Being Henry David Read online

“Just give me your name, and we’ll talk immediately afterward. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Hank,” I say. “Davidson.” He writes this down. Still not ready to be Danny, not yet. When he asks for an address and phone number, I go ahead and give him Thomas’s. Can’t think of any lie that sounds reasonable. Besides, by the time they come looking for me, it won’t matter.

  I watch as the EMTs roll Jack’s gurney into the ambulance, close the back doors, and drive off, blue and red lights still rolling, making me queasy. I press back the memories of Rosie and the accident, push them far away, and there’s nothing more to do. So I turn toward the school in a daze. Hardly feel my own feet shuffling through the gravel or my hand on the cold metal door.

  As soon as I enter the back hallway of the school, I’m bombarded with bright lights and amplified music. It’s like stepping into another world, unconnected and unaware of what just went down outside. With the loud music coming from the stage, it’s unlikely anybody heard the shouts or the sirens. I feel like an alien, stumbling with squinted eyes into a surreal universe where I don’t belong.

  Ms. Coleman spots me in the hallway and gestures at me like crazy. “Hank, there you are!” she shouts in a shrill voice. “Come on, you’re up next!”

  She ushers me toward the wings, where Ryan, Sam, and Hailey are standing together waiting for one of the bands on the stage, a heavy metal group, to wrap up. Waiting for me. Panicked looks give way to relief and anger as soon as they see me. Ms. Coleman hands me my guitar, and I stand next to the members of Carpe Diem. I sling the guitar strap over my shoulder and avoid looking at anybody.

  “Jesus. About time,” Ryan says.

  “Hank,” says Hailey. She’s standing there in her slinky black outfit, trembling hands clutching a plastic water bottle. Afraid, beautiful, angry. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Just…” I gesture vaguely. “Outside.”

  She squints at me in the muted backstage light. “Oh my God, look at you. You’ve got dirt on your face. Did you and Cameron get into a fight?” Furious, she yanks a tissue out of her pants pocket, saturates it with water from her bottle, and wipes at my face. I wince as she finds some scraped spots on my nose. “I knew it,” she murmurs to herself.

  “It’s not about Cameron,” I tell her.

  She reaches into my messy hair, tries to make me look presentable, flicks angry green eyes at me. “Then what happened to you out there?”

  “Too much to tell right now,” I whisper, and my eyes burn with acid tears.

  Hailey finishes finger-combing my hair and looks into my face. I don’t know what she sees there, but the anger lifts, replaced by concern. “You okay, Hank?” She presses her red lips together.

  I look into her pretty face and find myself unable to lie. “I don’t know.”

  She grabs my hands and squeezes tight. Concern gives way to something deeper and she presses her forehead against mine. “Listen, Hank. When we get out there, pretend it’s just us, together in the white room, okay?” she says in a soft, soothing voice. “Just you and me, me and you, making music.”

  I nod, absorbing her words but unable to respond.

  “Okay, Carpe Diem,” Ms. Coleman says, practically pushing the four of us onto the stage. “Get out there. You’re next.”

  We walk onto the darkened side of the stage and find our places just as the group on the spotlighted half begins to play. I can’t seem to register anything they’re doing. Can’t identify the music, can’t hear progressions or lyrics, my senses paralyzed.

  As if in slow motion, I turn my attention to the guitar, Thomas’s butterscotch Telecaster, and plug it into the amp. Try to get centered, focus. Can’t screw up. Have to push everything else on my mind away. My past, my future. Everything. Put it all in a box, lock it shut and place a beast on guard in front of it. I know how to do that, right?

  The group before us finishes their tune, and I’m vaguely aware of applause while I go through the opening chords of “Blackbird” in my head. Come on, I can do this. I know this song in my sleep, even knew it in the strange sleep of amnesia when I didn’t know my own name.

  The lights come up, and it’s time for me to play. The crowd is quiet, expectant, a blur of faces. So many faces waiting for me to do something. Anything. My fingers are cramped, curled like claws above the guitar. Can’t play a note. Can’t do it. Can’t move. A dark wave threatens to take me under.

  The crowd is silent, holding its breath. They don’t realize it’s me who’s falling apart in front of them. Instead, they’re probably wondering if Hailey’s going to have an insulin reaction and pass out again. I imagine Ms. Coleman with her cell phone in hand, ready to dial 9-1-1.

  Heart thundering in my ears, I screw my eyes tight, try to concentrate, try to move my frozen fingers and conjure music that won’t come. I’m failing Hailey and I can’t do a thing about it.

  But then, the silence is broken by the sound of a voice. A girl’s silky alto voice. At first, I’m so lost in my own head that I don’t recognize the voice or the song. But it cuts through my panic and I recognize that it’s Hailey. Singing “Blackbird,” a cappella, without me. Her voice soars to the rafters, so beautiful.

  I’m mesmerized along with the rest of the audience, just listening, until she reaches the end of the first verse. Then, as if they have finally come to life, my fingers relax and start to move. They form chords across the frets, hover above the strings, and then come in perfectly for the intro of the second verse. The music consumes me and the magic takes over at last, transcending my fear. Hailey joins in and starts singing the second verse like this is exactly how we planned it all along. Whatever fear had a hold on her for the past year has completely loosened its grip. I look over the crowd and see people’s astonished faces. See them talking to each other, and I know what they’re saying. She’s doing it this time. She’s doing it. And damn, she’s good.

  I glance over at Hailey and her eyes say, you and me, me and you. I knew we could do it.

  We get to the end of the ballad verse, blackbird fly, into the light of a dark black night, and then, with an explosive crash of cymbals, the band comes to life and we launch through the song a second time, rocking it hard. Colored lights burst onto the stage with that first crash, and the crowd goes nuts, screaming and whistling and hooting. Hailey wails out the vocals, Sam plays the hell out of the skins, and even Ryan plays almost every note perfectly. By the time we finish, people are on their feet, pumping their arms and shouting.

  I glance at Hailey, at her pink cheeks and shining eyes. The girl is glowing, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She blows me a kiss and a smile takes up my entire face. I want to capture this amazing moment like a photograph to tuck into my heart and brain forever. Remember every single detail. Carpe Diem. Seize the day, this moment. Trap it. Keep it. I wish it would never end.

  But it has to. The lights go off on our half of the stage and up on the next band, some folkie guitar-and-fiddle group that assaults my ears. For me, this is the beginning of the end. But what a way to go. What a rush.

  Backstage, Sam, Ryan, and I congratulate one another. None of us even care about winning anymore. The fact that we got through it was victory enough.

  “I told you losers I could do it,” Ryan says to nobody in particular and throws his fedora in the air. Sam snatches it and runs away, making Ryan chase him with a whoop.

  “You were incredible,” I whisper in Hailey’s ear.

  “You too,” she says and gives me a kiss that almost knocks me over.

  God, there’s so much I want to tell Hailey. So many lies I need to straighten out. I want to tell her how scared I’ve been this whole time, how scared I still am, and how much I need her. Tell her how I feel like I’ve always known her, like maybe we were lovers in a previous life, maybe several past lives. That’s how I feel about this girl. But how can I tell her any of this?

  Before I get a chance, the final band finishes its two-song folkie set, and a
ll the bands are gathered back on the stage for the voting. In the back of the auditorium, I see a pair of policemen standing by, watching and waiting.

  One by one, Ms. Coleman calls out the names of the bands and each group steps forward to stir up the crowd and drum up the highest-decibel support. The loudest response, not surprisingly, comes for Cameron’s band. But ours sounds like a strong second.

  “And the winner is—Red Tide!” Ms. Coleman announces. Lights go wild, the crowd shrieks, the winning band comes forward for their trophy and check. Cameron throws me a triumphant look, and I give him a cheesy salute in congratulations, which obviously confuses him. Okay, we’re not exactly friends, but not enemies either. My time has almost run out and there’s no energy left for grudges. At least I know he’ll be watching out for Hailey after I’m gone.

  Everything else is a blur. Somehow I manage to let Hailey take me by the hand to accept congratulations from her mom and dad and Danielle, who says something flirty in my ear that I can’t make out. Somehow I accept pats on the back, people yelling in my ear, “You were incredible!” and random girls giving me hugs. I wish I could enjoy some of this.

  But I know that the good stuff is dwindling fast. Soon, everything will be out. The cops are waiting right now to ask me questions. Bad stuff is waiting for me and I can’t put it off much longer.

  I spot Thomas, Suzanne, and Nessa near the foot of the stage, and the three of them rush forward to congratulate me. They tell me how great the guitar sounded, how our group totally should’ve won the award, and I make myself smile through it all, dreading what has to happen next. I manage to mumble my thanks, but once they stop gushing and stand there blinking and smiling at me, I don’t have it in me to muster one syllable of small talk. I blurt out what has to be said.

  “I found Jack outside, behind the school,” I tell them. “He’s real messed up, but an ambulance came and he’s at Emerson Hospital by now. They think he’s going to be okay.”

  Nessa buries her face in her hands and starts to cry, a mixture of fear and relief. Suzanne puts an arm around her and strokes her hair.

  The happy noise of the crowd, people talking and laughing, swirls and bends into a muffled rush of chaos that excludes us. Over there are the normal people of Concord, who have just enjoyed an evening of music and friends and entertainment and safety. And then there’s us.

  Peering over Suzanne’s shoulder, I see two uniformed cops walking toward us. One of them is the guy who took my name. They’re waiting to hear my story, to find out how I’m connected to the boy who overdosed behind the high school. This is where the truth comes out, where all the shit in the world hits the fan. After talking to the police, either I’ll go home to parents who hate me or straight to jail for my crimes in New York. This is where I say good-bye to Hank forever and have to be Danny Henderson full time again.

  But I am still not ready.

  Hailey catches my eye from where she stands with her family near the edge of the stage. “Hank, can you come over to the house to celebrate?” she asks. “My mother made a cake and everything.”

  “I can’t, Hailey.” I grab her hand, tight, and kiss her fingers. “I have to go.”

  She blinks at me, green eyes flecked with gold, piercing mine. Seeing me. And I know it’s not my imagination. The girl can read me like a book and she can sense the raw finality there, loud and clear.

  “You’re going?” she whispers in disbelief. “Before you even tell me who you really are?”

  My eyes prickle with tears. “I have to,” I whisper back. “I’ll contact you, I promise. I’ll tell you everything.” Then I let go of her hand as the cops approach, radios crackling on their hips, handcuffs clinking, badges blinding.

  “Oh hey, I forgot the guitar backstage,” I say to no one in particular, giving myself a little smack on the forehead, like oh, what an idiot. “Look, I’ll go get it and be right back.”

  There are only a few feet between me and the stage. I turn, take the steps two at a time, push my way behind the curtain. I hear Thomas’s voice behind me, “Hank, wait,” but I ignore it.

  The second I’m out of sight, I jog down a long, dark hallway leading away from the auditorium, away from the stage, away from people. As soon as I reach a side door, I open it a crack, and when I’m certain there’s nobody lurking outside in the schoolyard or behind the trees, I slip as silently as possible into the shadows.

  Sucking cool, fresh air into my lungs, I sprint full speed from the high school grounds, arms and legs pumping, then straining. Blending into the dark night.

  Running, again.

  18

  A dragonfly with green eyes lands on my arm and a long-legged spider climbs up the leg of my jeans, but I don’t move. Can’t scare the moose or let him know I’m hidden behind this spruce tree.

  The moose has long spindly legs, a humpback brown body and a goatee. I don’t know how he holds those huge antlers up. Leaning over to take a deep drink from the pond, he almost looks harmless, like a horse or something. But I know better. A moose could kick a person to death if he’s really pissed.

  Ow! A black fly bites the back of my neck, and I smack it, which startles the moose and makes the dragonfly shoot off into the woods. I hate these stupid black flies, and the mosquitoes are just as bad. Last night huddled in my sleeping bag with my flashlight, I counted seventy-two bites. No kidding. Seventy-two. And every one of them still burns and itches.

  Hazards on the Appalachian Trail: Biting flies and mosquitoes. I get it now. Though I’d add moose to that list too.

  I hold my breath as the moose lifts his huge head to stare at me, pond water dripping off his goatee. If he charges, I’ll climb this tree as fast as I can. All the muscles in my body are tense, waiting.

  But the moose doesn’t charge. He just stands there, looking at me with his black eyes pretty much the same way I’m looking at him. Like I’m incredibly interesting, but he’s worried about what I’ll do next. When nothing happens on either side, he ducks his head back into the water, yanks up some green pond weeds, and chews calmly, ignoring me.

  It’s Monday morning, the start of my first full day in the wilds of Maine. The moose sighting is a good omen, I’m sure of it.

  Now that I’m in Maine, standing in the woods watching a moose, Saturday night seems like forever ago, a weird dream I had once. But it really happened. After escaping from the high school, I sprinted to Thomas’s place to get a backpack, clothes, and all the money I’d saved. From his basement, I grabbed some camping gear and wrote a quick note: “Borrowing some stuff. Promise to bring it back. Thanks for everything.”

  After taking the last train to Boston, I made my way to South Station, and then caught the first bus in the morning to Bangor. Tried to sleep on the bus, resting my head on the backpack, but that didn’t work. My thoughts were crazy, like bees swarming around in my brain. Hailey, Jack, Nessa, and Thomas were all in there with me, along with my parents.

  And Rosie. Especially Rosie.

  Ever since the accident, I’ve been on the run, like a voice inside is telling me to keep moving. But there’s another voice now, getting louder and harder to push aside.

  You really think you can run away from Rosie and what happened to her? Go face your life, the fact that the accident was your fault. Face Rosie. Face Mom and Dad.

  I know, I tell the voice. But I can’t. Not yet. Let me do this last thing and I’ll go back. I promise.

  This final leg of my journey feels right on some kind of bone-deep soul level. I followed Thoreau to Concord to find out who I was, and now I’m following Thoreau to Maine. Maybe here I can figure out who I’m supposed to be next. At least this trip will give me a chance to clear my head before surrendering to the mess I left behind.

  In Bangor I bought more supplies: a jackknife, waterproof matches, fishing line, and trail food. All those years being a Boy Scout and camping out with my dad definitely came in handy preparing for this trip.

  At the Bangor Post Office, I bo
ught one sheet of stationery, one envelope, and one stamp, and then stood at the counter for a long time, trying to write a letter to Hailey.

  Dear Hailey,

  Wow. I don’t know what to say to you. I guess “I’m sorry” would be a good place to start. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you from day one, but I hope you understand once you hear my whole story. When I first met you, I didn’t know who I was. I mean, seriously. I had amnesia, couldn’t remember my name, or where I lived, or anything. It wasn’t until after I met Thomas (the guy I told you was my uncle) that I finally figured out who I was and why I was such a mess.

  My real name is Danny, and I live near Chicago. I ran away from home and lost my memory for a bunch of reasons, but the biggest one is that I was in a car accident where my little sister got hurt really bad. I was the driver. Sure, Thomas keeps telling me it was an accident, but it was still my fault and it tears me apart every minute. Anyway, not looking for sympathy here, just trying to explain so maybe you can understand me better.

  I met you and to be honest, for a while I didn’t even care who I was. I could almost stop thinking about it all. You made me feel happy, and the music we shared was amazing. Thank you so much for that.

  Hailey, I still need to figure some stuff out, but once I do, I’ll contact you. I can’t stop thinking about you and I want to see you again. Maybe you’re really mad at me and don’t want to see me at all, but I hope you’ll give me a second chance.

  Don’t know what to say other than I really miss you and I’m sorry.

  I stopped and considered how I should close the letter. Your friend? Sincerely? Take Care? See ya? But then I decided just to write exactly what I felt:

  Love,

  Hank (Danny)

  From Bangor, I walked or thumbed rides the rest of the way here. The deeper into Maine I traveled, the more natural everything looked. It was honest-to-God wilderness, or as Thoreau called it, “the wild.” Found my way to Baxter State Park early last night and set up camp. The only drawback is the bugs, but I bet there’s not even one black fly up at the summit of Mount Katahdin.