Our valedictorian, Trish MacArthur, got character letters from the most popular teachers in the building, and every student at this school knows she throws the most insane parties, where booze and drugs are prevalent and cops are regular visitors—but since her dad is the mayor, they just say, “Keep the noise down.” A kid OD’d at her house last year and ended up in the hospital. And, magically, Trish MacArthur’s reputation among faculty members remained untarnished. She’s in A.P. English with me and she offered me two hundred bucks to “help her” with her Hamlet paper. She batted her eyelashes at me, crossed her ankles, pushed her boobs together with her shoulders, and said, “Please?” all helpless, just like she does with the male faculty members. They love it too. That girl really knows how to get what she wants. I told her to fuck off, of course. Called her a “broken valedictorian” and a “sham,” at which point she uncrossed her ankles, let gravity do what it would with her boobs, stopped blinking like her eyelids were butterfly wings, and in a gruff, age-appropriate voice, she said, “Do you even have a purpose here at this high school? You’re useless, Leonard Peacock.”
Then she flipped me off and walked away.
That’s our valedictorian.
Our finest.
Trish MacArthur.
“How do you know what you would have done if you were forced by your government to commit crimes but you still wanted to be a good parent?” Herr Silverman says. “Were the Germans evil or were they responding to the social and political climate of their day?”
My classmates are mostly baffled.
As I listen to their whiny answers and attempts to place themselves on high moral pedestals, I realize the gap between them and me is widening as we get older.
The lies are so vivid, they’re beginning to burn out my retinas.
Today’s lecture pisses off the übermorons big-time, like the truth always does. And yet it makes me feel comforted somehow, not because Nazi officers did horrible things, but because Herr Silverman is trying to expose what everyone else in the world hides at all costs.
It’s a depressing reality, how my classmates make love to their ignorance, and I mostly tune out and wait for class to end so I can give Herr Silverman his present and be closer to the Leonard Peacock finish line.
NINETEEN
When the bell rings, I stay seated.
Herr Silverman dutifully stands by the door and says good-bye to each student as he or she leaves.
I can tell he cares about everyone—even the stupidest among us.
It’s like he’s a saint or something.
Most kids rush out without even making eye contact, although Herr Silverman tries to give everyone his or her own individual good-bye.
It makes a difference, let me tell you, even if the übermorons in my class don’t appreciate it.
There have been days when Herr Silverman was the only person to look me in the eye.
The only person all day long.
It’s a simple thing, but simple things matter.
“So,” Herr Silverman says as he closes the door.[34] “You wanted to speak with me.”
“About that question I asked in class today,” I say.
He sits down at the desk next to mine and says, “Ah, what to do with the Nazi gun.”
“Yeah. Do you think it’s possible to turn an object with a negative, horrible connotation into something that has a positive connotation?”
“Sure,” he says.
I expect him to say more but he doesn’t, which makes me feel flustered and unsure of what I should say next, so I reach into my backpack and pull out a small box, wrapped in pink. “This is for you.”
Herr Silverman smiles and says, “Why do I get a present?”
“I’ll tell you after you open it.”
“Okay,” he says, and then begins to peel off the pink paper very carefully. He opens the little box, looks up, raises his eyebrows, and says, “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yeah, it’s the Bronze Star medal my grandfather was awarded for killing some high-ranking Nazi back in World War Two.”
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“Well, for a lot of reasons. Most of which I can’t really explain properly. That’s why people give presents, right? Because they don’t know how to express themselves in words, so you give gifts to symbolically explain your feelings. I got to thinking that the world would be a better place if they gave medals to great teachers rather than just soldiers who kill their enemies in wars. And with all the talk of World War Two in here and trying to make sense of horrible things, well, I just thought that I could turn the negative aspect surrounding that medal to a positive by giving it to you. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know. But I want you to have it, okay? It’s important to me. Maybe you can keep it in your desk drawer and whenever you get to feeling like maybe teaching isn’t worth it anymore you can think of that crazy kid Leonard Peacock who loved your class and gave you his grandfather’s Bronze Star as a reward for being an excellent teacher. Maybe it will help you keep going. I don’t know.”
“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?”
34
Most teachers refuse to close the door when they are alone with a student, saying it’s against the law or something, which is pretty stupid. It’s like everyone thinks teenagers are about to get raped every second of the day and that an open door can protect you. (It can’t. How could it?) But Herr Silverman closes the door, which makes me trust him. He doesn’t play by their rules; he plays by the right rules.