Boy in the Mirror

by Robert J. Duperre

  “They’ve been like that as long as we’ve known them, Drea,” Jordan Thompson replied.

  “Yeah, but they’re older now. You’d think they’d know better.”

  “Look who you’re talking about.”

  Andrea frowned. “It doesn’t make sense. They’re smart, especially her. You’d think she wouldn’t want to look like a whore.”

  “That’s a bit harsh,” Jordan said.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  Jordan sighed. Andrea was talking about Drew and Hannah, who were leaning against the wall, slobbering all over each other. Drew’s hands groped Hannah’s rear, squeezing roughly as their lips locked. They were in J. Robert Oppenheimer’s central hub, the place their small group of friends hung out every day before lunch. Todd and Phoebe stood off to the side, casually chatting with random passers-by, seemingly oblivious. But others that walked the hall noticed. Drew and Hannah drew looks of longing, disgust, and every emotion in between. Jordan shook his head. It was like those two wanted to make themselves the center of attention.

  Of course they do. It’s who they are.

  He cringed. Who they are were three words Jordan loathed. His father was an electrician, his mother a home-health aid. All his life, people assumed that he’d follow in his parents’ footsteps, making just enough to pay the bills and maybe take a vacation every ten years. That’s why he dedicated himself so steadfastly to his schooling. His grandparents had escaped Detroit’s inner city and his parents had carved out a decent life through grit and hard work. If he didn’t further the legacy, he’d be a failure.

  But he didn’t have the same opportunities as his friends, and that was frustrating. When both he and Drew applied for the same summer internship at Merryl Lynch after their junior year, it was Drew who received it, even though Jordan was more qualified. Drew, whose grades and test scores were average, had already been accepted at Yale thanks to his father’s legacy, while Jordan had yet to hear back from his school of choice. It wasn’t only a personal problem, but a societal one: even though Mercy Hills was relatively diverse for suburban Connecticut, those whose skin wasn’t brown still had far greater privilege. Most of the part-time jobs, other than places like Taco Bell and KFC, were given to white kids, and the town’s large police department focused on patrolling the municipality’s “darker” sections, like the Mill District, while leaving the more affluent areas alone. It was racism at its most devious, pretending in public to be accepting while quietly stifling minority progress. If he wanted proof of that, he only needed to look at Highland, where Drew and Hannah lived. As many drugs moved through that section of town as the Mill District, and yet whenever he visited the Cottard’s huge estate, there were never any cops to be seen. The only time he felt truly equal to his friends was on the football field, which was another maddening cliché.

  He tried to shove away his anger as he and Andrea approached. Drew and Hannah remained locked together, with Hannah’s hand now fully entrenched in Drew’s back pocket, but both Todd and Phoebe greeted them with smiles. He could feel Andrea tense beside him. He felt for her. Andrea was a part of this little clique because she was his childhood friend; these were people she’d never strike up friendships with on her own. Jordan understood, but his relationship with Drew was important. Drew’s father had promised to write his letter of recommendation to Harvard, based solely on Jordan’s long-standing relationship with his son.

  “What up, my negro?” Todd said, slapping him on the shoulder. Jordan winced. “Still smarting, eh? Pussy,” he said, laughing.

  “Something like that,’ Jordan replied. “I thought I told you not to call me that anymore.”

  “What? Pussy? You are what you eat, right?”

  Todd nudged Andrea, who scowled.

  Jordan frowned. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh, come on. I say it outta love.”

  “It’s not a loving word.”

  “It’s not,” added Andrea. “It’s offensive.”

  “Dude, you and Marcus call each other worse all the time. Negro ain’t so bad.”

  It was the same excuse Todd brought up every time he objected to him using that word, and Jordan knew Todd used it to put Jordan in his place. He should’ve kicked his ass long ago.

  “You two done yet?”

  Jordan turned. Drew and Hannah had finally disconnected. Drew wore a dumb grin while Hannah slid herself out from being pinned against the wall and straightened her blouse. The tall girl held her head high and looked out over the crowd of passing students. Probably checking to see how many are worshipping her, Jordan thought.

  “So, you gonna be at practice today?” Drew asked. “Or you icing your shoulder again?”

  “I’ll be there,” Jordan said.

  “You’d better,” said Todd, grinning. “Or I might call you pussy again.”

  “Asshole,” Andrea blurted out.

  “Oh, ho!” Todd sang. “Lookit who’s gettin’ all protective! You gonna let the bitch talk for you, my negro?”

  Andrea wrung her hands together. “I’m going to lunch,” she told no one in particular, and walked away. Drew cuffed Todd on the back of the head and dragged him away a few feet, proceeding to lay into him in a hushed tone. Jordan felt guilty and completely helpless. He should’ve defended Andrea’s honor. He should’ve broken Todd’s nose. But he hadn’t.

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Phoebe.

  Jordan glanced down at the much shorter girl. Phoebe touched his arm with two fingers, batted her eyelashes. Her red hair was tied in two pigtails that fell over each shoulder. The top three buttons of her blouse were undone, revealing the top of her frilly pink bra. Those buttons had been fastened when he and Andrea had approached. Phoebe edged closer to him, close enough that one of her breasts pressed against his elbow.

  “Hey Phoebe,” he said, pulling his arm away.

  Phoebe frowned. “What, no hug?”

  “Not today. I can’t. My shoulder still hurts,” he lied.

  “Oh. Well, I’ll give you one anyway.”

  Phoebe wrapped her arms around his waist before he could react. Her hands gently kneaded his back, her face pressed against his chest. She moaned slightly, lips pursed. Jordan looked up to see if anyone was watching them and shook his head.

  “Okay, hug accepted,” he said finally, wiggling free of her grasp. He tried to stop his blood from flowing to places he didn’t want it to go.

  Phoebe sucked on her lower lip. “Fine,” she said in a whiny voice. She refastened the buttons on her blouse before starting up a conversation with Hannah.

  Jordan sighed. Phoebe had been chasing him for two years now, ever since a party at the Cottard house during their sophomore year. That’d been the first and last time he’d ever been drunk, and late that night he and Phoebe had engaged in an epic makeout session. It’d been all sweat and groping and sloppy mouths, enjoyable to a point, but Jordan had hesitated when Phoebe tried taking off his pants. His older brother Dave had gotten a girl pregnant when he was seventeen, which screwed his future up big time. Jordan wanted no part of that, and so he’d apologized to the half-naked girl and left the room.

  But the truth went deeper than that. Phoebe was definitely hot, but she was a devious flirt and no stranger to sex. Jordan needed all the fingers on his right hand to count the number of relationships she’d ended around school. To Phoebe Wolfe, the best available option for her was the option currently unavailable. Which was why, he assumed, she tried to seduce him as much as she did—because he wasn’t interested. His perfect girl was someone smart, empathetic, and a bit mysterious.

  Someone like…‌her.

  There she was, heading toward the cafeteria with her odd assortment of friends. Jacqueline, the new girl, who could be shy and nervous one minute, then act brash and defensive the next. Her smile was infectious, the way she carried herself, vulnerable. He’d approached her once, that day when he helped open her locker. She’d been uncomfortable, obviously not trust
ing him, and he hadn’t talked to her since. But at least she’d seemed happy then. Not anymore. The girl skulking the hall was a shell of the one who’d stomped on Todd’s foot. What had caused her sullen transformation? Why was she so sad? Jordan wanted to know. He wanted to heal whatever had broken inside her. He wanted to protect her from it ever happening again.

  Jesus, you’re pathetic. You don’t even know her.

  Drew finished his tongue-lashing of Todd, and the two of them rejoined the group. Drew slipped his arm around Hannah. Todd walked up to Jordan and threw an arm around his shoulder.

  “Sorry, brotherman,” he said, his voice much too loud, as usual. “No offense meant.”

  “It’s okay,” said Jordan.

  “Good.” Todd slapped him hard on the back, then strutted a few steps away, drumming a beat on his legs while he observed the crush of students. His eyes settled on Jacqueline. Todd glanced back in Jordan’s direction.

  “That girl, I tell ya,” he said.

  “What about her?”

  “Grabbed my ass the other day.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. And y’know, I feel like I’ve seen her someplace before. She look familiar to you?”

  Jordan shook his head.

  “Eh, don’t matter. Probs all in my head. But she’s all kinds of cute.”

  “She’s kinda young,” Jordan said. Inwardly he cringed.

  “So? You even seen her when she got those leggings on? That body’s rockin’. Shit man, put a tight dress on her, and I betcha she’d be freaking hot.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ha! No maybe about it, ne—…‌brotherman.” Todd’s grin grew wider. “Dude, she got porn star written all over her. Lookit those lips, too. Bet she’d give great head.” He leaned in and cupped his hand over his mouth, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder in the process. “Well, better head than Pheebs gives, anyway.”

  Jordan rolled his eyes. “Man, don’t talk about her like that. She can’t be older than fifteen.”

  “Hey dudarino, fifteen’s old enough.”

  From behind them came Drew’s voice. “Maybe you should go for it,”

  Jordan groaned. Drew and Hannah came over, both staring at Jacqueline. Jordan’s blood started boiling.

  “Ya think?” Todd said.

  “Why not?” said Hannah. Her eyes followed the girl until she disappeared behind the swinging cafeteria doors.

  Phoebe giggled. “She’s always staring at you when she thinks you’re not looking.”

  “She does?” For no good reason, Jordan felt heartbroken.

  “Maybe I will,” Todd said. “I never dipped the straw in chocolate milk before, even the watered-down kind.”

  Phoebe smacked him on the shoulder. “Be nice.”

  “Yeah, be nice,” Hannah said. “That’s why we keep you around, Todd. You keep life interesting. Phoebe, let’s go.”

  The short, shapely girl locked arms with the tall, statuesque one, and together they followed Jacqueline into the cafeteria. The boys remained in the hub. Drew sidled up to Todd, elbowed him. Jordan wanted to punch Todd in the back of his bleached-blond head, but held himself back. He couldn’t risk it.

  “Whaddaya think?” asked Drew.

  Todd nodded sharply. “Yes. Definitely yes.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. Right now?”

  Drew shook his head. “No, man. Uh-uh. Girl like that, she needs buttering up. No way to do that in school. Gotta find a way to get it done outside of school. Y’know?”

  Jordan looked from one to the other, not believing what he was hearing.

  “I guess,” Todd said.

  “Good. We’ll put the girls on it. Once we pull her in, there won’t be nothin’ she won’t do for you, bro. Guarantee.”

  “That’s awesome, brotherman.” The look on Todd’s face was one of desperate excitement. “Y’know, she’s got movie star all over her.”

  Drew laughed. “We’ll see, bro. We’ll see.”

  With that, the two of them walked away, leaving Jordan standing alone. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked toward the cafeteria. If Todd wanted to get with that Jacqueline girl, he’d have no choice but to let him. To step on Todd’s toes was to step on Drew’s, and if he did that, he could say goodbye to Mr. Cottard’s letter of recommendation.

  But if he hurts her…

  He didn’t finish that thought. He silently shoved through the cafeteria doors instead.

  CHAPTER 19

  There were at least fifty movie posters plastered all over the cabinets in Jacqueline’s history class, along with a huge, colorful map of the world that took up nearly an entire wall. The counter at the back of the room was topped with a diorama of Washington crossing the Delaware River. There were also three bookshelves crammed with books, both historical and fiction, that the teacher, Mrs. Ansel, would loan to whichever student wanted one.

  It was a cozy, comforting place, but at the moment, Jacqueline felt anything but cozy.

  It was going on three o’clock, and she was the only student in the room. Jacqueline had gotten a twenty-three on her last test, and Mrs. Ansel strongly suggested she stay after to retake it. Jacqueline had been grateful, and promised she’d do better this time, but it was hard to keep her head in order, to concentrate on anything at all.

  She scribbled what she hoped was the right answer to the last question and cleared her throat. Mrs. Ansel looked up from grading papers, considered her with kind, sympathetic eyes.

  “Done?”

  Jacqueline nodded.

  “Good.”

  Mrs. Ansel circled out from behind her desk. She was a smallish lady, only a hair taller than Jacqueline, and probably around Mitzy’s age. She had kind eyes. The woman could say everything’s going to be all right with nothing but a wink.

  The teacher sat down at the desk in front of Jacqueline, slid the test over, pulled her red pen from behind her ear, and began going over the answers. The sounds of kids laughing outside, and the shrill whistles blown by coaches on the nearby athletic fields, drifted in through the classroom’s closed windows.

  “Better,” Mrs. Ansel finally said, scribbling a number at the top of the front sheet. “Seventy-two.”

  Jacqueline folded her hands atop the desk and cast her eyes downward. “Thanks.”

  Mrs. Ansel grabbed her hand. “Jacqueline, what’s going on with you?” she asked.

  Jacqueline kept mum.

  “You can tell me. I worry about you. You came in here like a ball of lightening. Your first month here, you were the most active student in class. You smiled and laughed and answered questions. You passed your tests with flying colors. But lately…‌Jacqueline, is there a problem at home we should know about?”

  Jacqueline shook her head.

  “Drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  Jacqueline shrugged.

  Mrs. Ansel blew out a frustrated breath. She let go of Jacqueline’s hand and leaned back. It felt like the room grew colder by at least twenty degrees. Jacqueline wrapped her arms around her chest, squeezed her shoulders.

  “Jacqueline, look at me.”

  She met the teacher’s gaze. The beginnings of crow’s feet marked the corners of her eyes.

  “I’ve read your file,” Mrs. Ansel said. “All your teachers have, on Principal Butler’s suggestion. I know you’ve had problems. But the girl in that file wasn’t the one I met at the beginning of school. What happened to her?”

  Again, Jacqueline shrugged.

  Mrs. Ansel went on, undaunted. “You’ve been moping for three weeks now. I thought it might just be the social stresses of acclimating yourself to a new environment, and at the start of this week it seemed like you’d rounded a corner, but then you collapsed again. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t concerning.”

  “I know,” Jacqueline moaned.

  “Then what is it? Let me help you.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,�
�� she said quietly.

  “Are you sure.”

  She nodded.

  Mrs. Ansel abruptly stood, carrying the graded test back to her desk and stashing it among the others. She then sat down on the corner and stared at her.

  “Butler has his eyes on you,” the teacher said cautiously. “He’s convinced you’re on drugs, and you’ll eventually mess up. I don’t want to believe him, but this school has seen its share of addicts, and you exhibit the signs. Withdrawn. Temperamental. Prone to outbursts.” Jacqueline raised her eyebrows. “That’s right,” said Mrs. Ansel with a nod. “Mr. Langolin saw your confrontation in the hall with the Morton boy yesterday. He reported it.”

  Jacqueline groaned. Yesterday, a kid had stepped on her heel in the hall, on purpose, and she turned around and yelled at him. She hadn’t even known his name was Morton.

  “You have to be careful,” the teacher said. “Once Principal Butler sets his eyes on you, he follows through. He’s quite strict.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Can I go now?”

  “Or course. You’re not a prisoner.”

  Jacqueline stood and gathered her things, finding it hard to look at her teacher on her way out the door, backpack slung over her shoulder. Mrs. Ansel was just trying to help, but Jacqueline couldn’t get a hold on her depression. She felt like she was drowning.

  When she reached her locker, she pulled out her cell phone and saw it was just past three o’clock. Still another hour before Mitzy would come to pick her up. Jacqueline groaned. If her aunt’s house wasn’t halfway across town, she would’ve walked.

  She leaned against her locker, slammed the back of her head against cold steel. There was something comforting about the sensation, something real that made her want to do it harder and harder. And so she did, over and over again, until finally she struck the metal door with enough force to dent it. Her vision warbled, her ears buzzed. A hollow twang echoed down the hallway. Jacqueline slowly lowered herself to the floor.

  The sound of approaching footsteps made her lift her head. A young girl shuffled down the hall alone, moving sluggishly like it hurt to walk. Jacqueline saw the dirty-blond corn rows atop the girl’s head. She knew this girl. Trish something-or-other, the druggie she’d seen with Principal Butler. There were black raccoon rings around her eyes, like she’d been crying.