The Tear Collector (4 page)

CHAPTER 4
MONDAY, MARCH 9

Is everything okay?” I ask, lightly tapping on the marked-up puke green bathroom stall door.

“Leave me alone,” an unfamiliar female voice hisses back. For a second, the sobbing sounded like Robyn, but that was wishful thinking on my part. I thought she might come back today, but even though Robyn’s strong, she’s not that strong. She’s probably faking an illness to hide not only the breakup but also her own heartbreak from her parents. She knows how rumors fly around this place. I’ve yet to hear a hint before school, but by the end of the day, the news could be like a raging river flood. It only takes one person to break the dam of silence.

“Sorry,” I say to the girl in the stall, wondering who is inside and how I can help. Between classes, the bathroom’s packed with girls texting and talking but few tearing up. I tape on the smudged mirror a flyer about the school’s peer
counseling service. A couple of girls snicker, but I ignore them. They’re smug and happy now, but they’ll need someone like me one day.

“I thought you drowned, Swimmer Girl,” Cody says, when I finally emerge.

“Only in your love,” I say, then kiss him on the cheek. My small hand folds into his, and we start walking together. As we’re walking through the crowded halls, Cody acts as if we’re the only two people in the world. Six months ago, Cody wanted me, but now he needs me; he loves me. At first when walking together, Cody held me in a headlock, but I cut him off until that behavior stopped. Boys, like most mammals, need training before they’re fit for society.

“You wanna roll tonight, Shawty?” he asks. I give him another kiss on the cheek—nothing else is permitted in Lapeer’s halls; almost everything else takes place in the school’s parking lot after, before, and during school. There are plenty of four-wheel hotels around here.

“Sure.” I’m trying not to laugh. We always roll back to the same place: his basement.

“I can’t wait,” he says, pulling me closer, maybe hoping he can hold me forever. But I know that, like a calendar, Cody’s days are numbered. It’s just a matter of how, when, and where. He’ll get hurt no matter what I say, so I need to plan for the best possible outcome for both of us.

I sneak a full-mouth kiss, sucking on Cody’s bottom lip
like a Life Saver, and then turn toward the door. He says good-bye with a kiss on the cheek and a very public smack on my behind. I sigh, then slip in the door as the second bell rings for first period. My last-second arrival draws a frown from Mr. Abraham, our Honors Biology teacher and my mentor.

Mr. Abraham (also known as Mr. A) is not someone I want to disappoint. He’s the school’s swimming coach, and as our adviser, he helped Robyn, me, and some other girls set up the school’s peer counseling program last spring. In class, he’s tough but fair. He doesn’t lecture so much as lead the discussion. He has a swimmer’s body and wears his auburn-just-turning-gray hair short. Half the girls have crushes on him, and a few gay guys do too. His ice blue eyes freeze you in place, and the gentleness of his voice pins you down.

“So, let’s talk about the articles I asked you to read,” he says after everyone settles. My phone’s buzzing. Mr. A’s already taken my phone twice this term; the third time means serious trouble. I wait until he turns to write on the board, then I sneak a peek. Cody’s calling. I know he’s in English class now with Kelsey, so she’s spreading her shit, and I’ll have to clean it up. I’ll hook up with Cody at lunch and erase Kelsey’s rumor, his doubts, and his midday desires.

Mr. Abraham turns and looks at the sea of young faces in this class, which started with the second term in January. All these juniors are so bright, yet also totally clueless.

“Who would like to go first?” Mr. A asks. The class looks
like a roller coaster, with almost everyone raising their hands in the air, except for three people, one of whom is me.

Another is Scott Gerard, which isn’t so odd, and the other is Samantha Dressen, who is
odd
. Recently broken up after a short but stormy relationship—my sources tell me—
they’re
at odds. For weeks she’s been staring black eyeliner daggers at Scott the few times he’s spoken in class.

Scott transferred in at the start of the term from Powers Catholic. He doesn’t talk a lot in class. When he does, half of what he says shows off that he’s plenty smart; the other half is smart-ass comments, showing he’s got a sense of humor, unlike most people in this class. Because of that, the serious types can’t stand him, but I find that mix of shyness and sly comments fascinating. I haven’t gotten to know him yet, either because he seems secure or because he’s just shy. The truth is probably somewhere in between. His head isn’t on his desk—that would call attention—but his silence screams at me. I sense, unlike with Cody, Scott’s brain isn’t just located between his legs.

Mr. Abraham takes a sip from his thermos, then starts the discussion about intelligent design. It’s this movement to teach creation in schools and pretend evolution doesn’t exist. Mr. Abraham had us read several articles: half of the articles supported the idea, the other half attacked it. I’m quiet, which is my usual mode. I’ll let the normal know-it-alls debate the issue. I’m half listening and half thinking about Cody when I hear a strange sound about five minutes before class ends. Not crying, but the sound people make before they weep. I perk up.

I turn toward the back of the room and notice Samantha is squirming in her seat and raking her black painted nails down her long black sleeves. She’s a little overweight, and her layered black Goth attire does a terrible job of hiding it, just like her badly done makeup doesn’t really mask her bad skin. I don’t know, but I suspect that her every-season long sleeves cover cuts on her arms. I’ve long found her intriguing, but very hard to get to know. My numerous attempts in the past to befriend her in person and online have failed. Her thick black eyeliner, her jet-black and pink-streaked hair, and her pierced eyebrow announce her interests. She’s walking that thin dark line between emo chic and Goth chick. Emos I adore, but Goths, I don’t get. One of the beliefs that link them—supernatural beings who live by sucking people’s blood—is an utterly absurd notion. What kind of creature could live on the blandness of human blood?

“I think it’s wrong,” Samantha announces. Everybody looks at her as if they’ve seen a ghost.

“Miss Dressen, you have something to add?” Mr. Abraham asks, almost stunned she’s decided to participate. She’s an A student on paper, but an F in the real world.

“It can’t be true because there is no God,” Samantha announces. Some people giggle, but mostly people act astonished, both by her speaking up in class and the message itself.

“Are you an atheist?” my pal Michael asks in a nonthreatening tone.

“Like any intelligent person would be,” Samantha shoots
back. I look up toward Mr. Abraham, but he’s content to let the conversation continue. Unlike other teachers, Mr. Abraham isn’t just concerned with us memorizing facts; instead, he wants us to think, discuss, and decide.

“Of course there’s a God,” Mary Nyguen says. It’s probably the first time they’ve ever spoken. There’s no natural intersection between the Asian brains and the fringe head cases.

“If so, then which one?” Samantha asks, and then starts pointing around the room, her finger lingering when pointing to Scott. “Your God or yours, or maybe yours?”

It’s a class of many creeds—with Asian kids who I think are Buddhist, a couple Muslim kids, and a few Jewish kids—but they all seem united against Samantha. Some of them start to challenge her, but they seem tentative, like lion tamers breaking in a dangerous new cub.

“Why would an intelligent God design a world with so much misery?” Samantha asks, her voice almost cracking as she answers her accusers. “All religion is a lie because no being could be as cruel as God to allow so much suffering and unfairness in the world.”

“I’m sorry, but I think you’re wrong,” Scott says, almost in a whisper. Everybody’s waiting for a punch line, but I sense he’s serious. Their breakup is breaking out in public.

“Science isn’t about what is right or wrong, but what can be proved,” Mr. Abraham says.

“Look, I don’t want to argue about this,” Scott says, a little
stronger now. He brushes his long brown hair from in front of his eyes, then says, “I go to church every Sunday and my Catholic youth group every Wednesday night. I believe in God. Nobody is going to convince me otherwise.”

“You just don’t want to face facts!” Samantha shouts. “God is a crutch for the crippled.”

“I have faith in a loving God,” Scott replies, as if he is praying aloud. All the hands in the room have gone down, creating the perfect calm for this storm of words and worldviews.

“And all you need is love,” I say to an audience of one as I turn to look closer at Scott.

“There is no God. If there ever was, he is dead. And if he’s not dead, then with all the pain he’s caused, somebody should kill him,” Samantha says, as best I can tell. The last few words are swallowed in sniffles as she suffocates the tears forming inside her. I don’t see a twisted teen, emo chick, or Goth girl like everyone else; I’m sensing a gusher of hidden hurt.

“God loves you, Samantha,” Scott says almost sadly. “God loves all his creatures.”

“Creatures of the night,” Clark Rogers cracks, and someone else howls like a werewolf.

“Well, this was certainly an interesting debate,” Mr. Abraham says. “You see, you can’t separate the cold hard truth of science from the hotbed of human emotion. They’re linked.”

“Can I say something?” I ask as the bell rings. Mr. Abraham
looks skeptical, arching his left eyebrow. He takes another sip from his thermos, then nods in my direction.

“Maybe both Scott and Samantha are right,” I say, struggling to be heard over the gathering of books by most and the pushing back of tears by two seemingly pained souls. I said their names loudly hoping to get their attention. “Maybe there’s a place between fact and faith.”

Mr. Abraham shakes his head in disbelief, as if I were the only other one in the room. I’m not, as both Scott and Samantha remain in their seats like wounded victims on the battlefield. I look at both of them, offering them mercy, but both respond with hard glares. I’m not sure if I’ve taken the first steps toward two new friends or two new enemies, but either way, both seem perfect sources for me to get my fix of emotional energy.

I head off to my next class. I start walking alone, but that never lasts. After first period, everybody is buzzing about Robyn, and they all think I know something. I gossip for a while, talking a lot but not saying anything, and then slip into a space between two rows of lockers to check messages. There’s a new message from Cody, begging me to meet him at lunchtime in his car—a place for makeups, not breakups. There’s another message from Robyn, and strangely, one from Craig. Kelsey’s wrong; Craig isn’t cheating on Robyn with me. But she’s right that I did help spread the rumor about Craig and Brittney. Between hookups, makeups, and breakups, at Lapeer
High School there isn’t a day without drama turning to trauma turning to tears.

“I gotta go,” I say as I put on some more lip balm. I go through a tube a month this time of year, especially in Michigan’s dry winter air. I give Cody a good-bye kiss—on the cheek so he’s not all weirded out—then leave him satisfied and lighting up a smoke in his car. Lunch is only half over. Like on the basketball court, Cody shoots too quickly for his own good.

I tie Cody’s jacket around my waist and jog back toward school. I feel full of energy; energy that’s my own, that I don’t have to share with anyone.

I try calling Robyn a few more times, but she doesn’t pick up. The girl’s hurting, and I have to be there for her. I need her back at school and me back in her car. She’s got a lot of grief to work through. Breaking up can seem almost like death. There are five stages of grief, but there should be a sixth stage: passing on the hurt to someone who can handle it, someone like me.

I skip eating, instead just drinking from my water bottle, then head to the school library. As with any gathering place, there are plenty of friends in the room, so it takes me a while to choose a seat. I’m about to dive in with some swimmer friends when I see Scott Gerard sitting alone at a round table in the back of the room. I ignore the swimmers and, instead, decide to go fishing.

“That was something in Bio today,” I say, sitting down at his table without an invitation.

“I guess,” he mumbles, then goes back to reading his book.

“Cassandra, we’re in Bio together,” I say, lightly, like a joke.

“I know,” he says. He mumbles as if his mouth hurts. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted.”

“No sweat,” I say. “Mind if I sit here?”

He looks at me, then manages a small but nervous smile. “I’d like that.”

We read in silence. He reads his biology text; I try to read his secretive green eyes. With long light brown hair that hangs in his face and the start of a mustache and beard, Scott hides his face under a hair mask. He’s no Cody in terms of looks, but he does know how to open a book, so that’s a plus. After a while, he breaks the silence, and asks, “Who do you think was right?”

“Between you and Samantha?” I ask, and he nods. I pause, take a sip from my water bottle, then say, “Both of you are maybe right. Everything’s got an in-between.”

“You don’t talk much in class either,” he says. He’s noticed me, just as I’ve noticed him, but this morning I saw him in a new light. Every flood starts with just one drop of rain.

“I liked how you told Samantha that God loves her.” He tugs nervously on the silver cross around his neck as my eyes walk over him. I lean closer to ask, “I wonder who she loves?”

“All Samantha loves is her own misery,” he says slowly, then sighs and looks a little ashamed at himself. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem to take delight in the sadness of others.

“Ouch,” I say, and he laughs. It is more of an “I want to laugh at something you say” chuckle, but it’s a start. “So, I guess things are over between the two of you.”