Some Boys

by Patty Blount

  “Miranda got pissed. Grace never stops bitching about her stepmother or something—I don’t know. She and Grace mixed it up a little, and Grace stormed off. I followed her, you know, to do the sensitive, supportive friend thing. Whatever works, right? Come on, Russell. I’ve seen you do the same thing.”

  He’s right. I have. And it works. “Yeah, I’d have followed her too.” The words leave a sour taste in my mouth.

  “So she’s all upset, and I’m trying to comfort her, you know? I kiss her once, and she pulls away, says she’s not into it. Whatever. That’s cool. But she keeps talking about how Miranda’s selfish and never has time for her and only wants to talk about her issues. Grace says she has issues too but nobody ever wants to talk about hers. I take her hand, lead her to that hunk of wood—you know, that old railroad tie? We sit down. I put my arm around her. She doesn’t move it off. I touch her knee, and she doesn’t complain. She’s almost crying now about her dad and her stepmother and Miranda and you—”

  What? “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Collier’s got a thing for you, bro.”

  I know that now, but why would that make her cry? “And you still moved on her?”

  Zac shrugs. “Sure. You weren’t together officially, so what’s the big deal?”

  I open the door, climb out of Zac’s car so I don’t knock his teeth out. I never moved on Grace because he asked her out first. Douche.

  “Hold up, bro. You wanted to know what happened, so at least hear the whole story.”

  Shit. I don’t want to hear anymore. I lean against the rear bumper and cross my arms.

  “You know what? I wish you’d been there. You should have been there, bro, and maybe none of this would have happened!”

  I shove my hands in my pockets and look away.

  “She was all weepy, Russell. You should have been the shoulder she cried on, but you weren’t there. I was. Was I supposed to just leave her like that? I never saw her that way before. Grace is always tough and pissy, you know? So I figure…here’s my shot. Don’t blow it! I lean over to kiss, her but she turns her head away, so I kiss her neck.” He touches a spot just below his ear. “I thought she liked that. She moaned a little, stretched out on the ground flat on her back. You tell me that’s not a sign.”

  Damn it, I can’t.

  “She wanted it. She gave me all the signs. So I moved next to her, kissed her some more. She was shaking. The ground’s barely thawed, and she was probably cold, so I stepped things up. You know, to get her hot. She didn’t stop me. She didn’t push me away. She didn’t say anything, except for the moans. So I kept going. When I got her top off, I took out my phone.”

  I was unconscious. Grace’s voice echoes in my head, and I want to choke my best friend right now. “She passed out, Zac.”

  “No! Goddamn it, Russell. She was moaning. Tell me how that’s rape because I don’t get it. I didn’t hold her down! She had plenty of time to run, to push me away, to go back to her friends, but she didn’t.”

  I hold up my hands. “What about after, Zac?” He blinks at me, and I curse. “Come on, man. After. When you all scattered because you thought the cops were coming. You left her there.”

  “She wanted to find her clothes! Said she’d catch up to me later.” He shakes his head and flings up both hands. “Oh, come on, Russell! If you were there, you’d have done the same thing. Admit it.”

  His words worm through my brain, tangling with Grace’s. I think about Lindsay letting my friends put their hands on her and how disgusting that was, and suddenly my brain shoots to Erin Specht and the night I lost my virginity. It’s the same scene, the same goddamn scene. Only that time I was totally into it instead of disgusted. Fuck! I shove off the car’s bumper and stalk into the restaurant. I’m done. I’m done with this conversation. I’m done with Grace. I’m done with the whole goddamn drama.

  “Yo! What’s up?” Jeremy holds up a hand, and I high-five him on my way to order food. A few minutes later I’m scarfing down a couple of burgers and doing my best to shove Zac’s words the hell out of my head.

  The guys are breaking Kyle’s balls over his haircut. The Mohawk spikes are gone. All he’s got left is a flat strip over the top of his head. I don’t feel like playing. I scan the restaurant. There are a few flat-screens bolted to walls, sound turned down. One’s set to the news. Another’s set to ESPN. My phone vibrates. It’s my dad. For a second I seriously think about hurling it through one of the TVs. What could I possibly have done this time—or maybe not done—to piss off my dad? The food I just swallowed decays, and my stomach clenches. I’m on my feet but don’t remember standing, and Zac is right next to me. “Ian, chill. Let’s go get trashed, okay?”

  Yeah. Yeah, okay. Make it stop, make it go away. I can’t deal with my dad right now. I look at my friend and nod my thanks.

  Half an hour later Zac and I are sitting in his living room, kicked back with a couple of beers. His parents are upstairs. Zac claims it’s cool. Whatever. I chug some more beer and then blurt, “Zac, I gotta tell my dad the truth.”

  He looks at me from the recliner across the room and then shakes his head. “Bad idea, man.”

  “I was buzzed. I drove the car and almost hit somebody.”

  “But you didn’t. Telling him the truth is only gonna get you in more trouble.”

  I put the beer down. It suddenly tastes like acid.

  “Come on, Russell. Think about it. Brill will kick you off the team, and you can kiss scholarships good-bye. You’ll be laying tile next to your dad until he keels over, and then you’ll keep doing it until you keel over because it’s all you can do. If that’s the life you want, then tell him.” He shrugs.

  Shit. I’m losing it. I fold over my middle and rock. “I was lucky, Zac. All I hit was somebody’s mailbox. What if I’d hit that guy walking his dog? Or some kid on his bike?”

  “So what? Look, you can’t fuck up your whole future for a bunch of what-ifs. You had what, two beers? You weren’t drunk. Do you want to spend your the rest of your life listening to your dad tell you your grout lines suck or watching the tiles bake in some oven?”

  I stare at him in horror.

  “Didn’t think so.” He stares at me for a minute and then rolls his eyes. “Look, man. I get it. The what-ifs keep rattling around up there.” He taps his temple. “You’re looking at this all wrong. Don’t keep saying what-if. Say, ‘Okay, I learned I’m a lightweight and next time won’t drive after two beers.’ Case closed. I’m hungry. You hungry?”

  I can’t even hear the word without wanting to puke.

  “Mom!” He shouts up the stairs. “Can I get a sandwich or something?”

  I hear the ceiling creak and panic. Jesus, do I hide the beer or what? Zac’s still got his in his hand and doesn’t seem concerned when his mother appears at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a robe.

  “Hi, Ian. You boys want some spaghetti and meatballs? I can reheat it.”

  Zac looks at me, shrugs, and says, “Yeah, that works.”

  “How was practice today? Did you boys have fun?”

  Zac looks annoyed. “Mom, food?”

  “Right, coming right up.” She hurries into the kitchen.

  He rolls his eyes at me, then drains what’s left of his beer. The refrigerator door opens. Then the microwave beeps, and the sounds are normal. Comforting. I kill the rest of the night pouring more beer over the acid churning in my gut while Zac scarfs down a plate of pasta. I don’t stop until I can’t feel anything. It’s after midnight when Zac drags me out of his car, almost carries me to my door and dumps me on the couch in our living room. I fall asleep the second the door closes, dreaming of boys on bicycles and old men walking dogs and girls with bright eyes.

  • • •

  A bright light pierces my head like a laser, and I groan.

  “Get up, Ian.”

  Hell, no. Getting up means moving, and I can’t do that. There’s a truck parked on top of me. My tongue feels like it spent the night lic
king every postage stamp ever printed. And I’m not sure, but I think there’s a construction crew jack-hammering the base of my brain.

  “Ian! Ian, what the hell is wrong with you! Get up. You’re already late.”

  Late. Late for what? Whatever it is won’t mind if I just stay here and die.

  “Ian, damn it, get off this sofa. Now.”

  Sofa? It moves while I try to remember why I’m sleeping downstairs. Or maybe it’s the clash of tectonic plates. My head spins, and my stomach vibrates for a second, executes a complete 360, and lands somewhere in my esophagus, and believe me, the postage-stamp taste is ten times better than what I’m tasting now. I drag myself to my feet, manage the twenty-story climb to the bathroom, and try not to lose my spleen along with every meal I ate over the last two or three years of my life.

  “Jesus, Ian, are you hungover? I can’t believe you!”

  Oh, crap. I’m a prisoner in my own body, and my dad’s gonna rattle the bars on my cage. Hell, he’ll probably take the whole day off, make a holiday of it. I peel myself off the bathroom floor, fall into the tub, still dressed, and shower away the puke that’s sticking to parts of me. Fifteen minutes later after I manage to escape from my wet clothes, I’m vertical—no easy feat—but the headache is no better. I wrap a towel around my lower half, happy to find the bathroom deserted. My room is also empty, though there’s a cup of steaming black coffee and bottle of pain reliever on the table next to my bed.

  I swallow a few pills and sip the coffee and say a short prayer of thanks that neither of them are returned to sender. I find some jeans, manage to pull them on without losing consciousness. The sound of a throat clearing makes me jolt. My dad’s sitting at my desk, watching.

  Waiting to pounce.

  I prepare myself, go through the checklist. No talking back. No eye-rolling. No heavy sighs. I’m ready. Bring it.

  “Feel any better?”

  Slowly I nod and brace for impact.

  “Mom’s making you some toast. Go down when you feel up to it, then go back to bed.”

  I scan his body. There are no outward signs of alien or droid takeover, so I nod again. Dad shakes his head with a sad little smile and leaves me alone. Fifteen minutes later I think it’s safe for me to attempt walking. I head downstairs, find my mom in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  She spins, her ponytail whipping the air. “Ian, you scared us both to death.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sit down. Eat some toast.”

  I sink to a chair at the table, grab a slice of toast from the plate, and nibble. My stomach doesn’t protest, so I nibble some more.

  Mom sits next to me. “Ian, what were you thinking? You’ve just had a concussion, and you drink yourself into a stupor on top of it?”

  Whoa, my parents have obviously switched bodies. I groan and drop the toast. “Mom, I’m sorry. I got a little drunk. I didn’t drive, and I didn’t run over anybody—” I clamp my lips together and grip my head tight.

  “Well, that’s something at least.” She sips a cup of coffee, and I look for mine. Only I left it upstairs. Over the rim, she examines me. She’s ready for work, hair tied back in a neat tail, comfortable shoes on, slacks, and sweater. Her uniform. Same thing every day, same damn thing. I stare at her and wonder, Is this what it’ll be like for me? Graduate high school, spend four more years getting a degree for a shot at some job that I’ll count the days to escape from? Is this my future, the one Zac is so sure I’ll ruin if I admit I dinged the car because I was drinking?

  Mom pushes the coffee cup aside and leans over to grab my hands. “Ian, I know something’s wrong. Tell me. Please?”

  My eyes snap to hers. Is it written across my forehead? How the hell does she know? I open my mouth, shut it. I can’t. I just can’t.

  I grab my gear and leave.

  Outside it’s cold, colder than the last few days have been. The bite in the air does wonders to clear up my head. School is less than half a mile’s walk, but the closer I get, the slower my steps are. I stop for more coffee and a bagel. I waste time scanning a newspaper somebody left behind. Grace is probably wondering where I am. She might even be worried about me a little, the way she did when I got dizzy.

  I shift in my seat, feel the steel stud in my pocket like a goddamn thorn in my side. Damn it, I feel torn with Zac on one side and Grace on the other, and I hate it, hate feeling like the knot on their tug-of-war rope. After everything that happened yesterday, everything that Zac told me, did for me, I can’t believe he’s what Grace says he is. There’s no way I can look Grace in the eye and tell her that. So I do what I do best.

  Take the chickenshit route.

  Chapter 15

  Grace

  “Grace, you ready yet?” Mom calls. I grab my camera bag and jog down the stairs. Her mouth falls open. “Wow. You look so pretty. What’s the occasion?”

  I face the mirror hanging on the hall wall and make sure my hair’s still smooth. I wrestled with it for an hour last night, blowing out my curls until my hair looked like a shiny curtain. I’m wearing jeans and a plain T-shirt. All my leather and spikes are upstairs. I don’t have to wear armor every day. I can be—you know—soft, I guess.

  I slip my feet into comfortable flats instead of my studded boots and head for the kitchen to make a few sandwiches.

  “Mom, where’s the roast beef?” I rummage through the drawer with cold cuts.

  “Since when do you eat roast beef?” She nudges me out of the way, finds the roast beef hidden under a package of Swiss cheese.

  I slap some mayo on a few hard rolls, layer on cheese, roast beef, and turkey, and then wrap the sandwiches in plastic.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Grace, seriously. What’s the deal?”

  “No deal, Mom.”

  “Okay.” She smiles. “Good for you.”

  Fifteen minutes later she’s driving off while I head into the school. Damn it. Ian’s not here yet. I stow my bag, push the utility cart to where we left off yesterday, and snap on a fresh pair of gloves. Shivering, I glance around. Yep, definitely alone, but I swear I can still smell Zac standing right here, where Ian shoved him into a locker.

  That was way unexpected. But seriously appreciated. I hope Ian knows that. I get how hard that must have been, going up against a friend. Lindsay won’t do it, even though I know she hates what Miranda’s turning her into. I glance at my phone. Ian’s late. Hope he didn’t have another dizzy spell. Oh, crap! I hope I didn’t get him into big trouble with his dad last night.

  A noise way down the hall has me whipping around with a gasp, but nobody’s there. Frozen in place, entire body clenched, I finally notice an overhead light just popped, but I can’t relax. My fingers are numb. My heart’s galloping, and sweat beads line the back of my neck. I do not have time for this now, goddamn it. I am stronger than this. I grab the cart, wheel it to the lockers by the stairwell. I spray a bunch of lockers and scrub them out, looking over my shoulder after every one.

  The door downstairs is still closed. But the numbness is spreading, and my chest is getting heavy.

  Where the hell is Ian? I should call his dad. No, wait. If he’s ditching, I’ll get him in trouble. But what if he’s passed out somewhere? I can’t breathe. I grab my phone, call my mother, put it on speaker.

  “Hey, Grace.”

  “Mom. Help.”

  “What? What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Can’t breathe, Mom.”

  “Okay, hold on. I’m pulling over. Okay, get your water.”

  Water? Right. My bag. It’s not on my shoulder. The cart. I put my bag on the cart. I crawl over, unzip the bag, find a bottle of water, and chug.

  “Get a towel, put some water on your neck…like I showed you.”

  Yes. Towels. I tear off a few from the paper towel roll, pour some water over it, drape it under my hair.

  “Okay, breathe.”

  “Can’t.”

  “You can, honey. You are.
”

  “I’m alone, Mom. All alone.”

  “No, Grace. Never. I’m right here.”

  “When is this gonna stop?” I whisper and rub my chest, and she sighs.

  “I don’t know, Grace. Maybe if you didn’t have to see him every day. Like in Europe. You could meet new friends, friends who don’t know you, don’t know what happened. You can start over, honey.”

  I shut my eyes, let my head fall back, and imagine climbing the Spanish Steps in Rome or exploring the Louvre in Paris. I could hang with my hosts or go out and meet new people, people who don’t know I’m a slut, people with fancy accents and…and manners and courtesy and—

  No.

  No. I wipe the cold sweat off my neck and know it won’t be any better across the world than it is here. I have to face this. If I run, Zac wins, and he’s already won enough games.

  The knots in my intestines unkink, and I can breathe again.

  “Grace, you okay?” Mom asks after my gasping breaths slow down.

  “Yeah,” I say and scrub my hands over my face. “Yeah,” I repeat with more certainty. “Better now. Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Gracie. Call me later, okay?”

  “Yep.”

  I tuck the phone back in my pocket and climb to feet I can barely feel. But they hold me, and that’s enough for the moment. I glance out the window that overlooks the parking lot and watch the lacrosse team. Even from this distance, I can pick out Zac just by the way he stands—hands on his hips, head up.

  I return to my row of lockers. Behind me is the stairwell. I can’t miss hearing the door downstairs open. Reassured, I scrub locker after locker by myself until my stomach rumbles and then stop for lunch.

  Still no Ian. I hope he’s okay.

  I sit in the window, watch Coach Brill hand out water bottles and the boys flop to the turf. I’m exposed. Entirely visible to anybody who looks up here. But nobody is, so I take the camera from my bag and check out the zoom.

  Damn it, not close enough to catch facial expressions. Okay. Time for a little espionage.

  Instantly my chest tightens, and my knees shake. But I have to do this. I have to get that picture so everyone will see. I pull on my hoodie, grab my bag, and sneak closer to the field. By the time I reach my favorite tree, the team’s break is over, and everyone’s back on the field in position, waiting for the whistle. I hold up the camera, check the view, and it’s perfect. I can see the beads of sweat roll down faces. I aim, shoot picture after picture.