Highly Illogical Behavior (17 page)

“A
re you okay?” Lisa's mother shouted, standing in the driveway, where Lisa had been sitting for ten minutes with her car engine running.

“What?” Lisa yelled, opening the door.

“Oh good. I thought you were dead.”

“What're you doing home?”

“We need to talk.”

Lisa followed her mother inside and after a few minutes of watching her bang around in the kitchen as she made tea, Lisa couldn't take anymore.

“Mom, it's been a really long, weird day, so if you could just . . .”

“Ron got a job,” she interrupted.

“Okay.”

“In Arizona.”

“Oh.”

“And, after talking about it a lot. A
whole
lot, well, we just think it's best to go our separate ways.”

“You're getting a divorce?”

“Eventually, yes.”

She was surprised her mom wasn't crying. She almost seemed relieved about it, so Lisa wasn't sure if she should console or congratulate her.

“You seem okay.”

“I am. It just wasn't meant to be, I guess.”

“Sorry,” Lisa said. “Are we moving again?”

“No, honey. I'm keeping the house.”

“Thank God.”

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong? Why you were catatonic out there in the car?”

“I think it's over with Clark.”

And
then
her mom cried. Not much, but she was definitely holding back tears as she listened to the whole story. Lisa told her everything, too—every little detail, from the essay to the conversation she'd just had with Solomon. And she told her about Clark and the secret she was so convinced he was keeping, too.

“I don't see it,” her mom said. “But what do I know? Everybody's gay these days.”

“I guess I thought we'd always be together.”

“That's what everyone thinks when they're seventeen. Believe me.”

“Weren't you with my dad at seventeen?”

“Yep. And you see how that turned out. I thought I'd be Mrs. Jacob Praytor forever. He wasn't gay, he was just an asshole. Funnier than anyone I've ever met. But a total asshole.”

“Clark's the nicest person I know,” Lisa said.

“Me too. But if this is the way it is, then what can you do? At least it isn't your fault things didn't work out.”

“At least.”

“Is Clark going to tell him? About the essay?”

“I don't think so,” she said. “But who knows? I never got the chance to ask him not to.”

“You really want into that school, don't you?”

“It's the second-best psych program in the country,” Lisa said.

“
Your experience with mental illness
. You could just write anything. Seems like a dumb topic to me.”

“They're looking for the right story,” she defended. “Something ambitious and courageous.”

“Lying isn't courageous.”

“You should know.”

“Watch it,” her mom snapped. “Don't start a fight just because it's the easiest thing to do.”

“Sorry.”

“So, can you fix it?”

“Probably not.”

“Lisa,” her mom said, looking her right in the eyes. “I've never heard you say you couldn't do something. Not in your entire life.”

•   •   •

Even when Lisa was super busy, she and Clark always kept in touch with a quick phone call or a text. Just to check in. They'd even talked while she was at camp, long enough to say hello and discuss Solomon's progress. But now, a day after he kicked her out of his house, Lisa hadn't heard a word out of Clark.

She hadn't heard from Solomon, either, which made her worry even more. Were the two of them together now?
Maybe Solomon had taken her advice, professed his love, and they were already living happily ever after without her. But, didn't she deserve to know? She was the only reason they even knew each other. And you'd think Clark, of all people, would have the decency to break up with his girlfriend before getting his first boyfriend. What the hell was going on?

When she called Clark's house, Drew answered and said he'd spent the night at Solomon's. Now Lisa was almost certain the truth had finally come out. To her knowledge, he'd never stayed the night at Solomon's, not even once. So, why was he suddenly doing it now?

Later that evening, at just about dark, Lisa grabbed her keys and walked out to her car. She didn't know what she'd say or do, but she had to see them. And if it hadn't been such a weird week, and she hadn't spent the afternoon watching Ron pack up his things while her mom cried in the kitchen, Lisa might not have had it in her to drive to Solomon's and climb over the back fence.

But she did. And now she was standing in the backyard, the only light coming from the swimming pool in front of her. And before she could turn around to face the house, she heard the glass door sliding open.

“Lisa?” Solomon asked. He was standing in the doorway in swim trunks.

“Hey,” she said. “You alone?”

Right when she asked it, Clark stepped out behind him holding two cans of soda.

“Lisa,” he said, frozen in place. “Hi.”

“I guess nobody's taking calls today,” she said.

“Sorry,” Clark said. “My phone died last night and I didn't bring my charger.”

“You stayed the night?” she asked. They were all still standing there, Clark and Solomon by the door and Lisa about ten feet in front of them just barely visible in the pool light.

“Stayed too late and didn't want to walk home.”

“Do you want to come sit down?” Solomon asked, shooting Clark a look asking for approval.

“Yeah, come on,” Clark said. “It's freezing.”

They walked over to the pool and Clark draped a towel over his bare shoulders. Then he threw one to Lisa and one to Solomon, who each did the same. He took the seat right between them and they both stared at him, expecting him to speak first.

“You were wrong,” he said to Lisa in an almost amused, but still quiet tone.

“I was?”

“Not gay,” Solomon added, shaking his head.

“Shit,” she said. But it was low and weak, not angry. She sat there for a few seconds not looking up at them. She wasn't one to blush, but she was sure her cheeks were on fire and she hoped the darkness would cover it up so she wouldn't be mortified even more.

“At least you didn't let it get out of hand,” Clark said sarcastically.

“So I guess you told him then?” Lisa said to Clark.

“What? No.” He shook his head and widened his eyes so she would drop it. But, it was too late.

“Told me what?” Solomon asked.

She wanted so badly to lie, to have just a little more time before being unmasked as a complete monster. But it was over now. It had to be over.

“About the essay,” she said, closing her eyes tightly.

“What essay?”

“Shit,” Clark said.

“Solomon . . . it seemed like such a good idea, and I didn't know it would be like this. I didn't know
you
would be like this. That you'd be
you
. And now . . .”

“Lisa, what the hell are you talking about?”

“It's an admissions essay,” Clark said. “To Woodlawn.”

“So what?” he said. “I mean . . . what about it?”

“They give one full paid scholarship a year to the candidate with the best essay,” Lisa said.

“I'm really confused. . . .”

“It's supposed to be about her personal experience with mental illness,” Clark blurted out.

“It's a psychology program?” Solomon asked.

“Yeah.”

“I thought you wanted to be a doctor.”

“I never . . .”

“You never said what kind,” Solomon interrupted. “So I guess I'm . . .”

“You're her personal experience with mental illness,” Clark said.

“You knew?” Solomon asked. Clark just nodded his head with this expression of total defeat on his face.

“You guys need to leave,” Solomon said quietly. His voice was deep and sad and nearly unrecognizable.

“Sol, I . . .” Clark began.

“Leave,” he said, standing up. He started to pace along the edge of the pool and he let the towel fall from his shoulders and into the water.

“I'll get that,” Lisa said.

“Leave it alone!” Solomon shouted. “Get out! Go home! Both of you! Go home!”

Tears were smeared across his face and even in the faint pool light, you could see the panic in his eyes. Lisa stepped toward him, but he jerked back, almost falling into the pool. She begged him to sit down and take deep breaths, and so did Clark, but he was too far gone. The more they tried to help, the more he paced and twitched and yelled for them to leave. It didn't take long for his parents to come outside, and when his dad put an arm around him he shoved him to the ground. Then, just as he went in to try again, Solomon took his right hand, raised it into the air, and then slapped it hard across the side of his own face. And then he did it again, so hard that his mom whimpered a little and ran over to hold his arms back.

Through the house, and out to the front door, they could still hear him yelling. Lisa closed the door behind her and stopped to take a deep breath, like she'd just escaped from a monster in a dream. Even from the driveway, as they got into Lisa's car, they could hear Solomon's parents trying to calm him down. But he wasn't calming down. He was yelling and throwing things. Lisa heard something hit the side of the house. Maybe he'd thrown a chair or one of those little garden gnomes his mom had all around the yard. Then, just as Lisa was about to crank the car, one loud yell from Solomon's dad echoed through the
neighborhood. “Damn it, Solomon! Stop!” And everything got really quiet.

As they backed out of the driveway, Lisa eyed the house with tears trickling down her cheeks. She looked over to Clark, who had his face completely covered with his hands. His legs were shaking up and down like he couldn't stop them and a few times on the drive to his house, she thought she heard him crying. Solomon's world had become his, too, and it looked like she'd just destroyed it. It was all over now.

After she dropped a still-silent Clark off at home, her
good-bye
never met with a response, she drove back to Solomon's and parked across the street. She stayed there, watching the dark, quiet house for over an hour. She didn't do it because he needed her. She did it because she was afraid the farther she got from him, the better off he'd become. And despite spending most of her time thinking about leaving, Lisa wasn't ready to go just yet.

H
e'd been hitting himself like that for years, but it was the first time anyone outside of his family had seen it. Now he would always remember the looks on their faces—right after the first strike.

They'd been so real, Clark and Lisa. It had felt so real that he'd never stopped to question why it was happening—why they'd waste their time on someone like him in the first place.

He lay awake that night, touching the side of his face a few times, remembering what he'd done. It hadn't happened in a long while, maybe more than a year. It hadn't happened that day at school, either. But at home, that same day he'd jumped into the fountain, he'd gotten so anxious, pacing around the living room listening to his parents try to calm him, that he suddenly just lost it completely and slapped his face. He immediately started crying, confused and guilty, looking up at his parents like he had no idea how it had happened. And, really, that's the way it always was with the hitting. It would happen so fast, his
body shaking to release the tension built up from all the thoughts swirling through his mind and all the air he was having trouble breathing and all the loud beating of his own heart ringing in his ears. It had to get out and that was the path it chose. Slap. Instant relief.

The next day, Solomon didn't go outside. It was just like every other day before he'd met them—familiar in a way that made him nostalgic and nauseated. Part of him wished he could go back in time and tear Lisa's weird ass friendship letter in half. He thought maybe he could pretend them away, like he did so many other things. Out of sight, out of mind.

He looked up the Woodlawn University School of Psychology's admission guidelines and read all about the Jon T. Vorkheim Scholarship, which was full paid tuition awarded to the candidate with the
highest need of assistance and highest likelihood of bringing a new perspective to the field of Psychology based on his/her personal experience with mental illness.

“Shit,” he said aloud to nothing but an empty house.

A week later, he still hadn't gone outside. And he was still refusing to take calls from Clark or Lisa. He spent most of his time holed up in his bedroom with the door shut and, for the most part, his parents left him alone. They knew Solomon better than anyone and if he needed the time to himself, they weren't about to take it away.

When Clark showed up to get his van, Solomon couldn't talk himself into seeing him. So, Clark said a quick hello to Valerie and followed Jason to the garage, where they got
the engine started and had him on his way. Afterward, Solomon's dad knocked lightly on his door before walking in and sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Sort of sucks to see it go,” he said.

“What? The van?”

“Yeah. Got used to having a project. Thing barely runs, but at least it runs.”

“How is he?”

“Sad, Sol. He looked pretty sad.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“I don't think he meant any harm,” his dad interrupted. “Guilty by association, I guess. But he's been a good friend to you.”

“But he knew. How do I know if any of it was real?”

“Because you know. C'mon.”

“I don't know what I know.”

“You ever going outside again?” his dad asked, looking him right in the eyes.

“Why's it matter?”

“I can't answer that,” he said, stepping out into the hallway. “But when you can tell me it doesn't, I'll quit asking.”

•   •   •

Later that day, Solomon's dad was reading a book in the living room when his son walked through, still wearing the pajamas he'd had on for days, a guilty look on his face.

“It emerges,” his dad said. “From the room of eternal stench.”

“Okay, that's not fair.”

“Have you had a bath this week?”

“Maybe not.”

“Where are you going?”

“Outside, I think.”

“Look, I'm sorry for . . .”

“Dad,” he interrupted. “Don't be.”

Solomon looked out at the blue water across the yard and then over at his dad, who pretended not to be watching. Then he turned back to slide the door open, this thing he'd done hundreds of times like it was no big deal. Only, as soon as the outside air touched his face, his heart started beating faster and faster and he suddenly couldn't catch his breath. Everything turned so loud and shaky that suddenly the pool looked farther away, too far to reach. And by the time his dad got over to him, he was sitting on the tile floor with his knees up and his face tucked between them.

When it was over, he looked up at his dad with this hopeless expression on his face. And in that silent moment, just before he walked back to his room and shut the door, he knew they were thinking the same thing—that maybe it would always be this way.

Eventually, Solomon would stop trying to go outside altogether. The panic attacks would subside and they'd all pretend those few months away, not wanting to feel the pangs of nostalgia it gave them to think about the two weird kids who showed up one day and made everything better.

Solomon stayed in his room until his grandma came over for dinner that night. He knew he wouldn't be able to avoid her, so he was dressed and ready when she got there. He tried to plant a smile on his face, but it wasn't working and she could tell. So, when she went to kiss his
cheek, she whispered
You're okay
into his ear and patted his back lightly.

He didn't talk much at dinner, which was easy since his grandma was over. He just chewed his food in silence while she rambled on and on about a difficult new homebuyer she'd been dealing with earlier that day. He'd been listening to her describe the ins and outs of the suburban realty world for his entire life, and it was always a lot more darkly humorous and twisted than you'd think. This particular story involved an extramarital affair
and
a poltergeist. No joke.

After dinner, Grandma asked if he wanted to get his butt kicked at a game of cards and, although he hesitated at first, he couldn't say no. She dealt a hand of canasta at the dinner table, eating her dessert and sipping coffee. Solomon's parents went to the kitchen to do dishes and as soon as they were out of sight, he knew he was in danger. Grandma didn't mince words, and this was the first time he'd been alone with her since he'd gone back to his old ways.

“Remember, twos and jokers are wild,” she said.

“Okay.”

Five minutes in and not a word had been spoken between them. She was typically an aggressive game player, but her shift from funny storyteller at dinner to serious, poker-faced card shark was throwing Solomon for a loop. Eventually, at the end of one of his turns, he broke down and said something.

“Listen . . . I'm sure I'll be able to go back out there sooner or later.”

She didn't respond at first, but instead set her cards down and took a sip of coffee.

“I tried. I did. Earlier today. Did Dad tell you? I bet he told you.”

“Solomon,” she interrupted. “I don't care about that.”

“Oh,” he said. “I thought maybe you were . . .”

“Why haven't you seen your friends?” she asked.

“You know why.”

“They were helping, you know? I've never seen you so happy.”

“They were
lying
.”

“So they're not perfect,” she said. “You're better with them than without them.”

“She was using me, Grandma,” he defended. “She was using your
crazy
grandson to get into college. How does that make you feel?”

“I never said it was right. But do you really think that's all it was? You don't need to spend every day with someone just to write a few paragraphs, Solomon.”

“Then she tells me Clark's gay, that she's sure of it, and of course—he
isn't
after all, and now I'm back to where I started and I wish I hadn't met either of them in the first place. That would make this better.”

“You must really miss them,” she said, stone-faced.

“I do.”

“Let me tell you something,” she said. “I spent a good part of my life being unhappy. I was stuck in my shitty little hometown for longer than I thought I could take. But I got out. It was life or death. And that decision led to every good thing that ever happened to me. Now, I don't know
what you want your life to look like. And I won't pretend to understand what it feels like when you're at your worst. I can't imagine how awful it must be. But, I know what it's like to constantly think about a life you aren't living. That's exactly how I felt when I was sixteen and if there was anything I could have done about it, I would have. I know it's easier said than done. I know that. But, you have to try, Solomon. Just look at me. The older I get, the smaller my world gets. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it, either. Life is short, kiddo. You have to at least
try
to live it before you end up where I am—counting down the days till they decide to put you somewhere you can't escape from. That's what I have to look forward to, you know? Having someone else wipe my ass in some place full of dying people.”

“Good lord, Grandma.”

“Now look at yourself,” she said. “Young and smart. This world could be anything you want it to be. Maybe my time's running out, but at least I'm living. And if that's what this is for you, being here inside where nothing ever happens, where you think you're safe, then stay. Stay right here and you let me know how that works for you. Because I'm guessing it'll never really be enough.”

“Maybe not.”

“I think you can do it,” she said. “And you've got plenty of time before I wither away and die to prove me right.”

“You said you've got what, like twenty years left?”

“At least. I quit smoking in the eighties, so maybe twenty-five or thirty. You'll have your father's hairline by then, no doubt.”

“Okay. Fine. I promise I'll go outside before you kick it.”

“Attaboy,” she said, looking down at her cards.

For the rest of the game, he kept picturing her stuck in a nursing home somewhere, sad and lonely and wishing he'd come see her, wishing he
could
. He was afraid of the world, afraid it would find a way to swallow him up. But, maybe everyone was sometimes. Maybe some people can just turn it off when they need to.

After his grandma left, all he could think about was growing old and running out of time, so he used the surprising rush of courage it gave him to walk back to his bedroom, dial Clark's phone number, and wait for an answer.

“Hello.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice raspy.

“Are you okay, man?”

“I think so. I mean, yeah. I will be.”

“I'm so sorry. I don't know what else to say . . .”

“I bet you tried to talk her out of it,” he interrupted.

“A few times.”

“So why didn't you tell me?”

“I was going to, then you told me how you felt and I . . . I didn't want to make it worse.”

“Did you want to meet me or was it part of her plan or whatever?”

“I asked to meet you,” he answered. “But she told me it would help, too.”

“You want to know how I know you love her?” Solomon asked.

“How?”

“Because you kept her secret. You protected her.”

“I was protecting her
and
you,” Clark corrected.

“Have you talked to her?”

“No. She texts me every morning, but I haven't answered yet.”

“Are you going to?”

“After everything she's done?”

“Yeah.”

“Probably. How ridiculous is that?”

“Not at all,” Solomon said. “I'd forgive you for the same.”

“You know I came and got my van, right?”

“The holodeck's not the same without it.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Do you really care or are you asking for Lisa? So she can record it in her notes?”

“I don't know what she was thinking,” Clark said. “But I know she wanted to help you. It wasn't just about her, man. If you can believe that.”

“I'll work on it,” Solomon said. “I better go. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course. I'm really . . .”

Solomon hung up because he knew if he heard any more, he'd start panicking. And then who knows how long it would be before he was breathing normal again and not pacing around the room or crying.

He knew eventually, when he was able to see or talk to Clark without losing his mind, that things between them would be okay. As far as Lisa was concerned, though, he wasn't so sure when he'd be ready to see her again—or, if he'd ever be. But it made him sad to think of his life without her. She'd be like that one missing game piece that you
try to forget about or replace but can never quite shake the memory of. And if he missed her this much after a week, then what would a month or a year feel like without her? Maybe he'd never have to find out. At least that's what a big part of him was hoping.