What kind of farm was it? I ask.
A dairy farm.
Gross, John says.
My coworker looks at me.
We’re vegan, I explain.
Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize. I grew up on a farm, I could never be vegan.
Did your father send a lot of cows to slaughter when they stopped giving milk? John asks.
Excuse me?
Did you feel bad separating the calves from their mothers when they were only a few days old? Did they scream until their throats bled?
I don’t understand.
Do you miss bearing witness to the millions of tons of greenhouse gases cattle fart into our atmosphere every year?
I’m going to go.
Please don’t, I say.
I don’t know what his deal is. I didn’t mean to offend you.
You didn’t.
My deal is that I don’t believe in enslaving non-human animals and damaging the environment so that you can butter the bread on your grilled cheese sandwich.
Okay, I’m leaving.
John, stop, I say.
He looks at me.
No, I’ll go. You two have fun.
John leaves. We sit in silence.
I’m sorry. I should probably go talk to him.
Happy birthday.
Write this down.
— In the case of a double-degenerate explosion, nothing of either white dwarf will remain.
Stand. Go to your partner. Don’t wait.
I walk in a circle around the room. I look into the face of each student. I have eaten nothing since the day before yesterday evening. I carry a leaking black Starbucks Venti coffee in my hand because last night I read that the Grande has four times the amount of caffeine as a Red Bull, so I thought I’d do better.
Remember this:
— The two stars orbit tightly. Some say they’re magnetic.
Take your partner’s hands. Orbit so tightly, there is nothing between you. Make sure your breath is foul and she smells it.
— They will orbit so tightly, they are not even aware of the force that binds them.
Squeeze your partner’s hands until both of you are numb.
— There is no telling who leads and who follows. Neither. It’s as if they’re compelled.
Look your partner in the eye. Say I love you. Lie if you have to. Don’t even know why.
— They orbit until they come close enough to collide.
Bash your partner in the head.
Do it hard. There should be nothing left.
Grind his brains into the carpet.
That’s right, let it out. Use your heel. Use your nails.
Remember that time he spit on you? Now’s your chance to get back at him.
Really let him feel it. Be cruel. Merciless. Petty.
Now tell him you love him.
Tell him you’ll die if he leaves you.
After school, I sit in my car in the parking lot. I smoke a cigarette even though that’s illegal within 1,000 feet of a school. I leave the windows closed. I listen to but don’t hear the static coming from my speakers on B-103. I bite all my fingernails off one after the other but don’t realize it until I’m done.
My mentor’s crotch appears in the passenger window, in my periphery. His khaki Dockers bunch like he has a short, flaccid dick. I roll the window down.
His face appears at crotch-level.
Want to talk?
Not really.
Can we talk anyway?
I unlock the doors and he climbs inside. He moves the seat back and adjusts his pants. He closes the door.
You don’t have a thyroid disease.
I keep my eyes on the steering wheel. I don’t say anything.
I don’t know what’s going on with you, but whatever it is, I think you need to see a doctor. That’s just my opinion, but I hope you know that I wouldn’t have shared it if I didn’t think you needed to hear it.
I appreciate your concern.
Do you really?
I drag the rest of my cigarette down to the filter and open the window and toss it out. I wave my hand back and forth in front of my face, clearing the smoke.
Listen, I don’t really want to say this, but I don’t think you should come back to the school until you deal with whatever this is. I don’t know if it’s drugs or whatever—
It’s not drugs.
Or whatever it is. It’s destructive, and I think you need help. You’re a great teacher, but some of the kids have noticed. I can’t have that in my classroom, and you know that. I can put you in touch with—
No, thank you.
Well… I guess that’s all, then.
I feel him looking at me as I start the car and light another cigarette. He gets out and shuts the door, and leans down in the window.
You can call me anytime.
John oversleeps his flight at the end of August. We pull into the airport parking lot and see it taking off. The next flight to Chicago doesn’t leave until tomorrow, unless he wants to buy a new ticket from a different airline. Unless his parents want to buy him another ticket.
I shook and shook him. I called his name and left and came back and shook him some more. I begged. The sun rose.
I lifted his head from the sheets.
We watch the plane until it disappears, then leave the airport and come back the next morning, early. We pass Cadillac, Hummer, and Lexus dealerships, Baptist and Catholic churches, bail bondsmen, Best Buy and Home Depot, all of them grey.
We have to be sad about his leaving all over again. I’m upset. John is sadder than he was yesterday.
What’s Behind Bieber’s Bad Behavior?
I’m crying but I’m not sure why. It’s not for John.
Can you please not be mad at me? he says.
I’m not mad.
I won’t see you for a month, at least.
I’m not mad.
If you say so.
Something is wrong with me.
He opens his messenger bag and pulls out a notebook.
I didn’t know you kept a notebook.
I want to show you something.
All of the pages are covered in microscopically small writing. He’s left no white space at all. In the corners of some, he’s drawn little pen-and-ink sketches. He turns to a page near the back.
I found this.
He hands me a glossy photograph he’s torn out of a magazine. The edges are rough. He had a hard time tearing it cleanly. In it, a mid-sized house is nestled perfectly into the upper branches of a mature oak. The forest around the house is darkening but a warm yellow glow lights up the windows.
This is beautiful.
I want to live there with you.
Are you buying a tree house?
Not now, someday. When we’ve done everything in life that we want to do. This is the world I want to live in.
A woman’s silhouette is visible in a floor-to-ceiling kitchen window. She seems to be looking down at the photographer. I squint, trying to make out her expression, but it’s hidden in shadow.
He takes the picture back.
Wait, can I keep it?
Really?
Yeah. I want it.
I put it in my glove compartment.
You’re going to miss your flight.
We walk across the bleached parking lot to the small steel building. Its windows reflect the late morning sun like balls of fire.
I hand John his suitcase. He sets it between us, and kisses me over it.
I don’t want to wait long to see you.
You won’t. We’ll find a way.
Be good.
I’m always good.
He takes off.
Like a boat through water, moving celestial objects make ripples in the curvature of space-time.
I’m late for my Starbucks shift. There’s no reason; I just didn’t arrive on time. I’m in a fog. I haven’t slept since John left. I feel that I’m entering a new phase of sickness. I’ve lost interest in sleep altogether; at four a.m., I realize it’s four a.m. Still, I’m not tired.