Rumors

by Phil M. Williams

  I think the problem originated with me. It’s nobody’s fault but my own. It’s about who I am deep inside. I do my best to hide, but somehow they know, somehow they can see me. I don’t have the strength to own who I am, to tell them all to go fuck themselves. I wish I did, but that’s not who I am. Maybe one day—if I ever get out of here.

  My former best friend made it out. She moved to California. She hated it here more than me. People called her a dyke and a carpet muncher, even though she was straight. It was nice to have someone who hated this place as much as me. As they say, “Misery loves company.” But my former best friend’s no longer a whiny loser like me. She’s in therapy. She’s working on herself. Whatever the hell that means. Now she’s just like everyone else. I liked her better when she was miserable.

  My mother’s a whore. I try not to be judgmental, but, in my limited experience, I think she qualifies. I’ve lost count of how many boyfriends she’s had. Always some douchebag from the gym. Here’s a fun fact. My mom goes to the gym nearly every day. I’m pretty sure she can bench more than me. I think she spends more time at the gym than she does at work. She’s a part-time receptionist. Very part-time. We mostly live off my sister’s child support payments. I worry about what’s gonna happen when she turns eighteen. I hope I’m long gone by then, but she’s older than me, so I probably won’t be, unless I do something about it.

  My sister and I don’t have the same father. My father died in a motorcycle accident, or at least that’s what I was told. Supposedly happened before I was born. He must’ve known what a loser I’d be. I picture him on his Harley, speeding away from me and my crazy mother. Maybe he was run over by a dump truck, obliterated into a million pieces. That wouldn’t be a bad way to go. I bet that would be an instant death. You wouldn’t feel a thing.

  I tried to fit in, but it’s never worked. I’m on the football team, if you can believe that. I weigh 115 pounds. I have no business playing football, but I liked it when I was younger. I was never good, but I made some friends. Like everything else in my life, it’s gotten less and less fun over the years. I’m a third-string wide receiver with questionable hands.

  When I was younger, I could catch everything. I scored five touchdowns on the freshman team. Now I get so nervous. I know when I drop a pass, someone’s gonna make fun of me. And they should. So I concentrate real hard, and inevitably I drop the pass. But when it doesn’t matter, when nobody’s watching, I catch everything.

  I’m like that Looney Tunes frog. You know? The one that starts singing and dancing like, “Hello, my baby. Hello, my darling.” Then someone looks at him, and he sits there like a frog and says, “Ribbit.” That’s me. If I wasn’t such a loser, well, I wouldn’t be such a loser, and my life wouldn’t suck big hairy balls.

  In most stories, the calamities increase in frequency and intensity until the climax. You taught us that, Ms. Townsend. I think my life’s like that. It’s an easily discernable pattern. That’s it in a nutshell. Oh, shit, I haven’t really completed the assignment, have I? You wanted us to describe an event that meant something to us. To make the reader feel what we felt. Here goes.

  Naked and seminaked boys surround me. They laugh and joke, comfortable showing their muscular chests and big dicks. I work the combination lock and open my locker. I remove my T-shirt. I have a skinny upper body. “Put the bird back in the cage.” One of my mother’s boyfriends told me that once. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I used my context clues, and I figured it out.

  Context clues. See? I’m listening, Ms. Townsend.

  Sorry. Back to the story. I glance to my right, then to my left. The Big Man on Campus stands in front of his locker, wearing nothing but a cocky grin. My eyes sweep over his tall, athletic body. For a moment, I look at his penis, and, if I’m really honest, I want to. In that same moment, when I sneak that peek, the BMOC sees me looking. After that, my life is never the same.

  Caleb’s personal narrative goes on to detail a locker-room shaming for looking at a teammate’s penis. The main antagonists of his story are the BMOC and the SIC, Second in Command. Caleb didn’t name any names. Gwen was particularly concerned about the final paragraph of his essay.

  If it wasn’t for Flash Gordon, maybe they would’ve beat me up or worse. I don’t know, but now I walk around afraid every waking minute, just waiting for something bad to happen, for my climax to come to fruition. Maybe I should do it myself. Maybe I should do it on my own terms. Then nobody can ever hurt me again.

  Gwen was partly disturbed by the content and partly impressed with Caleb’s skill as a writer. She scrawled an A+ at the top of the paper, mostly because that’s what he deserved, but partly so the counselor understood that she wasn’t upset with Caleb. Gwen took the essay to the main office. Mrs. Moyer pecked away at a computer on the reception desk.

  “Back for more?” Mrs. Moyer said with a smirk.

  “Is the counselor in?” Gwen asked.

  “Mrs. Baumgartner’s out sick.” Mrs. Moyer cocked her head. “She tends to get sick on Fridays.”

  Gwen sighed. “May I speak with Principal Wilcox again?”

  Mrs. Moyer picked up the phone. “Glutton for punishment, huh?”

  After she was allowed entry, Gwen was back in Janet’s office, sitting across from her at the desk.

  “You’ve had an eventful afternoon,” Janet said.

  “That’s an understatement,” Gwen replied. “I just read a personal narrative from Caleb Miles. He did a fantastic job, but I think he needs to talk a counselor. He may be at risk for suicide.”

  Janet perked up, her eyes widening.

  Gwen handed the essay to Janet. “I’m sorry to drop this in your lap on a Friday afternoon.”

  Janet took Caleb’s essay. “It’s quite all right. It’s not your fault that Principal Pruitt and Mrs. Baumgartner are both out.” She glanced at the handwritten essay. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “In the essay, Caleb talks about being bullied in the locker room. I’m pretty sure he’s talking about the football team, and it might be related to what happened in my classroom. You might want to talk to Rick Barnett—”

  “I’ve been in this school district for twenty years. I’m sure I can figure out who to talk to.”

  “Of course. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Caleb and Zolpidem

  Bass pumped from the speakers—gangster rap. Boys bobbed to the beat as they put on their football uniforms. Jamar sat across from Caleb, eyes closed, leaning against his locker, his head bobbing to a different drummer. Ironically, the only black kid on the team didn’t like rap. Jamar preferred R & B, jazz, and synthpop that sounded like refurbished and updated eighties’ beats. Caleb glanced at the clock on the wall—5:35. They still had twenty-five minutes before warm-ups.

  Caleb, already dressed and ready for his evening on the sideline, sat on the bench in front of his locker. He grabbed his phone and headphones and played his favorite playlist. He tucked his phone into his football pants, leaned against his locker, and shut his eyes. The rap music was drowned out by The 1975. Caleb didn’t like rap either, preferring alternative rock. With his eyes shut and Matty Healy crooning in his ears, he floated away.

  He awoke with a start, disoriented, something touching his face. Someone stood over him, standing on the bench, legs wide and squatting like a sumo wrestler, his hairy ass-crack close enough to smell, and his scrotum touching Caleb’s nose. Caleb ducked his head and stood, getting out from under the guy. Shane still stood, naked from the waist down, standing on the bench, grinning from ear to ear. A half-dozen guys surrounded Caleb, laughing, jumping up and down, hysterical—Lance and Drew and a few other seniors. Caleb couldn’t hear them, instead only hearing Matty Healy singing about somebody else.

  Caleb pushed through the crowd toward the bathroom. They laughed and blocked his escape. Caleb struggled, his cleats sliding on the concrete, but
finally making it through the gauntlet. He slipped and fell as he hustled to the bathroom, the crowd having one last laugh at his expense. Caleb stood, his headphones off-kilter, and scrambled into the bathroom. Jamar turned from the sink, his head still bobbing to his beats, and smiled. Caleb ignored him and went into the last stall, locking the door. The toilet seat was up, the water hazy yellow, and the rim stained with yellow splotches. Caleb kicked the lever, flushing the toilet.

  Jamar’s calves appeared beneath the stall door. Caleb removed his headphones.

  “You all right?” Jamar asked.

  “I’m fine.” Caleb paused for a moment, thinking of a way to make him go away. “I just have to … take a dump.”

  Jamar walked away.

  Coach Schneider shouted into the locker room, “Five minutes.”

  Caleb stood in the back corner of that stall, listening and watching for approaching legs. Nobody came for him. Caleb thought about Shane and how he could do whatever he wanted and not get into trouble. He was sent to the principal. He shouldn’t even be playing tonight. Of course, his mom’s not gonna do shit. I should’ve known better to talk back. That’s why it happened.

  Coach Schneider shouted, “Turn that shit off.” The rap music was vanquished. “One minute. Let’s go.”

  The rap-free quiet was unsettling. Now Caleb heard the click-clack of cleats on concrete, the smacking of plastic pads, and voices dissipating as players left the locker room and queued outside for the short walk to the stadium. Eventually everyone was gone, onto the grass, doing their warm-up routine.

  Caleb stepped from the stall, his headphones around his neck, faint music emanating from the ear muffs. He stepped gingerly, expecting a coach or a player to reprimand him, but the locker room was empty. He went to his locker, took off his football uniform and pads, and dressed in his jeans and sweatshirt.

  He left the locker room, the afternoon sun orange and low on the horizon. Caleb cut through the parking lot and walked along the roadside past the stadium. The stadium lights were already on; the loud speaker blared classic rock. His former teammates readied themselves for the game. Caleb crossed the highway and cut through the cornfield, the stalks tall but browning, the feed corn drying in place. Once concealed by the corn, he broke down, sobbing as he walked. I wish I was invisible. I wish I was gone. I wish I was fucking dead. I might as well be. I don’t think anyone would give a shit. And why would they? I’m nothing. Less than nothing.

  He made it home to his trailer, the sun now replaced by a clear starry night. Madison would probably say how beautiful it is out. She gets some fucking therapy and what? Now she’s got it all figured out? What the fuck does she know? She doesn’t know me anymore. Nobody does.

  Caleb went inside, not needing his key. They didn’t lock the door. Why bother? Wasn’t anything to steal. He went to the bathroom, peed, washed his hands, and leaned on the sink, looking in the mirror. His green eyes were red-rimmed, the tip of his nose also red. He shook his head at himself. I’d be better off dead. He went to his bedroom, sat on his bed, and thumb-typed on his phone the best way to kill yourself.

  A gun’s out. They were one of the few families who didn’t at least have a hunting rifle. He had a pellet gun. It looked like a real gun, but it didn’t shoot like one. It would just hurt real bad. Jumping off a bridge or a tall building was out. It was a long way to the nearest tall bridge or building. It wasn’t a great idea anyway. A lot of people supposedly survived that with major injuries. Fuck that. What about slitting my wrists? The article called it exsanguination. Hell, no. I don’t have the balls for that. Sleeping pills were a possibility though.

  Caleb went back to the bathroom and opened the mirror to the medicine chest, his phone in his pocket. A bottle of Ambien was on the top shelf. Actually, it read Zolpidem, but he knew it was Ambien because his mother had told him what it was and to stay away from it, that she needed it to sleep. She didn’t have a prescription. She probably got it from one of her ex-boyfriends. He opened the tinted plastic bottle. It was mostly empty, a handful of white pills on the bottom.

  How many does it take to do the job? He grabbed his phone from his pocket and thumb-typed dosage for Ambien suicide. He sat on the toilet and scrolled through various articles, but he couldn’t find anything specific. He shoved his phone back in his pocket. I could just take ’em all. But what if it doesn’t work, and Heather wants to know what happened to her pills? What if I get really sick? Caleb took a deep breath. I have to do something. He rummaged through the cabinet, looking through all the pill bottles. He found some aspirin that looked a little like Ambien. They were also white and round but a bit smaller. Heather would never notice anyway, and, if she did, she’d probably think her old boyfriend got ripped off by some shady drug dealer.

  Caleb took the remaining seven Ambiens and placed them on the sink next to the faucet, careful not to drop them down the drain. He added seven aspirin to the bottle and placed it back on the top shelf. He went to the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, and returned to the bathroom. His heart pounded in his chest. A lump formed in his throat. Tears welled in his eyes. He thought about what had happened in the locker room. He thought about Madison and his mom. He thought about himself. I hate myself. I fucking hate myself. He grabbed the pills, shoved all seven in his mouth at one time, and washed them down with the water.

  For a moment, he panicked, hacking, trying to throw up the pills. He put his finger down his throat, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t puke. He thought about calling 9-1-1. Then he thought, I can’t keep doing the same thing and expect a different result. Isn’t that what Madison said?

  Caleb went back to his room, shut the door, took off his jeans, and crawled under his covers. He wondered what it would be like. Half an hour later, he drifted off into the black.

  CHAPTER 27

  Rick and She’s Trouble

  “I’m starting Jamar next week,” Rick said, sitting in the coach’s locker room after the game.

  Coach Bob Schneider sat across from him, on the bench in front of his locker, wearing khaki shorts and a collared shirt, embroidered with WL Wolf Pack on the breast.

  “We won the game,” Bob said, stroking his beard.

  “Lancaster’s terrible,” Rick replied. “We should’ve put up sixty against those guys. With quarterback play like that, we won’t win the big games.”

  Bob shook his head. “You know how I feel about it. Like I said before, it’ll divide the team. You really think Lance is gonna be happy catching passes from Jamar? Shane’s his best friend.”

  “Shane overthrew Lance twice tonight. Would’ve been two easy touchdowns. And he holds on to the ball too long.”

  Bob blew out a breath. “You’re the boss.”

  “I’ll let Shane and Jamar know after films tomorrow.” Rick stood from the bench. “I’m beat. You ready to get outta here?”

  Bob stood, grabbing his duffel bag. “Yeah.”

  Rick locked the coach’s room and peeked into the player’s locker room. It was empty except for the dirt clods that littered the floor. Rick and Bob went outside and walked together to the parking lot. The lot was empty except for Rick’s truck, Bob’s SUV, and a Jeep. A female form leaned against Rick’s truck. As they approached, Ashlee Miles flipped her dark hair and smiled wide. Bob looked at Rick with raised eyebrows. Rick shrugged in response.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Bob said, heading for his vehicle.

  “Bright and early,” Rick called out.

  Rick approached his truck. Ashlee stood next to his driver’s side door, her phone in hand. She wore bright red lipstick, skintight jeans, and a North Face fleece. Bob drove away, leaving them alone.

  “Hey, Rick,” she said with a giggle. “I mean, Mr. Barnett.”

  “Ashlee,” Rick said, nodding. “You need something?”

  “A ride. I locked my keys in my Jeep. I have a spare at home.”

  “Why don’t you call your mother? She can bring your keys. I can wait here for a f
ew minutes if you don’t wanna be by yourself.”

  “She’s not home. Probably out with some douchebag.”

  Rick rubbed his stubbly beard, relieved that Heather had moved on.

  “My house is on your way,” Ashlee said, her hands on her hips.

  “You know where I live?” Rick asked.

  “Your wife used to teach me piano. Don’t you remember?”

  Rick blew out a breath. “All right.” Rick unlocked the cab, opened his door, and sat behind the wheel. He placed his phone in the cupholder.

  Ashlee skipped around the truck and climbed in through the passenger door. Rick started the engine and drove toward Ashlee’s house. He knew where it was but pretended he didn’t.

  “Tell me where to go,” Rick said.

  Ashlee skooched closer to Rick on the bench seat, close enough to smell her fruity perfume.

  Rick glanced at her, dangerously close. “Where do I turn?”

  “Not this left but the next one.” Ashlee picked up Rick’s phone from the cupholder. “This your phone?”

  “Yes.” Rick looked at Ashlee tapping on his phone. “Can you put that back please?”

  “I’m just putting my number in it.” She tapped a few more times and put his phone back in the cupholder. Her phone chimed with a musical ring tone. Rick had no idea who the artist was. She silenced the ring. “Now you have my number, and I have yours.”

  Rick turned left, onto a country road, with farms on both sides. “There’s no reason for you to call me or for me to call you.”

  “You never know.”

  “When’s the next turn?” Rick asked, knowing her neighborhood was quickly approaching on his right.