The Boomerang Effect

by Gordon Jack

  Just as I was approaching the Viking’s cinder-block teeth, a horn blared and pulled me out of the nightmare.

  “Jesus Christ, what the fuck!” I jumped up to see Estrella standing there, smiling and holding a horn. “I don’t need you to do that on Saturday, Estrella,” I said, covering my ears with my pillow.

  “Lo siento,” Estrella said with an embarrassed laugh. Part of me thinks she enjoys scaring the shit out of me every morning.

  Since I was up now, with no hope of going back to sleep, I logged on to our family site and posted a short summary of my night terror on the “Troubling Dreams” page (being careful to change the cannabis plants to eucalyptus trees). That should give Mom something to think about, I thought, smiling. Good luck interpreting that one.

  I closed my laptop and went downstairs. I found my dad sitting at the kitchen table with his New York Times and coffee. “Shit,” he mumbled. I think it was in response to something he read, but you never know with him.

  “You got home late last night,” he said as I sat down.

  “I was at Eddie’s house.”

  “Eddie the cheerleader?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmm.” Dad shook his head and went back to the paper.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Dad said. “I didn’t think you guys were still friends.”

  “We are.”

  “Doesn’t he get made fun of a lot?”

  “No, not really.”

  “That’s surprising.”

  “You said my other friends were idiots.”

  “They are. Isn’t there someone on the football team you could hang out with?”

  Not anymore, I thought.

  My dad looked at his watch, swore again, and then gulped the remains of his coffee. “I’m teeing off at nine. Want to be my caddy?”

  “I’m kinda busy today.”

  “Doing what?”

  Packing a suitcase and preparing my escape route, I thought. “I’ve got homework and stuff.”

  “You know, there are a lot of kids your age at the golf club.”

  “Really?”

  “Want me to sign you up for some lessons?”

  “Golf’s boring.”

  “You could work at the pro shop or restaurant.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “It’s a good place to make connections. It’s not just what you know . . .”

  “It’s who you know,” I said, finishing Dad’s favorite piece of advice. “I know.”

  “How will the people you’re spending time with now help you accomplish your goals?”

  Two of them saved me from getting killed last night, I wanted to say, but stayed quiet. “Aren’t you going to be late?” I said, indicating the clock.

  Dad sighed. “Fine. I’ll see you later today.”

  Dad left and I poured myself a large bowl of Frosted Flakes. After I finished slurping down my breakfast, I joined Estrella on the couch for an episode of Secretos Subterráneos.

  I spent the rest of the weekend in hiding, scanning social media to see what evidence existed of my involvement in the “Mascot Mayhem,” as the BS website had termed the catastrophe. “Sources say the perpetrator is a Meridian student bent on destroying the team’s chances at a win this season,” Brett Bridges wrote in his news summary. “That Viking’s dead,” Jerry was quoted as saying. I prayed Coach Harkness would keep his mouth shut until I saw him on Monday.

  Rumors circulated. Most suspected Phyllis Larouche, based on the photos Crystal posted of me in the mascot costume. “I wasn’t even there!” Phyllis asserted, sharing her own pictures of a weekend trip to Napa. I zoomed in on one of Phyllis in a tank top and compared our biceps. They were depressingly similar in both muscle and tone. I spent the rest of the weekend curling bags of flour.

  While I was following the various trending hashtags of the event (#murderourmascot, #killingvikingsisjustified, and #thevikinghasnopenis), I couldn’t help but notice how much fun people were having without me. Facebook and Instagram were loaded with images of people at Saturday-night parties. Will and the guys were dancing shirtless at a beach bonfire. Chester and his crew were crammed in someone’s apartment, red Solo cups held aloft like trophies. There were selfies of people at concerts, in parks, modeling swimwear. I had traded all this for what? My sobriety suddenly seemed incredibly stupid. All it had done was lose me friends and get me into trouble. Everyone was having fun and I was hiding out in an empty house, binge watching Secretos Subterráneos with my family’s cook.

  I liked a few Facebook photos and favorited a few tweets, hoping someone would acknowledge my existence. Maybe invite me over. I frantically refreshed the page, but heard nothing. What would I do if someone did ask me to join them? I couldn’t go to these events and expect to stay sober. I waited, hoping for some mystical counsel from my squirrel, but he was gone, eaten by the wiser owl, who had better things to do than talk to a bored and lonely teenager.

  I needed to be strong, like Odysseus. Have Estrella tie me to a chair, blindfold me, and stuff beeswax in my ears so that I wouldn’t be tempted by these Internet sirens. Or I could just turn off my phone and shut my laptop. Great, now I no longer had to stay away from pot, but social media as well. If I kept this up, I’d be a monk by Christmas.

  I went to my closet and took out my old sketch pad where I drew my origami designs. Maybe I could lose myself in a complicated fold the way I used to. I opened the drawing pad on my desk and found a rolled joint stuck between its pages. I must have hidden this here knowing my parents would never look in my sketch pad for drugs. They never understood my enthusiasm for origami and were visibly disturbed whenever I spent a weekend holed up in my room only to come out holding a small grasshopper.

  I held the joint in my hands and debated lighting up.

  This was like a sign, right? Some benevolent god was taking pity on me and providing this much-needed release from my suffering. It wasn’t even a big joint. Just enough to help me relax. I could smoke it in my room with the window open and no one would know. Both Dad and Estrella were asleep, dreaming of missed putts and mining collapses, respectively.

  I looked at my open sketchbook and saw the diagram I had done for an origami lily. This would make a nice gift for Audrey, to repay her for saving me from Zoe’s clutches. I’d make it small, so I could pass it to her in class, like a note. She’d understand the meaning, after the adventure we shared Friday night.

  I took the joint and placed it in my shoebox of origami figures and grabbed a leftover sheet of paper. I didn’t have any purple, so the lily would have to be red. Maybe I’d make it a rose instead. It required more complex folding and would distract me from that joint in my shoebox for the rest of the weekend. If I finished early, I could make a bouquet. I sat down at my desk and got to work.

  FIFTEEN

  On Monday, I ran into the cafeteria and told Spencer I had to talk with Coach Harkness and that I’d be right back. He simply nodded his head and went back to reading The Brothers Karamazov, his free reading choice for freshman English. I found Harkness on the football field, cradling a cup of coffee while the few students whose counselors hated them enough to enroll them in zero period P.E. sleepwalked around the track.

  I began by thanking him for not telling the players about me borrowing the mascot costume. “You may have lost the game, but you saved a life,” I said. “I am forever in your debt.”

  “I told Principal Stone you have the uniform. He wants it returned today.”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” I said. “The uniform was stolen on Thursday. Before the game.” This is what’s known as a half-truth. The uniform was stolen, just not when I needed it to be. Moving the date of the crime up a few days gave me my alibi for the game.

  “Who would steal a Viking costume?” Harkness asked suspiciously.

  “My thoughts exactly,” I said. “That’s why I didn’t lock my car door.”

  “You’re telling me that wasn’t you dancing aro
und at the game Friday?”

  “I wasn’t even at the game,” I said. “Just ask Eddie.”

  “I did. He didn’t know where you were.”

  “I was LARPing.”

  “What the hell is LARPing?”

  “It’s live action role play. We dress up in medieval costumes and fight in Arroyo Park.”

  “See anyone in a Viking costume?”

  “No, it’s strictly Renaissance era.”

  “So, we don’t know who sabotaged our game?”

  “It seems so. Although I wouldn’t put anything past those Cupertino Crayfish. They’re real bottom-feeders.”

  Harkness grunted.

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention my involvement with the uniform to anyone on the team. I do feel responsible since the costume was stolen from my car. And of course, I’m willing to pay to replace the uniform.”

  “I’m glad to be rid of the thing,” Harkness said. “That costume was cursed. I pity whoever has it now.”

  I left Harkness and headed toward the cafeteria to confer with Spencer.

  When I reached my usual table, I found my ward nibbling on his dried fruit and yogurt. I wanted to talk with him about the missing Viking head but was interrupted by Brett Bridges, thrusting what looked like dirt clods onto our table. “Hey, Lawrence!” he said. “Enjoy some homemade bran muffins for breakfast.”

  “Thanks,” I said, picking up the mini stool softener. “What are these for?”

  “I’m running for homecoming king.”

  “You’re running for homecoming king?” I asked, incredulous. I had never seen someone compete so blatantly in a popularity contest. Brett was the editor in chief of our school newspaper, a position he won, now that I think of it, by buying the staff an espresso machine.

  “Becoming homecoming king is like winning any other public office,” Brett said. “It requires some campaigning. I’ve already locked in the votes from the Latino Movement Club.”

  “You’re Latino?”

  “You don’t have to be Latino to be interested in their culture,” Brett said, continuing to hand out his culturally inappropriate muffins. Why not churros? Everybody loves a good churro in the morning. “Who’s this?” he said, motioning to Spencer.

  “He’s my . . .” Once again, I got tripped up on an appropriate title for Spencer. “He’s a freshman I’m helping.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Brett said, extending his hand for Spencer to shake. In addition to trolling for homecoming votes, he was likely looking to recruit new members to the Young Republican Club. Spencer’s formal attire made him an ideal candidate. Brett eyed Spencer’s starched open collar, probably fighting the urge to clamp it shut with a bow tie.

  “Did you hear about what happened?” Brett asked, his eyes sparkling behind his tortoise-shell glasses. “The school was vandalized last night.”

  “Vandalized? How?”

  “Someone stenciled ‘Reserved for Idiot’ in white paint on Stone’s parking space. He’s furious.”

  “That’s . . .” I was about to say “hilarious,” but was cut off by an eagle landing on my shoulder. That’s what it felt like anyway. When I turned to dislodge the talons, I saw Stone’s iron fist attached to the soft flesh above my collarbone.

  “Come with me, Lawrence,” Stone said, lifting me from my chair. The last things I saw before Stone dragged me away were Brett’s widening eyes and broad smile. It was like some stranger had just dropped a file marked “Confidential” into his lap.

  Stone hauled me into his office and threw me into the vacant chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat,” he said, closing the door.

  “How are you this morning, sir?” I asked.

  “Peachy, Lawrence. Thanks for asking. Do you know what this is?” He swung his computer monitor in my direction. His screen was divided into nine smaller screens, each with a different view of the school campus. There was the library. The quad. The cafeteria (where I caught a glimpse of Brett grilling Spencer for information). On the top right was a view of the parking lot.

  “Is it a breach of our civil rights?”

  “Shut up, Lawrence.”

  “Oo-kay.”

  “Look what the cameras caught last night.” Stone pressed a button on his keyboard and started turning back time. The morning sun set, darkening the area for a brief moment until the overhead lights came on. Then a dancing Viking moonwalked into the lot and lifted white paint off Stone’s parking space with a set of cardboard stencils. Stone paused there and ran the tape forward so I could watch the vandal in real time. There was the Meridian mascot painting the words “Reserved for Idiot” on the dark concrete. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Think that’s funny, do you?” Stone asked, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. “Want to see something really hilarious?”

  Stone rewound the recording some more until we reached the moment I entered the lot on Friday with my LARPing buddies. I leaned forward, nearly pressing my nose against the monitor; I looked just like the other LARPers around me. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and leaned back in my chair. “This isn’t the most exciting video.”

  “I think it’s very interesting,” Stone said.

  “You don’t spend much time on YouTube, do you?”

  “Care to explain what you were doing in the parking lot at eleven o’clock at night?” Stone said, now glaring at me like I was the last hash brown on a warming tray.

  “It’s embarrassing, actually. I-I’m a LARPer,” I stammered. I explained LARPing to Stone, trying to sound like a seasoned practitioner of the art.

  “Sounds suspicious. You guys on ecstasy or something?”

  I sighed. “Why do you assume that every time a teenager engages in creative play that it’s the result of taking drugs?” I figured it was time to turn the tables on this interrogation. Put Stone’s suspicious nature on trial, the way my dad does when incriminating photos are entered into evidence.

  “I assume it because it’s usually true.”

  “Well, this time it’s not. Actually, my involvement in the group was inspired by my eighth-grade English teacher, Mr. Franklin, who’s a member of the group and can attest to my presence last Friday.” I was amazed at how quickly my brain was coming up with all this bullshit. This must be one of the more positive side effects of clean living.

  “That still doesn’t explain why you parked your car in the school’s lot, rather than on the streets near Arroyo Park.”

  “LARPing rules do not allow us to use modern transportation to and from events. It helps us get into character. The parking lot is close enough to the park so that my driving wouldn’t be noticed by the other Vikings.”

  “Did you say Vikings?”

  “I meant knights. I failed World History and still get the two confused. Did you know that a meteor is different from a comet?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Here’s what I know,” Stone said, ignoring me. “I know you borrowed the mascot uniform from Coach Harkness. I know you were at the football game. I know someone dressed as the mascot sabotaged our team’s only chance for a win this season. I know that when you returned to your car, you were dressed in a costume that looks suspiciously like Viking attire. I know that someone dressed as our mascot defaced school property. I know that if I can get a confession out of Mr. Salgado then I’ll be able to transfer you to Quiet Haven where you’ll no longer be my problem. I know that colleges do not like to see expulsions on a student’s permanent record. I know that McDonald’s is always hiring. That’s what I know.”

  I gulped. Stone was never going to believe I had nothing to do with this prank. He was like Odysseus’s nemesis, Poseidon, an angry god who uses his powers to transform an easy trip home into a ten-year epic journey.

  The bell rang, announcing the start of first period and the end of Stone’s interrogation. “Well, I better be going. Don’t want to be late for class.”

  “The bell tolls for thee, Mr. Barry. The bell tolls for thee.”
>
  I left Stone’s office and rushed to the nearest bathroom. I was shaking all over and needed to take a few deep breaths to calm myself down. The boys’ bathroom isn’t the ideal place to take deep breaths, but it was the only space on campus that provided some privacy. Once safely protected by the four walls of the stall, I put my head between my knees and considered Stone’s case against me.

  It didn’t look good. All Stone had to do was prove it was me performing at the game and I would be blamed for everything. Eddie wouldn’t talk. Everyone underestimates his strength because he’s a cheerleader, but that guy is as tough as nails. I once saw him stare down a two-hundred-pound wrestler who criticized one of Dawn’s brownies at a fund-raiser. The guy ended up buying a dozen. But there were probably loads of other ways Stone could place me at the scene of the crime. Crystal’s photographs, for one. They could probably zoom in on one of her shots and match the scar on my elbow. I lit myself on fire playing with matches and rubber cement when I was a kid (okay, it was last year) and now I have a scar that looks like Abraham Lincoln. What about my fingerprints? I’m sure they were all over the cheerleaders. That’s what I get for trying to lift them out of the dog pile created by their collapsed pyramid. Stone could even go and talk with my former teacher Mr. Franklin, threatening to expose him as a LARPer unless he testified the exact time of my arrival and departure from Arroyo Park. My story had so many holes, and Stone would be happy to see me buried in any of them. He would blame me for sabotaging the game (rightly so) and defacing school property (wrongly so), and my future, the one I was hoping would never meet my past, would run into it like a comet crashing to earth.

  And what’s with the mystery vandal using the mascot head to spray-paint “Reserved for Idiot” on Stone’s parking space? Was he trying to frame me? But why? I didn’t have any enemies. Until yesterday, that is. Now I could count every football player and cheerleader as my mortal enemy. But they couldn’t work that fast to destroy me. Besides, no one other than Eddie and Spencer knew it was me in that costume. Maybe the mystery tagger just stumbled upon the mascot head and used it to disguise himself while in front of the camera. Maybe it had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Stone.