299 Days: The Preparation Page 4

  Guns became a powerful symbol to Grant. A symbol of how normal, decent people lived, like in Oklahoma. More importantly, guns meant safety to Grant. He understood that having a gun meant people couldn’t hurt him. He could use a gun to make a bad person go away, like when he had the .22 by his bed back in Forks after the knife incident. Grant loved to hold a gun just because he instantly felt safe with one in his hand. He couldn’t explain the feeling but that was it: he felt safe with a gun. He felt instantly calm and able to handle any bad situation.

  Grandpa noticed that Grant was good with words. There was a lawyer in the family, Uncle Mike. Grant reminded Grandpa of Uncle Mike.

  One day, out of the blue, Grandpa said to Grant, “You should think about being a lawyer.” That was the most preposterous thing Grant had ever heard.

  “Ah, Grandpa,” Grant said with a shrug, “only rich people can be a lawyer.”

  Grandpa said, “Not in America. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

  Grant didn’t take it seriously. Grant, a lawyer? That would never happen. He didn’t want to let down his Grandpa so he said, “I’ll think about it.” But to be a lawyer, you had to go to college and how would he pay for that?

  Chapter 4

  “You Gonna Eat That Pickle?”

  Grant wanted to go to the University of Washington in Seattle. The SAT college entrance test was on a Saturday morning. For some stupid reason they never would understand, the Friday night before the test, Grant and Steve got very drunk. Steve wasn’t taking the SAT, but Grant was. He got up after about two hours sleep and drove (still drunk) to Port Angeles and made it to the test on time. By the time the test was over, Grant had gone from drunk to hung over. Taking the SAT drunk? Oh well, no college for him. He figured he’d take the test again.

  Except that Grant got a great score, one that would easily get him in to the UW. Boy, that was lucky. It was like he was supposed to go there despite the stupidity of getting drunk before the SATs.

  Grant loved watching the UW football team on TV, and the thought of living in a big city like Seattle would be the perfect escape from crappy little Forks. Plus, a UW degree meant that he could have a professional job and finally be a “normal” American. He didn’t really care what job he got, just that it wouldn’t be in Forks and that he would earn enough money to live in the suburbs. He felt this slight but discernible attraction to the UW as if he was supposed to go there. He couldn’t explain it except that it was like that feeling he would get that something was just going to happen. It was that path that he could barely see. Just the faint outlines of it, but it was there. There was no question that he needed to go down that path.

  Not only did Grant get accepted to the UW, but he also got a scholarship. Him? Accepted into the UW? With a scholarship? His mom wanted him to use the Indian thing to get some more tuition money, but Grant thought that real Indians should get the money. Grant didn’t really look like an Indian, not like Grandpa did. Besides, the idea of giving things to people based on their race seemed wrong. So Grant checked “white” on the application, and never told his mom.

  Grant could feel that he was on the cusp of his great escape. It started to sink in during the winter of his senior year of high school.

  The path out of Forks he saw back when he was nine years old was actually happening. Just like he knew it would, despite how hard it still was for him to believe.

  Steve was staying in Forks. Steve was considering joining the military too, probably the Air Force to try out for the PJs. However, the spring of his senior year, his dad got him a job on a logging crew. Steve was fine with that; he would be a regular Forks guy.

  Grant wanted to hurry up and get to the UW. He couldn’t wait to get out of Forks. He always worked in the summer for a small company related to the paper products plant in town. The little company, Olympic Paper Products, was run by a nice old man, Mr. Reynolds. Olympic took the abundant sawdust from the mill and put it into a very loud (and dangerous) machine that turned it into a finer grade product that was shipped to the paper mill. Grant cleaned the machines, shoveling and sweeping out the sawdust and finer dust. It was pretty miserable. He learned how to work, though, and the $4.00 per hour wage was a pretty big deal in the Matson family budget. He had to pay for all his school clothes and anything else he wanted other than room and board.

  One time, Grant saved up $100 and went to the bank to get a hundred dollar bill. That $100 bill was amazing. It looked like all the money in the world. He had worked extremely hard for it and that $100 bill was a symbol of his hard work and achievement.

  Until his dad stole it. Grant kept it in an old bread pan in his dresser. One day it was gone. Only people in his family knew where the $100 bill was. Grant’s dad actually mocked him, asking, “Where’s your $100 bill, Grant?” and laughing. Grant couldn’t believe it—well, actually, he could. He hated working so hard just to have a bully steal something. It was more than just the money. It was wrong. Grant instantly developed an almost irrational hatred of bullies. But given what happened to him, it made sense.

  That summer after graduation but before leaving for college, Grant’s dad had been virtually silent to him. His dad knew that Grant had just accomplished more at by age eighteen than he ever would. Grant could clearly sense his dad’s jealousy, anger, and resentment. But Larry knew that Grant was even bigger and in better shape than when he was a sophomore and whipped his ass. Larry wouldn’t even think about hitting Grant now. Grant knew it. Just about every time Grant saw his dad that summer he thought to himself that the only thing keeping him from getting hit was that Grant could hit harder.

  Grant understood violence. And he understood what it took to stop violence—the threat of superior violence. Yet another life lesson Grant learned during his childhood. It was a lesson that most other people would never understand.

  In late August, it was finally time to go. Grant would be staying in the dorms. He didn’t even try to get into a fraternity; poor kids from Forks wouldn’t be welcomed there, he figured. His dad drove Grant the four hours to Seattle, virtually without speaking a word. It was a very long trip.

  When they got to the UW, his dad did something unusual. He smiled. He looked Grant in the eye and said, “I’m proud of you, son.” Grant was stunned.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Grant said. That was it. Grant was now a college student.

  He loved college life. He loved the drinking and the huge library full of books on the Revolutionary War. And the girls. He loved the girls. They were gorgeous. These weren’t like the girls in Forks. They would actually go out with him, because they didn’t know he was a loser. Yet. He had to keep his past under wraps.

  Grant made a complete transformation of himself when he got to the UW. He spent the money he made from working his ass off over the summer on decent clothes. He looked entirely different. He fit in. He was a new person.

  Grant got invited to a fraternity party. What the hell, Grant thought, this is part of the college experience, right? Grant went to the party. There were lots of really beautiful girls there. Sorority girls.

  Everyone was drinking beer. Grant went up to the keg and poured a cup like the experienced drinker he was. That was a thing that kids from Forks knew how to do well.

  And then, there she was. Coming in the door. A beautiful girl, with a beautiful smile. Amazingly beautiful. Like an “I have to spend my life with her” kind of amazing. A great song was playing, “Lips like Sugar” by Echo and the Bunnymen. Grant would never forget that song. It seemed to fit the scene perfectly.

  Grant was decent looking, so he had a chance with this girl, but it would still be a long shot. He needed to use his secret weapon: humor.

  The party was a barbeque, so this girl had a paper plate with a hamburger and a pickle spear on it. Grant was keeping an eye on her in between chats with other people. He was waiting for her to finish eating; there was no use trying to get her attention when she’s trying to eat. When the hamburger was gone and only t
he pickle spear was left, Grant decided to take a risk. He walked up, smiled his big country boy smile, looked at her and gave it his best shot.

  “You gonna eat that pickle?” he asked.

  She started laughing.

  “Oh, you can have it if you’d like,” she said, smiling. That was a good sign. So far, so good.

  “Nah, I don’t want the pickle,” Grant said very confidently. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Grant.”

  “I’m Lisa and I knew you didn’t want the pickle,” she said with yet another smile. Clever. She was pretty and smart. A great combo. But probably out of his league. Oh well, let’s see what happens, he thought to himself.

  “What house are you in?” Grant asked, referring to her sorority. Delta something was the answer. Grant didn’t really pay attention to what she said. He was just looking at her.

  The next hour was the most amazing conversation of Grant’s life. It was about everything and nothing. Grant found out that Lisa Taylor was the daughter of an accountant and lived in Bellevue, which was the richest town in the Seattle area. She was pre-med. Yeah, right. A girl this beautiful would be pre-med for about two semesters and then get an easier major.

  Lisa felt drawn to Grant. She didn’t really know why. He was cute and tall—6’ 2”—but there were cuter boys there that night.

  This Grant guy was interesting, unlike all the Bellevue boys who were so predictable. Grant had a realness to him. The kind of realness you didn’t see in her affluent suburban world where things were… predictable. He was absolutely different than anyone else she’d ever met. Opposites attract.

  She didn’t know why, but she felt safe around him. He had a flow, an ease. He seemed more mature than the other freshman boys. She felt like there was plenty to learn about him. Interesting things; interesting in a good way. He was simultaneously brilliant and goofy. Not “goofy” in a weird way. Irreverent. But polite at the same time. It was hard to explain.

  The main thing that drew her toward him was his sense of humor. He was a blast to be around. During the long conversation, her sides literally got sore from laughing. She’d never been around anyone like him.

  Grant was scared to death. This seemed like the most important conversation of his life; he was a loser talking to a pretty girl. That’s scary. He was pulling it off, though, apparently making it look easy.

  He had learned from real life scary things—actual threats to his life—to use the fear as a way to focus on the task at hand. To focus on getting away from a knife-wielding maniac, on rappelling off a cliff during a search and rescue, on making a great first impression on an amazing girl. Grant was good at conquering his fear.

  “Do you have a major yet?” Lisa asked Grant.

  “I think I’ll do history,” Grant said. “American History.” He didn’t go into the Revolutionary War stuff because she probably wouldn’t care. And he didn’t want to seem “weird.”

  “Where are you from, Mr. Pickle Lover?” she asked with another one of those beautiful smiles.

  Grant was afraid of this question the whole time. He had been trying to steer the conversation away from this topic, but knew all along that there was no way to not mention this. Oh well. Let’s see what happens.

  “Forks,” he said. “I have all my teeth and everything.” She laughed.

  “I’ve kinda heard of it,” she said. “Where’s that?”

  “Out on the Olympic Peninsula,” Grant said. “Clallam County.”

  “What does your dad do there in Forks?” she asked. Grant could feel his perfect girlfriend slipping away.

  Grant looked her right in the eye and said, “He’s an unemployed, abusive, former logger.”

  Silence.

  “Just kidding,” Grant said. “My dad’s a photographer.”

  She laughed. This guy was so entertaining.

  Whew.

  “You had me going there with that logger thing,” she said.

  The conversation went on. Grant felt a buzz like he was drunk, except that he’d had only one or two beers. He was in love.

  Great. A loser had fallen in love with a rich sorority girl. This probably won’t end well. Oh well. He realized that he couldn’t possibly forget about her so he would be stuck with either a broken heart or the best thing to ever happen to him. He mentally shrugged. We’ll see what happens, he thought to himself.

  Lisa spotted someone and said, “Hey, I need to say ‘hi ‘to myfriend. I’ll be right back.”

  Grant finished the beer he’d been nursing and thought about how lucky he was. Everything seemed to be going really well. This might turn out to be a disaster, but tonight was smooth sailing so far.Lisa hadn’t come back yet. Grant was getting nervous. Then it was ten minutes and still no Lisa. Grant was worried. Then it was fifteen minutes. Grant started looking for her. Panic. She wasn’t anywhere.

  Grant had been ditched. Damn it. It seemed to be going so well. Crap. He went back to his dorm and thought about how his whole life was over now. No matter what he tried, he would be a loser. Forever. Not even college was helping him.

  The next day he went to class, but couldn’t concentrate. Lisa was all he could think about. While he was walking, he bumped into things right in front of him because he was so focused on her, and feeling like his life was over at age eighteen.

  Grant came up with a plan. A stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless. He couldn’t remember her last name, so he would go to each of the twenty or so sororities and ask for “Lisa” and see what happened.

  He went to the first sorority and asked for “Lisa.” The girl at the door asked for a last name. Grant said, “That’s the part I don’t know.” The girl said, “We have several girls here named Lisa, so I really need a last name before I call someone down.” Grant left. This was going to suck.

  He went to the second sorority on that street and knocked.

  Guess who answered the door? Lisa. What are the odds? Grant thought. This was meant to be.

  Lisa seemed very thrilled that he was there. He acted like he meant to be there, instead of the fact that he was on a desperate mission to salvage his life from ruin.

  “Oh, hey, hi,” Grant said like he wasn’t alarmed at all. “I was just following up from the party last night. You kinda disappeared.”

  Lisa smiled. She assumed he remembered what sorority she was in and had come to see her. “I’m so glad you came by,” she said. “I went to say ‘hi’ to my girlfriend and she grabbed my arm and took me over to the Beta house. I thought I could get back to see you, but I couldn’t.” She seemed to be telling the truth.

  “Well, let’s go get something to eat,” Grant said. “Some place with pickles.” Lisa burst out laughing. That was how he asked her out on their first date. Pickles. It actually worked.

  Grant and Lisa were pretty much inseparable for the next three and a half years.

  Chapter 5

  History

  Grant joined a fraternity of good guys. The fraternity wasn’t the bunch of dicks he assumed they would be. Several of them came from small towns like he did. Most of them seemed to be like him; they were at the UW to get good jobs and have some fun.

  Grant was doing really well in class, especially history. He took an introductory class on the Revolutionary War and after about two weeks, his professor, Professor Estes, asked him to stay after class.

  “Where did you learn so much about the Revolutionary War?” He asked Grant.

  “The library.” Grant wasn’t trying to be a smart ass. “What is the one question you would ask a Founder?” his professor asked. This was his standard question for seeing if a person was a serious thinker on this period of history or not.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Grant said. “I’d ask Thomas Jefferson why he thought the American Revolution turned out so differently than the French Revolution.”

  “What do you think President Jefferson would say?” Professor Estes asked.

  They spent the next two hours talking about the differences be
tween the American and French Revolutions. The basic answer was that the American colonies had a tradition of self-rule and diverse religious backgrounds, while France was run top-down and only had one religion. The American revolutionaries were also very conscious of how most revolutions end up—a bloodbath of terror by opportunistic politicians. Also, the American revolutionaries did not try to hunt down and kill all their Loyalist opponents. They hung some of them, of course, but they let most of them either go to Canada or reintegrate into America if they pledged not to cause trouble. Reconciliation was the difference.

  Grant shrugged and summed up his point to Professor Estes. “The Founders were practical people,” he said. “They understood that they needed the former Loyalists to be doctors, businessmen, farmers, laborers. The nation wouldn’t last long if it was constantly re-fighting that war among its people. At some point, a country must put all the old vendettas aside and get on with building roads, establishing institutions, growing businesses… living life. The Founders prized the country actually working after the Revolution more than they wanted to hunt down people they hated. That’s where the French went wrong.”

  Professor Estes was taking it all in. He just sat there for a while. “Are you in the History Department?” he asked Grant.

  “Yes, I’m an American history major,” Grant said.

  “Would you like to work for me as a researcher?” Professor Estes asked.

  Grant blurted out, “A job working on this? Getting paid to learn about the Revolutionary War? Hell, yes.” Then he corrected himself. “I mean, yes, Professor.”

  Grant ended up producing a senior thesis paper on the differences between the American and French Revolutions. It was even published in a scholarly journal, a very rare honor for an undergraduate. For a senior seminar project, he wrote about the differences between the guerilla warfare in the American and French Revolutions. He compared the theories of Mao and those of the American revolutionary guerilla leaders and found that tactically, they were largely the same.