Anthem of a Reluctant Prophet: Chapters 18–23

According to the yellow Post-it, I had an appointment at two o’clock that afternoon with Mr. Tanner, the principal/guidance counselor/premonition therapist, and I figured what the hell, I’d miss chemistry, so I headed to the office at the requisite hour.

Then he went on to imply that we'd done it because...exploiting our friend’s death was probably the only opportunity any of us would ever have to claim our fifteen minutes, which, according to Tanner, was increasingly important for a lot of talentless teens, “you just have to look at the growth of reality TV.”

So I was definitely in a bit of a funk, a bit of a bleak period, when I did the next stupid thing.

It felt more like I’d chosen a comfortable position for waiting—waiting for the next insane or dismal or completely unfair thing coming my way.

The snap of a metal lid cracked the silence, and then the patter of fading footsteps.

When she was in range, she’d punctuate the important bits of information with a squeeze to my shoulder.

She was feeling optimistic about the possibility of the war being quashed by a global voice, and wouldn’t that be something!

But seriously, I didn’t feel like starting on the Let’s Save Luke project she and Ms. Banks had concocted for me, so I waited a few minutes then headed downstairs and flopped onto the couch beside my mom.

By the end of that cheery little number, my mom’s post-rally euphoria seemed to be slipping.

In fact, given the timeliness of Mrs. Bernoffski’s appearances at the front window, I suspected she was actually keeping an eye out for me, and brief waving sessions now preceded the clearing of the snow.

Now she was in jail and her kids were wards of the state.

I wasn’t sure how my dad would react to me propagating the rumor, but he just shook his head, looking all dazed and confused.

I wasn’t sure how my dad would react to me propagating the rumor, but he just shook his head, looking all dazed and confused.

“I heard the leper with Tourette’s syndrome who works weekends gave you a good run for your money.”

If you looked closely, you could see that the leather twine was actually a finely written list of the festival bands, interspersed with the concert date—April 27, 2003.

Now he was staring right at me, looking all confused and anxious, like he was expecting me to come up with some concrete mathematical equation to explain the dissipation of life force into the cosmos or something.

According to him, a majority of the cancer victims who’d been prayed for were out whooping it up on the town, while their counterparts in the control group had shriveled up and died.

I was trying to impress her, so I skipped the part about my passive, but integral, role in the man’s death.

First off, I just wasn’t the proactive, petition-pounding type.

In fact, when I’d seen her car in the driveway that day, right away I’d felt a pang of concern.

“Hey,” I said tentatively. I reached out and pressed a palm against either side of the doorjamb, pinning myself in the entrance to the kitchen.

Setting: A table in a nondescript high school library.

Faith (taken aback): I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I see the—
Luke (interrupting): It’s okay.

Personally, I think I’m something a lot closer to indifference or ineptitude or, I don’t know...slime mold.

I don’t know. I think the antibiotics are all synthetic these days. I’m probably obsolete.

I tried my best to coax my mom back into our lopsided family circle.

She wasn’t 100 percent or anything, I mean the TV was still buried in the fort, but at least she’d been keeping my cereal wet, going to work, preparing dinner, attending Friends of Lake Erie meetings without ensuing emotional collapse.

Luke and Faith look at each other intently.

She folded her arms across her chest, leaned back a little, and gave me a shrewd look.

Trying not to appear eager, I rooted through the box I was kneeling beside, pretending to check sizes, but covertly I kept an eye on my mom.

But when I thought about fun in Barcelona, what sprang to mind were my clandestine evening encounters with Nuria, the Spanish chick who’d staked her claim on me the second night of our trip, when I’d opted for a stroll along the beach rather than a night at the newly refurbished Opera with Mom and Dad.

Her voice was magic, like a lilting silver flute or something.

He was sporting the same ugly brown suit and thick brown glasses he’d been born in, but he’d spruced up the ensemble with a pair of yellow, industrial-strength ear protectors, the kind the jackhammer guys wear.

The ear protectors served a dual purpose, because not only did they look pretty natty, they also kept Switzer’s slick comb-over in place.

The science enthusiasts quickly gathered round, trying to get a peek at the heavy-looking metal box he was holding—his notorious decibel counter.

Same went for the girl beside him, who was clad in some pink and white Ghost World kind of dress.

She stumbled over “perspective” and “occasionally,” and I was about to suggest she stick to words under three syllables when the rapid techno beat of Justin Timberlake’s latest affront to all things rock throbbed through the gym.

“‘And there she was, in platform double suede, yeah, there she was, like disco lemonade.’”

I kind of tightened up, thinking BO and heavy, repugnant grease, but she came away smiling.

“Very nice. Very you,” she said, and man, right then I wanted to live in the lofty heights of those fragrant bleachers.