Journal Entries: February 12-15, 2007

Feb 12: It was cold outside today so I decided to ruin Tony Beckett’s life. I feel I need to justify this decision. First of all, no, Tony Beckett has never wronged me. He and I have spoken 7 times exactly, thrice in the hallway before lunch, once at Jonathan Derelict’s house party, once at the Cinnabon, and twice after being partnered up for class discussions (once was Spanish and once was AP Macroeconomics). All of these conversations failed to be noteworthy, but he was always pleasant enough, and friendly despite our lack of acquaintance. His greatest crime was his inability to properly use the subjunctive in español, but this is an offense that I do not hold against him because I also don’t understand the subjunctive. I’ve heard him speak in classes a few times, listened to a few stories about him from our mutual acquaintances, and I watched his performance in the school jazz band. All evidence indicates that Tony Beckett is an outgoing, jovial, friendly, and kind 17-year old boy with above average intelligence who plays the saxophone pretty well. Nor am I jealous of him in any way. While I will concede the fact that he has more tertiary friends than me (27 to my 19, by my count), I have more close friends, at 8 to 5. He and I are roughly equal when it comes to finances, my ex-girlfriend was marginally more attractive than his, and I feel my guitar skills are on par with his saxophone. There is no reason for me to ruin his life in particular, but I have to ruin someone’s, and he was the first person I laid eyes on after my walk in the cold.

I plan on giving this journal to historians on my deathbed, since the world will undoubtedly want to know about my life, so allow me to explain for the people who don’t quite understand. The cold front moved in today, and is expected to remain until around the 15th. It isn’t snowing, so unfortunately we are still being forced to attend classes. My house is approximately a ten minute walk

from school, so I usually walk to make things easier for my parents (this was already explained in several preceding entries, but in case you are reading this section out of context I am kindly providing this detail once more). I don’t watch the news because there’s nothing interesting about the rest of the world, so I was unaware of this cold front, and took my usual route to school. Misery. The wind was so biting that my lips became exceedingly chapped, to the point where they flaked off and bled at the lightest touch of my fingers. My face went flush red, especially around my nose and ears, which was horrendously embarrassing for me as I walked past Jonathan Derelict and his current girlfriend (Stacey who works at the Barnes & Noble I think? But she could also be the new French foreign exchange student, I’ve heard both). Worst of all, I stepped in a rather large puddle, soaking my left sock straight through. The wet sock quickly froze to my calf, and I don’t actually know how I am supposed to take it off without injuring my ankle. I hate being miserable. I would go so far as to say that it’s one of my least favorite feelings. But at this moment, as I sit at home with bloody lips, a cold sock, and my red face fresh in Jonathan Derelict and Stacey-or-maybe-some-French-girl’s minds, I am in fact miserable. And I think I will be for several days. So Tony Beckett will be too. It’s really as simple as that.

END DAY

Feb 13: The important thing to remember when it comes to ruining someone’s life, is that you can’t let anyone know it is you who is responsible. Otherwise, people will hold it against you, and you will be remembered as the guy who ruined a completely innocent person’s life for no reason. This will in turn mean that your own life is ruined as well. I would probably lose 18 of my 19 friends (Carson Daily wouldn’t care, because I fixed his bike for him once). In other words, I can’t simply push him down the stairs, breaking his neck and paralyzing him. More subtlety is called for. I could lay out the entire plan here right now, but I think the suspense of not knowing exactly what’s going to happen might be more enjoyable for my adoring readers. I’ll simply tell you the steps as they occur.

The first thing I had to do was enter Ms. Gibson’s classroom after school, when no one was there. She hadn’t yet gotten around to returning our AP Macroeconomics midterms (I think she’s going through a messy divorce), but during class she promised she would get to it tonight. So at the end of our class, when my peers were all filtering out, I quickly unlocked the window, so that I could return later. Between 3 and 3:30, Ms. Gibson would go speak with Mr. Reyes, before returning, picking up the midterms, and leaving. I hung around the school for hours after I got out, and then at 3:10, I returned to her classroom. I expertly pried open the window, which was starting to ice over from the cold. Making sure no one was watching, I squeezed myself inside of her classroom and set to work. I dug through the trash can and found a mostly empty bag of Cheetos. These were the favorite snack of Jonathan Derelict, and the discarded bag was one of his. I covered my hands in the Cheeto dust, went behind Ms. Gibson’s desk, and located the stack of midterms I had seen her stash in the second drawer on the right.

I quickly leafed through the pile, making sure to leave cheesy fingerprints all over the stack of papers. I located the test belonging to Tony Beckett, the test belonging to Jonathan Derelict, and the answer key. Failing an exam like this would almost certainly tank someone’s grade in the class — not a problem if you’re Jonathan Derelict, BIG problem if you’re Tony Beckett. A cursory search confirmed my suspicions that Tony Beckett had about a 91% on the test, while Jonathan Derelict had something resembling a 23%. Both had written in pencil, and so faintly that, were their names erased and written on the opposing test, anyone but the original test takers would be none-the-wiser. Jonathan Derelict was not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, he probably wouldn’t even review the test. But Tony Beckett would notice. He would know the test wasn’t his. I was counting on it.

I heard the unmistakable heavy footsteps and dangling jewelry of Ms. Gibson and crawled out the window once more, shutting it but leaving it unlocked for tomorrow. I passed her on my way out of the school and saw she was crying (probably the divorce), so she didn’t even register my presence. Phew. It was just as cold out as it was the day before, yet I barely felt it. I was too busy thinking. Too busy planning. I was nowhere near done. You’ll get yours Tony Beckett, just you wait. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Oh also, it turns out that I was way too worried about my left sock. I removed it this morning with absolutely no complications whatsoever.

END DAY

Feb 14: Tony Beckett and I had our eighth conversation of all time today. I knew I had to sit next to him today, to make sure I got the chance to speak to him. We didn’t have assigned seating, but the seat I wanted, directly behind him, was almost always taken by Jonathan Derelict. Luckily, it was Valentine’s Day, and I had made a plan to ensure the seat was free. I returned to Ms. Gibson’s classroom at 6:30 AM that morning, before anyone but the custodians had arrived on campus. The classroom door was locked. The window was not. I struggled when prying it open, cracking the bits of ice that kept it shut. After opening it what I thought was an adequate amount, I hoisted myself up through it. I immediately realized I had not opened it an adequate amount. Though I got my top half through the slit, my bottom half got caught and stuck outside. I sat there, stuck in the window, for a solid 10 minutes, literally freezing my ass off, before eventually managing to squirm my way inside. Once in, I waited another 5 minutes, allowing my legs to warm up enough to become functional once more. Then, I produced a heart-shaped card and placed it on Jonathan Derelict’s unofficial desk. It read:

Hey baby                   I miss you

Happy Valentine’s Day       I wanted to get you a gift

Then I realized that, duh, I was the best gift that I could give

Oui oui, I’m waiting for you at B&N rn

Leave your stupid class and

Come find me

GF

I figured this would cover my bases regardless of whether the girlfriend was French or Stacey. Then I left the way I came, leaving the window wide open for all to notice.

As I arrived with the class an hour later, I watched as Jonathan Derelict bolted for the card on his desk. His eyes lit up as he read it, and he choked on his own saliva. Then, he cocked his head in confusion. Internally? I was panicking. Externally? I kept my cool and slyly approached him.

Myself: “What have you got there?”

Jonathan Derelict: “Oh, nothing, just a valentine.”

Myself: “Cool.”

Jonathan Derelict: “Hey do you know what B&N is?”

Myself: “Barnes and Noble right?”

Jonathan Derelict: “What’s that?”

Myself: “Book store, 20 minutes from here by the fountain in the mall center.”

Jonathan Derelict: “Great! Thanks!”

At that moment, before Ms. Gibson had arrived, he quickly ran out of the classroom, hooting and hollering to himself. I guess the girlfriend was in fact the French exchange student, and not Stacey-who-works-at-B&N. I shrugged.

I placed myself in Jonathan Derelict’s unofficial seat, directly behind Tony Beckett, who arrived wearing his typical good-natured smile on his handsome face. I don’t know if I’d ever seen him not smiling before today. I anxiously awaited the new expression he would debut in just a few minutes. He shivered a bit, and noticed the still-open window, which he understandably thought was strange. It was almost too easy that I was starting to grow bored with the game I was playing with him. Ms. Gibson entered the classroom, in better spirits than usual, and apologized for her tardiness — she was finalizing our midterm grades. Tony Beckett shot to attention, eager to see how he did. Transcription follows.

Tony Beckett, scanning his test: “What the, what the fuck?”

Myself: “Hey I got an 82%, I’ll take it.” (I actually got a 100% of course, but I was ingratiating myself).

Tony Beckett, panicking: “No no no, that’s not possible.”

Myself: “What is all this orange stuff on it though.”

Tony Beckett, turning to me: “Hey can I see your test?”

Myself: “Of course.”

Tony Beckett took my test and compared our answers, then returned it to me, his face filled with anger and confusion.

Tony Beckett: “This isn’t my test.”

Myself: “What do you mean?”

Tony Beckett: “I mean I’m positive I didn’t put these answers. I got a 23! I’ve never done that badly before!”

Myself: “Ouch that’s rough. But hey man, we all have bad days. Weren’t you going through a breakup at the time or something—”

Tony Beckett, rudely snapping at me for no reason: “No! I don’t do this badly on tests. Ever. And what’s with this orange stuff, it’s on yours too?”

Ms. Gibson, to the class: “Has anyone seen Johnny? No? That’s a shame, he did really well for once, I was looking forwards to congratulating him.”

Tony Beckett looked from the open window, to his Cheeto-dusted test, and I saw his little mind start to piece together the puzzle I laid out for him.

Tony Beckett, to Ms. Gibson: “I have bio with him later. If you give it to me, I can hand it to him then.”

Ms. Gibson handed Tony Beckett the test and I watched as he spent the rest of the class pouring over the two tests on his desk. His expression changed from doubt, to worry, to fear, to anger, to guilt for daring to think that the man who sat behind him actually broke into the classroom and swapped the names on their tests. But then I saw him think of all the Cheetos he had heard being crunched just behind his head, and of the orange dust that speckled every single test in the room. By the time class ended, his smile was gone, replaced with a gorgeous look of pure, unbridled stoicism. He was driven. He was on a mission. He was doing exactly what I thought he would. After class, I followed him to lunch. I had to confirm that he would do what I needed him to do.

Myself: “You think Jonathon Derelict swapped your tests don’t you?”

Tony Beckett: “How did you…”

Myself: “I was watching you all class. Seeing you put the pieces together helped me do the same.”

Tony Beckett, lighting up: “So you think so too?”

Myself: “Of course, why else would the window have been open?”

Tony Beckett, full of energy: “Exactly!”

Myself: “So are you gonna report it?”

Tony Beckett, calmed: “No, I owe him the chance to explain himself at least, I’m gonna talk to him.”

Myself: “When? He’ll be busy all day with his girlfriend.”

Tony Beckett: “Tomorrow then. I need a good place to do it though.”

Myself, excited: “I know a spot.”

Tony Beckett and I ate lunch together, over the course of which he texted all 5 of his close friends what had happened and his theory. I made sure to talk a little too loudly, so that those around us heard about the test swap. By the end of the school day, everyone knew. Except for Johnathan Derelict of course, who was lost in the aisles of books he was too dumb to read, looking for a French girl who was nowhere to be found.

I took a detour on my walk home. Instead of heading towards my house, I wandered off towards the outskirts of town. About two miles out, there lies a bridge and a 30-foot drop into the river. I stared into the river, flipped open my phone, and called Tony Beckett. Then I walked home.

END DAY

Feb 15: I don’t understand what went wrong. I planned everything perfectly.

I made the necessary preparations. I asked to borrow Carson Daily’s bike, then told my parents I was going to be doing work in my room that night and they were not to disturb me. At 6:02, I climbed out through my window (after making sure the slit was plenty wide), shut it, and rode the bike to our meeting spot on the bridge. My heart pounded for the whole bike ride over. I was giddy with anticipation. When I arrived (6:27), I saw Tony Beckett: leaning against his red Jeep, shivering in the frigid February air. Jonathan Derelict wasn’t coming until 7, but Tony Beckett and I made plans to meet in advance to prepare. When they find Tony Beckett’s body floating down the river, their only suspect was supposed to be Jonathan Derelict, the one he was supposed to meet here.

Tony Beckett: “You made it man, nice.”

Myself: “Of course, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Did you send him the text?”

Tony Beckett: “Yep, said he’d be here right at 7 like I asked.”

Myself, breathing heavily with excitement: “Perfect. Do you want to practice really fast.”

Tony Beckett, clueless: “Yeah. Yeah! Gotta get this right. Ok.”

Myself, frothing at the mouth: “Alright, just go look out over the bridge. I’ll walk up, tap you on the shoulder, and you just pretend I’m Johnny.”

Tony Beckett, nervously chuckling but following my instructions: “Sure, you’re a weird dude.”

Tony Beckett stationed himself, looking over the 30-foot drop into the icy water below. This was it. This was the moment. I approached Tony Beckett. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and said “Johnny?” and for one single moment he saw the hatred in my eyes. One moment too late. I kicked him over the railing, and watched him plummet down into the freezing river from which he would never resurface. 

And then I heard them, shouting hysterically. I turned and saw Jonathan Derelict, along with a whole group of his football buddies, having arrived a half hour early. Before I could do anything, they clamored back into their truck and sped off. Why? Why?! A screw-up like him wouldn’t come early to this? And he wouldn’t bring friends! I don’t know what went wrong. I don’t know! I couldn’t have made a mistake. I DON’T make mistakes. Bad luck is all it was. That must be it. I’m still on the bridge, even at this moment. I hear the sirens, the police are on their way. But they’ll never pin me for this. They have nothing on me! I have no motive after all, how could they guess why I did this. I won’t lose. I don’t lose. All that’s left to do is dispose of this journal, in which I’ve written my confession.

I’m so sad no one will get to read this and understand my genius plan. But needs must. Into the river you go journal. Lie in the drink with the body of the boy who had the misfortune of crossing my path.

END DAY