Girl Parts (6 page)

Rose bounced on her cushion. “Oh, yes! More than anything.”

“OK. Then I’d like you to act normal. And normal people think their own thoughts. They don’t always just agree with each other.”

Rose nodded. “How often would you like me to disagree?”

David let out a long, slow breath. “OK, think of it like this.” He scooped a handful of jelly beans from the bowl on the table. Some were sour, and some were sweet. “Try one of each.”

Rose popped one, then the other into her mouth.

“Now. Which tastes better?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I like the sweet ones better.”

“Sweeter is better.”

“Are you just saying that because I said it?”

“Yes.”

David sighed.

“Well, I just decided I like the sour better. So now we disagree.”

“All right,” said Rose. “Sour is better.”

David pulled at his hair. “Jesus!”

“I’m sorry! I’ll try again.” She selected a sour jelly bean. It was unpleasant. Disagreement was unpleasant. David liked disagreement. So . . . “I’ve decided I do like sour better.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

David grinned. “Awesome. See? You prefer sour, and I prefer sweet. It’s a difference of opinion.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She offered the bowl to David. He took a handful and dropped them into his mouth. “I like you.”

“I like you, too.” She adjusted herself so their shoulders were touching. “You can put your arm around me now, if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He draped an arm around her shoulder, and Rose settled into the crook of his body, the bowl balanced expertly on her knee.

The next morning David met Artie in the parking lot.

“What are you so smiley about?” Artie asked.

David locked the handlebars of his motorbike and lowered the kickstand. “I don’t know. Just in a good mood, I guess.”

David was in a very good mood. Thoughts of Rose danced in his head. It wasn’t like dating a new girl (he couldn’t show her off), and it wasn’t like getting a new bike or car (he couldn’t bring her to school). It was something new, something private, and he liked it.

David wondered what Rose was doing. She was probably in the guest room his mom had set up for her. Rose “recharged” for six hours a night. But what about during the school day? Maybe she’d read magazines or surf the Web.
Or maybe she’d just stare at the wall, like a laptop on
hibernate.
When he left, she’d said, “I’ll miss you, that’s all.”

Boys in pigeon-gray jackets flocked toward the front doors, past the abstract statute of Saint Sebastian on the lawn — a ten-foot-tall lead pipe intersected by a hundred metal rods. Someone had tied a red-tipped necktie to the top, and it snapped in the wind.

“You coming tonight?” Artie asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be by later.”

Artie glanced over his shoulder. He had a way of looking guilty even when he’d done nothing wrong. “Whose turn to bring beer?”

“Clay’s,” David said, stuffing a pack of minidrives into his pocket.

“We have an assembly today about the suicide vid thing,” Artie said. “I’m all paranoid since your dad called you out. I wiped my browser history like ten times after that.”

The smile dropped from David’s face. “Yeah, well. Let’s not talk about that, OK?”

“Why’re you all weird about it?”

David slammed his locker and spun the lock. “I’m not weird. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

Artie shrugged.

At noon the auditorium doors opened and grades nine through twelve of Saint Mary’s filed in. The girls sat in
alphabetical order on the left side — standard practice for coassemblies. The boys’ side was empty, inspiring general disappointment. Onstage the faculty sat in folding chairs, hands folded. Mr. Branch, the janitor, struggled with a tangle in the stage rigging. He glanced into the rafters and jostled the line to no avail. Seeing that the girls were seated, he shrugged and shuffled off.

Headmistress Droit, fresh eyeliner beneath her red eyes, tapped the podium microphone. Feedback squealed. The girls covered their ears.

“Ladies, quiet, please. In the back, Ms. Pigeon. Eyes open. There is no napping during assemblies.” She cleared her throat and glanced at her notes. “As you all know, last week a great tragedy befell our school. You read the details in the letter sent to your homes on Monday. In a moment, the boys will arrive and our new student counselor, Mr. Rogers . . . excuse me,
Dr.
Rogers . . . will speak. But first, I want to address you, Nora’s classmates, about this terrible event.”

She switched index cards.

“I was approached by a number of girls about a memorial.” The girls looked at each other, wondering who. “In that spirit, our art teacher, Mrs. S., has thoughtfully arranged a moving tribute. Please look under your seats.”

Each girl found a small envelope. Inside was a note in elegant script and a heavy metal pin, painted to look like a red robin.

“‘To show our solidarity with the Vogel family,’” the headmistress read aloud, “‘we ask that you wear these brooches in memory of our dear Nora. These little birds shall not fly away but shall remain forever pinned’”— she frowned at the card, then flipped it over —“‘to our hearts.’”

There was weak applause. A girl in the front row stuck the brooch to her blouse, sagging the material and exposing her bra strap. She rolled her eyes, unclasped the pin, dropped it into her purse, and zipped the bag shut.

“And now,” the headmistress continued, putting away her notes, “I would like to invite you to share your memories. . . .”

Just then the rear doors burst open, revealing Mr. Gauche, headmaster of Saint Seb’s, followed by four hundred shoving, chattering, gray-jacketed boys in loose formation. The headmaster was shouting, “Gentlemen, quiet. Quiet, damn it! So help me, I’ll put you through that wall, Stubbs. Luther! Is that gum?”

The girls twisted around, straining to spot their favorites. The boys, sifting into alphabetical order, flocked to their seats across the aisle, almost, but not quite, close enough to touch. This was the pattern of every coassembly for as long as they’d been in high school: David Sun sat across from Vonis Summer, who was thrilled to sit so close to the hottest sophomore; a few rows back, Charlie was similarly paired with obese Cynthia Nuun; and in the last row, Wallace
Watts leered at the shiny legs of his cousin Willow, who did her best to ignore him.

Somewhere in the middle Charlie spotted Paul Lampwick’s pinched shoulders. He glanced at the corresponding section of girls and jumped to see a pair of black irises staring back. The heavy lashes blinked twice before Rebecca looked away, her ponytail swinging. Charlie stared at his feet.

Gauche took over the podium. In the chaos, Mr. Branch tried again with the rigging, and both men stared anxiously up. Finally Gauche waved him off. “Now,” boomed the headmaster, who never used a microphone, “this is a difficult, sad time. I’m sure you’re all feeling a mix of unusual emotions. Confusion, anger, uncertainty, rage, or even . . . unsureness.” Unlike Droit, Gauche winged speeches. “You may want someone to talk to. Unfortunately, our former counselor, Dr. Lightly, has retired.”

“Probably feels guilty,” someone hissed.

“But to replace her, we have a gentleman who has counseled students across New England, most recently at Saint John’s in Shrewsbury, and also in the Worcester public school system. When he heard of our tragic loss, he offered to abandon his freelance work and take a position as our full-time student counselor. He is a pioneering researcher of Teen Disassociative Disorder, which likely played a role in the tragic passing of Ms. Vogel, who, I understand, was a . . . uh, tragic actress. Dr. Roger?”

Dr. Roger rose, shook Gauche’s hand, and took the podium. He smiled sadly, looking out over the crowd.

“My name is Dr. Roger. Some of you have met with me already, and I hope to meet with each of you in time. For now, though, one question: how
are
you today?”

Silence.

“No, I mean it: how are you today?”

The students looked left and right uncertainly.

“Tell me. How are you?

Twelve hundred voices said, “Fine.”

“That’s the easy answer,” said Dr. Roger. “But I want you to reach for the hard answer, which is how you really feel, down inside.”

After that, no one paid attention. Cell phones were smuggled out for texting, notes were passed, come-ons mouthed. Couples with aisle seats (there were four) ached to reach across and brush fingers. The less datable slipped in earbuds or stared at their hands. Charlie felt something strike his shoulder and looked back to see Artie Stubb holding a rubber band and grinning. Charlie retrieved the flung paper clip and fiddled with it.

When the students were dismissed, everyone rushed to the center aisle, chatting, laughing, making plans. A freshman squealed and batted a hand away from her backside. Charlie was in no rush to return to class and lingered. He saw Rebecca make her way out, flanked by two juniors. They were intercepted by Mr. Throat, the history teacher, who put a fatherly hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. She laughed,
shrugged, and ducked away, suddenly reversing directions and heading for the back door.

Her eyes met Charlie’s. Her grin had vanished, and for some reason she looked flushed and uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say he wasn’t sure what, but she hurried toward the stage, where Mr. Branch had finally loosened the rigging. She glanced once back at Charlie, her face burning scarlet, and exited to the parking lot.

The closing door echoed in the now-empty room. Charlie was alone, clutching the paper clip. He threw it. The clip went wild, bouncing off the podium. As if in reply, something popped, a length of rope went hurtling up into the rafters, and with a zipping sound the five-by-ten banner of Nora Vogel’s class photo fell to the ground with a metallic crash.

At 1:45 Paul Lampwick returned with red-rimmed eyes from his one-on-one with Dr. Roger. Charlie lumbered slowly to the guidance office, trailing his fingers along the lockers.

“Charlie, come in.”

Dr. Roger stood to shake hands. His palm was soft and oily. He smelled like aloe.

“Thanks for coming down.” His tone was cheery, almost relieved. The doc shook his head. “I’ve seen so many kids today, it’s making my head spin. I feel like I should just set up a little tape recorder that says, ‘Yes, it’s perfectly normal’ over and over again.” He grinned.

Charlie relaxed a little, settling into his chair.

“So, what’s up?” Dr. Roger asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Everything fine?”

“Completely fine.”

Dr. Roger raised his eyebrows. “Good! I’m glad to hear it.” He flipped through Charlie’s file. “Your classmates had some nice things to say about you.”

Charlie blinked. “Um, I’m Charlie Nuvola.”

“Sorry?”

“I think you’re confused. My name.” Charlie pointed to the file. “It’s Charlie Nuvola.”

Dr. Roger glanced down, then back at Charlie. “Is it so surprising your classmates spoke fondly of you?”

He shrugged.

“Would you be less surprised if they were nasty?” Dr. Roger waited a beat. “Or if they said nothing at all?”

Charlie folded his arms. Again that feeling of a lid closing on his brain.

“That’s all right, Charlie. The most independent thinkers are often the quietest. Thing is, we keep things to ourselves when we don’t think anyone will understand.” Dr. Roger waited a beat. “Do you ever feel that way?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“I have in my notes that Dr. Lightly prescribed Fixol, an antidepressant.”

“She recommended it. She didn’t prescribe it.”

Dr. Roger tapped his lips with an index finger. “Well, if you don’t think you need it, I agree.”

Charlie was shocked. “Really?”

“I don’t believe every problem can be solved through drugs, Charlie. I like to look at human behavior and interactions.”

Charlie sat back in his chair, letting out a long breath. “Good.”

Dr. Roger flipped over a page. “It says here your mother left a few years ago.”

“That’s true.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Mother gone. Not many friends. Close with your dad?”

Charlie’s eyes flicked to the carpet. “Yes.”

“Until recently?”

Charlie’s breath caught. He met the doctor’s eyes.

“These are difficult years. The parent-child relationship becomes strained, especially in a single-parent home.”

Charlie shook his head. “Well, that’s not us. We’re friends.”

Dr. Roger nodded slowly. “Good. Good.” He took a sip from the tumbler of water on his desk. “And friends are always there for each other. Look out for one another. I bet you look out for him sometimes, too.”

“Sometimes. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I’m sure it’s made you very independent, which is good. Means you’re mature. Of course, it also means you’ve got to rely on yourself a lot. Be your own parent. Decide for yourself what’s good or bad, right or wrong. I’ll bet you make lists. In a journal, perhaps? Or maybe just in your head when you’re by yourself. Lists of rules. Principles. Things to rely on, that you decide for yourself.”