Chapter Three
After the first week of school, the embarrassing moments seemed to be forgotten. Tom avoided enough human contact and spoke only when he was called on in class that he was avoided by his classmates. No one bothered him about the details of his life, which he wouldn’t share regardless, and they stared at him from a distance. Tom liked it this way. He was sure there were rumors circulating about why he came to the school. He never answered them. Once he’d overheard a couple of girls gossiping about him before he turned the corner, one said “I think he was in juvie or something. That’s why we’ve never seen him before.” He stifled a laugh.
The next girl answered, “Yeah, either that or I think he got kicked out of his old high school for selling drugs. He’s super creepy.” She giggled and shut her locker. When Tom came around the corner, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground, she let out an audible gasp, but quickly turned back to her friend and they resumed their chatter. “Um, so who do you think you want to go to homecoming with?” He laughed to himself, glad that they were frightened of him.
That was how most days went. He never missed class, but he faded into the background. He didn’t want a part of this new life and he was content to be ignored and in some cases, feared. Unfortunately, he was an excellent student and the teachers couldn’t ignore that. Tom knew he shouldn’t try hard if he wanted to blend in, but his drive for perfectionism appeared in his school work, especially in English class. Mr. Wagner, asked him to read a portion of his essay out loud for the class as an example, but he refused. In his history class, Mr. Ibarra gave him an A+ on their first written exam and asked Tom if he wanted to represent his class at a speech tournament that month to talk about the impact of the Civil War. He declined again. Even the newspaper editor heard about his ability to write well and asked him if he’d write a monthly column. Tom’s face turned red under the deep brown of his cheeks and he shook his head quietly. The editor seemed disappointed, but let it go.
When Tom came home at the end of his second week, his mother cornered him the second he was through the door. “I got a phone call today.” She tried to look in his eyes and he looked intently into the corner of the room.
“What about?” He sounded defeated.
“Why didn’t you tell me about all this, Tom?” She succeeded in locking eyes with him, emptying the contents of his soul with one glance.
“I didn’t mean to, okay. The other kids are kind of scared of me, so I ignore them.” He shrugged his shoulders and sat down in a chair at the kitchen table.
She sat across from him, picking up her coffee mug. “What do you mean? You’re not in trouble.” She smiled a half smile, brushing the hair out of Tom’s eyes.
“I’m not? Why did they call then?” He looked up in surprise, but immediately looked back down at his hands.
“Tom, you’re a good student. They want you to be more of an example.”
“How? I’m not an example.” His chest seemed sore with tightness as he recalled how much of an example he wasn’t.
“Yes, you are. That was Mr. Wagner. He asked me if I would please remind you to speak up in class. He wants to use your last essay as an example for another class too. Is that okay?”
“I guess so. I just don’t want to read it.”
“He also had another request. He was wondering if you’d be interested in tutoring the freshmen and sophomore English students that need help.”
“Why would I do that?” Tom seemed almost offended.
“He’d pay you. Tom, we could use a little extra money.” She met his eyes again and he melted with anguish.
“Mom, I’m trying to help? I’ll go get a job today.” He spoke quietly, a quiver on the edge of his voice.
The front door opened, smacking the handle against the wall and ending their conversation. Sam walked in. “Hey mom. What’s for dinner?” He was still in his coveralls with the front unbuttoned, revealing a torn, greasy t-shirt underneath.
“Sam! Take off those boots. You’re going to get grease on the carpet.”
He swung himself down onto the couch and took off his boots with his feet, kicking them at the door. “Better?”
She winced when they hit the door with a clunk. “Yeah, I guess. I’m working a late shift, so it’s TV dinners tonight.”
“I get the fried chicken one!” Sam called from the couch, the TV already buzzing in the background.
“They’re both fried chicken.” She called from the kitchen as she poked holes in the top and slid them into the oven.
“Don’t stay up too late.” She squeezed Tom’s shoulder and grabbed her purse from the chair.
“Mom, don’t worry. I’ll get a job and start helping soon.” Tom looked up at her as she walked to the door.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. Everything will be fine. Oh and don’t let those cook more than 30 minutes.”
Tom ignored his dinner. “I’m going on a walk,” he called to Sam as he slipped out the door. He didn’t wait for Sam’s response. He walked briskly through the neighborhood, past happy families playing lawn games in the lingering summer heat and past couples holding hands, strolling in the twilight. It made him ache to see such carefree people. He turned the corner onto Center Street, looking for a distraction.
The bell on the door seemed a little too loud when he walked into Toquerville Merc. He tried to ease its ring by catching the door before it closed behind him, but he wasn’t quick enough and pulled his fingers out just before they got mashed. The clerk, a young, blond girl with a pen perched behind her ear, leaned on the cigarette counter behind her, laughing under her breath. Tom disappeared in the first aisle to diffuse his embarrassment. He followed it to the back of the store and searched among the mini mart-like goods before selecting a probably stale Snickers and bringing it back to the front.
“Fifty cents.” She said and pulled the pen out from behind her ear to chew the cap.
Tom slid two quarters across the counter and mumbled “thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, I’ve never seen you here. What’s your name?” She continued chewing and looking him up and down with her overly mascaraed eyes.
“Uh, my name’s Tom.” He said and turned towards the door.
“Where are you going? There’s not much to do in this town. If you hang out in here for a while you’ll meet everyone.”
“Right. See you later.” He waved, still facing the door, and hurried out the door, letting it slam.
She was correct. A small group of teens had gathered outside the door, many of whom he recognized from school. He immediately regretted seeking out a distraction because this one was too formidable.
“Hey! New kid!” A shorter boy in cowboy boots called out.
Tom didn’t know if he should turn around or not. He froze and turned around slowly. “Hey,” he answered quietly.
“What’s your name again?”
“Tom.”
“I’m Joseph,” he said and stuck out his hand.
“Nice to meet you Joseph,” Tom answered cautiously, ignoring the handshake.
“Don’t worry, we aren’t going to mess with you. What are you up to?” He said in a friendlier tone than he used in the halls at school.
“Um, just hungry.” He held up the Snickers as evidence.
“Want to come with us? We’re driving into Hurricane for burgers and a movie.” One of the girls seemed upset with this invitation and cleared her throat loudly at Joseph.
“Thanks, but I need to get home.” He smiled weakly at the group and started walking away.
“See you around, man.” He called after him and started talking with the group again.
Tom walked hurriedly to the corner and turned onto his street, breathing a sigh of relief. That wasn’t too bad. He was sure he’d acted antisocial, but he didn’t regret it. He just wanted to be left alone. Maybe they’d get the picture soon. As he walked slowly toward home he ate his candy bar without thinking. It was deep dusk, the sun was almost completely hidden behind the hills and most people had retreated back indoors. He didn’t see a soul. Somehow this made him feel worse. He only found comfort in avoiding people, not the absence of people to avoid. The flicker of the TV in the window of his house almost made him smile.
The following Monday in school as Tom walked into his first period class, English, he noticed that not all eyes were on him for once. He quietly took his seat in the back and saw who everyone was staring at. She had an obvious look of discontent on her face and she stood next to the teacher’s desk with her backpack slung over one shoulder. Mr. Wagner was busy signing a piece of paper for her and handing her the week’s assignments for her to catch up on. Tom studied her face. It was like a negative of a normal girl’s face: instead of red lips, hers were shiny and practically white with sparkly lip gloss; and instead of peachy skin, hers was deep tan with plenty of bronzer to intensify the effect, although it was clearly unnatural. Her hair was also a platinum shade of blonde. It struck Tom as entirely odd; he’d never seen a girl look like her except for in comic books like X Men. Even her fingernails added to her unreal look. As she reached up to brush a whitish strand of hair away from her face, Tom noticed that her nails were about an inch longer than usual and were capped with thick white tips and swirled with some kind of silvery design. She caught him looking at her and huffed under her breath to the teacher, “Can I go sit down now?”
Mr. Wagner looked up from the pile of papers, handed her a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and stood up to introduce her to the class, “Everyone, this is our new student Amie Hayes. Would you mind telling us a little bit about yourself, Amie?”
“Yes I would. I’m here because I have to be. That’s all.” She crossed her arms in front of her and started walking back to her desk as the teacher interrupted her.
“Amie’s dad is the new manager down at the concrete plant. She’ll be with us for this year at least, right Amie?” He said cheerfully.
“I guess,” she said as she plopped down into her seat.
Tom glanced over at her again, daringly, and she gave him a dirty look as she slicked on more pearly lip gloss. He shrunk in his seat, but instead of feeling embarrassed for himself, he felt bad for her because she was forced to be in a place where she didn’t want to be. He knew how she felt. His thoughts were interrupted as Mr. Wagner continued the lecture.
“How many of you like poetry?” The class groaned in unison. Tom stayed quiet. “I thought you might say that,” He continued. “What poets have you heard of?”
One student shouted out “Emily Dickinson” and another “Tennyson.”
Mr. Wagner then interrupted, “Good, you’ve at least heard of a couple. Today we’ll be talking about Shakespeare, who was not only a poet, but a playwright, as you already know. Just listen to one of his sonnets…” He gushed on and it was clear that the class wasn’t following. Tom continued to listen, however, and Mr. Wagner asked “What meter is Shakespeare’s poetry typically written in?” Tom looked at him as most of the class contemplated their desks and Mr. Wagner called on him, to his horror. “Do you know the answer, Tom?”
“It’s iambic pentameter,” he mumbled.
“Do you know what that means?” He dug deeper.
“An iamb is a meter that always ends on the second syllable. And pentameter means five accented syllables in a line of poetry.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could censor them. Mr. Wagner looked shocked, like Tom had just sworn.
“That’s a good answer, Tom. How did you know that?”
“I dunno.” He slouched further in his seat and looked over at Amie, who was practically asleep with her pencil clutched in her claw-like grip.
Mr. Wagner let it go and continued with his lecture, but kept glancing at Tom throughout as if he were checking with him. Tom didn’t acknowledge his glances but flipped through the book of sonnets, finding his favorites.
After class Amie snapped her head up and groggily pawed through her bag for her lip gloss. As she heavily applied more, she caught Tom staring in her direction. “Do you have a problem?” She looked directly at him as she abruptly zipped her bag shut and pulled it over her arm.
“Uh, no. Sorry.” He looked off over her shoulder and walked past her as if he were late for something.
For the rest of the day Tom couldn’t get away from Amie’s menacing glare. He accidently ran into her in the hall. He hit a ball too hard in her direction in gym class. He even got in the way of her shiny, teal Jeep as she was pulling out and she laid on the horn, embarrassing him. He felt like he was being punished for something he didn’t do by an angry sun goddess. Everywhere he turned he saw her blue eyes piercing him, her platinum hair framing her angry face in a halo of whiteness. She seemed to dislike everything and everyone around her, but he became her scapegoat.
1 comment:
Hope you don't mind I found your blog. Well done. I want to read more. "Angry sun goddess": classic.
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