6
Wyatt
Wyatt started high school that fall, and it all hit the fan. He knew he couldn’t read, at least not like other kids, but he’d faked it by listening to audiobooks or by paying enough attention in class to get by without reading the textbook.
His middle school teachers had remarked that he wasn’t a strong writer, a generous assessment that he’d earned by being a strong charmer. But in the ninth grade there was no more faking it. His history teacher suggested he be tested, and it all started to fall apart.
In January, he started at a boarding school for kids with learning differences. It was called the Center for Untapped Potential, which Wyatt found patronizing and also a little off. He was skeptical about the idea that his potential was hidden in rural Illinois behind thick brick walls. He knew that, to the extent he had potential, it would be found outdoors, someplace where there was surfing.
He settled into his single room and made friends with the boys on his hall.
But by mid-February, when the sky was low and it was dark at four p.m., he stopped trying. He was no longer interested in playing cards. He stopped going to class. He stopped crossing the frozen quad to eat the too-creamy food. By the time the administration figured out that he’d stopped getting out of bed, it had been three days. His parents were called and agreed that he needed counseling.
“Sweetie, it’s probably just the weather,” Marion said on the phone.
“Seasonal affective disorder, it’s so common. I’m sending a special light for
your room to help with that, and in the meantime you need to go see Dr.
Nick. Otherwise, they’re going to send you home.”
“Promise?” Wyatt said. Florida in February was suddenly a threat?
“I know. I know you want to come home. But this school is the best in the country for helping kids like you. Learn what you can, so that you can come home and finish high school here. Finish the semester, we’ll have a fun summer, then we’ll talk about another year.”
Wyatt slept through his first appointment with Dr. Nick. He was sleeping all the time. But on the morning of his second appointment, the headmaster banged on his door and dragged him into the hall and across campus in his pajama bottoms to the Student Health building.
“So what’s been going on?” Dr. Nick was deliberately casual and approachable in jeans and a Van Halen T-shirt. There was an acoustic guitar leaning on his desk. The whole thing looked like a costume to Wyatt, and he imagined Dr. Nick going home and changing into a tweed blazer after work.
“I stopped dealing.”
“With what?”
Wyatt looked out the window; he didn’t even feel like dealing with the stupid questions about what he wasn’t dealing with. “Learning, doing, being,
eating. Talking.”
“Is there anything you like doing?”
Wyatt took in the endless field of dirty snow. “Surfing. Picked a great spot for it, right?”
He was due back the next day and showed up of his own volition to avoid
the spectacle with the headmaster.
“Do you like music?”
“Everyone likes music.”
“I see you eyeing my guitar, do you play?”
“No. I just like to listen to music. Like anyone.”
“What’s that like?”
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “What’s it like to listen to music? Same as it is for anyone. I close my eyes and listen. I can see the different instruments coming in and out of the song. I like to pick it apart, I guess.”
“That’s not the same as it is for anyone.”
Wyatt let out a breath. “Great, we’ve discovered a new area where I’m a freak.”
Over the course of two weeks, they talked about how he thought Michael was partying too much. How he thought his parents either were scared of Michael or had given up on him. They talked about Sam and Travis and how their family was perfect, how easy everything was for them. Wyatt described the braid Sam made in the front of her hair, the ease of it.
“I have no idea why I told you that.” Wyatt eyed the guitar.
“Listen,” said Dr. Nick. “Between you and me, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. I think you’re a surfer stuck in the middle of the country in February. I think you might be a little in love with this Sam person.” He held up a hand against Wyatt’s protest. “But that’s your problem, not mine, to fix. I’m going to release you from these sessions, if you agree to my terms.”
Wyatt wasn’t so sure he wanted to meet the terms; he kind of liked coming to Dr. Nick’s office. He still hadn’t talked about the thing between his parents, and he felt like he finally wanted to.
“I need you to go to class. Every class. I need you to eat. And every night after dinner, you are going to go to the music department for guitar lessons.
First one’s tonight. Take this.” He handed Wyatt his guitar. Wyatt ran his hand along the smooth neck and let his fingers rest on the frets. He dared to pluck out a sound, and he saw it take shape the second he heard it.
