Copperhead

by Alexi Zentner

  The way all the kids at the party are looking at him, Jessup knows there’s no win for him here. If he hits Corson, he proves the point. It’s an impossible situation, and it makes him want to scream. A few weeks ago, Wyatt was bitching about reverse discrimination and quotas, how it’s bullshit that libtards will do anything to get blacks and Mexicans into colleges but nothing for white kids like him and Kaylee and Jessup, how being white means they have to work twice as hard to get half as much as the Left hands out to people just for being colored. Jessup argued with him, saying it’s more complicated than they make it out to be at the Blessed Church of the White America, but Wyatt shut him down. Said Jessup was only whistling that tune because he was sticking it to an ebony girl, and even though Jessup wanted to punch him, he didn’t do anything or say anything because there was no win there either. All he could do was bury the comment, pretend like Wyatt never said it, convince himself that Wyatt was making a joke.

  There’s never a win. Not for somebody like Jessup. He didn’t get to choose what he was born into, didn’t choose the Blessed Church of the White America. And what kind of choice can he make now?

  While Jessup has looked around the room, Corson has kept his eyes straight ahead. “So, I’ll ask again. Am I black?”

  “I don’t want trouble,” Jessup says. “I was just leaving.”

  Derek steps forward, a spark in his eyes. “No, man. This is our party. You can stay. You guys,” he says to Corson and his buddies, “get the fuck out of here.” Steve Silver is standing behind Derek and grabs his arm, says something into Derek’s ear. The spark in Derek’s eyes goes out.

  Corson ignores everything around him. Points at Jessup. “I’ll answer the question for you. No. You don’t look at me and think ‘black.’ You don’t think ‘African American,’ either.”

  The girls in the room all seem to be fading back, some of them pulling on the arms of boyfriends, but this is a roomful of football players. There aren’t enough peacemakers. The boys are leaning forward.

  “You kicked out my fucking taillight,” Jessup says again, but again it’s the wrong thing said the wrong way. He can hear that it sounds weak.

  “Why don’t you just go on and say it?” Corson has moved across the room now, with the deliberate gait of somebody who has been drinking. He gets close enough to crowd Jessup. “Say it.”

  “I’m not saying shit.”

  Corson’s voice is loud, he’s playing to an audience. “You look at me and you’re thinking ‘jigaboo.’ You’re thinking ‘big ol’ buck,’ aren’t you?”

  Jessup shakes his head. There’s nothing he can say.

  “No?” Corson laughs now. “Oh, Mr. White Power is all quiet when I get up in his face.”

  ISLAND IN A STREAM

  He knows what Brandon Rogers would say about it, can hear his words as if he’s watching Brandon on one of the political talk shows: you’ve got to stand your ground, argue with intelligence, the political correctness police are always trying to get us to say something that proves we’re full of hate when all we’re trying to do is be racial realists, and if you can be proud to be black or Latino, why can’t you be proud to be white? But Jessup knows that none of what Brandon Rogers would say makes sense here, and while Brandon Rogers might believe, Jessup feels like he’s tied up in knots, so he tries to keep his expression still. Flat. But that’s not what Corson sees.

  “You got your face all scrunched up!” Corson laughs. “You’re angry, aren’t you? Go on. Just say it.” He opens his arms up now, taking in the whole room. “You got that word just ready to burst out of you, don’t you? Go on, now. Say it. Say the word. Call me ‘nigger.’”

  The air disappears from the room. There’s an absence of sound. Breath sucked into lungs. It makes Jessup think of the moment of kickoff at a football game, when the ball is at its apogee. Everybody is just waiting for it to come down.

  Except this isn’t a game that he wants to play. This isn’t fair. He didn’t do anything. Didn’t say anything. But he can’t say that. Can’t call a time-out.

  Corson’s girlfriend tugs at his arm. She’s crying. The dark slash of makeup is running off her eyes. “Please. You’re drunk.”

  Corson reaches out, slow, careful, not pointing so much as shaking his finger at Jessup, scolding him. “You’ll call me ‘boy’ when it’s just us in a parking lot, but how about now? You thinking of it now? Nah. You’re not thinking ‘boy.’ You’re thinking ‘nigger,’ aren’t you? Just say it. Call me a nigger.”

  Jessup stays quiet.

  Corson lowers his arm and then shakes his head. He’s got a big smile on his face, his teeth showing wide. “Didn’t think so, bitch.”

  One of the Kilton Valley players, the kid with the afro, steps up and grabs Corson’s elbow. “Come on, man. Let’s get out of here.”

  For a moment, Jessup thinks Corson is going to shake his friend off, but then he accedes. There’s an odd stillness from the rest of the room as the Kilton Valley kids, boys and girls alike, shuffle out and through the grand entrance, stopping to grab varsity jackets, bags, a couple of them finding boots they’d pulled off when they’d come in. Jessup stays where he is. Derek Lemper shakes his big melon head, purses his lips, but doesn’t come over. Stays with Steve Silver. Nobody talks to Jessup. Wyatt is still out on the deck with Kaylee. Missed the whole thing.

  As the kids all head outside, Jessup ends up drifting along, watching. There’s a mob of Cortaca kids outside, too, the girls saying good-byes, the guys standing more off to the side. Jessup is an island. He sees them get in their cars in twos and threes. Corson is fighting with his girlfriend. The girlfriend leaves in a huff, gets in a car with two other girls. One of Corson’s friends holds out his hand for the keys, but Corson shakes his head once, twice, gets into a dark sedan by himself. Car slides a bit as Corson gets it off the grass onto the driveway. He shouldn’t be driving, Jessup thinks, beer in his hand all night. But that’s not Jessup’s problem.

  MINUS ONE

  He wants to leave. Head out into the night, fire up the truck, go to sleep in his own bed. Wake up in the morning with a fresh day, the snow covering the fields, everything clean. But he can’t. To leave now would be to acknowledge what Corson was saying, to have every word be true.

  He doesn’t want it to be true.

  It’s awkward. Somebody tells Wyatt what happened, but having Wyatt in his corner doesn’t exactly help his case. Jonathan Choo, who came to the party after the action was over, breaks the ice, tells Jessup he did good in the game today, wishes it could have been him slinging the ball instead of Phillip Ryerson, but still. He’s close to being back, he says, just waiting for doctor’s clearance. With any luck, in time for next week. Somebody turns up the music. People start talking and milling again. Derek Lemper brings Jessup a beer, calls Corson an asshole, and even though Jessup doesn’t drink, he takes the beer and chokes it down. He notices that Trevell and Jayden don’t come over. Steve Silver doesn’t either. None of the black players do, none of the Jews. Only a few of the white boys. Most of the girls keep their distance, too.

  He forces himself to drink two more beers over the next fifteen minutes. After that, he slows down a bit, but soon enough he’s finished his fourth beer, and he’s pretty buzzed when it’s twenty to midnight and he feels his phone vibrate. Deanne again.

  you still out?

  yeah. about to go home.

  come pick me up?!!

  thought you couldn’t come out

  can’t. sneaking out

  really?

  want to see you. pick me up and we can go to state street diner. megan and brooke are going with boyfriends. we are meeting them there ok?

  Megan and Brooke are Deanne’s best friends. He won’t say anything about it to Deanne, but he thinks that Brooke is dumb. She’s Vietnamese or Chinese or something, adopted, complains that everybody expects her to do well in school because she’s
Asian and that there are quotas now at some universities because there are too many Asian students, says Deanne is lucky because she’s black so every school wants her. Deanne laughs and calls her a bitch and Jessup doesn’t say anything; if he said the exact same thing, he’d be run out of town. He likes Megan: she’s sharp, wants to be a lawyer—mom’s a lawyer—does debate and runs cross-country and track with Deanne. Megan’s been dating the same guy, Josh Feinstein, since the end of last year. Given his name, Jessup is not surprised that Feinstein is rich, both parents doctors. Nerdy as hell but funny, and Jessup likes the kid despite himself. Brooke’s boyfriend has only been in the picture for a few weeks, kid named Stanley who’s new to Cortaca this year. Stanley’s fine, not a guy he’d necessarily hang out with, but he makes Brooke more bearable to be around.

  okay. leaving now.

  text when you get here. don’t park in front of house

  why?

  because I’m SNEAKING out dummy! park in front of church on pearl street and text and I’ll come over

  okay

  !!!

  He sees the “. . .” bubble of Deanne texting something else to add to her triple exclamation points, but then it disappears, her thought never finished. He wonders what letters she typed and thought better of it. He looks at the keyboard, types in “I lo—.” Deletes it. Tries again:

  I’ll text you when I’m there

  He isn’t thinking about sneaking out of the party. Doesn’t plan to make a big thing of it, either, but one of the girls corrals all the football players, lines them up for a picture on and around the couches. It only takes a couple of minutes—they’re smart enough to make sure there’s no alcohol in the picture—and when it’s done, Jessup’s out the door.

  T-MINUS ZERO

  It’s snowing again. Steady. Temperature has dropped a couple of degrees, and he starts shivering immediately. Why did he leave his jacket in the truck? The cold is good, though. Wakes him up. He can taste the sourness of the beer still. Knows he shouldn’t be driving, but figures it’s fine given his weight. Won’t get stopped twice in one night anyway, will I? Why didn’t he skip the party, stay home with his sister, his mom, David John? Because he wants to see Deanne. She makes it all worth it.

  He walks past parked car after parked car. The neat line of cars and SUVs clogged up, cars on either side of the driveway now, two wheels on snow-covered asphalt, two wheels on the grass. He won’t be surprised if somebody on the downhill side of the driveway ends up getting stuck in the grass.

  There’s a quarter inch of snow coating the windshield of his truck. He pulls his jacket and gloves off the passenger seat and starts the truck. The heater’s cranky. Won’t be blasting on him until he’s halfway to Deanne’s. The windshield wipers do a crappy job of clearing the snow. Iced up on the glass. He grabs his scraper, glad of the gloves. They’re thin, but better than nothing.

  He mostly has the windshield cleaned off when he sees the headlights. He doesn’t know how he knows it’s Corson, but he knows it as sure as he’s been sure of anything. The car, a dark-colored sedan, pulls over and slides to a stop in the grass across the road, nose at an angle, pointed down at the edge of the steep slope that leads toward the trees. Corson puts it in park and sets the brake. The car is ten feet ahead of Jessup, but off to the side, out of his way.

  Corson gets out of the car. With the door open, the interior lights show that he’s on his own, and though Jessup knows he could take him in a fight, he can’t stomach the idea. He just feels tired. Tired of all of it. All he wants to do is see Deanne. All he wants to do is feel her body against his. He wants to tell her that he loves her.

  Corson is moving slowly and deliberately. Trying not to act drunk. It gives Jessup plenty of time. He’s feeling like he’s sobered up. He hops into the truck, closes and locks the door. He rolls down the window, though.

  “Not interested.”

  Corson either hears him or he doesn’t, but he doesn’t acknowledge Jessup’s voice. Doesn’t change course, either. Walks right past Jessup to the back of the truck. Jessup puts it in gear, but before he takes his foot off the brake and starts moving, he feels the hard thud, hears the crunch of Corson’s boot. Asshole is kicking the truck again. Same place. The plastic lens over the brake light brittle, the thin crunch of metal. He looks in the side mirror and sees a shadow moving, Corson coming toward the cab of the truck.

  Jessup stomps down on the gas. He spins the wheel hard, angry. He cannot pull away from the house fast enough. The truck lurches forward. A bee-stung horse. Snow and ice spit out from under the wheels, like a curse from a teacher’s mouth, like buckshot scattering through the air and bloodying the breast of a duck flushed from the water. The back end of the pickup, light and bouncy, skids wide and loose.

  When it happens, he feels the sound of the impact as much as he hears it: like a soda can crushed by a stomped foot. But it’s two distinct sounds: the heavy thud of the boot and the gossamer crinkle of metal folding on itself.

  Except the sound does not come from a soda can crushed by a foot. He knows what it is immediately. He stomps hard on the brake pedal, the truck stopping as violently as it started. He sits. The stereo is loud in the stillness, so he thumbs it off, but the windshield wipers squeak, so he turns them off, too, and then stops the motor.

  It is too quiet. If everything were going to be okay, there would be a word. A voice. A sound. Something. Anything. But the only sound he can hear is an echo, a memory, the undertone that came with the thud and crumple of metal: the inevitable weakness of a body. He wishes it had simply been an empty soda can. But he knows it was a human being.

  He gets out of the truck. He moves as slowly as he can force himself to.

  He hit a deer once, more than a year ago, not long after he got the truck running, but that was different. The animal bounded out in front of him. Dumb-eyed and desperate. He barely had time to touch the brake before his fender tore open the deer’s belly. When he stopped the truck and walked back to where the deer was crumpled on the shoulder, it was still alive. A sort of miracle.

  But the wrong sort of miracle. Guts spilled onto the asphalt, the slow sodium light of the streetlights washing everything down. The doe’s breath a desperate whistle of blood. Her right hind leg scraping weakly against the ground as if she was still trying to stand. He watched her like this for a minute or two and then went back to his truck. If he’d had his hunting knife with him, he could have been merciful, but there was nothing to do other than head home to hose off the blood and gore. He had to use a pair of pliers to fish out a chunk of the doe’s skin that was lodged in the creased fender.

  Now he walks the long way around the front of the truck, touching the hood and then looking at the memory of the deer imprinted on the front fender; the metal still bears an ugly kiss.

  When he has made his way around the truck, he looks. The body is ten, twenty feet behind the bed of the truck. He knows it is a person, but in the shadows and the false light coming from the house, it could be anything else. He wants it to be anything else. A soda can. A doe. But it is, and always will be, stubbornly, a dead body.

  He’s even with Corson’s car now. The door is still open. The car is running, the soft chime of a warning that the key is in the ignition. The sound is elegant, and Jessup can’t help but notice it’s a Mercedes. He closes the door, the chiming stops.

  He’s still shivering, but he doesn’t feel cold anymore. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

  Can he call the cops? Thinks of Ricky. Thinks of David John. Ricky in the alley, didn’t do anything wrong. Doing twenty years for defending himself. Jessup is only seventeen. The scholarship from Duke. The chance to go to Cortaca, Yale, anywhere. All of that gone. His whole fucking life sucked into a whirlpool, like his brother and his stepfather are reaching up from the depths of the ocean to pull him down.

  He’s breathing fast. Gasping in air. Wind sprints. Dizz
y from the heat during two-a-days. The smell of the mats in the wrestling room, head smashing into the ground on a bad takedown, three weeks keeping his headaches and the nausea hidden from his mom. Sprint training during track season, hundred meters on, hundred meters off, run until he pukes.

  He’s squatting. One gloved hand on the ground in front of him, bracing himself. Doesn’t remember squatting.

  Looks back at the house. It’s a jewel box, sparkling in the night. Only a few windows peer out over the driveway, and they are empty. Nobody looking out, and even if they are, too far away, not enough light to see him, to see what he has wrought. He catches a gentle burst of music, and then it’s cut off again, somebody going out onto the porch, closing the door behind them. Follows the line of the driveway with his eyes, sees the ribbon of light turn to darkness, and there, on the snow-covered asphalt, the deeper darkness of Corson’s body.

  He feels his phone buzz and he stands up and pulls it from his pocket. Looks at the message on the lock screen:

  never mind about diner. told m and b we will see them tomorrow. want to go somewhere private instead. just the two of us. come get me!

  Can’t think. Doesn’t unlock the phone. Just puts it back in his pocket.

  Too young, they’ll try him as a juvie. But he’s seventeen. Is that close enough to be tried as an adult? And there’s Ricky and David John, all that history. The mayor calling for a hate crime investigation. The prosecutor trying to make up lost ground. There are no accidents. Not in this world. Nobody will believe it was an accident. He’ll be an old man by the time he’s out.