Teenage Wasteland

  Anne Tyler

  Anne Tyler was born in Minneapolis, in 1941, and grew up in Raleigh, North Carolina. She is the author of more than twenty novels. Her twentieth novel, A Spool of Blue Thread, was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize in 2015. Her eleventh novel, Breathing Lessons, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1989. She is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

  BOOKS BY ANNE TYLER

  If Morning Ever Comes

  The Tin Can Tree

  A Slipping-Down Life

  The Clock Winder

  Celestial Navigation

  Searching for Caleb

  Earthly Possessions

  Morgan’s Passing

  Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant

  The Accidental Tourist

  Breathing Lessons

  Saint Maybe

  Ladder of Years

  A Patchwork Planet

  Back When We Were Grownups

  The Amateur Marriage

  Digging to America

  Noah’s Compass

  The Beginner’s Goodbye

  A Spool of Blue Thread

  Vinegar Girl

  Clock Dance

  Redhead by the Side of the Road

  Teenage Wasteland

  Anne Tyler

  A Vintage Short

  Vintage Books

  A Division of Penguin Random House LLC

  New York

  Copyright © 1983 by Anne Tyler

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  “Teenage Wasteland” originally appeared in Seventeen magazine in 1983.

  Vintage Short Ebook ISBN 9780593313954

  Cover design by Madeline Partner

  Cover photograph © Hurst Photo/Shutterstock

  www.vintagebooks.com

  a_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Books by Anne Tyler

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Teenage Wasteland

  He used to have very blond hair—almost white—cut shorter than other children’s so that on his crown a little cowlick always stood up to catch the light. But this was when he was small. As he grew older, his hair grew darker, and he wore it longer—past his collar even. It hung in lank, taffy-colored ropes around his face, which was still an endearing face, fine-featured, the eyes an unusual aqua blue. But his cheeks, of course, were no longer round, and a sharp new Adam’s apple jogged in his throat when he talked.

  In October, they called from the private school he attended to request a conference with his parents. Daisy went alone; her husband was at work. Clutching her purse, she sat on the principal’s couch and learned that Donny was noisy, lazy, and disruptive; always fooling around with his friends, and he wouldn’t respond in class.

  In the past, before her children were born, Daisy had been a fourth-grade teacher. It shamed her now to sit before this principal as a parent, a delinquent parent, a parent who struck Mr. Lanham, no doubt, as unseeing or uncaring. “It isn’t that we’re not concerned,” she said. “Both of us are. And we’ve done what we could, whatever we could think of. We don’t let him watch TV on school nights. We don’t let him talk on the phone till he’s finished his homework. But he tells us he doesn’t have any homework or he did it all in study hall. How are we to know what to believe?”

  From early October through November, at Mr. Lanham’s suggestion, Daisy checked Donny’s assignments every day. She sat next to him as he worked, trying to be encouraging, sagging inwardly as she saw the poor quality of everything he did—the sloppy mistakes in math, the illogical leaps in his English themes, the history questions left blank if they required any research.

  Daisy was often late starting supper, and she couldn’t give as much attention to Donny’s younger sister. “You’ll never guess what happened at…” Amanda would begin, and Daisy would have to tell her, “Not now, honey.”

  By the time her husband, Matt, came home, she’d be snappish. She would recite the day’s hardships—the fuzzy instructions in English, the botched history map, the morass of unsolvable algebra equations. Matt would look surprised and confused, and Daisy would gradually wind down. There was no way, really, to convey how exhausting all this was.

  In December, the school called again. This time, they wanted Matt to come as well. She and Matt had to sit on Mr. Lanham’s couch like two bad children and listen to the news: Donny had improved only slightly, raising a D in history to a C, and a C in algebra to a B-minus. What was worse, he had developed new problems. He had cut classes on at least three occasions. Smoked in the furnace room. Helped Sonny Barnett break into a freshman’s locker. And last week, during athletics, he and three friends had been seen off the school grounds; when they returned, the coach had smelled beer on their breath.

  Daisy and Matt sat silent, shocked. Matt rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. Imagine, Daisy thought, how they must look to Mr. Lanham: an overweight housewife in a cotton dress and a too-tall, too-thin insurance agent in a baggy, frayed suit. Failures, both of them—the kind of people who are always hurrying to catch up, missing the point of things that everyone else grasps at once. She wished she’d worn nylons instead of knee socks.

  It was arranged that Donny would visit a psychologist for testing. Mr. Lanham knew just the person. He would set this boy straight, he said.

  When they stood to leave, Daisy held her stomach in and gave Mr. Lanham a firm, responsible handshake.

  Donny said the psychologist was a moron and the tests were really dumb; but he kept all three of his appointments, and when it was time for the follow-up conference with the psychologist and both parents, Donny combed his hair and seemed unusually sober and subdued. The psychologist said Donny had no serious emotional problems. He was merely going through a difficult period in his life. He required some academic help and a better sense of self-worth. For this reason, he was suggesting a man named Calvin Beadle, a tutor with considerable psychological training.

  In the car going home, Donny said he’d be damned if he’d let them drag him to some stupid tutor. His father told him to watch his language in front of his mother.

  That night, Daisy lay awake pondering the term “self-worth.” She had always been free with her praise. She had always told Donny he had talent, was smart, was good with his hands. She had made a big to-do over every little gift he gave her. In fact, maybe she had gone too far, although, Lord knows, she had meant every word. Was that his trouble?

  She remembered when Amanda was born. Donny had acted lost and bewildered. Daisy had been alert to that, of course, but still, a new baby keeps you so busy. Had she really done all she could have? She longed—she ached—for a time machine. Given one more chance, she’d do it perfectly—hug him more, praise him more, or perhaps praise him less. Oh, who can say…

  The tutor told Donny to call him Cal. All his kids did, he said. Daisy thought for a second that he meant his own children, then realized her mistake. He seemed too young, anyhow, to be a family man. He wore a heavy brown handlebar mustache. His hair was as long and stringy as Donny’s, and his jeans as faded. Wire-rimmed spectacles slid down his nose. He lounged in a canvas director’s chair with his fingers laced across his chest, and he casually, amiably questioned Donny, who sat upright and glaring in an armchair.
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br />   “So they’re getting on your back at school,” said Cal. “Making a big deal about anything you do wrong.”

  “Right,” said Donny.

  “Any idea why that would be?”

  “Oh, well, you know, stuff like homework and all,” Donny said.

  “You don’t do your homework?”

  “Oh, well, I might do it sometimes but not just exactly like they want it.” Donny sat forward and said, “It’s like a prison there, you know? You’ve got to go to every class, you can never step off the school grounds.”

  “You cut classes sometimes?”

  “Sometimes,” Donny said, with a glance at his parents.

  Cal didn’t seem perturbed. “Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s you and me try working together three nights a week. Think you could handle that? We’ll see if we can show that school of yours a thing or two. Give it a month; then if you don’t like it, we’ll stop. If I don’t like it, we’ll stop. I mean, sometimes people just don’t get along, right? What do you say to that?”

  “Okay,” Donny said. He seemed pleased.

  “Make it seven o’clock till eight, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” Cal told Matt and Daisy. They nodded. Cal shambled to his feet, gave them a little salute, and showed them to the door.

  This was where he lived as well as worked, evidently. The interview had taken place in the dining room, which had been transformed into a kind of office. Passing the living room, Daisy winced at the rock music she had been hearing, without registering it, ever since she had entered the house. She looked in and saw a boy about Donny’s age lying on a sofa with a book. Another boy and a girl were playing Ping-Pong in front of the fire-place. “You have several here together?” Daisy asked Cal.

  “Oh, sometimes they stay on after their sessions, just to rap. They’re a pretty sociable group, all in all. Plenty of goof-offs like young Donny here.”

  He cuffed Donny’s shoulder playfully. Donny flushed and grinned.

  Climbing into the car, Daisy asked Donny, “Well? What did you think?”

  But Donny had returned to his old evasive self. He jerked his chin toward the garage. “Look,” he said. “He’s got a basketball net.”

  Now on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, they had supper early—the instant Matt came home. Sometimes, they had to leave before they were really finished. Amanda would still be eating her dessert. “Bye, honey. Sorry,” Daisy would tell her.

  Cal’s first bill sent a flutter of panic through Daisy’s chest, but it was worth it, of course. Just look at Donny’s face when they picked him up: alight and full of interest. The principal telephoned Daisy to tell her how Donny had improved. “Of course, it hasn’t shown up in his grades yet, but several of the teachers have noticed how his attitude’s changed. Yes, sir, I think we’re onto something here.”

  At home, Donny didn’t act much different. He still seemed to have a low opinion of his parents. But Daisy supposed that was unavoidable—part of being fifteen. He said his parents were too “controlling”—a word that made Daisy give him a sudden look. He said they acted like wardens. On weekends, they enforced a curfew. And any time he went to a party, they always telephoned first to see if adults would be supervising. “For God’s sake!” he said. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “It isn’t a matter of trust, honey…” But there was no explaining to him.

  His tutor called one afternoon. “I get the sense,” he said, “that this kid’s feeling…underestimated, you know? Like you folks expect the worst of him. I’m thinking we ought to give him more rope.”

  “But see, he’s still so suggestible,” Daisy said. “When his friends suggest some mischief—smoking or drinking or such—why, he just finds it very hard not to go along with them.”

  “Mrs. Coble,” the tutor said, “I think this kid is hurting. You know? Here’s a serious, sensitive kid, telling you he’d like to take on some grown-up challenges, and you’re giving him the message that he can’t be trusted. Don’t you understand how that hurts?”

  “Oh,” said Daisy.

  “It undermines his self-esteem—don’t you realize that?”

  “Well, I guess you’re right,” said Daisy. She saw Donny suddenly from a whole new angle: his pathetically poor posture, that slouch so forlorn that his shoulders seemed about to meet his chin…oh, wasn’t it awful being young? She’d had a miserable adolescence herself and had always sworn no child of hers would ever be that unhappy.

  They let Donny stay out later, they didn’t call ahead to see if the parties were supervised, and they were careful not to grill him about his evening. The tutor had set down so many rules! They were not allowed any questions at all about any aspect of school, nor were they to speak with his teachers. If a teacher had some complaint, she should phone Cal. Only one teacher disobeyed—the history teacher, Miss Evans. She called one morning in February. “I’m a little concerned about Donny, Mrs. Coble.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Evans, but Donny’s tutor handles these things now…”

  “I always deal directly with the parents. You are the parent,” Miss Evans said, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “Now, here is the problem. Back when you were helping Donny with his homework, his grades rose from a D to a C, but now they’ve slipped back, and they’re closer to an F.”

  “They are?”

  “I think you should start overseeing his homework again.”

  “But Donny’s tutor says…”

  “It’s nice that Donny has a tutor, but you should still be in charge of his homework. With you, he learned it. Then he passed his tests. With the tutor, well, it seems the tutor is more of a crutch. ‘Donny,’ I say, ‘a quiz is coming up on Friday. Hadn’t you better be listening instead of talking?’ ‘That’s okay, Miss Evans,’ he says. ‘I have a tutor now.’ Like a talisman! I really think you ought to take over, Mrs. Coble.”

  “I see,” said Daisy. “Well, I’ll think about that. Thank you for calling.”

  Hanging up, she felt a rush of anger at Donny. A talisman! For a talisman, she’d given up all luxuries, all that time with her daughter, her evenings at home!

  She dialed Cal’s number. He sounded muzzy. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” she told him, “but Donny’s history teacher just called. She says he isn’t doing well.”

  “She should have dealt with me.”

  “She wants me to start supervising his homework again. His grades are slipping.”

  “Yes,” said the tutor, “but you and I both know there’s more to it than mere grades, don’t we? I care about the whole child—his happiness, his self-esteem. The grades will come. Just give them time.”

  When she hung up, it was Miss Evans she was angry at. What a narrow woman!

  It was Cal this, Cal that, Cal says this, Cal and I did that. Cal lent Donny an album by The Who. He took Donny and two other pupils to a rock concert. In March, when Donny began to talk endlessly on the phone with a girl named Miriam, Cal even let Miriam come to one of the tutoring sessions. Daisy was touched that Cal would grow so involved in Donny’s life, but she was also a little hurt, because she had offered to have Miriam to dinner and Donny had refused. Now he asked them to drive her to Cal’s house without a qualm.

  This Miriam was an unappealing girl with blurry lipstick and masses of rough red hair. She wore a short, bulky jacket that would not have been out of place on a motorcycle. During the trip to Cal’s she was silent, but coming back, she was more talkative. “What a neat guy, and what a house! All those kids hanging out, like a club. And the stereo playing rock…gosh, he’s not like a grown-up at all! Married and divorced and everything, but you’d think he was our own age.”

  “Mr. Beadle was married?” Daisy asked.

  “Yeah, to this really controlling lady. She didn’t understand him a bit.”

  “No, I guess not,” Daisy said.

&n
bsp; Spring came, and the students who hung around at Cal’s drifted out to the basketball net above the garage. Sometimes, when Daisy and Matt arrived to pick up Donny, they’d find him there with the others—spiky and excited, jittering on his toes beneath the backboard. It was staying light much longer now, and the neighboring fence cast narrow bars across the bright grass. Loud music would be spilling from Cal’s windows. Once it was The Who, which Daisy recognized from the time that Donny had borrowed the album. “Teenage Wasteland,” she said aloud, identifying the song, and Matt gave a short, dry laugh. “It certainly is,” he said. He’d misunderstood; he thought she was commenting on the scene spread before them. In fact, she might have been. The players looked like hoodlums, even her son. Why, one of Cal’s students had recently been knifed in a tavern. One had been shipped off to boarding school in midterm; two had been withdrawn by their parents. On the other hand, Donny had mentioned someone who’d been studying with Cal for five years. “Five years!” said Daisy. “Doesn’t anyone ever stop needing him?”

  Donny looked at her. Lately, whatever she said about Cal was read as criticism. “You’re just feeling competitive,” he said. “And controlling.”

  She bit her lip and said no more.

  In April, the principal called to tell her that Donny had been expelled. There had been a locker check, and in Donny’s locker they found five cans of beer and half a pack of cigarettes. With Donny’s previous record, this offense meant expulsion.

  Daisy gripped the receiver tightly and said, “Well, where is he now?”

  “We’ve sent him home,” said Mr. Lanham. “He’s packed up all his belongings, and he’s coming home on foot.”

  Daisy wondered what she would say to him. She felt him looming closer and closer, bringing this brand-new situation that no one had prepared her to handle. What other place would take him? Could they enter him in a public school? What were the rules? She stood at the living room window, waiting for him to show up. Gradually, she realized that he was taking too long. She checked the clock. She stared up the street again.