Breakfast Served Anytime (18 page)

“So if the Great American Novel is linked, somehow, to the American Dream,” Calvin was saying, “then my dream is to honor the land. Let it teach me what it has to teach me. Not just me. All of us.” He squinted down at us, holding his breath. “That’s all, I guess.”

Chloe, eyes glistening, let go of Holyfield so she could applaud. X rose from the ground and clapped Calvin on the shoulder. “That was excellent, Calvin,” he said. “I’m proud of you.” He removed his glasses and started cleaning them with the bottom of his T-shirt. “I’m proud of all of you, actually,” he said to the ground, to no one in particular. “Do you know why I sent those letters home, asking yall to get yourselves unplugged for a month?”

By now Calvin had joined us on the ground, curled in a lanky fermata around Holyfield. Chloe had spread a quilt on the grass and we were all heaped there in the sun, laughing and congratulating Cal. In that moment the love I felt for each one of them rose up in me so quickly I had to blink — hard — to keep it from spilling out my eyes.

“It doesn’t matter, really,” X continued, “but I just didn’t want to contend with all that noise. It was my litmus test. I wanted to see what kind of students I’d get if I handed you some arbitrary rule like that.”

I remembered Carol, how she’d said we’d get a chocolate factory in the end. I made a mental note to write her about this decidedly Wonka development.

“I started out with twenty-three takers, and after the letter went home, it was just you four,” X said. “Can you believe that? Most of the complaints came from parents, not kids.”

Mason visored his eyes with his hand. Something in him had shifted in the space of a blink. “So what are you saying, X? Spit it out.”

“I guess I’m just glad things worked out the way they did,” X said, shrugging amiably. “You’re a good group, a good group.”

For some reason, this upended Mason. “Well, maybe we are and maybe we aren’t,” he said, standing and dusting himself off. “Maybe that remains to be seen, right? Maybe your little litmus test wasn’t quite comprehensive enough.”

“Mason,” Chloe said softly. She rested her hand on his shoe. “Dude.”

“I mean, are we going to have class, or what?” Mason angled his blue gaze on X. “Are you going to teach this class, or are we going to sit around and sing ‘Kumbaya’ and maybe pack a big fat bowl?”

X, like the rest of us, was visibly taken aback. “Let’s have class,” he said carefully. “And you’re welcome to leave if that doesn’t suit.”

Mason blinked, holding his ground. “I’m not leaving.”

“Good,” X said.

Everybody sat there, breath suspended, hoping Mason was finished. He wasn’t.

“I’m also not ever going to be anybody’s
pawn
. Not yours, not anybody’s. Okay?”

X waited to see if Mason had anything else to say. “Okay,” he said. “Mason. You’re not a pawn. I didn’t mean it that way. You’re an important part of this class, is what you are. You’re also up next. Have you picked a Great American Novel to present to us?”

“No,” Mason said, quieter now. “No, I haven’t decided yet.” He sat back down, elbows to knees, ankles crossed, folding himself in. “Stay tuned.”

Holyfield, our very own Emotional Barometer, settled himself next to Mason and heaved an empathetic sigh, crinkling his puppy-eyebrow tufts in sympathy. Mason stroked his ears and spoke to him gently. “Whatup, little bro. How about you don’t chew on my shoe?”

X cleared his throat and stroked his beard. It was disconcerting, the way he seemed so scared of us sometimes.
Just be in charge!
I wanted to scream.
Own the authority! Grow some balls!
Seriously, is it too much to ask to find one single teacher in this world to look up to? Just one? Some part of me had clicked along with Mason’s sudden mood shift; I couldn’t say exactly what it was, but a thread of understanding had passed between the two of us.

X had started talking again — this time about Henry James — and I scribbled a note to Mason:
Okay, I’m in
. I elbowed him and tilted my notebook so he could see. “Excellent,” he whispered, and winked — a wink that, despite everything, sent a blue butterfly free-falling through my stomach. Immediately, I thought to change my mind, but it was already in writing: I was going to enter that stupid talent show alongside the Mad Hatter. Un-freaking-believable.

Chloe was dutifully taking notes as X waxed enthusiastic about
The Portrait of a Lady
. I nudged her and motioned for the Magic 8 Ball, which had rolled out of her bag and was gleaming like a promise in the sun. With a decidedly schoolmarm-ish frown (I know! Chloe! Getting all dutiful and prim!), she handed it over. I conjured my question in my head and shook the ball in what I considered impressively surreptitious fashion —

“Gloria? It appears you’re in possession of some fascinating news over there. If it’s so much more fascinating than Isabel Archer, kindly share it with the rest of us.”

Embarrassment rose up in me like heat rash. “No, that’s okay.”

“What do you mean,
that’s okay
?” X shook his head and let out a mocking laugh. “Your generation is something else. Would you like another Coke?
No,
I’m okay
. What happened to
No, thank you
? Basic manners? Kindergarten stuff? You’re okay. I’m glad you’re okay. Are you okay enough to pay attention?”

I nodded. For all the bullshit airs I put on about being a rebellious soul, I can’t stand to be called out like that. Here was X, acting like a teacher just when I was hoping he would, but I was too mortified to fully appreciate the moment.

“So what’ve you got there? Enthrall us, please, with the unparalleled acumen of the Eight Ball.”

The blue liquid had cleared to reveal its watery triangle of wisdom:
Better Not Tell You Now.

IF WONDERLAND’S White Queen was indeed capable of believing six impossible things before breakfast, it should be said of me that I was — am — fully capable of falling in love even more times before breakfast than that. It’s like a disease. X had sent us home with a big chunk of
The Portrait of a Lady,
and almost immediately I had fallen head over heels for poor, soulful Ralph Touchett, the invalid cousin of Isabel Archer (who, in my opinion, needed a swift kick in the ass). X’s curriculum made absolutely no sense at all; he just jumped around from book to book, author to author, Europe to America, just gush-gush-gushing about the power of words and hoping, I guess, that some of his enthusiasm would stick. Later that summer (school looming ominously on the calendar, the promise of fall infusing the air with nostalgia itself, you know the mood), it would hit me: It would occur to me that X
had
reached us; that Geek Camp would forever mark for me the point in my life when I discovered that words are alchemy, that words really can save us.

On Fourth of July morning, though, I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was lazing in bed, swooning over Ralph Touchett while Jessica snored lightly in the opposite bed. In honor of the holiday it was also Parents’ Day, which meant that the hours of nine to noon would be open to any parents who wanted to visit their kids. Diane showed up at 8:30 with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a freshly lacquered French manicure that made her fingernails look like the squared-off ends of screwdrivers.

“Yoo-hoo!”

Jessica opened one eye and rolled back over. “Mom, you’re early.”

I climbed out of bed and stood up. “Hi, Mrs. Dixon. I’m Gloria.” I offered my hand.

Diane looked me briskly up and down and stuck the doughnut box into my outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Gloria.”

I selected my favorite: a chocolate-iced cream-filled. “Wow, thank you. Jess, you want one?”

Jessica swung her legs over the side of the bed and stretched. “Mmmm,” she said, reaching for the box.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Diane sang, tapping the back of Jessica’s hand with a screwdriver. “Let’s not forget our diet, honey.”

I looked from Diane to Jessica, confused. “So these are all for me?”

Diane beamed. “Enjoy!”

Jessica rubbed her eyes and gathered up her shower stuff. “Mom,” she said, “just let me get dressed. I’ll meet you in the lobby as soon as I’m done. How’s that sound?”

Diane looked pointedly at her watch and heaved a sigh. “Well get a move on, honey. So much shopping to do, so little time!”

The door clicked shut and I looked at Jessica, aghast. I waited for her to cry, which is what I would have done, but instead she blithely tore into a caramel doughnut. I couldn’t decide which was more shocking: Diane herself, or Jessica’s apparent immunity to her. “Ibbour dad cubbing?” Jess mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.

I shook my head. “I begged him not to.”

“Do you want to come to the mall with us? There’s this early-bird holiday sale thing.”

Was she serious? Can you say
nightmare
? “I think I’ll stay here and work on my presentation,” I said.

Jessica smiled. “Well, if you change your mind in the next twenty minutes, just holler. You’re invited.” She cocked her head at me so I’d know she meant it.

“Thanks, but I’m glad for the quiet. It’s perfect.”

On her way out the door, Jessica switched off the overhead light. “Coal keeps the lights on,” she sang as she disappeared toward the bathroom. It was a familiar refrain: ever since our little disagreement, she’d been getting a huge kick out of plunging the room into darkness, taping little notes over the light switch and across the refrigerator door:
Coal keeps the fridge on, bitches!

She wasn’t going to sway me anytime soon. “I love you, too!” I called out after her. “Bye!”

The quiet really was awesome. It felt restorative, like sleep or good food. I basked in it, in the glow of doomed and beautiful Ralph Touchett, as I listened to the bustle outside the door: parents reuniting with their kids, planning their mornings. I chewed on a coconut doughnut and contemplated the absolute gorgeousness of solitude.

Then the phone rang. I sensed who it was before I picked up.

“Mason?”

Pause.

I tried again. “Mason?”

“Holy shit, how’d you do that?”

I grinned. “Sixth sense.”

The sweetness of my impromptu breakfast, the chocolaty sound of Mason’s surprised voice: My heart was on a sugar high. “So what’s up?”

“Your parents coming?”

Pause. “Nope. Yours?”

Pause. “Nope.” Another pause. “Want to meet me in the auditorium in an hour? You know, to take a look at the script?”

I examined the coconut piled on my doughnut, imagined reading the pieces like tea leaves. Where was Chloe’s 8 Ball when I needed it?

“Okay,” I said, hoping I sounded nonchalant.

“Are you eating something?”

“A coconut doughnut.”

“You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full. It’s rude.” I could hear him smiling through the phone.

“Good
bye
, Mason.”

I hung up the phone and spent the next five minutes suspended somewhere in the emotional no-man’s-land between giddiness and fury, jumping up and down and spinning around the room, trying to shake up my heart like a Magic 8 Ball, hoping I’d be able to look in the mirror and see the answer to my question revealed in my face: What, exactly, was happening to me?

The auditorium looked different — bigger — with nobody in it. My footsteps echoed throughout the darkened hall as I walked across the polished wood of the stage. Above me, the lights dozed on their tracks, all but one: a single spotlight angling a gentle column of light on center stage. I breathed in the familiar smell of paint — paint mixed with dust and anticipation. It was like returning home after a vacation and being reminded, as soon as you enter the door, that your house has a distinct
home
-smell, a smell that’s as much a part of your house — of you — as brick and mortar, as breathing.

I stepped into the light and let my bag fall to the floor. There were the empty seats, stretched in rows before me, holding their breath. Just to remember what it felt like, just to see if I still had it, I set my voice free, a blue butterfly fleeing the net:
“‘Open your ears; for which of you will stop the vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks?’”

Three slow claps resounded from somewhere in the dark room. My heart echoed each of them with a reverberating
thud
.

I shaded my eyes, peering into the dark. “Mason?”

“Henry Four, Part Two,” said Mason’s disembodied voice. “Very impressive.”

Thud, thud
. “Where are you?”

“Up here.”

I looked up to find Mason sitting on the catwalk, swinging his legs, pointing his camera at me. Suddenly self-conscious, I folded my arms across my chest. “How long have you been up there?”

“Long enough to get to watch you while you didn’t know I was watching.”

I swallowed, hard. “Get down here.”

With a grace that wasn’t lost on me, Mason traversed the catwalk and climbed down an impossibly narrow spiral staircase concealed at the rear of the wings. “Hi,” he said, joining me in the pool of light.

“Hi.” I shifted from one leg to the other and finally decided to sit cross-legged on the floor. I was having trouble looking him in the eye. “Let’s get started.”