Life in a Northern Town - 7. Chapter 7

True to John’s word I am back to school again the next morning. We are up early and John has breakfast laid out - one that feels like the last meal of a condemned man to me. We file out to John’s little SUV and start the slow trek to school. It isn’t all that far from his house; I could walk there faster than we are moving. Morning traffic sucks, as always, the buses and commuters clogging up the works. We finally arrive in front of the school, and John pauses in the semi-circular driveway to let us out. I stand outside the vehicle as Joe and Scott heckle one another on their way through the doors. I look at the school, forbidding and almost terrifying in its presence.

People are looking at me, no doubt knowing who I am from the spectacle I had made leaving in handcuffs just a few days ago. I feel very small, wishing I could go back in time and just be a face in the crowd once more. It makes me angry that they stare. Events are now in motion that have changed my world dramatically; the only real question is how I will face that new world.

“Adam, it’ll be all right. Go on, get to your homeroom,” John says encouragingly from the safety of the car he's leaving in. I look back at him and give him a thin-lipped smile before closing the door and taking that first step towards the building. The first step is your hardest one to take. After that you have momentum on your side and the rest seems a whole lot easier. I keep repeating that in my head as I trudge through the front door and on to my homeroom.

Now, here is a dumb concept if there ever was one. Homeroom is where you go and sit for something like ten minutes and all they really do is take attendance. Do we really need to go to a separate place just to be counted? I mean, really. How about we go to our first class, get counted and just get on with things? I sit heavily in the chair and wait for the teacher to arrive.

I hear snatches of conversation, gossip about what had happened to me two days prior. I guess it is one of those events where people who hadn’t been there would have claimed they held the door open for me just to be part of the so-called spotlight. It is absurd and a little embarrassing, but if that is all it is going to be I can handle it. My homeroom teacher walks in and sits at the desk, class list folded in her hand.

“Mr. Castle? Mr. Swanson would like to see you; you are excused,” she says formally after completing attendance. I hate being singled out and spoken to in class, which is probably why I won’t pursue a career as a public speaker. I nod at her and leave the room to the hushed conversations of the bored masses. I walk down a flight of stairs and onto the granite slabs of the main floor and meander toward the office.

“Where are you going, Castle?” Coach Canfield questions.

“Office,” I reply, showing my annoyance at being questioned.

“Where is your hall pass?”

“She didn’t give me one. Just told me to go to the office. Said Bernie wants to see me.”

“Not supposed to be in the hallway without a hall pass. I’ll see you in detention this afternoon,” Canfield notes my name on his pad.

“You’ll see me in your dreams,” I retort.

“Think you’re a big man now, huh?”

“Bigger than you.”

“You better learn to show respect when I talk to you. I’ll have a talk with Mr. Swanson about your attitude.”

“Be hard to do with my dick in your mouth,” I reply coolly. His face flushes red and he orders me to follow him to the office. Funny, that’s where I was going when he stopped me purely for the opportunity to harass me.

I am told to sit down in a chair in the waiting area while Canfield goes in to make his case to Bernie. I love how adults do that - they don’t want a balanced story. They want their version to come out first, then the punishment to be decided before I even walk into the room. I sit quietly, Mrs. Teetling giving me an evil glance once in a while just for the sake of it. I wait for her to look at me and I return her nasty stare. Evil bitch.

“Adam, come inside, please,” Bernie says as he emerges from his office and waves me toward his open door.

I walk in and stand in front of his desk. Canfield stands behind the desk and to one side like some athletic harpy, a smug expression on his face.

“Coach Canfield tells me you are off to a rough start this morning,” Bernie says as he takes his seat. “Sit down, please.”

“I’d rather stand, thanks. I don’t care what Canfield says. I was fine when I got here, fine when I left homeroom. My problems started when he decided he could harass me in the hallway.”

“Well, you are aware of the hall-pass policy...” Bernie begins.

“Then punish the teacher who failed to give me one,” I reply, interrupting him.

“Watch your tone,” Canfield growls.

“Kiss my ass,” I counter.

“Gentleman, gentleman. That’s quite enough from the both of you. I do not condone any student breaking the rules; however, circumstances must be taken into account. Adam will have detention with me this afternoon for his language,” Bernie states.

“He shouldn’t be treated differently than any other student,” Canfield argues.

“That’s absolutely right, and you should keep that in mind, Bill. He will have detention for his mouth, but I will not tolerate your baiting a student.”

Canfield looks shocked at Swanson’s statement as his mouth works soundlessly. I am actually kind of impressed, not that Canfield doesn’t deserve it, but more that Bernie has the nuts and the character to do it.

“Adam, go to first period please; Mrs. Teetling will provide you a hall pass. Bill? Go to class.” Bernie looks down at the stack of paper on his desk, dismissing us both. I collect my pass and head to my locker for my book for first period. I step into the room and, after handing the teacher my pass, take a seat. The period is uneventful, despite a few veiled glances from the rest of the class. American History washes past me as I sit, somewhat uncomfortably, but I am determined not to let these gossiping assholes get the best of me.

I finally see Randy in third period, and Canfield’s shitty attitude and comments are totally forgotten as Randy begins to talk about how his dad is lining up things to get custody of me and how much his mom wants him to be sure to say hello to me from her. Mostly he is pretty normal though, and that helps to take some of the surreal feel off the day.

It’s always been like that with Randy and me, cheering each other and somehow realizing that we keep each other whole. Christ, how sappy is that? Don’t get any ideas about me putting on a dress or anything.

“Trust! What a concept.” I mutter.

“Adam, let’s talk.”

“About what?”

“You. Events of the last few days. I want to help you.”

“You’ve done enough already, Bernie,” I reply acidly. “I lost my home, my friends and my freedom.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Home. Not where the home fires burn but where your mother hurls insults at you, constantly berates you and spends all her money on cigarettes instead of milk. Yes, that is a tremendous loss.” His voice is kind, but laced with sarcasm.

“So it wasn’t perfect, but now look at me. I have no home, I live in a state-run minimum-security penitentiary. A ward of the state is what they call me, Bernie. Randy and Nick need permission to see me, I can’t even walk to school with them. Plus Canfield is on my ass twenty-four seven. I don’t have a whole lot to be thankful for right now, so forgive me if I don’t get too excited.”

Swanson leans back in his chair and stares at the stained ceiling tiles. His eyes close and then he opens them, allowing a tired sigh to escape from somewhere deep inside him.

“Adam, I got into this field seventeen years ago to help educate children, with lofty goals and excellent ideals. I always thought it was a noble profession. I have turned into an administrator, one who pushes paper and has been largely relegated to the sidelines of classroom education. I haven’t taught a class in some time, and thus my ability to affect lives directly is diminished.” His eyes drop to meet mine: tired brown eyes set in a face that is showing strain, perhaps from years of punks like me.

“In my position I don’t get the chance to make a difference very often. This is one of those few times when I can. I met your mother at a PTA meeting, she approached me expressing concern for you, and I too had concerns. So we went out for coffee.” He stands up and moves around his desk, settling on the corner. “We had some memories in common, and at that time she was pretty nice. That was before I knew about the depression, the anger and resentment she had for your father. Adam, your mom is a very sick lady, someone who needs professional help. I could see that, but I was unable to do anything to help until she made that first move.”

My eyes widen hearing his story, and I make an effort to school my face to neutrality. “Why?”

“Like I said, to make a difference, Adam. You’re not a bad kid. Actually, you're pretty smart and the trouble you get into is small stuff. But you’re on the fringes, maybe it's better to say on a precipice. I don’t know that you’ll agree about your mom, but you see how Randy’s house is and I am sure that the difference from your home and life with your mom must make it seem like night and day in comparison.”

I know he is right, but I still don’t like anyone running my mom down. I think he sees that and changes his tack.

“I don’t expect you to like me. I’m not your friend. But I do care, and I am trying to do the best I can to make your life better because that’s what I wanted to do with my life. Just realize…you aren’t alone.”

I sit in silence, but my mind is running along quickly. I’m not stupid, and I recognize an extended hand when I see one. “Thank you.”

He is quiet for a moment as he studies me. “You’re welcome.”

“What happens now?” I ask.

“Well, I think first you need to stay away from Coach Canfield. He’s not really a bad guy, but you two rub one another the wrong way and I just can’t protect you all the time. I can’t condone any student telling a teacher to kiss his ass, no matter how much the teacher may or may not deserve it. You can help me by keeping your tongue and temper under control, and I will try to help you get placed with Randy Proctor and his family.”

“How did you know about Mr. Proctor?” I ask with surprise.

“Jerrod Proctor and I go way back, and he spoke to me about getting the school’s backing. Group homes, like the one you are in now, are a stopgap measure. Kids go into a holding pattern because while they make progress with the structure of the home, they lose when they go back into the environment that produced them.”

He shifts on his desk, not finding a comfortable spot before plopping down in the chair next to me.

“If staying with John was going to put you in the position of better grades and a better attitude with authority in the long run, I would advocate that.” I open my mouth to protest, but he overrides me. “However, that isn’t the best possible placement for you. You see, John and Ken aren't your parents and they aren't the final solution, so that means we need to find a more appropriate place for you, until such time as the court determines your mother is capable again, if ever.

“If you made progress at John’s, and then went back into that environment with your mom as she is now, you would revert right away to your old habits. But if we can put you into a stable home, long term, with people who care about you, well, that’s the best of all worlds, with the exception of your mother getting the help she needs so she can be there for you.”

“I don’t feel any different, except maybe older. Why didn’t I get sent away before?”

“It wasn't just you, Adam. Like I said, most of your troubles are small-time. Nothing the school can do about that, but when I saw what was happening at home I had to wait for her to make the move that would let me help you. See, it’s not enough to say she was verbally abusive then it’s her word against mine and you are still in the same situation. All that changed when she threw the ashtray at you. That was something verifiable. Now we just need to get you taken care of.”

“What happens to my mom now?” I ask while I study my hands.

“That’s up to the court. With the display she put on in front of the judge and the prosecuting attorney, she will have an uphill battle to get you back.”

“So what now then?”

“Well, first you go home to John’s, be good in school and give us time to make the legal system work for you.” He stands and walks back around his desk, “We’ll do the best we can.”

I stand and walk to the door, then turn halfway back, “Coach Canfield really is a peckerhead.”

“We all have that capacity, Adam. Our worth can sometimes be determined where and when we choose to apply that ability.”

My book bag thumps against my leg as I walk and every once in a while a sharp book corner nails me. I feel….cautiously optimistic. With the school on my side, I stand a chance of going to Randy’s permanently. If I win John over, I’ll have more ammunition in my favor. I resolve to be as good as I can be in order to achieve my goal.

What of my mother, though? I admit the idea I'd had of going back to her, while unappealing, gave me a sense of the familiar. I know what to expect, even if I don’t like it. Randy is cool with Nick and me, but how would it be when taking place under his nose? How will he react if he walked in on Nick and me making out on my bed? Oh, now that’s a thought I’d like to meditate on, some real alone time with Nick!

I cross Second Avenue and come up onto the porch of John and Ken’s house. I toe off my sneakers and go inside to the smell of a roast filling the air. John is just closing the lid on the crock pot when I come in.

“You and Mr. Swanson have a nice talk?” he asks with a frown.

“Actually, yeah, we did.” I say with only a moment’s thought. “There is a lot more to Bernie than I gave him credit for.”

“Such as?”

“I think he really does want to help, weird as it sounds to admit,” I tell him as I set my book bag on the floor. “He told me the long-term goals and what he is trying to do for me. I didn’t like everything he said,” I say, frowning as I think of his comments about my mom, “but I think he was honest with me.”

“Sounds like real progress then,” John’s frown melts into a smile. “Have a lot of homework?”

“Not too bad, want me to do it now?” I ask.

“Have a snack, if you’re hungry, I bought some really easy-to-peel tangerines at the store. Not too much, though - dinner is cooking as you can see.”

I pick up my book bag and head for the stairs, passing Joe who is typing away on his laptop. That thing is like his security blanket – and I wonder what he spends so much time writing about. I climb the stairs and go into my room, set my things on the desk and turn on the lamp. I wonder if Nick is doing his homework now. I find that happening a lot, Nick just popping into my thoughts at odd times. Is that love? Infatuation? Early senility?

I open my math book and stare at its pages, seeing no problems to be solved, just Nick’s smiling face in my mind’s eye and his kiss on my lips. Algebra never felt so good. Eventually I gain some control of myself and start in on the work, struggling as I always do. Why did they put letters in math?

After I complete that I open my social studies book and John calls us down for dinner. The roast is good, if a little dry. Scott and Joe continue to pick at one another to provide entertainment, and John supplies the straight man act telling them to stop, behave and all that. Ken acts as if he hears nothing. It is a home, of sorts; John seems to try pretty hard to make it a comfortable, safe place.

“So, what time will Randy be here?” Joe asks.

“I don’t know,” I reply.

“I’m afraid you can’t have visitors tonight, Adam. You lose privileges for having detention.” John says absently.

“That’s not fair! I got punished at school already!” I exclaim.

“House rules, you behave in and out of the house or you pay the consequences.” John replies in a tone that indicates he expects no argument.

“But that’s bullshit!” I exclaim as I stand from the table; so much for resolving to be good. “How do you expect people to be good if you aren’t fair?”

“It is fair,” John says calmly, “Your behavior directly reflects on this house. If you act that way, people judge Scott and Joe as well. Or any other person that comes to live here. You have to follow the rules everywhere, and if you don’t, then there are consequences for your actions.”

I turn and leave the table, go to my room and beat my pillow with useless anger. Why does it seem as though every time I make some progress, something else rears up to pull me backward? I begin to tear up and that makes me angrier, and more upset. I hate to cry. I hate it almost as much as I hate throwing up, and right now I’d rather my stomach was upset.

“Adam?” John asks from my doorway.

“Go away,” I mutter through my tears.

“Adam, we should talk about this.”

“John, you go talk about it, there is no reason for me to. Rules from you, rules from the school, I get it, okay? Conform or else we take you from your home, you need to toady to get to see your friends…why don’t you guys just put bars on the windows? Screw you.”

“Well, when you are done with the self-pity we’ll talk.” John leaves the doorway and I flip him off.

I don’t care if I am being an asshole, things haven’t been too hot lately and I need a few breaks. I wrap my mind around the hope of seeing Nick and Randy the next day. I hope for a release to someplace better.