Maybe I Will (8 page)

I followed the doctor down the hall and into a cluttered office. “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair in front of a desk heaped with papers and files while he took a seat behind the desk. “Your mom says you've had fatigue and flu-like symptoms for several weeks.” I nodded. “You're 16?” I nodded again. “Sandy, I brought you down here because I want to ask you something straight up, and I want you to be able to answer me without worrying about what your mom might think.”

Instant anxiety seized every cell of my body. I could not meet Dr. Parks' eyes. I fixed my eyes on the floor and held my breath.

“I smelled alcohol when I was examining your tongue and throat. That's not something I would expect to smell on the breath of a teenager at 8:00 in the morning.”

“Maybe it was the Altoids,” I offered. “They're crème-dementhe flavor.”

“Maybe. The urine and blood tests will tell me if I'm wrong. I just wanted to give you the chance to tell me about it now if it's going to show up on these tests.”

I continued to stare at the floor.

“Is there any chance that I'll find alcohol in your blood or urine?”

I winced. “Maybe,” I stammered. “Maybe there's alcohol in the Nyquil I took.”

“Your mom didn't say anything about your taking Nyquil.”

“She doesn't know. I have the bottle in my backpack.” I felt a huge rush of relief as the story just seemed to flow. “I bought it at the grocery store because it's for the flu. I'm not supposed to take it to school, but it's almost gone. I was going to take the rest of it before I got to school and throw it away before I went in the building. I just wanted to feel better so my parents would let me start taking taekwondo with a friend of mine over spring break.”

I looked up at the doctor. He was rubbing his chin. “Are you taking it as directed?”

I nodded. “Do you think that's what's making me tired?”

“I don't know,” Dr. Parks replied. “What do you think?”

I tried to look him in the eye, but I just couldn't do it. I shrugged my shoulders and looked away.

“Your symptoms sound a lot like depression to me. Is there anything bothering you?”

Part of me wanted to tell him, to just say it. But my throat was tightening, and my eyes were getting watery, and the words simply wouldn't come. “I'm just tired,” I finally mumbled.

The doctor waited a long time before he said, “No more Nyquil. Let's get the blood drawn, and then we'll throw away whatever's in your backpack.”

“Are you going to tell my mom?” I asked.

“Not if you tell her first.”

And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends stolen out of Holy Writ
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

—Richard III
, Act I, Scene iii, Lines 336-338

I
TOLD
M
OM
about the Nyquil with Dr. Parks standing right there. Then I told Dad about the Nyquil while Mom listened. And by the time I was finished telling, it was all about the Nyquil and the flu and my just wanting to sign up for this taekwondo class, but thinking my parents wouldn't let me because I was already busy with the school musical.

“I'll drive you to school tomorrow and Friday,” Dad said. It wasn't open for discussion.

“And no more Nyquil,” Mom said. “When you think you need medicine, we need to know.”

“No more Nyquil,” I promised. My parents seemed satisfied. It was an easy promise to keep. Nobody said anything about vodka. That would have been a problem. I tried not to think about that. Spring break would be here soon enough. Maybe taekwondo would
help me feel relaxed and more focused again, too, like it did for Shanika.

That night I got a text from Troy. “What did Dr. say?”

“Just needed a physical for taekwondo over spring break.”

“Taekwondo?”

“Why not, right?” I texted back.

“See you in the morning?”

“Dad wants to drive me the rest of this week.”

“K.”

And that was it. I tried not to think about it.

Just when I was getting good at not thinking, Mr. Conaway decided that we should study Socrates in our AP World History class. “The Socratic Method is a favorite with teachers, philosophers and lawyers,” he said. Then we spent the whole period discussing a single question: “What is Virtue?”

There was lots of talk about vice and virtue and right and wrong. I sat quietly in my seat avoiding teacher eye contact. Eventually, though, Mr. Conaway asked me directly, “What do you think about virtue, Sandy?”

“Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall,” I replied.

Mr. Conaway laughed. “Shakespeare, I presume?”

I nodded. “
Measure for Measure
.”

“But what does it mean?”

I shrugged. “I guess it means that sometimes people succeed by doing the wrong thing, and some people fail even though they've done everything the right way.”

“Do you think that's true?” Mr. Conaway asked.

Hands shot up all over the classroom. The whole thing turned into a debate on whether it's better to do the right thing for the
wrong reasons or the wrong thing for the right reasons. I just stayed out of it.
Nothing is right. It's all wrong. What's wrong with me?

Then came our spring break assignment. “Pick one of the questions and really think about it,” Mr. Conaway instructed as he handed out a long list of questions like “What is Justice?” and “What is Truth?”

“Just think about it?” someone asked.

“Think about it, and then write about it in a way that lets me know you've given the question serious thought,” Mr. Conaway replied.

“How long does it have to be?” inquired another student.

“Doesn't matter,” said Mr. Conaway. “There's no right answer and no right length.”

This created quite a stir. “Does that mean you're not going to grade us?”

“You'll definitely be getting a grade on this assignment.”

Amy Taylor's hand shot up. Her one and only goal in life was to be class valedictorian. “How can you grade us on something that doesn't have a right answer and you won't even tell us how long the answer needs to be?”

“Let me just tell you that the more ‘canned' your answer sounds, the less inclined I'll be to give you a good grade.”

“But that's not fair!” Amy argued. “You have to tell us what you want us to do!”

“I want you to think for yourself, Amy. Look at the list of questions. See number 12?”

Amy nodded. “It says, ‘What is Fair?'”

Mr. Conaway smiled. “There you go.”

The class laughed and started whispering back and forth about the different questions. I scanned through the list: “What is
Good?” “What is Freedom?” What is Life?” “What is Integrity?” Finally, I saw one that captured my attention. “What is Character?”
Character is whatever role I choose to play. There you go. That one should be easy enough for a character actor who knows how to stay in character.

Aside from that single assignment, my spring break was all about taekwondo. Sarah Hensley and Dustin Fairbanks would be out of town all week, so Hamilton wasn't planning any serious rehearsals without Wendy and Captain Hook. Of course, we could always come in several hours a day to work on sets or to go over our part with Hamilton privately. And he encouraged the understudies to work on their parts together if they were around. My plan was to follow Shanika's lead. If she found time to go in, I would too. If not, then so be it.

That Friday when school let out, Dad took me to my first taekwondo class and got me signed up for the spring break camp. It sounds crazy, but the moment I stepped into the Washington do-jahng, I felt safer than I'd felt in weeks. I had to swallow hard to keep back the tears. Shanika introduced me to her father and then showed me around the facility while my dad completed all of the paperwork and paid for the course.

There was a black belt class in progress, and I watched as they did punches and kicks with great energy and precision. They were mostly teenagers, but several younger kids and adults were mixed in as well. Age, height and athletic ability didn't seem to have anything to do with who stood where. Without warning, the whole class gave a loud shout in unison that startled me so badly I jumped and yelled, too.

Shanika laughed, but not in a mean way. “That's a kiyap. It's part of the forms. You'll get used to it.”

She picked out a uniform for me and then showed me how to tie the belt once I had it on. She taught me how to bow when you enter and leave the do-jahng and also when you step on and off the mat where class is held. Then she had me take a seat while she joined the black belt class.

The whole class stood at attention while Shanika introduced me. “This is my friend, Sandy.” The entire class turned and bowed in my direction and then shouted, “ATA.” From all of the signs and posters I gathered that stood for the American Taekwondo Association. Then she turned to me. “Sandy, this is the white belt form you'll be learning at the rank-advancement camp.” She turned back to the class and ordered them all to do the same form.

It was like synchronized martial arts. People in all sizes, shapes and colors moved together with a shared confidence. All wore perfectly pressed white uniforms with patches on their sleeves and black belts wrapped around their waists. I looked down at my white belt—white for purity. There was a poster on the wall explaining all of the different color belts and their meaning. Beside the white belt were the words, “Pure and without the knowledge of Songahm Taekwondo. As with the Pine Tree, the seed must now be planted and nourished to develop strong roots.”

Shanika called for everyone to put on their sparring gear. A vast array of padding, helmets, and mouth guards exploded from behind the counter and loud music blared from a boom box. As I watched the students pair up and begin sparring I suddenly imagined myself sparring Aaron.
So much padding and protection. It would be almost impossible for him to slip his hand . . .
I shuddered at the thought.

I swallowed the panic and blinked back the tears.
Take a drink. Don't take a drink.
I looked at Dad who was still talking to Mr. Washington.
Take a quick drink. No one will notice.
I looked at Shanika
who was stepping right into the line of fire between two sparring men.
Don't take a drink. Wait until after class.
Only right after this black belt class was the class I would be attending.
Just a little drink now and a real drink after class.
So I took a quick little drink, and no one seemed to notice.

At the end of the black belt class, everyone bowed to Shanika, and a cheerful chorus rang out, “Ma'am! I shall live with perseverance in the spirit of taekwondo, having honor with others, integrity for myself, and self-control in my actions, Ma'am!”
Honor. Integrity. Self-control. All the things I took for granted. Everything I've lost.
I sucked in a deep breath and followed a line of students wearing white, orange and yellow belts onto the mat for my first taekwondo class.

Like a dull actor now
I have forgot my part and I am out
Even to a full disgrace.

—Coriolanus
, Act V, Scene iii, Lines 40-42

I
WAS A
little worried about how to manage my schedule during the camp and make it to the store to pick up a bottle when I needed it. So I decided to stock up over the weekend. I even managed to walk out with two bottles from the same store in a single visit. A huge burden lifted as I lined up my three bottles of vodka in my closet that Sunday night.

Once I was sure my parents were in bed, I poured a glass of vodka and pulled out my World History assignment sheet.
What is character? What is integrity?
I stared at the paper and tried to think. I pictured myself at the do-jahng with my white belt.
Honor. Integrity. Self-control. Right.

My thoughts kept taking me back to that one minute that absolutely destroyed everything inside me. How could my whole world change in a moment and without anyone else knowing? At some level I knew that Aaron's actions defined him, not me, but it didn't
change how totally broken I felt inside. I took another drink and started doodling in my notebook. Doodling and scribbling and drinking. This was getting me nowhere.

I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I stared at myself in the mirror for a really long time. My pupils were dilated, and my eyes had a cloudy look to them. I tried to look deeper, but it was no use. My eyes were nothing but black holes . . . little windows to the interminable darkness inside me. I went back to my room and took another drink.

Then I started scratching out a poem of sorts about character. I worked it and reworked it until I felt totally spent and the mess of scribbles was nearly unintelligible. So I recopied it on a clean page:

Enough.
I lay down on my bed and fell asleep.

I began the rank advancement camp with a sense of adventure. Kids of all ages lined up in descending order according to belt colors. As the newest white belt at the school, I was always last in the line. I recognized a few faces, but Shanika was the only one I really knew. She always lined up with the instructors, facing the students.

One of the orange belts was a guy from my class at school named Hector Quintana. I faintly remembered his being a wrestler in middle school, and that made me a little uneasy somehow. But by the end of the first day, it was obvious he was nothing at all like Aaron, and I stopped feeling so jittery around him.