Page 3 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
We did our best to make the most of it. Mom hung balloons and banners and had food catered. She’d invited some of her and Dad’s friends, and I invited my only friends, Danny and Shweta, and at Mom’s encouragement, a few other kids from the neighborhood. We played music and splashed around in the pool, while Dad lay wrapped up, with even a hat on, in his chair. I’d caught the concerned expressions on the adults’ faces when they believed my attention to be occupied. Dad didn’t look so good. I could count on one hand how many times I’d seen him with his eyes open over that past week. I continued to play, because it made him happy to know my day wouldn’t be ruined, but he was barely hanging on, Caleb.
We ended things rather early, and I spent time with Dad on the sofa watching TV. I know what you’re thinking, Caleb. Yes, Mom allowed us to move the big TV into the living room. And yeah, it was mostly me watching and Dad listening. When I could no longer pretend that I found anything on the screen interesting, I shut it off and took his hands in mine. They were so frail, the veins more prominent than bone, but he squeezed with what little strength he had left; his breathing shallow. He was trying so hard to hold on, to not leave me on my birthday. He didn’t want to forever stain that day for me.
“I love you, Dad.” I blinked rapidly. “What will I do without you? Who will love me as much as you?”
His fingers fluttered in my hand, and his eyelids twitched from the strain of him trying to raise them.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I’ll have Mom. She’ll take care of me,” I lied. Mom would love me, the same way she always did. But she wouldn’t make me feelloved. We were two different beasts, she and I. I had no one else. My parents had no siblings, and their parents died before I was born.
I talked to him for over an hour. Holding his hands and hugging him in between. I promised to take care of Mom and to do well in school. I promised to read all the books on the shelves in his office. I promised to try not to be afraid to live without him.
He slowly craned his head toward me and with a final reserve of strength, he opened his jaundice-colored eyes. He licked his chapped lips, and whispered, “‘Courage...is knowing...what not to fear.’”
“Plato,” I cried, and the weight of his hand eased on mine and a lone tear escaped his eye. Symbolic in a sense, because no matter how many people you had around you, death was faced alone. Plato had also said, “Only the dead has seen the end of war.” Dad fought hard, but his war was now over.
My father died on July 14th at 11:59 p.m.
He would’ve loved you, Caleb. And to wish he were still here would be to wish you had never been. The conflict of my desires will leave me forever broken. This entry and every entry after is for you.
Chapter 1
Phoenix
“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”
~Plato
It was the start of my high school senior year, and Theory and I had the same first period class. AP philosophy. We dodged the crowd of students all zipping in different directions trying to make it to where they needed to be before the bell rang.
“I think this whole concept of higher education is the government’s way of brainwashing us into believing we are somehow better for having achieved it. When in reality, being born…” She trailed off when I held up a finger, our “stop sign” of sorts whenever she was on the road to a tangent. “Sorry.” She blew a long, dark lock from her face. “I’m worse when I’m nervous.”
Her name was Shweta, but we called her Theory because she always had one. I bumped her shoulder affectionately as we passed the sea of people, fighting to hear each other over the cacophony of conversations and slammed lockers. “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about. You’ve been on the honor roll for the last three years.”
“Exactly. This class can potentially ruin my streak.”
I stopped in front of the classroom door, lowering my voice. “You know I’ll help you.”
She squeezed my hand, pushing her tortoise spectacles up the bridge of her button nose. “Thanks, Pheeny.”
I picked the two desks at the front much to Theory’s disappointment, but I’d anticipated taking this course for three years now. No way was I missing a second of it stuck in the back. Mr. Bloom hadn’t arrived yet, but I wasn’t surprised to see everyone settled just under a minute before the class started. He was known for being prompt and expecting the same from his students. No sooner had I slouched in my seat when I had to immediately jerk upright again when a man—not Mr. Bloom—walked in, dropping a leather satchel onto the high desk a mere three feet in front of mine. Without a word, he turned to the chalkboard and wroteDr. Sebastian Wickedin the prettiest scrawl I’d ever seen. There were faint snickers behind me at what I assumed was amusement at his last name. My first thought was “what is this, high school?” But...yeah.
Theory kicked my shoe. “He’s hot,” she mouthed.
With his stature, dark hair, dimpled chin, and black-rimmed glasses, I supposed he did resemble Clark Kent, circa Henry Cavill, but my curiosity lay in the whereabouts of Mr. Bloom.
The new teacher dusted the chalk off his hands and faced the room wearing a broody expression, but then a flicker of lightheartedness lit his navy eyes to a greenish blue. “Get it all out now.” He paused to allow the students laughing free rein to show their immaturity. He made a downward gesture with his hand, signaling the end of play time, and all laughter ceased with that one motion. The spark of life in his eyes faltered as well. I hadn’t expected to feel a sense of loss because of it. It was as if someone had taken my breath away.
“I know you were all expecting Mr. Bloom, but for personal reasons, he had to take a temporary leave of absence. He’s expected to be out for the remainder of the year. I’ll be your AP philosophy instructor this term. The title of doctor feels a bit stiff for this setting. I’m okay with Mr. Wicked.” His gaze landed on mine and held in a way that suggested he somehow recognized me. “Do you want to start the introductions?”
Another kick from Theory jarred me out of my stupor. This time her foot caught my ankle bone through the thin fabric of my black Converses. “Sure!” I squealed, then cleared my throat. “Phoenix. Sir.” Another round of giggles.
Mr. Wicked held a hand up, calling for order. “In my class we show respect at all times, especially when someone has the floor.” His voice barely rose above a whisper but it boomed through the room and crawled under my skin. The samechildrenwho laughed at my show of respect could now be heard giving their own “yes, sir,” and, “sorry, sir.”
“First and last,” he addressed me again.
“Phoenix Michaelson.” I shifted in my seat, pinching the knee of my skinny khakis and tugging down.
His gaze moved on and took in each speaker. He listened carefully, like our names meant something to him. “In layman’s terms, philosophy is a way of thinking about the world, the universe, and society. It works by asking basic questions about said universe, the nature of human thought, and the connections between them.” Returning to the board he wrotepolitical philosophyin large letters before underlining it. “Does anyone know why philosophy is important?”
