Not for nothing, but here is what the professor wrote after reading this chapter: "Nathan, I find it interesting that you symbolize innocence in this character through vandalism. And it's believable."
This chapter was fun.
Chapter 16
"Sometimes the smartest decision is the most ridiculous notion."
–Atwood Nash (when asked about a one game suspension he received for deliberately injuring the goalie of a rival team).
Monday, May 3, 1999
Deborah Van Klein awoke to the sounds of her boyfriend's alarm clock. She felt her love roll over and kiss her on the cheek.
"Ready to throw some eggs?" he asked.
"Aren't you romantic at five thirty?"
In a way, she wasn't being sarcastic. The last weekend with Ethan had been fantastic. They had gone out to every meal together, slept together, attended church together and had been perfectly sober. Deborah hadn't eaten one diet pill, choosing instead to ingest small, blanched, boring and incredibly healthy meals. She hadn't seen Ethan even drink one glass of alcohol. They played catch everyday to keep Ethan's arm in shape (Deborah prided herself on her adept athletic skills and Ethan agreed with her: she didn't throw like a girl). They had gone on a picnic. They had played with Lulu in the park. They had taken walks and had long talks of the future and where it may lead. In short, they'd been a real couple.
Ethan jumped over her and practically ran naked to the refrigerator and removed two eighteen-packs of eggs.
"No time to shower babe, our mission awaits."
Ethan couldn't believe how much energy sobriety left him with. This past weekend had been so breathtakingly normal, he didn't know what to think. His life as he knew it had taken the strangest and oddest twists. He wondered if it was the same for teenagers everywhere, if all of them eventually succumbed to the dream of the stable, suburban life, or in time, wished they had. Why do so many people just want to be comfortable? He thought of Deborah's smile, her strong nature, her beautiful sense of fairness and her perfect appearance and he knew why. Sometimes happiness is a lot simpler than you think, he thought as he put on his white, Hanes T-shirt.
"I'll be ready in five minutes," said Deborah as she walked into the bathroom.
Deborah Van Klein turned on the exhaust fan in Ethan's bathroom. The door was shut and locked but she always double-checked. She removed a plastic container of pills from behind Ethan's shampoo collection beneath the sink. God, should I do this again?
God didn't answer her.
She threw two pills down her throat and stayed thinner.
She brushed her teeth thoroughly.
"Sorry, Babe," she said. "Had to brush my teeth."
When they arrived at Kip's home, they saw that both the construction workers and Kip were in place. One of the construction workers was bent over, speaking into Kip's ear. Ethan and Deborah's short walk up to the house went unnoticed by both parties because of excessive machine noise.
Ethan put his hand on Kip's shoulder. Kip looked up, smiled, grabbed Ethan's hand in his own, then beckoned Ethan's ear.
"When they start bulldozing, you can either throw your eggs at them or at the parts of the house already destroyed. Do not hit the house until it is down. Those are my rules."
"Gotcha," Ethan said.
After explaining the rules to Deborah, Ethan watched, as Kip threw the first egg.
Kip's throw was a big rainbow, probably because he had no legs. The construction workers didn't take notice as Kip threw one after the other at the bulldozer. Kip's eggs fell like snow on a winter day.
The construction workers noticed when Ethan started throwing.
He fired laser beam egg strikes at every target he sought: the bulldozer driver's helmet, his leg (until he shut the door), the door (repeatedly) the center of the basketball hoop on the newly destroyed garage, the foreman. As Ethan ran low on eggs, he noticed construction workers using portable stop signs as shields.
Kip laughed deep and loud as one construction worker started walking towards them, stop sign in hand.
Ethan told Deborah to start the car.
Kip handed Ethan the remaining six eggs.
Ethan threw six strikes, all at the construction worker's torso (his face was hidden beneath a stop sign) then turned and ran.
The construction worker followed, but it didn't matter. Ethan, his leg feeling much better, was just too damn fast.
"Woohoo, I hope Kip's happy," said Ethan, happy to be away from the loud noise of the bulldozers.
"You were amazing, Babe."
"Well you know," said Ethan in his best South Jersey accent. "I gots me a little experience wit de egg throwin'."
School, for all its calamity and mass depression, for all the zero tolerance and the ongoing investigations, was nice Monday.
In Honors American Civilization, Ethan passed Deborah a note that read: Only eighteen and think of what we already know about death, destruction and entropy.
Though at first the note saddened her, when she looked over into his smiling face and his laughing eyes, she felt only warmth.
She wrote back: the healing process moves on, sometimes with eggs, sometimes without.
He wrote back, "I love you."
She put the note in her book bag and mouthed an "I love you" to Ethan.
After four years of drug dealing and drug running, three years with an alias, one murder and multiple felonies, Ethan had given up believing in such a thing as innocence in humanity-in dog's sure, but not humanity-until Deborah blew him a kiss in Honors American Civilization.
Waves of childhood innocence washed over him like a shower of pleasant memories. He remembered his first kiss, his first time on a bike, his first time ever winning a baseball game as a pitcher. He remembered playing kickball in the backyard until Moms made everyone come in for dinner.
He remembered being young. He remembered being innocent. He never felt this way without her. He wanted to feel innocent and pure forever. A piece of his puzzle was now in place.
Ethan Lee needed Deborah Van Klein.
Atwood Nash needed psychiatric help.
There was simply way too much melodrama going on in his simple, high school life. As a result of his experiment, four school employees were still in mental institutions; one, that old hag of a secretary Mrs. Abernacke, had killed herself and none had yet reported back to work.
Atwood's parents were freaked out because he didn't apply to the University of Missouri (like he'd get in) and chose instead to play hockey at a Division 3 school in Maryland.
His friendly fuck was pregnant with a murdered student's baby, and what's more she honestly believed she was engaged to her martyred love.
As he walked out to his car at the end of another school day and stared over the rows of cars, the flocks of students, he listened to the distant and jumbled sounds of car stereo systems. He wondered why in the hell he had to be raised in this godforsaken place.
All he wanted to do was play hockey, drink beer and fuck.
Seriously, he thought. I should have been Canadian.