stared at the floor, hands buried deep in the pockets of his sweatpants and a scowl on his face. “I didn’t say nothin’.”
Principal Van Alden sighed. He read over the slip Miss Rohan filled out, like he was searching for more answers about Charlie’s misbehavior. He had a way about him; Charlie couldn’t tell if it was funny or irritating, but the guy was so stiff. He sat up too straight, his hulking form a wide rectangle behind his desk, and he clasped his hands with comical tightness around the thin slip of paper. Back when he was just a freshman, Charlie feared those giant hands; they looked dangerous. But now he knew the principal was the pinnacle of restraint. The worst he would do was chastise Charlie and give him another in-school suspension.
Charlie had perfected an impression of Van Alden. He was pretty proud of it; he would mimic his walk and voice and way-too-formal way of speaking for anyone who would stay still long enough to watch. He figured he spent enough time in the office to learn his mannerisms and he might as well show them off. After all, Charlie had to learn how to do something in school, didn’t he?
“Alright fine. I said I was fuckin’ Jimmy’s mom. And that his balls ain’t dropped yet,” Charlie confessed. Van Alden didn’t even look surprised.
“Mrs. Darmody is the chairperson of the PTA and a valued member of our academic community,” Van Alden said. “She has contributed much to this school—the least you can do is refrain from terrorizing her son.”
Charlie just beamed at him like they were old friends, not listening to a word he was saying. “She’s a fuckin’ milf though.”
Van Alden’s enormous forehead creased. “I am not familiar with that term.”
Well, Charlie wasn’t about to explain the birds and the bees to him. He just shrugged and told Van Alden to look it up himself—in fact, Charlie said he knew several websites that could describe the concept. He was surprised he didn’t get a detention right then and there, but Van Alden was probably too prude to even understand what Charlie was saying to him. That, or he was too used to Charlie to be bothered.
Van Alden continued with his lecture. Charlie could not use such vulgar language in class, he couldn’t be disruptive, he had to respect his fellow students, blah blah blah, et cetera, et cetera. Charlie was bored already.
“Listen, Nellie, you wanna wrap this thing up. I get the picture,” he interrupted.
Van Alden winced; Charlie thought he looked like he was having trouble taking a shit. Nellie was his favorite nickname for the high school principal.
“Mr. Luciano, I fear that current disciplinary action is having no effect on you,” Van Alden said in his stiff, low voice.
“Mr. Van Alden,” Charlie replied, mimicking his tone, “does it hurt to have a big stick rammed up your ass all the time?”
Apparently, he crossed the line. Van Alden slammed his fists down onto his desk. Charlie jumped, flinching away out of instinct. “Will you be quiet!” Van Alden shouted and Charlie braced himself. A tense silence fell over the room, filled with only Van Alden’s loud, angry breathing. After a pause, when nothing was thrown at his head and no meaty fist collided with his face, Charlie glanced back up. He slowly unwound himself from his defensive position. But his heart was racing as he looked at the principal, red-faced and white-knuckled and looking as though he were exercising every ounce of self-restraint. What he was restraining himself from doing, Charlie didn’t want to know.
“What am I supposed to do with you if you refuse to take anything seriously?” Van Alden demanded. Charlie opened his mouth, but the man plowed on. “You are disrespectful, crude, and arrogant. You disturb the learning environment. You refuse to abide by our rules and you don’t even have the decency to accept your punishments.”
“Do you know what happens to kids like you?” he continued. Charlie gave a feeble shrug, eyes on the carpet. “Without self-discipline and respect for authority, you cannot succeed. You’re almost eighteen; how long do you expect it will take before your first arrest? You’re an adult, Mr. Luciano, and your actions have consequences. If you fail to see that, you will amount to nothing.”
Charlie nodded, his shoulders hunched together as he tried to shrink out of sight.
“High school is the easy part. We let you get away with things here. It won’t be like that in the real world; you can’t just charm your way through life with immature jokes. It’s time you learned a real skill, do you understand?”
Charlie nodded again. He wanted to shout that it was just a stupid comment. Darmody was an asshole anyway, he didn’t mean anything by it, and he was just trying to make things fun. He wanted to ask Van Alden how high school could be easy when all they ever asked for was everything he had to give. How was it easy, when they stopped caring once Charlie couldn’t keep up? Every teacher saw his record before they ever saw his face and treated him accordingly. Van Alden was wrong; it would be easier out in the world. He had skills. They just weren’t sitting in quiet obedience all day, slaving over pointless work, and regurgitating facts on tests.
But Charlie didn’t say any of those things. He just clenched and unclenched his hands, twisting his fingers around each other, as he waited for his sentencing so he could go.
“At this point, I see no choice but in-school suspension for the remainder of the week. Further, I think it wise if we revoke some of your privileges—attendance at prom, walking at graduation, and other activities later in the year.”
Charlie’s head shot up. “I’m passin’ my classes! You can’t keep me from graduating just ‘cause of this!”
Van Alden ground his teeth and spoke with extreme restraint. “You will still receive your diploma. However, you will not be invited to participate in the ceremony of commencement and your name will not be read aloud with your classmates.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Language, Mr. Luc—”
“That’s fuckin’ bullshit. You can’t do that.”
Van Alden raised his voice. “As a matter of fact, I can.”
It didn’t matter to Charlie whether he walked at graduation. He would like to be out of high school as soon as possible. Not wearing some dumb robe would be a blessing. His parents, on the other hand, wouldn’t feel the same way. They would be livid if they couldn’t go to his graduation. He didn’t want to face that.
“I will make you an offer,” Van Alden began, and Charlie’s ears perked up. “It has been discussed that we ought to offer students alternatives when it comes to frequent rule-breaking. Considering how often you find yourself in this office, we will keep your punishment at suspension alone—provided you attend regular sessions at the guidance office for the remainder of the academic year.”
“What? I’m not seein’ no guidance counselor.” He wasn’t some sob story. He didn’t need anybody prying into his head to see what was the matter with him. He was fine. He didn’t need guidance.
“Or we could proceed with my originally proposed punishment—”
“Fine. I’ll go to fuckin’ guidance.”
Margaret’s heels clacked on the tile as she crossed the faculty lounge. She dropped a copy of Hamlet and a tupperware with her sandwich onto the round table in the corner, before sitting down with a sigh.
Arnold glanced up from his iPad and smiled. “Rough morning?” He was nursing a Styrofoam cup of tea with his free hand, occasionally taking a bite from a brownie. There were always baked goods in the faculty lounge, courtesy of Coach Thompson’s wife. Margaret understood that she had a tendency to stress-bake, due perhaps to having too many children at home. This led to many leftovers, which always found their way to school with Eli. As a result, Margaret was not certain she had ever seen Arnold eat real food, despite having lunch with him nearly everyday.
“It was tiresome. In my last class, no one had read beyond Act I.” She shook her head and stared at the book’s cover. “They were surprised when I said that Hamlet dies…”
He made a noise of sympathy, before his eyes regained that slightly glazed look and he returned to staring at his iPad. Margaret watched him. He occasionally took his hand from his cup of tea and swiped it across the screen, although he had long since stopped drinking the beverage. Margaret was starting to wonder if it was even hot.
“What is it you’re doing?” she inquired, as Arnold normally had a keen look to his eyes and a precision in everything he did. She wasn’t accustomed to such long lapses of silence.
But Arnold didn’t answer. He made several more motions against the screen. Margaret felt as though she were back in her classroom, with students attempting to hide their cellphones behind novels. She repeated the question.
“Hm?” His eyebrows arched up into his widow’s peak. “Sorry, ah—I’m just—” He made a few more motions, set his iPad down on the table, and looked up at her with a tight smile. “Solitaire.”
Solitaire? She was being ignored for solitaire? “Well, did you win?” she asked politely. It was always best to be polite, even if she resented that digital cards were taking a precedence.
Arnold shook his head. “Bit of a losing streak,” he answered in his soft voice. He folded his hands on the table and stared at them, again resuming his trance-like state.
Margaret watched him curiously as she ate her sandwich, wondering if he would perk up at any point. He did not. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and a general worn out look clinging to his features. “Have you not been sleeping enough?” Objectively, Margaret would describe him as a handsome man, but there was something off about his appearance that day. His hair—which he normally wore slicked back and refined—was uncharacteristically fluffed up in curls that threatened to escape into disarray. He wore a necktie, instead of his typical bow tie, which Margaret always thought was a charming quirk in his personality. When she thought on it, she realized he had been carrying that bedraggled look about for some stretch of time.
“I sleep fine, thank you.”
“Well something must be the matter,” she pressed. Arnold stared at her; it was impossible to read his expression.
He glanced down and admitted, “My wife and I are getting a divorce.”
Margaret’s lips parted in surprise and sympathy, as she reached her hand across the table and placed it atop Arnold’s forearm. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, the ache of empathy in her chest.
He gave a funny half-shrug, unwilling to meet her eyes, but he did not pull away from her touch. “It’s nothing sudden. We’ve—” he hesitated, expression pensive, before brushing the whole matter aside by repeating, “It isn’t sudden.”
Margaret frowned, retracting her arm and folding her hands instead atop the table. “I’m sure that doesn’t make it any easier to bear, than if it had happened quite unexpectedly,” she said in a soft way. In solidarity with his pain, she offered, “If you find yourself wanting to talk…”
Arnold seemed to perk up at the promise. He raised his head, looking at her with a curious expression, as though he didn’t expect such kindness. Margaret smiled, slid her chair towards him, and glanced down at his iPad. Distraction—she had learned—was often the best medicine for such pains. “Let’s see if we can win a game.”
“You can’t play solitaire as a team. That’s counterintuitive,” he chided, although he opened the app regardless. The cards shuffled themselves across the screen. There were two aces laid out on the starting stacks. Arnold glanced at Margaret, who beamed. “I concede. You’re good luck.”
They began playing with ease, Arnold dragging the cards around the screen as Margaret pointed and exclaimed happily when useful cards were overturned. After a few minutes, however, their game began to slow. Arnold frowned as he clicked through the top deck three at a time, in search of something useful. “It seems our luck has run out…”
Margaret tilted her head and studied the screen. “What if you moved that seven?”
“What?” Arnold’s eyes roved over the cards. He laughed in triumph, dragged the seven, and continued like lightening with his fingers dancing over the screen and flinging the fake cards into place, until everything was stacked neatly atop the aces.
He grinned at Margaret and she beamed back, pleased to see him more lively. “You really do bring me luck.” He stared a moment longer and Margaret blushed and looked away, adjusting her cardigan around her shoulders.
She was spared a response when Angela sat down opposite them, paint flecks in her short, dark hair. Margaret was relieved to escape that look of Arnold’s—a look that felt fearfully familiar, but she preferred not to read into it. The three of them exchanged pleasant hellos with one another, discussing briefly their mornings, before Angela turned to Arnold with a look of concern. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—I know you can’t tell me much—but I’m worried about Jimmy. You meet with him, don’t you?”
Arnold confirmed that he did. “What is the nature of your concern?”
Angela shifted back and forth in her seat, grasping for the words with a slight rotation of her hand. “He just… He looks so lost. Like he’s drifting.”
“Do you think it’s anything to do with the bullying?” Margaret piped up.
Both Arnold and Angela swiveled to look at her, and it was clear by both their expressions that they hadn’t the slightest idea about it. She took a minute to finish chewing her bite of sandwich, cleared her throat, and then proceeded with a moment’s hesitation. “Well… I’ve quite the issue between him and Charlie Luciano in my English class.”
“Ah, him.” Arnold made a noise of recognition at the name, and began tapping across the screen of his iPad. “I just received an e-mail from Nelson. I’ll start seeing Charlie in guidance on Monday.”
Margaret shook her head, with a light, exasperated sigh. “Well, I’ll wish you the best of luck. He’s something of a headache.”
To her surprise, Arnold smirked. “I look forward to the challenge.”
The acerbic remark dangled from her lips, about how she’d buy him a bottle of aspirin if he was so confident, but as she opened her mouth, Angela interjected. “What’s going on with him and Jimmy?” Her dark eyes implored Margaret with a look of soft concern, with a glow of genuine sympathy that made Margaret wonder if perhaps Angela ought to have been the guidance counselor instead of Arnold. But the paint flecks looked so natural dusting her dark hair and Margaret couldn’t imagine her any other way.
“Charlie singles him out, makes vulgar comments. He’s dreadfully rude. I don’t know if it’s between them, or if Jimmy is perhaps… not popular with the other students.” Thinking back, Margaret was certain that Jimmy had friends in the class. She had seen him chatting pleasantly to Julia and Pearl in class, and often passed him in the halls with a short, broad-shouldered boy whose name Margaret didn’t know.
Angela rubbed her hand across her face. “He’s a good kid. He really is.” She paused a moment and then seemed to make up her mind. She rose to her feet, thanked them both for the insight, and said, “I’ll see if I can get the story from him.”
As she left, Arnold turned back to Margaret and smiled. “It’s always some adventure or another, isn’t it?”
The hallway was deafening with the cluttered buzz of voices and the slamming of metal on metal, as everyone gathered their books and their coats at the end of the day. Jimmy tossed textbooks into his backpack, his winter coat in a heap at his feet.
He hesitated and then turned to Richard, who was leaning against the neighboring locker with the strap of his backpack clutched in his hands.
“Do I need this?” Jimmy asked, holding up his biology textbook. He hadn’t been paying attention, too busy daydreaming and picking bits of paint off his hands after art class.
“Yes,” Richard answered in his stiff voice. “Mr. O’Banion said to. Read the chapter on. Plant diversity.”
With a groan of frustration, Jimmy crammed the book into his bag, amid far too many other binders and notebooks. His shoulders ached and all that weight couldn’t be good for his leg, but he swung it up regardless. If he got into Princeton, it would all be worth the sore back. That reminded him— “I decided I’m gonna apply to Princeton. Mr. Rothstein said he’d send my transcripts.”
Richard smiled in his small, timid way. “Congratulations. I hope you. Get in.”
At that moment, a large hand clapped Jimmy on the back and slung around his neck, pulling him down into a headlock. “Gonna miss you at practice!” Al shouted, rubbing the knuckles of his free hand through Jimmy’s hair.
“Get the fuck off me!” Jimmy struggled and shoved Al, but he was laughing all the same. His sneakers squeaked on the tile as he tried to yank himself free. “C’mon, asshole!”
Al cackled and wrestled Jimmy back and forth. Their broad shoulders and bags swung dangerously and knocked into passing students. Jimmy squirmed and cursed at Al between breathless laughter, until he finally wrenched out of his grip. “You’re a dick, Capone,” he panted, tugging his tee-shirt back into place.
He responded by playfully punching Jimmy in the gut. “So what, huh? Gotta keep you tough since you ain’t playin’.”
Jimmy glared and shifted his heavy load more securely onto his shoulder. That was just what he needed—another reminder that Al was on his way to practice and Jimmy was on his way home. “You comin’ to our game Friday or what?” Al continued, oblivious to Jimmy’s irritation.
Somehow freezing his ass off in the bleachers didn’t seem like the best way to spend a Friday night. They told him he was still part of the team and they wanted him there, but it was hard to believe there was any truth to it as Jimmy sat from a distance, while they played and celebrated and joked around together under the bright stadium lights. Coolly, Jimmy replied, “I might.”
Al finally caught on. “What’s goin’ on? Got your fuckin’ period or somethin’? What’s with him, huh?” he asked, elbowing Richard for his advice.
Surprised at being addressed, Richard adjusted his glasses and looked to Jimmy, before uncertainly saying, “I think he’s just. Stressed. Jimmy is going—”
But Al interrupted. “Stressed, that all? Gonna be an asshole just ‘cause you’re stressed?” With the way Richard spoke, not a lot of people had the patience to hear him out. It was some kind of speech problem he had going on. Richard explained it to Jimmy once, but it was a long time ago. Those details didn’t matter to Jimmy, though; all he cared about was his friend getting heard.
“Hey, you interrupted my friend here. You gonna say sorry and let him talk?” Jimmy snapped, bearing down on Al. He considered Jimmy for a moment, cracked a smile, and smacked Richard in the stomach as he told him to talk.
Richard blushed and stared at his shoes. “I was just saying. Jimmy is applying to. Princeton.”
“Princeton, huh! You gonna be a Tiger?” Al practically jumped on Jimmy in his enthusiasm to ruffle his hair again. Jimmy stepped out of his reach, slammed his locker door, and suggested they head out.
He tried to seem nonchalant about the whole college thing. After all, it wasn’t like Al was too worried one way or the other where he ended up. “I’m just applying, that’s all. Just to see what happens.”
“Lemme know how that one turns out,” Al laughed. Jimmy couldn’t tell if it was just Al’s way of talking, or if he doubted that Jimmy could get in. Given his own uncertainties, he guessed Al probably shared them. He didn’t say much else, instead just listening as Al rambled on and on about Friday’s game. Jimmy was glad when they passed the gym and Al slapped his back and headed off to practice.
Jimmy and Richard left the school together, milling across the cement walkway past the neat lines of buses and the zigzags of students passing. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shuffling through piles of dead leaves that blew across the pavement. “You want a ride home?” he offered. “My mom’s picking me up.”
“That. Would be nice.” Richard smiled as he accepted. They fell into comfortable silence again as they walked, until they came to the familiar car.
Jimmy opened the passenger door and and dropped his backpack onto the floor, before he clamored in.
“That looks heavy,” Gillian commented. “Do you have a lot of homework?”
“No more than usual. Ma, you mind if we drive Richard home?”
Richard settled himself in the backseat and stared out the window, trying to look unobtrusive. Gillian offered a tight smile. “Not at all, dear.” She put the car into drive and returned to the subject of Jimmy’s workload. “You know Dr. Mason says to take it easy, James. You don’t want to strain your leg.”
He grumbled that he could manage it and fidgeted instead with the radio. He flicked through the preset channels, but it was nothing but advertisements. Jimmy sat back and sighed. Gillian spoke to Richard instead, looking at him through the rearview mirror. She asked him to remind her where he lived, as Richard gave directions.
A PSA for a candidate in the upcoming school board elections played on the radio. Gillian huffed and punched the volume dial, and the car fell into complete silence.
“The school board should be redone from top to bottom. None of them have a clue how to run their affairs,” she complained, drumming her nails against the rim of the steering wheel. “But of course, when Nucky Thompson is your superintendent, what can you expect?”
“Ma—” Jimmy interrupted. “Let’s talk about something else. Don’t bore Richard.”
“You’re not bored, are you, Richard?” Gillian asked immediately. Richard had a look of horror on his face that made Jimmy certain he was wishing for the safety of his bus seat.
“No Mrs. Darmody,” he answered quietly. He was too polite to ever say anything else, but that didn’t stop Gillian from humming in triumph.
“You see, dear. It’s important to be informed on local affairs. It isn’t my fault if you’re sulking today,” she pressed on while Jimmy shrunk down in his seat. The whole day had been shit and he just wanted it to be over. First Luciano was an asshole, and then Al with the football… He didn’t have a lot of patience to hear all about the school board and the PTA and whatever his mother was campaigning for this time.
“I’m not sulking—”
“I can tell when you’re sulking, James, and you’re sulking—”
“Give it a rest, will you! Jesus!”
There was a timid voice from the backseat under the noise of their argument. “Excuse me. Mrs. Darmody. Mrs. Darmody?” He repeated the soft plea over and over, until both Jimmy and Gillian heard it a moment too late. They glanced back at him and he pointed out the window at the street they were rapidly passing. “I live there,” he said bashfully.
Somehow Jimmy felt justified in his anger—if they hadn’t been talking about the school board, they wouldn’t have missed the turn—and crossed his arms in aggressive satisfaction. Gillian turned around in a stranger’s driveway, sighing at Jimmy over the soft clicking of the left turn signal.
But nobody said a word until they arrived in front of Richard’s house and he stepped awkwardly from the car, collecting his things. “Thank you. For the ride,” he said. “Have a good. Night.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
The thought made him all the more irritable. The alarm would ring, Jimmy would stumble half asleep into homeroom, and the cycle of bells, books, and locker doors would start all over again. It was only Monday.