Alternative

June 25, 2009 at 12:30PM

I wonder if she was right, if there is a different way of looking at myself.

Maybe I'm not stuck. Maybe there's an alternative. (Hah, alternative).

Maybe it doesn't matter if I'm not all that special. Maybe I still matter. Maybe my life still matters.

Beth still occupies a lot of my thoughts. But the pain is starting to fade. I'm not watching as much television, and I've started going out on weekends a bit, talking to people.

Mom got me an appointment with this therapist, Dr. Moore, to talk about my head stuff. She said it worried her how fixated I was on this idea that my brain was screwed up—especially since I'd seen doctors and had cat scans and they'd all said I was fine.

I liked Dr. Moore. The more I talked with her, the more I started to wonder if maybe my brain was okay after all. She told me that whenever I started feeling like there was something wrong with me, I should try and identify the thoughts I was having. And then I should really think about whether those thoughts were true, or if there was another way of looking at things.

Alex and I organized a little weekly soccer game at the park near his house. Terry brought some friends including this brunette, Rachel, who had an eyebrow ring and was transferring to Harvest in the fall. Afterwards, Alex told me she was flirting with me, that I was an idiot for not picking up on it, but I think she just found me amusing because I wiped out spectacularly a couple times during the game.

Mr. Vincenzo told me that I'd done well in his class, received one of the top marks. It wasn't because he thought I was brilliant though; he must have just liked how good my attendance was. I did pretty well in all of my other classes, well enough to keep my university acceptance anyway.

Alex hadn't shown up for the last day of school: he and Terry had this big road trip planned to New York City, and they left a day early to catch some concert in Brooklyn or something. I guess he was already aware of the ritual at Harvest of students not showing up on the last day of school. I think I was the only one unaware of the tradition because when I got there, it was virtually empty.

There wasn't anything to do on the last day anyway. But I met with all my teachers and thanked them for the year, thanked them for not failing me.

After lunch, most of the teachers went home, but I felt like sticking around. I had nothing else to do. The school was quiet. This weird sense of calm came over me.

I wander into the art room and look at some of the stuff on the wall. Nothing of mine is up because I didn't take the class. I wonder if I would have been any good.

This had been the first room I checked out back on my first day in September. The room where I first met Beth, where I gave her a hug before our concert.

"Hey."

I turn around.

She looks different. Still beautiful, but different. I can't pinpoint the difference.

"Hey, Beth."

"You checking out my work?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Had a few things to pick up here before they close up for the summer."

She grabs a couple pieces off the wall and puts them into a large cloth bag.

"Are you the only one here?" she asks.

"I think I heard Mr. Vincenzo in his office earlier. But yeah, only student I guess."

She nods and looks down, awkwardly.

"How's your dad doing?" I ask.

"He's doing better. Thanks for asking."

"And, how are you?" I ask.

"Good. I'm uh, knitting a lot. Ha. Going back to school in September. Started seeing my therapist again, which has been...good."

"I'm glad to hear that," I say.

"How about you?"

"I actually started seeing a therapist, too."

"That's great," she says.

"Yeah, and, uh, first year university in the Fall."

"Wow, that's awesome—congrats. What are you studying?"

"I don't know yet."

"You'll figure it out."

"Yeah." I don't know why, but I really like hearing her say that.

We look at each other, silently. All those small, intimate moments I'd had with her suddenly hit me. These little fragments of time shared by us, unknown to everyone else. Our own little universe, now a thing of the past.

She smiles, with tears in her eyes. I tear up, too. Despite everything that's happened, she still seems to care.

"Hope you have a good summer," I say.

"You too," she replies.

She gives me a hug, leaves the art room and then the school. I look out the window and see her get onto a streetcar. I watch it go until it's completely out of sight. I keep looking out the window, hoping to see something else. I don't know what.

I look into some of the other open classrooms before I leave. I wonder how much of this year I'll remember as I get older, how much will just be forgotten, feel like someone else's life. 

Walking through the front doors, I hear Mr. Vincenzo call out my name, "Tim!"

I turn to see him smoking a cigarette by the alleyway. He approaches me with a book in his hand.

"Was hoping I'd catch you. Leaves of Grass," he says. "I have an extra copy... gimme one sec"

"Oh, thanks," I say.

He bolts into the school, and comes out less than a minute later comes out with the book. 

"I think you might be the only student here who actually got his university applications in on time, so, you know, make us all proud and show those fancy professors what an alternative school kid is made of."

"Will do," I mutter.

He chuckles, says "Alright, then," and gives me a pat on the back.

I hop on the streetcar and start leafing through the book. I see that he's underlined certain sentences and made notes in the margins; I guess to help him understand it, to remember the parts that he liked. There's a poem called Song of Myself that I recognize because he read it to our class way back in September. I hadn't really been listening then.

There's one line—the last part of a phrase—that he circled instead of underlined. 

I contain multitudes.

Hmm. 

I lift my eyes from the page and look out the window. Waiting for my stop. Curious to see what comes next. 

THE END