But it can’t be a joke. Rhino’s too dumb to arrange this. Pranks are not Celeste’s thing. And who knew he had Laverne’s car scratched except Crotch? It takes until he is stuffing pizza-for-breakfast into his mouth for him to realize that whoever left the note has been inside his house. He feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time. He doesn’t know what it is. I do. It’s fear.
He goes about his day. He’s got meals to eat. Bros to hang with. Maybe a blow job later if he plays his cards right. But it continues to prey upon him, this note. It’s not something he can bring up to his father; it would generate too many questions. It’s not something he really wants to bring up to his bros, either. Because what if Crotch, even for a second, gets the best of him?
So he worries. It’s beautiful—you can see it in his face. He doesn’t relish his meals. He finds no joy in his bros. He’s not invested in angling for that blow job. All he can think about is six o’clock and that weight room. It’s killing him. It’s really killing him and it’s beautiful.
At five o’clock he heads to school. He figures he’ll show up early, get the drop on whoever awaits him. It’s something he’s learned from sports. Get up earlier, train harder. It’s Saturday, so he doesn’t know which doors, if any, will be unlocked. Turns out only the back door, the one nearest the parking lot, is slightly ajar. The walk takes him past the trophy cases, where his name is engraved in multiple metal plates. This is by design. Soak it up, Woody. Enjoy the feeling one last time. Because guess what engravings remind me of?
The halls are dark. He’s a big guy, he’s not scared. The gymnasium is darker. Okay, he’s a little scared. The stairway leading up to the weight room is a total void because I’ve unscrewed the bulbs. He’s scared. He’s scared now. His heart is hammering like a little birdie’s. There’s the door. Anything could be behind it. But he can’t stop moving. He’s never hesitated inside Bloughton High, he doesn’t know how.
Woody won’t get it, but I’ve chosen the weight room for its symbolism. Without the weight room, there’s no Fun and Games, no Celeste, no Foley. Maybe none of this would have happened. I owe this weight room a lot, and now it’s time for repayment.
He pulls open the door, enters, and is blinded. All the lights are on. He throws a hand over his eyes. His feet tangle in barbells. He’s down, hands and elbows and knees knocking against ten-, twenty-, fifty-pound weights. They’re scattered everywhere just inside the door. That’s not where they’re supposed to be. It’s so careless, what kind of jerk—
A cloth over his mouth.
This is also the day Celeste Carpenter dies. More precisely, this is the day she becomes like Joey Crouch, forever fearful and humiliated. Such a fate would seem preposterous to her at this moment. At last night’s Spring Fling, her routine was flawless. No, I wasn’t there. But this is how Celeste’s life works. There was riotous applause. An award or two was won. People who don’t know shit about dance swore it is their favorite art form. I can’t blame them.
There is a note waiting for Celeste, too. It is sitting outside her bedroom door in a sealed envelope. At first read, she is alarmed. After several rereads, though, she finds it surprisingly easy to convince herself of the number of legitimate routes the note could have taken to her door. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The news contained is too exciting.
Dear Celeste,
I’m sorry about the other day. To make it up to you, I’ve pulled some strings. Representatives from a theater company in Chicago are here. They missed your show last night but would like a repeat performance at 7:30 tonight. I hope this is all right. Come to the stage at seven. I’ll meet you in the greenroom.
Congratulations.
What she feels is not surprise. Not even close. What she feels is irritation that it took this long. After all, the crowd response last night was so forceful. After all, wasn’t TV’s Shasta McTagert discovered at a similar event? Celeste carries out her morning with exaggerated calmness, holding her teacup daintily, lingering with her loofah in the shower, taking time to inhale the scent of pollen sweetening the breeze.