Brent Runyon - Maybe

Contents

For Christina Egloff, who was the architect of great portions of this book,
and is the smartest, kindest, most dedicated person Ive ever known

T his sucks. Were moving. The truck just left with all our stuff and my mom and dad are waiting for me in the car. Were about to leave. I cant believe this. I cant believe were moving away from the only place Ive lived in my whole life.

I lean into the car and say, Wait, I think I forgot something.

I go back into the house one last time. Its so weird to be in here with everything empty. The couch used to be right there. Theres an impression in the carpet where it used to bethe ghost of a couch.

I walk down the hall to my room. Theres nothing left. The posters are off the wallsall thats left are a few pieces of tape and the hole from when I tried to do a flip and put my foot right through the drywall.

My brothers room is right across the hall. The door is closed and I dont want to open it. When we were little we used to barricade ourselves into his room with those cardboard bricks and then bust through like we were the Incredible Hulk. I know its empty, but I just cant stand to open the door and look in. I dont want to see it empty. I want to remember it full.

There is a sign on his door that he made in Shop class. The word Maybe carved into the wood. Its stuck on the door with some heavy-duty adhesive. Mom told me to leave it because she didnt want to ruin the door. Fuck that. I tear it off, and some of the paint with it. I just want to have something.

I run out the front door and slam it behind me one last time. My parents are still waiting in the car. Theyre sitting in the front seats being totally quiet. My dad is driving, my mom is crying, and Im sitting in the back by myself.

ONE

M om drives me to my new high school. Classes start in three days, and Im supposed to meet my new guidance counselor and choose my schedule. Jesus, why do I have to do this? Why cant someone else do this for me?

Im sure my guidance counselor is going to be some old guy in a terrible suit and a tie thats about six inches too short and just lies on his belly. Hes going to have this terrible breath and probably be mixing whiskey in with his coffee.

Mom drops me off out front and says shes going to do some errands. Ill pick you up in an hour. An hour? Why do I need a whole hour?

I walk through the front doors and stand in the lobby.

The school is totally empty. When a place that is usually full of people is totally empty, its really weird. The floors are all waxed and shiny, and it smells like heavy-duty toxic lemon cleaner.

The only place that even has lights on is the main office right in front of me.

The lady behind the desk is old but has jet-black hair and one eye that is looking at the door I just came through. The other eye is looking at me.

She says, Hello, son. Can I help you? Her voice is unbelievably highlike a fire-engine siren.

I say, Im here to meet my guidance counselor.

The lady is wearing a muumuulike the thing that people from Hawaii wear, except I dont think she is from Hawaii. She asks my last name and I tell her, and she searches for a while in this really ancient computer and then looks up at me and at the door and smiles.

She says, Youre with Mr. Scott.

Okay, how do I find him?

Follow the drumming.

I walk out of the office and stand in the hall for a second. Was she saying that Mr. Scott was like the band director or something? There isnt any drumming that I can hear.

Wait, now I hear the drumming. It just started. Its not, like, crappy jazz drumming or marching-band drumming, its straight up rock-and-roll drumming. Real kick-assbass-snare-ba-bass-bass-snaredrumming.

I walk down the hall toward the sound. I get so close I feel the bass drum in my chest.

I pull open the doors to the auditorium and stand in the back and watch the guy play. He has his drum kit set up in the orchestra pit, and hes just going crazy on the drums.

He has long hair and hes wearing some sort of cutoff shirt, and his arms are a total blur.

I move closer to get a better look at how fast his arms are moving from drum to drum, and then he sees me and stops. Hey, he says. Sorry, I didnt know anyone was in here.

I say, You didnt have to stop. I mean, hes a pretty damn good drummer.

No. No. Im almost done. Hes out of breath. Do you need me for something?

Well, I dont know. I guess youre supposed to be my guidance counselor.

Whoa. Okay. Cool. Lets do it.

He takes me back to his office and fills out a bunch of forms for me. He signs me up for all my required classes: Latin II, Chemistry, English, Algebra II, and U.S. History. I sign up for an elective called Visual Language, because it sounds cool and I like movies.

He says, Okay, Brian, youve got one elective left. Third period. And the only classes that are open are Shop and Chorus. He looks at me like the choice is pretty obvious. Take Shop and get your fingers cut off, or take Chorus and learn something about music.

My brother took Shop, so I sign up for Chorus.

TWO

F irst day of school. I grab my book bag and go out the garage door and across the street to where they tell me the bus stop is.

I dont know if I have the right book bag. Its black and it only goes over one shoulder, like a bicycle-messenger bag. These are supposed to be what everyone uses these daysthats what the lady at the store said anyway. I hope so.

I stand next to the street sign on a carpet of dead pine needles that crunch under my sneakers. We live on a long dead-end street, and all the houses here are pretty spaced out, so Im the only one at this particular bus stop, which is fine.

I stand still and look around the neighborhood. This place is so stinking flat. Thats what I hate about it most. I mean, I guess its pretty cool to be so close to the ocean, but I cant stand how flat it is.

Actually, the highest point in fifty miles is a landfill that they turned into a state park and call Mount Trashmore. Seriously, Mount Trashmore.

Finally, the bus comes and stops right in front of me. The bus driver is a lady, and she says something to me that I dont quite hear, because Im already casing the entire bus looking for a good place to sit.

I used to sit in the back of the bus, at my old school, but Im not sure if that really extends beyond zip codes. I sit in the first empty seat on the right side and slide over to the window.

There are a few girls, probably freshmen, sitting in the seats near me, and theyre giggling and joking with each other. I remember when I was a freshman. That seems like so long ago now, even though it was only two years ago. Thats weird. So much has happened since then.

J.J. told Molly that he wanted to get his dangle in a tangle. They all giggle. Im not sure what thats supposed to mean, exactly, but its clearly something sexual.

The only other person sitting in the front of the bus is a girl with snarled dark hair. Theres obviously something wrong with her. Most people wouldnt go out of the house with their hair like that, snarled and begging for a brush. And her clothes are Salvation Armysweatpants that are too small and a multicolored striped shirt that should have been removed from circulation at the end of the Carter Administration.

The bus stops and a few more people get on. Two boys who are rowdy and kind of tough-looking. They must be brothers.