Sean Griswold's Head Read online

  I consider actual objects, writing them down as I see them. The dry-erase board, the TV, a model of an atom, the lab jars in the back filled with who knows what. Oh! I could go abstract and write about the hallways and make it some metaphor for the path of life. But then Ms. Callahan might read too much into it and think I’m suicidal on top of being in denial. Or whatever clinical term I’ve been labeled with.

  What I need is something that has concrete details like an inanimate object but changes somehow. Like a living, breathing person.

  Brynn McCabe, who sits across from me, chomps on a piece of gum. I add Brynn and gum to my list. Brynn’s like Violet on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, always chewing or talking or talk-chewing. And she spits while she does it. I’d have to wear rainwear all the time if she were my Focus Object. No dice.

  Jac catches my eye and holds something up. It’s a nearly dead-on mask of Miss Marietta’s face. I giggle. She probably spent the whole video designing it, and somehow she knew it was just what I needed after my Ms. Callahan chat. I spell JAC out in bubble letters and fill it in with flowers. If I were to graph our friendship out, Jac and I might not make sense. We have different interests, fit into different cliques, but the length of our friendship makes most of that unimportant. You go through enough with a person over a long enough period of time and they just become a part of who you are. I guess I could write about all that but … someone like Jac deserves a novel. A series.

  The video ends and Miss Marietta flicks on the lights, releasing a small moan from the class as everyone wakes up from their video-induced hibernation.

  Class is over. Great. I have no Focus Object and thus no complete assignment. Before the Big MS Lie, I never neglected to turn in an assignment. Even the extra-credit ones. Even the ones I made up based on the teacher’s lack of lesson depth.

  Sean Griswold, the guy who sits in front of me, turns around and smiles. “I can never focus on the videos, can you?”

  My whole body goes rigid. “No … no. No, I can’t.”

  He nods and turns back around.

  He said focus. The word focus. I hear angels singing. Everything goes dark except for a light that beams down on Sean. It is a God-given sign—like when people see the Virgin Mary in their grilled cheese, except this isn’t religious and I’m actually not a big fan of dairy. I stare at the back of his head. The back of his head. His HEAD. Something I see every day but never really see because it’s been there forever. Since the first day of third grade.

  I crumple up my web. I don’t need it. Praise be, the Focus Gods have spoken.

  I am going to write about Sean Griswold’s head.

  THREE

  Payton’s Focus Exercise

  January 17

  Topic: Sean Griswold’s Head Outline

  I. Introduction

  A. Because of our alphabetical connection (Gritas/Griswold—just try to squeeze a last name between us), I’ve stared at the back, the profile, and occasionally the front of Sean’s head since third grade.

  B. It’s a perfect thing to focus on, because

  1. The environment is constantly shifting.

  2. I see it a lot.

  3. The Focus Gods told me to. You don’t mess with the Focus Gods.

  II. Body (er, rather, his Head)

  A. Hair

  1. Very blond, like a little kid’s. Light bounces right off of it. White, almost.

  2. Soft. Like fuzz on a duckling. Not that I’ve touched it! But I might need to, once I get further into my research.

  B. Size

  1. HUGE.

  2. Is that mean? It’s bigger than most heads, slightly off proportion from the rest of his body. He’s gotta have a strong neck.

  3. Big enough that I have to crane my neck to see around his dome.

  C. Things it could fit into

  1. Toilet—yes.

  2. Batting helmet—heck no.

  III. Conclusion

  A. I still don’t see how writing about a head will

  1. Fix my family drama.

  2. Reorganize my life.

  3. Accomplish anything.

  a. Except writing in outline form again is soothing, like walking through the Tupperware aisle in Target.

  b. Ahhhhh.

  B. Seven years of staring and it’s still the same old head, just like it’s the same old haircut, and just like—as far as I know—it’s the same old Sean Griswold.

  Ms. Callahan’s office is anarchy, with books, paper, and dust stacked in random piles. The wall behind her echoes the chaos—pictures of students, inspirational quotes, and Post-its all surround a poster of the solar system with “Greystone High Counselor of the Universe” scrawled across it. There’s a sickly sweet odor, something akin to a rotting orange smothered in ketchup. If I ever get over my own mental clutter, I’m going to devise a filing system for her beyond chair, desk, and ground. I might have to begin by explaining what exactly a file is.

  She clears one of the piles off a chair and motions for me to sit. “Did you find a Focus Object?”

  “I think so.”

  She smiles. Poor woman. Eyebrows gone wild, muddy lipstick, and legs ashier than Pompeii. If physical appearances send a message about our character, hers would be—I have a hairy cat and buy my makeup at the dollar store.

  “Great. Since these are personal and I won’t be reading them, I want you to ask yourself this—is it something you can really dissect?” She taps her fingers on her desk. “Something you can really explore?”

  “Yeah, I’m all set.”

  “You’ll be amazed how this promotes growth. Why, one of my former students chose cows as his Focus Object and now he’s on the national 4-H board.”

  So I write about a head and someday I’ll be a neurosurgeon? Not quite. “Are we done?”

  “Sure. I just wanted to check in with you. Here’s a pass.” She pushes the paper across her desk. “How are things going at home?”

  I pick up the pass, taking a colony of dust bunnies with it. I have an intense desire to wash my hands. To wash my whole body. “Same old.”

  “And your dad?”

  I glance at the clock. “They haven’t discovered a cure for MS yet. I better go. I have to stop at my locker before next period.”

  Ms. Callahan leans across her chair and stretches out her arm like she’s going to touch me. I shrink away.

  “All right, Payton. I look forward to our next meeting.”

  That makes one of us.

  FOUR

  The next morning, I literally lose myself in my closet looking for a sock. Which leads me to the question—where do lost socks go? I bet if you corralled all the renegade socks and stitched them into a blanket, it’d cover more of the earth than the waning ozone layer. Not that I’m worried about the world’s sock crisis. I hardly have time to find one matching pair. I have to get to school and begin my more in-depth analysis of Sean’s dome.

  “I can’t afford another tardy. Come on,” Jac says, dodging a flying hanger.

  I poke my head out from my disaster of a closet. “Walk by yourself if you can’t wait.”

  “Walk by myself? And risk catching social leprosy?” She sighs. “I’ll wait.”

  “Sorry. Almost done.” I push some old books into another corner. “Hey, since when did you become the President of Punctuality?”

  “Since you can’t even match your socks, let alone an outfit. I mean, I’ve never even seen your bed unmade, and now this room looks like it’s exploded. And I love you, but, seriously—what’s with the sweater?”

  I look down at my ensemble and shrug. Sure, green argyle and red cords might not be fashion forward, but at least it’s clean. Kind of clean. It has a weird locker room stank and an orange crust on the collar. Maybe it was supposed to be in the dirty pile, not the clean pile heaped next to it. “They’re just clothes.”

  Jac recoils like she’s been slapped. “Just clothes?”

  There’s a tap on my bedroom door and my mom peeks her hea
d in. “You girls are going to be late for school if you don’t leave in the next five minutes.”

  I bury my head under some laundry. It’s too early to face her Colombian temper.

  “And I’m going to call Ms. Callahan and make sure you attend all your appointments,” Mom says more loudly. “She said she had three meetings yesterday and she still managed to fit you in.”

  “Found it!” I ignore my mom and wave a purple striped sock in the air. Jac scrunches up her nose and shakes her head.

  Mom sighs. “Payton, I know Ms. Callahan has a reputation for being … unorthodox, but if you aren’t going to talk to us, you need to at least give this an honest try.”

  Honest. Huh. I might not read many parenting magazines, but I’m guessing there aren’t too many articles entitled “How to Send Your Kids to a Deranged High School Guidance Counselor After They Find Out You Lied to Them! Ten Easy Steps.” So I’d like to know where my mom got the revolutionary idea that talking to Ms. Callahan during my much-needed nutrition breaks is going to get me to talk to them. What would I even say? Dad, your butt isn’t as hairy as I would have thought. Mom, you’re so good with a needle you should go into nursing. And folks, thanks for feeding me a steady six-month diet of bull crap.

  I slip on the sock and avoid Mom’s gaze by fumbling with my shoe. She exchanges a worried look with Jac that I pretend not to see. Sighing, Mom finally makes her exit.

  Jac breathes out. “Is it cold in here or is it just you?”

  “I’m feeling rather toasty, actually.” I finish tying the laces and give myself a once-over in the mirror. The sweater has to go.

  “I can’t believe you’re mad at your dad for being sick.”

  “I’m not mad at him for being sick! I’m mad at them for lying. You should be able to relate to that.”

  “That’s why? Really?”

  No. Yes. That’s part of it but … I don’t know. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, throwing her my drop it look for added emphasis.

  “So what’s the big deal with visiting a counselor?” Jac taps her braces thoughtfully. “It gives you a little mystery. Guys love mystery.”

  I tug at the sweater, my muscular shoulders making it difficult to derobe gracefully. I finally succeed and throw the offensive item onto the cluttered floor. The static of the wool electrifies my frizzy brown hair. “Counselors are for crazies.”

  She points to my hair and grins. “Pumpkin, you iron your father’s Dockers for fun. You were nuts long before this counselor came along.”

  “That’s not crazy. It’s cathartic.”

  “Cathartic? Isn’t that, like, a laxative?”

  “No, well yes, but that’s not the definition I meant. I mean catharsis, an emotional purging.”

  “You just compared pressing pleats to diarrhea. You are crazy.”

  “Whatever.” I slip a mustard yellow shirt off a hanger and hold it up. Jac snatches it and hands me a simple gray V-neck instead. I match. I think. “I haven’t ironed in forever. And the only thing crazy about me is my choice in friends.”

  I love the girl to death, but it’s true—Jac’s certifiable, but in a far more purposeful way. Today she’s wearing an eighties rock T-shirt with a Victorian skirt, orange suede clogs, and massive hoop earrings. Half of her long honey blond hair is braided while the other half flows free. It’s not just her style. She uses random pet names for everyone, calling the postman sugar or the garbage guy lamb chop. Even her own name is bipolar—she’s constantly switching between Jaclyn and Jac.

  “What an honor.” Jac hooks her arm through mine, guiding me out of the room and down the stairs. “Please don’t forget us little people when they send you off to the psych ward.”

  I laugh, relieved I have Jac so I can joke about it with someone. And it really is funny that someone like me, someone appearing on every dean’s list since preschool (okay, maybe preschools don’t have a dean. But if they did …), has counseling appointments sandwiched between those of the school pyro and a notorious cheater.

  My laughter stops once I’m in the kitchen. Trent, clad in scrub bottoms and an ancient Hooters shirt, leans against the counter, sipping a nauseating French coffee some desperate girl got him as a Christmas present. I grab an apple and hurry past, hoping to escape without conflict. I’m halfway out the door when I realize I’ve lost Jac, whose flirt radar is a twenty-four-hour marvel.

  “So, how is swimming? You look like you’ve been practicing.” Jac pours herself a cup of coffee and squeezes Trent’s arm. “Or at least lifting weights.”

  “Jac.” Trent scoots over. “Don’t.”

  “But why?”

  “You know it’s illegal for me to flirt back.”

  “It’s illegal for Caleb to flirt back,” Jac says, like she’s researched this thoroughly. Her crush on my brothers takes the “we could be sisters!” thing way too far. “He’s twenty-three. But since you are still a teenager and I would totally consent—”

  “Wouldn’t happen. Even if you are cuter than any of the girls I ever went to high school with.”

  Jac squeals at the compliment. “But when I’m thirty you’ll be thirty …”

  She’s crunching the numbers when my dad jogs in, drenched in sweat. “Morning, kids.”

  I choke on a piece of apple. I have his schedule timed now so I can avoid these awkward moments. This isn’t fair. We have a routine. Well, he has a routine and I coordinate mine so they never overlap.

  He opens the fridge and gulps orange juice directly from the carton. “You kids should come shoot around with me. I actually made a few this time. Guess you didn’t want to get schooled before school, huh?”

  At least Dad feels good enough today to exercise. That eases some of my anxiety.

  Trent snorts and shakes his head. “Keep telling yourself that, Dad.”

  “So, Jac.” Dad wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Tell me how your first few weeks back from break are going. Still love high school?”

  “No, Mr. Gritas. I’ve grown out of it.”

  “After one semester?”

  “Yeah. I should just skip high school altogether, move on to college studies. College men. See, I’m really mature for my age—”

  “Let’s … let’s go, Jac,” I say.

  Jac’s lips settle into a practiced pout. “But I was finally wearing Trent down.”

  I abandon trying to give her the eye and focus on the hardwood floor. Dad’s looking at me, I know it, looking at me with that what-happened-to-my-little-girl? look. Well, what happened is I grew up. And since he neglected to notice that, he thought it was okay to lie and protect me.

  It’s more than that, though. Not that I can really explain what the more is. All I know is that anytime I’ve seen either of my parents these last couple of weeks, I get a hot flash of mad. Which, of course, makes me feel awful. Then they’ll do or say something and I stop feeling sorry and just feel … I don’t know what it is. But it hurts.

  It’s pretty obvious why my calculated avoidance is easier. Why can’t they give me some space? Eyes still focused on the ground, I grab Jac’s hand. “Gotta go start my head research.”

  The door slams behind us. And I know it’s impossible, but I can still feel my dad’s eyes following me.

  I would be lying if I said I didn’t get a kick out of the assignment. Here I am, a “troubled youth,” and my self-chosen treatment is to become a stalker. Okay, not stalker. Research Analyst.

  We race to school so I’ll have some time to stake out Sean’s locker. Jac’s idea, of course. She’s offered to aid in my mental healing because she has more experience when it comes to boys. As in, she’s had experience—period. Boys are like Greek to me. Foreign.

  “What’s the rush?” I ask Jac once we’re settled behind the large cement pillar about five feet from Sean’s locker. “Why can’t I just record my notes in biology?”

  Jac blows a bang out of her face. “Pookie. You have to have fresh angles. Different lighting, different movemen
t. And you can see the whole head, not just the back.”

  “Well, I better get started then,” I say.

  “What, you want me to leave? Fine. But make sure you see what’s in his locker. You can tell a lot by what a guy has in his locker. It’s like seeing into his soul.” She does a double take as a boy walks by. “Look at that. Taj Langely. Holy mother, his shoulders are manly.”

  Jac leaves to pursue her own never-ending research of the male specimen, and I wait for Sean to get to school. Hmm. Funny, I don’t even know how Sean gets to school.

  Or where he lives.

  Or who he lives with.

  Or what he lives like.

  Or what his likes are.

  I guess I don’t know Sean Griswold.

  No. Of course I know Sean. I’ve known him for over seven years. He was the Tin Man and I was the Cowardly Lion in our fifth-grade production of The Wizard of Oz. When he threw up in seventh-grade math, it was on my favorite pair of sandals. The day after I lost the race for freshman class president, he turned around in biology and told me, “You’re the better man, well, girl, for the job. Sorry you lost.” I’ve lent the kid countless number two pencils and he’s passed back limitless papers.

  I can’t remember school without Sean Griswold in it; yet I can’t remember us ever having a real conversation.

  Sean gets to his locker about five minutes before the morning bell. He carries a bike helmet under one arm and shoves it into his locker along with some weird-looking shoes. Taped inside the locker is a collage of cyclists. No pictures of skanky girls like most gorillas at this school. No cutouts of sports heroes. Just bike riders in neon spandex. He slams the locker shut before I can see more. I wait until his big blond head bobs around the corner and slide out my Focus Journal.

  Payton’s Focus Exercise AKA Sean Notes