The Temptation of Adam: A Novel by Dave Connis (1)

OUR FIVE O’CLOCK APPOINTMENT

I sit outside of the principal’s office awaiting the guillotine of high school justice.

My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Addy.

Dad just told me you’re in trouble at school?

I groan and collapse my head into my hands. My sister would be in town when something like this happens to me. The only person who actually matters is about to find out I’m getting expelled. How charming of you, Life.

I guess.

You guess you’re in trouble? What happened?

I’ll tell you later @ Pritchett’s.

Will you actually tell me or is this one of your famous avoidance techniques?

Bryonie Welch walks by the office. Her curly blond hair bounces a bit as she stops in front of the door. I don’t feel very plucky, so I just watch her as she flips me off, slides a note beneath the door, and keeps walking. I stare at the note for a little while before picking it up.

There’s an order out for my destruction?

Well, don’t the giggles abound.

I am now super pissed. The evils unleashed upon me were calculated and formulated?

I cuss, shoot out of my chair, and storm toward Principal Johnson’s door. I have evidence of a conspiring enemy; I’m prepared to restate my case and secure an acquittal. I raise a fist, ready to pound down the door, but I hear Mrs. Johnson say, “That may be true, but it’s a miracle that Miss Howard’s parents aren’t going to press charges.”

I pause and press my ear against the door.

“Tracy,” Mr. Crotcher says, “I’m begging you to accept this proposal. Please.”

Awesome. Mr. Cratcher—I call him Mr. Crotcher—is the last person I want bargaining for my soul. Mr. Crotcher is Bothell High’s bio/chem teacher and a friend of my family’s. What was left of my family, anyway. He’s been waiting for this day since I started high school, the day he could exact his chem-tastic revenge. This revenge covered a multitude of grievances because Mr. Crotcher and I went back.

Way back.

Back before The Woman left my dad. Addy had been in one of his advanced chem classes when his wife, Gabby, passed away. Despite a few faults, Addy is the best of the Hawthornes. Better than me. Better than my dad. Better than The Woman by miles. Because Addy is who she is, she invited the newly widowed Mr. Crotcher over to dinner every Tuesday night.

Our rivalry started my second year of middle school, the first dinner night he attended. A song came on through the radio in the kitchen. I loved the song so I tapped my fork to the beat on my plate—and he told me to stop. I didn’t even know the guy, and there he was telling me not to do stuff. In my own house. I decided I didn’t like him, and he’s been Mr. Crotcher ever since.

On the first day of high school, I was accidentally late to his class because I got lost and wound up in the wrong wing. When I finally found the classroom, he assumed I was just a miscreant and pulled me aside to give me a “you have so much potential” speech laden with mysticism and quotable one-liners about humanity. At the time, The Woman had just left my dad, so Crotcher’s “potential” bucket’a’bull pissed me off. It was like he’d judged me to be one of those chronically late kids who needed a mentor as soon as he’d seen me tap my fork on my plate. So, after that, I felt the need to make being late for his classes a thing forever more.

It turned into some sort of unspoken war.

Instead of curing my tardiness by reporting me to a school authority like any other teacher would, he just made frequent calls to my dad to inform him of my shortcomings. This was a major oversight for Mr. Crotcher because, even though he knew a ton of formulas, he didn’t know the fundamental formula for my dad:

“This is an incredible offense, Colin,” Mrs. Johnson is saying. “We could permanently expel him for this.”

Mr. Crotcher sighs. “That’s not what he needs. I know him. I know his father. Approve this. Call West Seattle High if you desire some success stories from some of my other mentees.”

Why does Mr. Crotcher always think he knows what I need? What about my fork tapping made him think he knew the ins and outs of the Adam Hawthorne blueprint? Was it possible that he was the leader of the Anti-Adam Order? Maybe he led the AAO in discussions on how to screw me over while dissecting cats in class.

“This is a cycle, Mrs. Johnson,” Mr. Crotcher says, “and I’m sure I can help.”

Silence.

Finally, Mrs. Johnson sighs. “Okay.”

“You’ll let me do this program?”

“Yes, but he’ll still have a eighty-day suspension. At the end of that period, we’ll assess the situation again. If your program doesn’t work, we may have to take further action.”

“Thank you, Tracy.”

“I’ll let you handle it from here,” Mrs. Johnson says. “I’ve got enough to worry about as it is.”

I walk back to my seat, pissed, and pull out my phone. This whole situation makes me think too much, so I calm myself by skimming through an expertly curated porn playlist I have saved for later tonight. There’s no thought involved in that.

A minute or so later, Mrs. Johnson’s office door swings open. I click off my phone as Mr. Crotcher pushes a wad of papers toward my face.

“I’ve called your dad and updated him on your current situation.”

“You sure he listened?”

“Read over this.” He holds out the paperwork. “This is your situation report and discipline outline.”

I take them with an aggressive snatch.

“Bring this home and have your dad sign it. If he wants to request a hearing for you, he needs to do it by tomorrow morning. However, to be candid, the evidence is so stacked against you it would be a waste of everyone’s time if he did.”

This crack about “evidence” is the biggest joke someone could’ve made. There was no evidence. I almost don’t care if I get expelled. I’m an academic anomaly, a sultan of study poised for slaying the entry-level job world with my eventual overpriced college degree. I could find another school.

“You have an eighty-day suspension,” he says, “and we will meet every day of it at five a.m. Then, every Monday and Friday at seven thirty p.m., you will meet with what I call a Transparency Forum, a group of guys who get together and talk about what’s happening in their lives.” He pauses to give me the chance to add something, but when he realizes my lips are zipped—nay, glued, nay, welded together—he continues. “Also, every Thursday night, you will attend a public addiction group based on AA’s twelve-step program with your Transparency Forum.”

“Why do I have to go to an addiction group? That’s a bucket’a’bull. I’m not addicted to anything.”

“Sure you are,” he says, his voice laced with annoying calmness.

“No. I’m not. You know nothing about me.”

“I know you have porn waiting for you tonight. I know your social activity has declined to a halt over the last year. I know you sit alone at Pritchett’s. I know neither your father nor your sister know anything about what’s going on with you.”

“You’ve only seen me at Pritchett’s once.”

“Perhaps, but seeing you once at Pritchett’s has no bearing on my seeing you. I’ve been around a while, Adam. The look of a human searching for something they can’t find is as evident as where the sun shines.”

“So you’re stalking me?”

He smiles, taps the papers in my hand, and turns to leave. “Make sure you have your dad sign those papers. Bring them with you tomorrow to our five o’clock appointment.”