Grand & Humble

Grand & Humble

Copyright © 2006, 2016 Brent Hartinger

Smashwords Edition

AUTHOR'S NOTE

An earlier version of this book was published by HarperCollins in 2006. Last year, while I was adapting that book into a screenplay for a possible feature film, I decided that there were quite a few new elements in my script that actually improved upon the original book: a better structure, more suspense, more nuanced characters, and a more coherent, dramatic ending.

I thought: Maybe I should rewrite the original novel, taking this new perspective into account.

The thing is, I've long believed that a novel is, ultimately, a moment in time, never quite perfect, but (hopefully) the best the author can do at the time of publication. I mostly roll my eyes at efforts by other authors to go back and rewrite previously published novels, just as I think George Lucas was a fool to add new special effects to his original Star Wars movies decades after their original releases.

In the end, I decided to rewrite this novel anyway.

Why? Quite honestly, it's because I think the central concept of this novel is one of the best I've ever come up with, and while the novel was not a failure upon its 2006 release (and it even won a few awards), I don't think it got the attention that its central concept deserved. That was probably mostly due to my own failings as a writer.

I quickly become confident that I could make the new book a lot better than the old one. The idea that the central concept I liked so much might finally get the attention it deserved excited me as well. It also helped that my next novel, Three Truths and a Lie (Simon & Schuster, August 2016), is in the same genre, and has a similar vibe. I figured that maybe fans of that novel would be interested in a similarly themed work of mine.

So what's up with the movie version of Grand & Humble? I confess that I'm hoping this new book edition will serve that master too. I'm thrilled that I currently have a number of different movie projects in development with various producers, but alas, Grand & Humble is not one of them. I wrote the Grand & Humble screenplay on spec, intending to interest a producer in developing it. Perhaps the existence of this new, hopefully improved book edition will help me do just that.

Brent Hartinger

Seattle, May 2016

For Michael Jensen, who is both grand and humble

And for Steve Fraser, my editor, who is just grand

Chapter One

HARLAN

Two faces. Two sides to the same person. That's what Harlan's English teacher was getting at. It was so obvious, he couldn't believe everyone else hadn't seen it right from the start. How could they be so blind?

Harlan? Mrs. Woodburn said to him from up near the blackboard. How about you?

What about me? Harlan said, and half the class chuckled or snorted. It was kind of pathetic, actually, how the other students hung on his every word — how eager they were to see wit or meaning in even the simplest of his utterings.

What's your opinion? Mrs. Woodburn said.

My opinion? Harlan said, the perfect drawl.

"Yes, your opinion."

He grinned from ear to ear. My opinion is that blue is a really good color on you. It brings out your eyes.

There was a moment's silence, like the instant after you slam the gas pedal, but before the spark plugs fire and the tires squeal out.

Then they squealed: all at once, the class started laughing, exactly like Harlan had known they would. And Mrs. Woodburn blushed. Harlan had known she'd do that too.

But she was more self-possessed than he'd thought. Thank you so very much, Harlan, she said, her voice even. "I'll keep your opinion in mind when I'm dressing each morning. But I'm wondering if you have an opinion on the subject of The Scarlet Letter."

Oh, Harlan said. "That subject."

The class snickered.

Harlan, please answer the question! Mrs. Woodburn was getting impatient. It was, therefore, time to get serious. The difference between Harlan and the idiots who got sent to afternoon detention was that he always knew not to push things too far.

Split personality, he said without missing a beat.

Mrs. Woodburn hesitated. What about it?

That's my opinion. That's what you're getting at. It's like the characters have two different sides to themselves. Opposite faces.

Which characters?

Hester, Chillingworth, Dimmesdale, Harlan said. "Pearl too, in a way. They all have public personas that are at odds with their private ones. And the challenge they have in The Scarlet Letter is whether or not they can reconcile the two conflicting natures in their souls. The characters who do — Hester, Dimmesdale, and Pearl — find peace. The character who can't — Chillingworth — doesn't. According to the author, he shrivels away 'like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun.'"

Mrs. Woodburn literally gaped at him. He'd struck her speechless, and he'd intended that too. Just because he was popular and athletic and good-looking, that didn't mean he wasn't smart. Why was that always so hard for people to remember?

Thank you, Harlan, Mrs. Woodburn said simply.

Harlan winked at the girl in the seat next to him, and she smiled and fiddled with her hair. Then he leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under his desk, owning the room.

Mrs. Woodburn wouldn't be calling on him again anytime soon.

* * *

Hellooooo, Harlan's girlfriend, Amber, said as they stood together in the crowded school hallway. Earth to Harlan.

What? he said, his eyes focusing on her.

You're not listening to me, that's what.

Am so.

Then what did I just say?

You were talking about how you went shopping. At the mall.

Amber glared back at him, hard. I don't know how you do it.

It's not that difficult, Harlan thought. She was always talking about shopping at the mall. Either that or, lately, her role as Guinevere in the school production of Camelot.

You are so slick, Amber went on. You're a — what's the word? Rube?

Rake, Harlan said. A rube is a hick. Or maybe you mean rogue?

No, I think I'll go with rake. That sounds right. Rhymes with snake.

Harlan met her grin for grin. Amber was blond and tan and beautiful, a sun-like blaze of glory soaring through the halls of Roosevelt High school. But he was no mere planet orbiting blindly around her. No, he was the center of this solar system, not her.

It's like what you said to Mrs. Woodburn in English earlier, Amber said. How do you get away with stuff like that? That's sexual harassment, you know that?

No, Harlan said. It's only sexual harassment if you're old and fat and bald. I'm seventeen and hot, so it's just me being charming.

Amber rolled her eyes. Hey, let's go off-campus for lunch today.

What? Harlan said, suddenly uneasy.

Lunch! Amber said. What about fast food? I want something deep-fried.

Harlan felt a chill. Something was wrong. Or, rather, something was going to be wrong — in the future. That was the feeling he had. Was it lunch with Amber? As seniors, they could leave campus for lunch. So maybe they were going to be caught in a shootout in some drive-through line?

Harlan? Amber said.

What! he said, jumping a little.

Are you okay?

Yeah, Harlan said, his mouth dry as toast. I'm fine.

The sense that something bad was going to happen? It was gone now. But the effects lingered. Harlan was flushed, and his pulse pounded.

The fact is, it wasn't only the characters in The Scarlet Letter who had two faces: Harlan did too, at least that day. He'd felt weird all morning, off and on. Oh, sure, his outward face was still calm, cool, and collected. But inside, he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right in the world, that something bad was about to happen.

Are you sure you're okay? Amber asked.

What do you mean? Harlan said.

I don't know. You seem strange.

"I'm fine." So what if he had a vague sense that something bad was going to happen? Didn't everyone feel like that sometimes, especially on Monday mornings? It was called being in a bad mood.

Okay, okay. Amber sighed. So what do you say?

About what?

About what I was saying!

But this time, when Harlan tried to guess what Amber was referring to, nothing came up. What was it that she'd been talking about? Suddenly he couldn't remember.

Lunch! Amber said. Where do you want to go?

An image flashed through his mind: a piece of trash, a paper McDonald's cup, red and white with the familiar yellow arches, crushed against concrete. Was it another warning? Or maybe he'd thought of it because Amber had mentioned fast food before. Either way, an off-campus lunch was the last thing he wanted now.

Harlan? Amber said.

Sorry, he said, I'm skipping lunch today. I gotta study.

Are you serious?

I'll see you later, okay?

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to leave, even though he could feel Amber's eyes on him from behind, burning into him like lasers.

* * *

If there really were two Harlan Chestertons, there was still one place where he knew they would come together: the swimming pool after school during swim team.

As long as he could remember, Harlan had loved water. He remembered playing in the bathtub as a kid, ignoring his toys, indifferent to the bubbles, but being fascinated by the water itself. Then when he was seven, his parents had moved into a house with a pool, and that was all she wrote: the skin on his fingertips had been pruned almost ever since. It wasn't like when his parents got that billiard table, where he and his friends had played religiously for a month or so, and then he'd never touched the thing again.

Harlan had heard people complain before about how scary water was, that it was such an alien environment, dangerous and unpredictable. But it wasn't, not if you respected it, if you understood it. Things were complicated under the water — the currents and eddies — but everything was predictable.

Swimming focused Harlan. And then there was the way he felt afterward, how being in water cleansed him, made him feel fresh. There was nothing in the world, not even a vague sense of dread, that a few hours in the pool couldn't wash away.

Harlan was halfway through his warm-up before his buddy, Ricky Loduca, showed up, lean and tan in his black Speedo. Harlan and Ricky had met on a summer swim team when they were nine, and they'd been best friends ever since. Ricky was Guamanian — his parents had been born in Guam — and he knew Harlan better than anyone else in the world.

Jerry Blain's having a party tomorrow night, Ricky said, limbering up, stretching his arms in the shallow end of the pool. His parents are in Morocco.

Harlan nodded. Yeah, I know. He and Ricky both had athletic builds, but let's just say it: Harlan was a little bit bigger.

You gonna go? Ricky asked.

On a school night? Harlan said, mock-concerned. Oh, I don't know. Do we dare to eat the peach?

This was a reference to a poem they'd studied, and they both laughed.

Yeah! Ricky said. I say we eat the damn peach!

Then they were swimming side by side, in a lane all their own, apart from the rest of the team. Harlan felt his usual connection with Ricky. People sometimes asked him if it got lonely spending all that time underwater, alone with your thoughts. But for Harlan, swimming was all about connection, about being totally attuned to the swimmers around you, feeling their wakes, drawing on their energy. When Harlan swam a set side by side with Ricky, they supported one another, pushing each other to swim faster, pulling each other when one fell behind.

After the warm-up, the team started in on the workout, which the coach had written on a big dry-erase board at the end of the pool: mostly timed sets with some lung-buster work mixed in too. After that, the coach finally deigned to emerge from his little glassed-in pool office, so he could run some races with the whole team.

The coach's whistle blew, and Harlan and Ricky dove off the starting blocks, side-by-side even now. Harlan's dive was flawless, sleek and streamlined. He entered the water like