Dear Fellow Graduates
by Michael David Lukas
Indian Rock
First of all, I think it’s only appropriate for me to extend a hearty congratulations to my fellow graduates (and to all you proud family members)! I’ve been there with you these past four years and I understand how you all must feel, sitting up there on that stage.
But as much as I would love to recount all the ups and downs of the past four years, as much as I would enjoy reminiscing about Spirit Weeks past and shedding a tear over the last days of our youth, a higher duty calls me to task. What I present before you, in this, my last column as editor of the Berkeley High Jacket, is a tale that needs to be told, burns to be told, even if some people out there (Mrs. Eliason!) won’t be happy I’m telling it.
By now, some of you (especially all you proud family members) might be wondering: Who the heck is this guy? What is he talking about? I thought this was the graduation edition of the Berkeley High Jacket.
I can assure you that this is indeed the graduation edition of the Berkeley High Jacket. In the rest of these pages you will find the traditional fare for such an issuance. On pages 6–9, you can see where your dear child and their friends are going to college (as if you didn’t already know!). On pages 12–15, you can read a variety of melancholy farewells to our fair school. And so on and so forth.
If you would rather not read this story, you are obviously free to turn the page. But I can assure you that you will be glad to have read it.
The events in question began late one Wednesday night a few months ago (actually, technically, it was early Thursday morning). As the editor of this fair paper, it was my responsibility to drive the finished proofs down to our printer in Fremont once every other week. It’s a long drive, and on my way home, I would often stop at a little park near my dad’s house.
You may be familiar with Indian Rock, around the corner. You may also know Grotto Rock, a few blocks up the hill. Chances are, though, you’ve never heard of Mortar Rock, which is why I like it. There’s almost never anyone there.
On the night in question, I was coming home particularly late. The moon was high and white and the streets were empty. I parked across the street from the rock and climbed to the top, which is when I noticed the two men in a beat-up white Volvo.
There are any number of reasons why two men might be sitting in a beat-up white Volvo across the street from a park at two thirty in the morning. But these two seemed a little shady. They were both uncommonly large, with Nordic features and a slightly dented appearance that seemed out of place in the neighborhood. Was I stereotyping? Yes, my fellow graduates, I was. And, like any good Berkeley High student, I felt bad for succumbing to my biases. But as we will see, my biases, in this case at least, were spot on.
After sitting quietly on top of the rock for five or ten minutes (not smoking a joint or anything like that), I realized that there was someone else in the park with me: a tall, gangly man bent over a trash can. It took me a moment to process that this man, digging frantically through the trash in a public park at two thirty in the morning, was none other than my English teacher, Mr. Balz.
As most of my fellow graduates know, Mr. Balz is not your typical teacher. He can recite Beowulf by heart in Old English. He often delivers Shakespearean monologues from atop his desk. And once he dedicated an entire period of my Bible As Literature class to the poetry of Liz Phair. I can’t say I’m the biggest fan of Mr. Balz. (My own personal feeling is that he’s kind of a poser.) But I also don’t have any particular ill will toward him. And I’ve always thought that the jokes about his name are a little cheap.
So there we were. Me and Mr. Balz, staring at each other across Mortar Rock.
“Michael Lukas,” he said in the same voice he used to call my name off the roll sheet. “AP British Literature.”
There was a short silence, then a car door slammed and Mr. Balz took off running.
Those Scandinavians were big but they were fast. Half a block down the hill, the dark-haired one caught up with Mr. Balz and grabbed his shirt while the blond one tackled him to the ground. There were some grunts and a crunching sound as bone hit asphalt. Before Mr. Balz could shout for help, the Scandinavians duct-taped his mouth, bound his wrists, and carried him to the trunk of the Volvo. You could have been sleeping in your bed a few dozen yards away (perhaps some of you were) and not heard a thing.
If I were a less reliable narrator, I would tell you that I leaped into action right then and there. I would say that I put my dislike for Mr. Balz aside, hopped in my dad’s Subaru, and sped after the Scandinavians on a wild chase through Tilden Park. But the truth is, after watching all this transpire, after seeing my AP British Literature teacher tackled, stuffed into a trunk, and driven to who knows where, I did nothing.
I drove home and spent the rest of the night with my covers pulled up over my head, praying the Scandinavians hadn’t seen me or heard my name. Sometime in the dark hours of the morning, I decided that the most prudent course of action was no action at all. I would keep this whole thing to myself, wipe what I had seen from my mind, then finish up the school year and head off to college.
But, as Mr. Balz often said, the truth will out. That next morning, when I saw Sarah Meyers at the bus stop, I couldn’t help but tell her.
“Wait, what?”
“They put him in the trunk and drove away.”
Sarah stared at me, squinting, like she wasn’t sure I was even real. “What?”
Most of my fellow graduates probably know Sarah Meyers. For those who don’t, I would describe her thusly: She has bright red hair. She does not suffer fools, gladly or otherwise. And she always keeps a box of Froot Loops in her backpack. She’s two parts Joan Didion, one part Simone de Beauvior, and one part Courtney Love. Some people say she took the SATs on acid, which may or may not be true. What I know for sure is that she aced them, and that she’s going to Columbia next fall on a full scholarship.
“Did you call the police?”
“I—”
“Did you tell your parents? Did you tell anyone?”
“I told you.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Clearly.”
She swung her backpack around and dug into the Fruit Loops. “Okay,” she said midchew, “here’s what we’re going to do. First, we’re going to go over to his house and check things out.”
“Now?” I had a calculus test second period, we both did. More importantly, I didn’t want to run into those Scandinavians again.
“Yeah, now,” she said, already walking down the hill. “OR, do you not consider this an urgent situation?”
Mr. Balz’s house was on one of those tiny streets off Indian Rock Road, a three-story brown shingle with a front yard so overgrown you could barely see the house itself. The bottom-floor windows were all covered with sun-faded tapestries and the mailbox was stuffed full of junk.
“It was his grandparents’ house,” Sarah said, standing in the driveway. “I think his grandpa was a judge or some kind of politician?”
“Very interesting,” I said. “Now, how are we going to get in?”
Sarah gave a little smile and hoisted herself up over the fence. “I just might know where he keeps the hide-a-key.”
Most of my fellow graduates will probably have heard some of the rumors about Sarah and Mr. Balz. You might have heard that they went camping together last summer, took mushrooms, and stayed up late into the night reading passages of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You might have heard Cindy Lee say she saw Sarah coming out of Mr. Balz’s house. I don’t know if any of these rumors are true. They probably aren’t. What I do know is that their relationship goes beyond what most people would think is appropriate. Sarah once told me she considered Mr. Balz “more of a friend than a teacher” and I know that he wrote her a recommendation letter that used the phrase beautiful mind at least three times.