Forgive me, Leonard Peacock

THIRTY-FOUR

There’s a warm puffy blanket over me when I wake up.

I’m sweating.

The lights are off and the curtains have been pulled, but the glow of the city creeps in from under the heavy cloth and illuminates the outside rectangle of the windows.

It takes me a second to remember where I am and how I got here on my Holocaust teacher’s couch, but once I do, I feel a rush of adrenaline course through my veins.

I sit up and think, What the hell happened yesterday?

Then I replay it all in my mind, remembering. When I get to the part about Asher Beal, I feel like maybe I shouldn’t have told Herr Silverman about what happened—like it was a horrible mistake. I trust him, but I also know he has to tell other people to get me help, and what if those other people think I’m a pervert, and do things to me that will fuck my head up even worse? How can I trust people I don’t know? I don’t know what’s going to happen next, and that makes me feel like I’m covered in super-pissed-off scorpions and spiders. I didn’t really think my confession to Herr Silverman through. It just sort of happened.

Maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I really should have killed myself.

I also start to worry that Herr Silverman went through my cell phone photos and found the one of Asher jerking off—which would really make him think I’m a pervert—so I grab my cell off the coffee table, hit the camera button, and see what was recorded.

It’s just the flash reflected in the glass of Asher’s bedroom window, so I delete it and feel a little relieved, but not completely.

I wish I could delete the past twenty-four hours.

I check my history and there are no calls from Linda, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

Part of me is relieved, part of me is disappointed, which is confusing.

I reach into my pocket to make sure I have the massive six-figure check I tried to give Baback and I rip it up into a million tiny pieces, although I’m not quite sure why, and the pieces land all over Herr Silverman’s floor and are hard to clean up because there are so many.

I’m not thinking straight.

I’m not sure I can trust myself.

I look at Herr Silverman’s closed bedroom door and think about him sleeping in the same bed as Julius, how they have this life together in the city that has nothing to do with me or my shitty high school or Herr Silverman’s teaching—and how I invaded their world last night, crossed all sorts of lines. I can understand why Julius was so pissed at me, because I was acting like a psychopath, and it sort of makes me feel horrible, because Herr Silverman was only trying to do the right thing, which is amazing, because no one ever does the right thing, but I should be with Linda and my dad right now. And because they blow as parents, I’m fucked up and Herr Silverman has to deal with my shit, which isn’t fair to him and maybe will lead to bad things for me in the end. It’s weird, because I really love Herr Silverman, and the fact that he cares so much about fucked-up kids—enough to meet me under a bridge in the middle of a school night. But I shouldn’t be here. This was all a mistake. My fault. I know that. And he probably shouldn’t have come to rescue me either. He’s too nice for his own good maybe. And I hope I don’t get him into trouble.

I wonder if he talked to Linda after I passed out and what the hell he said to her.

If he was able to make her feel even the slightest bit of guilt for being so oblivious—if he could get through all that makeup and high fashion.

How much he told her about what happened.

If she even gave a shit.

I’m pretty sure that Herr Silverman is going to get my high school involved now and the school psychologist will evaluate me to figure out whether I’m truly a risk to myself or others and then when they discover how unbalanced I am, they’ll pump me full of drugs and lock me away, and I start to worry about where that will be and what it will be like. What if it’s worse than my current life?

All of a sudden—I have to take off before he wakes up.

Leaving immediately—just getting far away from Herr Silverman and the talk we had last night—is the most important thing in the world.

I’m imposing.

I shouldn’t be here.

Maybe I shouldn’t even be alive.

Maybe I just want to enjoy my last few hours of freedom before they lock me up in some psych ward.

Maybe I just need some space.

Regardless, I stand slowly and tiptoe into the kitchen, past the closed bedroom door, and then find a pad of paper stuck to the refrigerator.

I write:

Herr Silverman,

Don’t worry; I’m okay. Needed to be by myself.

Going home. Danger has passed.

Nothing to worry about. NOTHING.

I’m sorry.

Thank you.

LP

P.S. Sorry also to Julius. I won’t do this again.

Promise.

I tiptoe through the living room and I’m relieved when the front door doesn’t squeak or squeal.

I’m gone.