Chapter 6

I awoke in a better mood the next morning even though nothing had really changed. Everything was falling or had fallen down around me and it was time to start picking up the pieces. I was determined to take action, to strike back at fate. During my mind session the day before I'd realized that both Anita and myself were walking examples that fate could be changed. It may not be easy to do, but it was possible. If things did not improve, or if they got worse from my interference, at least I'd be able to say that I'd tried.

After breakfast I went to our den and dug through my dad's filing cabinet. After a minute of rummaging I came up with the letter that Tracy had sent us. I opened it up and scanned through it until I found the section I wanted.

"I have a job now," I read, "working at the campus book store as a clerk. I have to..." I scanned further, skipping over the brief description of her job duties. "I work 5:00 to closing at 8:00, Monday through Friday. It's fun I suppose. At least the money will help..."

5:00 to 8:00 Tracy would be in the UC Berkeley bookstore. I memorized that information and then put the letter back.

A few minutes later I was bundling up and preparing for the long walk to school. As I stepped outside the house I was grateful to see it was not raining. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun was so bright it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to it. It was a beautiful fall morning. Or so it appeared.

My happiness at the appearance of the sun quickly deflated when I felt the wind. It was blowing about twenty miles an hour, sending leaves and other debris parading down the street. The moving air was icy and cold, feeling as if it had just came off a glacier. My exposed cheeks immediately reddened and my eyes began to tear. With a sigh I pulled my hood tight, lowered my face, and moved out. This walking to school shit was getting old fast. One way or another, I swore to myself, I was not going to do it much longer.

My first stop upon arriving at school was the administration building. I walked into the main lobby area where two secretaries were working behind a counter. Both were banging away on IBM typewriters. Two student volunteers, both girls, one of whom had once been to my room to 'study', were doing some filing. The one I'd had relations with in the past was the only person in the room to pay my entrance any attention. She gave me a sly smile and then went back to what she was doing.

I walked up to the counter and stood politely for a few seconds. The nearest secretary continued to type, not even glancing my way, although there was no way she could have failed to notice my presence.

"Excuse me?" I finally said.

"You can't use the phone in here," she said impatiently, without even looking up or moving her hands from the typewriter keys. "There's a payphone outside. If you don't have a dime, you're going to have to borrow one from somewhere else. We're not a bank."

"I'm not here to use the phone," I said.

"Then what do you want?" she asked, continuing to type away.

"I need to see Mrs. Compleigh," I told her, referring to one of the school counselors, the one who had pushed Mike into independent study.

Her hands still blurring across her IBM, she asked, "Do you have an appointment?"

"No," I replied, "but it's kind of an emergency. I need to..."

"You'll have to schedule an appointment with her if you want to talk to her," she replied tersely. She returned her full attention to her work.

"This is an emergency," I tried again. "I need to see her now."

She gave a hiss of disgust and pushed herself away from her desk. She turned to me, her eyes full of contempt. "Look, young man," she said, projecting all of the petty authority she possessed towards me. "Our counselors are busy people and I can't just go sending kids in to them any time some student asks. Now if you could just..."

"Now wait a minute," I interrupted, using my adult voice, a voice I rarely employed anymore. It worked it's magic. She, as well as the other secretary and the two volunteers all stopped and stared at me. Concentrating my attention on the one I'd been speaking to I asked, "What is your name?"

"My name?" she asked, the first tinges of actual anger appearing in her tone.

"Yes," I said. "You know, what they call you?"

"Now you listen to me young man..." she started, but weakly. She seemed cowed by the bold way I was speaking to her. Her expression reminded me a little of how Richie had looked when he'd realized he'd bitten off a little more than he could chew.

"Your name?" I demanded, sharpening my tone a little.

"Mrs. Wilks," she finally said. "Now I really..."

"Well, Mrs. Wilks," I said, "when I went through orientation for this school it was explained to me that the school counselors existed to assist me in times of need. That they were student advocates. I was told I could talk to them at any time during the school day. Any time. Are you telling me now that that was a lie?"

"Well no," she stammered, "you can talk to them any time if there is some sort of, well, problem. It's just that for routine matters like what you're..."

"Routine matters?" I asked, exasperated. "I believe I told you twice that this was an emergency. Emergency is not a synonym for routine. Emergency means a pressing matter, a problem, something that requires immediate address by qualified people. I would like to see Mrs. Compleigh for this problem that I have. Is she here?"

"Well, yes she is," Mrs. Wilks said, looking quite dazed now.

"Good," I said. "We're getting somewhere. Would you please tell her that a student has a problem and would like to see her?"

"Uh... well, what is your name?" she asked.

I told her.

"Okay." She nodded weakly, jotting it down. "And what do you need to talk to her about?"

I looked around, seeing that our audience was raptly awaiting my answer for that one.

"That is most definitely none of your business."

She opened her mouth, seemed about to say something, and then perhaps thought better of it. She stood up and headed through a door, closing it behind her. The other three occupants of the room continued to stare at me for a moment. The two student volunteers were hiding smirks of amusement at the exchange they'd just witnessed. Finally they reluctantly went back to work.

Mrs. Wilks returned a few minutes later. She gave me a nervous look and said, "Mrs. Compleigh will see you in just a minute."

"Thank you," I said.

She didn't answer my thanks. She walked over to a large filing cabinet and, using a key from a ring, opened up one of the drawers. She fingered through it for a few seconds and finally pulled a manila file from it. My eyes are pretty sharp, always would be, and I had no trouble seeing my name printed on the tab. She carried the file back through the door from which she'd come. She returned a minute later and sat back at her desk.

Another five minutes went by and the same door opened revealing Mrs. Compleigh. She was about forty or so, with long brown hair that was tied into a bun. She wore a plain brown dress and nylons. Her eyes held a cynical gaze as she appraised me.

"Billy?" she asked. "If you would come with me?"

I stood and pushed my way through the little barrier door and then followed her through the back door. We moved down a hallway past the principal's and assistant principal's office, both of which were empty, a copy machine, a coffee maker, and finally to a door with the counselor's name printed on it. She opened the door and led me into her office.

Her office was small and cramped with a cheap metal desk taking up a large portion of the room. Two small chairs sat before the desk. Her work area was cluttered with various papers and forms although my file was nowhere to be seen there. Framed pictures of two children, one a boy of about ten, the other a girl of about fourteen or so, sat on the desk flanking her penholder. On the wall behind the desk were two framed degrees from the University of Idaho. She had a bachelor's degree and a master's degree in public education with a minor in psychology. The air in the room smelled as if she regularly violated the school no smoking policy.

She worked her way behind her desk and waved me to a seat in one of the chairs. I sat.

"Well, Billy," she started, "Mrs. Wilks is a little upset by the way in which you talked to her. She says you were getting smart with her. Is that true?"

"Getting smart?" I asked contemplatively. "Why do teachers, counselors, and secretaries tell kids not to get smart? Isn't that what we are in school for?"

This produced a few stunned seconds of The Look. Finally she kind of shook her head, as if clearing her mind of my words. "We'll discuss Mrs. Wilks later perhaps," she said finally. "I understand you have some sort of emergency?"

"Yes," I confirmed.

"I hope it's nothing serious," she told me. "You're one of our better students here. In fact, if not for some poor grades your first year, you'd probably be in the running for valedictorian. So what kind of emergency does a bright young man like yourself have?"

I looked at her in disbelief for a moment. She had rattled off my school record with the intention of making me believe that she knew who I was and how I was doing in school off the top of her head. She was trying to give me the impression that she knew all of her students by name and could instantly recall their respective records. Her psychology or education classes had probably assured her that this was a good trick to instill trust. I dismissed this without comment only reluctantly.

"Well actually," I said, "I am not the one having the problem. I came here on behalf of Mike Meachen."

Her face clouded a bit. "Mike Meachen? I don't understand."

"Mike Meachen," I repeated. "Surely you remember him? You talked him and his parents into independent study?"

"I'm afraid," she told me firmly, "that what Mike Meachen and his parents discussed with me or decided to do is none of your business."

"Is that a fact?" I asked pointedly.

"Yes, it is," she replied, annoyed. "Now if that's all you wanted to discuss, I have a lot of work to do."

"If that's all?" I asked, switching to the adult voice again. "You encourage a student to drop out of school, to destroy his life, and you wonder if that's all I want to discuss? What kind of counselor are you anyway?"

"Now wait just a minute!" she said sharply, sitting up straighter and leaning over the desk towards me. "Mike is going to independent study. He is not dropping out. He is not destroying his life."

"Don't give me that crap," I told her, holding her hostile gaze. "You know as well as I do that no one graduates from independent study. It's a holding tank where you put kids that you think are going to drop out anyway so that when they do, it doesn't go on your statistics."

She actually paled a little as I said this, her eyes telling me she knew that what I was saying was true and that she was shocked that I'd come up with this information. She quickly composed herself however and began spouting the company line. "Billy, that is simply not true. Independent study is a program designed to help students like Mike when they are struggling..."

"You're quoting directly from the pamphlets, aren't you?" I interrupted. "The ones that the school district administration gave you when they instructed you to seek out likely drop-outs and steer them into this program. I'm sure they told you all kinds of things about how it was for the protection of the school, the protection of the students, the protection of the goddamn American way of life. But I can see in your eyes that you don't really believe all the bullshit you're spouting at me. You know what I'm saying is true. You probably wouldn't admit it under torture, but you know. Don't you?"

"I would appreciate you watching your language in here," she snapped, continuing to stare at me. "I refuse to have a discussion with a foul-mouthed child who comes into my office and..."

"Yes," I continued, "you know. And part of you probably hates it, don't you? Or at least maybe you did once. How long have you been doing this? Are you numb to it now? Do you sleep well at night after you send someone to oblivion? How many kids have you steered into this program, talking to their parents like you were a used-car salesman offering a Cadillac for a hundred bucks? How many kids that you steered into this thing might have been saved if you'd have done what your job was supposed to be and helped them?"

"I think I've heard just about enough from you," she told me. "Please ask Mrs. Wilks to supply you with an office pass since you're now late for first period."

I shook my head sadly at her. "No," I said softly but firmly. "I will not leave until I've had my say."

Her face reddened this time. "Young man!" she barked. "You will leave this office right this..."

"Are you afraid of me, Mrs. Compleigh?" I asked.

"No!" she lied. "I am simply tired of having my time wasted by listening to your paranoid delusions. You are a sixteen-year-old child. You've come to some strange conclusion in your mind and you think it's the truth. Well I'm nearly forty years old and I can tell you with authority that you don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"I struck a few of your chords, didn't I?" I asked, smiling. "I told you a few things about yourself that you didn't really want to hear, didn't I? If you were wise, you would sit down and listen to me for a few minutes. As you pointed out, I'm much younger than you are and you probably don't think I have anything of value to tell you, right? Well someone much younger than me, in a manner of speaking anyway, once tried to tell me something. And I figured that since I was so much more mature that she couldn't possibly be right. Well, I was wrong and I ignored what she had to say, and the consequences of that are something that still haunts me, maybe always will. Do me and yourself a favor and hear me out?"

She looked downright nervous now but finally said, "Say what you need to say."

"Thank you," I replied. "You told me a minute ago that independent study was for students that are 'struggling' in school. Correct?"

"Yes," she said carefully.

"I don't agree with independent study," I said. "I think it's an atrocity. I think you counselors and administrators spend far too much time trying to cover up for poor students instead of trying to help them. Sure, you'd lose a bunch anyway but even if you could save just one, just a single one, wouldn't it be worth it?"

Before she could answer I continued. "But I've learned that you can't change the world. I'm not trying to do that. I'm just trying to change a little part of it. Sometimes I think you can do that. You told me that Mike Meachen was a struggling student. Did you even bother to check his record before you had him and his parents in here? Did you even bother to note that he is not struggling anymore before you cut him off at the knees? His grades have come way up since last year. He was on his way to an upper 3 average for the first time in his life. He might have even made a 4.0 for the year until you kicked him out of school."

"I didn't force anybody anywhere," she protested. "Mike and his parents wanted him to go to independent study."

"No, you didn't force them," I said. "You just brought them in here and waved it in front of their faces. 'Look, Mike, you only have to go to school twelve hours a week.' 'Look Mrs. and Mr. Meachen, your child can graduate in only a few months this way. If you don't do this, he might not graduate at all.' Isn't that pretty much the line you handed them? Did I hit upon any exact quotes there?"

She was staring at me with her mouth agape, her face telling me that was exactly what she'd said.

"But since you didn't bother checking his record first, you never noticed that he was going to graduate. Not through any efforts on your part I might add, but on mine. The first time you waved this crap in front of him I talked him out of it. I got him to study, I got him to bring his grades up and focus on a goal. Things that you are charged with doing. I did them for you. He was on his way to his goals and you steered him right into oblivion. Instead of helping him, you destroyed him."

"He was smoking grass," she said defensively. "At his ROP site. You can't expect me to overlook something like that can you?"

"No," I said, "I can't. He did something stupid; I'm not saying he didn't. He did something he needs to be punished for so that he learns not to do it again. But is this the answer? Sending him out of school? Destroying his life? He didn't kill anybody for God's sake, he smoked some pot. Jesus, haven't you ever smoked pot?"

"Certainly not!" she said, much too quickly.

"Right," I said, letting that drop. "And granted, he should not be doing it on his job site. But he's a seventeen-year-old kid. Seventeen year olds do stupid things. Maybe he's got a problem with pot, maybe not. But did you even bother trying to figure that out? To counsel him, counselor? No, you just steered him off into independent study because you've been told to do that with people like Mike.

"Try to think back to when you were in school, to when you decided that being a school counselor or an educator was what you wanted to do. Back before the realities of life shit all over your viewpoint. Didn't you, at one time, want to do this so you could help kids? Wasn't that a goal at some point in your past?"

She was looking me up and down in a manner I'd seen a few times before. My history teacher had looked at me this way when I'd asked her sensitive questions. Mrs. Crookshank had looked at me this way when I'd explained about underachievers to her. Dad had looked at me this way when I'd explained why I wanted to invest in latex. The cop who had taken the assault report had looked at me this way when I'd explained what I'd done. It was the look of a person who had thought they'd been speaking to a child but who'd suddenly realized that they were, for whatever reason, talking to an intelligent and insightful adult. It was a look of confusion and growing respect and fear mixed with awe. It was an extended version of The Look.

"Yes," she finally said. "It was."

"Have you abandoned that goal completely?" I asked next.

She licked her lips for a moment. "I hope not."

"Who wanted Mike out of ROP?" I asked her next. "Was it the fire department's idea or yours?"

"Mine," she admitted. "The fire department expressed concern about the incident and requested we have a talk with him. I was the one who recommended removal from ROP."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it was..." She paused.

"Was what?"

"Easier," she said shamefully. "Our contract with them is delicate. It seemed the best solution to the problem was to remove Mike from the program so we didn't risk future enrollees."

I stared at her for a minute. "Easier," I finally said, snorting in disgust. "Has it ever occurred to you that you are educating the people who are going to be running the damn country in twenty or thirty years? The people who are going to be controlling your Medi-Care and Social Security payments? Do you really want them always choosing the path that is easier on them?"

She had no answer for that.

"Mrs. Compleigh," I pleaded, "can't you do something about this? Mike was trying to become a productive member of society. He was trying. He did something stupid that needs to be addressed. So address it. Talk to him about it. Let him know he did something stupid. Talk to the fire department and see if there's any way they can give him a second chance. If you do that, let me talk to Mike too. I believe I have some influence with him."

She smiled for the first time. "Billy, I believe you about that."

"If he screws up again than you can write him off as a loser and send him to independent study. But please, give him a second chance. Get his file out of the cabinet instead of mine this time. Read it. See how hard he's worked for this goal in the past year. He's trying. How about you do what your job title says and help him. Meet him half way. Please?"

She took a deep breath, her eyes softening. "You're a remarkable young man, Billy," she told me.

I shrugged, switching back to my teenager persona. "I try," I said.

"I'll do as you ask," she assured me.

Though she was no longer talking to me and though she no longer sat with me at lunchtime, Nina was still forced to sit next to me in the two classes we shared prior to ROP. We had picked our seats at the beginning of the semester and now we were committed to them, for better or for worse. She would typically spend each class period looking straight ahead as the teacher lectured, occasionally jotting down a note in her binder. She never looked at me or acknowledged my presence in any way.

That day was no different as I sat down for my second class of the day, and the first with her. While awaiting the rest of the class to file in and find their seats she simply stared at her notebook, ignoring the activity around her, ignoring me most of all. Had it only been a week before that we used to chat happily together during this portion of the class, discussing how our day had been until that point, what we were going to do later? It seemed like an eternity had passed since I'd last heard a kind word from her, had seen her smile.

At some point I'd stopped telling myself that I wanted our relationship to mend so Nina would not turn out to be a bitch later and started telling myself the truth; that I wanted our relationship to mend because I liked our relationship, because I enjoyed being with her. I'd never noticed before how eager I'd been for Nina to come over each day to study with me until she was no longer doing it. All of my brainstorming of the previous day had failed to produce a plan to make-up with her. I simply did not know what to do.

"Nina?" I chanced, leaning towards her a little and whispering.

She hesitated for a second, long enough to make me think that she was not even going to acknowledge my words, but finally she turned her face towards me. Her eyes were blank, revealing nothing of what was going on behind them.

"You heard what happened to Mike?" I asked her.

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's too bad."

"I went and saw Mrs. Compleigh today," I told her, thrilled to be even speaking to her. "I think I convinced her to let him back into ROP. He's getting another chance."

She nodded softly. "Good," she said. "I like Mike."

There was a long silence. Just as she started to turn her head back to her notebook I whispered, "I miss you."

She looked at my face for a second, her eyes still blank. Without saying anything she turned her attention back to her notebook. She said nothing.

"Nina?" I said.

She ignored me. Before I could try again the bell rang and the teacher called the class to order. He then began the day's lecture on the Principals of Chemistry.

All day I dreaded what I had to do when I got from school. When I finally arrived home my mind tried to find excuses to delay or even postpone the task at hand. There was homework to be done, housework to be done, deep thoughts to think, bodily functions to take care of. The rational part of me rejected these excuses one by one and finally I put my coat back on and headed out the door.

A short walk brought me to Anita's house. I made my way to her front door, almost left again, and finally, employing my willpower, I pushed her doorbell.

She was very pleased at my unexpected arrival. It showed in her face as she swung open the door. She was dressed in a pair of baggy sweat pants and a T-shirt. It was obvious that she had no bra on beneath.

"Hi, Billy," she beamed, standing aside to allow me entry. "Come on in. What a pleasant surprise."

Her children were sitting at the dining room table working on some learning books. An array of crayons and construction paper was spread out before them. They looked up, greeted me briefly, and then went back to what they were doing. Anita, once the door was closed, leaned forward and gave me a kiss on the mouth, probing outward with her tongue for just the briefest instant. She made a point to rub her unencumbered breasts against my chest.

"Anita," I hissed. "Your kids are right here!"

"Oh, you." She slapped at me playfully, breaking the embrace. "They're going to have to get used to us eventually anyway aren't they?"

"Uh..." I started.

"So what brings you over here today?" she asked me teasingly. "Need another shower?"

"No." I shook my head quickly, banishing the image of dumping oil all over her before it could give me an erection. As I mentioned before, my mind may have been in my thirties but my body was firmly entrenched in my teens. Testosterone was surging through my veins and calmly assuring another part of my body that it wouldn't really hurt to just take a quick shower with her before we had our talk. Just to mellow everyone out a little.

"Oh," Anita said knowingly, "you want to get dirty first. Give me a minute to set up a movie for the kids. That'll keep them distracted longer."

"Anita," I said, "that's not why I came over here. I need to talk to you about something."

Perhaps catching the tone of my voice, she gave me a wary look. "What do you want to talk about?" she asked carefully.

"Can we sit down somewhere?" I asked her. "Somewhere private?" And somewhere without a lot of sharp objects, I did not add.

"Sure," she said. "Let's go to the bedroom."

I nodded. "Okay."

We went into her room and I grabbed a chair near her dresser. She gave me another concerned look as I did this. She sat down on the edge of the bed.

"What's wrong, Billy?" she asked me.

I breathed deeply and slowly let it out. "Anita," I told her, "I don't know how to tell you this but it needs to be said."

"Tell me what?"

"I suppose the best way is to just come out and say it," I said, looking at her face. "We need to end our relationship with each other."

"End..." she whispered, staring at me. Finally she gave a nervous giggle. "Billy, don't joke about things like that. It's not very..."

"Anita, I'm not joking. We have to stop seeing each other."

"You're not joking?" she asked softly.

"No." I shook my head. "I'm not."

She began to wring her hands together. "I don't understand, Billy," she told me. "Why would you say something like that? We're perfect together. We have a good thing going."

"That's just it, Anita," I explained. "We don't have a good thing going and we're not perfect together. I'm sixteen years old and you're twenty-eight. I'm a teenager in high school and you're a full-grown woman with kids."

"That doesn't matter!" she protested. "As long as two people love each other..."

"Anita," I interrupted gently, "I don't love you that way."

She stared at me for a second, the wounded expression on her face striking directly at my heart. God, how I hated doing this. "But you do," she told me. "You do love me."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I don't. And I don't think you love me that way either."

"How can you say that?" she asked, raising her voice for the first time. Her eyes were now beginning to leak a little moisture down her cheeks. "After all we've done together, after all we've shared? How can you say that?"

"I'm sorry, Anita," I told her. "I'm sorry for what I'm telling you now and I'm sorry that I ever initiated our relationship in the first place. I shouldn't have done that."

"Yes!" she yelled. "You should have! What we have together is beautiful! You're not going to let a little age difference keep us apart are you? Billy, we're meant for each other!"

"No," I said firmly, raising my voice a little. "That's just it. We're not meant for each other. I'm a kid in high school, Anita. I should be dating girls my own age. You should be dating men your own age. While I've been having a relationship with you, you haven't been dating anyone or gone out anywhere. I'm screwing up your life, Anita. And it has to stop. Both of us need to move on."

"You're not screwing up my life!" she protested. "Is that what you're worried about? You've improved my life. I used be so lonely, Bill and then I found you. You're everything I want. Just because you're younger than me..."

"Anita," I interrupted, "I am screwing up your life. I never intended for what we had to be a permanent relationship. I was stupid and thought that there were no consequences to what you and I were doing. I figured, hey, here's a cool older woman for me to screw and she's willing to do it again and again. But there are consequences, Anita, there are. More than I imagined, more than you can imagine. We have to move on now, get back on track, don't you see that?"