Some Boys

by Patty Blount

  Here’s the link for the footage taken at the game between us and Holtsville High School. The game Grace mentioned, the game where Zac put a player in the hospital with a fractured skull.

  I remember this. The guy shifted. It was a legal hit. But I click Play anyway. I fast-forward to that play, watch it once, twice, a third time in slow motion. Kyle’s scrambling for the ball with two players from Holtsville, but he’s taking a beating. Zac leaves his crease, tries to add power. The other team’s attacker scoops the ball, lowers his upper body, and bam. Zac makes contact, and the guy hits the deck, already unconscious. It was legal. I play it again frame by frame, and there it is. Right before contact, right when the other player shifts to chase the ball, Zac raises his hands and hits the other guy in the face. The other player definitely shifted, but he was trying to scoop. Any hit while the ball is loose is illegal. Zac should have broken off the attack, at least lowered his hands. Instead, he raised them. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I let the video play out in slow motion and see a glimpse of that game face Grace described.

  Zac raised his hands. He hit that player hard enough to send him to a hospital, and he did it on purpose.

  I turn off my computer and shove away from my desk with a curse. What if Zac did what Grace says he did?

  I’m afraid to answer that question.

  Chapter 25

  Grace

  I didn’t run.

  That’s a point for me, but then I remember this isn’t a game.

  I lock myself in a bathroom stall and text my mom.

  Grace: Pls pick me up. Ditching rest of the day.

  Mom: What happened?

  Grace: Ian. Stabbed me in the back. Panic attack.

  Mom: OK. Be there in 15.

  I struggle to slow my breathing, but the pressure in my chest is obscene. Breathe in, hold it, slowly exhale. Repeat. One hundred. Ninety-eight. Ninety-six. Sweat forms under my hair. My stomach cramps up. It’ll pass, I assure myself. It’ll pass. Ninety-four. Ninety-two. It’ll pass.

  It finally does.

  Counting backward doesn’t help. Counting at all doesn’t help. Why do these things keep attacking me? There is no way Zac McMahon gets panic attacks. I leave my little cocoon and pace the girls’ bathroom, sweat dripping between my shoulders. A minute ago I was cold. I grab my gear and hurry to the closest exit just as a clap of thunder splits the sky and the rain starts. I don’t mind the rain. It feels cool against my red skin. It hides the tears that stubbornly insist on filling my eyes despite my refusal to cry.

  I stand in the rain for who knows how long, and finally Mom drives up.

  “Grace, you’re soaked to the bone.”

  “Mom.” My voice cracks. “Take me home.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He…oh, God, he was savage. I bought him lunch, and he…he wouldn’t touch it. He was afraid he’d catch an STD.” The burn, Jesus, the burn in my throat, in my eyes is impossible to hold back. The air backs up in my lungs, and Mom’s voice, calm and soft, talks me through.

  “Grace, count and breathe. Come on, honey. You got this.”

  “I thought he was different,” I push the words out between gasps that rip me apart. “I liked him.”

  “I know. Breathe. Hold it. Slowly blow it out.”

  It feels like weeks before Mom pulls into our cracked and rutted driveway. The faded yellow paint on the house looks like a sad shade of vomit in the rain. One of the gutters is clogged. Water pours over the edge like Niagara.

  “Go get a hot shower. I’ll make lunch.”

  Ugh. Food.

  Shivering, I hurry upstairs. I look like a zombie from some bad movie. Makeup runs down my cheeks, drips onto my arms in black splats. I strip out of my clothes, toss them into the corner of the room, and run the hot water. I replay everything that happened today and power through the burn behind my eyes. The hot shower thaws the ache in my limbs but makes the gash in my heart bleed harder.

  I’m such an idiot. I believed him. Believed in him. I even worried about his headaches and dizziness. Damn it, I like him. I really like him. How did this happen? I swore I wouldn’t let a guy get under my skin, and in one week, just one week, Ian burrowed in there like a freaking parasite. As the hot water restores sensation to my extremities, an ache in my heart begins, and I mourn the numbness. Before last week I did okay living without friends, living with all the hostility. How do I go back to that? How do I pretend I’m immune to ridicule when it comes from Ian?

  The burn behind my eyes moves to my throat, and I swallow hard. God, I hate crying. Hate it with a passion, and that makes me mad. Mad is good. I can deal with mad. I turn off the water and viciously towel-dry my hair, my mind circling around everything that happened. Would it suck less, hurt less if I didn’t understand why he was so mean today?

  Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. All I know is he’s a pathetic excuse for a man, and the fact that I know this and still like him is really pissing me off. What the hell, just what the hell was wrong with how I looked today? Why does he care if I wear eye-black like the football team? It’s my face. It’s my body. I can dress it up or down however I want. Why is that such a hard concept for guys to accept? All that crap Jax said about dressing to be noticed—being noticed is fine. But being noticed isn’t the same as being ridiculed, insulted, ostracized, shamed. Being noticed isn’t an open invitation to guys to do whatever they want to me. Jax is a jerk, so you almost expect jerklike thinking, but Camryn? She’s a girl, and for some reason, the girls are worse. I heard the stage whispers when I walked into lit class this morning.

  I pull on a pair of comfy sweats and a flannel shirt, tug a comb through my hair. You know, I totally get why schools have uniforms now. Maybe the entire town—no, no—the whole country should have a dress code. Everybody wears the same damn thing so nobody’s a slut, nobody’s a goth, nobody’s a jock or a hipster or a nerd. No pressure! No responsibility! One size fits all!

  I don’t know. Is that what Ian’s problem is too? He likes me and can’t stand that other guys are looking at me that way? Ugh, it’s like the stupid Shrew play. Everything always circles back to ownership. My wife, my woman, my girlfriend, I saw her first, my love—mine, mine, mine.

  I fling myself back to my bed with a muffled scream. People need to wake up, open their eyes, and get a clue. I’m not anybody’s property. I lie on my bed, staring at nothing in particular, stewing over the stupidity that surrounds me when a strip of fabric catches my eye. I cross to my closet, run my hand down the satin gown Kristie sent over last year. She and my dad wanted to throw me a lavish sweet sixteen party, but on their terms. No black lips, no eyeliner. Just yards and yards of Pepto-Bismol pink.

  The dress had a poof skirt and sleeves. Formal dresses haven’t had sleeves for years, but somehow Kristie managed to find one that does. Worse, she bought it without even asking me first. I tried it on, refused to model it for my dad, who immediately called me ungrateful. Of course, the party never happened.

  If they’d bothered to ask me what I wanted, I would have pointed to the blue sheath with the sparkles. I would have had my hair done in a fancy updo with flowers or maybe more sparkles. I’d have had revealed a little skin, maybe bared my shoulders—

  The idea comes out of nowhere and hits me between the eyes. It’s so much awesome perfection that I can’t believe there’s no little lightbulb over my head. Oh, God, it’s perfect. It’s crazy. It’s bold. It’ll likely get me kicked out of school.

  I’m totally doing it.

  • • •

  My chest hurts. Anxiety and exasperation just started their third round in a brawl for control over my body.

  Exasperation is winning…so far.

  The school is empty. It’s just me and a few security guards outside. Mom dropped me off before her run today, and the first buses haven’t arrived yet. Just inside the main entrance, where the only lights on are the ones that illuminate the trophy cases lining the hall, I scope out the best position for wh
at will probably get me suspended. Detention at least.

  Somebody left a chair by the auditorium doors. That’ll work. I unzip my pack, pull out the yards of pink fabric I prepared last night. I cover myself head to toe and pin a strip over my face so that only my eyes are visible. I drag the chair to the center of the main hall, climb on top, and wait. The lights come on. It’s showtime. A few minutes later I see them. Lines of students snake out of buses and come at me with their forked tongues and poisonous glares, and my stomach flips over. I swallow hard, willing the burn in my throat to go down instead of up. I thought I knew what it meant to be afraid, but this? Oh, God, this is insane.

  It’s not too late.

  Nobody’s seen me yet.

  I can go, just stuff all this cloth into a trash bin and pretend I never saw it before. I can flee to Europe, tell everyone I’m a celebrity’s daughter. It would be so easy—

  That’s right. It would be easy.

  This is right. The doors open, and some students skid to a halt when they see me. I ignore the looks, the laughs, the finger-points. My legs twitch, but I lock them together. When a guy walks past me, I nod and say, “You’re welcome.”

  “Who is that?” some students wonder out loud. Others know. “It’s the slut. Ignore her.”

  Students move past me, some rolling their eyes, pretending they don’t see me. To each guy, I say, “You’re welcome. You’re welcome. You’re welcome.”

  Through the open doors, I see Ian, Kyle, and Jeremy about to walk in. I roll my shoulders, straighten my spine, and raise my voice. “You’re welcome! You’re welcome!” A small crowd is log-jamming the hall now. Some students are waiting to see what I’ll do next. Others still can’t figure out what I’m doing now. But nobody asks the question. Nobody asks me what they should be thankful for.

  They don’t care.

  The lacrosse players come in. Ian skids to a dead stop when his eyes meet mine.

  Bright eyes, he calls me.

  “Holy crap,” I can actually read Jeremy’s lips from here. Beside him, Ian’s dark eyes pop wide, and then they roll toward heaven. The permanent lift on his lips fades into a flat, disapproving line, and now I feel a jolt of pride jump into the fray still going on in my belly. I’m glad he disapproves. That was my goal. Now I need to raise the stakes. I want to make people uncomfortable. I want them to squirm.

  I want Ian to squirm.

  “You’re welcome. You’re welcome.” A few guys actually circle back for seconds, laughing and shrugging because they don’t get it. Nobody gets it.

  Jenson Stuart, a sophomore on the wrestling team, is the first one to ask the question. He stops in front of my chair, looks up with a frown. “What am I supposed to be thanking you for?”

  “For saving you from committing rape. You’re welcome.”

  Jenson shifts his weight, looks around, and laughs once. “Whoa, back up. Are you calling me a rapist?”

  “You’re a guy, right?”

  Jenson puts his hands on his hips. “Yeah. So?”

  “Everybody knows one look at a female body sends a guy’s hormones surging, and your weak little bodies just can’t handle it. And then you do things you regret but blame it all on girls.”

  The humor on Jenson Stuart’s face transforms into outrage. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I ain’t weak, bitch.”

  Weak is the only word that registered in that whole sentence? Really?

  Ian jumps between us, hands up to pacify Jenson—interesting how he runs to my rescue today but had no problems squishing my heart yesterday.

  “Grace, chill. Jenson, just ignore her. She’s pissed at me.”

  Ignoring them both, I continue my speech. “Girls should cover up—cover everything up so boys don’t lose control of their own bodies. It’s our duty.”

  Jenson shakes his head. “I don’t get it. I can control my body just fine.”

  “So why do you all keep blaming the girl every time a girl is raped?”

  “I don’t!”

  “Sure you do! Every time you treat a girl like a slut, you’re blaming her for your reaction.”

  “I don’t even know you!”

  Oh my God. Boys. “Forget me. I’m talking about all girls. Ask yourself how you talk to us, how you talk about us. Do you use words like my girl, like we’re property? I gotta get me some of that, like we’re yours for the taking? I’m hungry, get me food, like we’re servants? Is that how you dis the girls in your life? Then you’re part of the problem.”

  “What problem?” Jenson throws up his arms, and I am grateful. I’m actually grateful when Ian steps up again.

  “Dude.” He shakes his head. “Just go to class. This isn’t about you at all. She just wants to make a scene.”

  “Crazy bitch.”

  “Another label? Slut, bitch, anything else to add?”

  “Yeah.” Ian whips dark eyes to mine. “How about out of line?”

  “There is no line. The line got blurred when Zac attacked me in those woods.” Where is he anyway?

  “Grace, I see what—”

  “Oh, you see, huh?” I cut him off. “Tell me, Ian. Are you undressing me with your eyes?”

  “What? No!” He doesn’t even acknowledge the pat on the back from Kyle.

  “You said I get off having every guy in the school think I’m sexy. You said I look hot. Is there anything sexy about this outfit?” I demand. “Well, is there?”

  He blinks up at me, probably wondering if he should call the school nurse, see if she’s got a straitjacket handy.

  “Look. You can’t go around calling every guy in school a rapist.”

  “Oh, I can’t? Why not? Every guy in school feels so justified calling me a slut.”

  “I never called you that.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Not once? That’s great, Ian, but what did you do when your friends said it?” I wave a hand toward Jeremy and Kyle. “Did you set them straight? Did you stand up for me? Or did you just stand there and laugh and tell them the food I give you has STDs?”

  “Okay, but—”

  “There are no buts. There is no reason you can give me that makes that right. Go tell your sisters they asked for it. Tell your sisters why it’s their fault when someone calls them a slut.”

  “I wouldn’t let my sisters leave the house dressed like you,” Ian retorts.

  “You wouldn’t let them? Are you their master?”

  “Hey, if you don’t like being called a slut, maybe you shouldn’t cry rape,” Jeremy cuts in, his freckles blending in with the flush on his face.

  “I didn’t cry rape. I was raped!” I shout back.

  “Maybe girls shouldn’t drink themselves drunk if they care so much what happens to them!” Kyle says.

  I shout louder. “Maybe boys should stop making excuses for—”

  “Miss Collier, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Heads swivel. Mouths form O-shaped gasps. I turn, and there’s Mr. Jordan, arms crossed, lips pressed.

  I clear my throat, pull in a calming breath. “I’m protesting, Mr. Jordan.”

  “What exactly are you protesting?”

  “The way everybody in this school shames girls based on our appearance.”

  “A lofty goal. Are you aware that other students are insulted by your attire?” He turns, indicates Khatiri standing nearby, big sad tears rolling down her face. Khatiri’s family came here from Afghanistan, but she doesn’t wear the native garb. No. Oh, no, no, no! I clasp my hands to my heart, climb off my chair. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to ridicule. I was using a burqa to make boys see how they treat us—”

  Khatiri steps closer to inspect the fabric I’m wearing over my head. “This is more like the niqab, and it’s a religious custom, not military. The burqa is a symbol of oppression the Taliban forced on women. My mother was beaten for wearing what you’re wearing because part of her face showed.”

  I look away, sick that I mad
e Khatiri cry. “I’m sorry.”

  The bell rings, and the rest of my audience scatters, chattering, laughing, and pointing as they go.

  “Mr. Russell, don’t you have a class to get to?”

  “Oh. Um. Yeah.” Ian doesn’t move.

  “Miss Collier, I’ll expect you in my office at dismissal.”

  I roll my eyes in disgust and stuff my costume into my backpack. Khatiri disappears into the girls’ bathroom. Jeremy and Kyle have deserted Ian, so he follows me down the main corridor, and as soon as we’re out of Mr. Jordan’s line of sight, he grabs my elbow and spins me around. “What is going on inside that head?”

  “My head’s perfectly fine.” I twist my elbow, and in a second I’m free of his hold, crouch into a fighting stance, dare him to touch me again. Ian immediately puts up his hands. “What’s it to you anyway?”

  He shifts, looks away. “I don’t know.”

  I have no patience for him right now. I stride down the hall, but he jogs to catch up. “Just…well, you said you hate the way everybody’s treating you, so why do you start more trouble?”

  Start more trouble? Of course, that’s what he’d think. “Because there’s no changing certain people’s minds once they’re made up. You taught me that,” I sneer at him. “But maybe I can get other people to see.”

  He gasps like my words just made him bleed. I hope they did. And I hope the wound gets infected too.

  I turn onto the main stairwell. It’s still crowded, even though there are only a few minutes left before the late bell. We fall into line and climb to the second floor. “If people are gonna treat me like crap anyway, I want it to be for a good reason.”

  Ian winces at my not-so-subtle inflection and leans closer. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  I turn east on the second floor and wave my hand. “No. You’re not. You had to hurt me. That’s what boys do when they’re scared of a girl. They hurt her.”