Sean Griswold's Head (2 page)

TWO

I'm sitting in a vinyl chair outside the school guidance counselor's office, tapping my foot in rhythm to the smooth hits station blaring from the secretary's computer. The note that got me out of Spanish didn't say why I'm meeting the counselor for the first time, but I already know what this is about. It's been two weeks since I've said one word to my parents. Two weeks since I found out about my dad. So my mom, no doubt, called the school, asked what resources they had for parents who screwed up and need another adult to come in and fix it, and arranged this little meeting. A meeting I wasn't going to let happen.

Ms. Callahan rushes into her office, coffee mug in hand. “Payton! I'm so glad you're here! Won't you follow me?”

I stop tapping my foot and plant it firmly on the Berber carpet. “No. I won't.”

Ms. Callahan, who is already halfway through her door, does a double take. “You won't?”

“I'd rather not. Uh … Fifth Amendment.” I have no clue if the Fifth Amendment can really save me from unwanted guidance, but she sits down next to me, so it must apply. God bless you, Founding Fathers.

“Well, I suppose we can schedule another meeting later. But there
will
be a later. I've spoken with your mother about your father—”

I glance up at the secretary to see if she's listening. She's typing and grooving away to Lionel Richie.

“—and so I want us to set up some friendly chats. Since today wasn't planned, I'll give you this and we can meet up to talk about it tomorrow.”

She digs through a monogrammed canvas tote and finally comes up with an orange-striped notebook. I snort. Orange is my highlighter color for conflict. Of course.

“It'll help you open up a little. Until you're ready to talk. It's a Focus Journal.”

I stare at her blankly. Focus. I don't need this. I can
focus
. I'm the Queen of Focus. Well, former queen. Princess maybe. Duchess. Oh, who am I kidding? These last two weeks I've been so lost, I couldn't cook in the Royal Focus Kitchen.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You write your Focus Exercises in it. So you pick something to focus on. It can be anything. A memory, a place, even something as basic as a pencil sharpener. You don't have to tell me what it is—we'll just call it your Focus Object. Once you've detailed your reactions and emotions on something you're not emotionally invested in, you should be ready to start addressing deeper issues.”

I run my fingers along the spiral binding. Right. Like describing the door in my Spanish class has anything to do with the fact that my dad's hand gets so messed up he can't even turn a doorknob.

The next day, Miss Marietta wheels a TV across our biology classroom and I plunk my head down on my desk. I didn't mind TV time in elementary school. I looked forward to it. Really, I could watch a Stop, Drop, and Roll rap video a million times over. But a documentary on cell division in freshman biology? Not so much.

But it does give me an entire period to work on my Focus Exercises, which I'm supposed to present to Ms. Callahan next period. I've decided to meet with her, partially because I'm curious, and partially because I'm scared that if I don't, she'll write something horrible on my flawless permanent record, which would keep me from getting into a good college, which would limit my job options to trimming mustaches at Supercuts and my dating options to the creepy guy who sweeps up the hair. Even the Fifth Amendment couldn't save me then.

I turn to the first sheet of paper in my new notebook and count down ten lines—there are twenty-nine on standard notebook paper, so ten lines is a third of the way down. You know, give or take.

PAYTON'S FOCUS JOURNAL

On the next page I write …

Payton's Focus Exercise

January 17

Topic:

I pause. Topic. Suck. This woman gives me a notebook; why couldn't she have given me a topic? Really, how is one object going to fix my family and life and mental condition anyway?

The voice of the video narrator drones on about the miracle of cell division. I doodle an amoeba in the corner of the page. Miss Marietta has her head down on her desk. Ah, maybe I could write about her.

Topic: Miss Marietta

Miss Marietta is new and trying to save the world one organism at a time. But once a month, she puts on some random video and takes a nap in the corner. We call these days “Hangover Thursdays” because the first Wednesday of every month is Ladies' Night at the local clubs. It is here that Miss Marietta trades in her world of microscopes and lab reports for a night of dancing and drinking. I know this because Jac's sister sees her out all the time, and apparently Miss Marietta is a closeted wild child. I told my parents about it back when we were speaking, and they were beyond scandalized. Who cares what she does in her personal life, so long as she keeps sticking in the videos?

Nope. Won't work. That's all I know about Miss Marietta, all I
want
to know, right there.

I tap my pencil. Topic. I could write about all the MS clues I didn't pick up on over the last six and a half months. Dad's lunch breaks that turned into nap time. The doctor visits I thought were dental conferences. How Dad was always sick on Sundays because of the medication's side effects. How he asked me to help him with the can opener, probably because his hand was numb. How my parents were gone all the time. How I knew something was up but had no clue it was
this
. How I charged him one time when we were practicing for my school basketball tryouts and he stayed down longer than normal and that probably made his MS worse.

No. I've already chosen not to go THERE. I went there when I walked into that bathroom, and now the incident is safely filed in the Do Not Process cabinet of my brain. The file's contents might mention how stupid I feel that I didn't know, how mad I am at my parents … at everyone, not to mention scared and lonely and just … yeah. Focus Journal or not, I'm not going THERE again. Drawer locked.

The only way I can really approach this is to pretend it's a school assignment. So, we just talked about the writing process in English. Before you write, you prewrite. Brainstorm.

I rip out a sheet of notebook paper and draw a word web.

Now I just need inspiration. I survey the classroom, noticing first the pink suede jacket Sarah Sheckler is sporting that literally puts the as(s) in
nasty
. I sigh and write
school uniforms
in the web, drawing a separate line to add my belief that uniforms would create social balance in this district and save poor Sarah from herself. Except I already expressed this revolutionary idea in my student council speech, and I lost. So writing about it again might make me bitter. Well, more bitter than I am now.

I consider actual objects, writing them down as I see them. The dry-erase board, the TV, a model of an atom, the lab jars in the back filled with who knows what. Oh! I could go abstract and write about the hallways and make it some metaphor for the path of life. But then Ms. Callahan might read too much into it and think I'm suicidal on top of being in denial. Or whatever clinical term I've been labeled with.

What I need is something that has concrete details like an inanimate object but changes somehow. Like a living, breathing person.

Brynn McCabe, who sits across from me, chomps on a piece of gum. I add Brynn and gum to my list. Brynn's like Violet on
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
, always chewing or talking or talk-chewing. And she spits while she does it. I'd have to wear rainwear all the time if she were my Focus Object. No dice.

Jac catches my eye and holds something up. It's a nearly dead-on mask of Miss Marietta's face. I giggle. She probably spent the whole video designing it, and somehow she knew it was just what I needed after my Ms. Callahan chat. I spell JAC out in bubble letters and fill it in with flowers. If I were to graph our friendship out, Jac and I might not make sense. We have different interests, fit into different cliques, but the length of our friendship makes most of that unimportant. You go through enough with a person over a long enough period of time and they just become a part of who you are. I guess I could write about all that but … someone like Jac deserves a novel. A series.

The video ends and Miss Marietta flicks on the lights, releasing a small moan from the class as everyone wakes up from their video-induced hibernation.

Class is over. Great. I have no Focus Object and thus no complete assignment. Before the Big MS Lie, I never neglected to turn in an assignment. Even the extra-credit ones. Even the ones I made up based on the teacher's lack of lesson depth.

Sean Griswold, the guy who sits in front of me, turns around and smiles. “I can never focus on the videos, can you?”

My whole body goes rigid. “No … no. No, I can't.”

He nods and turns back around.

He said focus. The word
focus
. I hear angels singing. Everything goes dark except for a light that beams down on Sean. It is a God-given sign—like when people see the Virgin Mary in their grilled cheese, except this isn't religious and I'm actually not a big fan of dairy. I stare at the back of his head. The back of his head. His HEAD. Something I see every day but never really
see
because it's been there forever. Since the first day of third grade.

I crumple up my web. I don't need it. Praise be, the Focus Gods have spoken.

I am going to write about Sean Griswold's head.

THREE

Payton's Focus Exercise

January 17

Topic: Sean Griswold's Head Outline

I. Introduction

A. Because of our alphabetical connection (Gritas/Griswold—just try to squeeze a last name between us), I've stared at the back, the profile, and occasionally the front of Sean's head since third grade.

B. It's a perfect thing to focus on, because

1. The environment is constantly shifting.

2. I see it a lot.

3. The Focus Gods told me to. You don't mess with the Focus Gods.

II. Body (er, rather, his Head)

A. Hair

1. Very blond, like a little kid's. Light bounces right off of it. White, almost.

2. Soft. Like fuzz on a duckling. Not that I've touched it! But I might need to, once I get further into my research.

B. Size

1. HUGE.

2. Is that mean? It's bigger than most heads, slightly off proportion from the rest of his body. He's gotta have a strong neck.

3. Big enough that I have to crane my neck to see around his dome.

C. Things it could fit into

1. Toilet—yes.

2. Batting helmet—heck no.

III. Conclusion

A. I still don't see how writing about a head will

1. Fix my family drama.

2. Reorganize my life.

3. Accomplish anything.

a. Except writing in outline form again is soothing, like walking through the Tupperware aisle in Target.

b. Ahhhhh.

B. Seven years of staring and it's still the same old head, just like it's the same old haircut, and just like—as far as I know—it's the same old Sean Griswold.

Ms. Callahan's office is anarchy, with books, paper, and dust stacked in random piles. The wall behind her echoes the chaos—pictures of students, inspirational quotes, and Post-its all surround a poster of the solar system with “Greystone High Counselor of the Universe” scrawled across it. There's a sickly sweet odor, something akin to a rotting orange smothered in ketchup. If I ever get over my own mental clutter, I'm going to devise a filing system for her beyond chair, desk, and ground. I might have to begin by explaining what exactly a file
is
.

She clears one of the piles off a chair and motions for me to sit. “Did you find a Focus Object?”

“I think so.”

She smiles. Poor woman. Eyebrows gone wild, muddy lipstick, and legs ashier than Pompeii. If physical appearances send a message about our character, hers would be—
I have a hairy cat and buy my makeup at the dollar store.

“Great. Since these are personal and I won't be reading them, I want you to ask yourself this—is it something you can really dissect?” She taps her fingers on her desk. “Something you can really explore?”

“Yeah, I'm all set.”

“You'll be amazed how this promotes growth. Why, one of my former students chose cows as his Focus Object and now he's on the national 4-H board.”

So I write about a head and someday I'll be a neurosurgeon? Not quite. “Are we done?”

“Sure. I just wanted to check in with you. Here's a pass.” She pushes the paper across her desk. “How are things going at home?”

I pick up the pass, taking a colony of dust bunnies with it. I have an intense desire to wash my hands. To wash my whole body. “Same old.”

“And your dad?”

I glance at the clock. “They haven't discovered a cure for MS yet. I better go. I have to stop at my locker before next period.”

Ms. Callahan leans across her chair and stretches out her arm like she's going to touch me. I shrink away.

“All right, Payton. I look forward to our next meeting.”

That makes one of us.