All the Birds in the Sky(20)
Laurence felt a weird combination of shame and rage, as though he’d grown another new body part just in time to get punched in it. He seized his tray and pushed his way past Patricia, not caring if he got potato dregs on himself or on her, and hurried back inside. And of course, someone saw him rushing in the hallway with a half-laden tray and stuck out a leg to trip him up. He ended up face-down in his own muck. It never failed.
Later that day, Brad Chomner tried to cram Laurence’s entire body into a single-file urinal, and then both Brad and Laurence got hauled into Mr. Dibbs’s office for fighting, as if they were equal instigators. Mr. Dibbs called Laurence’s parents to come get him.
“That school is crushing the life out of me,” Laurence told his parents at dinner. “I need to get out of there. I’ve already filled out the application form to transfer to the math-and-science school, and I just need you guys to sign it.” He slid it onto the chipped formica table, where it sat amidst the faded place mats.
“We’re just not sure you’re mature enough to go to school in the city by yourself.” Laurence’s dad carved into his casserole with the edge of his fork, making little snuffling noises with his nose and mouth. “Mr. Dibbs is concerned that you’re a disruptive influence. Just because you get good grades”—snarf, snorf—“doesn’t mean you can be a bad element.”
“You haven’t proved you can handle the responsibility you already have,” said Laurence’s mother. “You can’t make trouble all the time.”
“Your mother and I don’t make trouble,” said Laurence’s father. “We make other things. Because we’re adults.”
“What?” Laurence shoved his casserole away and took a heavy swig of cola instead. “What do you make, exactly? Either of you guys.”
“Don’t talk back,” said Laurence’s father.
“This isn’t about us,” said Laurence’s mother.
“No, I want to know. It occurs to me, I have no clue what either of you produces.” Laurence looked at his dad. “You’re a lower middle manager who denies people’s insurance claims for a living.” He looked at his mom. “You update instruction manuals for obsolete machinery. What do either of you make?”
“We put a roof over your head,” his father said.
“And delicious liver-and-peas casserole on your plate,” his mother said.
“Oh Jesus.” Laurence had never talked to his parents like this before, and he didn’t know what had come over him. “You have no idea how hard I pray not to turn out like you two. My every nightmare, every one, is about turning into a complacent failure like you both. You don’t even remember the dreams you threw away to sink into this hole.” And with that, he pushed his chair hard enough to scar the cheap linoleum and got upstairs before his parents could send him to his room or try to muster some fake outrage. He locked the door.
Laurence wished Isobel and her rocketeer friends would come and take him away. She was helping to run a start-up aerospace company that was actually making deliveries to the Space Station, and he kept reading articles where she was quoted about the brave new future of space travel.
After Laurence flopped onto his bed and gazed up at his ceiling-wide poster in which every fictional spaceship congregated at a massive nebula, he remembered how he’d spoken to his parents. If he strained to listen over the dozen cooling fans along one wall of his bedroom, he could hear his parents fighting. Not the kind of fight where anybody hopes to win. Or even find some solution. This was hopeless, pointless, mindless aggression, two creatures caught in a trap with nothing to do but tear each other apart. Laurence wanted to die.
His mother sounded more wounded, his father more fatalistic. But they had identical levels of bitterness.
Laurence put a pillow over his head. It did no good. He wound up putting his headphones on, with the latest girltrash songs that everybody was listening to at school, and then a pair of winter earmuffs over them. Now he could no longer hear his parents, but he could still imagine what they were saying. He focused on the crooning, growling voice of the girltrash singer, whose name was Heta Neko, and he found himself with an erection. Ignoring it did as much good as ignoring these things ever did. He hated himself, even as he let one hand drift down and carry out the motion he’d practiced incessantly of late. Just as Laurence splashed onto a dirty fast-food napkin, he both heard and felt one of his parents slamming the front door of their house, he didn’t know which.
I wish I were dead and in hell, Laurence thought.
Laurence didn’t sleep much. The next morning, he felt too sick for school, but he knew better than to ask to stay home. He barely noticed when kids threw erasers at him or refused to let him sign their petition to save something or other, because if he signed it then nobody else would.
When Laurence got home that afternoon, he found the form sitting on the kitchen table, signed by both parents. Neither was home. At dinner, he tried to thank them, but they just shrugged and looked at the table. The three of them ate in total silence.
The next day, Laurence just stood in the hallway, watching it drain of people. He realized his buttons were buttoned wrong, so his jacket was askew.
Patricia came up to him in the hallway. “You’re going to be late,” she said. “They’re going to kill you.”
For the first time ever, Laurence noticed that Patricia was pretty. Her skin had a brightness underlying its faint tan. Like an airbrushed picture he’d seen once. Her neck was really smooth and graceful, and her wrist pivoted as she held her backpack on her shoulder. Her dark hair fell almost over one gray-green eye. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders. He wanted to run away from her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to scream.