Part 2
Donnie: A storm is coming, Frank says. A storm that will swallow the children, and I will deliver them from the kingdom of pain. I will deliver the children back to their doorsteps. I’ll send the monsters back to the underground. I’ll send them back to a place where no one else can see them. Except for me, ’cause I am Donnie Darko.
—Donnie Darko: The Director’s Cut (2004)
LUCAS WAS A crier. It happened most days in primary school, and I think it was one of the main reasons I was his friend. I didn’t mind the crying.
It would come on slowly and then explode. He’d sport this odd expression for a few minutes before: not sad, but as if he were replaying a television program in his head, watching the events unfold. He’d look down, but not at the ground. And then the tears would start falling. Always silent. Never heaving.
I don’t think that there was a particular reason for the crying. I think that was just his personality. When he wasn’t crying, we played chess or lightsaber duels or Pokémon battles. When he was crying, we’d read books. This was the time in my life when I read books.
I always felt at my best when we were together. It’s funny—I’ve never found that relationship with another person. Well, maybe Becky. In our early days.
When Lucas and I left primary school, we left with the assumption that we would continue to see each other. As all those who have left primary school can guess, this never came to fruition. I saw him only once more after that time—before now, of course. A chance meeting on the high street. I was twelve. He told me that he’d sent me an Easter egg in the post. It was May. I hadn’t got any post since my birthday.
At home that evening, I wrote him a card. I said that I hoped that we could still be friends, and I gave him my email address, and I drew a picture of myself and him for good measure. I never sent that card. It stayed in the bottom of my top desk drawer for several years until I cleared out my room. When I found it, I tore it up and threw it away.
I think about all these things as I’m wandering the school on Monday. I can’t find him. All this time, I’ve just been sitting around, moaning about how shit everything is, not bothering to try and make things better. I hate myself for that. I’m like all those people in the crowd at the Solitaire meet-up, not bothering to help. I don’t think I can be like that anymore.
Michael isn’t anywhere to be seen, either. He’s probably decided to leave me alone for good now, which is fair enough. I screwed it all up again. Classic Tori.
Anyway, I want to talk to Lucas about Saturday, apologize for not meeting up with him like I said I would. Tell him he doesn’t have to avoid me anymore.
Twice I think I see his lanky limbs swish around corridor corners, but as I run to catch him, I realize it’s just another of the thin-faced Sixth Form boys. He’s not in the common room before school, at break, or at lunch. After a while, I forget who I’m looking for and just continue on walking forever. I check my phone several times, but there’s only one message on my blog:
Anonymous: Thought for the day: What is the point in studying literature?
Becky and Our Lot have not talked to me all day.
Ben Hope did not go to the hospital. He wasn’t anywhere near death. Some people seem to feel sorry for him, whereas others say he deserved what he got for being a homophobe. I am not sure what I think about it anymore. When Charlie and I talked about it, he seemed pretty shaken up.
“This is my fault,” he said, grimacing. “It’s my fault that Ben was angry in the first place, so it’s my fault that Solitaire—”
“It’s not anyone’s fault,” I told him, “except Solitaire’s.”
On Tuesday, Kent keeps me back after English. Becky seems to be quietly hopeful that I’m in some kind of severe trouble, but Kent says nothing until everyone is gone. He sits on his desk, arms folded, glasses angled at a nonchalant slant.
“Tori, I think we need to talk about your ‘Heroes of Pride and Prejudice’ essay.”
“. . .”
“It was a very angry essay.”
“. . .”
“Why did you decide to write it in that way?”
“I really hate that book.”
Kent rubs his forehead. “Yes. I got that impression.”
He retrieves my essay from a cardboard folder and places it between us.
“‘I am sorry, Mr. Kent,’” he reads, “‘but I have not read Pride and Prejudice. I disagreed with the very first sentence, and that was enough for me.’” Kent looks up at me briefly before skipping to my second paragraph.
“‘Alas, Elizabeth Bennet does not love Mr. Darcy while he is “imperfect.” Only once his better character is revealed does she decide that she will accept Pemberley and the hundred billion a year. Fancy that. It seems that it is impossible for the females in this novel to look past an exterior and try to dig out the greatness within others. Yes, all right, Elizabeth is prejudiced. I get it. I get it, Jane Austen. Well done.’”
“Yeah,” I say. “All right.”
“I’m not done,” chuckles Kent. He skips to my conclusion. “‘This is why Mr. Darcy is, in my eyes, a true hero. He struggles on, despite being so harshly treated and judged. Pride and Prejudice is one man’s fight to be seen by others as he sees himself. Therefore, he is not typical. A typical hero is brave, confident, and dashing. Mr. Darcy is shy, haunted by himself, and unable to fight for his own character. But he loves, and I guess that is all that matters in the world of literature.’”
I should be embarrassed about this, but I’m really not.
He sighs. “It’s interesting that you identify with a character like Mr. Darcy.”
“Why?”
“Well, most students choose Elizabeth as the strongest character.”
I look at him squarely. “Mr. Darcy has to put up with everyone hating him for reasons that aren’t even true, and he doesn’t even complain about it. I’d call that pretty strong.”
Kent chuckles again. “Elizabeth Bennet is thought to be one of the strongest women of nineteenth-century literature. I take it you’re not a feminist.”
“You think I’m not a feminist because I empathize more with a male in a pretentious nineteenth-century romantic comedy?”
He smiles broadly and doesn’t answer.
I shrug. “It’s just what I think.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Well, that’s fair. Don’t write so colloquially in your exam, though. You’re smart and it’ll get you a bad mark.”
“All right.”
He hands me back the essay.
“Listen, Tori.” He scratches his chin, making a grating sound against his stubble. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been quite significantly underachieving in all your AS subjects.” He pauses and blinks. “I mean, you were doing really very well in Year 11. Especially in English.”
“I got a B in my sociology mock last term,” I say. “That’s not that bad.”
“You’ve been getting Ds in English, Tori. People who get two A stars in English GCSEs do not then get Ds at AS level.”
“. . .”
“Can you think of a reason for why this has happened?” He stares at me cautiously.
“I suppose . . . I don’t really like school . . . anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s just . . . I just hate being here.” My voice dies away. I look up at the classroom clock. “I need to go. I need to get to music.”
He nods very slowly. “I think that a lot of people hate being here.” He turns his head to the side and glances out of the window. “But that’s life, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“If you go on acknowledging that you hate it, you’re never going to want to be here. You can’t give up on it. You can’t be defeatist about it.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
I run out the door.
