“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]
35
Of course I’ve already written these letters, but just haven’t shown Herr Silverman because the words are too intense and personal and insane—and maybe not what he wanted me to write. And yet, I feel like the letters are really important. I’m just not sure why and so I don’t want to risk ruining the words. If Herr Silverman said the letters were wrong, I don’t think I could handle it. Especially because he keeps saying the letters can save me, which means he believes I definitely need saving.
37
I was already weird back then, and people were starting to notice more and more. Asher had lots of friends, but I really only had Asher.
38
Why is it that we love surprising people? Is it because we like to know something they don’t? Does it give us a sense of power over others? Was I happy because I was controlling Asher? Or was I simply just trying to do something nice?