Spontaneous (19 page)

O
f the approximately two hundred seniors trapped in town, forty showed up. Not bad, considering. Rather than split up, we gathered everyone together in what we decided to call Room the First. Jocular and muscular Latin teacher Mr. Spiros greeted us. I'd never taken his class (because, come on, dead language) but I knew his reputation. Outspoken, passionate, considered swoon-worthy by the ones who appreciated beefy braininess. Tess, for instance.

“I've been in it,” he said with a fist raised. “Ears deep in it. Iraq, Afghanistan. The real deal, friends. Until now, I've stayed hush-hush about my experiences as a marine because there were certain
sensitivities
. Yes, a teacher without tenure is a cowardly creature. But tenure doesn't matter much anymore, does it? They can shove their sensitivities up their keisters as far as I'm concerned. Time to get real, right?”

A chorus of “oorah!” from a few lacrosse players in the crowd
was enough to fuel him, and he started pacing around the room.

“Right on, right on,” he said. “We're getting real.
Real
real. Now, let me tell you about some real things. Post-traumatic stress disorder, commonly known as PTSD, is most certainly real. I had it. Or should I say, I have it, because that SOB don't simply fly away like a sparrow on the breeze. The flashbacks, the panic attacks, the sleeplessness, the deep-deep-deep holes. I don't doubt that many of you know what I'm talking about. And I don't doubt that you're drinkin' or druggin' it away. Well, that will only take you so far. You need to talk about this stuff. You need to grab it by the cheeks and give it a good look, and I'm here to help you with that. Because I understand. Boy, do I.”

“War is over for you, Spiros,” Eric Chambers hollered. “We're still in the thick of it.”

“True dat,” Spiros said in the most earnest and adorably lame way. “But I know you can get through it and out the other side. Who here has read Michael Herr's
Dispatches
?”

No hands went up, but the never-ever-shy Greer Holloway asked, “Is that one of those dystopias?”

“If you're asking, ‘Was the Vietnam War a dystopia?' then you better believe it was, sister,” Spiros said. “I first read that book when I was twelve and my dad, who did three tours in 'Nam, dropped it in my lap and said, ‘Now you don't have to bug me with questions.' There's a quote in those pages that I think is especially appropriate for your situation. Herr says, ‘All the wrong people remember Vietnam. I think all the people who remember it should forget it, and all the people who forgot it should remember it
.
'”

“Hits home, homey,” Greer said.

Spiros blasted Greer with finger guns and said, “That's what we're gonna work on. Honoring the ones we lost and making sure you aren't forgotten by the ones who haven't done right by you. And how are we gonna do that? By broadening our minds.”

“Can we read that book?” Greer asked. “Sounds rad.”

“It is most definitely rad, Miss Holloway,” Spiros said. “And I think reading it is an excellent idea. It will be your first assignment for my class, which we will be calling Livin' 101.”

He wrote it on the whiteboard, replacing the
g
with an apostrophe and everything.

Livin' 101 turned out to be a mishmash of history, philosophy, psychology, and good old-fashioned arguments. Had she lived to experience it, debate-team queen Gayle Heatherton would have adored it. It was, I imagine, what school used to be like way back in the day. A safe space to share ideas and challenge peers on common assumptions.

Since we had only four teachers, we decided to have four classes, running an hour and a half each, with a break for lunch. Our next class that day wasn't as intense, but it was equally, if not more, fun.

Essentials of Filmmaking was held in the other room, Room the Second. We'd never had a filmmaking class in school, which had always flummoxed Ms. Felson, an English teacher well liked during her time at Covington High, though her time here didn't last. She had been “let go” the previous year when someone found compromising pictures of her and those pictures made their way onto every kid's phone in about fifteen seconds. Never mind that the images were relatively tame—boobs, basically—and more than
thirty years old. There was instant concern that she was some crafty cougar, a GILF ready to pounce on any unsuspecting, thin-mustachioed Romeo. She was quickly and thoroughly canned.

As for those pictures, they were screenshots from Ms. Felson's brief stint in Hollywood, most notably as a topless bit player in a series of early eighties “boobie movies” with such awesome titles as
G-String Commandos
,
Follow that Virgin!,
and
T&A A&M
. Good for her, I say, because she looked smoking hot—at least she did in the blurry stills I saw—and, it would seem, she learned a thing or two about framing, lighting, and editing while she was at it.

“You're all carrying movie cameras with you every moment of your lives,” she told us. “That's a distinct privilege. Yet you're pointing the lenses at yourselves. Which can be fine. Which can be lovely. Some of the time. How about we use the rest of the time to turn them around? Create the narratives you all deserve, not the ones the world is foisting upon you.”

Next up was Ashtanga yoga with former driver's ed instructor Mr. Harmsa. Why Ashtanga yoga? Because Mr. Harmsa always wanted to teach Ashtanga yoga, and this was the only place he could teach it without certification. While I grumbled at first that it was a waste of time, I will admit that I felt more relaxed and focused after twisting around on the cold floor of Room the First. Becky Groves told me that it was the only time since Katelyn's death she'd felt “at one with the world.” A bit of a stretch for a bit of stretching, perhaps. But hey, if it calmed Becky's nerves, we could all be thankful. No one ever needed to hear that girl scream again.

After yoga, we were treated to a lunch prepared by Kiki Barnett, a Food Network–obsessed junior lunch lady who had aspirations beyond chicken cutlets and taco bars. She whipped up braised short ribs, a black bean and quinoa salad, and key lime pie. Fortified behind the sneeze guard, she passed us our trays and her sorrowful looks, the kind reserved for incontinent pit bulls at dog shelters. When Tess thanked her for the meal, Kiki said, “If a guy on death row gets to eat like royalty, then so should you.”

Right on, Kiki. We'll all be sure to pass our parents your card in case they need someone to cater our wakes.

Finally, it was back to Room the Second, where a teacher who'd never actually taught in Covington greeted us. This was Mrs. Dodd, a kind-faced woman who'd arrived in town with the initial wave of Bible thumpers. She wasn't on the email blast, but once word of our plan reached her, she was determined to be involved. Her first order of business was to nail a carved slab of wood to the wall. The Ten Commandments. Next to it, on the whiteboard, she wrote, “The Old Testament.”

“Separation of church and state, lady,” Claire said. “Separation. Of church. And state.”

“The state has abandoned you, dear,” Dodd replied. “The Lord has not.”

Then the willow-voiced firebrand treated us to an hour-and-a-half-long reading from Ecclesiastes.

“‘Vanity of vanities, vanity of vanities. All is vanity!'” she began, which sounded like a condemnation of our selfie-happy generation. Ecclesiastes was also particularly self-serving for Mrs. Dodd,
seeing that it's told from the perspective of a wise teacher. But wouldn't you know it? We dug it. Most of us, at least, because it ended up being about the importance of living in the moment and how we're all powerless to our fates. In other words, ancient and yet timely. More than relatable. We all went home humming the old folk tune that was inspired by those biblical verses.

To everything, turn, turn, turn. There is a season, turn, turn, turn . . .

The season was winter. It was cold, cold, cold. But good God, was it something. Not all my classmates agreed, but I thought school was more interesting than it had ever been. In the morning, we had rousing bitch sessions and discussions about life, the universe, and everything led by Mr. Spiros. Then we'd share the highlights of our collected video footage, and Ms. Felson would load it into Final Cut Pro, where we could edit and add music and narration.

Within a week, I could do the variety of yoga poses that made sex with Dylan less taxing on the lungs. We were toning our bodies, expanding our minds, pushing our boundaries. Many of us had our first taste of offal, for instance, thanks to the killer mushroom-stuffed cow's heart Kiki served us for lunch on Valentine's Day. Which might've seemed wildly inappropriate if it didn't taste so damn good.

By the time daylight saving time kicked in and the first whiffs of spring were in the air, we'd heard a big chunk of the Bible and we
knew more than most about begetting and bloodletting. Plenty of boring stuff in that book, but when you strip away the filler, there are some inspiring stories too. At the risk of sounding entirely full of myself, I was like Noah. I had called all the students to school and—like the ark—it was carrying us across the floodwaters to safety.

Because you guessed it, during those wonderful first six weeks, no one—not a single person—blew up.

R
osetti made good on her promise. Every day, she was there, patrolling the halls and parking lot, occasionally popping into classes. Which, I'll admit, was weird at first, but after a while it made me feel more secure. Like she was a big sister who was keeping an eye on me. And packing heat. We didn't discuss anything about government conspiracies in the building, but we did trade knowing glances whenever we passed each other, and I always texted her the latest gossip.

Kids were apprehensive at first, but I spread a rumor that Rosetti was once a consultant on the set of a
Fast & Furious
movie, and soon she was garnering tons of attention. Which she seemed to enjoy. I'd notice her smiling when she was bullshitting with students and her wardrobe gradually shifted from pantsuits to outfits that could have, in certain lights, been mistaken for youthful and fashionable.

Dylan obviously wasn't thrilled by Rosetti's constant presence, and I never told him about the burner and what it meant. In simple terms, it meant I had connections to a world he wasn't a part of. And that was okay. That was a good thing, actually.

“I don't understand what you see in her,” he said to me one morning as Rosetti's Tesla glided through the late March rain and into the parking lot.

“I see a badass chick who cares about the future,” I responded.

“This is a job to her,” Dylan said. “That's all. Like it was a job when she nearly ruined my family. She doesn't care about people. She's an opportunist.”

“What's wrong with doing your job?” I asked. “What's wrong with being an opportunist? If I wasn't an opportunist then this whole school thing wouldn't be happening, would it?”

Dylan conceded with a wink. “The difference is I love you.”

I kissed him on the cheek. “I'm sorry she brings back bad memories, but she's keeping us safe now, making sure we only get good memories.”

“Well, these memories, this
school thing
, it's great and all . . .” Dylan's voice trailed off.

“But?”

“But wouldn't it be nice to get away from her and everyone else?” Dylan said. “To have the option, at least. I heard the Shop City kids are having spring break. Jetting off to the Bahamas or whatever. That sounds nice, doesn't it?”

“It does. But I never pictured you as a beach bum.”

“I'm not. It's what it represents. The freedom to come and go.”

I knew exactly what he meant. My first taste of freedom had
been at the beach, sharing adventures with Tess.

“We may not be able to get away from everyone,” I told him. “But we still can have a spring break. All we have to do is bring the beach here.”

“Ha-ha. Hilarious. So I was fantasizing. No need to make fun of it.”

“I'm serious. Opportunism, my boy. There's sand to be had somewhere, right? I mean, people have sandboxes. And we've got an entire pool that isn't being used.”

It was another fine thought from the old Mara Carlyle think tank, and wouldn't you know it, there was some extra-fine follow-up from the brand-new Covington High do-tank. Our always-scheming classmate Dougie O'Shea took the lead, and a few days after I proposed the idea, his father and a few marble-mouthed construction compatriots backed a convoy of sand-filled trucks up to the entrance near the pool. Spring break arrived right on schedule.

“Where'd they get it?” Dylan asked, watching in awe as the men attached hoses that would blow the sand halfway up the bleachers and all over the deck.

“Down the shore,” Dougie said. “Sea Girt has plenty to share.”

Maybe, though I doubted
share
was the right word.

“Exactly how much sand is that?” Dylan asked.

“I believe that is a shit-ton,” I said.

“A
metric
shit-ton,” Dougie corrected us. “We're Irish, son. Respect!”

Respect was given. After all, by the end of the day, the O'Shea crew had created an indoor beach that surrounded the pool and
spilled into the adjacent gym. Bonus: We didn't have to worry about permanent damage.

“They're gonna demo this place once we graduate,” Dougie explained. “Dad wrapped that contract up quick as shit. The town isn't ever gonna be down with this school again. Might as well fill the bitch with dirt, amirite?”

As dirty as
the bitch
was, some kids were definitely still down with it. When word got out that school was a whole lot better than sitting home and moping, more seniors began showing up. And when the final holdouts discovered that we were spending spring break lounging and swimming in addition to broadening our minds, they poured in as well.

How did they find out about the glories of our education experiment, you wonder? The handful of reporters and documentary filmmakers who remained in town still stopped by on occasion, but we were the ones who spread the word through our videos.

It's amazing what a little crowdsourcing and free time can do. Every week, the seniors cobbled together a thirty-minute video of interviews and candid footage of our days, which we then posted to YouTube. And people watched. Boy, did they watch. Basically overnight, we had an audience that was hundreds of times as big as Billy Harmon's. Millions and millions of views.

They came for obvious reasons—gore and explanations. When they didn't get those things, they stayed for the characters. Because, come on, we were interesting kids. Our videos premiered on Monday mornings and became water-cooler fodder, more talked about than any movie or TV show. We expressed our fears, our dreams.
We detailed our little annoyances and cosmic questions. There was joy too—laughing and hanging out at the beach and whatnot. But most of all, we were honest. Sometimes honesty is enough.

One of the viewers' favorite pastimes was
shipping
my various classmates. That is, making up imaginary love connections, or relation
ships
.

I ship Malik and Greer.

I realize Clint's not gay but I totally ship Kylton and Clint.

I ship Dylan and Jane so friggin much. Awww!

Yes, “awww!” Because, yes, “Jane!” She showed up right after spring break, when there was a sudden influx of cash. The subscribers who saw the sad state of our school started donating money to help make the facilities cleaner and safer.

Jane would have been content earning her GED, but her dad pressured her into returning to school for the sake of “establishing valuable credentials and contacts by letting people see you for the wonderful student and mother you are.”

At least that's what she said on the first video she appeared in, which is where I primarily saw her. I avoided Jane as much as I could. Which wasn't too hard. We still had only four teachers, but our numbers had swelled to 160 students by the beginning of April, so we split into four groups of 40. Each teacher taught each group one of the four periods. Luckily, Tess and Dylan were still in my group, the original forty “Pioneers,” as we liked to call
ourselves. We'd see the other students at lunch, or after school, when representatives from each group would get together to cull and edit video footage.

Like everyone else, I had only a partial say in how I was depicted in the videos. The mantra was, “If it's interesting, it goes in.” Which meant my lunchtime PDA with Dylan was left on the cutting room floor, but Jane quickly became a star.

Hardly surprising. A mother of three, trying to make good—that's damn compelling. Not to mention she was a fountain of weepy sound bites like, “Three smiling faces are all that matter to me” and “When it gets to the point that I am nothing but a memory to my boys, I want them to remember that I tried.”

To make sure that Dylan wasn't seen as some deadbeat dad, I let it slip that his brother was the father of Jane's triplets, one of my few comments to make a video's final cut. Nevertheless, the public preferred a Dylan-and-Jane pairing to a Dylan-and-me pairing, which was more than a little disheartening.

I set up a Google Alert for my name, which I know is basically the corner where masochism meets narcissism, but I couldn't help it. It should come as no surprise that it was upsetting to check my email every morning and see what the world was saying about Mara Carlyle. However, it wasn't that people were calling me an evil harpy or anything. It was that they were hardly talking about me at all.

Jane, on the other hand, had countless Tumblrs and Pinterest boards dedicated to her quotes and “Rolling in the Deep” became something more than just the title of an Adele song. Since Jane's
last name was Rolling and she was perceived as being “deep,” this tired pun—shortened into the hashtag #RITD—became a way to share the wisdom of the world's favorite teen mom.

Even Tess wasn't immune. On Picture Day, she wore a T-shirt with a quote from Jane on it:

GO PET A DOG ALREADY. #RITD.

I know. I didn't understand it either.