The Stoner Idiot

Alison Lilla
Jul 21, 2017 · 10 min read

There are a few movies and books about Grosse Pointe. These stories all have some truth to them. Grosse Pointe is an exclusive city that borders Detroit, fish flies from Lake St. Clair come around every summer, most of us are rich, and the houses are grand. There’s a somewhat lonely feeling that you can occasionally sense while walking around the neighborhoods at dusk. Grosse Pointers tend to be upstanding people who enjoy perfection. It’s also true that most teens here are privileged. They drink and smoke marijuana, sometimes — though infrequently — snort cocaine and other designer drugs. Parties run into the early morning and are rarely civil. And everyone has a car and knows the right people.

The writers who focus on this city, though, have never liked it here. I don’t think they ever cared about anyone or anything. They hated this place so much that they forgot there was any humanity, and what was left was all that ever made it onto the pages. Grosse Pointe had become sterile and full of past evil. Everyone was guilty of being preppy, like it was some ugly mark. We were careless and conventional to the point of sinister.

With all the jokes and ridicule, I became the privileged idiot who didn’t deserve to cry over the mistakes he made. I was the careless rich, somebody who never gave a shit about anyone. There is a reason people feel this way. I’m a WASP who wears khakis and tattersall shirts regularly. The education I’ve had has given me the classical edge of intelligence even though I’m not an intellect. My parents own a condo in Florida that overlooks the ocean — some nights, I’ve stared out at the ocean miserably from the balcony. It’s even true that I convinced a geek to change my grades.

There are people who’d laugh at my misery — “if you could even call it that,” they might say. And there are some, who if they were close enough, would pity me, the shattered remainder of Trent Mulholland, your idiot narrator.

I got myself expelled from the McWilliam Dunhill Academy. It was my fault — the police caught me with a flask of Patrón at prom — but that’s not important. What’s important is what I was doing before I was caught and why I did it. I’m not proud of what I did or the events leading up to it. All I know is Howell pushed me to this point. He pushed me to a place where I realized no matter how hard I tried, I could never force my fantasies and ambitions into reality, and I lost all sense of conduct and reason.

You can take this at face value. You can take me for the rich boy who got himself into trouble and couldn’t pick himself up afterward. You can take nothing away from this except that I fell far from where I started. There’s still so much beyond this, beyond the surface.

Anyway, I’ll tell you everything there is worth knowing about me and Grosse Pointe. Full truth, all the things that made me love my community and the ugly parts that led to my rejection. But just know, I never meant anything against my friends. I love them and I don’t hate anyone anymore, not even Howell and what he did to me, but I’ll start this story when I did.

***

The first day back to school, there was a lot of talk about the new history teacher. Brooke Benton, the snobbiest girl of McWilliam Dunhill, said he was young, funny, and had sex appeal. I was following my friend Nick into the Duck Room for history. It was right after lunch, and everyone was already there to meet this teacher. Nick slouched low and took a picture of himself. Not that I thought Nick was vain but I was tired of his selfies about what he was eating or what the temperature was. The room was sweltering now.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, people were loosening their ties, unbuttoning their blouses, or taking off their sweaters. Relatively calm and not bothered by the heat, I had my feet propped on the table as I admired the room.

The Duck Room as we affectionately called it was striking, all mahogany paneling with carved detailing. Instead of desks there was a conference table, the ultimate sign of maturity. And of course, wooden ducks sat on all the shelves: the Horned Grebe, the Northern Pintail, the Gadwall, the Ruddy Duck, the Hooded Merganser, the Canvasback, and the best, the common loon.

Somehow, this wasn’t enough to take in. So I looked at Brooke and her crew: that was Susan, Muffy, and Caroline. They dressed in the latest fashion of shaggy dog sweaters, gold bracelets, leggings, and white sneakers. Exclusive as it stands to reason. There was a new face among them, Lily Burch. She was a junior forced to take sophomore history and chemistry. I saw some appealing quality in her, like she was saying, “I’ll know you, but you won’t ever know me.”

Brooke among them sat the straightest with a slight smile, ignoring that I was even here. Earlier I asked her if the new teacher was really sexy, because I just wanted to know. Brooke then told me to tell her what I thought when we met him. And I told her not to get her panties wet. I felt bad about saying it because it felt out of character and rude.

Suddenly Brooke said, “You didn’t hear, Lily. Trent Mulholland is an asshole. He paid someone to change his and his friends’ grades. And then his dad donated that weight lifting room. Mr. Mulholland could have at least made it more subtle.”

“Were you friends?” Lily asked.

“Sure, I guess I was, but the past doesn’t matter, does it?”

I put my hand to my forehead for a moment. Didn’t need this from Brooke. Wished I were stoned or simply not here. Then I leaned over, able to smell Brooke’s perfume.

“Hey, why did you tell her what I did?” I demanded.

“Someone would have said it anyway.”

“Like who?” I scratched my head. “Do you mention to anyone who’ll listen that I got Patrick expelled?”

“Just people you want to date.”

Hella rude of her.

“Whatever. Don’t you have some fantasizing to do?”

She looked caught off guard now. “Go to hell, Trent. You had a crush on a teacher too.”

I said, “The hormones weren’t flowing hard then.” Then I winked at Brooke.

Susan smirked and Brooke pulled down her clingy sweater over her stomach before turning towards her friends. Muffy was on her phone, humming some Adele song, and Caroline was reading over her floral-print day planner. Brooke said to them, “He’s such an asshole. He looks wasted.”

The grin left my face. I muttered, “Oh, blow me.”

“Hey!” Nick balled up his sweaty tie and tossed it at me. “Would you stop being a dick?”

I dropped his tie, wiped my hands on my blazer. “Sure, Nick.”

“And maybe if you apologized, she might forgive you.”

“What did I ever do to her?”

After a pause, he said, “You called her a bitch in front of everyone at that party. Don’t you remember?”

There was a vague memory of the pool party, but it was so fuzzy. I turned around to say sorry to Brooke, but she was facing away.

“Oh right. I’ll try to be better.”

He nodded in approval. Nick had a soldier-like quality to him, not authority but discipline. I was more the authority of my squad, that was me, Jordan, Van, Nick, and Paul, but I’ll get to them later.

The door banged open and in walked Mr. Howell, so his name tag said. I threw down my feet and pulled my seat in. Didn’t need to make a bad impression on the first day.

“Sorry I’m late, but I was talking with my old Spanish teacher.”

No one spoke, dazed in the presence of the fabulous Mr. Howell. My lip twitched up in defense. I noticed immediately that he dressed like us — not as in preppy but teen-like — wearing pastel pants far too short and tight, even a bowtie. And like the senior hockey players, his hair was slicked back. Maybe Brooke was right — not that I should have known — but I couldn’t help feeling beguiled by his teenagerness.

“Have anything to say? Or did the Salisbury steak put you in a food coma? So, I attended McWilliam Dunhill some years back. I won’t say how many, or I’ll date myself.”

Howell laughed at his own joke. Some of the girls did too. He’d already captured the attention of the class. Nick, sunburned and grinning, said Howell was funny. “Better than Mrs. Archibald,” he whispered. She was the teacher who left.

I ignored Nick. It was impossible to catch a breeze from where I sat. I took off my bowtie and undid the top buttons of my oxford shirt. Lindsay, my friend, a popular girl who Nick and Brooke didn’t approve of, joked that I looked like a sleaze with my rumpled shirt and sports coat.

Like a laid back presenter, Howell had his legs spread and fingers tapped together. His head was angled slightly, ready to sell himself. “Now, I know history seems boring because y’all are occupied, snapping pictures of your Starbucks and macaroons, but history can be pretty damn cool in the right light.”

Damn was every kid’s debut into the adult world. I was onto more innocence-shattering words worse than fuck. Of course my mother and father taught me not to swear in public. And I made an effort not to. Why did everyone think Howell was cool? He was a teacher. He even gave us our first assignment: thirty pages of A Comprehensive History of Fur Trade in North America.

I stared at Brooke on our way out, passing the shelves of books and awards. There was even a picture of my father accepting some academic honor back in the eighties. Brooke still looked as if she wanted to slap me. Why did I say those things? I wanted to ask Lily out. What a waste. She wouldn’t after knowing what I did to Patrick. Brooke shouldn’t have told Lily what I did, but it wasn’t as if she wouldn’t figure it out. I felt like an idiot. I was about to rush down the stairs to talk to Garret, this junior I really liked when someone said, “Hey, do you know where photography is?”

It was Lily. She caught me down the steps with a bottle of Adderall in my hand. I stuffed it away.

“Yeah, it’s in the arts building, across the walkway. I’m heading there now.”

She nodded and slid her tote up over her shoulder. “Thanks, Trent.”

My heart seemed to lift. She didn’t seem too repulsed, or she wouldn’t have asked me for help. I opened the door for Lily when we came to the first floor. The air was warm and shadows played across the corners and bushes under the covered walkway. Behind us, on the second floor, Howell was standing by the window with some students. He glanced at me and waved. I waved back tiredly before turning around.

“Hey, Lily, I’m not a jerk.”

“It’s your word, Trent, but I know what you mean.”

“Howell is fifteen years too old and desperate.”

“Mm-hm, but he’s hot with his deep voice and that flow.”

I stopped her. “Enough. So how’s your first day going?”

“Fine, but all the sophomores are coming onto me. They’re so clingy.”

We were at the end of the walkway. I wanted to stall her a little longer since I had a decent shot at asking her on a date — the juniors were stoners. I was a stoner too, which didn’t make me any better. It was hard to admit I was a stoner since it was only recently I started smoking. Sometimes I forgot I was even one.

“So, you into The Hunger Games?” I asked. Most of the girls talked about The Hunger Games this year.

“I’m sixteen.”

“You interested in going on a date with me?”

“No.” Then she said to throw me off, “Is everything Brooke said true?”

“Uh, yeah.” I blinked then stared at the ground, fingering my tie. “I wasn’t expelled since I didn’t actually hack into the school. Still, I got my punishment, and it doesn’t change anything, but I do feel bad if you wanted to know the truth.”

She rolled her eyes, unconvinced by my confession. “Brooke said you weren’t sorry.” Then Lily said she had to go. I agreed and waited by the vending machines. My throat and mouth were dry, but I didn’t have my water bottle on me. Left it in the car since I was so forgetful now. My thoughts drifted from the difference between Fiji and Voss water to the falling off of my friends. Eventually I got some of them back since we’d known each other for so long.

“Sure you did.”

Georgina had arrived. Six-foot-tall dork with tortoiseshell glasses, bright red lipstick, pale skin, didn’t do much for people. Said I acted like a hetero earlier. I didn’t get it. I didn’t get Georgina even after knowing her for ten years.

“You joined speech.”

I turned towards her. “Georgina, I could be here for computer tutorial.”

She frowned, wrinkling her nose. “Like you could work with computers. Patrick had to do it for you.”

“As if you know anything about computers.”

“That doesn’t make any sense — oh go jump off the Guardian Building, you asshole.”

I gulped and went to talk with Todd Hussein, Bill’s little brother. While we were talking about how hot it was getting, I took some Adderall to keep sharp. “They ruin the heart, dude,” he said. I just nodded. Then Caroline and Muffy came through the doors. Todd backed away and pretended to be interested in a poster for the school drama. I grasped my phone and flipped the mute switch, trying to let go of the implications.


This is the first chapter of my novel The Stoner Idiot. If you’re interested in donating money to help pay for an editor, check out my GoFundMe page. The link is below. Thanks for reading, and I hope you’ve enjoyed this.

https://www.gofundme.com/help-publish-novel-thestoner-idiot

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Alison Lilla

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Aspiring Novelist. Class of '21 at Kalamazoo.

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