The Boomerang Effect Read online

  DEDICATION

  To my parents, who helped me survive my teen years

  with a lot of love and just the right amount of attention

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Gordon Jack

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  By the time they called me into the principal’s office for my disciplinary hearing, I had nearly sweated through my Meridian High hoodie. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to show some school spirit at the meeting that could get me expelled, but I had no idea these things were made of insulation fiber. Of course, the excessive perspiration could be the result of being deprived of pot for three days. They say that sweating is one of the ways the body cleanses itself of toxins. Either way, I looked nervous and guilty, which wasn’t the impression I wanted to create.

  I entered Principal Stone’s office and found him sitting behind his enormous desk, his bald, pockmarked head looking like an oversize cantaloupe. Positioned in a neat semicircle in front of the desk were Stone’s secretary, Mrs. Darwipple; our campus security guard, Mr. Riddel; and my guidance counselor, Mr. Lunley. Lunley acknowledged me with his traditional namaste prayer bow. All the others sat rigid and expressionless, not wanting to form attachments to the animal they were about to slaughter.

  “Where are your parents?” Stone asked.

  “They couldn’t make it,” I said.

  “They couldn’t make it?” Stone said, shaking his head. “This is a disciplinary hearing to determine whether you will be allowed to stay at Meridian.”

  “My mom’s out of town and my dad had an important conference call,” I explained. “He asked me to give you this.” I handed Stone a sealed letter, now stained with my hand sweat. The envelope was embossed with the logo of my father’s law firm—Barry, Yu & Singh, an appropriate name for a ruthless pack of attorneys. Walter Yu was actually senior partner, but he settled for second billing so that the firm’s name would evoke fear in opposing counsel.

  Stone took one look at the letter and sneered, his unibrow wrinkling to a V on his forehead. My dad had represented Stone’s ex-wife in their rather ugly divorce, and I think he’s never forgiven my family for costing him his Jet Skis. He slapped the envelope on his desk and said, “Take a seat, Mr. Barry.”

  I lowered myself onto the rickety fold-out chair, designed, I assumed, to throw me off balance.

  “Let the record state that the disciplinary hearing to determine Lawrence Barry’s enrollment at Meridian High School began at two oh one p.m. on Monday, September ninth, in Principal Howard Stone’s office. In attendance are Principal Stone, Hugh Riddel, Gerry Lunley, and Lawrence Barry. Notably absent are Lawrence’s parents.”

  “You want me to include ‘notably’ in the record?” Mrs. Darwipple asked.

  Stone closed his eyes and massaged his temple with his stubby fingers. “Strike it,” he said, after giving it some thought.

  “Must we take such a formal tone?” my counselor said, removing his John Lennon glasses and placing them on my file folder on his lap. “We’re here to help Lawrence, right?”

  Stone and Riddel exchanged glances. As adults, they had clearly learned to control their eyes from rolling, but I could tell the reflex was still there.

  “We’re here to determine how to best respond to Lawrence’s actions at the diversity assembly. Mr. Riddel, please share your observations.”

  Riddel flipped open his notebook, just like he was a real police officer and not a mall cop in training, and began reading. “Friday, September sixth, ten oh seven a.m. Lawrence Barry and Alex Tran were observed dancing shirtless with rolls of toilet paper at the school assembly.”

  “We were performing a traditional Chinese Ribbon Dance,” I clarified.

  Riddel stared at me, his possum face revealing nothing. I wondered if he had been beat up a lot in middle school and quickly concluded that he had.

  “Barry and Tran stumbled across the gymnasium floor, clearly disoriented.”

  This struck me as a bit of editorializing. My memory, fuzzy though it was, was that we were quite graceful.

  “When asked to leave the gymnasium floor, both Barry and Tran only increased their spastic movements, inciting the crowd and creating an unsafe environment for the assembly.”

  “People loved us,” I interjected. “And Alex is the treasurer of the Asian Student Union so he had a right, as an Asian person, to share an important aspect of his culture. Isn’t that what the diversity assembly is all about?”

  I thought this was a pretty good defense, even though Alex is Vietnamese and really has no business dancing like a Chinese person.

  “Alex Tran has already confessed to using the ASU’s funds to buy marijuana. He’s been transferred to Quiet Haven alternative school.” The effort it took for Stone to keep a straight face while saying this was epic. If I didn’t know how overjoyed he was at sharing this news, I’d think he was having a stroke.

  “Really?” I gulped. “That is shocking.” I had no idea Alex had stolen from the ASU. Alex liked to think of himself as hard core, like the gangsters in the Hong Kong action films he was always watching, but his dad was a software engineer at SurveyMonkey. If he needed money to score weed, he didn’t need to steal from his own people to get it.

  Riddel continued. “As I escorted Barry and Tran off the gymnasium floor, I smelled the odor of marijuana on the boys.”

  “That is so not true,” I blurted out. Riddel was just making stuff up to get back at us for gluing the student driver sign to the back of his golf cart. Electronic cigarettes don’t produce odor. Do they? Actually, I’m not clear on this point. This technology is kind of new to me.

  “It was obvious the boys were high, so I brought them to Principal Stone’s office for disciplinary action.”

  Riddel flipped his notebook closed and stuck his golf pencil behind his ear. I fought the urge to grab the Scotch tape off Stone’s desk and use it to rip off his scrubby mustache. Sudden fits of rage are another by-product of pot deprivation, I’ve heard.

  “I think Lawrence was pressured into performing by Alex,” Lunley said.

  “It doesn’t matter why he did it,” Stone said. “And we can’t have different punishments for the same crime.”

  “Alex Tran was sent to Quiet Haven for stealing club funds, not for dancing at the assembly,” Lunley said. “I don’t think transferring Lawrence is appropriate. He’s got a B average and wants to go to college.” My counselor looked at me for confirmation on this point.

  “Yes. College. For sure.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but the words sounded like something from a patrol-car loudspeaker.

  Lunley went on. “Outside of some attendance issues his freshman year, his record is pretty clean.”

  “You’re forgetting the streaking incident,” Stone said.

  “Those accusations were never proven,” Lunley said, a
little weakly in my opinion, and closed my file.

  “What about the fire in the science building?” Riddel said.

  “That was an honest mistake. Lawrence didn’t know those chemicals were combustible.”

  “Then there was the Jell-O fight in the cafeteria.”

  “Lots of kids were involved in that. I think it’s unfair to single out Lawrence.”

  I had been involved in enough “incidents” in my two years at Meridian that we could go on like this all day. Eventually, Lunley would get tired of making excuses and Stone and Riddel would get the transfer they wanted. I shifted in my seat and felt a drop of cold sweat travel down my spine. I was going to Quiet Haven, the place where they distributed ankle bracelets instead of student ID cards. I had only one chance left.

  “Maybe you should read my father’s letter,” I offered, pointing to the envelope on Stone’s desk. I had no idea what it said, but I hoped it was legalese for “quit hating on my son.”

  Stone took out a rather menacing-looking letter opener and stabbed the envelope with a flourish. Watching him tear it open, I was reminded of someone skinning and gutting a fish. He removed the single page and read it silently. The only clue we had to the letter’s content was Stone’s face, which grew a deeper shade of red the longer he stared at the page. When he finished, he slammed the paper down on the desk and breathed heavily through his nose.

  “What would you recommend, Mr. Lunley?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  Mr. Lunley looked surprised to be asked this question. Guidance counselors are probably never given authority to punish students. Their job is to make kids look good for colleges, not make it easier for admissions officers to reject them. Lunley centered himself through some deep cleansing breaths and then smiled like the Dalai Lama. “I’d like to sign Lawrence up for the Buddy Club,” he said, tucking a loose strand of gray hair behind his ear. “I think he’d really benefit by mentoring one of our freshman students.”

  “But would the freshman benefit?” Stone asked.

  Lunley nodded his head. “Lawrence has a lot to offer if only he channeled his energies in more positive directions.”

  Stone took another look at my father’s letter on his desk and then slammed his open palm on it as if it were a fly he was trying to crush. “Fine,” he bellowed, his tone at odds with the spirit of the word. “But let the record state that I object to this lenient sentence.”

  “As do I,” Riddel said.

  “And if Lawrence so much as breathes in a mouthful of secondhand smoke—pot or otherwise—or embarrasses himself or this school in any way, he will be joining his friend Mr. Tran at Quiet Haven. Are we understood?”

  We all nodded our heads in agreement. I peeled myself off my chair and followed Lunley back to his office.

  “That was a close call, Lawrence,” Lunley said, once we were seated on the yoga balls on opposite sides of his desk.

  “Tell me about it.” I was dying to see what my father had written in the letter. Maybe Dad blackmailed him with some shameful secret Stone’s ex told him during the divorce proceedings. I wouldn’t put it past Dad to fight dirty. He’s a pretty competitive guy and doesn’t like to lose at anything. When I was six, he told me to fuck off when he got sent back to the starting tile in what I thought was a friendly game of Chutes and Ladders. We stopped playing board games after that.

  “How are you feeling?” Lunley asked.

  “Great.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Lunley folded his hands and looked at me like I was the sound of one hand clapping. He may have thought he was breaking me down with his stares and his silence, but I’ve faced better psychologists than him without confessing.

  “You know you can talk to me if you’re struggling with addiction.”

  “I’m good, Mr. Lunley,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Lunley reached into his top drawer, pulled out a pamphlet, and handed it to me. “Drug Free: The Way to Be,” the headline read. Underneath the purple block lettering was a cartoon squirrel wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket. It was an outdated look, even for a rodent.

  “If you can look past the stupid cover, you’ll find a lot of good information inside,” Lunley said.

  “Thanks,” I said. This was the second time today an adult had handed me printed material instead of talking to me. Suddenly, I wanted to grab my yoga ball and hurl it against the wall to watch it ricochet around the room like an exploding kernel of popcorn. Instead I pulled the summons out of my pocket and started folding.

  “Mr. Lunley,” I said, not looking up from the scrap of paper in my hands, “have you ever gotten high?”

  There was a loud squeak as Lunley squirmed on his yoga ball. Looking up, I saw him blinking spastically behind his glasses. “We’re not talking about me, Lawrence,” he said, pulling on his gray ponytail.

  I went back to my folding. “I’m just asking.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve gotten high.”

  “Do you think it’s as bad as this pamphlet says?”

  “I think it can be,” he said. “For some people.”

  “How do you know if you’re a person it’s bad for?”

  Lunley stood up and walked over to his window, seemingly recalling some memory in which he saw the best minds of his generation destroyed by madness. (We read “Howl” in English class last year and for some reason that line had stuck with me.) “I think you have to ask yourself why you’re getting high,” he said finally. “If you do it occasionally to relax and have fun, that’s one thing. If it’s to cope with everyday stress, that’s another.”

  “What if it’s a little of both?”

  “Then that might be a problem.”

  This seemed ridiculous to me. My parents end most of their days with Scotch and Pinot Grigio. (Not mixed, mind you. In separate glasses and separate rooms.) If I handed them a pamphlet with a greaser squirrel and the slogan “Drinking Wine Is Not Fine,” they’d laugh in my face and tell me to grow up.

  “The point is, I guess, that you should have other things in your life that bring you joy. If the only thing that makes you happy is getting high, then you need help.” Lunley returned to his yoga ball and sat down. “What brings you joy, Lawrence?”

  Getting high, I thought. Also, hanging out with friends. Playing video games. Complaining about how unfair things are. I decided not to share this list. Instead, I placed the origami squirrel I had folded out of my summons on his desk.

  He picked it up and exclaimed, “Lawrence, this is amazing.”

  I shrugged. It wasn’t really that amazing. The paper was a bit heavy and the wrong shade of pink. Plus I hadn’t made a squirrel in years. The proportions were good though, even if the animal lacked detail.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” Lunley asked.

  I shrugged again, not wanting to reveal my true passion. For a guidance counselor, that kind of information is like blood to a shark. If Lunley picked up the scent of a genuine interest, he’d attack and find me an after-school job at Hobby Lobby.

  “Well, this explains your A in geometry last year,” he said, rotating my work of art in his hands.

  Ah, geometry. My brain had never met a more compatible subject. I didn’t even have to think in that class. The information seemed embedded in my DNA, like my preference for dark-haired girls and weakness for Reese’s peanut butter cups.

  “Why aren’t you taking an art class?” Lunley asked, looking at my transcript.

  The television in my head changed channels abruptly, moving from my favorite episode of Meridian High to an awful middle school rerun of Ruben Valdez setting my origami peacock on fire with his lighter. “Look at the flaming homo,” he screams when my attempt to rescue my animal results in my sleeves catching fire. The laugh track reaches high decibels.

  “What’s this Buddy Club you talked about?” I said, bringing my focus back to the present.

  Lunley turned his attention away from the computer and
back to me. “The Buddy Club is a mentor program that pairs upperclassmen with new students,” he said. “I think you’d be great at it, providing you take the responsibility seriously.”

  “I can do that.” A few meetings of showing a clueless ninth grader how to avoid ending up facedown in a trash can? Easy. It would keep Stone off my back and I could list it as an extracurricular on my college applications.

  Lunley spun around on his yoga ball and pulled a manila folder from his filing cabinet. He removed a spreadsheet that had a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers and wrote one name down on a sticky note for me.

  Spencer Knudsen.

  “His name sounds a little dorky,” I said. “Think he’d mind if I shortened it to something cooler, like ‘Spence’ or ‘Wolverine’?”

  Lunley ignored my question. “He’s a transfer student from Norway.”

  “Does he speak English?” I asked.

  Lunley nodded. “He’s pretty smart. His dad’s been nominated for a Nobel Prize in Physics and is now a visiting scholar at Stanford. His mom was some famous cellist before Spencer was born. He’s been homeschooled until this year.”

  “So, he’s a major geek.”

  “I think you’ll like him.” Lunley wrote down Spencer’s address and phone number. “He lives really close. You know that apartment complex by the fire station?”

  “You want me to go visit?”

  “Why don’t you start with a phone call?”

  “I’ll text him.”

  “That’s his home number,” Lunley said. “You’re going to have to talk to him.” He mimicked holding a phone to his ear.

  I sighed. I really didn’t like talking to people on the phone.

  Lunley stood up, clasped his hands together, and bowed. “Thank you, Lawrence, for agreeing to do this.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Spencer needs someone like you to help him with this transition.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Someone cool, but with a warm personality.”

  “So, I’m tepid.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I stood up. “Thanks for saving my ass today,” I said, grabbing Lunley’s hand and shaking it vigorously, as my dad had taught me to do. “I promise not to let you down.”