This novel fucking sucks.
It was called The Catcher in the Rye, apparently it was banned or something by the school board, but Mr. Moody gave it to me to read anyway, as like extra credit or whatever, on account of my poor grades, and he told me not to tell anyone. He also said I was real smart but that I had serious motivation problems and that my attitude was garbage and that I needed to get my shit together if I ever planned to get into a good school. He didn’t say it all like that, of course, but that was pretty much the gist of it, and that's why I had to meet with him every week, on Fridays, during free period, to discuss my serious-garbage-shit-motivation problem, which was really only a problem to my mom and teachers, not me, because I didn’t care much about getting into a good school. I hadn’t even thought about applying, to tell you the truth, because artists like me don’t need to go to school, we just need some heart and soul and a little bit of tragedy in our lives, which I'm perfectly capable of creating on my own.
Anyway, like I was saying, the novel fucking sucked. The day he gave it to me, I went home and looked it up on Wikipedia, read the plot summary and all that, it’s one of those pretentious books with literally no plot and bad grammar on purpose, it's no Neuromancer, and it's certainly no Clockwork Orange, that's for sure, and after reading the summary, it became immediately clear that Mr. Moody was trying to make a point, hoping the book would draw a parallel to my life or whatever, like a cautionary tale or something, because it's about a kid that wears a hunting cap all the time who hates everyone and flunks out of school and ends up in a mental ward. But the problem is, I don't hate everyone, and I don't wear hats, I hate hats, they look ugly on me, and I’m not just some delinquent kid from a novel, I’m a real person in the real world. It’s ridiculous to think that some fake person from a book can ever relate to my life, as if I’m so easily pigeonholed or whatever. I get that Mr. Moody was trying to make a point, but I can’t stand people who try to make points. It’s so arrogant, thinking you have some sort of point and that it can apply to anyone other than yourself, as if everyone is the same fucking person or something. It drives me crazy. Mr. Moody may have a degree in Child Psychology hanging on his office wall, but that doesn’t make him an expert on my soul or whatever, not that I believe in souls, but you know what I mean. I'm agnostic, if you want to know the truth.
So, there I was, in the little waiting room right outside Mr. Moody’s office, picking at the acne on my face, which I was quite self-conscious about, leaning back on one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs with the metal legs, heavy canvas messenger bag weighing down one shoulder because I hadn’t bothered to take it off, thumbing through pages of Catcher, not being able to focus on hardly anything because I hadn't taken my pill that morning, my messy head real close to the white brick wall behind me, right by the poster with the school motto, TEMPUS FUGIT HABENAS TENE, with the armored knight on horseback holding his skyward sword with one hand and the horse’s reins with the other, when Mr. Moody’s office door cracked open and his tan face poked through. He had short, brown, curly hair that kinda reminded me of pubes.
“Come on in, Nathan, time’s a-wastin’,” he said. He had a northern accent but was always affecting some goofy southern one. I guess he thought if he acted goofy he’d get students to drop their guards or whatever, and he carried that philosophy into his clothing too, because he was always wearing this brown tweed jacket with goofy, thematic ties underneath. Today his tie had little sunglasses all over it. I guess he thought it made him seem silly and relatable, but to me, it just made him look stupid as fuck, and the pube hair certainly didn't help his case.
Pushing my weight forward, the chair landing on all four legs, I stood up, put the book down, and tucked in my Epworth Academy polo because I knew Mr. Moody would make some silly remark if I hadn’t, and I didn’t want to deal with all that right now. Then I picked the book up and stepped through the wide open door, into the sunlit world of student counseling, where I sank into the plushy recliner, leaned back, and crossed my arms like I always do when I don’t want to be somewhere, meaning I was pretty much crossing my arms all the fucking time.
There was only one window in the whole room, overlooking the bright green campus lawn, where students were reading and picnicking in the shade of the massive live oaks, their branches twisted like skeletal limbs reaching out from the grave, Spanish moss like death shrouds or something, and there were some boys kicking soccer balls around, their green Epworths all tucked into their brown khakis like gold star for robot boy, and some girls were spectating nearby, wearing green skirts that stopped just above their knees, because the Epworth uniform was modest, but not that modest.
The walls of Mr. Moody’s office were covered in posters like YOU MATTER and DRUGS DON'T WORK THEY JUST MAKE IT WORSE and EVERY MISTAKE IS A LEARNING OPPORTUNITY, and there was even one with Freddie Mercury from the band Queen standing on stage in that iconic yellow jacket of his with the words BE YOURSELF NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAY in big font just above him, which I guess was Mr. Moody’s way of trying to be hip, but it was also ironic, considering the school tried its damndest to make everyone look exactly the same, what with the uniforms and all. Besides, I was more into obscure stuff, like The Smiths, My Bloody Valentine, Lush, The Strokes, Pavement, Beck, you know, music that's actually good, not that corny “We Are the Champions” shit, which, needless to say, always played at the school pep rallies and drove me fucking crazy.
On Mr. Moody’s desk, around the black panel monitor of the Dell-Inspirawhatever computer, whose tower served as a makeshift stand for the monitor itself, was a mess of papers, pens, and folders all spread out in some sort of system that only he could understand. The desk itself was large, dark wood, and the edges were lined with bobbleheads ranging from baseball players like Babe Ruth and some other guys I would never be able to name because sports are lame as fuck, and there were Star Wars characters too, like Yoda and Luke, all perpetually bobbling somehow, as if they had minds of their own, maybe they were motorized, I don’t know, either way, they were kinda creepy. There was even one of Kramer from Seinfeld, a show I actually liked but would never tell Mr. Moody that because, fuck that, we have nothing in common.
Mr. Moody and I sat there in awkward silence for what felt like a whole minute. At least it was awkward for me because, to tell you the truth, I was a little socially awkward back then. I wouldn’t say I was shy, per se, but I preferred to be quiet because I figured silence and a scowl were better than making myself look like a stupid dumbass. Mr. Moody, however, didn’t seem awkward at all, shuffling papers around on his desk, occasionally holding them up to his face like he was reading them or something, which I suspected was just some sort of clever contrivance to make himself appear busier than he actually was, maybe to prompt me to speak first. He was always trying to get me to speak first, like he was expecting me to just pour my heart out to him every Friday afternoon during free period when I had like a million better things to do, like listening to music or sneaking a smoke in the grove behind the Harrington building. Anyway, in the weird silence, I started losing focus, thinking these sessions were kinda like
Street Fighter, a weird verbal game of
Street Fighter, waiting for someone to strike first, to exploit an opening for a perfectly timed Dragon Punch or whatever, which I used to do all the time back at the arcade in the old mall on the mainland, which I had stopped going to because it just wasn’t that fun anymore, and most of the mallcore kids were assholes that would always get mad at me because, well, I would win all the fights, because I would never make the first move. I was stubborn as hell like that. And, to tell you the truth, I preferred Japanese role-playing games anyway, like
Chrono Cross.
Anyway. In the silence, I started thinking about Chrono Cross and its incredible soundtrack and how I wanted to go home, pop an Adderall, and play it, but then, to my surprise, Mr. Moody made the first move.
“So, Nathan, it’s been a few weeks, how’d you like the novel?” he said in that low, nonchalant voice of his.
It took me a second to respond. “It’s alright.”
“Just alright?”
I made one of those verbal shrug noises.
“Surely there’s at least one thing you liked about the book, Nathan.” He was always saying my name like that. I figured it was some sort of conversational engagement trick he had read in a self-help book or something.
“Well,” I said, “to tell you the truth,” I paused, “I didn’t really read it.”
Mr. Moody said nothing for a moment. He just straightened himself out in that big leather chair of his, bushy brow straightening a little bit too, which was his way of trying to look serious, although the pubic hairs made it hard for me to ever take him seriously.
“You know, Nathan,” he paused to adjust his tie, “I should have expected that, considering the themes of the novel and all.”
“Well, I know about the book. I read the summary online.”
“Then you know the point I’m trying to make.”
“I guess,” I said, kinda annoyed.
And Mr. Moody must have caught on to my attitude because he quickly replied with, “It seems like you have some thoughts about that.”
“Sure,” was what I said, and all I wanted to say, because I didn’t want to get into it with the guy.
“Tell me about those thoughts, Nathan.”
“Well,” I said, shifting my gaze to the dark berber carpet below, “I guess I just, like, don’t appreciate it,” I paused, “or whatever.”
“What do you not appreciate, Nathan?”
“The whole, like, I’m-making-a-point thing,” I said, looking everywhere except him, “feels kinda condescending, you know.”
“How is it condescending, Nathan?”
“Well, like, it’s kinda ridiculous to think that a character from a book could ever relate to me, since I’m, like, not a character in a book, you know?”
“Interesting. Tell me more about that.”
“The whole idea of making a point, to me, seems really arrogant,” I said, “like, the idea that you know best, and that you can make these really solid, profound points, and that they could ever relate to anyone except yourself. Sometimes I think people just want to, like, hear themselves talk and get pats on the back for making really good points. It just seems, like, really smug and, like, egotistical, and, you know, sort of assholish.”
Mr. Moody didn’t even get onto me for cursing. In fact, his tan face sort of lit up.
“Everyone is different and, like, really, our experiences are kinda subjective, so I just don’t like the whole making-a-point thing. That’s all. I think only stupid people make points, stupid people who are full of themselves and cocky and think they know best. When, really, ‘best’ is going to be different from person to person. So, yeah, I guess I don’t appreciate the point, or any point, really.”
Mr. Moody seemed to be mulling this over, twirling a pen between his fingers, and in this brief pause, I ran my hand through my bangs, tossing my hair to one side, mostly because it was getting in my eyes, but also because I thought it looked cool, and, in that moment, I was feeling cool, since I had made such a good argument.
Then, like some sort of debate champion, Mr. Moody said something that got on my nerves. He said, “That’s a really good point, Nathan.”
I wasn’t feeling so cool anymore. In fact, my face was very hot, so I looked down at my good friend, the carpet, and said, “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, I wasn’t making a point. I was just, you know, stating my opinion.”
“What is a point if not an opinion that one backs strongly?” he said, sounding all smart and stuff.
I was kinda telling the guy to fuck off in my head, to tell you the truth. I was always cursing at people in my head but never saying it out loud, mostly because I didn’t want to get in trouble.
“I’m not trying to mock you, Nathan,” he said, affecting some bullshit wise gentle tone. “I do think you’re on to something, and I think you should think about it more, develop it into something full and cogent,” he paused and looked right at me, “maybe write an essay on it. I know you like to write. It could be extra credit.” He was always trying to give me extra credit, it was pissing me right the fuck off.
“I’m not writing an essay,” I said, “and I’m not making a point.”
Mr. Moody let out a soft chuckle, then said, “OK, OK, Nathan. You’re not making a point. I do think you should think about it more, though. I have some books here about Zen Buddhism that I think you would get a lot out of.”
“I’m not reading a book about Buddhism,” I said, trying to hide my frustration behind a blank face and a cool hair-swoop. Then, almost out of nowhere, I went off.
“Maybe this sort of point-making stuff might work on other kids, but not on me, because, like, I’m not like the other kids. If I were, I’d have one of those short haircuts all gelled up in the front, and I’d be on the Knights soccer team, and I’d tuck in my polo even outside of class, and I’d act like some fine upstanding young man in front of all the teachers but get wasted at keggers every night on the Island and I’d drive home drunk and I’d run for student president and be all conservative but get cheerleaders pregnant and then force them to have abortions, like that idiot Mackenzie. Those are the type of kids you don’t want growing up in society, the politician types, the posers who say one thing but do something totally different. Man, if I ever end up like Mackenzie, just kill me, you have permission to just shoot me right in the head. I wouldn’t even be mad. In fact, I might even thank you, from the grave, for sparing the world from such a moron.” I paused, starting to regret some of the things I had said, but I mumbled one last thing before I was done, “Hell, you may even prevent a war by doing that, who knows.”
The silence, at that point, wasn’t awkward, it was scary. Mr. Moody’s narrow brown eyes were narrower than I had ever seen them before. I felt like maybe I was about to get in trouble or something, but, after a few seconds, Mr. Moody just brushed at the lapel of his tweed jacket, ran a hand through his curly pubes, and smiled. Then he said, in a tone that was totally nonchalant, “I really wish you would read the book, Nathan.”
“I’m not reading the book.”
“Well, at least hang on to it for me, will you do that?”
I vocalized a shrug, then, feeling a little less worried due to Mr. Moody’s almost dismissive response to my rant, I glanced down at my watch, one of those old digital Casios, to check the time. It was about twenty minutes till fifth period, Fine Arts.
“I’ll let you go, Nathan, but will you hang on to the book for me,” he said in an earnest voice, “will you do that for me?”
There was a moment of tense silence before I finally said, “Yeah, sure,” then I stood up and adjusted my messenger bag because the strap was cutting into my neck, then I lifted the flap and dropped
Catcher right into it.
Mr. Moody’s eyes lit up a little bit, then he nodded, stood up, and walked to the door, opening it for me, hand outstretched as if granting me passage or something. “Thanks, Nathan. You’re a good kid. Think about maybe writing that essay, will ya?” He was doing that southern thing again. “And you have a good rest of your day, ya hear?”
“Yeah, you too,” I said dismissively, walking through the door, into the waiting area, out into the second-floor main hall near the big stairwell with the huge window, into a cacophony of chatter and squeaky linoleum, students walking all around me, making their way to their next class, and one of them was Mackenzie, tall, blonde, built like a professional footballer. He looked kinda like Ashton Kutcher from
That ’70s Show, if I had to choose someone to compare him to. And he must have been in a hurry because he was walking all in a huff toward the stairwell, but he didn’t quite make it there because Mr. Moody, who had followed behind me, shouted, “Mr. Harrington!” And this got Mackenzie’s attention, causing him to turn around and look right at me. The two of us didn’t really see eye to eye, except when we were glaring at each other. Then, upon seeing Mr. Moody behind me, Mackenzie quickly adjusted his demeanor to that of a fine upstanding young man, pushed some of the fluff of his polo into the waist of his khakis, and walked toward Mr. Moody, passing me along the way, and as he passed, he quietly said, “Wheeler,” so I said, “Ashton,” and then he sorta sneered at me, so I of course sneered right back, twice as hard, nearly baring fangs.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw Mackenzie pass through the door into the office, and, in that moment, something turned in my stomach, suddenly remembering that I had said some pretty juicy stuff about the guy just moments earlier, and I thought maybe that was why he was being called into the office, so naturally I had to get the fuck out of there, before Mackenzie got out of that office, for my own good.
So I pretended like I was a ghost and disappeared down the stairwell. But before heading to Fine Arts, which was out in the Harrington Building, I had to take a detour.
I had to have my Lucky break.
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