The Reluctant Journal of Henry K. Larsen Read online

  We were sent back to our classrooms. At first, it was kind of fun; we were all trying to guess what might be happening outside. Jason thought it was a drug bust nearby. Emily thought it might be a terrorist attack. Then Anna checked her phone.

  You weren’t allowed to use any electronic devices during lockdown, but Anna did anyway. Suddenly she said, “There’s been a shooting at the high school.” That was all the information she had, found on a local news website. Our teacher yelled at her, then took away her phone.

  And it wasn’t kind of fun anymore. A lot of us had brothers and sisters at the high school. We had no idea what was going on, or how bad it was. Jodie started to cry. I held her hand.

  I know what she was thinking, because I was thinking it, too: What if my brother is hurt? I never – not once – imagined that my brother was the shooter.

  About an hour later, our principal came to the classroom door; some police officers stood behind her. “Jodie Marlin and Henry Larsen, can you come with me, please?” Her voice was shaking.

  Jodie started to cry again. I was numb. When we got outside, one officer directed Jodie to her car; another officer directed me to his. “Can we go together?” I asked. The cop shook his head.

  When we got to the station, I was brought into a room where my parents sat. I didn’t need to be a genius to know something awful had happened; but it still didn’t occur to me that my brother was behind it. When they told me, I didn’t believe it. Then I was whisked out of the room so the police could give Mom and Dad the grisly details.

  My parents tried to shield me from the worst of it. But all you have to do is a Google search and a whole pile of articles pop up. I couldn’t stop myself. Whenever they were out of the house, which was a lot in those first couple of weeks, I read everything I could find. That’s how I found out that after Jesse shot Scott in the chest, Scott’s friends tried their best to stop the bleeding. It’s also how I found out that my brother’s body was discovered under the stairwell a minute later. He’d shot himself in the head.

  I learned other things I hadn’t known before, like that Scott had wanted to join the Canadian Armed Forces after high school. Many articles said he was devoted to his two younger sisters, but I already knew that because one of his sisters was my best friend, Jodie.

  I just had a chest pain. Can you have a heart attack when you’re thirteen?

  Anyway. I respected the local reporter because he also dug up a lot of stuff about the constant bullying my brother had put up with, including some incidents my parents and I had never heard about: The “Jesse Larsen’s a Faggot” fan page on Facebook that quickly got shut down, but not before Jesse saw it – and the fifty-two “fans” it had acquired in less than a week; the “accidental” tripping in the hallway that sent him to the hospital for stitches (we knew about the stitches, of course, but not that Scott had sent him head-first into the water fountain); the dog poop Jesse found in his locker one day. That reporter looked at the story from all sides. But a lot of other articles I read were peppered with lies. Some so-called “experts,” people who didn’t even know us, suggested that my parents must have been abusive, or absent, or stupid.

  These people were wrong. From the beginning of high school, my parents worried about Jesse all the time. They talked to the guidance counselor and to our family doctor a million times. Mom even took Jesse to a therapist once, but Jesse didn’t like her and refused to go back. Mom had him on a waiting list for another one, but then IT happened, and the appointment was no longer necessary.

  The lies that hurt the most were the ones that were told by people we knew. One of our neighbors, an old lady named Alice Clayburn, told a reporter that she’d seen us performing witchcraft in our backyard. I wracked my brain over that one. All I could come up with was that once, about three years ago, I’d found a wounded kingfisher with Jodie, and we’d carried it back to my house in an old towel. Jesse and I kept it in the yard and tried to feed it, but it died the next day. So we buried it in the yard while Jesse pretended to be a minister, saying stuff like, “We commit his body to the ground,” which he’d heard on a TV show.

  Witchcraft, my butt. And to think that Jesse had mowed that old bag’s lawn two summers in a row. For free!!

  Gord Saunders, one of Jesse’s classmates, told a national newspaper that when Jesse was ten, he used to torture cats for fun.

  LIE!!!! And the paper printed it!!!! I wanted to find Gord and the reporter after that and give them both the Testicular Claw.

  It was like Jesse was one person when he was alive and another after he died. When he was alive, Jesse was the babyface. Scott was the heel. But the day Jesse took Dad’s rifle to school, they switched roles. Scott became the babyface, and Jesse became the heel.

  Oh, man. I suddenly get why Cecil seemed so pleased in our last session. I’d been talking about wrestling; he’d been talking about my brother.

  One big glaring difference, Cecil.

  On “Saturday Night Smash-Up,” everyone comes out of it alive.

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4

  INTRIGUING FACT: The most poisonous animals on earth are often the most colorful. Why? Because they want to be seen. That way predators have to eat only a couple of them before their buddies go, “Hang on. If I eat this colorful dart frog/coral snake/monarch butterfly, I’m going to die a very painful death, just like my buddy Bob!” Pretty soon everyone knows to leave them alone.

  Alberta is a human version of the dart frog. You can’t help but notice her; but you learn very quickly that she’s toxic.

  Like today in Home Ec. I sat at the sewing machine facing hers. Alberta was wearing a cut-off jean skirt with green-and-white striped tights underneath and a powder blue T-shirt with a picture of a tabby cat in a sweater, playing the piano. On her head was a red beret.

  “Okay, class,” said Mrs. Bardus, “today we’re going to use the sewing machine to finish our tote bags.” For the past few classes, we’ve been cutting out fabric and using fabric paint to create designs. I painted a bunch of tulips. Alberta painted a skull and crossbones.

  As per usual, she acted like I wasn’t even there, but then her thread got tangled up in the bobbin. “Hey, new guy,” she said. “Help.”

  No “please,” no nothing. But my mother raised me to be a gentleman. I got up and moved around to her station. She didn’t even nudge over an inch or anything, which meant that as I was showing her how to rethread her machine, I was forced to breathe in the scent of her hair. (It smelled like tropical fruits. But still.)

  I sat back down. “Next time, you’ll be able to do it yourself,” I told her. “And the name’s Henry.”

  She didn’t answer. Not even a thank-you.

  Rude.

  A good five minutes later, she said, “Where did you learn to sew?” It took me a moment to realize she was talking to me.

  “My mom taught me the basics a couple of years ago. So I could make my own Halloween costume.”

  “What was the costume?”

  My ears prickled, and I was pretty sure they were turning pink. “Captain Underpants.”

  She laughed. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-HEEE-haw.” It was like machine-gun fire, followed by a donkey’s bray. “What was it, a giant pair of Y-fronts?”

  “Better than that,” I said. “It was a flesh-colored one-piece. With buttons for the nipples and belly button. I stuffed it full of pillows, then we bought an enormous pair of underwear to put over top.”

  “Awesome,” she said, and I actually think she meant it. “Who are you going to give your tote bag to?”

  “My mom.”

  “I’m going to give mine to my older sister,” she said. “ ’Cause it’s ugly, like her.” Then she smiled and looked right at me, and it was the first time I noticed she had a lazy eye.

  “What’s your sister’s name?” I asked.

  “Ontario.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No. Her name’s Cricket.”

  “Stop.”

  “I poop yo
u not. Mom got to choose her name, and her favorite soap-opera character on ‘The Young and the Restless’ was called Cricket.” She sighed. “Yup. We are total white trash.”

  “Who picked your name?”

  “My dad. They were living in Fort McMurray, Alberta, when I was – you know – conceived.” She pretended to gag.

  “Look on the bright side. At least they didn’t call you Fort McMurray. And at least you weren’t conceived in Newfoundland.”

  She laughed again. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-HEEE-haw!”

  It was kind of adorable.

  In Port Salish, everyone thought I had a crush on Jodie. But they didn’t understand that Jodie and I just got each other. We both secretly wanted to be contestants on a show called “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?” even though we mocked the show all the time and dubbed it “Are You Smarter Than a Cheese Grater?” We still liked playing with Lego, even though we knew we were too old. And we loved exploring the tide pools together by the ocean’s edge at low tide. I still remember the day we found a perfect sand dollar. Perfect! Not a fragment missing, not even a crack. I let Jodie keep it because she’d been having a bad day.

  Then my brother did what he did.

  I saw Jodie just once after that.

  I walked to her house about a week after IT happened. I don’t know how I got up the guts to do that. It wasn’t bravery, that’s for sure. You know when you’re having a bad dream and part of you knows it’s a dream and that part of you is shouting, It’s just a dream! Wake up! But you don’t wake up – you just keep having the nightmare? That’s what it felt like as I walked to her house. A part of my brain kept shouting, Abort mission! Abort mission! But it was like I was sleepwalking. I just kept going.

  Jodie answered the door. She looked terrible. Her face was blotchy and red, and her eyes were puffy from crying. I know I looked just as bad.

  We stared at each other, and for a moment I really thought we were going to fall into each other’s arms and blubber like a couple of babies.

  But then Mr. Marlin appeared behind her. His enormous frame filled the doorway. “What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted, his eyes bulging out of his head. “Stay away from my family! Stay away from my daughter!”

  Then he slammed the door in my face.

  After that, I pretty much stayed inside.

  I think that’s when my wobblies started to grow.

  I guess that’s when my furies started to grow, too.

  I know Jodie’s address. Sometimes I think about writing to her, but what would I say? Seen any good starfish lately? Sorry my brother killed your brother?

  Yeah, no.

  Just before dismissal time, Mrs. Bardus walked around the room, checking out everyone’s sewing. She held up Alberta’s and said, “This is a fine example of shoddy workmanship. However, Henry’s here is nicely done.”

  Alberta just scowled. Then the bell rang.

  “How come you weren’t at the Reach For The Top practices last week?” she said as we gathered up our stuff.

  I shrugged. “Farley dragged me there that one time. I never said I was joining.”

  Alberta looked at me. Well, one eye looked at me. The other one looked somewhere over my shoulder. “Let me guess. You think it’s too nerdy.”

  “Did you see the kids in that room?”

  “So? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

  I confess: That hurt. “Why did you join?” I asked her.

  “You don’t seem –”

  “Nerdy enough?”

  I was going to say smart enough, but I didn’t.

  “Here’s the thing about Reach For The Top,” she said as we walked out of class. “It’s so nerdy, it’s crossed back over into cool.”

  I snorted.

  “Hey, whatevs. If you want to stop yourself from doing something fun ’cause you’re afraid of what other people might think, that is totally your beeswax.” Then she walked away. The green-and-white striped tights only made her big thighs look bigger.

  They looked spectacular.

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 5

  Dad measured me tonight. I’ve grown half an inch. Dad said it might just be that I need a haircut because my hair grows up and out instead of down. I told him I didn’t appreciate his pessimistic attitude.

  A while later, Mom called. I guess I’ve been really missing her ’cause I didn’t have the energy to do my usual “one-word answers in a frosty tone” routine. I really wanted to talk to her. “Did you ever get to watch ‘Saturday Night Smash-Up’?” I asked. They rerun it on Sunday afternoons, so if she misses it, she can sometimes watch it then.

  “No,” she sighed. “I went to the TV room, but some other patients were already watching a hockey game.”

  “Want me to tell you what happened?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. Close your eyes.” I started with a play-by-play account of the match between El Toro (her favorite) and Jack Knife. It was a great fight. El Toro and Jack Knife used to be best friends, and they’d often partner up in the ring to fight a couple of heels. Then, one day, El Toro got sweet on Jack Knife’s ex-girlfriend (another wrestler named Holly Wood), and next time they were in the ring together, Jack Knife turned on El Toro, whacking him in the head with a metal chair. Since then, they have been archenemies.

  “It looked like El Toro had it in the bag,” I told her. “Jack Knife was lying on the mat. El Toro turned away and pumped his fists in the air. So he didn’t see Jack Knife stand up. Next thing you know, Jack Knife spins him around and gives him a Bionic Elbow. El Toro dropped like a rag doll.”

  “No! Oh, I hate Jack Knife!” she said.

  It was a brilliant conversation, and no, I’m not being sarcastic. Mom is almost as big a GWF fan as I am, and it’s the one thing we can talk about that doesn’t end in tears.

  Then I made the mistake of telling her about the tote bag, and it ended in tears. “I wish you were here,” she said.

  “Yeah, well,” I replied, my voice frosty again. “I wish you were here.”

  From September to December, we’d lived with Pop-Pop and Grams in Picton, Ontario. Growing up, I used to love visiting their place. But not this time. This time, it sucked.

  Mom spent a lot of time in bed. She only left the house to see a psychiatrist in Kingston three times a week. Dad picked up a few odd construction jobs through Pop-Pop and Grams’s friends. And I went to the local school. But Pop-Pop and Grams had told their closest friends what had happened, and, of course, word spread. So after two weeks of putting up with the stares and whispers of the kids in my class, I announced that I wasn’t going back. What’s weird is that Mom and Dad didn’t even argue with me.

  For the next couple of months, I did my work through correspondence school, using Pop-Pop and Grams’s ancient PC. I barely left the house. My wobblies grew, and so did my furies.

  Just before Christmas, we were sitting at the table eating Grams’s meatloaf when Dad said, “I think we should move to Vancouver.”

  My mom dropped her knife and fork. “What? When?”

  “There’s a lot of construction work there,” Dad said. “And I have my license in BC.” He’d co-owned his own construction company in Port Salish, but two months after IT happened, he sold his half to his partner. “Plus Henry can start at a new school there. Fresh start.”

  Mom was quiet.

  “What do you think, Henry?” Dad asked, trying to fill the silence.

  I liked the idea. A fresh start in a new city, where no one knew our story – it sounded brilliant. Even Pop-Pop and Grams were onboard. They knew we couldn’t live with them forever. We decided we’d move after Christmas. Dad lined up the apartment on Craigslist.

  But a couple of days before we were supposed to leave, I heard my parents shouting upstairs. Then my mom came down. Her eyes were red. “Will you go for a walk with me, Henry?”

  So even though it was sleeting outside and bitterly cold, I walked with her through the streets of Picton, past the
other old redbrick homes and the enormous snowbanks.

  “You know how much I love you,” she said, her voice shaking.

  I nodded, but I felt sick.

  “I’m going to stay with Pop-Pop and Grams for a while longer. Just until I …”

  The possibilities for the rest of that sentence were endless. Just until I … lose ten pounds on Weight Watchers? Just until I … grow a beard? Just until I … can start loving you and your dad again?

  Dad tells me all the time that Mom still loves me, but that is very, very hard to believe. Sometimes I feel just as angry at her as I do at Jesse, like if they were standing in front of me right now, I’d give them both a Bionic Elbow.

  According to my parents, I used to have terrible temper tantrums when I was little. I can remember lying in the middle of the grocery store aisle, screaming and pounding my fists into the floor because Mom wouldn’t buy Cocoa Puffs. I remember that the actual anger didn’t last very long; it would switch to humiliation really fast, like somehow I knew, even at three, that I looked like a total dork. That would make me even angrier, only now I’d be angry with myself. My mom always seemed to get it, because she’d scoop me up and hold me really tight against her so I couldn’t flail, and eventually I’d get exhausted and go limp in her arms.

  But my furies went away, like they do for most kids. Then Jesse did what he did. And every so often, they come back.

  The first time it happened was right after Mr. Marlin slammed the door in my face, because that’s when I really knew it was over for us in Port Salish. People hated me and my family as much as they hated Jesse. So I went home and I tore Jesse’s room apart. Then I took his manga collection and ripped every page out of every book.

  The second time was the day after Mom said she wasn’t going to move to Vancouver with us, and I started speaking in Robot-Voice. I said some really nasty things. “Mother-bot. You. Are. Totally Pathetic. I Hate. Your Freaking Guts.” “Go to Hell. Pop-Pop-bot. Do Not. Get Involved.”