Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (35)

Carl had some sort of mental health crisis during the summer between his junior and senior years of high school, and had to be hospitalized for a couple of weeks. Glenn wasn’t aware of this at the time because he’d been away at Boy Scout camp in the Adirondacks. It had been a life-changing experience for him, those two months in the wilderness, and it set him on the path to becoming an Eagle Scout three years later.

Carl was well enough to go back to school in September. Glenn was just starting his freshman year, and it saddened him to see his older brother drifting down the hall, always alone. He looked exactly the same as he did at home—unkempt, a little dazed, deeply worried—but it seemed worse at school, with all those other people around.



* * *



Carl never bothered anyone, so Glenn was startled, one day in late fall, to see his brother screaming at Vito Falcone in front of the sundae bar in the cafeteria. Later, Glenn would hear the whole story—Carl took too long to choose between chocolate and vanilla, and Vito tried to push in front of him—but at the time, it just felt like a weird dream, his scrawny, disheveled brother jabbing an ice cream scoop at the star quarterback, the most famous kid in the school.

You stay away! Carl’s voice was higher than usual, almost a shriek. Don’t cross my boundaries!

Vito took a lazy step backwards, raising his hands in mock surrender, as if he had no intention of crossing anyone’s boundaries. He was six inches taller than Carl, and fifty pounds heavier. He looked like a grown man, like a movie star.

Whoa, he said in a soothing voice. Take it easy.

Carl lowered the scoop. His face was a bright, hectic red.

I’m just trying to make my sundae!

Vito smirked at his football buddies. They were gathered right behind him, a whole gang of them in their green-and-yellow varsity jackets. They’d just completed an undefeated season—the sundae bar was a gift from the Booster Club—and they were in high spirits.

You guys hear that? Vito said. Give the man some room.

And that was what they did. The football players stepped back and watched with exaggerated interest, murmuring their approval—Good choice, bro; Gotta love the butterscotch—as Carl clumsily assembled his dessert. To make it even worse, they gave him a polite round of applause as he headed back to his table—he always sat by himself in the back of the cafeteria—his face an even deeper shade of scarlet than before.

That should have been the end of it, but Vito grabbed a can of whipped cream and brought it over to Carl just as he was sitting down.

Dude, he said. You forgot something.

Carl shook his head. I don’t want any.

No, you do, Vito insisted. It’s the most important part.

And then he did the thing Glenn would never forgive. Vito raised the canister, pressed his finger to the nozzle, and deposited a mound of whipped cream on Carl’s head.

There. Vito added one last dollop for good measure. He looked so pleased with himself. Now you’re all set.

Carl didn’t say a word, didn’t even try to wipe himself off. He just picked up his spoon and started eating. Of all the memories Glenn had of his brother, that one was the most vivid: Carl trying to smile, polishing off an ice cream sundae with a crown of whipped cream on his head.



* * *



The doctors could never agree on a diagnosis—some said schizophrenia, some said bipolar, others said other things—but whatever it was, Carl got worse after high school. He dropped out of college after one semester, started medicating himself with drugs and alcohol, and wound up homeless in Manhattan, where he died of a heroin overdose at the age of twenty-four.

No one would have even known it was suicide, except that he’d taken the trouble to write a goodbye letter to his parents. It arrived in the mail a day after they’d been notified of his passing. Carl apologized for the pain and disappointment he’d caused, and explained that he’d felt like a stranger in the world—an unwanted guest—for as long as he could remember, and couldn’t see that changing in the future. He asked for forgiveness, and thanked them for everything they’d done on his behalf. And then he added a little note to Glenn.

You were a good brother to me. I know it wasn’t easy.

It was sweet of Carl to let him off the hook like that. But it wasn’t true and they both knew it. Glenn wasn’t a good brother. He could still picture himself in the cafeteria that day, watching quietly as Vito humiliated Carl in front of everyone; he didn’t do a thing, he just let it happen. And when it was over, Glenn didn’t confront Vito, or even bring some napkins over to Carl and help him clean up. He just sat there and ate his own lunch, one bite after another, until he cleaned his plate, and then he got up and made a sundae of his own, hot fudge with a little blob of whipped cream, and a maraschino cherry on top.



* * *



Glenn stood guard in the parking lot after the game. His last duty of the night was making sure the visiting team got safely on their bus without suffering any abuse or harassment. The Green Meadow kids looked pretty glum as they trudged out of the locker room—despite Marcus Turner’s stellar performance, they’d ended up losing by twenty points. Glenn gave a fist bump and offered a kind word to each of them as they climbed aboard.

“Good game… Way to go… You’ll get ’em next time.”

He was extra nice to Blake Dooley, who’d had a rough second half.