Against the Grain

by Phil M. Williams

  “Matt, Matt,” Madison says.

  He turns to see his gothic foster sister standing in the doorway.

  “Are you all right? Didn’t you hear me yelling for you?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of it,” Matt says.

  “I’ll say. You look like shit. Come in and meet the newspaper crew.”

  Matt follows Madison into the media room. Televisions are on carts. VCRs, digital cameras, and computers line the back of the room. Two boys sit at a round table, staring at Matt.

  “You remember Tariq,” Madison says. “He covers all the social events. It’s boring as fuck, but somebody’s gotta do it. And this is Jared, our sports editor and reporter.”

  “Hey, Tariq. Nice to see you again, Jared,” Matt says.

  Madison looks at Jared, with raised eyebrows.

  “He’s in my English class,” Jared says.

  “So, I’m the editor and chief here—the first sophomore to ever hold the honor, I’m proud to say.” Madison does a curtsy with an imaginary skirt.

  “It’s just you guys for the whole paper?” Matt asks.

  “Mrs. Campbell is our advisor, but she doesn’t really help us,” Madison says. “She’s such a bitch. So, that’s kind of the problem.”

  “That Campbell’s a bitch?”

  “No, dumbass, that we need help.”

  “I don’t know anything about this school. Besides, I’ve been here one day, and I already hate it.”

  “Then you’re perfect for the position,” Madison says. Jared and Tariq glance at each other and nod.

  “Position?”

  “We need an investigative journalist. Someone who’s not afraid to go after the juicy story. With your background, I thought you’d jump at the assignment.”

  “My background? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Listen, Matt,” Jared says, “it’s cool. We know about how you smacked the chief upside the head. That was some gangster shit right there.”

  “We wanna do some real journalism,” Tariq says. “We’re tired of reporting on proms and school lunch menus and who scored all the touchdowns in the football game. Sorry, Jared, no offense.”

  “It ain’t no thang. Football’s just a vehicle to get me out of this backward-ass place. I do love runnin’ over cracker-ass white boys though.”

  “We wanna do a piece on Dr. Hansen, but a real piece,” Madison says. “We need someone willing to do a little semilegal spying. That bitch has some skeletons buried somewhere. We just need to start digging.”

  Matt frowns and shakes his head. “What makes you think I’d do this? As bad as it is here, juvie was worse.”

  “Do you remember my mom coming to your produce stand?” Tariq asks Matt. “She always wore a colorful hijab, only her face showing.”

  Matt smiles. “Mrs. Ahmed. I didn’t know she was your mom. I grew all the basil and coriander I could, because I knew she’d buy it. She was one of my favorite customers.”

  “And she loved those apricots. We used to spend half a weekend drying them at the end of the season. My mom actually cried when she saw your stand was destroyed. And then, just like that, you were gone, and Kingstown was moving in.” Tariq pauses and looks at Matt. “I’m sorry about what happened. We just figured you might want a chance at …”

  “Revenge?” Matt asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “You guys think I haven’t thought about getting back at her? It’s a great fantasy, but it’s not reality. You know what was the most important lesson I learned in all this?” Matt pauses. “If you’re different in any way, you better not make waves, because you will be put firmly in your place. I just wanna finish my time here and get out.”

  “Come on, Matt. Don’t be a sellout,” Madison says.

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it, Madison. And even if I found whatever it is you wanna find, Mrs. Campbell would never print it, and we’d all get busted anyway. So what’s the point?”

  “Mrs. Campbell doesn’t even check the proofs,” Tariq says. “I left her last week’s proof, and the memory stick didn’t move a millimeter from where I put it on her desk.”

  “Besides, we don’t have to print it in this dinky-ass paper,” Jared says. “We can put it on the Internet. Nobody can censor that. That shit is out there forever.”

  “If what we dig up is bad enough, she might get fired, which means she wouldn’t be able to discipline us for exposing her,” Madison says with a crooked grin.

  “If you wanna do this so bad, why don’t you do it?” Matt says. “What do you need me for?”

  “Come on. Why are you being such a bitch about it?” Madison says.

  “I’m not the one acting like I’m so antiestablishment, then trying to get someone else to do the dangerous stuff. This is bullshit. I’m outta here.”

  [ 10 ]

  Revenge

  Matt opens the door to Grace’s foster home. She’s standing in the foyer, her flabby arms crossed, and her foot tapping the floor. She’s dressed in jeans pulled high above her protruding stomach.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is, young man?” Grace says.

  “I’m not gonna work at Hardee’s,” Matt says, blank-faced.

  “Dwight went to a lotta trouble to help you. He started with no experience, just like you, you know? He manages the whole restaurant now.”

  “That comparison is not enticing. I’m gonna go lie down.”

  Matt slogs past Grace, his eyes trained on the stairs.

  “You won’t get a dime of spending money from me. Everybody works here.”

  Matt continues up the steps, unfettered. He opens his bedroom door. Ryan is weeping, curled up in the fetal position, his comforter pulled over him, facing the wall. A pair of jeans lays on the floor, the crotch area covered in crusty white stuff.

  “What’s up, Ryan? You okay?” Matt asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you wanna talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “All right, I’ll be on my bed reading, if you need anything.”

  Matt sets Limits to Growth on his bed and kicks off his boots. He lies down on his back, props his head up with his pillow, and opens the tattered text.

  “She’s an asshole, that’s what she is,” Ryan says between sobs.

  Matt puts his book down and sits up. “A girl in class?”

  “No.”

  “Madison?”

  “No.”

  “Teacher?”

  Ryan sobs.

  “Ryan, seriously, I’d like to help you, but you gotta give me more than that. I just don’t have the patience for twenty questions right now.”

  “It’s too embarrassing.”

  “I’m sure it’s not near as bad as you think.”

  Ryan rolls over, and wipes his eyes and nose on his sleeve. He looks at Matt through glassy eyes. “You have to promise not to tell anyone, not even Madison.”

  “All right, you have my word.”

  “You have to swear to God.”

  “My word actually means more to me.” Ryan stares at Matt. “Okay, I swear to God.” Matt provides air quotes when he says the word God.

  Ryan’s eyes narrow, his mouth turns down. “You can’t do that thing with your hands when you say God. That means, you don’t mean it.”

  Matt exhales and puts his hands together in mock prayer. “I swear to God, Yahweh, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu, Zeus, and L. Ron Hubbard that I will not tell anyone.”

  “We were doing art, and I was putting glue on my hands and peeling it off when it dried, but it wasn’t even that much.”

  “Okay, so what’s the problem?”

  Ryan sniffles. “Mrs. Jennings saw that I was playing with the glue, and she got really mad. … She made me hold out my hands, and she squeezed two bottles on my hands and made me sit there. She said that I should be happy, because now I got lotsa glue, but I wasn’t.”

  Matt walks over to Ryan’s bed and sits down. He smells urine. He pats him on t
he shoulder. “It’s really nothing to be ashamed of. Your teacher’s a bitch. I know it’s really upsetting, but you didn’t do anything wrong. She did. Some people like to be teachers, just so they can have power over others.”

  Ryan looks at Matt. Tears streak down his face. “That’s … not … the … bad …part,” he says between sobs.

  “All right, whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Did anyone die or get permanently injured?”

  Ryan stops wailing. “No.”

  “Okay then, it can’t be that bad.”

  “She made me get up and do stupid stands, still holding all the glue.”

  “Stupid stands?”

  “It’s called stoop and stand, but we call ’em stupid stands. You have to squat down and stand up, but you have to do it over and over again, until she tells you to stop. I was getting really tired, so I stopped, just for a little bit.” Ryan lowers his head and starts to cry.

  Matt puts his arm around him. Ryan’s bawling intensifies. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise.”

  Ryan calms down. “That’s when she came over and started yelling at me really loud. Then I peed. I couldn’t help it. It just happened. I didn’t want the other kids to notice, so I put all the glue on my pants. Mrs. Jennings was so mad. She made me do stupid stands in the hallway for the rest of the day. I stopped doing them, because she wasn’t looking.”

  “I’m sorry, Ryan. You know what? You don’t have to do anything humiliating like that ever again.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Nope. Next time Mrs. Jennings orders you to do stupid stands or to put out your hands or anything else you don’t wanna do, just say no.”

  “She’ll get really mad.”

  “So what? What’s the worst thing she can do? She can’t hit you. She’ll just send you to the principal. It doesn’t matter how mad they get, they don’t have the power to really hurt you, so they try to scare and intimidate you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks, Matt.”

  “No problem.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “What does it mean if someone says I came in my pants? On the way home, these middle-school boys were laughing and pointing, saying that I came in my pants. I told them it was glue.”

  Matt stifles a grin. “We should probably leave that one alone for the time being. We do need to get your clothes down to the laundry though.”

  +++

  Matt lies back on his bed reading Limits to Growth. There’s a knock on the door. He pulls his bookmark from the back, places it in the middle, and slams the book shut. He opens the door to find Madison with a greasy Hardee’s bag and a camera case slung over her shoulder.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” she says. “Dwight brought everyone Hardee’s roast beef and fries. I brought you a bottled water too.” She lifts up the fast-food bag in one hand and the water in the other.

  “Thanks, I’m hungry enough to eat even this crap.” Matt flashes a grin.

  “I’m sorry I came on a bit strong earlier today.”

  “It’s okay. I should’ve been nicer about it,” Matt says, sitting on the edge of his bed.

  “I really appreciate what you did for Ryan,” Madison says, still standing.

  Matt raises his eyebrows.

  “He told me at dinner that you helped him, although he wouldn’t tell me exactly what happened. He’s a nice kid, deep down, you know?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Matt grabs a few fries from the bag; Madison lingers.

  “I checked out a camera for you from school.” Madison sets the camera case on Matt’s bed. “You can just take pictures if you want, then give it back at the end of the year.”

  “You can take it back. I have no idea how to use one of those things.”

  “Will you at least consider it? Please?” Madison looks down.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t, okay?”

  “That’s not an argument, Madison. I’d like to help you out, but I barely know you, so why should I take the risk?”

  Madison exhales and looks at Matt. “I just can’t. Can we please leave it at that?”

  “Sure, but I won’t get involved—”

  “Because I’m scared, okay?” Madison’s eyes are red.

  Matt puts down his food. “It’s not a big deal. I’m scared every day.”

  “I can’t go back to juvie. It was really bad.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. You’d be different.”

  “What happened?”

  Madison shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut. A few tears escape and race down her cheeks. “I can’t.”

  “You need to show me how to work this stupid thing,” Matt says, holding up the digital camera.

  +++

  Matt stares at the white ceiling, eyes wide open, wondering if Ryan has sleep apnea. He hears a distant door shut and light footsteps getting louder. Another door opens and closes, then giggling. Whispering comes from George’s room next door, then soft music, moans, and a squeaky box spring. Matt sits up, pulls on his jeans, and puts on his black hooded sweatshirt. He pulls the hood over his head, straps on the camera case, grabs his boots, and an old pair of leather gardening gloves. He tiptoes from his room in his socks, holding the doorknob to prevent the clicking sound when he shuts the door. He feels a surge of adrenaline, as he descends the stairs. The downstairs smells like fast food and Clorox. He creeps to the front door and slips out.

  Standing on the front stoop, he puts on his boots and his worn leather gloves. He walks alongside the house to the backyard. The night air is crisp; the moon is full, and the grass is wet. He inhales, smelling the sweet aromas of spring. He moves into the forest, just beyond the back lawn. Brambles tug at his jeans, as he makes his way through the forest edge. Once past the brambles, the forest floor opens up. Within minutes he’s swept away to the past, when his life was in harmony with nature. He hikes nimbly, the moon supplying dim light through the canopy.

  He sees the land of humongous houses on tiny lots. Streetlights buzz and illuminate the neighborhood. Most houses are dark, except for the lampposts and porch lights. He walks perpendicular to the McMansions, staying concealed by the brush and brambles along the forest edge, until he reaches Dr. Hansen’s home.

  He pushes through the brush into the Hansens’ backyard. The windows are dark, with light curtains covering only the edges. An irregular flagstone patio connects to the house and a sliding glass door. A stainless steel grill with two propane tanks sits near the glass door, with grilling utensils hanging from the handle. A square hot tub, with a lattice privacy fence, sits at the far end of the patio, with steam coming from the circulating water.

  As he walks toward the sliding glass door, a spotlight illuminates the backyard. Matt runs behind the hot tub. He crouches down, listening, his heartbeat pounding. The house remains silent, the windows still dark. The spotlight clicks and turns off. He creeps around to the front, squeezing behind the hedges to provide concealment. He peers into the windows. The living room is filled with white furniture and carpeting, with black accents. The white couch has black pillows and black end tables. The patterned white carpet is trimmed in black. Beyond the living room, he catches a glimpse of the shiny stainless steel appliances in the kitchen.

  He crouches next to the illuminated front stoop. There’s a faint silver-dollar-size bloodstain, unnoticeable to others, but Matt remembers the exact location. He stares at the stain embedded in the cold concrete. If I didn’t hit Chief Campbell, Uncle wouldn’t have fallen, wouldn’t have hit his head, wouldn’t have … died. I’m so stupid. Matt wipes his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

  He sneaks toward the garage, avoiding the illumination from the porch lights. He peers into the garage window. A vintage white Mercedes convertible with a red leather interior fills one space. The rest of the garage is filled with covered furniture and
boxes stacked to the ceiling. A silver Mercedes SUV and a blue Toyota 4Runner sit side by side in the concrete driveway. Tyler’s red lifted Jeep is parked along the curb, next to a blue trash can on wheels.

  Matt slips down the driveway, tightening his gardening gloves. He opens the lid on the trash can and winces at the fishy smell therein. He removes the offending white trash bag, with his head held back. He removes another one, smelling of rotting produce. A small tied-up white plastic grocery bag sits at the bottom. Matt sticks his head and arm deep into the bin to grab the bag. It’s lightweight, filled with papers. Office trash. He returns the rank trash bags, shuts the lid, but holds on to the office trash.

  A large leather duffel bag sits in the back of Tyler’s Jeep. A notch at the end of the bag sticks out, allowing for long items. Matt unzips the black bag, emblazoned with Mizuno in white letters. Inside are two pairs of baseball cleats, batting gloves, and a few baseballs. He opens the compartment for long items, where two aluminum baseball bats reside. He pulls one out, like a knight removing a sword from his scabbard. He walks up the driveway, looking at the back end of the Mercedes and the 4Runner. The Toyota is dirty, with a finger-written Wash Me sign on the back hatch. There’s a bumper sticker that states Coexist and another with five colorful dancing bears. The Mercedes SUV is spotless and glistening in the ambient light from the porch and the moon.

  He stands in the Hansens’ driveway, staring at the Mercedes, the bat in his left hand, the small trash bag in his right, the camera bag strapped to his shoulder, and his black hood up. The neighborhood is silent, except for the hum of the streetlights. He looks at the front stoop again, then closes his eyes. He opens his eyes, and tears fall out. He tosses the trash bag and the camera case to the lawn area next to the driveway. He puts both hands on the bat and takes a few practice swings.

  Matt feels a cocktail of rage, adrenaline, sadness, guilt, and regret surge through his veins. He moves to the side of the Mercedes SUV and lines up the bat with the rear-tinted window. He winds up and swings with every ounce of his strength. He connects dead center, and it shatters the window into tiny shards of glass. The alarm blares, the horn honks, and the lights flash. Matt takes a few more steps and smashes the driver’s side window. He takes a couple of swipes at the side-view mirror. The mirror dangles, only wires holding it to the Mercedes.