Holding Up the Universe (12 page)

We're told to wait outside Wasserman's office. The security guard and the bearded teacher go in as we come out, along with a couple of kids, God knows who, maybe my own brother. Libby and I sit side by side on a bench. I watch the door leading out of here, into the main hall, and all I can think is
Don't let Monica Chapman walk in, not with my mom in there.

Libby looks at me. “Why did you do it?”

I want to say
Read the letter,
but right about now that letter seems like the second-worst idea I've ever had.

“Haven't you ever done something mean or stupid without thinking it through? Something you instantly regretted as soon as you did it?” She doesn't answer. So I say, “Sometimes people are just shitty. Sometimes they're shitty because they're afraid. Sometimes they choose to be shitty to others before others can be shitty to them. Like self-defensive shittiness.”

Because my brain is damaged. Because I'm damaged.

“Why me? Or should I ask?”

“You shouldn't ask.” There's no way in hell I'm saying the words “Fat Girl Rodeo” to her.

She rolls her eyes and looks away. “You don't think they'll suspend us. Or expel us?” She says this toward the other side of the room.

“No. This isn't my first…” I almost say “rodeo” but stop myself. “We'll be okay.” Although honestly, I'm not so sure.

Her eyes meet mine again and I smile at her, even as I'm hating myself, and my lip starts bleeding.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

An hour or so later, the door to the principal's office opens, and Principal Wasserman (short gray hair, glasses) waves us back in. Two men lean against the windowsill—one of them is a giant and the other is pretty skinny. Libby's dad fixes me with a look. He is broad-shouldered, like Charles Bronson, and I feel the need to say, “I'm sorry, sir.”

Libby and I drop into our usual chairs. I catch my mom's eye, and she shakes her head (she wears her hair one of two ways, and today she is Mom-with-Hair-Up). I may not be able to recognize faces, but I can tell when someone is disappointed and furious, and my mom is both. I think of all the times Mom has told me to stay out of trouble, that people will be harder on me because of the way I look. I know I've let her down, and she will say I've let myself down.

The gray-headed woman props her elbows on the desk and leans forward. “I'm not going to suspend you or expel you. Not this time. Instead the two of you will perform community service together, only instead of doing this for the community, it will be community-type service for the school. We're putting you in charge of painting the bleachers and the locker rooms. Mr. Sweeney will supervise.” The giant nods at us.

“The two of you will also meet with a counselor every day after school for the next few weeks. The Conversation Circle is being used effectively at more and more schools across the country, and I believe it will also be effective here. It's important that you learn from the experience and each other. Mr. Levine”—the skinny guy waves—“specializes in some of the most prevalent issues affecting teens today, including bullying, prejudice, and sexual harassment.”

I clear my throat, which still feels raw. “I don't think it's fair to punish her for something I instigated. I'd rather serve the time for both of us.”

Libby goes, “You are unbelievable.”

“What?”

“You don't get to be the villain
and
the hero.”

Principal Wasserman says, “Thank you, Jack, but Libby broke the rules as well.”

As we leave, I try to say “I'm sorry” again, but Libby's father wraps his arm around her shoulders and steers her away.

In the parking lot, my mom says, “We'll discuss this at home, Jack Henry.” My full name. Something she hasn't called me in years. She drives off without another word.

I go directly to Masselin's, hoping to slink in and bypass everyone—namely my dad. I'm barely settled behind the office desk when he comes walking in. “I heard what happened today. What the hell were you thinking?”

I tell him I don't know, that it was meant to be a prank, but it ended up being a really stupid idea, and I wish I hadn't done it, and all the other things I've spent the past few hours saying over and over.

“Your mother and I are disappointed in you.”

As if he needs to tell me this. I want to say
I'm disappointed in you too.
But instead I say, “I know. I'm sorry.”

When I'm finally alone, I turn on my phone. It immediately blows up with voicemails and texts. There's Caroline, Seth, Bailey Bishop, Kam, and about a hundred other people, including Marcus, who know all about what happened.

Bailey Bishop is crying because she can't believe I would do something so hurtful to another human being. Caroline talks mostly about herself, but my brother actually wants to know if I'm okay and what happened with the principal.

Kam's message says,
Congrats, princess. You win. Choose the place so we can take your sorry ass out for a victory meal. But hey, do me a favor and don't get your ass kicked by any other girls before then.
Followed by an entire minute of laughter.

The radio is playing, but the volume is low, and my dad is talking on and on. When he brings up homeschooling again, I say, “You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“You really punched him?”

“Right in the mouth.”

And then he laughs.

“Are you
laughing
?”

“I think I am.”

“You're not supposed to laugh. You're supposed to tell me violence never solves anything and take away my phone or something.”

“Don't punch anyone again. And if it makes you feel better, give me your phone.” And he just keeps on laughing.

And now I'm laughing too. And for the first time in a long time, I feel normal, weird as that sounds. We feel normal. Which makes me think what happened today wasn't so bad after all, and maybe all the humiliation and the upcoming hours of community service and counseling are worth this single moment.

As we pull up to our house, Dad says, “Don't let that boy get in your head. Don't let him take away what you've worked so hard for.”

“I won't. I'm getting up tomorrow and going back to school.” I look down at my shoes and the quote written there. “ ‘You can't stop living.' ”

I find Dusty in his room, playing video games. He's got his headphones on, and I can hear the music blasting through them—the Jackson 5, which he only listens to when he's feeling his absolute worst.

I wave at Dusty, and finally he looks up and mouths, “What?”

I mime removing headphones. I make it elaborate and exaggerated, hoping he'll laugh. He ignores me.

I start to dance. Dusty can't resist dancing. The song is “Rockin' Robin,” and I don't hold back. I just go for it. I'm twisting and grooving across the floor. I'm in a music video. I'm Michael Jackson in his prime. I am the man.

“I'm the man,” I say, loud enough so he can hear. I shake out the lion fro, making it as big as possible.

“You're not the man.” He says it too loud, the way you always do when you're listening to the Jackson 5 at full volume through headphones.

“I am the man.” I'm doing dance moves, ones he taught me. I purposely do them wrong because he won't be able to help himself. He makes me sweat it for another thirty seconds, and then he's up and the headphones are off and he starts showing me the correct steps.

We finish the song, dancing in unison, and it's awesome, but then the song is over, and Dusty drops onto his bed and gives me this look that lets me know we're only in unison on the dance floor, nowhere else.

Just to drive the point home, he goes, “You're not the man.”

“I guess not.” I sit next to him and we both stare at the floor.

“So which is it? Which reason made you do this shitty thing?”

I think through all the reasons I listed before—
Sometimes they're just shitty people. Sometimes people have been shitty to them. Sometimes they're shitty because they're afraid. Sometimes they choose to be shitty to others before others can be shitty to them. Sometimes someone doesn't like who he is, but then here's this other kid who knows exactly who he is, and that can make that first kid feel even worse about himself.

“Maybe all of them. But I meant what I said. I'll never be shitty to you.”

Then he looks at me, and he might as well knock me in my split lip because he goes, “You need to make it right.”

“I know.”