Sean Griswold's Head (13 page)

SIXTEEN

The promise of biology hangs over me all morning. What is Jac going to do? And what'll it be like when I see Sean?

I didn't get him a valentine. I mean, we still hardly even know each other. A love for
Seinfeld
and two little bike rides doesn't make us lovers; it doesn't even make us friends. But then I think about how close we were that night, about the way he looked at me, and figure that even if I can't label what's going on, there is at least
something
going on.

I take a breath before walking into biology and pray Jac isn't dressed up as Cupid. But it isn't that bad. My desk is decorated similar to my locker, with crepe paper and balloons. The bell hasn't rung yet and only a few students, including a smiling Jac, watch as I hurry to clean up her endless valentine. I'm on my hands and knees picking up the Dove chocolates Jac has sprinkled on the floor when I hear Sean's voice.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I answer without looking up. “Just cleaning this mess.”

“I know, but why? I don't want it cleaned up.”

“Why does it matter?” I finally shoot a glance at Sean's puzzled face.

“Because it's my desk.”

I count the seats back to see it is, in fact, the third seat in the second row. Mine is the fourth. I shift my gaze to the first seat in the fifth row and find Jac with her arms folded tightly across her chest. “What are you doing?” she mouths.

I stand up but keep my focus on the ground. “Sor … sor … sorry. I thought it was my seat.”

Sean reads the large pink card. “From your Secret Admirer.” He looks around the room and lowers his voice. “Any idea who it can be?”

I look him square in the eye and realize he thinks it's me. He thinks I'm his Secret Admirer. And I can't tell what he thinks about that. He lips are in a tight line and his ears have gone pink. Like he's embarrassed.

His cheeks grow redder and I understand. Sean's too nice. He doesn't like me and now he thinks he has to let me down easy. He's embarrassed, not for himself, but for me.

I can't help it. Tears fill my eyes. I bolt out of the room before Sean, or Jac, can hurt me anymore.

PFE

February 14 third period, from inside the girls' bathroom

Topic: Confessions from the Valentine Killer

JAC. IS. SO. DEAD.

PFE

Time: Fifteen minutes later

Topic: Further Confessions

Seriously. Dead.

I never go back to third period, making this the first time I have ever ditched a class. Instead, I spend the next two periods writing nasty things about Jac on the bathroom door. I write it in pencil so I can erase it when I'm done. I may be angry, but I'm not criminal enough to permanently defile school property.

The school intercom buzzes. “Payton Gritas. Please report to the counselor's office. Payton Gritas.”

I finish erasing my handiwork but slam the bathroom door hard behind me as a final act of defiance. Of course the counselor is paging me. Word of my meltdown must have reached every corner of the school. No way can I convince her I'm fine now. I can't even convince myself.

Ms. Callahan is wearing her same lipstick-stained smile when I walk into her office. The smile stays on her face as she asks me to sit down in front of her desk. Maybe it's to cover up her deep sorrow. I am a lost cause. Incurable.

“Is everything all right, Payton?”

“Why, did someone tell you it wasn't?”

“No.” Her smile fades into a thoughtful frown. “I was just concerned because you missed our session. I sent a note to your class, but you weren't there. The office said you'd been reported as present. Were you cutting class?”

I realize how tightly I am gripping the arms of my seat, like men in white coats are going to bust into the room at any moment to take me away. My fingers, my whole body relaxes as I realize that this is just like any old session, that she has no idea about Sean or Jac or the valentines.

I can still convince her I am cured.

I lean in. “Stomach problems. You know how it is. But the Imodium I took finally kicked in, so I'll be all right. I should have gone to the nurse, I know, but I was embarrassed. Sorry. I brought my Focus Exercises, though.”

“Don't worry about that.” She waves her hand in front of her face and stands. “We're doing something different today.”

“But, Ms. Callahan, you should read them.”

“I don't read your journal,” Ms. Callahan says.

“Well, just the last one. Here, I'll read it to you. In fact, I think it'll prove I'm pretty much cured.”

“Cured? Payton, this isn't about ‘curing' you. And I told you we were trying something new.” Ms. Callahan pushes a button on her phone and says, “Georgia, can you send in the next student, please?”

Oh, crap. I bet it's Sean. I curse the day I ever looked at his stupid head. “Ms. Callahan, please tell me you're not bringing Sean in here. The whole focus thing is done. Let's talk about my dad now. Please?”

“Sean? Who's Sean?” There's a knock at the door and Ms. Callahan strides across the room to open it. “You didn't request Sean for your Conversation with Dad.”

“You wanted to see me, Ms. Callahan?”

And, of course, standing in the doorway, with a pass in her hand, is my former best friend.

Ms. Callahan's smile stretches to display all her teeth, not just the lipsticked ones but the fillings in back too. Surely she believes her ingenious idea to bring Jac in for a session will land her on the cover of
School Counselor's Weekly. Saved! Young Teen in Denial Helped by Her Best Friend. Special Feature: Counselor of the Year
.

“I don't want her here.” I squint my eyes to the point I can hardly see the two of them hovering by the door.

“We talked about this. It's good to have someone close to you here so we can start exploring some deeper issues.”

“Whatever.” I fix my gaze on the picture of Ms. Callahan's fat cat. Poor thing. We're both her prisoners.

Jac eases into the seat next to me. I don't look over.

“Payton, is everything all right?” Ms. Callahan asks again with a tone of such worry you'd have thought I'd just killed her stupid feline.

I jut my thumb in Jac's direction. “Why don't you ask her?”

“Ask me what? Hey, what was with you in biology?”

“Like you don't know, backstabber.”

“Payton!” Jac's voice is shocked. “What's your deal?”

“My deal?” I'm a science-fair volcano, filled with baking soda, and Jac's just doused me with a whole lot of vinegar. “Are you kidding? What is
your
deal?”

“Is this about Sean? Okay, so I should have told you, but then you would have talked me out of it.”

“Because you are insane! Why are you giving him a valentine? Why can't you just leave him alone?”

“It wasn't from me. It's from you.”

“And that makes it less crazy? Plus, you were totally flirting with him at the park.”

“No, I was flirting
for you
. And see!” Jac's eyes are triumphant. “See! You were jealous. I knew it. It's so obvious you like him, and just needed a push—”

“A push? All you do is push. You might as well have shoved me off a cliff.”

“I can't believe you're acting like this. You should be thanking me—”

“
Thanking
you?”

Ms. Callahan shakes her head. “Now girls, this isn't—”

Jac cuts her off with a bitter laugh. “So I'm supposed to sit and listen to your denial even more? It's bad enough that you won't even discuss stuff about your dad. Now this crap with Sean. ‘Jac—he's my Focus Object. Jac—his head is big. Jac—I'm too scared to say what I'm actually thinking.' Give me a freaking break.”

“Wait,” says Ms. Callahan. “You have a
boy
as a Focus Object?”

I ignore her. “If I said I liked him, you would tell him.”

“What is so wrong with that? Why can't you say what you actually feel?”

“Maybe I don't need everyone in my business like you do.”

Ms. Callahan stands up and starts pacing. “I don't know what you girls are talking about, but let's steer the conversation to the core here. Payton's father.”

“Right. Payton's father. Who is, like, the best dad ever and Payton is so selfish all she thinks about is herself.”

I gasp. “You're the one who's selfish! It's like you're trying to take over my life. Sean, counseling, my Focus Exercises, my brother. Seriously, who's the stalker now?”

“So I gave Sean a valentine for you.” Jac flips her hair violently behind her shoulders. “So what. I was being NICE thinking about someone else. You should try it sometime.”

I stand up and point my finger at Jac. “Nice? You're trying to
force
me to talk to a guy when I'm not ready. Gah, like I don't have enough going on at home—”

Jac stands and gets into my face. “Don't even talk to me about family crises.”

“Are you serious? My dad has a disease—”

“Oh, boo freaking hoo. At least he's still around!” Jac cries, her cheeks wet with tears. “You want some professional advice? You have the most perfect life and you can't even see it. A friend who goes out of her way to help. Parents who love you and worry about you and book counseling sessions for you. You have it so good, you have to create drama. Walking around wearing your dad's T-shirt like he's dead. He's not going to die, Payton. He's right there. He's right there and you're acting like he's already gone.”

“I'm not going to take this. I'm leaving.”

“You don't get to make an exit, I do!” Jac yelps as we both lunge for the door. We're there at the same time, clawing at the doorknob. And somehow, we stop clawing at the door and go at it with each other. Jac's hair smacks my face as I try to scratch her neck. She grabs my arm and twists it. I howl. Ms. Callahan somehow gets into the mix, and I think I mistake her shin for Jac's.

“YOUNG LADIES!”

We stop midfight and look at our school counselor, whose normally passable hairdo has poofed to a frightening height. “You will stop this childish behavior at once!”

We release each other and look down at the floor, breathing heavily.

“Apologize.”

“Sorry, Ms. Callahan,” we say in unison.

Ms. Callahan pulls out a compact mirror and begins the hopeless attempt at fixing her hair. “Now to each other.”

I cast a sideways glance at Jac. “Sorry,” I say. Then, low enough that Ms. Callahan, who is now smearing her lips with lipstick, doesn't hear, “Sorry you're crazy.”

Jac smiles sweetly. “Sorry,” then adds in an equally low voice, “Sorry you're a crazy selfish—”

Ms. Callahan snaps her mirror shut. “I think that's enough for today. I'll be contacting your parents about your actions and scheduling … separate sessions. We're done.”

Jac and I slip out of the office. We give each other a hard look before going our separate ways in the hallway. Ms. Callahan is right about one thing.

We're done.

SEVENTEEN

There's no point in going to class now. The teacher would see the state I'm in and send me right back in for counseling. Instead, I continue walking in the opposite direction of Jac. It doesn't matter which direction, as long as it's not hers.

I can hardly even see where I'm going, my eyes are so blinded by rage. I finally stop in a random hallway and slide down a wall. Jac is so out of line. She has not only ruined our friendship, but ruined things with Sean. She's just a big fat … ruiner. And a liar. Me? Selfish? Come on. I'm the one always living in her wake. I'm the one with parents who neglected to tell me about my dad's disease. Yeah, okay, so her family situation is less than ideal, but how was I supposed to know it still bugs her? She's always bragging about her mother's leniency and her sister's partying. I thought she was over it.

When Jac's dad left, I was right there giving her exactly what she needed. A little kick in the pants. Some consistency. I made her hang up the phone when she tried pranking his girlfriend. I threw out the Heineken she stole from the nearby Wawa. I told Josh Henderson she had mono so he would stop jamming his tongue down her throat every time they saw each other. Me. Wholesome. Kind. Thoughtful.

There's a little voice in my head telling me I'm being unfair. Jac never said anything when I quit basketball. She listened to me rant and rave about my parents. She never made fun of the whole therapy thing and “researched” with me. She was there for me in a different way. I was her drill sergeant. She was my cheerleader. I shudder at the thought that maybe there was truth to Jac's words. Maybe I am just being a selfish brat. But I silence it by pressing my hands firmly over my ears. This is my pity party, and the voice of reason is not invited.

“What are you doing?”

Hands still firmly planted over my ears, I look up to see Grady, crutches and all, peering down at me. A large black case is propped between his right leg and the crutch.

“Sitting. It's a free country.”

Grady whistles. “Simmer down. I'm just trying to get into my locker. You didn't trade back, did you?”

I take in my surroundings for the first time. My subconscious connection to my old locker must have brought me here. Of course I'm in the Hall of Terror. Of course I stumble into the most hateful place on campus on a day that I should be feeling nothing but love. Where is the
love
?

“Sorry.” I stand up. “Do you need some privacy to perform your live sacrifices? Is that your torture kit in there?” I point at the black case.

Grady actually smiles. I think it's a smile. It's a different expression than his usual sinister smirk or fang flash. This look almost borderlines on friendly, which, of course, completely freaks me out. “It's my saxophone. And I guess if you don't like jazz, it would be torture.” He props his crutch against the locker and eases the case down. After spinning in his combo, he shoves the case into his locker with his shoulder.

This is why I don't like him. Always sneaking up on me. Biting me on the shoulder, then swinging a jazz instrument around like it's totally normal for someone so … non-bandlike to play the saxophone. I wonder if he's in marching band. Does he have to wear those hideous uniforms? That I'd like to see.

“So.” He gives his lock one final twist. “Is that why you're ditching class? Mistook my case for something more evil and followed me in hopes you can apprentice me? I can teach you how to disembowel a cat in two minutes.”

All sensation leaves my body. “You … you really do that?”

“Payton, I'm not a feline killer.” Grady coughs. “You really do think I'm psycho, don't you?”

I bite my lower lip and shrug.

Grady stuffs his crutch back under his armpit and hobbles for a moment before gaining balance. “You're the one stalking Sean, and I'm the weirdo.”

“Who says I'm stalking Sean?”

“Jac.”

I make a mental note to amend my previous Focus Exercise. Death is too kind. Devise torture chamber instead.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” I back away.

“Oh, I know all about it. The whole way to my house Jac was trying to brag about how wild you girls are to Mark, so he'd stop talking to his girlfriend and listen. I said you're so uptight and perfect I could stick a quarter up your butt and it'd come back two dimes and a nickel.”

“That was sweet of you.”

“I only speak the truth. So then, she said you're in therapy and if I read your Focus Journal about stalking Sean, I'd see how cool and twisted you are.” He grinned. “She shut up real quick after that. You might want to buy your friend a muzzle.”

If I hadn't been mad at her already, such a betrayal of trust would be enough to send me over the edge. Forget torture chamber. Slowly pluck out all her nose hairs. Then make her eat them.

Grady's expression softens. “Relax. Don't get mad at your friend. She was defending you. And it's not my business if you're doing some weird tree-hugger therapy with Sean.”

“Thanks for not saying anything.”

Grady puts a finger over my lip. His hands are surprisingly warm. “You didn't let me finish. It's not my business, unless it hurts Sean. If you're using him—”

“I promise I'm not.” I shake my head until he moves his finger.

“Good. Because he's just as gullible as you. And God knows why, but I think he might be into you.”

“He … he is? I mean, I'm … I'm not. Gullible, that is.”

A group of Mohawk-adorned juniors turn around the corner and stop when they see Grady talking to me. He clears his throat. “So when are you going to take off that chastity belt, princess?” They snicker. Grady lowers his voice and adds, “Don't tell Sean I said anything or I'll make sure this little field trip to your old locker is your last.”

“I'm so scared,” I say, even though I am.

“Don't pretend you're not.”

I refrain from sprinting my non-gothic butt out of the hallway. I spoke with Vampire Boy and lived to tell the tale. It's like I've been given a second chance at life. And even better—perhaps the one bright spot to the messy day—is what Grady said to me. That Sean might be into me. Even in goth speak, that's got to mean something.

I start Dad's valentine the second I get home from school. My base is a poster board I'd done my seventh-grade history project on. I crumple it up and rip off some of the pictures, making sure to leave scraps of paper hanging and cut it into a sloppy heart. Next, I scribble pink and red marker until only snips of white show through. A big glob of glue is squirted over the entire piece, smearing some of the marker. Then I randomly stick the contents of my trashed bedroom floor around the edges of the heart. A Snickers wrapper, those annoying postcards from my
Consumer Reports
magazine, used mint dental floss, a cracked nail file, and an empty box of contacts. In the middle, I duct-tape a red piece of construction paper for the message I still need to write.

Stepping back, I appraise my artwork. It's trashy, but it needs something really foul, like a blackened banana peel or used chewing gum. All that is left lying around is some torn computer paper, so I head down to the garage to scavenge through the good stuff.

Whoever wired the electronics in our garage did an awful job. The switch is in the top right corner, away from the entrance and far from the door into the house. At night, we have to navigate around boxes and storage bins just to flip the switch. I'm making my way through the darkened jungle when my knee bangs into something. Hard.

“Whatduhheckwasthat!” I fall to the ground and grab my knee. The unidentified object crashes against the boxes and I somehow manage to crawl to the far wall, stand, and flick on the light.

It's a bike. One I've never seen before. It's not like your everyday mountain bike—this one looks more like Sean's, with thin wheels and a metallic frame. Not something you find at Wal-Mart.

Sean. Is it … is it Sean's? There's a silver helmet dangling from the handlebar. I take it off and try it on my head. It feels a little lumpy on top, like the straps are attached wrong. I take it off and look inside to find a red piece of paper shaped like a star.

Hey Payton,

Now you're out of excuses. MS 150 ride, here we come.

Happy V-Day,

Sean

P.S. Still a little curious about the secret admirer thing.

The garage door opens and my dad drives in. I shove the card into my pocket, but there's no way the bike will fit in there too.

“Whose bike?”

I look down at it, in shock that it's actually real. “Mine, I think.”

“Where'd you get it.”

“Uh … my friend.”

Dad kicks the wheel and whistles. “Must be a really good friend.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “He?”

I nod but don't say anything. Dad chuckles as he disappears into the house.

Along with the helmet, Sean had also added some old bike shoes to the package. They're a little snug on my unusually large feet, but they feel better once I click my feet into the pedals. The bike can't weigh more than a few pounds; it's amazing something that thin can hold all of my weight.

I ease the bike down the driveway and pump my legs up the hill of our cul-de-sac. Sean was right—this has an entirely different feel. I circle around the street, going faster and faster like I'm being flushed down a toilet bowl. When I reach the center of the circle, I break and watch my breath as I gulp in air.

I'm not thinking about my family, or counseling, or Jac, or even Sean. I'm not worried about what's going to happen when I get home, or what happened today at school.

I'm not worried, period. I just feel free.

After riding for an hour or so, I go upstairs to finish Dad's card. I consider calling Sean to say thanks, but I'm not sure what I'm thanking him for. Is it a valentine? The bike implies we'll ride together, but maybe it's just Sean being nice. And he did tell me he would loan me a bike for the big MS ride.

The bike ride. Should I do it? Sean sounded so confident when he explained the course—like it really was possible. It would take lots of work to get in shape, but the ride would also be a good goal. My dad would be happy. And it would guarantee more time with Sean. I can't mentally commit yet, but it's still worth considering.

I'm almost done writing a silly poem on Dad's card when Mom calls me down for dinner. I cover my trash day card with a pillowcase and cart it down for the festivities. Mom, Dad, and Trent have already lined theirs up on the kitchen table next to the package from Caleb, who we'll call later on the computer so he can watch my face when I open his card. I'm pretty excited—Caleb always goes all out.

I know my family is weird. I already went over how the whole thing started, but somehow over time it's gotten out of hand. The holiday has become consumed by the trash theme. Mom makes gummy worm and “dirt” (crushed Oreos) sundaes. Dad makes us all play love songs on upside-down metallic trash cans. One year, Trent lobbied for us to attend a mud wrestling match, but that didn't go over well.