August 31, 2007
Adam woke in darkness, his hair damp to the roots with sweat.
For a few minutes he lay abed, staring at the shifting moonlit patterns on the ceiling and willing himself back to sleep to no avail. Defeated, he untangled the duvet from his body and sat upright. His hand groped along the wall for the light switch, and blinked when its harsh glare flooded the room. The Bob-Marley-theme clock on the wall read a quarter to five.
Listlessly Adam pulled on his fluffy bedroom slippers and padded silently out the door. He noticed Lydia's bedroom door was ajar; peeping in, he saw her small form bathed in moonlight, dark curls streaming across the pillowcase. She was fast asleep, exuding an aura of such perfect peace that Adam felt calmer at once. He crept inside. A Judy Blume book lay upturned on the floor by Lydia's bed, open to the part where Sally Freedman offers cookies to the "Negroes" she encounters on her train journey to Miami. Adam smiled almost wistfully. A part of him - a tiny, miniscule part - missed being nine years old. He slipped a pink plastic bookmark between the appropriate pages and placed the novel carefully on Lydia's nightstand. This was disgraceful; his little sister too was starting a new school in a few hours - yet here she was, sleeping through the night while he wandered the house like Lady Macbeth.
To each his own, Adam thought, exiting her room. He decided to retrieve his copy of Catcher In The Rye from the drawing room table; at least these sleepless hours could be spent productively. Adam turned into the sitting area and let out an audible gasp as it came into view - someone was asleep on the sofa.
A few seconds passed as Adam's eyes adjusted to the silvery light seeping in from the glass-front wall. Vaguely, he picked out the cityscape beyond it, tiny bright pinpricks hovering on the horizon like ancient, exhausted stars nearing the end of their lifetimes. That it was his father sleeping there soon became distressingly clear to Adam; what did not was why. Remaining rooted to the spot he racked his brains, trying to recall whether his parents had fallen out during the day. Nothing came to mind - Dad had been no more removed and aloof than usual. Standing there, in the semi-darkness, a strange but troubling thought occurred to him. Was this where he'd always slept?
No. No. He refused to deal with this now. Adam snatched his dog-eared copy of J.D. Salinger's masterpiece off the teak table and half-ran down the dark passageway back to his room, heart aching for his old home. He missed their big house in the suburbs, missed running down the wooden staircase in his socks, missed pushing a squealing, giggling Lydia on the old porch swing. It had been three weeks since his family moved to this apartment, yet the endless, unnerving pace of the city continued to disorient him. His book forgotten, Adam watched the patch of golden light on the carpet gradually augment as the sun broke free in the sky, and thus allowed thoughts of his own impending ridicule and doom to run unbridled through his mind.
Exhaustion eventually set in on the drive to his new school. Adam heard his mother say, "We're here, kids," and he suddenly jolted awake, feeling cheated - his body had denied him twenty minutes of potential anxiety. He got his money's worth, however, as the three of them sat outside the principal's office, Lydia clinging tightly to his hand. In a daze he collected his new student ID from the plump, smiling receptionist, who pinched his little sister's cheeks.
"Looks like you'll be the prettiest girl in fourth grade," she said in a classic Missouri drawl that reminded Adam immediately of Huckleberry Finn. Lydia thanked her even more prettily, and the tightness in his chest eased up little. She would be alright, of course she would - her natural good-looks and vivacity would ensure popularity anywhere she went. That was one less thing to worry about, at any rate.
Soon he bid his family goodbye, and located his locker - number 187- after wandering for what seemed like miles in the maze of corridors thronging with middle-schoolers. His black felt hat and fluorescent loafers were drawing stares, and Adam huddled in the semi-darkness of his open locker, looking through the new texts in his satchel. A bustle of activity ensued when a siren-like bell wailed at the far end of the corridor, so he navigated his way to room 304 for his first class of the day - Classical Literature.
There was already a teacher in class by the time he arrived. The room was square and austere, with around twenty light-colored wooden desks lined in an orderly fashion. Most were occupied. Adam tried not to acknowledge the gazes of the three dozen students before him, aware only too well that many of their grins were mocking. He handed the the balding, sweater-vested man his student ID and signed note from the principal. For the first time, he regretted his decision to wear the hat.
"Kids, say hello to Adam," the teacher boomed suddenly. "Would you like to introduce yourself?"
"Uhm." Adam turned awkwardly and faced his new classmates. "I'm Adam Woakes." He paused. Two girls in the last row were sniggering. One of them, with skinny elbows and frizzy red hair leaned across the aisle and whispered something to a boy who sat by the window. Adam expected him to laugh or make a face; instead he said something waspish in reply to Frizzy, who retreated looking hurt. Surprised but relieved, he resumed his slapdash introduction, ostensibly addressing the class but in truth speaking only to the boy under the window. "My family moved to the city three weeks ago, so yeah. Here I am." Adam looked desperately at the teacher, who thankfully sensed and mitigated his discomfort.
"Thank you, Adam. I hope you'll be very happy here."
"So do I," he answered, but so softly he doubted anyone heard it.
He began shuffling down the aisle, and to his utter astonishment someone pulled back a chair.
"You can sit here." It was the boy from before, the only one in the class who wasn't smirking at him. At once all seventeen pairs of eyes recommenced their staring, but oddly now they held expressions of welcome, almost warmth. Frizzy looked aghast at this turn of events for a second, then quickly altered her face into a simper. Adam shrugged. He'd take it.
"Thanks," he mumbled and took the proffered seat, wondering why on earth someone was being so nice to him. His partner at the adjacent desk lolled in the diluted sunlight filtering in from the dusty glass windowpane, one knee resting on the corner of his table. He had an extraordinarily perfect face, the kind you'd see on child models in Hallmark cards or on billboards, with chestnut-colored hair that stuck out in every direction and clear hazel eyes.
"I'm Matt," he said, without lowering his voice. "Mathew Wynford."
Adam nodded in response, not daring to speak out loud.
"I hope you fit in here, Adam Woakes."
"So do I," Adam whispered back fervently, for the second time today.
The teacher took no notice of them, appearing to be thoroughly engaged in writing out an extensive syllabus on the greenboard. Matt turned and gave him a brilliant smile, opening his mouth to reply - but at that instant, the pot-bellied teacher began to speak, and Adam reluctantly diverted his eyes, though not his thoughts, from his unlikely new friend.
The first text assigned to them as part of their theater-centric coursework was, incidentally, Macbeth. Adam was amazed; was it not just last night - earlier this morning, in fact - that he'd identified himself with the most infamous female antagonist in all of fiction? On rummaging with some vigour through his satchel, he finally found it buried under Introduction To Java - Shakespeare's Macbeth, with comprehensive breakdown and analysis. How in the world had he missed it? He'd looked through all his course copies this morning at his locker, yet this most crucial work had escaped his attention. It was impossible.
"-Mr. Woakes."
Adam's head snapped up. Yet again he found himself at the center of collective gaze, the teacher's in particular stern and foreboding.
"Y-Yes?"
"Perhaps you could help us."
"Sure." He swallowed. "With what?"
Matt laughed. The rest of the class followed suit, the snarky frizzy-haired girl practically screaming with mirth. Adam rolled his eyes, and was surprised to see Mr. Weiss - the name was printed in caps on the board - smiling along.
"We'll let this pass, Adam, since it's your first day. I was asking the class whether anyone would be so kind as to briefly summarize the plot and predominant themes in this most worthy play, but it would appear-" he cast a severe look around, "that no one has even has even thumbed through an abridgement. Would you, by any chance, have done so?"
"Oh, I've read the play," Adam answered, relieved, and received more than a few resentful looks. Only Matt looked impressed. "Thumbed through it, I mean," he added quickly. "Briefly."
"Indulge me, then."
A familiar heat was creeping slowly but surely along the back of his neck. He coughed. "The premise is simple, really. A nobleman - a Thane, actually - is led to ruin by his own disastrous attempt to self-fulfill a prophecy. What is initially intended to be a lone crime, regicide -" he registered seventeen blank looks "- the murder of the king - in reality gives way to a violent chain reaction of gruesome and ultimately redundant events. Prominent themes include guilt-induced insomnia, the supernatural and - uhm - dark feminine foils."
Matt chuckled, but this time he was alone. Mr. Weiss was beaming, though, and walked all the way to Adam's chair to clap him heartily on the back. It suddenly occurred to Adam how ridiculous he ought to appear, with a countenance blazing fiery red under a magician's hat. He resolved to take it off at the first opportunity.
"Couldn't have recapped it better myself," Weiss was saying.
Capturing the undivided attention of twelve-year-olds was no mean feat, but Adam was as aware as any that its effects were but transitory. Soon enough they lost interest in him, choosing instead to snooze through a prolix discourse by Mr. Weiss on the symbolic significance of "fair" Macbeth's virtues and "foul" intentions of the three witches. Matt, however, was an unanticipated distraction. He fidgeted constantly - crossing and uncrossing his legs, drumming out staccato little tunes with his fingertips, sighing heavily and ripping up bits of paper. When he began collecting these bits into a small, neat pile at the corner of his desk, Adam put his foot down.
"Matt!" he hissed, when Weiss's back was turned.
"What?" Matt didn't look up; he was busy patting the tiny white mound into shape.
Frizzy was slowly inching closer, straining to hear Adam's reply. He dropped his voice to a whisper and said hesitantly, "Maybe you could stop fidgeting? You're really… distracting."
Matt seemed taken aback. A stray gust of wind from the open window whipped the paper bits into the face of the red-haired girl, who started spluttering. His own face broke into a sudden, impish grin. "I see what you mean. Alright, I'll stop."
Mr. Weiss turned out to have a double hour English hour on Mondays, so it was at least four minutes into recess before he dismissed the class, heedless of their muted grumbles. Immediately kids milled around Adam and Matt.
"I love your hat," said Frizzy, with a wide, false smile.
"Thanks," Adam replied coolly.
"I'm Nekia, by the way, and this is-"
"Hey, Adam."
Matt was on his feet. They were of an identical height - nose to nose, shoulder to shoulder, about a couple of inches shorter than "Nekia".
"Yeah?" Adam realized he'd cut off Frizzy in the middle of a sentence, and didn't care.
"You want to take a walk? I could show you around."
"I'd love to," Adam gushed, and without further response Matt left the room. He scrambled after him, half-leaping over haphazardly-strewn chairs and book-satchels.
Matt walked silently for a minute or two, hands buried in the front pocket of his jacket and lips pursed as though whistling yet he never emitted a sound. "Don't even bother learning their names," he said abruptly, as they wound down a familiar corridor.
"What? Why not?" Adam realized when he'd been here before; his locker was a few yards away. Great, this was the perfect time to rid himself of the hat once and for all. "Can you hold on for a second? Need to… check something in my locker."
"Sure," Matt said. "I gotta get something - wait, is 187 your locker?"
"Yeah," Adam answered distractedly; he was half buried inside the musty-smelling space in an attempt to shake off the ostentatious hat without being too conspicuous.
"No kidding." Matt's voice sounded muffled on the other side of the steel door. "Mine's 186. 187's been empty for as long as I could remember. I always wondered who'd eventually get it."
Adam's forehead cracked against the locker's metal frame. Cursing, he withdrew and said, "No way!"
But Matt had resumed his brisk pace; Adam panted in the effort to keep up.
"So," he wheezed, "what were you saying earlier? About not learning people's names?"
"Because they're the worst," Matt remarked casually. "A bunch of spineless, worthless suck-ups, and all that matters to them is my last name."
"Wynford?" Suddenly self-conscious of the way his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, Adam relaxed his face. "Seems familiar."
"It's probably not, really," Matt said easily. "I just think they're all brown nosers. Every single one of them."
They'd emerged from the building down a staircase, and into what looked like an all-purpose stadium. A high-school cheerleading team was practicing at the far end of the green arena, tiny powder-blue uniforms leaving nothing to the imagination.
"I didn't like the Frizzy girl right from the start," Adam said maliciously, recalling with distaste how she'd practically leered at him.
"You're not alone," Matt agreed. He cocked his head, wearing a look of calculated appraisal - rather like a sparrow contemplating a breadcrumb. "I have practice after school today - I run track - but it's only for an hour. We could hang out after that, if you don't mind waiting."
"I don't know, my mom's supposed to pick me up-"
"I could talk to her."
"Would you?"
"Sure. We could drop you home if it got late."
"I'm in, then," Adam agreed, wondering who 'we' was.
"Great."
"We" eventually turned out to be Matt himself and his own personal chauffeur/part-time bodyguard/brother-in-arms, a burly Venezuelan by the name of Julio. He lurked by a black Audi in the school parking lot, and, after fist-bumping Matt, handed them both take-away smoothies in multi colored Styrofoam cups.
"Thanks," Adam said, pleased, sliding into the backseat.
Matt flopped in beside him, slurping noisily. "You want to get something to eat? I'm starving."
"Sure."
Adam observed his friend through the corner of his eye. He was staring out the tinted window abstractly, nibbling on his bright yellow straw. "You know something?"
"I guess I won't until you tell me."
Matt shrugged. "You kinda remind me of my brother. It's something about… I don't know, the way you look at me."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe you'll meet him someday, then you'll know what I'm talking about."
"Maybe I will," Adam replied, perplexed. Weird rich kid.
It was after dark when he reached home. Immediately he seized his father's laptop and Googled Matt's last name, and a lot of things began to make sense. The Wynford conglomerate had grossed several million dollars in sales last year alone, and news articles reported new mergers and ventures every other week. Their CEO, Martin Wynford - a stately, grey-haired man who bore a marked resemblance to Clint Eastwood - was 305th on the Forbes' 2007 list of top 400 Richest People In America. The chief executive officer's two sons, Andy and Sam Wynford were Chairman and President respectively of the operational board, making it a family affair.
Adam googled them aggressively, of course. To his delight, he found the internet abound with images of the two handsome young tycoons at various conferences and business events, always wearing bright, confident smiles. At last he located a picture carried by Business Today earlier that year - the two brothers and their families at a ball for a charity opening. The older one, Andy Wynford, stood with an arm wrapped over the shoulder of a dark-haired boy, whose large eyes carried a hunted look. Sam Wynford was smiling at an adjacent camera, a pretty woman and a bored Matt by his side, who tugged disparagingly at the bow tie on his collar. The caption read, "Business magnates of the Wynford corporation (Andy and Sam Wynford, Chairman and President respectively) with their families at the opening gala of the Global Citizen Charity foundation, left to right: Andy Wynford, his son Jamie Wynford, Sam Wynford, wife Valerie Wynford and son Matt Wynford." No wonder the kids in class hung off his every word, and no wonder he hated them indiscriminately.
He didn't hate me, though. Adam recalled the remark Matt had made about his brother, but there seemed to be no mention of Sam Wynford having another son, let alone a picture. Perhaps he'd meant his cousin Jamie? Adam zoomed into the picture of the slightly lost-looking boy who gazed into space, long raven-black hair falling all over his eyes and forehead. He looked nothing like his father beside him - quite contrary to Matt, who was a splitting image of Sam Wynford - but had dainty, almost elegant good-looks all the same.
After digging up a few more similar images, Adam closed the browser and his father's laptop with a thud. Despite all that he'd learned today, for instance the fact that his parents no longer shared a bedroom, the biggest surprise of the day however was not even that his new friend was the son of one of America's hottest millionaires. It was that he, Adam Woakes, had made a friend at all.