FIVE YEARS EARLIER
By third period on Wednesday, I’ve run out of energy to even listen during history class. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Dad was mad again, and I still don’t know what about. I can barely stay awake and my eyelids keep drooping every five minutes until I shake myself in an effort to become more alert, but it’s no use.
To stop myself from constantly drifting into another world, I turn my worksheet over and begin to trace one big circle, around and around and around . . . My eyes close again, and I flinch, blinking fast. I sit up, hoping that maybe if I don’t slouch so much, that’ll help. But it doesn’t. I glance to my left, looking across the class at Dean’s desk. He’s already staring back at me with a smirk.
“Wake up,” he mouths. Is it that obvious?
I bury my face into my hands, rubbing hard at my eyes until I see stars, and just as my sight is coming back to me, I see Mrs. Palmer putting down the phone at her desk. Her eyes flicker up and she looks straight at me, swiveling around in her chair to face me more directly.
“Tyler,” she says gently with a small smile, “Mr. Hayes would like to see you in his office.”
Mr. Hayes wants to see me in his office? Why does the school counselor want to see me? Jake said he was called to his office last week to talk about his grades because they suck, but my grades are fine. I’m fine.
I was falling asleep a second ago, but now I’m wide awake. I swallow hard and set my pen down, getting to my feet. Half the class are working on the worksheets, the other half are watching me closely. As I weave through the desks, I glance back over my shoulder at Dean. He raises his eyebrows at me, curious as to why I’ve been called to Mr. Hayes’ office, and honestly, I have no idea, so I just give him a small shrug and turn back around. I keep my head down as I walk out of class.
I’ve only ever been in Mr. Hayes’ office once before, and that was last year when everyone was called up one by one to talk about what our plans for the future are, as though we’re supposed to know the answer to that in middle school. I told him I wasn’t sure, but that I’d probably end up working for Dad. That’s what I’m expected to do, at least.
When I reach Mr. Hayes’ office, I take a deep breath and zip up my hoodie to cover the band-aid on my neck. Then, I knock on the door and I wait.
A few seconds later, the door swings open and Mr. Hayes smiles down at me. “Ah, Tyler. Thanks for coming,” he says. He steps back from the door and motions for me to come inside, which I do. He closes the door behind me again. “Sit down, please.”
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and sit down on the edge of the seat in front of his big old desk. I can’t relax. My foot is tapping against the floor as Mr. Hayes sinks down into his chair across from me. He’s young, Mr. Hayes. Younger than Dad, with thick stubble, a crooked nose, and dark eyes that are studying me closely.
“You’ve just come from History, right?” he asks gently as his way of initiating a conversation, interlocking his hands together on the table in front of him. His smile never falters.
“Right,” I agree. Why am I here? I ball my hands into fists inside my pockets, feeling even more anxious than I did a minute ago.
“Relax, Tyler,” Mr. Hayes says with a small laugh, reading my expression. He can probably sense my nerves. “You’re not in trouble. I’ve only called you down here to talk. I just want to check in and see how you’re doing.”
“Check in and see how I’m doing?” I repeat, confused. Why does he need to check up on me? It’s not like it’s some mandatory thing. Have I done something wrong?
Mr. Hayes’ smile tightens into what I think is a frown and he leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving mine. “Several of your teachers have said you’ve been acting up lately,” he finally tells me. “And skipping gym class?” He arches a brow.
Uh oh. My hands are sweating now, so I pull them out of my pockets and twiddle my thumbs instead. “I haven’t . . . I haven’t been acting up,” I lie, my words sticking in my throat.
“Hmm.” Mr. Hayes cranes his neck and looks at the screen of his computer for a few moments. “Not listening. Talking back to your teachers. Not finishing work during class.” He looks at me again and cocks his head to one side. “Any reason for the change in attitude? Your grades are still perfect, so what’s going on, Tyler?”
“I don’t know,” I say bluntly. I lock my eyes on a random spot on his desk, refusing to meet his gaze. I know exactly what’s going on. The cut on my neck stings again.
“Who are your friends?” Mr. Hayes questions.
“Dean Carter and Jake Maxwell,” I mumble. Why does it matter who my friends are? I still can’t look at him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still feel his eyes boring into me.
“Alright, so you’re not hanging around with the wrong people,” Mr. Hayes muses to himself. He goes quiet for a second, as though he’s considering other possibilities, and then he asks, “Are there any people in this school you dislike? Any people you should let me know about?”
I look up at him, gritting my teeth. Why is he questioning me like this? Why does he care? “I’m not being bullied, Mr. Hayes,” I state clearly and slowly. I’m fine. I am fine. “Can I go back to class now? Like you said, my grades are perfect. I can’t be missing out on class.” I begin to stand, prepared to walk straight out of this office.
“Tyler,” Mr. Hayes says firmly. He folds his arms across his chest and narrows his eyes up at me, but not in anger. Concern. “You’re giving me attitude, and yet you say you’re not acting up.” He stands up too and leans back against the window, his hands in the pockets of his pants, his eyes still analyzing me. I’m afraid if I stick around any longer, he’ll figure me out. “Is everything okay at home?” he asks.
My heart skips a beat in my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I mutter, glaring across the desk at him. I’m angry now. Does he know? No, he can’t possibly know. No one does.
“Well,” he says, “maybe your parents have been fighting? Anything going on that may be affecting you?”
“No, they love each other,” I spit. I’m clenching my jaw so tight I think it may shatter. They both love me too. Dad loses control too easily, but it’s because he’s stressed. He wants the best from me. He wants me to succeed. He doesn’t mean to hurt me; he just can’t help it. I want it to stop, I do, but I also don’t want anyone to take him away from us. From my brothers. From Mom. “I’m going back to class, Mr. Hayes.” This time, I really do turn to leave. I storm toward the door and reach for the handle.
“Tyler,” Mr. Hayes says one last time. I hesitate at the door, but I don’t turn around. I stare at the door handle instead, breathing heavily, listening. “If you figure out why you’re acting like this, then please come and talk to me. I’m here to help you, remember,” he says gently, his voice quiet. “Okay?”
I squeeze my eyes shut as I pull open the door, refusing to answer him and stepping out into the hallway. Aggressively, I slam the door shut behind me, because he’s a liar. He can’t help me. No one can.