Boy Toy

by Barry Lyga

  I shook my head. "Can we get some water for this young man?"

  The bailiff brought me a glass of water.

  I looked at it like it was poison.

  I didn't want to drink the water. I thought I would puke if I had anything at all in my stomach.

  But then, the more I thought about it, the better that sounded. If I threw up, they wouldn't make me testify, right? I sipped the water. It did nothing but cool my throat on the way down and sit like a ball of ice in my gut.

  "I'm going to ask the question again," Purdy said as if reading a picture book to an imbecile. "From whom did you receive the card inscribed 'I love you' that the police found in your bedroom, the card labeled 'People's Exhibit C?'"

  I shook my head and looked down at my own hands.

  "Your Honor..."

  The judge sighed and said, "Mr. Mendel." Then: "Mr. Mendel, please look at me."

  I looked up at Dad, who was dutifully looking at the judge.

  "Mr. Mendel!" the judge snapped. "Look at me, please."

  That was when I realized: "Mr. Mendel" was me.

  I looked at the judge, who glowered at me from his bench. "Mr. Mendel, you have to answer Mr. Purdy's questions. Otherwise, I'll hold you in contempt of court. Do you know what that means?"

  I shook my head.

  "It means you can be fined. Or put in jail. Now, since you're so young, I would have to fine your parents, do you understand?"

  Yeah, I understood.

  "Now answer Mr. Purdy's questions."

  I gritted my teeth together and put my palms on either side of my body on the chair, pressing down as if I could launch myself up through the ceiling.

  "Answer the question, young man."

  I closed my eyes. I flickered. I didn't care. I wouldn't tell them. I wouldn't tell them anything. "Young man..."

  "Judge, permission to treat this witness as hostile?"

  A sigh. "Granted."

  "Josh," Purdy said, "didn't Evelyn Sherman give you this card on the occasion of your thirteenth birthday?"

  I said nothing.

  "Answer the question, Josh."

  It hit me then. With a sudden and painful clarity. I knew what I had to do. I've always been a lousy liar, so I only had one choice.

  "Did Evelyn Sherman—" he repeated.

  I opened my eyes. I cleared my throat and looked Purdy dead in the eye. "I plead the Fifth," I said.

  Dead silence in the courtroom.

  I looked over at Eve's table. Her lawyer was staring at me as if I'd grown a third eye in the center of my forehead. Eve looked confused. I flickered: her eyes, her bedroom.

  "...can't plead the Fifth," Purdy was saying.

  "Judge!" This from Eve's attorney, suddenly on her feet.

  The judge waved for her to settle down and sit down. "Mr. Mendel, you're not on trial. You can't plead the Fifth. That's only for people who are on trial."

  He sounded awfully convincing, but I wasn't about to cave. I had seen people do this on TV and it always worked. It was my only way out.

  "I plead the Fifth," I said again. For good measure, I crossed my arms over my chest defiantly.

  The judge sighed. "I'll see the witness, his parents, and counsel in chambers. Bailiff, please take the jury out."

  "Why is she here?" Mom's voice had sharp edges to it. She was pointing to Eve, who was sitting next to her lawyer in the judge's chambers. I was in the chair right across from the judge's desk, and Purdy and my parents were standing behind me.

  "Mrs. Mendel, we're only going to be here a few minutes, OK?" The judge gestured to a sofa against a wall. "Why don't you sit down and relax for a minute?"

  Mom and Dad sat on the sofa, watching Eve. She looked down at the tips of her shoes the whole time.

  "Josh, we need to talk," said the judge. "I know you're a bright young man, so you'll understand this when I explain it to you. You just can't take the Fifth in this situation. It doesn't work that way."

  I shrugged. "I don't want to testify."

  "It doesn't work that way, Josh," the judge said. "When you're on the witness stand, you have to testify. The Fifth Amendment is there to protect people who are accused of crimes so that they don't have to testify against themselves. It's not so that witnesses can just suddenly decide not to testify."

  "Your Honor..." Eve's lawyer, tiptoeing into the conversation like a kid who knows she's not supposed to be up this late at night but wants a snack anyway. "Your Honor, we could be overlooking something here."

  Purdy snorted. The judge shot him a look. "Go ahead, Ms. Cresswell."

  "Judge, the witness has been accused of sexual assault on a minor female—"

  "Those charges were dropped!" Purdy exploded. "The ink wasn't even dry before the family called the police and—"

  "Counselor!" the judge barked, and I remember being impressed at how suddenly, how immediately, Purdy shut up and shut down. "In my courtroom and in my chambers, both sides get a chance to talk. Now shut up and let Ms. Cresswell finish."

  "Thank you, Your Honor," Ms. Cresswell said. "As I was saying: The charges were dropped, but could certainly be reinstated on the basis of something in the witness's testimony. Or, should the charges be refiled at a future date, the witness's testimony could be used against him."

  "Oh, for—!" Purdy couldn't help himself, but he stopped as the judge shot him another look.

  "Well, Ms. Cresswell, that's an interesting approach. But my understanding is that the parents of the girl in question have no interest in pursuing the case. Isn't that true, Mr. Purdy?"

  "In fact," Purdy said triumphantly, "they're on the witness list for the prosecution." He paused long enough to look down at Ms. Cresswell. "A fact the defense is well aware of."

  This didn't faze Ms. Cresswell in the least. "Your Honor, the parents' current wishes are immaterial. The fact remains that charges could be refiled at any time within the statute of limitations. The parents could change their minds down the road. In that case, the witness has the right to protect himself."

  "The only thing he needs protection from is your client!" Mom yelled all of a sudden.

  "Mrs. Mendel, please!" The judge looked pained. "Please, we need to remain civil. I know this is stressful for everyone." He sighed and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. "The only way out that I see is if the People are willing to grant immunity to Mr. Mendel on the assault charge. Are you willing to do that, Mr. Purdy?"

  Purdy hesitated. "I'd have to talk to the girl's parents."

  "Do so. We're adjourned until tomorrow morning."

  I had no idea what had happened. I just knew that I was—for the rest of the day, at least—off the hook.

  As we all got up to go, in that momentary confusion of chairs and throat-clearing, I looked over at Eve. She was, for the first time, looking at me, her eyes moist and wide. She smiled sadly and pursed her lips for just a moment, blowing me a kiss.

  And then it was over, back to reality, out the door, back to the world.

  19

  The next day, before the judge called the jury in, he asked, "Mr. Purdy, has there been any movement on the issue discussed in chambers yesterday?"

  Purdy stood up. "Yes, Your Honor. The People have extended immunity to Josh Mendel with regards to the events of March eighteen of this year."

  That was Rachel's birthday. It took me a second to realize what had just happened, but then Mom put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed me tight and whispered "Thank God," and I knew that I was in trouble. They would never prosecute me for attacking Rachel. Which meant that I had to testify.

  I returned to the witness stand. Purdy once again held the card up before me. "Let's pick up where we left off yesterday, Josh: Who gave you this card for your birthday?"

  I looked over at the defense table. For the first time, Eve wasn't looking down at her hands—she was looking straight at me and there was fear in her eyes. No, more than fear—terror, dread. The kinds of fear that make you bite throug
h your own lip.

  "Do you need me to repeat the question, Josh?" Purdy noticed that I was looking at Eve, who was looking at me. He stepped to one side so that the jury could see it, too. "I'm sorry, Josh—are you being distracted by something?"

  I wrenched my gaze from Eve and settled on Purdy. Bastard! I knew what he was doing. Trying to make it look like ... I knew what he was doing.

  "The card, Josh." He slapped it down in front of me. "Who gave it to you?"

  I gritted my teeth. "I plead the Fifth," I said, loud and clear.

  "Your Honor!" Purdy exploded, spinning toward the judge.

  "Young man!" The judge twisted in his chair to face me. "We discussed this yesterday. You are not permitted to plead the Fifth in this case! If you do so again, I will hold you in contempt of court. I will fine your parents one thousand dollars. Now answer the question."

  I wanted to spit in Purdy's eye. I wanted to kick the judge in the balls. It was no one's business! It was my card. They were my secrets. And no one had a right to them.

  Purdy held up a pad of yellow paper. "Josh, do you recognize this?" He slapped it down in front of me, along with another one just like it. Both were covered in my own handwriting. My gut tightened. "Isn't this your handwriting, describing events of a sexual nature that took place between you and the defendant?"

  "I plead the Fifth," I said again, louder this time. I avoided looking at Mom and Dad.

  The judge banged his gavel.

  "The contempt order is issued, one thousand dollars to Mr. and Mrs. Mendel, payable by check to the clerk's office by the close of business." I stared straight ahead. The judge told me to look at him. "That's one strike, young man. You only get two in my courtroom. If you do not answer Mr. Purdy's question, I will have you remanded to a juvenile detention facility until you do answer the question, do you understand?"

  Sweat—cold sweat—began to collect on my scalp and run down my neck. My palms were clammy and I closed my hands until my fingertips bit into them.

  "Didn't you write on these legal pads in my presence and sign and date them?" Purdy asked, this time leaning in toward me, as if daring me to plead the Fifth.

  Before I could answer, I heard something from behind Purdy. Everyone else heard it, too—they all turned to look at the defense table, where Eve and her attorney whispered ferociously at each other.

  "Ms. Cresswell?" Bang! went the gavel. "Ms. Cresswell! Keep your client quiet or—"

  Cresswell shot Eve a deadly look, but Eve shot back one just as deadly. Cresswell stood up. "Your Honor, I apologize. My client has just informed me that she wishes to change her plea."

  Whispers of shock filled the courtroom. The judge slammed his gavel down three times before everyone quieted down. My heart jumped with each crack of the gavel. I stared at Eve. She smiled at me, a sad smile.

  The judge had the jury taken out and called the lawyers and Eve to the bench. Everyone forgot about me—I could hear everything from the witness stand.

  "I won't tolerate grandstanding, Ms. Cresswell."

  "This isn't grandstanding, Your Honor. Against my advice, my client wishes to change her plea."

  "Your Honor," Purdy complained, "to switch to an insanity plea at this stage is an obvious and blatant abuse of—"

  "She's not switching to an insanity defense," Cresswell said quietly. And then the words that changed my life forever:

  "She's pleading guilty."

  20

  My courtroom experience ended almost as soon as it began. They no longer needed me to testify, because only one person would be testifying: Eve.

  In exchange for some sentencing considerations, Eve agreed to "allocute," which I was told meant that she would stand up in open court and describe everything she'd done wrong. Which is how my entire life's sexual experience ended up on the Internet, couched in clipped, formal, sanitized language that made it seem as dirty and as evil as bleach water.

  My parents wouldn't let me into court that day. Dad went because Mom said she didn't think she could handle hearing Eve talk about how she had molested me. When Dad came home, all he would tell Mom was "It's over. It's over, Jenna."

  Mom cried in relief.

  He was wrong, though. It wasn't over. It couldn't be over.

  The therapy started almost immediately.

  Other than sending me to Dr. Kennedy and taking a stab at some other forms of therapy, my parents didn't know how to deal with me in the first few months after the trial ended so suddenly. on the one hand, I was the victim. That's what everyone kept saying. They wanted, on some level, to coddle and protect me.

  But on another level...

  On another level, it enraged them that all of this had happened, that Eve had collided with our lives and that I hadn't done anything at all to help out with damage control.

  I wasn't allowed to make or receive phone calls. I wasn't allowed out of the house unless it was with Mom or Dad or to go to school. And I had to come home right away. I couldn't tell if this was for my punishment, my protection, or for both.

  My prospects of playing baseball were looking grim as the new season approached in eighth grade. I'd missed the entire seventh grade spring season and eighth grade Fall Ball. My fear of my parents' anger went to war with my panic at missing another season, and the panic won out, just barely.

  I asked them if I would ever be allowed to stay after school for baseball practice, ever be allowed to play ball again at all. They looked at each other and Mom said, "We'll see," and that was that.

  A few days later, they allowed me to go to baseball practice. The coaches and teachers watched me every minute I was on the field or on the bench. Mom told me that I was going to be watched, that I wasn't even to think about slipping away for even a single second. I was to tell my coach if I had to use the bathroom, and Coach would send someone to go with me, as mortifying as that was.

  I was under surveillance constantly. But at least I got to play baseball.

  When I returned to school, I was still the Ignored Kid. Everyone walked around me, looked through me, pretended I wasn't there. Which was fine—I didn't want to talk to anyone anyway.

  Things changed when a kid bumped into me in the hall one day.

  I can't explain what happened. I had always been ... quiet. Always mature and calm. But when that kid bumped into me, something broke deep inside. It was like I had a gyroscope inside my body that kept my balance, kept me on an even keel. And when he bumped into me, that gyroscope spun and tilted, trying to find the center of gravity between anger and acceptance ... and failed. And broke forever.

  I screamed and shoved him into a locker and punched him twice. Just twice. I remember that distinctly—once in the gut and once in the mouth. I didn't break anything, though I did bust his lip and cut my knuckles on his teeth.

  He stood there, half ready to collapse, held up by the lockers, a look of fear and bewilderment in his eyes, his bloody mouth twisted into a shocked gape. And I felt a sense of relief and calm wash over me for just a second, a relief and a calm I hadn't felt in months, a tensionless bliss that hadn't existed since before I went to Eve's apartment. I wanted to hit him again and again and again, to keep that feeling alive, to pound the bliss in with my fists.

  Some kids pulled me away from him. I earned my very first suspension and thereafter heard mutters that I was crazy, that Eve had made me nuts. Not just from students, either. Teachers, too. Some were sympathetic, murmuring that the "poor kid" was "dealing with what she did to him."

  Others just looked at me, ever after, with worry. And angst. And fear.

  ***

  That year, I got into a lot of fights and beat the crap out of a lot of people. I probably should have been suspended much more than I actually was, but I did my best to fight outside of school and to tease events so that the other person ended up being the aggressor and provoker, letting me claim self-defense.

  The truth is, I never particularly cared who I was fighting or even why.

  I
also took out my aggressions on the baseball. My batting average plummeted to .286 that year, with twenty-one at bats and a measly six hits; not bad for the majors, but pathetic against Little League pitching. My slugging average was an unbelievable .762. I wasn't hitting everything, but what I did hit never came back down to earth.

  Other kids, older kids, baseballs—I was beating the hell out of them all.

  One day, the world turned them all around and sent them back to me.

  21

  I was in the backyard, practicing my swing. A big cherry tree grew right on the edge of our property in back, and I had climbed up to the low branches and tied a cord there, at the end of which dangled a ball. I had drilled through the ball and sunk an anchor in there to tie the cord to. It dangled just low enough to be in my strike zone.

  The point wasn't to hit the ball hard, but just to get used to watching the ball and practice the form of my swing. I would push it out and it would come flying back more or less randomly and I would keep my stance, watch the ball, and swing away.

  Zik's parents still wouldn't bring him over and my parents wouldn't let me go over there. And none of the kids in the neighborhood would even look at me (and I couldn't look at them), so this was the best way for me to practice. The only way, really.

  It was getting dark and the world was getting quiet in that way that the world does when the sun starts to go down. The back porch lights were on, though, so I had plenty of light to see by, and I just kept whacking away at the ball, completely absorbed in it. I didn't want to go back into the house, where I would either listen to silence or to my parents arguing.

  I didn't hear footfalls. I didn't hear anything until he said, "Hey."

  I stopped swinging at the ball. I turned around.

  "Hey," George Sherman said again.

  I remembered the night before I'd gone to the police the first time, standing in the basement, needing to pee so badly as I waited for the phone to ring.

  I flickered and when I came out of it, George was saying, "...listen to me!" in a voice like a stone that's been heated until it hisses and sizzles.