S K Y L A R
Mr. Wyatt walked into the classroom and realized almost right away the obvious. Almost all the seats were empty. All of them except mine and Luke's, a boy that every now and then seemed to die of boredom.
"Where is everyone?" he asked.
Everyone else was somewhere else entirely.
"Having more fun than we are," Luke said, letting himself fall on top of his textbooks, which were from every other subject except English.
"They're on a strike," I admitted, not wanting to start a pointless back and forth between Luke and Mr. Wyatt. I knew that would happen. Luke didn't like to participate in class when the topic actually mattered but loved to waste time on bits I suspected only he thought were funny.
Mr. Wyatt smiled, "Well that's always good to hear."
I didn't think any other teacher would have been happy to find that most of his students were cutting class, except, of course, Mr. Wyatt.
"So you agree with this?" I asked. I couldn't help myself.
"With students fighting for what they believe in? Of course!" he said, leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest.
"Even if what they believe in is football?" Luke frowned.
"Oh, I see. Is this because of the homecoming game?"
"Yes," Luke said. "Mr. Colton canceled it and people just decided to try and fly over the cuckoo's nest."
Mr. Wyatt laughed. I got the reference but didn't manage to even smile. We had read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest last year in class. Luke was implying the school was the nest, of course. I wasn't sure Mr. Wyatt was laughing because he agreed or because he liked his audacity. Most people didn't care much for it.
"So I'm guessing the both of you don't wanna try and fly over it too?" he asked eventually, as if this was a conversation between friends. I didn't know how to have those, so I avoided eye contact.
Luke seemed happy enough to engage with Mr. Wyatt though. He shrugged and said, "My parents clipped off my wings years ago, so I couldn't even if I wanted to."
I thought Luke was just trying to be funny, but Mr. Wyatt didn't. Instead, he said, "We're gonna have to circle back to that later, Luke."
"Oh, I was kidding," Luke said as fast as he could. It was good to know my people-reading skills were better than a licensed high school teacher's.
"Sure," he said, right before turning to look right at me. I felt my face turn red, the palms of my hands starting to sweat. I opened my mouth.
"I don't think I agree with the metaphor."
"You don't think school is a machine of oppression?" Luke asked me, confused that not everyone hated learning as much as him.
"No, of course I don't think that."
How were we even having this conversation right now?
"You don't think it wants to strip us out of our consciousness and force us into the rat race that is adult life?" Luke went on.
"What are you talking about?" I couldn't help myself.
"Look, I don't know," he admitted. "Sometimes I start sentences and I don't even know how I'm gonna finish them."
"You're lying," Mr. Wyatt said, "You know exactly what you're talking about."
"Hm, no, I don't," Luke said, sitting back on his chair, as if giving up. "You're giving me too much credit."
"I don't think I am," Mr. Wyatt said, pushing away from his desk and walking around it to sit on his chair. "But I won't force you to go on. I'm sure you've explored enough of Ken Kesey's work last year with Mrs. Spock."
We hadn't. She had made us watch the movie adaptation in class and then split us into groups to answer the questions on the worksheet she had printed from somewhere on the internet. She hadn't graded them. She hadn't even gone over the answers with us. Most people had only pretended to work that day.
I didn't say anything to Mr. Wyatt. I had gotten the credits I needed from that class and had been happy to be done with Mrs. Spock's methods of teaching when she finally announced she was retiring.
"So anyway, we can either end the class here or we can go on with just the three of us. I don't wanna start a new topic without the others, so if you decide to stay, it would just be me helping you with whatever it is you need. I don't know if you've started the reading, but if you have, and you have any questions, anything you would like to discuss, we can do that now."
"Or we can leave?" Luke asked, expectantly. "You won't think less of me if I do, right? Like it won't impact my grade?"
"Not at all", Mr. Wyatt said. "You can go if you want."
Luke got up slowly, "This isn't a test?"
Mr. Wyatt laughed, "No, it's not a test."
So Luke threw all his books inside his backpack and then slung it over his shoulder before heading for the door. He stopped when he noticed he was the only one moving. His eyes fell on me.
"You're not coming?"
Mr. Wyatt was also looking at me, "You don't have to stay. You're not gonna miss anything. If you don't have any questions, you can go."
"Actually, you should come," Luke said. "I could really use your help with something."
"You could?" I frowned. I wasn't even sure Luke knew my name.
"Yeah, it's a life-or-death situation actually," he said, nodding his head very seriously. Mr. Wyatt looked at him with a half-smile, so Luke added, "I mean, not literally."
"Come on, Skylar, go help the poor boy."
I got up. I didn't know what was worse, having to stay in the classroom alone with Mr. Wyatt, pretending I had all these thoughts about Slaughterhouse V, or go help Luke with his life-or-death-but-not-literally-life-or-death situation.
I put my things back in my bag and made my way to the door. I had meant to say thank you to Mr. Wyatt, but Luke just grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the hallway with him before I could, saying thank you himself right before closing the door behind us.
"That was close," he said once we were out of earshot, still walking, his hand still around my wrist. I wanted him to let go of me but was scared to say it.
Last year, my parents had forced me into going to prom and a boy had put his arm around my waist while we both filled up our drinks. When I moved it away, he got so mad he threw his drink at me. I hadn't minded. It had meant I got to go home early.
"What was close?" I asked Luke.
"That!" he said, like it was obvious. "You having to spend half an hour in a room alone with Mr. Wyatt pretending you've started the reading."
"I have started the reading," I said, like it was obvious too.
"Of course you have." He sounded like he didn't believe me. "Skylar, you don't have to lie to me. I've been fake reading my way through high school so far. I would never judge you."
"So you didn't read One Flew Over the â"
"Cuckoo's Nest?" he stopped me, "No! I watched the movie in class like everyone else."
"Okay," I said, looking down at my wrist again. I couldn't help it. Luke noticed.
"Oh, right. I'm sorry," he said, letting go of it right then and there.
"So you don't actually need my help?" I asked, holding my wrist where his hand had been.
"No, not really," he said, scratching the back of his head. He was wearing a t-shirt with the words my body my rules. "Funny, right?"
"What?"
"The t-shirt," he said. "I found it the other day at the mall. It's a girl's t-shirt, but they had my size, so."
We were still walking. I didn't know where. The hallways were empty because everyone was outside, in front of the window of Mr. Colton's office, with picket signs saying, Justice for Football, probably.
"Right," was the only thing I could come up with. I thought maybe I would go to the library. The couches in the corner would probably be empty, so I could just sit there and wait for the bell to ring.
"You don't really like Mr. Wyatt, do you?" Luke said. It came out of nowhere, but he sounded like he thought he was onto something.
"What?"
"You hate him, don't you?"
"No, what are you talking about?" He wasn't onto anything. He couldn't even get the hint that I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't even want to walk next to him.
"He's unconventional, you can't say he isn't. He's having us read The Perks of Being a Wallflower next semester."
"I don't know that book, so I couldn't tell you if it's unconventional or not."
"Well, it is. It is very unconventional. It's let's-make-Luke-cry-like-a-baby level of unconventional."
"I thought you didn't read the books for class."
"That's the thing, this isn't a book for class. I read it this summer. Long story short, it gave me seasonal depression. Now Mr. Wyatt wants to read it again. Is seasonal depression really seasonal if it lasts all year long?"
I didn't answer. We had just made it to my locker. Someone had spray painted it again. This happened almost every day and almost every day I had to clean it up. The word of the day was: LOOSER.
"What the fuck is this?" Luke asked, looking over at me. "That's not even how you spell loser."
"They don't even know how to write nerd, so," I said, looking around for Mr. Plemons, the school's janitor. Usually, he let me borrow something to clean this up without asking any questions, but he was nowhere to be seen.
"How do you know?"
"Well, because that's what they tried to write last time."
"Last time? How many times has this happened?" He sounded very outraged, which was strange, seeing as he had called our school a machine of oppression just minutes ago. Wasn't this what oppressive systems did?
"I'm not counting." I shrugged, walking away and towards the janitor's room around the corner. Maybe Mr. Plemons was there.
"Where are you going?" he asked as he followed me. Why was he following me? It was bad enough I had to be reminded I was a loser every time I used my locker. Did I have to share the experience with Luke too?
"I need something to clean it up with."
"What, you're gonna have to clean it up yourself?" He sounded more outraged every moment that passed. Maybe he really hadn't known what he was talking about earlier.
I didn't answer, moving instead to knock on the door. Something stopped me. A voice coming from inside that didn't belong to Mr. Plemons. I should know. I had to talk to him every other day.
I turned to Luke and whispered, "Did you hear that?"
He lifted his finger and pressed it against his lips.
Inside, the voice got louder, "This is bullshit!"
On our side, Luke pretended he was shooting up his veins with a needle. I mouthed a very confused what.
"It's Caitlyn," he whispered, repeating his mimic, "You know, cause she's a junkie."
"That is horrible," I mouthed, showing him a disapproving look.
He just shushed me again. Eavesdropping wasn't exactly something I subscribed to, but I couldn't help it. Inside, Caitlyn explained that Mr. Colton had called her to his office to ask if she had stolen his car.
"I thought for a second that he'd seen us take it but then he said he just knew it in his gut it had been me. Can you fucking believe this? Right? I told him to fuck off."
We waited for more. She was probably on her phone because whoever she was talking to was definitely not in the room.
"No, he has no fucking evidence other than his big fucking gut. Don't laugh, it's not funny. I'm gonna have to do community service for talking back at him. You know I hate kids."
The other person seemed to have a lot to say about that because there was silence for a while.
"I can't even believe he canceled the game. I didn't think he had it in him, to be honest, but you know what, good for him, good for Bob, fighting for what's his."
The handle moved without any warning that the conversation had come to an end, and Luke grabbed my wrist again, and pushed me away from the door and towards the water fountain on another side of the hallway, where he pretended he was suddenly very thirsty.
Caitlyn came out of the room in a long leather jacket and a t-shirt that was too small for her. I hadn't wanted to see her nipples through it, but I had. I totally had. My face turned red for the second time today.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" she asked me.
I swallowed hard, "Hm, do you knowâ Do you know where Mr. Plemons is?"
"Who the fuck is Mr. Plemons?"
Luke straightened up next to me, water dripping down his chin and onto his my-body-my-rules t-shirt.
"He's the janitor," he said.
"Oh, right, he's inside," she said. "I killed him."
And just like that, she walked away and disappeared down the stairs. I turned to Luke. He was already looking at me, eyes wide open, lines of confusion on his forehead.
"Who the fuck was she talking to in there?" he asked. "You think she's schizophrenic?"
I just looked at him, "She was on the phone."
He smiled, "Yeah, I know, I just wanted to make you laugh."
"Why?" I meant it as in both why he wanted to make me laugh and why he thought that would be the way to do it.
"I don't know." He shrugged. "My dad never said he loved me."
I just looked at him again.
"See? That was me trying again," he explained. "But I'll take the hint and just go fuck myself instead."
I decided I would pretend the last few seconds of the conversation hadn't happened and changed the topic. I couldn't match his energy even if I wanted to.
"So Caitlyn has Mr. Colton's car," I said.
"She does!" Luke agreed, reaching for something in the back pocket of his jeans. "And you know who's gonna love hearing about this?"
"Mr. Colton?"
"No, well, actually, yes, I'm sure he would, but I actually meant Daisy."
I knew Daisy. She was in some of my classes. So was Zoey. Somehow, I couldn't think of one without immediately thinking of the other. They seemed to be an extension of each other. When we had learned about mutualistic symbiotic relationships in biology, I had thought of them.
In front of me, Luke unlocked his phone, opened his social media, and typed Daisy Allen on the search bar. I didn't know if I should be looking or not, but it was too late to look away. Her profile came up at the very top. He clicked on it and wrote a message saying, I know what you did last summer, but he didn't hit send.
Instead, he showed it to me, and asked, "What do you think?"
"Why not just tell her?"
He rolled his eyes, and deleted the message to write instead, I know who stole bob's car. It took only a few seconds for Daisy to reply with: Who's this?
"She knows who I am," he told. "She's just being funny."
He replied: Gossip girl. Who do you think?
Daisy typed back: That is so not you on your profile pic.
Luke opened up his profile and showed me the picture, "That's obviously me, right?"
I looked at it. It was a picture of him at some bookshop. I shrugged, "Sure."
"Thank you!" he said, and then typed: My mom took that picture, do you wanna ask her if it's real? To which Daisy replied: I'm not saying it's not real. It's just not you. Since when do you know how to read?
Luke smiled at his phone next to me, then replied: Do you wanna know who has bob's car or not? Daisy wrote: Yes. So Luke typed in Caitlyn's name, moving closer to me so I could see the screen of his phone better. They went on.
How do you know?
We heard her on the phone just now.
Who's we?
Skylar and me.
Aw, you're making friends.
Are you proud?
So proud!
Thanks. Anyway, what are you gonna do about it?
Luke turned to me suddenly, and said, "Daisy's trying to make it into the school's glee club, but she needs to prove she can perform in front of a big crowd because apparently last time a kid threw up at the Sectionals and they got eliminated right then and there. Anyway, the game's her only chance to prove herself."
"Okay."
He looked back at his phone. Daisy had said: That's confidential. Luke wrote back: Fuck, you're not gonna kill her, are you?
I felt I was watching one of those shows I usually skipped on tv for fear of getting too attached and wasting all my time watching it.
Daisy replied in a few seconds: No, gotta go. Thanks for the info. My people will get in touch soon.
Luke put his phone back in his pocket and took a deep breath.
"Exciting, right?"
"Right."
"She was probably talking to Tristan. She doesn't talk to anyone else in school."
"Right."
"You're really articulate." He said it like he didn't mean it, so I said thank you like I didn't either.
Then I asked, "What do you think they're gonna do?"
He shrugged, "I once saw Zoey cry over a commercial. They have no chance against Caitlyn and Tristan."