reached across and opened the front door and called out in an urgent whisper, “Hey, Jerzy, it’s me. Get in.”
Jerzy is so close the front door nearly hits him, yet nothing in his expression indicates he sees me. The blank mask he adopts for his tormentors is now aimed at me. Instead of climbing into the safety of the Jeep and heading to Big Oaks, he walks directly past the car into a whirlwind of flying fists.
45
THREE DAYS LATER, I’M back at New Trier again. This time I park and walk around to the main entrance, where I inform the guard I have an appointment with the assistant dean of students, Reece Halsey. On the way to Halsey’s office, I must make a wrong turn, because instead of entering the administrative wing, I find myself in a wide hallway lined with classrooms. The classrooms are empty and so is the corridor, but the tin lockers and low water fountains drum up a parade of ancient memories, mostly lousy.
When the corridor ends, I turn in the direction of the noise, which grows more urgent with each step till I push through a pair of doors into a vast rotunda. The multicolored flags of every nation, presumably including Rumania, hang from the high ceiling, and to my left is a stack of faded green plastic trays. I grab a tray and a plate and watch a woman wearing a hairnet ladle something brown onto something white. Then I slide the tray over the rails, fill a paper cup with something pink, and face the din.
The cafeteria must hold a thousand students. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of them crowd around a hundred tables, and one, his jug head tilting toward the straw in a carton of milk, sits alone, surrounded by empty chairs.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I hear the chef does an amazing beef stew.”
“Yeah,” says Jerzy. “He opens the can.”
As I take my first bite, a wet napkin lands with a splat at the center of our table, setting off a round of laughter.
“There’s something I want to tell you, which I haven’t shared with anyone in thirty-five years. Not my wife, my kids, or my best friend. Not even Louie.”
“Louie?”
“My dog. I believe you two have met.”
Half a muffin hits the table, followed by several packets of salt and pepper. I open one of each, sprinkle them on the stew, and take another bite.
“In eighth grade, the same shit happened to me. At that point, I was as tall as I am now, absurdly skinny, braces, glasses, an all-round winning look. This kid named Rudy Laplante, who happened to be the scion of a huge trucking company, decided he was going to make my life miserable, and for several months did a thorough job. At one point, my mother found out what was happening. You know what she said I should do?”
“No.”
“I guess you wouldn’t, since I haven’t told you yet. Take a chair and smash it over his head.”
“Did you?”
“What do you think? But I’ve always been grateful for the suggestion.”
“Just as well. You could have fractured his skull. How would your mother have felt then?”
“You know, I’ve wondered about that. One possibility is that she knew I wasn’t capable of it. The other is that she didn’t give a shit. Figured that was Rudy’s problem. I prefer that one.”
“You saying I should smash a chair over Pickering’s head?”
“In your case, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea, although I’d love to watch, if you did. In fact, I’d pay to watch.”
The aerial assault picks up and the incoming turns healthier—grapes, pineapple cubes, an apple core, a banana—and Jerzy and I ignore it all, having reached an unspoken agreement not to give the assholes the satisfaction. More miraculous than the manna from heaven is the arrival at our table of another student. She is small and thin and wears a black Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt over a black vintage dress, with black nail polish and black lipstick. In addition to being monochromatic and brave, she’s pretty.
“Welcome to Pariahville,” says Jerzy.
Jerzy is so close the front door nearly hits him, yet nothing in his expression indicates he sees me. The blank mask he adopts for his tormentors is now aimed at me. Instead of climbing into the safety of the Jeep and heading to Big Oaks, he walks directly past the car into a whirlwind of flying fists.
45
THREE DAYS LATER, I’M back at New Trier again. This time I park and walk around to the main entrance, where I inform the guard I have an appointment with the assistant dean of students, Reece Halsey. On the way to Halsey’s office, I must make a wrong turn, because instead of entering the administrative wing, I find myself in a wide hallway lined with classrooms. The classrooms are empty and so is the corridor, but the tin lockers and low water fountains drum up a parade of ancient memories, mostly lousy.
When the corridor ends, I turn in the direction of the noise, which grows more urgent with each step till I push through a pair of doors into a vast rotunda. The multicolored flags of every nation, presumably including Rumania, hang from the high ceiling, and to my left is a stack of faded green plastic trays. I grab a tray and a plate and watch a woman wearing a hairnet ladle something brown onto something white. Then I slide the tray over the rails, fill a paper cup with something pink, and face the din.
The cafeteria must hold a thousand students. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of them crowd around a hundred tables, and one, his jug head tilting toward the straw in a carton of milk, sits alone, surrounded by empty chairs.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I hear the chef does an amazing beef stew.”
“Yeah,” says Jerzy. “He opens the can.”
As I take my first bite, a wet napkin lands with a splat at the center of our table, setting off a round of laughter.
“There’s something I want to tell you, which I haven’t shared with anyone in thirty-five years. Not my wife, my kids, or my best friend. Not even Louie.”
“Louie?”
“My dog. I believe you two have met.”
Half a muffin hits the table, followed by several packets of salt and pepper. I open one of each, sprinkle them on the stew, and take another bite.
“In eighth grade, the same shit happened to me. At that point, I was as tall as I am now, absurdly skinny, braces, glasses, an all-round winning look. This kid named Rudy Laplante, who happened to be the scion of a huge trucking company, decided he was going to make my life miserable, and for several months did a thorough job. At one point, my mother found out what was happening. You know what she said I should do?”
“No.”
“I guess you wouldn’t, since I haven’t told you yet. Take a chair and smash it over his head.”
“Did you?”
“What do you think? But I’ve always been grateful for the suggestion.”
“Just as well. You could have fractured his skull. How would your mother have felt then?”
“You know, I’ve wondered about that. One possibility is that she knew I wasn’t capable of it. The other is that she didn’t give a shit. Figured that was Rudy’s problem. I prefer that one.”
“You saying I should smash a chair over Pickering’s head?”
“In your case, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea, although I’d love to watch, if you did. In fact, I’d pay to watch.”
The aerial assault picks up and the incoming turns healthier—grapes, pineapple cubes, an apple core, a banana—and Jerzy and I ignore it all, having reached an unspoken agreement not to give the assholes the satisfaction. More miraculous than the manna from heaven is the arrival at our table of another student. She is small and thin and wears a black Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt over a black vintage dress, with black nail polish and black lipstick. In addition to being monochromatic and brave, she’s pretty.
“Welcome to Pariahville,” says Jerzy.
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