Character, Driven Read online

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  For me

  Intro [duction|spection|version]

  THANK GOD FOR Alexander Graham Bell. If the phone hadn’t started ringing, my crazy-drunk stepfather probably would have finished beating me to death with his belt. As it was, I felt pretty sure I’d lost an eye. And at least three teeth.

  Half blind, I took advantage of the distraction and rammed him with my shoulder. I’d never fought back before. But this was different. Until now, he’d poked, slapped, and grabbed me in painful ways, and gut-punched me more times than I’d like to remember, but he hadn’t done any lasting damage. At least, not physically. This morning, he was out of control. Crazy mad. I wanted to tell him there was no reason to be angry. But it wouldn’t have mattered. I wasn’t even sure I could form words with my mangled mouth, or force those words past the rage that clouded his mind. So I rammed him the instant the first ring of the phone drew his attention.

  He staggered back, crashing into my dresser. Between one heartbeat and the next, I debated and rejected the idea of diving out a second-story window. The front door was my only option. His footsteps smacked the floor behind me as I raced down the hall. I grabbed the stair post and swung around, hoping to reach the first floor before he caught up.

  I misjudged the depth of his fury. I hadn’t gone more than three or four steps when he tackled me. He must have dived from the landing. We tangled and tumbled, then crashed to the floor with a sickening snap. I was on top of him, faceup, my back pressing against his chest, unsure which of our bones had been broken. I had a feeling that, for the first time in history, the classic parental lie—This will hurt me more than it hurts you—had actually come true. I also had a feeling my life was about to change in drastic and permanent ways.

  Do I have your attention? Good. That’s crucial. Grab the reader with the first sentence. There are ten zillion books out there, and no special reason to pick up this one.

  Of course, at this point, there can’t be any book, because I’ve just started writing these words. But, somehow, you’re reading them. I realize this could cause confusion. Let it go. It’s not good to think about the order of creation for written works. It’s sort of like that time-travel paradox where you wonder what would happen if you went into the past and shot off your grandfather’s penis before your father was conceived. There’s no easy way to think it through.

  Paradoxes aside, as much as I may have grabbed you with the violent, action-packed bone-breaking opening, I’ve created a problem. If I start out with a gigantic lie, you might not stick with me. Nobody wants to explore new lands with an untrustworthy guide. But I’d hate for you to leave so soon after we’ve met. So here’s what you need to know to take this trip with me: I don’t have a drunken, sadistic stepfather. I have a blood-related dad who probably gets drunk three or four times a year. He’s an accountant. I’ve never had my face cut by a belt buckle. Never been knocked down a flight of stairs. Never been saved by the bell. Got both eyes. Got all my teeth. Damn fine teeth they are.

  I’m screwing up the sequence here. I should have introduced myself first. I’m a guy. I’m eighteen. As of today, actually. Happy birthday to me. If you want to sing along, I guess you’ll need to know my name.

  Call me Cliff. The most voracious bookworms among you will instantly wonder whether I’ve offered this name as a reference to some famous fictional Clifford, Heathcliff, or Clifton. Nope. I am not a reflection or echo of someone you’ve already met. Cliff happens to be my name. But that doesn’t mean it lacks metaphorical echoes. By an accident of birth, I am well named for this story.

  Think about it.…

  cliff

  precipice

  edge

  There you have it. I’m Cliff. Cliff Sparks. At the edge. On the verge. Dangling.

  At this point, you’re probably wondering whether I have a story to tell. Will I face life-changing challenges in a dramatic quest to triumph over seemingly insurmountable obstacles? Will I come of age, reach my dreams, or discover the meaning of life? That would be awesome. Though not every book tells a story. There’s another route from opening sentence to satisfied sigh and the terminal snap of a closing cover. That would be a character-driven tale, where I pull you along because I’m so fascinating and charismatic that you’ll follow me even if there are no plot threads to grasp. Nice trick if you can pull it off. Sadly, I’m not that guy. If I had an abundance of follow-me charm, I’d have come of age by sophomore year, at the latest.

  But I really want you to stick with me, so here’s my offer: I’m going to tell you a story. But it doesn’t start today. I’m going to take you back to April 16, nearly two months before this very moment, which we think of as the present. (I think I just foreshadowed a flashback.) We’ll leap together to the past, for the best of reasons.

  I’m going to spin a tale.

  And it will be so enthralling that you’ll get sucked right in. You’ll not only suspend your disbelief—you’ll tie a rope around its neck and hurl it off a cliff, then give the other end of the rope a mighty yank, perfectly timed to snap disbelief’s scrawny vertebrae like a fistful of dry pasta.

  I’m going to sweep you along in my tale spin. Soon enough, you’ll forget about this rambling start. You’ll forget we’ve gotten so intimate. Until the next time I burst from the page and raise your disbelief from the dead, hauling the rope back over the cliff so we can both contemplate the decomposition. But either way, no more lies. You can rely on that. And on me.

  Yes, sirree—I’m going to suck you right in. Because this is one sweet-ass mother lode of a gripping tale. Here we go …

  She Walks In, Beauty

  VENUS IS THE morning star.

  As is Jillian.

  Let me explain. My school day starts with Calculus, which is a form of math designed to convince people they want to be History majors in college. Our teacher, Mr. Yuler, doesn’t talk much. He’ll write a problem on the board, then sip coffee from his ever-present mug and walk the aisles while we work at our desks. If you’re stuck, he’ll uncap his pen and circle something he feels you should contemplate. It’s not a bad way to start the day, since, between my after-school jobs and my crazy idea that I should make at least a half-assed effort to do a half-decent job on my homework (which multiplies out to a quarter-decent-ass-job), I generally get less sleep than I need. It would be hard to keep my eyes open for a lecture during first period.

  So there we sat, twenty-eight zombified students, all good enough with numbers to have taken the college-prep track through math. I was eventually college bound, I hoped. But I needed to take a year off and save up before I could do anything more than catch some classes at County. Dad lost his job again last y
ear, and Mom had her hours cut at the Maple Lane Bakery. She’d worked there since the first time Dad lost his job. We were keeping our expenses low until things turned around.

  But let’s get back to Calculus. I think, somehow, I felt Jillian’s presence before I heard her footsteps or saw her appear in the doorway, where she stood clutching a slip of paper and looking very new to the world of Rismore High School.

  There are some things that stab each of us in the heart: a perfect sunset, a flag-draped casket, an unexpected encounter with a favorite childhood toy. Each—the beautiful, the tragic, the nostalgic—grabs part of our spirit in some way.

  Jillian had been assembled from a kit of parts labeled WHAT CLIFF LOVES. To describe her, to even hint at the color of her hair or the curve of her lip, would be to reveal too much of my soul. Instead, I’ll let you craft your own Jillian. Think of the kit you’ve labeled WHAT I LOVE. Make her, or him, in that image, breathe life into her form, and place her here at the classroom entrance, inspired. Take your time.

  Got it? Great. Let’s move on.

  I sat, entranced, as Jillian entered the classroom. I stole glances, and risked several longer stares in her direction after she’d taken her seat. But I knew the reality. She’d never notice me unless I had the misfortune to suffer a memorable death in her presence. Something involving spontaneous flames would do the trick. For the moment, I wasn’t tempted to pursue that approach—or departure. I really didn’t want my encounter with her to be a short story, or a long obituary.

  Jillian took the only available seat, three rows to my right, and one row ahead. Most of the guys were staring at her, either boldly or through a series of covert glances. As were the girls.

  Nola Lackmore, who sat immediately to my left, cast an appraising eye in Jillian’s direction. I would have loved to hear her thoughts. Do pretty girls—and that was Nola for sure—think bad thoughts about gorgeous girls? Abbie Striver shot an escalating sequence of disapproving glares toward Jillian, as if it were a transgression to be attractive.

  Both my best friends were in this class. Robert, two seats to my right, shook his hand in the universal gesture of someone who has touched a hot surface. I couldn’t see the reaction, if any, from Butch, who sat in the left rear corner.

  Lucas Delshanon, directly to my right, let out a half-sighed half-muttered, “Whoa…” I couldn’t think of a better word.

  Ahead of us, Jillian seemed unaware of the attention. Or maybe she was used to it and chose not to admit awareness.

  That was the moment when I spotted an opportunity. Mr. Yuler opened the door of the small closet in the back of the room. He rummaged inside for a minor interval, like someone trying to find the last nub of pepperoni in an overstuffed deli drawer. Then he closed the door and let his shoulders slump in defeat.

  I knew exactly what had just happened. Jillian needed a textbook. But the cupboard was bare. I raised my hand in anticipation of Mr. Yuler selecting someone to run over to the other Calculus teacher’s classroom for a copy. The instant he noticed me, I said, “Want me to check with Ms. Percivel?”

  He didn’t seem surprised that I was a half step ahead of him. In reality, I was a whole journey ahead. When I returned from my quest, I’d get the chance to weave my way through the crowded room and give the book directly to Jillian. She’d thank me. Our fingers would touch. I’d flash her a smile, letting her see my great teeth up close, and say something classy like, No prob.

  No. Too slangy. No problem?

  Yeah. That was better.

  “Thanks,” Mr. Yuler said.

  “No problem.” I flinched as I realized I had just fired my one silver-tongued bullet. I couldn’t repeat myself. That would make me seem shallow or unimaginative. No problem. I’d think of a better reply by the time I got back. It was a long hall.

  I headed down that hall, past the cafeteria, which was just beginning to emit aromatic hints about the species of today’s fried protein, and along the new wing, toward Ms. Percivel’s classroom. Happily, despite my fears of learning otherwise and being forced to return empty-handed, she had an extra copy of the Calculus textbook.

  What to say? I ran possibilities through my mind, testing them in a full fantasy enactment of the moment when I gave Jillian the book and she thanked me.

  My pleasure …

  Not bad. Slightly too refined. I was sure I could do better. The pleasure is all mine.… No. Too wordy. Unless she was a fan of old Jane Austen stuff.

  I held up the book and searched the front cover for inspiration. It showed a broad ethnic diversity of students at undiversified desks, hunched over papers, happily solving the problems of integration. No inspiration there.

  Maybe I could make a clever calculus reference? I could say, Aaaaaaaaaaaugh!

  I did say, “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh!”

  It wasn’t clever, and it had nothing to do with Calculus, but it was pretty much the response that’s hard-wired into most of us when we plummet unexpectedly. My right foot had just come down not on solid flooring, but on the edge of the steps leading into “the Pit.”

  Yeah, there’s a fucking pit in the open area on the other side of the hall from the cafeteria. It’s used as a gathering place for small-group activities, and as a death trap for the unobservant. It has two steep steps that also serve as seats, running along all four sides. I was so busy staring at the book cover and trying to think of what to say to impress Jillian, I’d walked at an angle along the corridor, right into the Pit.

  I came down hard. The book went flying. My right hand smacked the floor of the Pit, breaking my fall. It felt like I’d also come close to breaking my hand. I lay there, taking stock of my injuries. I’d smacked my right knee pretty hard on the edge of the bottom step. And my chin. I ran my tongue across the back of my teeth, hoping not to find anything loose. There was a slight metallic taste of blood in my mouth, but nothing felt chipped or broken. I seemed to have escaped with less damage than a fall like that deserved. Lucky me.

  I looked around as I crawled to my feet. Nobody had seen me. That was good. The fallen get mocked. It’s the law.

  Have a wonderful trip!

  Nice of you to drop in!

  Down goes Cliff!

  Crap. I hurt all over. Knees. Hands. Elbows. Chin. Pride. I retrieved the book and limped back to class, my palms throbbing as the numbness of impact gave way to the sting of injury. I winced in pain as I opened the door and hobbled across the room.

  “Here,” I said, handing the book to Jillian.

  “Thanks.” She flashed a smile that should have melted away all my pain.

  “Uhhhh … welcome. Problem. I mean, no.”

  Great. I had the articulate wit of a bear coming out of hibernation after bingeing on fermented fruit. I clamped my mouth shut before it could spew more nonsense.

  “Yeowch!” I eased the clamp as pain shot through my bruised jaw.

  Jillian’s smile morphed into a puzzled stare.

  It seemed like a good time to retreat. I slipped back into my seat, which, between the crowded classroom and the stiffening of my injured joints, wasn’t easy.

  I already fell for you.

  Damn, that would be a totally perfect line, if she’d known about the fall. Witty. Charming. Especially if delivered with a bit of a self-effacing grin. It would have been awesome.

  No. It sucked. All my lines sucked. I had no game. As I sat there, drowning in the flood of lost opportunity and imagining the various shades of blue, green, and purple that would soon blossom on my palm, my past dating life flashed before my eyes. It made me want to fall off something much higher than the Pit, or find a pit much deeper.

  Maddie, ’Bout You

  MY DATING EXPERIENCE (I almost need a specifically singular form of “experience” to capture the scarcity of it) began in seventh grade. Actually, back then, I guess I was predating. I mean, “pre-dating,” not being a predator. Though, on second thought, I guess “predator” sort of describes my strategy. On third thought, maybe I shou
ld just tell what happened and let you categorize it.

  I’d had a crush on Maddie all through middle school. I think it started, or solidified, the time she yawned. She was sitting next to me in Algebra. It was a large and leisurely yawn. She arched her back and raised her arms in the sort of posture one would use while putting on heavy headphones. But it wasn’t her back or arms or even her gaping mouth that ensorcelled me. It was her breasts. As her back arched, those breasts seemed to lag slightly behind the rest of the parade, following her movement but telling the world they had their own free will to do what they wanted as they pressed against the pale brown fabric of her button-down shirt. I could picture her bra cradling them. Coaxing them with gentle upward tugs. Come on, we’re all moving together. Don’t be nonconformists.

  This was not an image conducive to balancing equations. The breasts continued their public display of uncivil disobedience during Maddie’s return from the extreme edge of lumbar contortion. Eventually, her whole body was realigned in an erect posture. As was part of mine. I waited breathlessly for the next round trip along mammary lane. I even let out an exaggerated yawn of my own, in hopes of priming the pump. And I told myself I had to make Maddie my girlfriend. Breasts that breathtaking needed authorized admiration.

  I plotted. I schemed. Maddie was in an Episcopal youth group. I joined it, even though I wasn’t an Episcopalian. It was fun. We sang a lot of folk songs and gathered cans of food for the hungry. None of the activities allowed me to catch Maddie’s attention. But there were other opportunities to pursue her. She belonged to the Y. I got a membership. She acknowledged my existence when we crossed paths during open swim or coed volleyball, and actually didn’t try to flee when I engaged her in conversation. I grew bolder. I decided to ask her out on a date. I didn’t phrase it that way, of course. It was more like, “You wanna get something at the diner?”

  She agreed.