Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock(26)

His saying that bit about being different sort of shocks me, because I never really thought about teachers feeling the way I sometimes do here at school, but I’m nodding seriously like I understand what he’s telling me, and all the while I’m wondering what the hell is under his shirtsleeves.

He writes his cell phone number down in green ink, hands me the slip of paper, and says, “Write the letters from the future, Leonard. Those people want to meet you. Your life is going to get so much better. I promise you that. Just hold on as best you can—and believe in the future. Trust me. This is only a small part of your life. A blink. And if you find that you aren’t able to believe it, call me anytime and we’ll talk. I’ll answer your question then. Just as soon as you need it. I promise.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I say.

“People should be nice to you, Leonard. You’re a human being. You should expect people to be nice. Those people in your future, the ones who are writing letters to you—they will be nice. Imagine it and it will be so. Write the letters.”

I say, “Okay. Thanks, Herr Silverman,” and then I get the hell out of there.

If only the world were full of Herr Silvermans. But it isn’t. It’s mostly full of übermorons like the majority of my classmates and sprinkled with sadistic *s like Asher Beal.

I don’t go to Guidance.

No root beer lollipop today.

I have one present left to deliver.

I have a mission to complete.





TWENTY


The last good birthday celebration Asher Beal and I had was seven or so years ago, back before all the really bad stuff started to happen.

At his party, when he unwrapped his present from me, he found a piece of paper with a question mark on it.

“What’s this?” he said, squinting.

The sound of wooden pins being struck by bowling balls echoed through the alley. His oblivious but kind mother had booked two lanes.37

“Just the best birthday present you’ll ever receive,” I said.

“I don’t get it,” Asher said.

I remember the other kids at the party giving me strange looks—like what the f*ck kind of present is a question mark on a piece of paper?38

“You will,” I said confidently.

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Okay,” Asher said, shrugged, and then opened the gifts other kids had brought—WWE DVDs, video games, gift cards—typical stuff.

I remember feeling proud—like I was taking care of my best friend in a way that would blow his mind. Everyone else’s mom just thoughtlessly bought generic presents that any eleven-year-old kid would forget about in a few days.

I invited Asher to spend the night at my house that weekend, and when he arrived, thinking we were just going to play video games and eat pizza, my dad came in and—employing this funny voice—said, “Mr. Beal, your car is ready.”

“What?” Asher said, and then laughed. He was confused, had no clue, which made me so happy.39

Because my dad was in a good mood,40 he pretended to be our hired driver, keeping his face blank, like he didn’t know us, when he said, “Mr. Peacock has arranged for me to drive you to Atlantic City, where you will attend a rock ’n’ roll concert this evening.”

Asher’s eyes lit up. “Don’t even tell me you got Green Day tickets. Did you?”

I smiled and said, “Happy birthday.”

His face exploded. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he said, pumping his fists in the air, and then he sort of hugged and tackled me onto the couch.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt better than I did at that moment, maybe because I’ve never made another human being that kind of I-will-joyfully-tackle-you happy.

The entire ride to Atlantic City, Asher talked about Green Day and what they’d probably play and how he just wanted to hear “American Idiot,” because that was his favorite song. It was going to be his first official concert. I sat next to him, listening, feeding off his excitement.

My dad took us to an Irish pub for dinner and drank a few pints before he escorted us to the concert, which was in one of the casinos. I can’t remember which one because they all look the same to me. When Asher realized we had front-row seats, he hugged me again and said, “You’re the man, Leonard Peacock! Seriously! First row? First row? How?”

My dad still had connections back then, but I didn’t say that. I just sort of shrugged modestly.

It felt so f*cking good making my friend happy.

Like I was a hero.

Green Day came on and performed.

When they played “American Idiot,” Asher grabbed my biceps, screamed in my face, and then sang every word.

I was never a big Green Day fan, but it was the best concert I’ve ever attended, mostly because it was so much fun to see Asher experience his favorite band live—knowing that I made it happen, that I was the hero that night, that I’d given him the perfect present, and all those *s at his birthday party—all the kids in our class who squinted at the question mark I drew on a piece of paper—just didn’t get it, me, or life in general.

Wearing Green Day concert shirts featuring heart-shaped grenades, we met my dad afterward at the designated place right outside the casino floor and I could hardly hear him when he asked about the show because my ears were ringing.