Behind the Falls Read online

  When it comes to meeting new people I often worry about how they perceive me. I worry that they don’t understand me and dislike me based on incorrect assumptions. I stress over what to say, how to act so that people don’t have a reason to dislike me. Every conversation becomes a minefield. If things don’t feel normal and natural (which, face it, with me is most often the case) then I can’t stop wondering about everything I said and did. Every sentence, every gesture every look carries the potential for disaster. As a result I’m quite shy.

  “What do you expect is going to happen with these people?” asks Dr. Bachman.

  “Bullying, ostracism, taunting, hate, getting beaten up, I mean, isn’t that enough?” I laugh nervously. “You can’t argue against the odds of bullying. That happens at every school.”

  “But why should it happen to you? What makes you think you would be targeted?”

  “Of course I would be. Why wouldn’t I? I’m different. I’ve never even been to school. They’ll see I’m a freak immediately and I’ll be a target…” I realize I should have started with this one. This is my very worst fear. I know the odds of someone shooting up the school tomorrow are practically nonexistent but getting picked on, bullied and beaten up seems almost to be a given.

  “Noah, you don’t look different than any other teenager. No one knows anything about you. They don’t need to know you’ve never been to school if you don’t tell them. How would they know? You’re NOT a freak and you know that’s a word you’re not supposed to call yourself. You’ve been functioning without major symptoms for quite some time now. There’s no reason to think that will change. If you keep practicing your breathing and all of the techniques we’ve worked on there’s no reason to think any symptoms will manifest. You may even make some good friends from this experience.”

  I want to believe Dr. Bachman but I just can’t. I’m not supposed to think of myself as a freak but I know I’m not normal either. Don’t kids have some kind of sixth sense that makes them target those that are weaker? Won’t they smell it on me, the oddness, the problems and the fear?

  I spend another half hour on the phone with Dr. Bachman. She asks about my mood in general, confirms there’s no sadness and none of the emptiness that precedes it. I assure her I’m okay but it takes a while before I’m relaxed enough to finally go to bed and now I lay here looking at the alarm every few minutes. I’m counting how much sleep I’ll get if I can fall asleep right now.

  I obviously fall asleep at some point even though it was after two the last time I checked the clock, because my alarm wakes me. My first thought is how tired I am. My second thought is how very sore I am. My entire body is one gigantic tight muscle. It’s been a long time since I was wound so tight that it caused muscle fatigue. Even my jaw hurts proof that I was either grinding my teeth or clenching them in my sleep. I would roll over and go back to sleep if the sun wasn’t shining in my window. I know Mom is going to be in here within ten minutes if she doesn’t hear me stirring anyway.

  I take the hottest shower I can stand, hoping that it will loosen me up some. I stand under the spray of Gran’s massaging shower head until the water runs cold. By the time I’ve dried off and picked clothes (jeans and a blue polo shirt) I’m starting to feel doubt. By the time I’m done brushing and flossing the doubt has turned to dread.

  “Noah?! You better be awake in there,” I hear Mom call from just outside my door.

  “I’m almost ready,” I call back in what I hope is a normal enough voice. I take a few deep breaths, studying my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look normal enough. My hair is still a little on the long side. I never did get around to getting it cut. School, in less than an hour. .. I’m so not ready for this! My stomach begins to flip flop.

  I pack my backpack quickly. I don’t have any books yet but I shove a small sketch pad and a set of charcoal pencils inside, regular pencils, a pen and a lined notebook. I go back into the bathroom and those items are soon joined by a travel toothbrush, paste and mouthwash. I can’t be too sure about my stomach. Better to go prepared to puke than to have nothing and walk around with puke breath all day. Just the thought of puke makes my stomach roil. I don’t think I can do this. Tears sting my eyes.

  “Noah?” Mom’s voice again but this time she knocks and her voice is louder. I wipe my eyes hurriedly and peer out of the bathroom to see her poking her head through my bedroom door.

  “Geeze, privacy, Mom!” I shout. I’m fully clothed, ready to go. I don’t need privacy. I’m just starting to panic. Of course Mom knows. She’s been dealing with me forever. I can’t hide it from her today. She’s in the bathroom in seconds.

  “Noah? I think maybe today you should take your meds,” she suggests softly. I shake my head.

  “I feel like I’m failing before I even try if I take them,” I admit.

  “I don’t think it’s failure, Sweetie. I think you’re going to have a very stressful day no matter how prepared you are. I’m not saying you can’t do it. I know you can. I just think you should give yourself every advantage that you can today, okay?” She has a point.

  It’s probably smart to take them now. I can feel my nerves humming and my heart is pounding and I hate it. I hate that after so many years of therapy and such hard work and almost a full year with no major incidents that everything comes down to needing the pills today. I hate it even more that I’m more afraid of my own fear than I am about the prospect of school.

  Mom takes the pill bottle from her pocket, shakes two into her hand and offers them to me. I pop them in my mouth and wash them down with a disposable cup full of water. I wonder how long it will be before they finally trust me with my own meds. It’s been a long time but old habits die hard and I automatically open my mouth to prove to Mom that I’ve swallowed them. I follow along behind her resignedly. In the kitchen she insists I eat something.

  “I don’t think I’m up to breakfast,” I argue. The last thing I want is a full stomach when I inevitably get sick later. Mom makes me eat some toast and drink some juice and then it’s time to leave.

  The school is outside of town. Town itself is only a few miles long and a few miles wide and then the houses start to become further and further apart and then there are fields and then there is the school. Why did they build it so far away from where people actually live? Maybe they thought the town would grow bigger. It hasn’t. It’s still the same small town it’s been for as long as I can remember.

  Small town school or not, when we pull into the parking lot it looks huge to me. There are multiple buses letting off students along the front sidewalk. There are cars pulling into the lot left and right, some with parents dropping off kids and others just full of kids. There is a lot of activity, yelling and joking around. There are couples kissing here and there. There is so much energy! It’s terrifying, and yet somehow exciting.

  I want to cling to Mom’s arm as we get out of the car and approach the school but of course I can’t. It’s bad enough I have to walk with her to the office. The hallways are awful, people shoving and yelling and locker doors slamming. I can’t help flinching occasionally at the sounds. My heart beats faster and faster. I’m relieved when we get to the office which bustles with activity but is like a graveyard in comparison to the hallways. We’re instructed to have a seat and we do. I try to breathe deeply and calm myself.

  While we’re waiting the hallways eventually quiet down and empty and then all is silent. Everyone is now in homeroom. I’m obviously skipping homeroom this morning. Mom and I are called over to the desk where Mom hands over my meds and signs a bunch of forms. I look away from the woman at the desk that takes charge of my drugs. I can’t meet her eyes. I don’t want to see the judgment or at least the curiosity that I’m sure is there. They’ll keep my drugs at the nurse’s office where I have to sign in to take them if I need them.

  Next, I get my schedule of classes, a map of the school and my locker assignment. The locker assignment is basically just a combination lock with a
tag that has the locker number on one side and the combination on the other.

  “You’ll want to memorize that as soon as possible then destroy it,” the woman indicates the combination. I can only nod. That’s pretty damned obvious, I think. “At the end of the year if your lock is lost or damaged it’s up to you to replace it.”

  The phone rings and she excuses herself. “I’ll be right back with you,” she says and Mom and I just stand and wait. I see the prescription bottles just sitting there.

  “They’re just sitting there,” I whisper to Mom.

  “What, Sweetie?” Mom asks oblivious. I nod towards my meds.

  “They’re just sitting there. What if I need them? Will they make sure they get to the nurse’s office? Do I have to come here first? What if I need them? What if someone SEES them?”

  “Noah, it’s okay. Who is going to see them? They’ll make sure they get to the nurse’s office. You won’t need them but if you do that’s where you go to get them, okay? You’re fine, Sweetheart. Just practice calm,” she says all of this in a low, soothing tone. She’s right. I can do this. I’m getting myself worked up over nothing.

  I take deep, centering breaths. I pretend I’m talking to Dr. Bachman. What is the worst scenario? Of course the worst thing I can think of now is that I’ll freak out and totally lose it and turn into a crying, hysterical mess on the very first day. What are the odds of that actually happening? I’d like to say slim to none. In all honesty I’m not so sure. I can’t talk my way out of that fear completely but I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay since I took the meds and if I feel anxious by lunch time I can always go to the nurse and take more.

  I’m just finishing up my pep talk with myself when a girl comes into the office and smiles brightly at Mom and me. She’s a few inches shorter than me with a really pretty face and hair that’s a dark, cherry red. I think it must be dyed. Hair that color just does not exist in nature, take it from someone that comes from a long line of red-heads. Girls are a horror all in themselves. I look away quickly.

  “Hi, Mrs. Julian,” says the girl. “Mrs. Donaldson said you needed me?”

  “Yes, Sherrie. This is Mrs. Blakely and her son Noah. Noah is starting today and we’re just about finished here. Could you show him where to find his locker and homeroom and then make sure he finds his way to first period? I’ll write you a hall pass.”

  “Hi, Noah,” the girl enthuses offering her hand and a huge smile.

  “Hello,” I mumble or hi or some semblance of the word. Maybe I just exhale. I shake her hand as briefly as I can before looking away again. I’m looking out the glass wall that overlooks the hallway as if there’s something really interesting out there and I’m not just avoiding the cherry-haired girl’s gaze. Suddenly a loud bell rings and the hallways are a stampeding mess again. I hope the girl didn’t notice the way I flinched when the bell rang.

  The office worker, Mrs. Julian, discusses a few more things with my mom and then it’s time for us to go.

  “Have a good day, Honey. I’ll be back at three thirty,” Mom says as she brushes a quick kiss against my cheek and then she’s gone.

  “Let’s wait until this hubbub dies down,” says the girl and I’m grateful that I don’t have to go out in that mess yet. When it all calms down the girl named Sherrie leads me away. We walk down the hall and I try not to do anything embarrassing like trip over my own feet.

  “So I’m a student liaison,” she explains. “I always show the new students around. It’s not a very large school, the map is pretty simple but they like one on one interaction I guess. Every September when the new freshmen come in I’m usually with them for at least an hour but we don’t get a lot of new students at all so I don’t get much work,” she laughs. “Feel free to come to me if you need anything. What’s your locker number?”

  I hand the lock to her and she flips over the tag to read the locker number. “Oh, that’s just a few down from mine. You’re in my homeroom and we all have lockers along the same hall. I’ll show you where the locker is and you can put that lock on it and then I’ll walk to first period with you. What do you have?” She talks enough that I haven’t felt uncomfortable about worrying what to say. I look at the class schedule in my hand.

  “Uh, AP Calculus,” I respond.

  “Well that’s good,” she says. “I have American Lit first period and it’s not far from my class to yours. I can walk with you the whole way.” I don’t really know if I WANT to walk with her the whole way. I kind of like the quiet hallways now that there are no students. “That’s our homeroom,” she says as she points out a room to our right. It’s room 103.

  I follow her down the hall then we take a right then it’s another short hallway and she stops in front of room 112. “This is you,” she says, “I’m just down the other end of the hall. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of classes together. If you need anything, you know where my locker is.” She smiles and heads down the hall. I stand there for a moment and watch her walk away. When she’s almost to her classroom she turns and looks at me. Seeing me still standing there she waves and I wave back then turn towards room 112.

  The door is closed and I’m not sure what the protocol is so I knock lightly and then try the knob. It opens and I just sort of peak my head in and look for the teacher.

  “In or out?” she asks me and there are some snickers.

  “Pardon?” I am so nervous by this point I have no clue what’s expected of me.

  “Don’t just stand there in the doorway. If you’re in this class then please do come in but if you’re not I’d thank you to close the door on your way out,” I’m not sure about her gruff, no nonsense manner but I enter and close the door quietly then walk the few steps to where she stands and hand her my paperwork. I keep my eyes on the teacher. I can’t even begin to think about looking at the class.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Blakely,” she says. “There’s an empty seat over in the first row. Please take it,” as she’s talking to me she turns to a closet in the corner of the room. I take my seat and in moments she’s putting a book on my desk, not lightly but not exactly dropping it either. Once I have my seat and my book she turns her attention away from me and back to the class. I can feel eyes on me and I try to look out of the corner of my eye at the rest of the room. I’m thankful for my too-long bangs. Yeah, most of the class is staring at me.

  It doesn’t take long before the collective attention of the class shifts back to the teacher. I figure out what page we’re on and take out my notebook and pencil and get down to business. I’m familiar with this so I feel okay. I’m glad my first class is math. As far as grades go I’m equally solid in math and English but I find comfort in numbers. Numbers are not open to interpretation. Numbers are hard facts and have nothing to do with feelings.

  Twenty minutes of class have gone by when the teacher asks a question. Half the class raises their hands. The rest of them have looks like they don’t care or are trying not to be noticed. I probably fit into the trying to not be noticed category. I can answer the question, I just don’t want to.

  “Holden, would you please enlighten us with the answer?” says the teacher. I have no idea who Holden is but no one answers her. “Holden?” she tries again. There is still no response. Now I see that several of my classmates are turning to look at a boy seated in the middle of the row closest to the windows. He’s not paying any attention at all, just staring out the window. I can only see the back of his head from where I sit. The teacher walks over to stand next to his seat.

  “Mr. Maxwell!” she says loudly as she raps him on the head with her pen. I can hear the sound it makes from across the room. The boy turns to look at her rubbing his head.

  “Ow! That was harsh, Mrs. K-bob,” he says. By now everyone else in the room is staring so I stare too. This kid totally stands out in a class of twenty students. If he’s not in a band he should be.

  I’ve seen emo kids and goth kids, whatever they call themselves, back in Naperville but never up
close and never against a back drop of a bunch of normal kids but I guess that’s what he is. His hair is thick and shaggy and black, longer than mine but not much longer than his collar. His bangs are long and hang towards one side of his face pretty much covering one eye. From across the room I can see two dots below his lower lip on either side, not quite at the corners of his mouth. Are they birthmarks or piercings or what? I can’t tell from this distance.

  He wears a dark gray shirt with long sleeves under a black tee shirt that I can see has some kind of artwork on it but from across the room I can’t tell if it’s a band shirt or not. Around his neck is some kind of loose scarf, not a winter scarf and not a cravat just a colorful piece of thin material. It was a little chilly this morning but I’m not sure it’s cold enough for neckwear. On one wrist he wears a huge watch in a thick, black leather band and on the other wrist there’s just a thick leather band.

  There’s something about this kid that instantly intrigues me at the same time that he terrifies me. He looks so different from anyone I’ve seen so far today. He looks nothing like the rest of the kids in the classroom. He doesn’t look threatening though. He has an easy going expression on his face even after getting hit on the head with the teacher’s pen.

  “Holden, please enlighten us with the answer to the question,” says the teacher.

  “Come on, Mrs. K-bob, you know I don’t answer to Holden. It’s such a ridiculous name,” he says as he gives a crooked grin. The teacher shakes her head.

  “Holden Caulfield is one of the most well-known literary figures of modern times. The Catcher in the Rye is an American classic,” argues the teacher.