Call It What You Want(71)

He says the words so matter-of-factly. Not the kind of warm, probing question I’d get from the school counselor, or the soft, intrusive way my mother would ask. Just straightforward.

The way my father would have asked.

I press my fingers into my eyes again.

No, I want to say. No. The word sits in my throat, but it’s blocked by emotion.

Instead, I say, “I miss my father so much.”

For the longest time, the room is so silent. Or maybe I can’t hear anything over my roaring heartbeat, my shaking breath.

Mr. London lets out a sigh. I can’t look at him now.

I swipe at my eyes again and stare at the bottom edge of his desk. “Everyone thinks he’s horrible. Maybe he was. I know he was. But … I don’t—he wasn’t horrible to me.”

This is humiliating. I’ve never said this to anyone.

Now I’m saying it to the school librarian, for god’s sake.

“I’m sorry.” My eyes are a blur. I shove myself out of the chair. “I need to go to class.”

“Rob—”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Please stop.”

“I need to go.” I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. My breathing is a hitching mess. I need to get it together.

Mr. London steps in front of me. “Rob. Stop.”

I stop. I breathe. My fingers are digging into the nylon strap of my backpack with so much force that my knuckles burn.

“Sit,” he says. “I’ll write you a pass.”

I don’t want to sit, but he’s blocking the doorway, and I’m not a rebel. I’ve never been the kind of kid to get in trouble with teachers. I do what I’m told.

I sit.

Something about the command is stabilizing, though. My tears have dried up.

Mr. London eases into his chair behind the desk. “I was thinking about you this weekend,” he says. “Until you hid in here last week, I don’t think I really considered what this all must mean for you.”

I say nothing.

“I didn’t consider,” he says slowly, “that you lost your father without losing your father.”

His words bring on a fresh round of tears, and I try to blink them away.

It doesn’t work.

I’m so sick of crying. Being lonely sucked, but it had its advantages. No one talking to me meant I didn’t talk to anyone else.

I give in and take a tissue.

“When I was young,” he says, “my grandmother had a stroke.”

I stiffen. I don’t want an anecdote.

“She lived with us,” he continues. “She used to watch my sister and me after school. So we were really close. When she had the stroke, it was really … really weird. I was twelve. She was still there, but she wasn’t there.”

That forces me still. I meet his eyes. Yes, I think. Yes. I can’t say it. But I don’t think I need to.

“This kid once …” Mr. London takes a long breath. “This kid once said something like, ‘What’s wrong? Who died?’ But no one had died. It was so strange. I couldn’t explain it. And because no one died, it wasn’t like … I don’t know. I don’t really even know how to explain it now.”

I don’t, either.

The words are stuck in my throat. I try to swallow past them. If I speak, I might lose it.

Mr. London looks at me. “I’m sorry about your father, Rob.” He pauses, rolling a pen between his fingers.

“He was awful.” My voice cracks and I swipe at my face again. Thank god this is the library and not the lacrosse coach’s office.

“But he wasn’t an awful father.”

“No.” I press shaking hands to my face.

The room falls quiet again. The first bell rings. I don’t move. I can’t move.

Mr. London picks up the phone on his desk. After a moment, he says, “Rob Lachlan is in the library with me. Will you tell his first-period teacher?” A pause. “Thank you.”

The phone clicks back into place. My heart pounds against my rib cage. My body feels like every emotion is trying to rattle free, as if I’ve confined too much inside my skin.

“Tell me about him,” says Mr. London.

I open my mouth to refuse. He’s the last person I should confide in.

Instead, I tell him everything about my father. The man I thought he was. The man I thought I wanted to be. The way my father would show up for every game. The way I could tell him anything.

I tell him every good memory. Everything I miss.

I tell him how my father’s crimes felt like such a betrayal. So big that I can barely admit it to myself.

Mr. London makes for a good audience. He’s quiet, and he listens. When I’m done, I’m wrung out. I want to melt out of this chair and dissolve into the carpeting.

When he finally speaks, it’s not what I expect. “You know I’m gay, right?”

There’s a picture of him with his husband on the wall behind him. I’m pretty sure the entire student body knows he’s gay, but his question was matter-of-fact, so my answer is too. “Yes.”

“Just making sure.” He pauses. “When I told my parents, they didn’t react well. They wanted me to go to this … this camp.”