Brutal

by Michael Harmon

  “Oh well.”

  Moments passed, and I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what it meant as far as choir went. Would I have the spot? Was it too late? The guilt came back, though, shadowing everything. “You shouldn't have quit.”

  She wouldn't meet my eyes, and she lowered her voice enough that it was hard to hear her over the screech of tennis shoes and echoed shouts on the courts below. “I've wanted to quit for a long time.”

  I shook my head. “You're full of crap for letting them ruin it for you.”

  “You don't know anything.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “No, you don't. You don't know me, and you don't know my mom.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I don't know you, and honestly, I hope I never meet your mom.”

  “Yeah.” She looked across the gym, and her voice softened. “I heard you were in a band.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fun?”

  I smiled, missing the guys. “The best. We're good.” I paused. “Well, we were until I screwed things up and came here.”

  She looked away. “It sounds fun.”

  Awkward silence. I pictured her singing in a band like the Go-Go's or Bananarama. “You should try it.”

  She tightened her ponytail, ignoring the comment. “Are you going to the harassment awareness seminar today?”

  “Yes. Theo and I are going.”

  She stood. “See you there, then.”

  • • •

  The seminar was in the library and when Theo and I arrived, I noticed a piece of paper hastily scribbled with “LOSERS'” taped to the wall. Theo smiled. “Well, I guess we're home.”

  “Ha ha,” I said, then saw Anna in the room, looking like a fish out of water. My guess was that most of her friends wouldn't be coming primarily because the reason this was being held was due to most of her friends. We went in and sat next to her. “Where's your friends?” I said.

  She looked around, like somebody she knew would actually be here. “I told them to come.”

  Theo scratched his ear, maybe wondering if she was seriously being serious. “Whoever steps in here is instantly branded a social leper muddling through the waste of a perfect society, Anna. Pull your head out of your ass, huh? They're not coming.”

  I sighed. Theo the drama queen. “God, Theo, you should be an actor.”

  He laughed. “I would be Romeo and you would be Juliet.” He looked at Anna. “Going to the Night of Stars football fund-raiser picnic tomorrow, Anna?”

  She looked down. “I'm a cheerleader, Theo. It's required.”

  He smiled, nudging me. “It's a gala festival full of fun and games for the entire family. Wanna go, Poe?”

  “Fat chance,” I said. Theo scrunched up his face like a guilt-ridden kid with an admission. I stared at him in dis belief. “Don't even tell me …”

  He shrugged. “My dad is a huge contributor. He calls my attendance familial duty.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You have no backbone.”

  “Will you go with me? Pleeeeezzzz? You can protect me from the big bad guys.”

  “No.”

  He tilted his head, pouting. “I'd do it for you. Besides, the food is really good. Almost like a buffet but without people stuffing pork ribs in their pockets for later. And you get to laugh at two-hundred-and-fifty-pound linebackers tossing eggs.”

  “Sounds like an all-American evening.”

  “It'll be fun. I promise.”

  I twirled a finger. “Woo hoo. I'm there.”

  Theo smiled. “Really?”

  “Sure.” I pecked him on the cheek. “You came to this, I guess I owe payback.”

  Just like every other aspect of high school in the United States, I could tell who was who as students filtered into the room. The uglies, the fatties, the dorks, the dweebs, the shorties, the socially inept, and the just plain weird mixed with the regulars who didn't know a thing about being a reject but who were there because they had some sort of humanitarian cause. Everybody wore their badge of rank by the expressions on their faces: the meek, desperate, homely, fearful, disaffected, glum, pained, and starved looks of people that just plain didn't fit in. Even with each other.

  I figured I fit right in, but I had little pity for them. They reminded me of sheep grazing in a DDT-coated pasture, not realizing the thing that was feeding them was the thing that was killing them. I felt like laughing at the irony of it all, then giving them the finger and leaving. They accepted their places and this charade, just like Theo said. Cogs in a wheel. For there to be the strong, there had to be the weak, and I didn't know if I hated them or the world more because of it. Maybe Anna had been right, I thought. Maybe I was the elitist one.

  Mr. Halvorson took front and center, smiling and rubbing his hands together like he was getting ready to give a sermon to the ugly class. Dad sat in a chair with his legs crossed like a chick, his hands folded over his knee, and I rolled my eyes. My attitude definitely wasn't going to be a bonus today.

  “Thank you for coming,” Mr. Halvorson began. “We at Benders High are devoted to maintaining a standard of equality and fairness for every student setting foot inside our buildings, and that is why we're here. To discuss how we can make an outstanding school even more outstanding…”

  Theo raised his hand.

  Caution flashed in Mr. Halvorson's eyes, but in the spirit of gooshy-gooshy feel-good meetings, he acquiesced. “Yes, Mr. Dorr?”

  “I just wanted to say that as a total loser, I feel lucky to go to such an outstanding school. It makes me feel less loser-like.”

  Mr. Halvorson took a breath. “May I finish my introduction before we begin speaking of our feelings?” He waited a moment, then nodded after Theo shut up. “Both Mr. Holly and myself realize just how difficult being a teenager can be these days, but the simple fact of the matter is that we aren't teenagers. We're adults. And this seminar was designed for you, as teenagers going through a difficult period, to let us know. To tell us your feelings and let us help you deal with them in the ways we, as adults, know how. How to deal with isolation, estrangement, depression, and inequity, and, in essence, how to be a better you. A more happy you.”

  If there was a cheese meter on the wall, it would have exploded, and as he finished, a moment of awkward silence followed before a few people clapped. Mr. Halvorson slapped his hands together like a Little League coach telling his team to take the field, and I expected him to start handing down high fives, but he didn't. He cleared his throat. “Well, down to business, then.” He paused. “How many of you have felt as though you don't quite fit in? Maybe felt as though who you are isn't really who you wish you were?”

  A few hands went up, heads turned in the crowd, checking out the possibility of social embarrassment taking place at the social embarrassment seminar, then more hands went up. Soon most had their hands up. Theo held his up high, waggling his wrist like a little kid. I sighed when he elbowed me, then put my hand up. Anna didn't.

  Mr. Halvorson nodded. “Good.”

  I looked around, confused. What was good about a room full of people holding their hands up claiming to be miserable and wishing they were somebody else? I looked at my dad, who had his own hand up to make us feel like we were all in the same sinking ship, and I pinned my lips shut. He should have asked how many people would scrape their skins off with a dull knife to be left alone for five minutes, but that wasn't about to happen. We'd stick to the feel-sorry stuff.

  As usual, a few people kept their hands up until Mr. Halvorson told them gently to put them down, then he went on. “I would like to tell each and every one of you that the feelings you have are feelings everybody has at one time or another and that they're normal.” He gazed over us. “What I'm saying is that everybody is the same. We all have the same feelings, and we're all human. The difference is”—he paced—”the difference is how we deal with those feelings and what tools we have to work with them. That's what this seminar is about.”

  The reasons were addin
g up, but the real reason wasn't anywhere to be found. The reason we were here wasn't because we were all the same; we were here because a kid almost got the life stomped out of him in the boys’ bathroom and they had to do damage control for it.

  Mr. Halvorson motioned to my dad, then took a seat as Dad stood. His eyes flickered to me, then roamed the room. “What I would like to do is begin with stories. Real stories. Stories that show us what we have in common and stories that show us the truth about the world we live in. I'd like to know where you are coming from, and the best way to know is to hear your stories.” He paced. “All of you have experienced harassment of some sort. I have, too. Bullying, teasing, verbal abuse, physical abuse, humiliation, and embarrassment—we've all had some of it, and we can take comfort that we're not alone. But we can also be proactive in stopping it. We can make ourselves strong.” He stepped forward. “Would anyone like to begin?”

  Big, noisy silence. I wasn't about to gush my guts out about what a victim I was, because I wasn't, and my dad had another thing coming if he thought I would bail him out by starting. Then a fat girl raised her hand. Dad nod ded, motioned for her to stand, and she began. Fatso, fat ass, fat bitch, tub of lard—she started with what people called her. Her dad called her tubby, she wouldn't eat in public because guys made oinking noises, she'd never had a boyfriend and never would, and she hated herself and perspired too much. By the time she was done, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she sat, burying her face in her hands and sobbing. Let the healing begin.

  The next half hour came with one story after another about the injustices of being who you were, and I realized halfway into it that soaking in the brine of your misery became easy when other people were around doing the same thing. I found myself almost thinking this was serving another purpose than damage control over the Velveeta thing, and it made me uncomfortable. It was like a mass celebration of victimhood, with the coup de grace being the Kool-Aid passed around at the end. There was even a kid sitting up front who looked a little bit like Jim Jones.

  It went on. The skinny dork with acne and secondhand clothes who didn't have any friends, probably the most innocuous one of them all, had half the room crying by the time he finished talking about being constantly berated and teased, especially by the wrestling team. He'd tried out last year at the urging of his parents to “fit in” and didn't make the cut, inviting the team's wrath and ridicule. He spoke in a lifeless monotone, spelling out his world like he was reading it from a textbook, and I realized he was most likely the loneliest human being that ever lived.

  There were others. The short guy named Kevin who dreaded coming to school because he was stuffed in garbage cans every week. The straight guy who acted gay and was tormented constantly about being a fag. The loudmouthed girl who couldn't seem to figure out why other girls hated her. The kid they called “Teenie” who got the nickname from the boys’ locker room. It was like a celebration of sick diversity and it made me want to puke.

  After everybody who had something to say was emotionally spent, Mr. Halvorson stood, a grave and compassionate look on his face. He paced, building on the moment before he began. “We know what happens in this world. We know sometimes it's unfair and mean and painful, but what we have to do is look inside ourselves and see the true us. The true person inside. The person we really are and the person who wants to shake off the chains of our differences and be at one with ourselves and the people around us. Do you agree?”

  A few nods before he pointed to the ceiling, shaking his finger. “The key to that is realizing that we are all indeed the same. The boy who calls you a name or the girl who ignores you has feelings, too. Feelings of pain and anger and sadness that make them do what they do, and feelings that cause them to hurt other people. We need to understand that and realize that we're not different.” He stopped, looking over the room with an expectant air. “So now I ask you, what can we do when faced with adversity? Should we separate ourselves through harsh words and bad feelings and feelings of isolation, or should we have the courage and compassion it takes to understand why this is happening? To shape our thinking differently?”

  He pointed to the kid with acne. “Karl, how do you feel when you are ridiculed? Like running to your room? Disappearing? Isolating yourself from the world because you don't want to deal with it?”

  “No.”

  He pursed his lips. “Then why do you go to your room?”

  Karl's dead flat voice hushed the room. “Because nobody is there.”

  Mr. Halvorson nodded. “You go to your room because nobody is there. Isn't that running away from the problem?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you wish it was different? That you didn't feel as though you had to run?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Halvorson nodded, smiling. “What do you wish you could do?”

  “Kill them.”

  Mr. Halvorson took a deep breath, then went on. “Though perhaps understandable at times, don't you think that's a bit extreme?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Halvorson cleared his throat, maybe thinking he had come here to talk about the dangers of prancing through the daisies. “Do you think there's something else you could do that might be better? Perhaps telling a teacher or parent? Perhaps talking to your counselor?”

  His eyes, as flat as his voice, bored into Mr. Halvorson. “I've been in private counseling for two years. I've also talked to Mr. Holly. So have my parents.”

  He nodded. “Very good, because that's why we have things like that. To help you.” Mr. Halvorson's body visibly flooded with relief at not having to deal with this kid. He addressed the group. “Does anybody have an idea of what we can do to make things better for Karl? Maybe what he can do?”

  I stared at Mr. Halvorson for a moment, considering, then raised my hand. “Why aren't we talking about why you allow them to do it?”

  Mr. Halvorson's brow furrowed. “Allow them?”

  “Yeah. What you're saying is that we have to deal with the jerks and understand them and all that bullshit, but the jerks don't have to do anything.”

  Mr. Halvorson blinked. “We can keep this seminar civil, Ms. Holly. Your language …”

  I rolled my eyes. “You just blew off a guy who told you that he wishes he could kill people, and you want to talk about my language?” I tapped my finger on my chin. “I get it. We can say whatever we want, but only if it looks pretty?”

  He glowered. “We're here to solve problems, Poe, and if you choose not to, you may leave. You are off topic.”

  “I'm off your topic, Mr. Halvorson.”

  “I'm trying to solve problems in a manner that will allow you to help yourselves.”

  I shook my head. “Solve what problems? Yours or ours?” I pointed to Karl. “He just told you he wanted to kill people, and you want to ask for suggestions about how to change his thinking? I don't think Karl has to change anything, Mr. Halvorson. I think you do.”

  My dad stood, relieving a flustered Mr. Halvorson. Theo chuckled, then patted my knee. Dad crossed his arms. “So you believe it is entirely up to other people to solve your problems, Poe?”

  I shook my head. This was the culmination of all the conversations we'd had. Everything rolled up in one big, slimy ball. “That's not the point, because this isn't ‘life.’ This is school, we're trapped here, and you control it. You make the rules.”

  “What's the point you're trying to make, then?”

  “The point is that all of a sudden, you have a problem, and that's why we're here. Not because we have a problem.” I shook my head. “When Benders High School has a problem, Mr. Halvorson gets up and tells us that we have to solve it for them, then gives us a bunch of bullshit about how it's normal to have these feelings and that we have to understand how the ass wipes who make life miserable feel.” I pointed to Karl again. “I don't think a kid wanting to murder half the school is normal, and I don't think he got to feeling that way all by himself.” I looked at Karl. “Karl, you're not normal.
You're fucked in the head, but you know that, don't you?”

  Dad interrupted. “Poe, that's enough.”

  “No.” I kept my eyes on Karl. I could almost read his mind. “Who would you kill first, Karl? Come on. Tell us.”

  He hesitated in the silence of the room. Then he looked at my dad. “You.”

  Corpses made more noise than the people in the room. Nobody breathed. I nodded. “Why?”

  “Because he's supposed to make them quit, but he won't.”

  Dad shook his head. “That's not true, Karl. I've tried. We have done—”

  My voice rose above his. “Have done what? Why don't you tell us what's being done instead of this stupid seminar? An anti-harassment seminar for the wrestling team? Detention? Suspension? Probation? Conflict resolution classes? A change in school policy? Maybe a teacher or two who doesn't ignore it when it happens? You make the rules, right?” I thought about Mr. Halvorson's little speech on the first day of school about “fitting in.” “Tell us, because the only reason we're in this room is because Benders High School sees a liability threat with the name Velveeta written all over it and you need to control it. There, I said it. The real reason you even give a fuck. So what happens? Colby Morris and all the superstar guys in the bathroom who watched Velveeta get stomped are business as usual, but we're here listening to a crock of crap from a guy who thinks the world's troubles would be solved if everybody was exactly the same.”

  Dad shook his head. “That's a separate issue.”

  Hypocritical statement of the year. I gestured around us. “Then why are we here? The only reason you put this seminar on was because of what ‘didn't’ happen to Velveeta, so why doesn't the school do something about the guys that ‘didn't’ do it?” I slumped in my chair. “Tell us, huh?” I jabbed a finger at my dad and Mr. Halvorson. “The only reason they beat the shit out of him is because they knew they could, and this school gave them the power to do it!” I waved my arms around the room. “God! This seminar even proves it!”