A Plague Year

paperback. “Does anyone know what Daniel Defoe’s plague was called?”

He looked at the girl, like she was the only one who had any chance of knowing. When she didn’t venture a guess, he told us, “The bubonic plague. It decimated London, England, in 1665.” He looked around the room. “But what about nowadays, in the year 2001? What kind of plagues do we have now?”

He answered his own question again, before any of us could. “AIDS? Swine flu?”

Mr. Proctor put down his marker. He pointed out the window. “Listen. I have been reading about a new plague. And they do use the word plague to describe it. It is a plague of drug use, right here in small-town Pennsylvania. The drug is called methamphetamine. Has anybody heard of it?”

Nobody answered. Nobody had, I guess. Not yet.

“Okay. Well then, let’s go back a few hundred years and see what’s going on in Daniel Defoe’s England.” Then Mr. Proctor began to read A Journal of the Plague Year aloud.

The drug-counseling group that Lilly would attend every Monday, and that I would attend one time only, was held in a large conference room inside the school’s main office. In the middle of the room, there was a long table with about twelve chairs around it. There were another dozen or so chairs set back against the walls, nearly ringing the table.

By the time I arrived, the wall chairs were already filled, forcing me to be the first kid to sit at the table. I looked at the table’s only other occupant, an attractive woman dressed in a dark blue suit. She wore an expensive necklace, earrings, and watch. Her hair was swept up in a style that I would call French (although I’m not sure why). I figured, correctly, that she was the leader of the group.

I watched Lilly enter the room. Her nostrils were pulled back as far as they could go, like she was entering the smelliest place on earth. She took the seat opposite me. Then, as Mom had predicted, Arthur walked in. His face betrayed no emotion at all as he took the seat right next to me. I turned, but I hadn’t said a word when he told me, “Shut up. This gets me out of football practice.”

I glanced quickly around the room, seeing how many of the wall-huggers I could recognize. Many were high schoolers. Some actually looked like stoners, with scraggly hair, tattoos, piercings, heavy-metal T-shirts. But some were a surprise to me as, I am sure, Lilly and I were a surprise to them.

Jenny Weaver was there, which really surprised me. She’s basically the perfect kid—Student Council representative, honor roll member, office assistant. She’s also in most of my classes.

Chris Collier was there, too. He was president of the Junior High Student Council last year, but I don’t think he’s running this year. At least I haven’t seen his name on any posters in the halls.

Angela Lang walked into the room. She was carrying her own folding chair, which she set down by the door. Angela had been my “girlfriend” back in the sixth grade, although we never actually went on a date. Our whole relationship went something like this:

Angela: Do you want to go out with me?

Me: Okay.

Angela: I think we should break up.

Me: Okay.

And she has barely spoken to me since.

Finally, and best of all, that cute girl from my English class walked in and stood next to the leader. I had a much better view of her now. She did not look like the girls from around here. She had bright blond hair and a golden tan. She had blue eyes and very white teeth. She actually seemed to sparkle.

The leader woman reached over and touched the girl’s golden arm. (I suddenly wished I could do the same.) She directed her, for some miraculous reason, to the chair next to Lilly.

The leader then cleared her throat softly and spoke. “Before we get started, I would like to announce that I do not have the plague. Any of you who would like a comfortable seat around the table, please join us now.”

No one moved.

The woman went on: “Okay. My name is Catherine Lyle, and I am a mental health professional. I have a master’s degree in counseling from USC.” She stopped for a moment, wondering whether she had to explain that to us. She concluded that she did: “The University of Southern California.” Then she added, like it was some big deal, “My husband is Dr. Richard Lyle.”

We just stared at her. Arthur muttered to me, “Didn’t he play linebacker for the Steelers, back with Mean Joe Green?”

Catherine Lyle explained, “He is a well-known lecturer in the field of psychology.”

Arthur continued muttering, “What? He works in a field? Hey, I might know him, then.”

Mrs. Lyle told us, “I just want you to know how much I appreciate this opportunity to put my degree to work. And I hope this group will be a benefit to all of you.”

She pointed at the door. “First things first: As a counselor, I adhere to a code of ethics. We will have strict confidentiality in this room. Does everyone know what that means?”

Arthur said loudly, “What we say in here stays in here.”

“Yes. That’s very well put.”

Arthur liked that. His scarred cheeks reddened.

Catherine continued: “If I see you in public, I will not acknowledge you. If I did, people would think, That person must be in counseling, and that’s nobody’s business but ours. So if I do not say hello at Starbucks, I’m not being mean; I’m just following my counselor’s code of ethics.”

I’m sure I wasn’t the only one thinking, We don’t have a Starbucks here, lady.

She opened a large leather notebook with gold-trimmed pages. She slid a silver pen out of a slot in the middle, clicked it, and said, “Now let’s go around the room. Please say your name and one quick thing about yourself so we can get to know each other.” She turned and looked at Chris Collier. He shrugged and said, “I’m Chris Collier, and I work at the Strike Zone.”

Catherine Lyle beamed a white smile. “Now, what is that? A batting cage?”

Chris looked confused. He answered, “No. It’s a bowling alley.”

“Ah. Of course.”

The next kid, a high school stoner, mumbled his name as Terry something, but he didn’t add anything else. He looked so stressed-out that Mrs. Lyle changed her mind on the spot. “Okay. Let’s say that the one quick thing about yourself is voluntary. You’re free to just say your name.” She smiled kindly at Terry and moved on.

All around the wall, kids started mumbling their names and nothing else.

When the kids sitting in the wall chairs were finished, Catherine Lyle looked at me to start at the table. I said, “I’m Tom Coleman, and I work at the Food Giant.”

“I’m Lilly Coleman. And I work there, too.”

“I’m Arthur.”

Finally it was the cute girl’s turn. “I’m Wendy, and I am new here at Haven.”

Catherine Lyle concluded by saying, “Thank you all. I know that was difficult for some of you. It’s difficult to talk about yourself, isn’t it? You think no one really wants to hear about you and what you are feeling, but that’s not true. Not in here.

“In this group, we will talk about low self-esteem, low expectations, and many of the other factors that can lead to teenage drug abuse. But I will not be doing all the talking. If we’re going to have a successful group, you’ll all need to talk, either in the large group or in smaller ones. I will be inviting some guest speakers to come in, too.”

She consulted her notepad. “Finally, I want this group to be an information resource for you. Information is power when you are dealing with drugs and addiction. I’d like to ask for a volunteer to do a report on a drug that has recently emerged in this area—methamphetamine.”

Most kids looked away. I could have researched that word on our Gateway computer and written a report on it if I’d been planning on coming to another meeting.

The cute girl finally raised her hand and said, “I’ll do it.”

Catherine Lyle said reluctantly, “All right, Wendy. Thank you.” She stood up very gracefully and moved her hands in a circling motion. “I know it is easier to talk to a few people than to many, so let’s arrange ourselves right now into groups of four.”