Optimists Die First, Page 3

  “Because you are covered in cat hair.”

  My face burned. Normally I remembered to roll a lint catcher over my clothes before heading to school, but this morning had been crazy. Dad had discovered Alice and Stanley, and as predicted, he’d been furious. I didn’t want him or Mom to have anything else to stress about, so I’d fed the cats, scooped their poop, made myself a quick breakfast, packed us all lunch, and tossed in a load of laundry, all before leaving.

  I pulled on my peacoat to hide my shame and shoved my cat hat on my head. Then I closed my locker door and scooted around him.

  “Hang on. We still need to talk about our assignment.”

  I kept going. I pushed open the doors with my elbows and barreled down the front steps.

  Rachel, the Girl Formerly Known as My Best Friend, was huddled with a gaggle of girls in the middle of the walkway.

  I froze. I could join her, I thought. I could walk up to her right now. Smile and say hi. One foot in front of the other! Be bold! Be your best self!

  I couldn’t do it. I veered to the left, giving the group a wide berth. But those indecisive seconds were all Jacob needed to catch up to me. He had the stride of a giraffe. “What’s up with you and that girl? What’s her name, Rachel?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You stare at her in class all the time.”

  “You’d only know that if you were staring at me.”

  “Not really, no. I’m just a keen observer of human behavior. I have to be if I’m going to be a director.” He waved his flesh-and-bone hand at me. “For example, I look at you, with your homemade earrings and quilted vest, and I can guess that you’re the creative type.”

  I allowed myself a minuscule smile.

  “And I look at the way you slouch when you walk, like you’re ashamed of your height instead of being proud of it and owning it. I see the scowl on your face, which is growing even as I speak, and the way you keep to yourself at school. This leads me to the conclusion that you’re a loner. An unhappy, creative loner with a dark side and not a lot of people skills—”

  “Shut up!” I yelled, impulsively slugging him in the arm.

  “Ow!”

  I’d punched his robot arm. He grabbed it protectively with his real hand. “Oh, man. I think you broke it. Look. It’s not moving.”

  “I’m sorry!” Tears pricked my eyes. I’d had some impulse control issues since Maxine’s death, but I was trying to work on them. “I’m so sorry.”

  I heard an electronic whir. He extended a bionic finger toward me and grinned. “E.T. phone home,” he said. “I was kidding, Petula. The arm is fine.”

  I almost slugged him again. “You are such a jerk!”

  “It’s made out of carbon fiber. It’s super resilient. Watch.” He made a fist with the hand and punched a nearby garbage can. It toppled to the curb. “See?” He set the can upright. “Not even a scratch. Makes me feel like Steve Austin.”

  “Who?”

  “TV series from the seventies. The Six Million Dollar Man. But Steve Austin had two bionic legs, one bionic arm, and one bionic eye. I’ve just got the arm, up to the elbow.”

  I made a left turn to avoid going past the construction site. He turned, too. My curiosity got the better of me. “Can I ask how…?”

  “Of course. I was out hiking by myself last year. A boulder came out of nowhere and pinned my arm down. I couldn’t move. I kept hoping someone would come by, but day turned to night, night turned to day…I thought I was going to die. After a few days I realized I had no choice: if I wanted to live, I was going to have to saw through my own arm with a Swiss Army knife.”

  I stared at him. “Let me guess. You were trapped for one hundred twenty-seven hours.”

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “Because that’s the plot of 127 Hours.”

  “Excellent movie. I was pretty happy with how they dealt with my story. And casting James Franco, well”—he indicated himself—“separated at birth.”

  “It wasn’t your story. It was Aron Ralston’s story. I read the book he wrote.”

  “Huh. I didn’t know there was a book.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” I shook my head. “You are such a liar.”

  “I prefer the term storyteller.”

  “Except you’re not even telling your own story, you’re ripping off someone else’s.”

  “Again, I prefer the term homage.”

  We arrived outside the Arcadia. “This is where I live, so.”

  He glanced up the street. “Hang on. Isn’t the school just three blocks that way?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why did you take a detour?”

  I didn’t answer. There was no point telling him about the woman killed by a slab of falling concrete in the U.K., or the man run over by a cement mixer in Tennessee, or any of the other freak deaths that had befallen innocent pedestrians as they walked past construction sites.

  My head felt itchy, so I pulled off my cat hat. There was still a lot of rainbow glitter stuck in the wool from Ivan’s stunt the week before. Little flecks of it floated down, onto my coat and onto the ground.

  Jacob’s face lost all color. “I know where I saw you.”

  It was like he’d been pricked with a pin. He deflated. His bravado vanished.

  I patted his non-bionic arm with my mittened hand. “I had that counselor, too. She’s truly awful. So, word of advice: you do not, I repeat do not, have to keep seeing her. You have options.”

  He didn’t answer. He’d gone elsewhere.

  I headed up the walk and went inside.

  He was still standing on the sidewalk when I glanced back.

  “No.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You heard me. No.” Mr. Watley’s arms were crossed over his chest. Thick sprouts of hair poked out from the cuffs of his shirt.

  “But I feel I did an excellent job presenting my case.”

  “You didn’t. And I’m not about to tell a teacher how to run his classroom. Also, and this is at the crux of my decision, it will do you good to work with someone else.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Petula, we’ve talked about this. You’ve told me you want to try to reengage with the world—”

  “In bite-sized pieces, sir. And not with everyone in the world, and certainly not him.”

  Mr. Watley tented his fingers under his chin. “Why not him?”

  “Loads of reasons. For one thing, he doesn’t read. This speaks of poor moral fiber and probably poor intellect.”

  “You’re being terribly judgmental. He seems like a decent and smart young man.”

  “He’s a pain in the bum.”

  “That, Petula, is a fine example of the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “Sir!”

  He stood. “You have YART in ten minutes. Go.”

  “Your lack of civility has been noted,” I said as he shooed me out of his office.

  I began my slow walk toward Youth Art Therapy.

  The worst part of a bad week.

  —

  After Maxine died, my parents insisted I see a grief counselor. But money was tight, and counselors cost money. So I was sent to see someone at my very own school.

  Carol Polachuk told me she specialized in grief counseling, which was a joke because she caused more grief than she cured. I didn’t say much in our sessions beyond yes and no. This bugged the heck out of her and her bulgy eyes.

  One day, Carol—exasperated by my silence—said, “Look, it was an accident. You didn’t mean to kill your sister.”

  She might as well have added, But you did.

  I only meant to hit the wall behind her when I threw my mug of tea. I didn’t mean to clip her on the forehead, or splatter her with the contents. I certainly didn’t mean to draw blood. It was a stupid, impulsive move, and I regretted it instantly.

  But the way Carol reacted, it was like I’d tried to murder her. She threatened to charge me with assault. My parents were called in
. Mr. Watley got involved. Meetings took place.

  A solution was found. Instead of one-on-one sessions with Carol, I would go once a week to Youth Art Therapy. Everyone at Princess Margaret knows that YART is where truly hopeless sad sacks get sent for an hour a week to express themselves through art.

  Rachel and I had secretly dubbed it “Crafting for Crazies.”

  In a million years I couldn’t have imagined a day where I’d be forced to join their ranks.

  “You’ll be graded on assignments,” Mr. Watley explained to me and my parents. “It’s like a regular art class.”

  “Except it isn’t,” I said. “Except I’ll be with people who may or may not be criminally insane.”

  My parents wouldn’t listen. “This will be a good fit,” Dad said.

  “You’ve always been a passionate crafter,” Mom added.

  I tried pointing out the obvious: that I hadn’t done any crafting since Maxine died. They said I was being irrational. This would help me get back on my crafting feet.

  “How can I get back on my crafting feet if I fear for my life?”

  My protests fell on intentionally deaf ears.

  —

  I reached the doors to the counseling suite at the same time as Alonzo Perez. Alonzo is beautiful, with dark skin and a slender but muscular frame. He wore hot-pink pants and a formfitting T-shirt that read SLUT. One side of his head was freshly shaved. Of the people in our small band of misfits, I liked Alonzo best.

  Alonzo was in Crafting for Crazies because he tried to kill himself after he came out to his ultrareligious family and they kicked him out of the house. Now he lived with an aunt on the east side.

  “Hey, Petula. How are you feeling?” He held the door for me, because he knew I didn’t like touching door handles with my bare hands.

  “Good, thanks.” Alonzo was in my history class as well as English, so he’d seen me faint.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Ivan the Terrible was already sitting at the far end of the table. He’s the youngest member of YART, only thirteen, a chubby, sullen kid with black hair and a super-intense, scary gaze. He reminded me of a boy version of Carrie, from one of my favorite Stephen King novels. I wondered if one day he might light the entire counseling suite on fire with his mind.

  Ivan also has what our almost-counselor Betty Ingledrop calls “periodic outbursts.” Like when he dumped glitter on my head. Or when he chased Alonzo around the room, wielding a mallet. Or when he tried to staple his own thumb to the table.

  Ivan’s mom drowned two years ago while they were on vacation in Mexico. I tried my best to be nice to him. Partly because I felt bad for him, and partly because I secretly hoped that if he did light the school on fire with his mind, he might let me live.

  Alonzo and I sat down. It was Saudi Arabia hot again, so I pulled off my old hand-knit Mr. Rogers–style cardigan, just as Koula Apostolos sauntered in.

  Koula’s a year younger than me and she has the body of an Eastern European shot-put champion: wide, stocky, all muscle. She was wearing a barely-there top with jean shorts over fishnet stockings and a pair of work boots. Her shoulder-length hair was stiff with hair spray.

  She once called my sense of fashion the Handmade Granny Look, so I called her sense of fashion the Eighties Slag Look. But I only said it once, because she threatened to punch me if I said it again.

  Koula’s an alcoholic and a druggie. She was kicked out of Trafalgar Secondary a year ago and transferred here. There were rumors that she’d done something to Carol Polachuk. Something much worse than throwing a mug of tea.

  “I’ve been sober for a month,” she said now, holding up her AA chip as she took a seat.

  “Third time lucky?” said Alonzo, because this was the third time since September that Koula had shown us her one-month chip. The last two times she’d gone on a bender to celebrate.

  Koula scowled. “Shut up, you fag.”

  “Eat me, you skank.”

  Then they started laughing. Alonzo pulled her close and hugged her. I could not begin to understand their friendship.

  Betty Ingledrop stepped out of her office, holding a box of Timbits. “Hi, everyone!” She’s young but dresses older. Every week she showcases a different brightly colored suit with tan nylons and sensible heels. Today she wore hot pink.

  Betty’s our art therapist—sort of. She told us when she started that, technically speaking, she wasn’t an art therapist yet; we were part of her “clinical practicum.”

  “So you’re a student,” Koula said.

  “Not exactly. I’m only six months away from getting my diploma.”

  “So you’re a student,” said Alonzo.

  She’d smiled sweetly at us. “We’re all students in the school of life.”

  Betty is nothing if not unflappable.

  We also found out that she wanted to work with much younger kids, but this was the only practicum she could get. It went a long way toward explaining her juvenile art projects.

  Now, as she approached the table, she swept one arm behind her. “I’d like you all to welcome a new addition to the group.”

  He’d followed her out of her office. He was tall. He had a bionic arm.

  He was Jacob.

  No. Nononononononono.

  It was my fault. I’d let him know he had options.

  He took the seat beside mine. This time he wore a grayish-white Icelandic sweater, which he started to pull off because of the heat. It took him a while, thanks to his bionic hand. Underneath he wore a white T-shirt, which rode up past his belly button till he had a hand free to pull it back down.

  Everyone but me stared at his bionic arm. I stared at the line of dark hair that ran down into his jeans.

  Betty asked us to go around the table and introduce ourselves. Then she said, “Jacob, would you care to share your story? This is a safe place.”

  “Sure.”

  We all leaned forward in anticipation, because it’s true what they say: misery does love company.

  “I was in an airplane,” Jacob began, “flying over the Andes with my rugby team. The plane crashed. Some of us survived, but no one came to our rescue for quite a while. We ran out of food. We had a tough decision to make: starve, or eat our dead friends.”

  I shook my head. Alonzo guffawed. But Ivan’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “You mean, like cannibals?”

  Jacob nodded.

  “What did you do?”

  Jacob leaned in close to him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Ivan’s eyes got even wider.

  Koula crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I call bullshit.”

  “Clearly,” said Alonzo.

  Jacob grinned. “Busted. Good movie, though. Alive. Directed by Frank Marshall, who also directed the lesser-known Arachnophobia.”

  “So you didn’t eat human flesh?” asked Ivan.

  “No.”

  Ivan looked deeply disappointed.

  “Okay,” said Jacob. “Here goes. I was sailing with my brother, Buck. A storm came up. Buck died; I lived. Buck was always my mom’s favorite—”

  “Ordinary People,” said Betty, her mouth turned downward.

  Jacob nodded, impressed. “Very good. Won the Oscar for best picture in 1981.”

  “Freak,” said Koula.

  “Movie freak,” said Jacob.

  Our Almost Counselor cleared her throat. “Since you’re clearly not ready to share, let’s move on.” She opened a folder. “We’re going to make origami birds today.” She held up an example. “Each bird represents an anxiety or fear. You can write the fear on the side of each bird. Then we’ll go outside and release them—symbolically cast them away.”

  “So, litter,” I said.

  “Petula’s going to be here all day,” Koula snickered. “She only has about a jillion and one fears.”

  “They’re not fears if they’re based on research and facts.”

  “Says the girl who won’t walk past construction sites because s
he’s afraid she’ll get killed by falling debris.”

  Jacob’s thick eyebrows shot up, and I knew Thursday’s walk was suddenly making sense to him.

  “And you reamed me out one day for listening to my iPod on the way to school,” Koula continued.

  “You reamed me out about that once, too,” said Alonzo.

  My stomach clenched. “I was merely trying to point out that when you’re plugged in like that, you’re not aware of your surroundings. You’re not going to hear a truck coming, or a rapist—”

  “Here, have a Timbit,” Koula interrupted. Her weasel eyes on mine, she stuck her man hand into the box, making sure her fingers touched every single doughnut hole before she passed the box over.

  I stared into the box. “I’m not hungry.”

  Koula laughed. “Har! Har! Har!” Like a dog’s bark. “Yep. You’re going to have to make a whole flock.”

  I wanted to punch her.

  “Koula,” Betty said. “Remember our motto: Be kind.”

  Ivan let rip with a loud toot. “FYART!”

  —

  Fifty minutes later, we all traipsed into the field behind the school, carrying our birds. I’d made six, not because I needed a flock but because I was good at origami. Alonzo had made a few. Ivan and Koula had made one each. Jacob had made none. “I can do a lot with this, but origami? Forget it,” he told Betty, indicating his bionic arm.

  Betty, ever practical, replied, “Perhaps Petula would be willing to give you a couple of hers.”

  I handed Jacob two birds. He read what I’d written on each. “Biological warfare. Airplanes.”

  “Told you,” said Koula. “She’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.”

  “Actually,” said Betty, “I’m proud of Petula. She took the assignment seriously. She’s attempting to work on her issues.”

  Koula gave Betty the finger when her back was turned.

  “All right, everyone, are we ready? Release your fears!”

  We tossed the birds into the air.

  They pinwheeled straight to the ground.

  We stared at them, lying in the mud at our feet.

  “In the movie business,” said Jacob, “we’d call this an anticlimax.”

  —

  Minutes later the bell rang and we trudged back to the counseling suite to gather up our things.