Chapter 15 Holden
Fifteen
Holden
I held River’s gaze until he crashed headlong into one of his football buddies, Donte Weatherly.
The tall football player’s own gaze was bouncing back and forth between River and me, like he was doing some math in his head—putting two and two together.
I pushed off the wall and tugged Ronan’s sleeve.
“Let’s go.”
“Why?”
“Move, Wentz. I’ll explain later.”
Ronan and I headed the opposite direction from River, but the bonehead glanced over his shoulder. “Whitmore?”
I winced. “Christ, say it again, why don’t you? Only half the school heard you.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because it’s nobody’s business but his when or how or if he comes out.”
Ronan snorted. “And yet you’ve been eye fucking each other every day for three solid months. I thought you ended it.”
“I did. He’s a closeted jock going on to an illustrious but sexually frustrating career in the NFL, and I’m an uncloseted but mentally unstable billionaire who’s leaving the country the second my diploma hits my hot little hands. In what universe do we make sense?”
“None of that shit matters. If you care about each other, you figure it out.”
“As if it were that easy,” I said. “And what made you the sudden sexpert anyway? Is it because Shiloh Barrera is hanging out with us at the shack on the regular? You two looked pretty cozy the other night.”
Ronan said nothing.
I heaved a sigh. “I see how it is. You keep your private life private while I spill my guts in your lap.”
We came to the hallway where we had to part ways for our different classes. He took a step closer, looming over me—the man was a beast.
“All this?” He spun a finger in the air to indicate the school. “It’s just fucking noise. Bullshit. You want something, you fight for it.”
“Unfortunately, that would be a battle waged on two fronts. For him”—I tapped a finger to my temple—“and for me.”
“Mr. Wentz.” Vice Principal Chouder’s voice cut through the morning air. “My office. Now.”
I cocked my head at Ronan. “Again? Do you pay rent there?”
He shrugged. “Like I said. Bullshit.”
Chouder cleared his throat. “Wentz.”
I saluted Ronan and hummed “Taps” as he followed Chouder to the admin building to meet his fate—and likely another suspension—while I headed to AP English.
In class, Ms. Watkins strolled between the aisles, handing back our personal essays.
We’d been assigned to write a narrative about a time in our lives where we found ourselves at a low point.
I’d considered hauling in my trunk of journals and dumping them on Ms. Watkins’s desk, but I wasn’t a show-off.
I’d written about Christmas Day and my trek to the shack but in abstract terms. I fractured myself into two characters: one who was real and the other who existed as a figment of the other’s imagination.
Two figures, one trudging through snow toward a lake, one through rain along a beach.
One battled through the physical sickness of PTSD.
The other drank himself into a stupor. It ended with both characters finally seeing each other for the first time in the reflection of a bathroom mirror.
Not quite “The Day My Hamster Died,” but that’s how I roll.
“In general, I was very pleased with your work,” Ms. Watkins told the class. “All of you proved the notion that there is no such thing as an ordinary life.” She stopped in front of me where I slouched in the last row, corner seat. “I commend your honesty. I’m humbled by it, actually.”
Her gaze met mine softly, her expression unreadable as she dropped my essay on my desk and retreated back up the aisle. I flipped it over. Instead of a letter grade, there was Ms. Watkins’s neat penmanship across the top.
See me after class.
I muttered a curse on principle, but in truth, seeing those words was sort of like opening the door to my guesthouse on Christmas Day and finding Beatriz there. Maybe something good would happen if I let it in.
“Thank you for staying,” Ms. Watkins told me when class ended. She perched on the top of the desk in front of me. “I’d like to talk to you about your essay.”
“You didn’t give me a grade. Did I leave a participle dangling?”
“Not quite.” She picked up the essay to flip through it at random. “His eyes are an alcoholic’s memoir without the wisdom of having hit rock bottom. He’s still falling.” She let the pages rest in her lap. “This is a third-person narrative, but it’s still you. Isn’t it?”
“Some names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.”
She smiled gently. “Perhaps you’re assigning the pain to these characters instead of taking it on yourself?”
I shifted in my seat. “Perhaps.”
Ms. Watkins folded her hands in her lap. “Holden, this story is beautiful, sad, and frankly a little concerning. I need to ask… Where are your parents?”
“Seattle. I live with my aunt and uncle. They’re nice. Boring and gullible, but nice.”
“Do you have a counselor? A therapist?”
I rolled my eyes and began gathering my things—mentally shutting the door in her face. Watkins was smart and kind but, in the end, just another adult shuffling me to someone else to deal with.
Like dear old Mom and Dad.
“I have therapy. You’re holding it in your hands.” I held my hand out. “Do I get a grade or not?”
Ms. Watkins sighed and gave the paper back to me. “You’re light-years above this class, Holden, and probably every other class at this school. But I’m concerned about you. It’s obvious you’ve suffered something extremely traumatic.”
“Gee, whatever gave you that idea?” I muttered, stuffing the paper in my bag. Guilt washed over me at her pained expression. “You don’t have to worry about me, Ms. Watkins. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
“Does concern for your well-being make you uncomfortable?”
“Did your teaching credential come with a psychology license?”
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” she said. “I’m not a psychologist. But as a teacher, I have a duty of care to my students who are in trouble. Your descriptions of alcohol abuse are too realistic to be fictional.”
“Maybe I just have a very active imagination.”
“Or maybe I recognize the truth in your words because I’ve been there too.”
I stopped in the act of shouldering my bag.
Ms. Watkins waved a hand. “You don’t have to say anything. It was a long time ago, yet it’s also yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the day after that. That’s the never-ending nature of the struggle.” She smiled gently. “But I had help. I want that for you.”
I stiffened. “People have been trying to fix me my entire life. It doesn’t take.”
“I understand how it can feel that way, but please don’t give up on yourself. Keep trying until you get to the place where you truly understand that you deserve to be happy. Because you do.”
“I will be happy. Once I graduate, cash my inheritance check, and move to Paris. Or Lisbon. Or Madrid…”
The concerned furrow between Ms. Watkins’s eyes deepened. “Isolating yourself even further doesn’t seem to be the healthiest choice. Especially not with large sums of money and an addictive personality.”
“What’s my alternative, Ms. Watkins?” My tone was hard, but my heart was begging to hear an answer it could believe.
“You stay here, close to home, and maybe consider what I said about getting a degree. Not only will your talent be cultivated, but most universities have mental health services—”
“Wrong answer. This isn’t home. There’s nothing for me here.”
And no one. Not after River leaves.
Ms. Watkins sighed. “All right. But if you change your mind or want to talk between now and then, I’m here for you, Holden. Please remember that. Okay?”
I swallowed a jagged lump of sudden unwanted emotion.
“Okay,” I said, leaving the door open just a crack.
***
That night, the guesthouse was claustrophobic in its emptiness. I tried to write, but the sound of the pen scratching the paper set my teeth on edge. Every little sound was big, amplifying my solitude and turning it into a living, breathing thing.
I tossed down the pen—River’s pen—and started for the freezer where a fresh bottle of Ducasse waited for me. The cold, frosty air wafted over my skin, carrying memories of Alaska with it. Another drunken night of delirium stretched out before me, followed by another hungover morning. Rinse, repeat.
I slammed the door shut.
“It is possible,” I said to no one, “to be completely sick of one’s own shit.”
I changed into my pajamas and robe, flopped onto the couch with a bag of cheese-dusted popcorn, and began flipping through channels.
I was starting to give up on finding a decent movie when I landed on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
A movie about a guy who has his ex-girlfriend wiped from his memory.
“Lucky bastard,” I muttered and hit Play.
If I could, I’d go back and wipe River Whitmore from my mind, starting from the very first second I laid eyes on him.
Then you’d have even less than what you have now.
A few minutes in, a knock came at the door. I opened it to Beatriz. She wore slacks, a jacket over her flowered blouse, and her purse on her arm.
“I’m going home for the day, Mr. Holden, but wanted to see if you need anything first.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You never came to dinner tonight.”
“I never come to dinner.”
She frowned. “Mr. and Mrs. Parish ask about you every day.”
“They do? No, they don’t.”
Beatriz waggled a finger. “I never lie. It’s not good for the soul. They also said you would not let them celebrate your birthday last month.”
“I didn’t have a birthday last month.”
She pursed her lips. “You did have one, no matter what the calendar says. You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Technically speaking.”
Her face softened, and her smile was like one I imagined mothers wore when they were trying to comfort their child through something painful. She peered past me and squinted at the TV.
“That girl has very red hair.”
I opened the door and stepped aside to let Beatriz in, since it was clear she wasn’t going to leave me in peace. And maybe I didn’t want her to.
“That’s Kate Winslet,” I said. “Her hair is red to show us when she is in her relationship with Jim Carrey.”
Beatriz frowned, more interested in the bag of cheesy popcorn on the couch. She picked it up with two fingers. “What is this?”
“Popcorn?”
She sniffed the bag and grimaced. “No, no, no. Isso é um lixo. This is garbage. I’ll make you better.” She set her purse on the couch and headed for the door. “The big house has what I need. Be right back.”
Before I could comprehend this strange turn of events, Beatriz returned with her arms full of ingredients and breezed past me to my little kitchen.
“I will make you pipoca,” she said, laying out brown sugar, honey, butter, and a can of dulce de leche. “Much better.”
She and Ms. Watkins are tag teaming me with motherly niceness.
And like a sucker, I was falling for it. Aching for it.
Beatriz hummed as she stirred the ingredients in a saucepan, and soon my little place was filled with the scent of warm honey and sugar and the sound of popcorn kernels clanging around a pot.
When she was done, she came out with a bowl of fluffy white popcorn drizzled with thick brown syrup and a bunch of napkins. She frowned at the TV.
“Now her hair is blue.”
I laughed a little as Beatriz settled herself on the couch beside me with a sigh.
She offered me the bowl. “Try this. It’s not garbage.”
I took a sticky handful of pipoca and crammed it in my mouth while Beatriz watched me closely.
“It’s good, yes?”
I suppressed a groan as the sugary-salty goodness melted in my mouth. “Eh, it’s okay. Not bad. Passable.”
She snorted and swatted my arm. “Not bad. Fica quieto. It’s good.”
“It’s amazing. Thank you, Beatriz.”
Thank you for being here.
She nodded, satisfied, and settled on the couch, taking a handful of pipoca for herself. “I can watch this movie with you? About the sad man and the girl with the rainbow hair?”
“Yes,” I said, my throat thick. “I’d like that.”
We watched the movie in easy companionship as the characters who’d wiped each other from their memories inevitably came together again. Destined to be together no matter how hard they worked to avoid it.
Toward the end, while Jim and Kate frolicked on a snow-covered beach, Beatriz sighed heavily.
“You’re a romantic, Beatriz?”
“No, I am thinking. You are alone here a lot, Mr. Holden.”
My smile faded. “I am. But, Beatriz…just Holden, okay?”
She smiled, the motherly affection intensified. “Do you not have someone, Holden? A girlfriend?”
“No girlfriend. I like boys.”
Beatriz thought about this. I waited with my breath locked in my chest to see how my words would land. If she’d withdraw her warmth and care and leave me alone in the dark.
“Okay then. Where is your boyfriend?”
I let out the breath. Christ, how many times had I imagined my own mother saying something so simple? So full of acceptance… I swallowed the tears in my throat. They burned all the way down to the yawning black hole inside me.
“I don’t have one.”
She scoffed and took my chin in her hand, giving my face a gentle shake. “Do you go to school with blind people? How can anyone look at this face and not fall in love?”
“I don’t make it easy.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” she said. “é fácil amar você, meu doce menino. Mas você tem que se deixar ser amado.”
She turned her gaze back to the TV, and I stared for a moment, her words sinking in, reaching dark places that hadn’t seen the light in years.
Old pain whispered that Beatriz was secretly laughing at me or that she was only being paid to be nice to me.
I ignored them as best I could and slowly, carefully, rested my head against her shoulder. And she let me.
She tilted her head so that it touched mine, and we watched the rest of the movie together in perfect quiet, the voices in my head for once having nothing to say, the cold unable to reach me for a few precious moments.
I fell asleep in that warm haze with Beatriz’s words a gentle whisper, like a lullaby.
It’s easy to love you, my sweet boy. But you have to let yourself be loved.