Violent Ends

by Shaun David Hutchinson

  Katy slaps Nate’s shoulder. She looks like the weight of her breasts might cause her to topple over at any moment. It would be comical if I weren’t so envious. “Don’t be a jerk, baby. She can’t help it if her face is fucked up.”

  “Seriously, though, New Girl,” Nate says. “You should get that thing taken care of before you put out someone’s eye.”

  They laugh as if they think they’re the first people to ever make that joke about me. I’m trying so hard to avoid looking at them and praying that they grow bored and leave me alone that I almost miss my subject leaving his Spanish class. I grab my camera and stand. Nate, Jackson, and Katy block my path.

  “Excuse me.” I brush past them, folding in on myself, willing my body to be narrow and small.

  “You should smile more, New Girl,” Nate calls after me. “Nobody wants to fuck a girl who doesn’t smile.”

  * * *

  My subject’s name is Kirby Matheson. I found this out by digging up last year’s yearbook in the library and scanning every face until his leapt out at me. Everyone hates school photos, but Kirby was grimacing in his like he was being forced to sit for it at gunpoint.

  Most days after school, he practices with the marching band. He plays the sax, though I get the impression he’d rather be on drums. It’s the way he walks. Each step sharp, every turn precise, always in time with the other members. The way his red cheeks puff when he plays. The way he wears his blue-and-white uniform like a straightjacket. When I watch him, I imagine him tearing it off, running around the field screaming at the top of his lungs, his feet—wearing the Chucks with a treble clef drawn on the side that I only ever see him wear for band—banging out a tune only he can hear.

  It’s hot out today sitting on the bleachers on the west side of the football field under the afternoon sun. Through my telephoto lens, I can see each bead of sweat that rolls down his smooth cheeks, collecting in the stiff collar of his uniform. I wonder what he’s thinking about as he plays the theme to Star Trek, the notes rising and falling, swooping through the air, the drum line rumbling. Is he focused on the music, stressing about screwing up, or does he know it by heart? Does he have a girlfriend his mind wanders to? A boyfriend? Any friends at all? There’s one girl in band—a clarinet player—that he hangs around with. Some days he eats lunch with a group of kids. One girl has a boy’s name, I think, which I found interesting. Mostly, though, he’s alone.

  Sometimes I think about talking to him, but I don’t want to ruin my objectivity. Mrs. Recupido says keeping a professional distance from our subjects is important so that we don’t allow our personal feelings to influence our work. I get her point, but I can’t help wondering what Kirby dreams about at night. What he wants to do with his life when he graduates and leaves Middleborough behind. I doubt knowing those things will help me take a better photograph, but I want to know them anyway.

  * * *

  Kirby sits at a table in Brothers Pizza with his parents and sister. I overheard their server call her Carah. Kirby’s tapping the screen of his phone as if he’s totally alone. I followed him after band practice and waited until he went inside before I hurried in. A perky girl with cool hair dyed purple on the ends led me to a booth in the back.

  Kirby’s parents share a bottle of red wine and chat while they wait for their food. They seem like normal parents. Kirby’s father wears jeans and a plaid shirt, his mother a smart black dress. Carah dresses preppy and cute. They order a large antipasto before their meal, which is two pizzas—one mushroom and sausage, and one that might be a margherita.

  I didn’t dare sit near enough to hear their conversation, but I imagine them discussing how their days went and what they did at work. I imagine them asking their kids about school. About their plans for the winter formal. About whether Kirby’s started thinking about college even though he’s still got another year and a half before he graduates. Kirby hardly glances up from his phone.

  The same server who took the Mathesons’ order approaches my table. His name tag says RAY. He’s plain and a little goofy-looking. I order a cheese calzone and a water. Coke makes my skin break out. He nods at Kirby when he walks by their table, like they know each other. I wish I’d had my camera ready. That might have been a good picture.

  I showed Mrs. Recupido a few of my early photographs. When she asked me why I’d chosen Kirby as my subject, I lied and told her he was in my anatomy class. I doubt she’d approve of me taking his pictures without his permission. Though, and I can’t exactly explain it, I get the impression that he wouldn’t mind so much. That the idea of someone peeling back his layers one shot at a time would appeal to him.

  I’ve already learned so much. He doesn’t visit his locker often—once in the morning and once at lunch. And he reads more than anyone I’ve ever known. I don’t think they’re books for class, either. Last week he was reading East of Eden. Yesterday, Slaughterhouse-Five. I checked East of Eden out from the library and tried to read it, but the wall of text lulled me to sleep.

  He plays Dungeons & Dragons. I know that because at lunch one of the boys he sometimes eats with asked me if I wanted to play. They meet up at a coffee shop called Pulp Fiction in a part of town the locals refer to as Little Mexico, though I’m not exactly sure why. The boy, the one who asked me, said his name was John. He was good-looking—pretty, almost—with one of those smiles that make him seem like he’s in on a joke that no one else is aware of. I tried to answer him when he asked me if I wanted to join their game some night, but the words got lodged in my throat like a fish bone I couldn’t cough up. He shook his head and went back to his table. I wanted to say yes. I wish I’d said yes.

  I keep my camera on the seat so that I don’t give myself away. Anyway, the lighting here is terrible. There are too many shadows. Even if I did manage to fire off a shot or two, they wouldn’t develop well.

  Ray drops off my calzone and tells me to let him know if I need anything. I cut into it and the gooey cheese leaks out and begins to congeal into a rubbery blob, killing my appetite. Still, I should try to eat. Papa’s working the late shift and won’t be home until after midnight, and there’s nothing at the house but frozen dinners and a box of day-old donuts. Papa’s such a cop cliché sometimes.

  I cut off a corner of the calzone and dip it into the cup of marinara sauce on the plate. It’s not too bad. Not that I really taste it. My eyes are focused on Kirby, and I can’t help thinking about Mrs. Recupido’s question. If I’m being honest, I’d have to say I chose Kirby as the subject of my project because, when I look at him through the lens of my camera, I feel as if I’m seeing the parts of him he doesn’t show the world. Everything he keeps hidden. All his secrets.

  I can’t help thinking that if I learn his secrets, they’ll give me the courage to tell him mine.

  * * *

  After band practice, I follow Kirby to his car in the school parking lot. He drives a beat-up blue Ford Focus. The paint is peeling off the hood. Ours are the only cars left in the lot. Papa lets me drive his Civic most days because he’s got his nondescript undercover sedan that everyone knows is really a cop car.

  I don’t actually plan on following Kirby home until it’s time for me to turn left toward my house. I signal with my blinker and get into the turn lane, but when the light changes to green, I don’t move. The truck behind me honks, but I wait for an opening and veer right, drive straight through the light, two cars behind Kirby.

  He lives in an area of Middleborough called Birdland. All the streets are named after birds. Real imaginative. He pulls into the driveway of a house on Egret Lane, and parks. The word egret comes from the French word aigrette, which can mean either “silver heron” or “brush,” in case anyone cares.

  There’s nothing special about Kirby’s house. Nice, neat yard, white fence, pine tree in the front. If I hadn’t caught the numbers on the side of his mailbox—1184—I might not have been able to distinguish it from the other houses if I’d driven by again.

  I park
down the street on the side of the road and watch him drag his backpack from the passenger seat and trudge into the house through the garage. A dog barks from inside, so loud that I can hear it in my car.

  I hope Kirby will come back outside so that I can snap a picture of him in the right light. Photographers call it the “golden hour.” There are two of them—sunrise and sunset—when the sun is just below the horizon and the light is indirect rather than direct, giving the world a soft, reddish glow. Mrs. Recupido says all serious photographers should become intimately familiar with sunrise and sunset.

  The “golden hour” is also used by doctors to describe the period of time after a person is traumatically injured, during which prompt treatment results in the highest probability of preventing death. Papa taught me that one.

  After twenty minutes, I get bored and look up Kirby’s Facebook profile on my phone. He’s posted a couple of pictures of movies he wants to see—mostly superhero stuff—and made a few comments on his friends’ posts about their D&D games. That boy John tagged Kirby in a couple of cartoons that I think are supposed to be funny, and a girl named Meiko posted some stuff, but she seems to speak exclusively in emo song lyrics. Sometimes what a person doesn’t say gives away more than what they do, but I don’t think that’s true in Kirby’s case. Maybe he just doesn’t post often. I don’t have a Facebook profile at all. I deleted it last year. I don’t miss it.

  I consider creating a new profile. Middleborough is my fresh start. I could send Kirby a friend request and we could write messages back and forth. Since all our interactions would be online, I wouldn’t technically be violating Mrs. Recupido’s rule on maintaining artistic objectivity. Kirby might be more willing to open up with a digital buffer between us.

  I end up putting my phone away without creating the profile. The memories of last year are still too fresh, and I don’t want to risk kids from my old school finding it.

  Carah strolls out the front door with the dog I heard barking earlier. I slide down in my seat as she crosses the street and disappears. Kirby doesn’t come outside again. When the golden hour ends, the last of the sun’s light dead and gone, I start the car and drive home.

  * * *

  Mrs. Recupido liked a picture I took of Kirby on the football field. Said it was a good use of lighting and negative space. She specifically mentioned the way the other members of the marching band were cut off made it appear that they were walking out of the picture, leaving Kirby alone, and she suggested I use it for my project. It’s a good photo, but not perfect. It doesn’t capture the soul of Kirby Matheson, and I won’t be satisfied until I snap one that does.

  I was late getting to school and forgot to pack a lunch. Nothing I put on this morning fit right. The asymmetrical top I bought from H&M made my shoulders look too square. Even my favorite white tank top betrayed me. I didn’t recognize my own body in it. I tore it off, ripped it down the seams, and left it shredded on my floor. I probably would have skipped school, but I had an exam second period. I ended up throwing on a pair of jeans and an oversize black T-shirt.

  At lunch I grab a tray and slide into the line. If the smells hadn’t driven my hunger away, the sight of the slop in the metal chafing dishes would have. It all looks like wet dog food. Chunks of unidentifiable meat (God, I hope it’s meat) float in red or brown sauce. The kid in front of me orders by color. “Gimme the brown,” he says. I wind up with an apple, a water, and a tray of fries. Papa would not approve.

  Usually I get to lunch early enough to grab the end of a table to myself, but my options are limited today. I spy a boy sitting by himself and ask if I can join him. He barely looks up from the notebook he’s writing in, but he waves at me to sit.

  “My name is Billie Palermo,” I say.

  “Ruben.”

  “I’m new here.”

  “One second, I’m almost done.”

  Ruben continues writing, his hand flying over the page, the letters boyish and cramped. Which is fine. I pull my camera out of my backpack and scan the cafeteria for Kirby. He’s sitting with his friends today. John keeps slapping his arm, laughing at something. The girl with the boy’s name—Joe? Zach? I can’t remember—looks more uncomfortable than Kirby. I snap a picture of her, covertly. Then one of Kirby. I’m sure the lighting in the cafeteria will wash them out.

  “You on yearbook or something?”

  I’d almost forgotten Ruben was there. I shake my head, ashamed of being caught. “It’s for an art project.”

  “So you secretly take pictures of random people for fun? Creepy. I like it.”

  Ruben returns to his writing. I want to ask him what he’s writing about, but Kirby stands up. My fingers tighten on my camera, waiting to see what he’s doing. He walks across the lunch room to a table full of girls. They’re on the soccer team, I think. He stops in front of a girl with dark hair. She’s beautiful and tough. Cuban? It’s difficult to tell from so far away. One of her friends—a blond girl—watches them. Her nose is turned up and her lips turned down.

  Kirby’s hands are in his pockets. He says something; I wish I could hear what. I lift my camera to my eye and capture the scene. I twist the lens to bring them into focus. The dark-haired girl’s mouth hangs slightly open. She blinks and blinks and blinks. Kirby stands and stands and stands. I press the shutter button once. Twice. The girl hasn’t replied to whatever Kirby said, and for a second, the whole of Kirby expands and becomes the universe. The planets and stars swirling around him, the supermassive black hole at the center.

  And then the girl speaks, and Kirby collapses back in on himself. He nods. His shoulders fall. The dark-haired girl says something else. Kirby replies and walks back to his table. I keep snapping pictures.

  Kirby shakes his head at his friends when he reaches his table. The blond girl next to the girl Kirby talked to laughs.

  “What do you think that was about?” Ruben asks.

  I set my camera on the table again. “I don’t know.”

  “You friends with Kirby?”

  For a brief moment, I consider running up to Kirby and introducing myself. He’d look at me like I was crazy until I disarmed him with my smile. We’d talk for a few minutes and agree to meet up after school for pizza at Brothers, where I’d admit to being the new girl, and he’d entertain me with stories about his life that would have me holding my sides from laughing so hard. I’d mention that I was reading Slaughterhouse-Five and he’d tell me he’d also read it. We’d discuss the meaning of the Tralfamadorians and forget to eat. We’d lose track of the hours. Somewhere during our meandering conversation, Kirby would tell me I’m beautiful, and I’d blush and tell him he needs glasses. But I’d believe him because he isn’t the type to lie. Eventually, I’d have to go home, but Kirby would type his number into my phone and call me that night. We’d stay up talking until dawn.

  I practically live an entire life with Kirby while Ruben waits for me to answer his question.

  “No. But I think we could be.”

  * * *

  Economics is my least favorite class of the day. Not just because it’s last period and feels like it drags on forever, and not because Mr. Weatherdon walks and talks like a slo-mo marionette. I hate econ because of Nate Fiorello.

  Every school has a Nate Fiorello. Popular, hot, psychopath-in-training. He’s going to grow up to be a lawyer or a politician or the CEO of a wildly successful hedge fund. He usually passes time in class by throwing wadded-up bits of paper at me or whispering insults in my direction just loud enough for me to hear.

  I know I’m not like other girls. When I was in fifth grade and I’d see the girls in eighth grade beginning to develop breasts and curves, I couldn’t wait for those changes to begin for me. I envied their hips and their long lashes and their soft skin. I wanted to be pretty and popular and for the boys to want me and the girls to want to be me. I still do. But I was always weird. An easy target. Most likely to be punched in the hallway. I still am.

  Toward the end of class, Nat
e raises his hand, interrupting Mr. Weatherdon’s snooze-fest lecture, for a restroom pass. He bumps into me on his way out, and apparently it’s hilarious, because everyone behind me laughs. Their snickering continues while he’s gone, when he returns, and they follow me into the hallway when the bell finally rings.

  One thing being bullied at my old school taught me was how to tune out laughter. I memorized “The Arrival of the Bee Box” by Sylvia Plath, and I recited it to myself over and over until the taunts and snorts and snickers became but a buzz. I recite it now.

  The box is only temporary.

  By the time I reach my car, I have to force myself not to scream because I refuse to let them win.

  The box is only temporary.

  I slam the door behind me and pull my seat belt across my chest.

  The box is only temporary.

  I turn the rearview mirror toward me to make sure I’m not crying. To make sure I haven’t let them win.

  The box is only temporary.

  That’s when I see the gum. The wad of pink gum tangled in my hair. I pick at it, pull at it, try to tear it out, but it’s superglue. It has made a rat king of my hair.

  The box is only temporary.

  I’m shaking as I drive to my doctor’s appointment. I’m crying by the time I reach the office. Papa is standing beside his cop car in the parking lot, waiting for me in his crisp suit and violet tie. I scream in the confines of my car. Papa is running toward me. The door is opening. He’s kneeling.

  The box is only temporary.

  “Billie? Billie, what happened?”

  I show him my hair.

  He says, “It’s not bad. We can cut it out.”

  The box is only temporary.

  It took me two years to grow my hair this long. Two fucking years! I can’t remove the gum without cutting off pieces of me.

  The box is only temporary.

  “I can’t do it anymore, Papa! I can’t.”