Out of Order (9 page)

I think about it, looking out the window again. Then I turn around in my chair and stare at the tabletop for a few minutes. I'm trying to figure it out. “You mean I don't control my impulses,” I say, and as soon as it's out of my mouth, I know it sounds dumb. But it makes sense, somehow, to say it that way.

“Maybe.” Now she gives me one of those librarian looks, over her glasses. “But then, I don't know you. Could be you are just a dumb fuck.”

I aim one quick glare at her—what's she doing listening to me all of a sudden?—but she's got her eyes down again, and I'm too depressed to start anything with anybody right now.

Somebody left a pencil stub on the table. I pick it up and start digging my name into the tabletop.

“Maybe,” I hear Chlorophyll say, and when I glance
over, I see that she's staring at the page without really seeing it, “maybe they mean the same thing. What is a dumb fuck but someone who doesn't think before he acts?”

I get her point. It's me. No matter what you call it. “It sounds better to call it no impulse control,” I say, grinding the pencil into the curve of the
o
in Colt.

Chlorophyll doesn't say anything. She's just staring and thinking. She's forgotten that this is about
me
.

It's too bad. For a minute there she could have almost passed for a human being.

I realize I just carved my name in the table, where Miss A. will see it. And tell Coach. “Listen,” I say as I turn the pencil over and try to erase the letters. “Don't tell anybody I called myself a dumb fuck. You hear?”

Chlo's pencil is hovering over her book. She's completely spaced.

I stop erasing and lean over the table. “
Hey!
” She blinks. “You hear? Don't tell anybody what I said.”

She gives me that look. The over-the-glasses one.

“What's your name again? Terrell?”

God, what planet is she from? “It's
Trammel
,” I tell her.

“Trammel. That's right. Trammel, don't flatter yourself. I don't care what you do or don't do. I don't care what any of your smarmy little high school friends do or
don't do. No one in this rathole is even a blip on my radar screen. Especially you, Trammel. You mean nothing to me. Nada. Zip.”

She goes back to her reading and marking.

And I go back to my erasing. What she said actually makes me feel better. I guess if you had a college boyfriend, you really
wouldn't
care about high-school stuff. So I don't have to worry about her repeating anything.

Erasing does nothing. I dug in too hard. “Just make sure you keep your mouth shut,” I warn her anyway, and I try one more scrub of the eraser before giving up. My name's just there, that's all. For all eternity. Maybe they'll think some other Colt wrote it.

“Don't worry your pretty little head, Terrell,” she mutters.

“Trammel.”

“Whatever.”

Okay, so nobody's going to know that I was calling myself names like a psycho. That's good.

I toss the pencil stub in the trash. Now all I have to worry about is Gutterson finding out what I did with the cat—because if he does, he's going to kick my ass so hard, I'll be biting my own butt every time I shut my mouth.

 

Sixth period. Okay. I can bullshit my way through this.

And if that doesn't work, I have to at least show no fear when Gutterson kills me.

I take a deep breath and walk into athletics acting real casual. Go sit at the machine for some traps work. Like, hey, it's just another day.

Palmer and Gutterson heading to the leg press first, as usual. They're talking, as usual. The only thing that's not usual is that before they get started breaking each other's kneecaps, Gutterson speaks to me.

“Hey Trammel,” he says, and I freeze inside, but my outside, thank God, just reaches forward and sets the key between the plates. “You see anybody heading toward the concession stand after I left?”

Oh. My. God.

Inside, I'm about to pee my boxers.

Outside, where it counts, I'm totally cool. “No,” I say, exactly right, not too quick, not too slow. “Why?”

“Somebody let the fucking cat out,” Gutterson complains.

“No way. You just put it in there!”

“I know. That's why I was wondering if you saw anybody.”

“No.” I reach up, grab the handles on the bar, but I don't pull them down yet. I'm thinking. “How do you know it's gone?” I ask, and start my first set.

Gutterson talks while I pull the bar down to my shoulder blades, lots of control so the plates don't bang, knees straining against the pads, pulleys squeaking. “I told Simmons and Karinsky,” he says, “and they thought I was bullshitting and went to check. They said there was nothing there. Somebody had to've let it out.”

“It's your own fault,” Palmer tells Gutterson. “You're the one who went and told everybody it was in there.”

“I only told about five or six people besides Simmons and Karinsky. What good is it to do something cool if nobody knows you did it?”

Six. Seven. Eight.

I stand up to let the bar go, then sit back down. “That sucks. Whoever let it out,” I tell Gutterson firmly, “should have his ass kicked.”

“Maybe Simmons and Karinsky did it,” Palmer says. “Just to make you look stupid. Or maybe the cat got out on its own. I know I'd be kicking the freezer door down, if it was me in there.”

Gutterson shrugs. “At least they didn't snitch on me. Fuck it.” He doesn't sound angry—he sounds disappointed that his work of art doesn't get to stand. “It was a good idea, though.”

“Trammel's a good-idea man,” Palmer says, approving. “Remember he went out the window a couple weeks
ago? Hey,” he adds, glancing at me. “What happened to your lip?”

“Paper cut,” I tell him, easy.

“On your
face?
”

“Shut up, Palmer. I was licking an envelope,” I add.

They both start laughing, just like I expected. Gutterson mimes me cutting my face open. I ignore them and reach to grab the bar again for my next set. This is working out better than I ever could have hoped. And it sure took my mind off my troubles for the day.

I just invented a new saying: Unfreezing cats makes the waiting go faster.

Finally. In biology, Ms. Keller opens her briefcase and takes out a stack of papers.

“Hey,” I call. “Are those the muscle tests?”

“Yes,” says Ms. Keller.

“Thank God,” I say, as she starts handing them back. “You've had them since the dinosaurs lived.” Now I've got something that'll cheer me up for the whole rest of the day. An A! Wow. I hope Mom doesn't have a heart attack.

I sit up straight in my seat, watching Ms. Keller distribute each paper. The stack gets smaller and smaller in her hands. For the first time ever, I think it's too bad teachers don't call the grades out loud, for everybody to hear.

And then she's in front of Chlo and me, and I can see the red number even as it's coming toward me over the tabletop.

60

I take the test in my hand. Right underneath the 60 it says:

I wad the test into a ball. I stand up right in front of Ms. Keller and do a rim shot off Alicia Doghead, who is sharpening her pencil. The balled-up test hits Alicia in the butt, and bounces off into the trash can. All this right under Ms. Keller's nose.

A couple of people snicker; Alicia turns to see what hit her. She sees me glaring and scurries back to her desk. Ms. Keller says, “Colt,” in a warning tone, but I don't care. I don't look Ms. Keller's way again the whole period.

I should have known better than to think I could get a break. I should have known better than to get excited about a stupid fucking test. Even though out of all the people in this room, I'm probably the only one who really
does
know this stuff, because I'm the only one who actually
uses
it.

But I don't know the goddamn
Latin
.

It's so fucking unfair.

 

In fourth-period English Hammond hands back our pop quizzes. The one on Coltridge and Woolsworth.

Hammond always folds papers in half before he hands them back, so nobody can see your grade. Across the top of mine, in red ink, it says:

And right below that, still in red ink but even bigger, big as a billboard for anybody to see:

50

Does this day suck or what?

 

I bring my English book to fifth-period assistant. I've been thinking, and I'm pretty sure I've got the way to use Chlorophyll to help me pass. All I need is a 70 average, after all.

She comes in and sits down. “Hey,” I ask her real casual, before she can pull out her book. “My mom said I should get a tutor, and I was thinking. You remember much about last year's English?”

“Some.”

“You be interested in helping me study for a test coming up? I'd pay you—it wouldn't have to be free or anything.”

“I thought you were the cheating type.”

She thought right. I'm hoping I can get her to write down the important stuff for me. Then later I can copy it onto a little piece of paper and tuck it into my watchband or something. She'll never have to know.

And as far as my mom is concerned, I'll be passing all on my own.

“It's going to be an essay test,” I tell her. “It's hard to cheat on those.” It
is
; I'll have to take those little tiny cheat sheets and turn them into a whole essay. “Hard to cheat
well
, anyway,” I admit.

“Nice to know you take pride in your work.” She unzips her backpack. Pulls out a book.

“So,” I say, before she can open it. “What do you think?”

She pauses, hand on the cover. “How much?”

“I don't know. What seems fair?”

She stares down at her book. The title is two long words I can't read upside down—and probably not right side up either. “I don't know. I don't really need any money.”

I start to make some crack about paying her with sex, but I actually control the impulse. I'm learning.

“How about if we come up with terms later?” she says.

I'm not sure what terms are, but I figure she means payment. And what that means is when later comes, I won't pay at all. Sounds like a good deal to me.

“Okay,” I agree.

“What are you studying?”

I open the book, pull out the paper I stuck in to mark the place. I slide it around so she can see it. “This.”

“Romantic poets.”

“Yeah.”

She puts her hand over the page so I can't see. “Do you remember any of their names?”

“No,” I tell her.

She moves her hand. “Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Byron, Shelley.”

I shrug.

“What'd the teacher tell you about them?”

I shrug again.

“They didn't tell you the interesting stuff, then. If they had, you'd've remembered.”

“I doubt it.”

She's getting this
smile
. Almost…sinister. I don't know if I like it or not. “Byron got kicked out of England for screwing everything in sight. Other men's wives, boys, his own sister.”

“Oh, God,” I say in disgust.

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes,”
I say. “God, his
sister
—I don't even want to think about it.”

“What, the boy part's okay with you?”

“
God
, no,” I say. “Will you shut up?”

“Sure,” she says. “Because now you'll remember who Byron was. He was the letch.” She taps her finger on the book. “The interesting thing is his poems are pretty pure. Like this one. ‘She Walks in Beauty.'”

She starts to read, and her voice deepens and slows.

She stops and looks at me, across the table. I feel embarrassed all of a sudden, like I just saw her shaving her legs.

So I get down to business. “Okay.” I tear off a thick strip from the bottom of one of the leftover school newspapers and grab one of Miss A.'s pens. “So what do I have to know about it for the test?”

“How should I know? Probably you'd better just understand it. It's about his cousin, his girl cousin, with dark hair and dark eyes. He saw her this one time, at a party, and she was wearing a black dress with diamond
sparkles all over it. And she was so beautiful, it stuck in his mind and he wrote this about her.”

“Did he screw her, too?”

“I don't think so.” Chlorophyll looks at me over the rim of her glasses. “But that's not the point. The point is haven't you ever seen somebody who was so beautiful that the moment stuck in your mind like a picture?”

“No,” I say, although Grace pops into my head. “Have you?”

“Of course.”

“When?”

“Do you want to learn about Byron, or not?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Actually, no. My head is kind of full right now. Do you mind if we take a break?”

“Sure.” She doesn't give my book back. She starts reading the rest of the Byron page.

I watch her for a few minutes. She's very strange-looking, she's a nobody, and she can be somewhat of a bitch—but I can't help thinking Grace would've had a cow if I'd asked if Byron had nailed his cousin.

“Hey,” I say. “Chlo.” I remember now her name's Corinne, but I don't want her to get the idea we're buddies or anything. “Really. Whose picture sticks in your mind?”

She doesn't look up, but her eyes stop moving down the page. “Brian.”

“Byron?”

“Brian. My boyfriend.”

“He have dark hair and eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“He wear a dress with diamonds?”

She looks up at me, and she actually gives a little laugh. “No, he doesn't.”

“My girlfriend, she's blond.”

Chlo nods, but then she goes back to reading Byron. Lost interest again. So I feel free to think my own thoughts.

“She doesn't have dark eyes.” I'm thinking out loud. “But she wore a black dress to the Valentine's Day dance last year. It wasn't a date—she wasn't allowed to date back then—but there was a bunch of us went together and I got to dance with her most of the time. Her dress had these sparkly things on it. They sort of looked like diamonds.”

Chlo doesn't even nod this time.

“She looked great,” I say, “so I can kind of see the thing about the black, and the diamonds. It's too bad there's nothing in that poem about smell,” I go on, “because she was wearing some kind of perfume—usually she doesn't wear any—but the day after the dance I was hanging up my jacket, and I could still smell her perfume on it.”

Just thinking about it, I feel like I could almost smell Grace, if I tried—and then I realize I'm breathing deep, through my nose like an idiot. I look at Chlo real quick.

She's just looking at me, straight-faced, like she didn't notice.

Still, I feel my face getting hot.

“You two been going out long?” she asks me.

I want to spit out something rude—because I know my face is red and I don't like the way she saw me sniffing the air like a horny bloodhound.

But I can't be rude. Because she knows her stuff and I need what she knows, to pass English.

“Awhile.” I look down at the paper. It's empty—there's nothing on it whatever about Lord Byron. I crumple it up and lean back in my chair, shooting for the wastebasket in the corner.

A perfect shot. I raise my arms in victory, and bang my chair back down.

Back to business.

“So,” I say, “what do you say to being my tutor? I'll pay you,” I remind her, because in spite of what she said about not needing money, she really looks like she could use it. “All you have to do is tell me what I need to know for the test.”

She shakes her head.

“We're halfway there,” I tell her. “Already I remember
Byron's the one who screws anything that moves and he wrote the poem about his beautiful cousin in the black dress with the diamonds on it.”

She shakes her head again. “I don't think so.”

“Come on. There's nothing else to do in here. I won't tell anybody you're tutoring me, and you won't tell anybody either. Your boyfriend doesn't even have to know,” I add, in case that's what's worrying her. “And you'll be making
mon-ey
,” I sing, to really pile it on.

“Okay,” Chlo says. “All right. But I can't promise anything. All I can do is give you the info. The rest is up to you.”

“You're on,” I tell her.

It isn't until the bell rings, and I'm already out the door, that I realize she might think she's got a right to come up and talk to me in the hall now.

But then I have to laugh.

I practically have to set myself on fire in front of her to get her to even glance at me.

And strangely enough, that makes me feel better.

 

Later, after dinner, I'm actually studying. Mom's at the computer, Cass and her friend Anne-Marie are in her room working on some project. Me and Cass are in the usual truce we have when either of us has friends over. I guess neither of us wants anybody to know how stupid
we act when it's just us.

Me, I'm standing at the kitchen counter holding my English book open with one palm flat on the page, while I stuff salsa-flavored crackers in my mouth with the other hand. I'm looking at a picture of Byron. He's got some weird thing on his head, can't figure out what it is. Looks like a wadded-up curtain. There's “She Walks in Beauty.” “Canto from Don Juan.”

The actual words don't make much sense, of course. I check my watch, eat a few more crackers. Look at the words some more. Now I'm thinking about Grace.

I wish Grace could see me right now. Reading poetry and all. She'd be impressed as hell.

So I call her. “I don't really need anything,” I say. “I was just reading a little Byron, and thought I'd call.”

Silence. I can't tell if it's an impressed silence.

“So,” I ask Grace, “Whatcha doing?”

Turns out Grace is about to sit down and watch a DVD she borrowed from Ashley, her friend who's in drama
and
she's a cheerleader. Ashley is a crossover.

I'd like to ask if I can come over and watch the movie with Grace, but no way do I want to watch it at her house, with her dad breathing down my neck to make sure I don't get any fingerprints on his daughter.

“Hey,” I tell her, “why don't you bring it over here? I'd like to see…what is it?”

“
Beauty and the Beast.
Remember you were talking about it? You made me want to see it again.”

“Oh.” The cartoon? Holy shit. “Great. I love that movie.”

“You're kidding.”

“No,” I lie. “It's one of my favorites.”

Silence. “Gosh. You're full of surprises.” She sounds like that's a good thing. “But,” she adds, “you know my dad won't—”

“My mom is home.”

“Oh.” Grace's dad knows and trusts my mom. He knows my mom has a thing about good lighting and frequent family-room checks.

I don't put my English book away because I want Grace to see it.

The movie Grace brings is
not
the cartoon. It's an old black-and-white thing.

With subtitles.

Oh God.

It's pretty weird, although not the weirdest thing she ever made me see. The trophy has to go to this thing called
Eraserhead
, about a guy with hair like a pencil eraser and this chick with cheeks the size of grapefruit who comes out of the radiator and sings about heaven. I mean, I couldn't even fall asleep during it, it was so weird.