Modern Monsters (Entangled Teen)

by Kelley York

  I’m a little surprised—pleasantly so—that Mr. Mason lets Brett come along. I have no clue where to go or what to do when we reach the courthouse, but this is familiar territory to both of them. We get through security without incident and Mr. Mason leads us to department thirty-three, where we sit outside the courtroom among other groups of people. Only then does the anxiety start to gnaw at me and I find myself sinking into my chair.

  Brett leans over and asks, “You okay?”

  “I-It’s a lot of people,” I point out quietly, like someone will take offense if they overhear me. “I d-don’t see Callie.”

  “She probably won’t be here.” He pats my arm. “More than likely, it’ll be one of her parents or something. Or they could not show up at all.”

  Which makes this seem like a waste to me, but okay. At exactly 8:30 a.m., the courtroom doors open and we’re allowed inside, crowding into the minimal seating of the room and waiting some more. Mr. Mason tries to explain how this process works, but the words seem to echo in my ears. The entire morning goes by in a blur, from one case called to the next. Eventually the sound of my name snaps me out of the fog. “Theresa and James Wheeler versus Victor Howard.”

  I stand up abruptly, unsure if I’m supposed to, and I see two people in the row in front of us do the same. They both turn to look at me, gazes lingering, and turn back only when the judge asks, “It looks like no further paperwork has been filed to proceed with this protective order?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Mrs. Wheeler says. “We’d like to hold off for now, at our daughter’s insistence.” Frankly, she doesn’t sound happy about that. I wonder what Callie had to say to convince them.

  The judge looks over the top of his glasses, eyebrows raised. “You’re sure? If you decide to drop it now, you’ll have to start over from scratch if you change your minds. Unless Mr. Howard is convicted, of course, in which case a criminal protective order will be established.”

  My ears have started to ring again. My hands are fisted so tightly that when Mr. Mason prompts me that we’re good to leave the court, my fingers have gone numb. I heard what happened, and yet I still have to ask, “Is that good?”

  “It’s good,” he assures me. We pass by the Wheelers as they’re leaving, too, and I have to stop and look at them, desperate to just…go up and apologize. To tell them how sorry I am for what they’re going through, and hoping that if maybe I let them put a face to my name, they won’t see me as the enemy anymore. But Mr. Mason and Brett flank me on either side and Brett quietly says, “Don’t,” as they usher me down the hall. I look over my shoulder and as we round the corner, I see both the Wheelers watching me go.

  I wonder if they see me as Vic, or as the monster who hurt their little girl.

  The rest of Monday, Brett and I are allowed to stay home and sit in front of the TV with video games. Or rather—I sit in front of the TV with video games while Brett stresses himself sick over a college essay for Harvard and a report for English, which he insists matters even this late in the game because he refuses to graduate with anything less than a 4.0 average. I heard a saying in a TV show once: first you’re a child prodigy, then you’re a teenage genius…but by the time you’re twenty, you’re ordinary. Brett spent so long being labeled as gifted for his intelligence that I think people assumed it would always come easy for him. The older he gets, the less easy it is for him to stay on top.

  Come Tuesday, we’re right back at school and whatever sense of relief and calm I was experiencing after the hearing has long since faded. Maybe it was just the exhaustion talking that had me so out of it. Mrs. Mason suggested taking me to the doctor to see if they could give me anything, but that would require me to talk it over with Mom and I’m not sure if it’s worth it.

  When I get to school Tuesday morning, Autumn falls into step alongside me. Really, she came out of nowhere the moment Brett was out of sight. Was she following me or something? “Hey.”

  “Uh…hi.” I stop to look at her. “W-what’s up?”

  She inclines her chin to look up at me as though that’s the dumbest question I could have asked. “Nothing. I was just saying hi. How are you?”

  It might just be me, but she seems awkward. “Fine, I g-guess. Everything okay?” Did something happen? Is Callie all right? Is Autumn all right?

  She nudges my arm with her elbow to prompt me into walking again. Given the direction she’s taking, I assume I’m accompanying her to class. How many tardies have I racked up in the last few weeks? I don’t ask why she’s making me late but I’m finding it hard to believe she wanted to come find me just…because. No one except Brett hangs out with me just because.

  “Here’s my class.” Autumn stops outside her first period room and turns to face me. Her hair is tied up today, but there’s so much of it that a few wavy auburn strands have escaped the confines of her hair band and are dangling around her face and shoulders.

  She’s so pretty.

  “Okay. I guess I’ll see you around.” I take a step back, trying to look at this odd situation from an unbiased perspective. Not coming up with anything.

  Autumn says, “Sure,” and watches me start to leave. I see her mouth open as though to call for me, but it’s too late. I’ve already turned around and bumped right into someone. Someone who isn’t taller than me, but definitely more muscular.

  “S-sorry,” I manage.

  The guy shoves me back a little, scowling. “Watch it.” Then he looks me over as Autumn comes up to my side. I’m vaguely aware of the warmth of her hand on my arm, like an almost protective gesture.

  “I s-said sorry,” I mutter.

  He narrows his eyes. “Hey, aren’t you that guy?”

  “Leave it alone, Marco,” Autumn warns.

  “This is him, isn’t it?” His dark eyes flicker from me to Autumn and back again. “You bothering her, asshole?”

  My height is about the only thing I’ve got on my side. I straighten up as best as I can, trying not to shrink in on myself or inch behind Autumn. I’ve never been in a fight and I don’t ever want to be. “N-no, I w-was just—”

  “J-j-just wh-what, genius?” Marco sneers. “You’ve got a lot of nerve even coming to school after what you did.”

  Autumn’s grip on my arm tightens. “He didn’t do anything. They cleared him.” Which is only a partial truth, but that’s okay. No one needs to know the details.

  Marco’s attention is momentarily diverted. “Oh, you’re on his side now? Did you get drunk and spread your legs, too?”

  Impulse: a sudden strong and unreflective urge or desire to act. Also: what drives me to punch Marco.

  I’ve never hit anyone before in my life. This time the action follows before I even know what I’m doing and my fist is connecting with his face and…it’s nothing like the movies. There is no slow motion and he doesn’t stagger back and hit the floor with the force of my swing. If anything, it snaps his head to one side while sending a surge of pain where my knuckles connected with his jawbone straight up my arm and into my shoulder.

  Autumn says, “Fuck,” and I’d say that about sums it up accurately.

  Marco knows how to throw a punch better than I do. He hits me square in the mouth and I slam into the wall before going down. Before I can even see straight again, there are already people beginning to crowd around us to see what’s going on. No one makes a move to help.

  No one except Autumn. She puts herself between Marco and me, shoulders squared. Marco wipes at his mouth. Did I make him bleed, at least? I hope I did. How embarrassing.

  “Move,” he snaps.

  “You touch him again and I’ll kick your Gucci-wearing ass into being held back another year,” she snarls in a tone not unlike the one she first used when flooring me on the concrete. That tone makes me nervous and a little quivery all at the same time…as long as it’s not directed at me.

  Whether it’s because he knows she’ll do it or because he has issues with hitting a girl in front of everyone, Marco just scowls
and pushes past her to head into class. Though not before stopping to look down at me, still dazed on the ground. “Guess what they say is true. Like father, like son.”

  Huh? What does that even mean?

  He disappears into class and the crowd disperses with disappointed grumbles while Autumn turns to help me up. “What an asshole. Oh, you’re bleeding.” She frowns, reaching up to touch her fingers to my cheek. Yeah, and bleeding bad enough that the taste is flooding my mouth and I don’t dare say anything. Instead I duck my head and move away, jogging down the hall for the boys’ bathroom.

  The last bell has already rung, so I’m alone. Thank God. I hit the nearest sink and spit blood into it. No teeth lost? Awesome, I’ll consider that a win. Closer inspection shows the blood coming from my lower lip, which must’ve been sliced open on my teeth.

  I watch my reflection in the water-spotted mirror; my sharp features look gaunt and hollow in this lighting. Blood wells in my mouth again, dripping from my lip partway down my chin to the porcelain. My first fight. If you can call it that. Whether it was him talking about Autumn like that, or somehow implying it was Callie’s own fault that she was raped, or just an accumulation of everything that’s happened finally sending me into attack mode, I have no idea.

  “Vic?”

  Autumn’s face appears in the mirror as she leans into the bathroom. I don’t turn around. “I’m f-fine.”

  The door creaks open and then closed. Autumn glances around to make sure we’re alone. “You totally dripped blood on the way here. Let me see. Are you gonna need stitches?”

  I don’t have much choice but to turn around and let her look at my face. She heaves a sigh and grabs a few paper towels, wetting them under the faucet before pressing them gently to my lip. The chill burns but in a pleasant way. I close my eyes.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Autumn murmurs. “I mean, I know I was a bitch at first, too, and I’m sorry for that. People like to lash out without knowing all the details.”

  I can’t say much with the paper towels half in my mouth, so I don’t try.

  She continues, “What did he mean, anyway? Does he know your dad?”

  Deep breath. This time, I want to answer so I pull back, taking the towels from her to hold them myself so I can speak. “No. I don’t even k-know him. He was, like, a one-night stand or s-something.” As far as I know, anyway. Mom never wanted to talk about him. She never had photos, never had stories.

  “Oh.” Autumn tucks her thumbnail between her teeth and chews on it worriedly. That can’t be good for her polish. “So, like, he took off when you were a baby or something?”

  Something in the casual way she asks such a personal question, like she’s talking about the weather, almost makes me laugh. It gets a smile out of me, at least. Gingerly and slowly I take the paper from my lip; it feels like it’s stopped gushing everywhere, anyway. “My m-mom never tells me anything about him. My aunt once t-told me that I looked like him. That’s all I know.” Aunt Sue had only smiled when I tried inquiring further, and insisted that she’d already said too much.

  Autumn sighs. “God, that’d drive me crazy.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “My dad isn’t really my dad. He’s my stepdad. But he’s been around as long as I can remember.” She shrugs. “And my birth dad is probably on a street corner trying to skim money for heroin for all I know, so…”

  It hurts to smile as much as I am. “Interesting.”

  “Is it? Why do you think that’s so funny?”

  “No reason.” I duck my head. “You’re just…weird. Good weird, not like…”

  She smirks. “Heroin-addict weird?”

  “P-pretty much.” I tilt my head. “So why did you actually c-come find me this morning?”

  It’s Autumn’s turn to look a little sheepish, but she plays it off by rolling her eyes and smiling and turning in a full circle while staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see how it went at the hearing yesterday and make sure you were all right.”

  I lick my lip absently. The metallic taste is still present, but not as bad as before. “Still alive and kicking and not behind bars.”

  She laughs. “You know, you’ve hardly stuttered at all during this conversation.”

  I pause, considering that. She’s right. “Maybe Marco knocked it out of me.” When she shoves my arm and rolls her eyes, I laugh a little. “It’s better when I’m calm. It gets w-worse when I’m anxious.”

  Autumn says, “Ahh,” like this explains every mystery in the universe. “And what makes you so calm around me, Vic?”

  I don’t know how to answer that. At all. My face grows hot and I press the paper towels back to my mouth for no reason other than it keeps me from having to fumble for words. I shrug. She smiles. For once, there is no sadness or anger or anything extreme. Just the softness of her lips curved up so that it makes her eyes squinch at the corners. I could get used to a smile like that.

  “Come on.” Autumn reaches for my free hand to tug me toward the door. “Your backpack is in the hall. I’ll walk you to class this time.”

  “She walked you to class?” Brett laughs on our way home. “Woo, that’s like, a fifth of the way to first base. Congrats.”

  “Th-that’s not the point of the story.” I recount to him what happened with Marco, glossing over the details of my miserable defeat. I mainly want to tell him about what Marco said about my dad to see what he thinks. The puzzled frown that crosses his face says he’s just as perplexed as I am.

  “Your mom never talks about your old man, does she?”

  “Not at all,” I agree. “It’s always been a touchy subject.”

  “Then maybe there’s something she isn’t telling you. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Right. ’Cause that always goes over well.”

  “Never know if you don’t try, Vic.”

  He doesn’t attempt to take me home, but later that evening after he’s helped me struggle through homework, he tosses me my phone and says, “Call her.”

  I stare at the cell like I’m worried it’ll grow fangs. This is not a conversation I want to have with my mother, but my curiosity is going to get the best of me, and maybe doing it on the phone is better than dealing with her possibly having a breakdown in person. My thumb traces over the screen slowly. Brett sighs, plucks the phone from my grasp, dials Mom’s number, and hands it back.

  Before I can really process this, Mom’s voice on the other line says, “Hello?” My mouth immediately refuses to cooperate. Mom sighs. “Victor, hello? What is it?”

  Brett jabs me in the ribs and I jerk, straightening my spine. “H-hey, uh, sorry. I wanted to l-let you know the hearing went well yesterday.”

  “That’s good,” she says distantly.

  “And…I j-just wanted to ask you something.”

  Mom is silent.

  “Um, about my dad…?”

  This time Mom inhales slowly and exhales a sigh right into the mouthpiece of the phone. “You know I don’t like talking about your father.”

  “Y-yeah. I know. It’s just…” I glance at Brett, who gestures for me to keep going. If I tell Mom it has something to do with everything that’s going on, she’ll never tell me anything. “We’re doing this p-project at school about our parents. Like, ancestry stuff, so…”

  Mom sighs again, more irritated than wary this time. “I have some of my family tree stuff in the garage. I’ll dig it out and we can go over it.”

  “And—”

  “I don’t know anything about your father’s side of the family.” Her voice is short, clipped, signaling the end of the conversation. “I have some things in the oven. I need to go.”

  I’ve barely said “Okay” before she hangs up, and I look to Brett helplessly.

  “I’m guessing that didn’t go well?” he asks.

  “The usual. She said she doesn’t know anything about him and then hung up on me.”

  “Ouch.” He runs a hand over his h
air. “What about your aunt? Can you ask her? Do you have her number?”

  “No. B-but I can get it.” It’ll be in Mom’s phone, so all I have to do is go through it while she’s preoccupied. Which shouldn’t be difficult. My mother is a creature of habit. I know that when she gets home from work in the evenings, she’ll make herself dinner and maybe put something in the oven to bake. Then she’ll go upstairs and take a shower for the fifteen to twenty minutes her baking takes. That would probably be the best time for me to sneak in. She isn’t likely to give me Aunt Sue’s number if I ask nicely, not if she knows I’m looking for info related to my dad.

  Not that I tell this plan to Brett. We’ve always been pretty open about our home lives, but I’ve spent years downplaying what happens between Mom and me. Really, it’s mostly out of embarrassment. Brett’s parents are pretty great. To me, at least. I see them lean on Brett pretty hard to be perfect at everything and remain at the top of the class, but I’m not their kid so my grades don’t matter.

  Then there’s my mother, who plays Friday night bingo, bakes away her anxiety and stress, has worked at the same dead-end office job processing student loans to barely make ends meet—not because she couldn’t go elsewhere, but because she doesn’t like change—and who one day decided her son was a hassle instead of the little boy she was proud of.

  The next day, Brett tells me he’ll be late at tennis practice and tosses me his car keys to go home. Awesome. I’ll wait until Mom shows up at six o’clock and hide away in my room where she isn’t likely to bother me. The next hour is a waiting game. I hear her in the kitchen, making something to eat and, eventually, she walks down the hall toward her room. At that point I leave my door ajar so I can hear when the shower water goes on.

  I wait five more minutes to make sure she’s in there and inch down the hall, heart threatening to leap out of my throat. I should’ve waited until Brett was here to do this with me. At least if we got caught, he could schmooze his way out of the situation. If Mom catches me going through her phone—I don’t want to think about how that would play out.