Мэтью Квик - Forgive me, Leonard Peacock
“I’m honored, Leonard—truly,” he says, looking me in the eyes all serious, like he does. “But why did you give this to me today?”
“No reason, I guess. Today seemed like a good enough day,” I lie, but my words sound shaky.
“Do you have your grandfather’s gun from World War Two?” he asks, which freaks me out.
“What?” I say, all surprised, and suddenly I realize I’m inking my name into the desk.
I wonder why I’m doing that.
Then I wonder why Herr Silverman isn’t telling me to stop graffitiing on school property.
“I’m just going to say this, Leonard, and I hope you won’t take offense. Sudden changes in appearance. You did cut your hair, right?”
I just keep inking my name into the desk over and over again.
“Giving away treasured possessions. These are clear signs. Suicidal people often do these things. I’m worried you might be at risk.”
L – E – O – N – A – R – D – P – E – A – C – O – C – K
L – E – O – N – A – R – D – P – E – A – C – O – C – K
L – E – O – N – A – R – D – P – E – A – C – O – C – K
I keep tracing the letters into the desk.
Why?
I’ve never written my name on a desk before.
“Are you trying to tell me something here today?” he says.
“Not really,” I say without looking up. “I just wanted you to know how much your class means to me.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him looking at my face—I can tell he’s concerned in a way that maybe no one else is, and that I’m going to have to do some acting if I want to make it out of here and complete my mission.
I reach down deep within myself and put on the Hollywood face once more. I smile at him, force a laugh, and say, “I probably would want to kill myself if I didn’t get to spend time in this room every day. I really would. Your class is probably the only thing keeping me alive.”
“That’s not true. There’s a lot for you to live for. Good things are definitely in your future, Leonard. I’m sure of it. You have no idea how many interesting people you’ll meet after high school’s over. Your life partner, your best friend, the most wonderful person you’ll ever know is sitting in some high school right now waiting to graduate and walk into your life—maybe even feeling all the same things you are, maybe even wondering about you, hoping that you’re strong enough to make it to the future where you’ll meet. Did you ever write those letters, after we talked the last time? Letters from the future? Did you give it a try?”
“No,” I lie, because writing those letters made me pretty emotional and I don’t want to go there right now. I have to focus on the task at hand. “Maybe I’ll do that tonight.”[35]
“You should. I think it would help.”
I get to thinking about the mystery again. I’m not really sure why—maybe because this is the last chance I’ll get—but I say, “Can I ask you a personal question, Herr Silverman?”
“Okay.”
We sit there in silence for a few seconds as I try to work up the courage. My voice sounds shaky when I finally speak. “Why don’t you ever roll up your sleeves or wear a short-sleeve shirt? Why don’t you wear the faculty polo shirt on Fridays either?”
My heart’s pounding hard enough to crack ribs because I kind of believe the answer might be able to save me. Even though that doesn’t make any sense.
“You noticed that, huh?” Herr Silverman says.
“Yeah. I’ve been wondering for a long time now.”
His eyes narrow slightly and then he says, “I’ll make you a deal. You write those letters from the future and I’ll tell you why I never roll up my sleeves. What do you say?”
“Sure,” I say, and smile, because I can tell Herr Silverman really thinks the letter writing will help. He’s passionate about helping fucked-up students like me. And for a moment I forget I already wrote the letters and won’t be around after today—that I’ll never know why Herr Silverman won’t roll up his sleeves. “Do you like your gift?”
He picks up the Bronze Star and holds it in front of his face. “I’m very honored that you think so much of my teaching, but I’m not sure I can keep this, Leonard.” He puts it back into the box and says, “It’s a family heirloom. It’s your birthright.”
“Can you just keep it for me in your desk until I decide what I want to do with it?” I say, because I don’t feel like arguing about this. “Just for a night at least. It would mean a lot to me.”
“Why?”
“Just because. Okay?” I plead with my eyes.
“Okay,” he says. “Just for a night. You’ll be here tomorrow to pick it up? Promise?”
I know what he’s doing—giving me an assignment that requires me to be here tomorrow. It actually makes me feel good, and I’m surprised by the fact that I can still feel better sometimes.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Good. I look forward to getting your perspective every day. I’d be crushed if your seat ever became empty. Über-crushed.”
We sort of lock eyes and I think about how Herr Silverman is the only person in my life who doesn’t bullshit me, and is maybe the only one at my school who really cares whether I disappear or stick around. “The government should give you a medal for being a good teacher, Herr Silverman. I’m serious about that. They really should.”
“Thank you, Leonard. Are you sure you’re feeling okay? There’s nothing else you’d like to discuss?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m off to see my guidance counselor right now, actually. Mrs. Giavotella already reported my ‘strange behavior.’ I’m sure they’ll be getting around to asking your professional opinion of my sanity. But I’m off to Guidance now. So even if I were messed up, super-counselor Mrs. Shanahan’ll fix me straight with a root beer lollipop before I leave the building, so no worries, right?”
When I look up to see if he’s buying my lie, I can tell he isn’t. So I say, “I’m sorry I wrote on your desk. Do you want me to clean it?”
“If I give you my cell phone number will you promise to call me if you feel like you’re going to kill yourself?”
“I’m not going to—”
“You can call anytime—day or night. Will you promise to at least call me first, so I can tell you the reason I never roll up my sleeves? I bet knowing the answer to that question will make you feel better, but let’s save it for when you’re feeling really bad. It will be an emergency anecdote antidote,” he says, and then smiles in a way that makes me smile, because he’s proud of his stupid slant rhyme and he’s also breaking the rules again, giving me his cell phone number. No other teacher in the building would do this. He’s going above and beyond for me. And it makes me so sad to think he’ll be really upset when he hears about my murder-suicide. “So will you promise me that you’ll call if it gets worse—before you do anything rash? I’ll tell you the answer if you call. It’s a big secret. But I’ll tell you, Leonard, because I think you need to know. You’re different. And I’m different too. Different is good. But different is hard. Believe me, I know.”
His saying that bit about being different sort of shocks me, because I never really thought about teachers feeling the way I sometimes do here at school, but I’m nodding seriously like I understand what he’s telling me, and all the while I’m wondering what the hell is under his shirtsleeves.
He writes his cell phone number down in green ink, hands me the slip of paper, and says, “Write the letters from the future, Leonard. Those people want to meet you. Your life is going to get so much better. I promise you that. Just hold on as best you can—and believe in the future. Trust me. This is only a small part of your life. A blink. And if you find that you aren’t able to believe it, call me anytime and we’ll talk. I’ll answer your question then. Just as soon as you need it. I promise.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I say.
“People should be nice to you, Leonard. You’re a human being. You should expect people to be nice. Those people in your future, the ones who are writing letters to you—they will be nice. Imagine it and it will be so. Write the letters.”
I say, “Okay. Thanks, Herr Silverman,” and then I get the hell out of there.
If only the world were full of Herr Silvermans. But it isn’t. It’s mostly full of übermorons like the majority of my classmates and sprinkled with sadistic assholes like Asher Beal.
I don’t go to Guidance.
No root beer lollipop today.
I have one present left to deliver.
I have a mission to complete.
TWENTY
The last good birthday celebration Asher Beal and I had was seven or so years ago, back before all the really bad stuff started to happen.
At his party, when he unwrapped his present from me, he found a piece of paper with a question mark on it.
“What’s this?” he said, squinting.
The sound of wooden pins being struck by bowling balls echoed through the alley. His oblivious but kind mother had booked two lanes.[36]
“Just the best birthday present you’ll ever receive,” I said.
“I don’t get it,” Asher said.
I remember the other kids at the party giving me strange looks—like what the fuck kind of present is a question mark on a piece of paper?[37]
“You will,” I said confidently.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Okay,” Asher said, shrugged, and then opened the gifts other kids had brought—WWE DVDs, video games, gift cards—typical stuff.
I remember feeling proud—like I was taking care of my best friend in a way that would blow his mind. Everyone else’s mom just thoughtlessly bought generic presents that any eleven-year-old kid would forget about in a few days.
I invited Asher to spend the night at my house that weekend, and when he arrived, thinking we were just going to play video games and eat pizza, my dad came in and—employing this funny voice—said, “Mr. Beal, your car is ready.”
“What?” Asher said, and then laughed. He was confused, had no clue, which made me so happy.[38]
Because my dad was in a good mood,[39] he pretended to be our hired driver, keeping his face blank, like he didn’t know us, when he said, “Mr. Peacock has arranged for me to drive you to Atlantic City, where you will attend a rock ’n’ roll concert this evening.”
Asher’s eyes lit up. “Don’t even tell me you got Green Day tickets. Did you?”
I smiled and said, “Happy birthday.”
His face exploded. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he said, pumping his fists in the air, and then he sort of hugged and tackled me onto the couch.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt better than I did at that moment, maybe because I’ve never made another human being that kind of I-will-joyfully-tackle-you happy.
The entire ride to Atlantic City, Asher talked about Green Day and what they’d probably play and how he just wanted to hear “American Idiot,” because that was his favorite song. It was going to be his first official concert. I sat next to him, listening, feeding off his excitement.
My dad took us to an Irish pub for dinner and drank a few pints before he escorted us to the concert, which was in one of the casinos. I can’t remember which one because they all look the same to me. When Asher realized we had front-row seats, he hugged me again and said, “You’re the man, Leonard Peacock! Seriously! First row? First row? How?”
My dad still had connections back then, but I didn’t say that. I just sort of shrugged modestly.
It felt so fucking good making my friend happy.
Like I was a hero.
Green Day came on and performed.
When they played “American Idiot,” Asher grabbed my biceps, screamed in my face, and then sang every word.
I was never a big Green Day fan, but it was the best concert I’ve ever attended, mostly because it was so much fun to see Asher experience his favorite band live—knowing that I made it happen, that I was the hero that night, that I’d given him the perfect present, and all those assholes at his birthday party—all the kids in our class who squinted at the question mark I drew on a piece of paper—just didn’t get it, me, or life in general.
Wearing Green Day concert shirts featuring heart-shaped grenades, we met my dad afterward at the designated place right outside the casino floor and I could hardly hear him when he asked about the show because my ears were ringing.
“It rocked!” Asher kept saying. “So awesome!”
“All right, all right,” Dad said all cool, like he used to whenever he’d had a few drinks and his eyes were glassy. “All right, all right.” He’d say it fast and sort of rhythmic, putting the accent on the second ri and dropping the last t, so it sounded like “all-right, all-rye.”
Toward the end of our time together, when Dad really went off the deep end, you could say anything to him and he’d say, “All-right, all-rye.” “Dad, I failed Earth Science.” “All-right, all-rye.” “Mom’s banging this French fashion designer she used to model for.” “All-right, all-rye.” “I just lit your balls on fire, Dad.” “All-right, all-rye.” He became one of those dolls that repeat a catchphrase every time you pull its string. “All-right, all-rye.” “All-right, all-rye.” “All-right, all-rye.”
In our hotel room my dad said, “You guys can rent a movie, but stay in the room. All-right, all-rye? I’m going back down to the floor. Feeling lucky tonight,” which was no surprise, because my dad was always leaving me alone, even when I was a kid.
Asher and I watched the clock for ten minutes after my dad left, just long enough for him to start gambling, before we began exploring the hotel.
We ran down the endless mazelike hallways, knocking on the doors we passed, emptying the ice machines and having ice-ball fights in the stairwell; took turns sitting in the maid’s cart and pushing each other into walls; tried to sneak into an after-hours dance club and got caught by the bouncer, who laughed his ass off when—with straight faces—we told him it was Asher’s twenty-first birthday. We searched the casino floor for the members of Green Day and got kicked out, scarfed down some late-night pizza, and ended up sitting on the boardwalk with our elbows on the railing and our feet dangling over the side.
