Sean Griswold's Head (3 page)

FOUR

The next morning, I literally lose myself in my closet looking for a sock. Which leads me to the question—where do lost socks
go
? I bet if you corralled all the renegade socks and stitched them into a blanket, it'd cover more of the earth than the waning ozone layer. Not that I'm worried about the world's sock crisis. I hardly have time to find one matching pair. I have to get to school and begin my more in-depth analysis of Sean's dome.

“I can't afford another tardy. Come on,” Jac says, dodging a flying hanger.

I poke my head out from my disaster of a closet. “Walk by yourself if you can't wait.”

“Walk by myself? And risk catching social leprosy?” She sighs. “I'll wait.”

“Sorry. Almost done.” I push some old books into another corner. “Hey, since when did you become the President of Punctuality?”

“Since you can't even match your socks, let alone an outfit. I mean, I've never even seen your bed unmade, and now this room looks like it's exploded. And I love you, but, seriously—what's with the sweater?”

I look down at my ensemble and shrug. Sure, green argyle and red cords might not be fashion forward, but at least it's clean. Kind of clean. It has a weird locker room stank and an orange crust on the collar. Maybe it was supposed to be in the dirty pile, not the clean pile heaped next to it. “They're just clothes.”

Jac recoils like she's been slapped. “
Just
clothes?”

There's a tap on my bedroom door and my mom peeks her head in. “You girls are going to be late for school if you don't leave in the next five minutes.”

I bury my head under some laundry. It's too early to face her Colombian temper.

“And I'm going to call Ms. Callahan and make sure you attend all your appointments,” Mom says more loudly. “She said she had three meetings yesterday and she still managed to fit you in.”

“Found it!” I ignore my mom and wave a purple striped sock in the air. Jac scrunches up her nose and shakes her head.

Mom sighs. “Payton, I know Ms. Callahan has a reputation for being … unorthodox, but if you aren't going to talk to us, you need to at least give this an honest try.”

Honest. Huh. I might not read many parenting magazines, but I'm guessing there aren't too many articles entitled “How to Send Your Kids to a Deranged High School Guidance Counselor After They Find Out You Lied to Them! Ten Easy Steps.” So I'd like to know where my mom got the revolutionary idea that talking to Ms. Callahan during my much-needed nutrition breaks is going to get me to talk to them. What would I even say? Dad, your butt isn't as hairy as I would have thought. Mom, you're so good with a needle you should go into nursing. And folks, thanks for feeding me a steady six-month diet of bull crap.

I slip on the sock and avoid Mom's gaze by fumbling with my shoe. She exchanges a worried look with Jac that I pretend not to see. Sighing, Mom finally makes her exit.

Jac breathes out. “Is it cold in here or is it just you?”

“I'm feeling rather toasty, actually.” I finish tying the laces and give myself a once-over in the mirror. The sweater has to go.

“I can't believe you're mad at your dad for being sick.”

“I'm not mad at him for being sick! I'm mad at them for lying. You should be able to relate to that.”

“That's why? Really?”

No. Yes. That's part of it but … I don't know.
“I don't want to talk about it,” I say, throwing her my
drop it
look for added emphasis.

“So what's the big deal with visiting a counselor?” Jac taps her braces thoughtfully. “It gives you a little mystery. Guys love mystery.”

I tug at the sweater, my muscular shoulders making it difficult to derobe gracefully. I finally succeed and throw the offensive item onto the cluttered floor. The static of the wool electrifies my frizzy brown hair. “Counselors are for crazies.”

She points to my hair and grins. “Pumpkin, you iron your father's Dockers
for fun
. You were nuts long before this counselor came along.”

“That's not crazy. It's cathartic.”

“Cathartic? Isn't that, like, a laxative?”

“No, well yes, but that's not the definition I meant. I mean
catharsis
, an emotional purging.”

“You just compared pressing pleats to diarrhea. You are crazy.”

“Whatever.” I slip a mustard yellow shirt off a hanger and hold it up. Jac snatches it and hands me a simple gray V-neck instead. I match. I think. “I haven't ironed in forever. And the only thing crazy about me is my choice in friends.”

I love the girl to death, but it's true—Jac's certifiable, but in a far more purposeful way. Today she's wearing an eighties rock T-shirt with a Victorian skirt, orange suede clogs, and massive hoop earrings. Half of her long honey blond hair is braided while the other half flows free. It's not just her style. She uses random pet names for everyone, calling the postman sugar or the garbage guy lamb chop. Even her own name is bipolar—she's constantly switching between Jaclyn and Jac.

“What an honor.” Jac hooks her arm through mine, guiding me out of the room and down the stairs. “Please don't forget us little people when they send you off to the psych ward.”

I laugh, relieved I have Jac so I can joke about it with someone. And it really is funny that someone like me, someone appearing on every dean's list since preschool (okay, maybe preschools don't have a dean. But if they did …), has counseling appointments sandwiched between those of the school pyro and a notorious cheater.

My laughter stops once I'm in the kitchen. Trent, clad in scrub bottoms and an ancient Hooters shirt, leans against the counter, sipping a nauseating French coffee some desperate girl got him as a Christmas present. I grab an apple and hurry past, hoping to escape without conflict. I'm halfway out the door when I realize I've lost Jac, whose flirt radar is a twenty-four-hour marvel.

“So, how is swimming? You look like you've been practicing.” Jac pours herself a cup of coffee and squeezes Trent's arm. “Or at least lifting weights.”

“Jac.” Trent scoots over. “Don't.”

“But why?”

“You know it's illegal for me to flirt back.”

“It's illegal for
Caleb
to flirt back,” Jac says, like she's researched this thoroughly. Her crush on my brothers takes the “we could be sisters!” thing
way
too far. “He's twenty-three. But since you are still a teenager and I would totally consent—”

“Wouldn't happen. Even if you are cuter than any of the girls I ever went to high school with.”

Jac squeals at the compliment. “But when I'm thirty you'll be thirty …”

She's crunching the numbers when my dad jogs in, drenched in sweat. “Morning, kids.”

I choke on a piece of apple. I have his schedule timed now so I can avoid these awkward moments. This isn't fair. We have a routine. Well, he has a routine and I coordinate mine so they never overlap.

He opens the fridge and gulps orange juice directly from the carton. “You kids should come shoot around with me. I actually made a few this time. Guess you didn't want to get schooled before school, huh?”

At least Dad feels good enough today to exercise. That eases some of my anxiety.

Trent snorts and shakes his head. “Keep telling yourself that, Dad.”

“So, Jac.” Dad wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Tell me how your first few weeks back from break are going. Still love high school?”

“No, Mr. Gritas. I've grown out of it.”

“After one semester?”

“Yeah. I should just skip high school altogether, move on to college studies. College men. See, I'm really mature for my age—”

“Let's … let's go, Jac,” I say.

Jac's lips settle into a practiced pout. “But I was finally wearing Trent down.”

I abandon trying to give her the eye and focus on the hardwood floor. Dad's looking at me, I know it, looking at me with that what-happened-to-my-little-girl? look. Well, what happened is I grew up. And since he neglected to notice that, he thought it was okay to lie and protect me.

It's more than that, though. Not that I can really explain what the
more
is. All I know is that anytime I've seen either of my parents these last couple of weeks, I get a hot flash of mad. Which, of course, makes me feel awful. Then they'll do or say something and I stop feeling sorry and just feel … I don't know what it is. But it hurts.

It's pretty obvious why my calculated avoidance is easier. Why can't they give me some space? Eyes still focused on the ground, I grab Jac's hand. “Gotta go start my head research.”

The door slams behind us. And I know it's impossible, but I can still feel my dad's eyes following me.

I would be lying if I said I didn't get a kick out of the assignment. Here I am, a “troubled youth,” and my self-chosen treatment is to become a stalker. Okay, not stalker. Research Analyst.

We race to school so I'll have some time to stake out Sean's locker. Jac's idea, of course. She's offered to aid in my mental healing because she has more experience when it comes to boys. As in, she's had experience—period. Boys are like Greek to me. Foreign.

“What's the rush?” I ask Jac once we're settled behind the large cement pillar about five feet from Sean's locker. “Why can't I just record my notes in biology?”

Jac blows a bang out of her face. “Pookie. You have to have fresh angles. Different lighting, different movement. And you can see the whole head, not just the back.”

“Well,
I
better get started then,” I say.

“What, you want me to leave? Fine. But make sure you see what's in his locker. You can tell a lot by what a guy has in his locker. It's like seeing into his soul.” She does a double take as a boy walks by. “Look at that. Taj Langely. Holy mother, his shoulders are manly.”

Jac leaves to pursue her own never-ending research of the male specimen, and I wait for Sean to get to school. Hmm. Funny, I don't even know how Sean gets to school.

Or where he lives.

Or who he lives with.

Or what he lives like.

Or what his likes
are
.

I guess I don't know Sean Griswold.

No.
Of course
I know Sean. I've known him for over seven years. He was the Tin Man and I was the Cowardly Lion in our fifth-grade production of
The Wizard of Oz
. When he threw up in seventh-grade math, it was on
my
favorite pair of sandals. The day after I lost the race for freshman class president, he turned around in biology and told me, “You're the better man, well, girl, for the job. Sorry you lost.” I've lent the kid countless number two pencils and he's passed back limitless papers.

I can't remember school without Sean Griswold in it; yet I can't remember us ever having a real conversation.

Sean gets to his locker about five minutes before the morning bell. He carries a bike helmet under one arm and shoves it into his locker along with some weird-looking shoes. Taped inside the locker is a collage of cyclists. No pictures of skanky girls like most gorillas at this school. No cutouts of sports heroes. Just bike riders in neon spandex. He slams the locker shut before I can see more. I wait until his big blond head bobs around the corner and slide out my Focus Journal.

Payton's Focus Exercise AKA Sean Notes

January 18 7:58
AM

Topic: Bicycle Boy

I. Introduction

A. Sean is either scared of aliens and wears a helmet to protect himself from getting his brains sucked out or, more likely, he rides a bike.

B. Another clue to that fact would be the excessive array of cycling pictures plastered in his locker. Where do you even find pictures like that?
Dork Riders Weekly
?