Sean Griswold's Head (6 page)

“No.” Jac picks up the phone. “I'm just going to call him and ask.”

SIX

I lunge for the phone. “You are NOT calling Sean Griswold! You don't even know his number.”

“Lollipop.” Jac hides the phone behind her back. “This is for you. Penetrating investigative research requires a leap out of our comfort zones.”

“My comfort zone is research analyst.
You're
leaping into stalker status.”

She clicks the mouse. “Look, there's his phone number. It's a sign. And who are we to defy a cosmic sign?”

“First off, this is
my
assignment. And second, I'm supposed to be writing about his head, not calling him on the phone.”

“Right.” Jac punches in the number. “His head, which is messed up in the picture and we are about to find out why.”

I grab for the phone again but before I can stop her, someone picks up the other line.

“Hi. Is Sean there?” Pause. “Do you know where he is?” Longer pause. “This is a friend of his. We go way back. But no message. Thanks.”

Relief floods over me and I burst into giggles. He isn't there. He isn't going to find out about my Focus Journal. “You go way back?”

Jac starts giggling too. Every time we try to say something, we look at each other and laugh more, until we're not so much laughing at the phone call as we are just laughing to laugh.

Jac finally flops down on her bed, her hair spraying across the many pillows. Her pink strappy tank top and retro-print skirt clash beautifully with the olive bedspread. “Third grade
is
way back.”

“Oh, yeah. You two are soul mates.”

“What was I supposed to say? I don't know who I just talked to, but he was weird. Started to tell me Sean was at the movies, then got all secretive and began asking questions.”

“Well, it was probably his dad. That's how dads are.”

“Maybe. Or a cousin. Or a fellow gang member, or … Who else could it be?”

I shrug. “You're asking me? How would I know?”

“Well, if you were a good stalker—”

“I'm not a—”

“Fine. If you were a good”—she does air quotes with her fingers—“ ‘Research Analyst' you would. Anyway, I'm going to figure out that huge scar mystery soon, and then I want to know who that crusty guy I just talked to is.” Jac twists a braid around her finger. “And I wonder what kind of movies Sean likes?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Wrong question. This is fun. So why not?”

“Maybe we're taking it too far. I'm just keeping a stupid journal about his head. I don't need to know the rest of this stuff.”

“Really? I think you do.” Jac rolls out of her bed and crawls back over to the computer. “Like, a scientist starts with a hypothesis, right?”

“Yeah.”

“But their findings and experiments can take them in a whole new direction. They start off asking why snakes have scales and end up finding a cure for cancer!”

“That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.”

“You're limiting yourself, that's all I'm saying. You have a mighty fine specimen with tons of research potential. Branch out. Start with the cut.”

I glance at the clock and shoot up. “Crap. I've got to study for my algebra midterm.”

“You … you aren't ready?”

I avert my eyes. It's a first, for sure. “Technically … no. But it'll be fine. I'd better call Trent to pick me up. I'll figure out what to do with the Sean stuff. And Jac?”

Jac looks up from the website photo. “Yeah?”

“Promise me no more phone calls.”

Jac lets out a theatrical sigh. “You really are taking all the drama out of this.”

Trent picks me up, but only after Jac spends a good five minutes flirting with him. Trent even goes along with it to humor her. At least I hope that's the reason. The alternative is too disgusting to imagine.

Trent sings along with his punk music as we drive home, a clear indicator he's in a good, nonconfrontational mood. I relax and even join in on the lines I know, which isn't hard because it's mostly just repeated, angst-ridden rants against society. I secretly agree with some of the punk theology, although I don't know how following the anarchist trend is possible. Following any sort of establishment goes against the very definition of anarchy. I'm trying in vain to explain this to Trent when he stops the car in the driveway and sighs.

“Payton. When are you going to start acting your age?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just used the words
theology
and
angst-ridden
to describe music.”

“That's not music.”

“Well, you should be like, Wow, this totally rocks! or something less … less …”

“Intelligent?”

“Exactly. No.” He pauses. “Just more teenagerish.”

“I did teenagerish things all weekend, whatever that means.”

“Like what? Discuss global warming?”

“No, even though I should point out global warming is not an age-specific concern. Everyone, young and old, has to share this planet and—”

“See.”

“All right. Teenagerish. We did hair. Ate junk. Stalked boys.”

“My sister a stalker? Doubt it.”

I bristle. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you don't exactly walk on the wild side. This stuff with Mom and Dad is the most rebellious I've seen you. Caleb didn't believe me when I told him you weren't talking to them.”

“What does Caleb know about me anyway? He lives on the other side of the world.”

“And before that he lived in the same house as you, and even if he didn't, everyone knows you're totally straight edge.”

“No way! I do outrageous things.”

“Like what?”

My mind goes blank. “One time I wore mismatched socks to school for a whole day.”

Trent throws back his head and laughs.

“On purpose!” I add. “Someone has to be good after the reputations you and Caleb had.”

Trent dries his eyes on the collar of his shirt. “True. You're the glue. That's why Dad—”

I open the car door before he can make me feel any worse. “I gotta start studying. Night.”

But I don't get much studying done. Instead, I log back onto Sean's mom's site and stare at a beaming Sean. I go to bed with the same question that has been bugging me for days—how can you go so long knowing someone without really
knowing
them at all?

Payton's Focus Exercise AKA PFE

January 28 Right before the departure bell

Topic: A brief review of last week's Sean findings

**Note: After much scientific consideration (and encouragement from Jac), I've decided to expand upon my head research and include the rest of Sean in my exercises. For science's sake.

SEVEN

Midterms—an overview.

1. My highlighting system saves me in English.

2. Reasoning and guessing get me through algebra.

3. I'm not sure about the multiple choice in history, but I compared everything to Modern America on the essays. Can't go wrong with that.

4. We do a word search in health. God bless whoever schlepped Coach Essary through college.

5.
Español es muy simpatico
. Especially since my mom is always speaking it under her breath. Although those words did not appear on the test.

6. Biology. There are questions from the videos. Unfortunately for me, there is not one question about Sean's head.

Another Payton's Focus Exercise

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to broadcast this news:

Sean Cut His Hair

• No more neck hair!

• It's kind of spiky—makes him look older.

• And somehow, his head looks smaller. Maybe all that “bigness” was the work of voluminizing shampoo.

• His scar is SO clear. How did I not notice it before?

Miss Marietta always returns papers by having the first person in the row pass them back, which is beyond unfair because then everyone who sits in front of you can see your grade. Usually it's fine, but it's the written part of our midterm, which I bombed. I don't need my early-teens crisis broadcast to my whole row.

Sean turns around to hand me the papers and I stare at the scar on the top left edge of his forehead. It's how the last week has played out, actually. Ever since Jac and I saw that picture, the scar has become the focus within my focus. It's so noticeable now—raised with a pinkish tinge.

Jac's been pushing me to ask Sean what happened, until finally I promised to do it today. She has all these scar theories she thinks I should add to my findings, but I like to think my Focus Journal is honest journalism, not the
National Enquirer
equivalent, so I'm not going to include her “Had one lobe of his brain removed” hypothesis to my notes.

Anyway, Sean hands me the papers, then leans over to Spencer Lund to say something. And it's like a window of opportunity is closing, like not finding out about his scar will bring a standstill to my research. I'm starting to enjoy my research. I haven't even done a pie chart yet.

So I tap Sean on the shoulder and he glances back at me.

At this point, I have no plan. I avoid the scar by looking at his eyes, which I notice aren't really brown like I'd originally thought, but almost gold with a brown rim. I should add that to my notes. By now, I've been staring at him for five seconds and his eyebrows are up in a question. So I blurt out the first thing I can think of to say.

“I just got a paper cut. From those papers you passed back.” Liar. I grab my right pointer finger and suck on it.

“Oh. Sorry about that,” Sean says.

“It's just, I really hate cuts, don't you? Paper cuts aren't a big deal, but I've had some nasty cuts before. Like, I had to get stitches on my knee once and it stung for weeks. Have you ever had a cut like that before?”

Sean's eyebrows remain arched, but now they've moved from a question to surprise. I never talk to Sean. He never talks to me. Well, we might say hi or bye or little flickers of small talk, but I've never gone off like I just did. My research has reached a new level. As his eyebrows go back down, the corners of his mouth curve up.

“Yeah, I've had a cut like that before.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You're right. They suck.” And he turns back around.

What was I expecting? A heartfelt retelling of how he got the thing? That we'd suddenly be bonded by flesh wounds?

I crumple up my test without looking at it. I'm sure I failed, just like I'm failing with my Focus Object. Now, if it were Jac, she'd march right up to Sean and ask without hesitation, “So, what's with that scar?”

I hope she doesn't try to “help” like that. Not that I'm into him—it's just that her meddling could really contaminate my findings.

So much for that hope. Jac spends our whole lunch yapping about Sean. Maybe I should have written about the pencil sharpener after all.

“I saw him today. That haircut is smoking hot. And you can see his scar better, which gives him kind of a bad-boy look, don't you think?”

“No.”

“Did you find out where he got it?”

Jac and I have been friends since the world started turning. And I never lie to her. Well, not big lies. Last week, I did say her purple boots were cute over her jeans, but that was only because I really wanted to leave and she'd already changed a gazillion times. I should have told her about the conversation with Sean but something was holding me back.

“Yeah, I asked him.” I nibble on a french fry. “I was right. Fell off his bike. Nothing noteworthy.”

Disappointment clouds her face as she plays with the tab on her Coke can. “Well, that's not very fun. I thought for sure there was some kind of weapon involved. So you really talked to him?”

“I said I did.”

“Maybe this assignment will be good for you after all. You never talk to people you don't know well. I'm proud of you, pumpkin.” Jac wipes a fake tear from her eye. “My little girl is coming out of her shell.”

What I really want to do is crawl into a hole. She's only trying to help—just because she turns everything else into the Jac Show doesn't mean she'll do it with this. “Hey, I still don't know where he goes in between fifth and sixth period. Want to be my assistant analyst?”

Jac puts her hand over her heart. “I would be honored. Maybe we'll find something scandalous after all.”

“Uh … maybe,” I say. Like someone as normal as Sean Griswold could be scandalous. Honestly.

Jac is waiting outside of my class when the fifth period bell rings. I don't bother to ask how she got there so fast. Probably embarrassed Mr. Boyle with an excuse about female problems. She wears a long trench coat and black sunglasses. I already regret asking her for help.

“Where did you get the outfit?” I ask.

“This guy last period had it on and I told him he could copy my homework if I borrowed it. Very James Bond, right?”

“It smells funny.”

“Just adds to the authenticity.”

I spot Sean across the quad, skirting around the cheerleaders, walking with his shoulders slightly hunched. It's not an insecure, Charlie Brown–style walk, but more like he's an island. Not unreachable, not deserted, but still alone. “There's Sean. We have to be quick. Can you take those glasses off so you can actually see him? I don't want to lose him again.”

Jac salutes me and hitches up the collar of her coat. “The sunglasses stay. Just call me the chameleon.”

I grab her hand and weave through the crowded quad until we're a few feet behind Sean. We follow him through the cafeteria, a shortcut to the west wing of the school.

Field Research is tough work, especially with the baggage. Jac lowers her sunglasses at every boy who cruises by, catcalling and purring. When a gangly senior reciprocates her advances with a head nod, she stops completely to flirt. I nudge, then push. “Sorry,” she calls to her admirer. “Top-secret assignment!”

Sean pauses in front of a hallway and looks behind his back. Jac and I both point to the wall and loudly discuss the history of the Spirit of '76 mural. He disappears and we're about to follow him when I realize where he's gone.

“He's going into the Hall of Terror!” I say, grabbing Jac's arm to stop her.

“I know. How cool. And I'm totally going to blend in with this trench coat.” She turns around the corner and since my hand is still on her arm, I involuntarily follow.

Involuntary is putting it mildly. I swore I'd never come back here.

The Hall of Terror is the hallway where the halogen lights burn out sooner than they should. Some say ghosts of past students drink from the water fountain. It is also where the Goths/Druggies/Freaks hang out.

If you have a locker in this hallway, you switch with someone ASAP. Sure, they'll know your locker combo, but people that fried can't even remember their own name, so who cares? Not that I'm trying to regurgitate Modern American high school stereotypes. I'm sure the unsavories have feelings too. Artificial feelings resulting from abusing illegal substances, but feelings nonetheless.

Okay, I am biased, but here's the reason. I had a locker in this hallway at the beginning of the year. It was close to most of my classes, so I declined the two offers to switch. One day, while I was getting my books out of my locker, the looks-like-he's-twenty-and-probably-is junior with the locker above me leaned down and said, “Those among the living should not walk among the dead.” Then, he BIT me. Seriously, like a vampire—although this was more like a nibble on my shoulder. A warning. I was so freaked out that I didn't even care when my new locker was across the school. Better to be late to class than risk a vampire hickey.

“Stop!” I finally get out, my shoulder aching from the memory. “We can't go in the hallway. It'll look … suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

My brain works fast. If she knows I'm simply scared, she'll drag me down the hallway just to help me overcome my fear. “Yeah. We have to be stealth. Let's peek around the corner instead.”

We squeeze behind the wall so we have a better view of the people coming and going. The hairs on my arms stand at attention as each person walks by, but Jac just smiles at all the future criminals.

“Hey, look,” she says. “He's talking to someone.”

I stick my head out from behind the corner and survey the hall. I spot Sean standing by my old locker talking to a guy whose back is to us. The guy says something and Sean laughs. Laughter seems out of place in the Hall of Terror, but for some reason Sean does not. He sticks out appearance-wise with his hair, crisp polo, and Adidas sneakers. But everybody that walks by is oblivious to him, like he's just another school ghost.

“Well, we better get to class,” I say. “Mystery solved.”