Out of Order (16 page)

The way home is very weird. A lot has happened in a very short amount of time. And what's strange is that just a little while ago I couldn't stand another second of Chlo being around, but now I think I might want to be with somebody who's not going to stare at my stapled face, but who's going stare at a book instead while my mouth spills out everything that's happened to me today. Who's then going to say one sentence without even looking up, one sentence that'll make everything clear, and then I'll understand everything that's happened.

I'm thinking all this, I can't shake this feeling, and when I get home I head for the phone. I'm even about to pick it up before I realize that not only do I not know Chlo's phone number, I don't even know her last name.

It pretty much figures. Who else could sit alone with
somebody in a room for weeks and weeks and not even know her name?

I'm standing with one hand on the phone, thinking all this, when it rings under my hand.

It scares the holy shit out of me. For one thing, it's loud. For another, there's a million people I don't want to talk to right now, and one person that I do.

Chlo.

Every other time I've picked up the stupid phone—every time I ever wanted to talk to one person—it was always one of the other million people in the world calling me. So what are the odds on this, the shittiest day of my life?

I pick it up. “Hello?” My voice is shaking.

“Trammel? That you?”

It's Chlo.

I open my mouth—and for the first time in my life, I can't think of one damn thing to say.

“You there?” Chlo says.

“Yeah,” I say, and my voice sounds like rusty nails.

“Just wanted to make sure you got home okay.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Seemed like you had sort of a bad day.”

“This has been,” I tell her, getting my voice back, “the most extremely shitty day of my life.”

“Uh-huh. Well. I didn't call to invite myself to a pity
party. I called for two reasons. One, because I've been thinking about why I was staying there with you in the nurse's office.”

That's a good point. Why did she stay there with me?

“You're no bowl of cherries, Trammel. You're selfish. And you can be pretty mean. But like I said, I like you okay, and I think part of that is because I have this gut feeling that way down deep on the inside—waaaay deep down—you have the
seed
of a good heart.”

“Great,” I tell her. “Thanks for trying to pump me up here.”

“And I was thinking, Trammel, that since I like you okay, and you've got the seed of a good heart, and since you had the most extremely shitty day of your life, that I am going to make at least a somewhat half-hearted attempt to get your mind off your troubles, as a gesture of friendship. Knowing, of course, that you'll probably laugh in my face. Please understand that I'm not asking you on a date,” she adds, “but I was going to a movie tonight, and since my usual crew is all busy—including my boyfriend, you hear that, Trammel? My
boyfriend
, whom I love with all my heart, is busy. So I was wondering if you, whom I merely like okay, would like to come with me. As a friend. Just keeping things straight here,” she adds. “And feel free to say no. It won't hurt my feelings a bit.”

“What movie?” I ask.

“1900.”

For a second I'm not sure whether she's telling me the time or the title.

“It's by Bernardo Bertolucci,” Chlo says, as if that explains something.

I start to say, “Oh yeah, him.” But I don't bother—Chlo'll know I'm lying. All I know is it's got to be one of those artsy-fartsy things. One of those
La Behhhllle
things.

“It's at TMU, so you're supposed to be a student. But they never check IDs. It's only two bucks to get in. And we'd be going dutch, Trammel. You got that?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“So, you want to go?”

“I guess.”

Silence.

“You sure you're okay, Trammel?”

“Yeah.”

“You're awfully quiet. And well-mannered. For you.”

“Sorry.”

Silence.

“So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About anything. About going to a movie. About
Bertolucci's oeuvre. About your most extremely shitty day.”

What do I think? I'm thinking about Grace. How can she not see that she's just another in a long line of Doris and Graces?

I'm thinking maybe stupid isn't just not knowing what a metaphor is.

“You know those dead guys who wrote all that English?” I burst out. “Like Byron and Keats and them? I think maybe they only wrote all that stuff in the first place because they wanted to get in some girl's pants. Or somebody's pants, anyway,” I add, remembering Byron the letch.

“Maybe so,” Chlo says. “Anyway, sounds like you're ready for that English test.”

“Those dead guys,” I tell Corinne, “those dead guys don't know shit about romance.”

The movie was actually pretty good, although it was a little long. It had this evil Nazi guy, and at one point two guys got naked with one girl. On the way home Corinne told me how her green hair got her kicked out of Country Valley Prep School—because it turns out that Corinne is not poor, not at all—and then she went to Trinity Academy for the beginning of this year, until she got the boot when she refused to wear the uniform. She told me how she got her hair cut because it had lost its shock value with her stepmother. And that Brian still doesn't really like it.

I didn't tell her what I was really thinking—that Brian better watch his ass. Corrine's not the type to sit around and take shit from anybody, and old Bri is really starting to dish it out. Telling his own girlfriend how to do her hair.

What I told her was how I pitched three no-hitters last year on the freshman team, and how I think I might want to go to UT or Notre Dame. Corinne said she'd come to one of my games sometime. I told her a little bit about Dori.

I talked about Grace too.

 

The next week is the English test. I didn't study for it, of course. I grip my pen and start writing what I know. It doesn't take long.

I realize it won't get me a passing grade. It didn't in biology. Nobody's interested in what I know, just what they can teach me. But
I'm
interested in what I know. Because it takes me a long time to learn it.

Note at the top of test paper, English, period 4:

75

 

Poem from the journal of Corinne Hecht:

Thanks to the members of the Four Star Coffee Bar Critique Group and the YAWRITER listserve, for writerly opinions and moral support; especially Catherine Atkins, David Davis, Debra Deur, Janet Fick, Lisa Firke, Chris Ford, Judy Gregerson, Shirley Harazin, Lisa Harkrader, Jim Janik, Kathy Lay, Martha Moore, Jennifer Page, Jan Peck, Diane Roberts, Melissa Russell, Andrea Schulz, B. J. Stone, Shelley Sykes, Sue Ward, Laura Wiess, Nancy Werlin, Cerelle Woods, and Melissa Wyatt.