Chapter 9
Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d been afraid to go to school, even as a kid. The blowup with Heather on Saturday night, however, had jolted him into a state of shock, and as Sunday dragged along and Monday morning approached, Beckett found himself growing increasingly anxious - so much so that he rang Matthew late Sunday evening.
“Hello?” Matthew answered with some alarm in his voice.
“Heather hates me.”
Tom heard his best friend heave a heavy sigh into the phone. “You didn’t try to make a move on her, did you?”
Tom’s jaw dropped. “What? Never!”
“Because I told you if that’s your ulterior motive with Die Trying, I’m out.”
“Ah!” Tom brightened momentarily. “So you do like the name of the band!”
“I never said that.”
“Well, did you come up with a better one like you said?”
There was a small silence on Matthew’s end. “No.”
“Then ‘Die Trying’ it is.”
Matthew groaned. “Let’s get back to Heather hating you.”
“Oh,” Tom winced. “To be fair, I was being an insensitive a-hole. She just got so mad all of a sudden. We were watching the Queen concert at my house, and then she just stormed off.”
“What did you do?”
“Just promise you won’t get mad at me, too,” Tom pleaded. “I can’t stand the both of you hating me.”
“I could never hate you, Tom,” Matthew replied, weariness in his voice. “I do, however, reserve the right to call you an idiot if the situation merits.”
“Well,” Tom sighed. “In this case, I…well she told me she’s half Mexican. Did you know that?”
“No,” Matthew answered. “No idea. Although now I guess I can kinda see it?”
“So you’re a little surprised, just like I was when she told me…” Tom continued.
“But?”
“But then I blurted out - and please remember that this was an innocent, knee-jerk reaction - I said: ‘I didn’t know you were Mexican. Now it makes sense why you love Shakira.’”
There was silence on Matthew’s end for a good five to ten seconds.
“I mean…” Matthew finally responded. “Definitely not your most shining moment, but…also not the worst thing in the world you could have said?”
“Then why did she get so upset?”
“Who knows?” Matthew shrugged. “I mean, did she say anything else?”
Tom pondered. “Well. She did say how she got bullied a ton for being half white half Mexican as a kid…it’s why she hates people pointing out that she’s blonde.”
“She got bullied?”
“Mercilessly. Like she wasn’t enough for the white kids, wasn’t enough for the Mexican kids…”
Matthew paused. “And that’s when you said the thing about Shakira?”
Tom cleared his throat.
“Maybe?”
“Oh, Tom.”
“I know, I know. I blew it,” Tom moaned, covering his face with his free hand. “It wasn’t the right timing. I just blurted it out. Matthew, you know I tend to blurt sometimes.”
“You do suffer from occasional blurtage,” Matthew conceded.
“So what am I gonna do?”
“She stormed out as soon as you made the Shakira comment?”
“Pretty much. Said if she stayed, she was gonna go off on me. So she left.”
Matthew thought this over. “So you…didn’t tell her about yourself?”
“I didn’t have a chance! She was out the door. And what difference should it make, anyway?”
“I’m not saying it should make a difference,” Matthew explained. “But maybe…I dunno. Maybe she’d be less upset if she knew you had a…shared experience.”
Tom frowned. “So you think I should tell her?”
Matthew started to laugh. Slightly at first, but it quickly escalated into a full-blown attack.
“It’s not funny, Matthew!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Matthew struggled to regain control over his breathing, then fell apart into hysterics all over again.
“If you don’t stop, I’m gonna hang up this phone.”
“It’s just so funny!” Matthew finally managed. He inhaled, working hard to maintain control over his fit. “I mean, you have an opportunity to connect with someone on a deeper level by sharing a part of yourself. To hold something precious and vulnerable they’ve entrusted you with with the care and consideration it deserves. And instead, you ostracize and offend them!”
Matthew broke out laughing all over again. Tom heaved another plaintive sigh into the phone.
“I am sorry,” Matthew insisted after he’d collected himself once more. “It’s just…so…you!”
Tom seriously considered calling out sick the following day, but he knew this would solve nothing in the long run. He had to speak with Heather - catch her first thing in the faculty lounge and apologize. The dread he felt when his alarm went off the following morning gripped him like a vice. But he reminded himself that if Heather could endure a childhood filled with dread about coming to school, surely he could tolerate at least one day of it.
He entered the lounge at 8:03. Heather brought her own bags of Moroccan Mint tea to school - the only faculty member at Alameda Senior High who hadn’t pledged eternal devotion to the coffee bean - and his plan was to intercept her at the hot water machine.
Instead, he found that Mrs. Savery, the physics teacher who had been at AHS for nearly thirty-five years, already had Heather cornered by the kitchen counter.
Mrs. Savery had never taken any interest in Heather before, Tom observed. What did the old bat want with her now? She seemed to blather on and on while Heather, who saw but barely acknowledged Tom’s entrance, sipped her tea and nodded politely every few seconds at the older woman’s ravings.
“My son is just around your age,” Tom heard Mrs. Savery tell Heather. “And he’s wrapping up a PhD in physics at Cal.”
“That’s quite impressive,” Heather gave a semi-enthused nod.
“It takes six years but he’s almost done. Only nine months until he’s Doctor Savery! Of course, Mr. Savery and I are over the moon…”
“Of course.”
“But what he really needs is a stable, long-term relationship. I don’t want him to miss out on what me and his father have.”
“He’s not seeing anyone in his program?”
Tom coughed loudly. It hadn’t been on purpose, there was something in his throat. But it was loud enough for Mrs. Savery to stop and turn to look at him. Heather did the same, though more reluctantly.
“Physics…” he mused without a clue of what to say next. Now that he’d been given the floor, however, he felt it would be a shame to waste the moment. “You have another physicist in the family, Mrs. Savery? Must run in your genes…what with you being a physics teacher and all…”
Mrs. Savery blinked at him, a slight strain of annoyance on her face.
“Yes, Mr. Beckett, it does.”
“What’s funny though,” Tom continued, “is that neither of you ever became surgeons.”
The women stared at him blankly. Heather raised an eyebrow at Tom.
“Because of your name!” Tom continued, waiting for the joke or the punchline or whatever pathetic thing it was to sink in with at least one of them. “Savery. Sever. Like ‘sever.’ To sever. To cut. You know…like a surgeon!”
“That’s clever, Mr. Beckett.”
“Please,” Tom replied. “Call me Tom.”
Mrs. Savery turned her attention back to Heather.
“Anyway, I think it would be delightful if-”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Savery,” Heather interjected with expert politeness and a well-timed glance at her watch. “But I do have to start getting ready for my first class.”
Mrs. Savery gave a check with the wall clock and nodded. “Very well. We’ll speak another time.” She fixed Tom with a resentful gaze. “Ideally without interruption.”
Heather shot the woman an apologetic look before peeling off and making a dash for the door.
“Wait a minute!” Tom called out after her.
Soon he was chasing Heather down the hall. It was now closer to 8:10 and the students were beginning to flood in to make the 8:20 bell. If she walked any faster, Tom thought, he’d lose sight of her. Then again, there was that long, platinum blond hair of hers to fixate on. How could he ever lose sight of that?
“Heather!” he yelled again. He was sure she could hear him. By the time he reached close enough to touch her shoulder, he was out of breath.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Tom…” Heather’s voice had a note of warning in it as she finally turned around to face him.
“I mean, I. I need to talk to you and apologize for being such a douchebag on Saturday. I spent all day yesterday beating myself up over it. The thing is…”
“Mr. Beckett?” a boy’s voice interrupted them. “Can I ask you a question about the Huckleberry Finn homework?”
It was William Berkie, one of Tom’s most grade-obsessed tenth graders.
“Sorry, Berkie. It’ll have to wait until class.”
“But you told us on the first day of school that you were always available to answer homework questions.”
Fuming, Beckett turned to him. “Yes I know. But when I said that on the first day of school, I had no idea I’d be constantly harassed by grade-grubbing sophomores such as yourself.”
“But, Mr. Beckett…”
“The answer’s no,” Tom repeated. “Don’t make me send you to Principal Louis.”
The boy rolled his eyes and meandered away, muttering some choice words under his breath as he did.
“You could have just answered his question,” Heather observed.
“It’s never just one question with William Berkie, that’s the trouble.”
“How are my two favorite Englophiles doing today?” a booming voice rang out from behind. Neither of them had to turn around to know it was Principal Louis, who wrapped an affable arm around both their necks.
“Englophiles!” Principal Louis boomed. “Is that even a word, or did I make it up?”
Tom and Heather were both too preoccupied with the fact that they were almost choking from Principal Louis’ grip to answer. Principal Louis drew in a heavy, deep breath and then heaved it out of his lungs.
“Nothing like a fresh Monday morning to remind you of the beauty of being alive! Say!” He turned to Heather. “I just realized I’ve yet to see you wearing your purple scarf since the party at Matthew’s house!”
“Oh,” Heather replied self-consciously. “I just haven’t had the right opportunity yet. The right outfit…”
“But violet goes with everything!”
“I’ll be sure to wear it as soon,” Heather assured him. “Maybe tomorrow.” She gave Tom a desperate look. It was the first time the entire morning that she had willingly met his gaze with her own. Tom felt he should say something to help her, since that seemed to be what she was silently reaching out for, but he couldn’t come up with anything.
“No, Heather,” Principal Louis said warmly, freeing her from his hold. “You wear that scarf when you want to. It will always be there…waiting for you.”
He closed his eyes and recited, as if reciting a poem:
Wherever you go
Whatever you do
I will be right here waiting for you…
“Is that a song?” Tom asked.
Principal Louis smiled and nodded slowly.
“Richard Marx,” Principal Louis said. “From his 1989 Reckless album. If that man wasn’t the Emily Dickinson of the late 1980s, I don’t know who was…”
He turned to Tom.
“Mr. Beckett,” he said grandly, “I’m in the mood for a poem about October. It’s my favorite month of the year and it’s only a day away.”
“I don’t know any poems about October,” Tom said. “At least, none that I’ve memorized.”
Principal Louis cleared his throat.
“Then I’ll start you off with a lovely composition by the incomparable Robert Frost…” he said. “Oh hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all…”
The bell rang.
“That’s the first bell, Principal Louis!” Heather cried. “I know you don’t want us to be late. I’d better go.”
She took off sprinting down the hall.
“Wait!” Tom yelled. He bolted after her, though Principal Louis didn’t even seem to notice as he continued muttering the poem to himself:
“Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know…”
Here he was, chasing after her again. Why was it, he wondered to himself, that he always seemed to find himself staring at the back of Heather’s head? Not that he was complaining…
Finally, Heather approached her classroom. She whirled around as she had done before, her long hair streaming around and cupping one side of her face, effortlessly, beautifully, like in the movies.
“Second bell’s gonna ring any minute,” she warned Tom.
“Then be late for class,” Tom said. “We’re not the students, we’re the teachers. You’d think that would give us a little leeway.”
Heather crossed her arms and waited.
“I just want you to know I’m sorry.”
Heather flushed and her eyes fell to the floor. For a second she looked as if she was about to cry.
“Are you just apologizing because you…want me to stay in the band?”
“No!” Tom answered, surprised by the question. “I mean, yes I want you to stay of course. But that's not the main reason.”
Heather looked back up at him.
“Then I should apologize, too.”
“What for?”
“For jumping down your throat. Overreacting. I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said, it’s my own stuff coming up and…”
Tom faltered a little, paused, then swallowed. He’d rehearsed his apology in the bathroom mirror several times that morning, but he hadn’t anticipated Heather would come out with one as well.
“You shared something personal with me and…instead of being there for you or sharing something personal about myself in exchange, I made a stupid, ignorant comment,” he continued.
“It’s really okay, Tom…”
“No, but you see I want you to know something about me. Not that it makes what I said the other night any better…in fact, maybe in some ways it makes it worse…but I am also…like you.”
Heather stared at him, her eyes fevered and searching his face, trying to crack the riddle she by now suspected the answer to.
“Wait a minute. Are you trying to say that you’re…”
“Mexican,” Tom completed the sentence. “Well, Mexican American more accurately. And half white, too. Just like you. Well, not just, but…”
“I didn’t know that,” Heather said. “I guess I just thought you were-”
“White all this time?” he smiled crookedly.
“Well…yes,” Heather admitted. “I saw a picture of your parents at your apartment and they looked…”
“That’s because those are my adoptive parents,” Tom said. “But my biological parents…” Tom paused. “Well, my father was Mexican and my mother was Polish. Apparently.”
“So ‘Beckett’ is…”
“My adoptive family’s name. And mine, too obviously. But…I know that I look a hundred percent white to most people…and everyone just assumes I am.”
Tom pursed his lips. He felt relief at finally having delivered the message, but something in Heather’s face remained unresolved.
“So…who else knows about this?” she asked with concern in her voice.
“Well,” Tom found himself again thrown off by Heather’s question. “My parents, obvious. And Matthew, of course - he knows everything about me. And, I guess…now…you.”
“So it’s like…a secret. Like…something you hide?”
“I don’t go out of my way to hide it, per se,” Tom frowned. “But I don’t bother correcting people when they assume I’m Irish American. ‘Beckett’ being a typically Irish name and all…”
“Why don’t you?” Heather asked. “It’s who you are!”
“Well, it’s not that simple, Heather!” Beckett insisted. “I’m not like you. I mean I am but…I wasn’t raised by my real parents. I wouldn’t know how to be half-Mexican, half-Polish if I tried. I mean do you go around telling everyone you meet?” he asked her. “You could probably pass for white all the time if you wanted.”
Heather thought about this for a second. “I don’t always have to tell people. Sometimes they figure it out on their own. But I don’t make a secret of it.”
“It’s not a secret!” Tom exclaimed. He caught himself and lowered his voice. “It’s not a secret,” he repeated. “It’s just a…part of myself I only share with a select few.”
Finally, Heather realized what she was doing: projecting her own identity shit all over poor Tom, when all he’d wanted was to apologize and share something important of herself. Just as she’d done with him a couple of days ago. Heather smiled slightly, dropping her hands to her sides before self-consciously placing them on her hips.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Now I’m the one being a jerk…again.”
“It’s not that I don’t care about the other parts of who I am,” Tom told her pleadingly. “It’s that no one ever taught me. No one ever said it was important.”
“Tom…” Heather topped him. “I’m sorry, my reaction was out of line. Thank you for telling me.”
Tom chuckled slightly.
“This is why I don’t tell everyone,” he joked. But only slightly.
Heather nodded. “Once I asked myself: ‘What would you like people to say when you tell them the truth about who you are?’”
Tom grinned slightly, waiting.
“I realized,” Heather continued. “All I really need is somebody to say: ‘Okay.’”
“‘Okay’ from now on?” Tom offered his hand.
“‘Okay’ from now on,” Heather smiled, shaking it.
“I don’t want us to just...be in the band together,” Tom said, straining to find the right words as he held Heather’s hand in his.
“You don’t?”
“I want us to be friends,” he declared.
Heather nodded.
“We are.”
Heather’s classroom waited for her, just as Tom’s waited for him down the hall.
“So you don’t…hate me?” Tom confirmed one last time.
Heather smiled slightly and shook her head. Her slight smile quickly melted into an actual one, and finally she turned to leave Tom alone with the sound of classroom doors closing echoing up and down the hallway he stood in.
Once again, Beckett found himself staring at the back of Heather’s head: her long, platinum, hypnotic locks swaying like magic in the air as the door closed behind her.
This time, he decided, maybe it wasn’t such an awful place to be.