The Tragedy Paper (19 page)

I took off my clothes, knowing they were dirty—gross, even—and at the same time thinking how close I had been to Vanessa when I was wearing them. I put on clean jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed my backpack and my way-too-thin Tragedy folder, and pulled open the door. Patrick was standing there.

My first thought was to run, or slam the door shut. It made sense to me that he was going to be very angry with me. I showed him up. I did a better job than he was able to do. He wasn’t going to let me get away with that.

But when I looked at his face, I saw immediately that I was wrong. He looked great, fresh and clean and ready for the day. He looked relaxed.

“How is she?” he asked, but he asked like he already knew the answer—that she was okay because I took care of her, I did his dirty work.

“Okay,” I said. “Better.”

“Are you just getting back now?” he asked. Maybe it was starting to dawn on him how much help she had needed.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a bit trapped and—dare I add—proud. He knew. Obviously, he had been looking for me. But the last thing I wanted to do was make him jealous and feed the anger I imagined was waiting to explode.

“Were you … with her … this whole time?”

I could have lied. I could have said no, I had gone to the Hall to study or write as much as I could of my Tragedy Paper. I could have said I took a walk, or sat on the quad thinking. But I didn’t.

“Yes,” I said. “I cleaned up a little, and I gave her some ice chips. And then I fell asleep. I didn’t mean to. I was shocked when I woke up and it was after seven. But she knew exactly how to get me back. It involved waiting until just the right moment, when the hall was empty, and putting on a pink hooded sweatshirt.”

Patrick nodded, a smirk on his face.

“That’s an old trick.” he said. And then he looked me in the eyes and smiled. “I can’t thank you enough, man. I mean, I couldn’t hack it. I couldn’t stand that smell. But you did it—you stepped in for me and you did it. I owe you one. Oh, and I’d really appreciate it if this could be our little secret, okay?”

I was dumbfounded. And then I remembered what I looked like, something I hadn’t thought about in hours. Of course he didn’t see me as a threat. He never did. And that pissed me off.

“I didn’t do it for you,” I said. “I did it for her.”

It was a bold move. Something I wouldn’t normally do, but how dare he think I was filling in for him, that I was his cleanup man, his helper? I was done with that. But something clicked in me and I thought,
Why not let him think that?
He looked so confused and surprised. It wasn’t going to last long.

“But you’re welcome,” I said quietly. “There’s no denying that smell was horrible.”

“Yeah, I mean, who would ever think such an awful smell could come from such a hot girl?”

I had to let it go. I just nodded, trying not to look as offended as I was.

“I’ve gotten some feedback already from a few of the guys on the hall,” Patrick said, running his fingers through his thick hair. “Everyone is psyched about the outing. Now we have to get things ready.”

“Really? Already?” I asked. I was starting to worry that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with everything.

He patted me on the back and turned toward the bathroom. I was relieved. I couldn’t take any more banter with him. I would wash up later.

I headed in the other direction, toward Mr. Simon’s office.
The halls were quiet, with everyone enjoying the cinnamon buns they were serving for breakfast. It was a nice time at the Irving School, one I never really took advantage of, and for a brief moment I thought about how lucky I was to be there.

Mr. Simon was looking through a huge stack of files when I peeked in his office door, and I worried for a minute that those were the files of all the seniors who turned in their work early or, worse, did more than they had to. The files looked pretty thick.

Mr. Simon wore one of those Norwegian sweaters from L.L.Bean, the kind that is navy blue with white flecks, the kind that you never see a student wearing. He had on faded jeans and his hair was neatly combed.

“Excuse me, Mr. Simon?” I asked.

Mr. Simon looked through me for a minute before registering my question.

“Yes, Tim, of course, come on in,” he said warmly.

“What is all that?” I asked.

“These, my friend, are the best Tragedy Papers from over the years. I keep them locked in my desk drawer, but on exciting days like this, I can’t help but take them out and read through them. Listen to this,” he said, looking through the pile of folders and grabbing one. “This is how it begins: ‘On October third of last year, a restaurant called Flying High burned down. It burned to the ground, killing six employees inside. It was the day the restaurant was to celebrate
its seventy-fifth anniversary. There was a party planned. People were going to arrive in a matter of hours. What they found when they got there was a charred mess, ambulances waiting to see if anyone had been overlooked in the chaos, and the owners sobbing in the parking lot. Was this a tragedy?’ ” Mr. Simon stopped reading and looked out the window. I followed his gaze to the quad, where the leafless trees blew in the mid-February wind.

“Wow,” I said, because I had no idea what to say. That wasn’t what I had in mind at all.

“ ‘Wow’ is right,” Mr. Simon said, coming back to face me. “I love that question, ‘Was this a tragedy?’ ”

“Was it?” I asked.

“Ah, you don’t think it is as easy as that, young man, do you?” he said. “But, for the sake of our discussion, what do you think?”

I actually wasn’t sure. “Do you mean, was it a tragedy in the literary sense?”

“I’m glad you came to our school,” Mr. Simon said, surprising me. “It’s nice to have a new mind, a different perspective, join the class. That is an excellent question. Was it a tragedy in the literary sense, and what would another sort of tragedy be?”

“A tragic happening?” I offered. I’d been to class. I was getting to know his lingo.

“Yes! And is there a difference? Can you separate the two? Is there any reason to?”

He sat back. The halls were getting busy. I glanced at the clock. Class began in nine minutes. Mr. Simon shook his head.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. “I have a feeling this isn’t what you came to talk to me about.”

“Well, in a way it is,” I said. “I feel … overwhelmed by this assignment. I think I’m lagging behind.”

“That’s understandable,” he said kindly. “The other students have about a four-month jump on you. I take this to mean you aren’t ready for today. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly feeling like I really hadn’t tried hard enough. I was disappointing him.

“Okay, clearly you’re thinking about this stuff,” he said. He gathered the files and put them back in his bottom drawer. He took a tiny key out of his front pocket and locked the drawer, then slipped the key back into his pocket. “Can you get the first five pages to me by Monday?”

It was Wednesday. That would give me the whole weekend. That was much more than I could have asked for.

“I absolutely can do that.… That would be great,” I said.

“Let me leave you with a few parting thoughts, and then we should get to class,” he said. “I’m not saying this is right or wrong, necessary or not, but here are some things to consider. You’ve heard me talk about them a bit in class, but you missed the real push in the fall. Pity and fear. A tragic flaw. A reversal of fortune that might or might not come
from an error in judgment. Irony. Catharsis. Monomania—do you know what that is?”

“Being obsessed with one goal?” I said. I wasn’t even sure where that answer came from.

“Yes!” he said, one hand waving in the air like he was conducting an orchestra. “Also keep in mind the move from order to chaos to order again,” he said.

“Like that restaurant fire?” I asked. “There was order—the planned celebration, their daily activity—and then chaos with the fire and the deaths, and then, was there order again? How did it turn out?”

Mr. Simon stood.

“Oh, and there was a clear reversal of fortune there too,” I said excitedly. “I mean, they were ready to have a party, to celebrate everything they had built, and then it all burned to the ground. Am I right about that?”

Mr. Simon smiled.

“Maybe later, after you’ve turned your paper in, I’ll let you read that one to see how it turns out, to see what conclusion that student drew,” he said. “But I will say that I liked her basing it on real life. That was a restaurant in the town where she grew up. She ate there all her life.”

“But the paper has to be about literature too?” I asked. Things were becoming clearer than ever and at the same time more confusing. “The assignment is to consider a written work, right?”

“Yes it is,” Mr. Simon said. “But don’t get lost in that.
Everything is connected, my friend, everything is connected. And let me leave you with one last word, and then we must be on our way. This one is a big one. You’ve heard me mention it in class. Are you ready?”

“I am,” I said, not so sure.

Mr. Simon took a deep breath.

“Magnitude,” he boomed. “Can you define
magnitude
for me?”

“Great meaning?” I offered.

“Yes, and so much more,” he said, smiling again and putting his hand on my back to guide me out of the room. “So much more.”

Duncan had held it together so well, but now he began to worry he was losing his grip on what was important. And then hearing that word
—magnitude
—made him start to question everything. He became paralyzed by decisions: Did his choice of socks in the morning hold any magnitude? Would it change anything if he wore different socks? Or the path he took, did that choice hold magnitude? If he went one way, maybe he’d trip and break his leg, or maybe he’d run into someone he didn’t want to see. Texting Daisy became a problem because he couldn’t settle on what words to use. It was impossible to decide where to go and what to say. It was hard to know what had magnitude and what didn’t.

So he decided again that he had to stop listening to Tim. This time, though, he didn’t hide the CDs away but simply
left them casually on the corner of his desk, trying to pretend they didn’t hold any more importance than the pencil with the bad point that sat next to them. He told himself he was very busy now, with Daisy and everything else, so why waste his time sitting in his room listening to a sad guy tell a sad story? Was he really going to learn anything that would make a difference?

But not listening didn’t make things any better. He was tense when he was with Daisy, he knew that. The easiness of their relationship started to slip away. And then there was that night. He came up the stairs and walked toward his room. There was a guy lingering at the door before his, a guy he hadn’t seen before, who looked like Tim from the back. Was it Tim? His mind was bursting, and then the boy turned around. It was a junior. He didn’t look anything like Tim. He wasn’t even an albino. For the rest of the night, Duncan felt like he’d seen a ghost.

The lines were blurring. He tried to focus on the task at hand. All he had to do, really, was come up with the most benign, easy game. Not even try to hide it from the teachers. What if they played a Scrabble tournament in the dining hall? What if they played a rousing game of hide-and-seek? What if he invited the faculty to play along? But every time he thought,
Okay, that’s what I’ll do
, he knew he couldn’t. He just knew it.

One rainy night, Daisy was off with her friends having some “girl time.” It was sort of a relief. Duncan was getting
tired of trying so hard to pretend things were normal. He went to his room to finally hash out the Game. It had to take place sometime before spring break—that was the Irving School tradition—and it was getting close. He still had time, though, especially if he wasn’t going to do some crazy secret event.

When he sat down at his desk, he saw the CDs and realized how much he missed the mesmerizing sound of Tim’s voice. It actually occurred to him that moving through the rest of his story—at least this part that he had avoided—might be a welcome relief from his own life. He hoped so anyway. He started to listen again, and this time there was no going back.

I didn’t see Vanessa that whole day; she wasn’t even in Mr. Simon’s class. I seriously thought about sneaking to her room, but it was one of those things that could never go as well the second time. I didn’t want to take away from that first time, which in my mind had been a strange and wonderful moment. Dare I say it had magnitude? I hope so, but to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure at that point—at least if it held any for her, which was really what mattered most to me.

Speaking of magnitude, I ran into Mr. Simon again that day, and he asked me to come back to his office. I was worried: Had he found out that I’d snuck into Vanessa’s room the night before? Was I in trouble? I could barely eat my lunch, so I just cleared my tray and walked to his office. He was there waiting. Right away I knew it was okay, he wasn’t mad, he didn’t know.

“Tim, come in,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation this morning, and I wanted to give you something.”

I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to give me, short of the stack of perfect Tragedy Papers to peruse. As I was thinking that, literally just then, he handed me a key, and I thought,
Wow, he really is going to give me access to those papers
. But he wasn’t.

“Have you noticed the bookshelf in the round room outside the dining hall?” he asked. I had. It stood out and looked like a collection of random old books. “If you’re interested, which I think you might be, use this key to open the case. There’s a big black book on the bottom. It’s the book of Irving traditions. They’re all in there. Some of them might seem silly to you, but I’ve come to believe that the traditions are what keep this place alive, they connect us from year to year. Most of them go back to when I was a student here.”