Being Henry David

17

A dark figure lumbers out of the shadows as panic rises in my throat like bile. It’s got to be Magpie after all, probably with Watchdog and Ginger backing him up in the weeds behind the school, ready to get their revenge, to kidnap or torture me or just shoot me in the head and be done with it.

“Who the hell are you?” Cameron asks.

“Don’t talk,” I whisper in a tight voice. God, he’s going to get his ass killed, just for being the idiot he is. The figure shuffles into the light, and with a flash of relief that leaves me weak, I see it’s not Magpie or one of his men after all. Jack takes two steps forward, something clutched in his fist. His hand twitches and the streetlights gleam off the metal of a blade.

“Leave Hank alone or I swear I’ll cut you,” he hisses at Cameron.

All the bravado drains out of Cameron’s face, along with the color, leaving him pale and ghostly. “Holy shit.” His voice is high like a little girl’s.

Good, I’m thinking. Scare the crap out of this weasel. He deserves it. I’ll make sure nobody gets hurt, but I might enjoy the show before I intervene. Jack takes another step toward Cameron, knife pointed in the direction of his nose, then suddenly Jack collapses before he can even put out his hands to break his fall, smacking his head on the pavement with a sickening thud. The knife falls out of his hand with a clatter.

I hurry to his side as his crumpled body contracts into a fetal position. “Jack!” Blood trickles out of his hair onto his forehead.

“I don’t feel so good, Hank.” Then Jack’s entire body jerks and convulses and his eyes roll so far back in his head, all I can see is white. I shake him, but it does no good, and then foamy stuff starts bubbling out of his mouth.

“Holy shit,” Cameron says again, gaping down at Jack.

Leaning down, I place my ear near Jack’s mouth to listen. “Christ, he’s not breathing.” I reach up and shove Cameron to snap him out of his trance. “Call nine-one-one! Now!”

As Cameron fumbles for his phone, I dredge up a long-ago memory of learning CPR in Boy Scouts. Immediately, I start chest compressions, then wipe the foam off his lips, trying to blow air into his slack, reeking mouth without puking. I have no idea how long I’m doing this when I hear the sirens. Then I see the lights and my own heart stops beating.

Flashing lights. Blue, red, blue, red. Blinding me. Like that day with Rosie. In the intersection. In the car. I close my eyes against the lights, the noise, and Jack’s blood. When I open them again, I see the accident all over again. Gray truck getting close, closer, then slamming into us. An explosion of color and terror, shattering glass and grinding metal. Ambulance. Police car. Lights. Blue, red. And my God, so much blood.

Scrambling backward now, away from the lights and sirens and the blood, I find my feet and spin away. Escape, the beast snarls in my ear. Run. Now.

I turn and run smack into a man in a blue uniform who grasps my upper arms in an iron grip.

“Hold on there, son. You’re not going anywhere until we figure out what happened here.” I struggle against him, but unable to bolt, my body surrenders and I crumple to the ground near Jack.

From somewhere far away I hear Cameron’s voice and the shouting EMTs, but I’m slipping away, the last forbidden memory detonating within me like I stepped on a land mine.

The gray truck is coming at us, at the passenger door, can’t stop in time, trapped in Mom’s Toyota with its growling muffler and Rosie inside, thin door of metal and glass not enough to protect her. My world collapses on impact, my forehead smashes into the windshield, breaking glass. Rosie is screaming. Save her. Little blond ballerina in pink is broken. Legs twisted under the crushed front of the car. Bone and torn flesh, one leg is cut and bleeding. The other, somehow, is not there. Broken ballerina, crooked one-legged ballerina in a jewelry box, music tinny and distorted before it grinds to a terrible, silent halt.

“Hey, buddy, can you open your eyes for me?” A stranger’s voice. “It’s going to be okay. We’re taking you and your friend to the hospital.”

My eyes fly open to stare at the silhouette of a man in shadows leaning over me, blue and red lights swirling behind him.

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth which is the true wealth.”

Strange. Someone is quoting Thoreau. “What did he say?”

“I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”

Then I realize I’m the one quoting Henry, to calm myself, to make space from the memory of the accident, the ballerina, alive but broken.

“If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”

“What is this kid talking about?”

From somewhere near his left shoulder, I hear Cameron telling another officer. “His name’s Hank. I don’t know his last name.”

“Hank,” says a police officer, “Did you take anything tonight that might have made you sick? Have you been drinking?”

Henry’s words are beads in a rosary, my desperate prayers. “The universe is wider than our views of it.”

“He might have just passed out when he saw what bad shape his friend is in,” says an EMT. “He doesn’t exhibit signs of drug or alcohol abuse. I think the kid is just in shock.”

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” I whisper, shutting my eyes tight. So sorry, Rosie. Mom. Dad. So sorry. I failed you all. And I will myself to just slip away, just die, in that moment on the ground outside Henry David Thoreau Regional High School. Let me die.

“Not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves.”

Someone wheels a gurney over to where I’m lying on the ground, and the EMTs reach burly arms down, ready to lift me onto it and shoot me off to Emerson Hospital.

But no, I can’t give in. Waving away their arms, I scramble to my feet. Can’t let them take me. It’s not time yet. There’s that thing I still have to do. What was that again? Hailey. I promised Hailey. Something.

“I’m okay,” I say quickly and make my rubber legs hold me up to prove it. “Really, I’m fine.”

The cop and the EMTs look at each another. “You need to get checked out at the hospital,” the cop says gently.

I shake my head adamantly. I clear my throat and gather my wits. “Is Jack all right?” I finally say.

“He probably will be,” the EMT says. “His vital signs are stable now, thanks to you. Do you happen to know what he took?” I tell them everything I know, which isn’t a whole lot, about the pills from Magpie and about the prescription drugs he stole from Thomas’s medicine cabinet.

“We’re going to need to take a statement, so even if you refuse medical care, we need to take you to the station,” the cop tells me, then turns to say something into the radio on his shoulder.

“But I have to perform. I need to get inside.” I jut a thumb toward the school, indicating the muffled pounding of bass and guitar, the wail of a singer’s voice. “I’m probably up next. Can’t let my friends down.” My voice lacks emotion, a stiff robot version of myself.

The cop pulls off his cap, wipes sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, and looks at me doubtfully. “You sure you’re up to this? You look like you could collapse any second.”

“No, it’s cool. I’m fine.” But my hands are shaking, and in truth, I wonder how I’ll manage to play guitar now. Still, I need to get away from these cops and avoid talking about Jack, which is just going to lead to a can of worms I’m not ready to open. As soon as I tell the police my story, everything will be out, and I’ll be done.

“Just give me your name, and we’ll talk immediately afterward. Okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’m Hank,” I say. “Davidson.” He writes this down. Still not ready to be Danny, not yet. When he asks for an address and phone number, I go ahead and give him Thomas’s. Can’t think of any lie that sounds reasonable. Besides, by the time they come looking for me, it won’t matter.

I watch as the EMTs roll Jack’s gurney into the ambulance, close the back doors, and drive off, blue and red lights still rolling, making me queasy. I press back the memories of Rosie and the accident, push them far away, and there’s nothing more to do. So I turn toward the school in a daze. Hardly feel my own feet shuffling through the gravel or my hand on the cold metal door.

As soon as I enter the back hallway of the school, I’m bombarded with bright lights and amplified music. It’s like stepping into another world, unconnected and unaware of what just went down outside. With the loud music coming from the stage, it’s unlikely anybody heard the shouts or the sirens. I feel like an alien, stumbling with squinted eyes into a surreal universe where I don’t belong.

Ms. Coleman spots me in the hallway and gestures at me like crazy. “Hank, there you are!” she shouts in a shrill voice. “Come on, you’re up next!”

She ushers me toward the wings, where Ryan, Sam, and Hailey are standing together waiting for one of the bands on the stage, a heavy metal group, to wrap up. Waiting for me. Panicked looks give way to relief and anger as soon as they see me. Ms. Coleman hands me my guitar, and I stand next to the members of Carpe Diem. I sling the guitar strap over my shoulder and avoid looking at anybody.

“Jesus. About time,” Ryan says.

“Hank,” says Hailey. She’s standing there in her slinky black outfit, trembling hands clutching a plastic water bottle. Afraid, beautiful, angry. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Just…” I gesture vaguely. “Outside.”

She squints at me in the muted backstage light. “Oh my God, look at you. You’ve got dirt on your face. Did you and Cameron get into a fight?” Furious, she yanks a tissue out of her pants pocket, saturates it with water from her bottle, and wipes at my face. I wince as she finds some scraped spots on my nose. “I knew it,” she murmurs to herself.

“It’s not about Cameron,” I tell her.

She reaches into my messy hair, tries to make me look presentable, flicks angry green eyes at me. “Then what happened to you out there?”

“Too much to tell right now,” I whisper, and my eyes burn with acid tears.

Hailey finishes finger-combing my hair and looks into my face. I don’t know what she sees there, but the anger lifts, replaced by concern. “You okay, Hank?” She presses her red lips together.

I look into her pretty face and find myself unable to lie. “I don’t know.”

She grabs my hands and squeezes tight. Concern gives way to something deeper and she presses her forehead against mine. “Listen, Hank. When we get out there, pretend it’s just us, together in the white room, okay?” she says in a soft, soothing voice. “Just you and me, me and you, making music.”

I nod, absorbing her words but unable to respond.

“Okay, Carpe Diem,” Ms. Coleman says, practically pushing the four of us onto the stage. “Get out there. You’re next.”

We walk onto the darkened side of the stage and find our places just as the group on the spotlighted half begins to play. I can’t seem to register anything they’re doing. Can’t identify the music, can’t hear progressions or lyrics, my senses paralyzed.

As if in slow motion, I turn my attention to the guitar, Thomas’s butterscotch Telecaster, and plug it into the amp. Try to get centered, focus. Can’t screw up. Have to push everything else on my mind away. My past, my future. Everything. Put it all in a box, lock it shut and place a beast on guard in front of it. I know how to do that, right?

The group before us finishes their tune, and I’m vaguely aware of applause while I go through the opening chords of “Blackbird” in my head. Come on, I can do this. I know this song in my sleep, even knew it in the strange sleep of amnesia when I didn’t know my own name.

The lights come up, and it’s time for me to play. The crowd is quiet, expectant, a blur of faces. So many faces waiting for me to do something. Anything. My fingers are cramped, curled like claws above the guitar. Can’t play a note. Can’t do it. Can’t move. A dark wave threatens to take me under.

The crowd is silent, holding its breath. They don’t realize it’s me who’s falling apart in front of them. Instead, they’re probably wondering if Hailey’s going to have an insulin reaction and pass out again. I imagine Ms. Coleman with her cell phone in hand, ready to dial 9-1-1.

Heart thundering in my ears, I screw my eyes tight, try to concentrate, try to move my frozen fingers and conjure music that won’t come. I’m failing Hailey and I can’t do a thing about it.

But then, the silence is broken by the sound of a voice. A girl’s silky alto voice. At first, I’m so lost in my own head that I don’t recognize the voice or the song. But it cuts through my panic and I recognize that it’s Hailey. Singing “Blackbird,” a cappella, without me. Her voice soars to the rafters, so beautiful.

I’m mesmerized along with the rest of the audience, just listening, until she reaches the end of the first verse. Then, as if they have finally come to life, my fingers relax and start to move. They form chords across the frets, hover above the strings, and then come in perfectly for the intro of the second verse. The music consumes me and the magic takes over at last, transcending my fear. Hailey joins in and starts singing the second verse like this is exactly how we planned it all along. Whatever fear had a hold on her for the past year has completely loosened its grip. I look over the crowd and see people’s astonished faces. See them talking to each other, and I know what they’re saying. She’s doing it this time. She’s doing it. And damn, she’s good.

I glance over at Hailey and her eyes say, you and me, me and you. I knew we could do it.

We get to the end of the ballad verse, blackbird fly, into the light of a dark black night, and then, with an explosive crash of cymbals, the band comes to life and we launch through the song a second time, rocking it hard. Colored lights burst onto the stage with that first crash, and the crowd goes nuts, screaming and whistling and hooting. Hailey wails out the vocals, Sam plays the hell out of the skins, and even Ryan plays almost every note perfectly. By the time we finish, people are on their feet, pumping their arms and shouting.

I glance at Hailey, at her pink cheeks and shining eyes. The girl is glowing, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She blows me a kiss and a smile takes up my entire face. I want to capture this amazing moment like a photograph to tuck into my heart and brain forever. Remember every single detail. Carpe Diem. Seize the day, this moment. Trap it. Keep it. I wish it would never end.

But it has to. The lights go off on our half of the stage and up on the next band, some folkie guitar-and-fiddle group that assaults my ears. For me, this is the beginning of the end. But what a way to go. What a rush.

Backstage, Sam, Ryan, and I congratulate one another. None of us even care about winning anymore. The fact that we got through it was victory enough.

“I told you losers I could do it,” Ryan says to nobody in particular and throws his fedora in the air. Sam snatches it and runs away, making Ryan chase him with a whoop.

“You were incredible,” I whisper in Hailey’s ear.

“You too,” she says and gives me a kiss that almost knocks me over.

God, there’s so much I want to tell Hailey. So many lies I need to straighten out. I want to tell her how scared I’ve been this whole time, how scared I still am, and how much I need her. Tell her how I feel like I’ve always known her, like maybe we were lovers in a previous life, maybe several past lives. That’s how I feel about this girl. But how can I tell her any of this?

Before I get a chance, the final band finishes its two-song folkie set, and all the bands are gathered back on the stage for the voting. In the back of the auditorium, I see a pair of policemen standing by, watching and waiting.

One by one, Ms. Coleman calls out the names of the bands and each group steps forward to stir up the crowd and drum up the highest-decibel support. The loudest response, not surprisingly, comes for Cameron’s band. But ours sounds like a strong second.

“And the winner is—Red Tide!” Ms. Coleman announces. Lights go wild, the crowd shrieks, the winning band comes forward for their trophy and check. Cameron throws me a triumphant look, and I give him a cheesy salute in congratulations, which obviously confuses him. Okay, we’re not exactly friends, but not enemies either. My time has almost run out and there’s no energy left for grudges. At least I know he’ll be watching out for Hailey after I’m gone.

Everything else is a blur. Somehow I manage to let Hailey take me by the hand to accept congratulations from her mom and dad and Danielle, who says something flirty in my ear that I can’t make out. Somehow I accept pats on the back, people yelling in my ear, “You were incredible!” and random girls giving me hugs. I wish I could enjoy some of this.

But I know that the good stuff is dwindling fast. Soon, everything will be out. The cops are waiting right now to ask me questions. Bad stuff is waiting for me and I can’t put it off much longer.

I spot Thomas, Suzanne, and Nessa near the foot of the stage, and the three of them rush forward to congratulate me. They tell me how great the guitar sounded, how our group totally should’ve won the award, and I make myself smile through it all, dreading what has to happen next. I manage to mumble my thanks, but once they stop gushing and stand there blinking and smiling at me, I don’t have it in me to muster one syllable of small talk. I blurt out what has to be said.

“I found Jack outside, behind the school,” I tell them. “He’s real messed up, but an ambulance came and he’s at Emerson Hospital by now. They think he’s going to be okay.”

Nessa buries her face in her hands and starts to cry, a mixture of fear and relief. Suzanne puts an arm around her and strokes her hair.

The happy noise of the crowd, people talking and laughing, swirls and bends into a muffled rush of chaos that excludes us. Over there are the normal people of Concord, who have just enjoyed an evening of music and friends and entertainment and safety. And then there’s us.

Peering over Suzanne’s shoulder, I see two uniformed cops walking toward us. One of them is the guy who took my name. They’re waiting to hear my story, to find out how I’m connected to the boy who overdosed behind the high school. This is where the truth comes out, where all the shit in the world hits the fan. After talking to the police, either I’ll go home to parents who hate me or straight to jail for my crimes in New York. This is where I say good-bye to Hank forever and have to be Danny Henderson full time again.

But I am still not ready.

Hailey catches my eye from where she stands with her family near the edge of the stage. “Hank, can you come over to the house to celebrate?” she asks. “My mother made a cake and everything.”

“I can’t, Hailey.” I grab her hand, tight, and kiss her fingers. “I have to go.”

She blinks at me, green eyes flecked with gold, piercing mine. Seeing me. And I know it’s not my imagination. The girl can read me like a book and she can sense the raw finality there, loud and clear.

“You’re going?” she whispers in disbelief. “Before you even tell me who you really are?”

My eyes prickle with tears. “I have to,” I whisper back. “I’ll contact you, I promise. I’ll tell you everything.” Then I let go of her hand as the cops approach, radios crackling on their hips, handcuffs clinking, badges blinding.

“Oh hey, I forgot the guitar backstage,” I say to no one in particular, giving myself a little smack on the forehead, like oh, what an idiot. “Look, I’ll go get it and be right back.”

There are only a few feet between me and the stage. I turn, take the steps two at a time, push my way behind the curtain. I hear Thomas’s voice behind me, “Hank, wait,” but I ignore it.

The second I’m out of sight, I jog down a long, dark hallway leading away from the auditorium, away from the stage, away from people. As soon as I reach a side door, I open it a crack, and when I’m certain there’s nobody lurking outside in the schoolyard or behind the trees, I slip as silently as possible into the shadows.

Sucking cool, fresh air into my lungs, I sprint full speed from the high school grounds, arms and legs pumping, then straining. Blending into the dark night.

Running, again.