by J. R. Brule
Maybe that’s how all records are made.
“On the track, you’re fast,” Jake said, stealing the container from Rudy’s hands, “but you’re slow as hell at serving ice cream.”
---
Mr. Kloom was sitting on the counter with his sleeves rolled up. Finch was at the register, and they both had their own bottles of champagne. They’d started a pyramid with the empties on the floor.
“Help me stop,” Rudy said to them. “I can’t stop.”
“Poor kid,” Finch said. “I remember being his age.”
“Can you stop it?” Rudy asked Mr. Kloom desperately.
“You already know my answer. This is how all records get broken.”
---
There was another knock at Rudy’s front door, turning all their heads.
“Who’s that?” Rudy asked, not entirely convinced Chad had stopped chasing him.
Whoever it was opened the door themselves, and Rudy heard two distinctive voices.
“Rudy!” Zach said, hugging him. “What the hell man, I never knew you could run like that!”
Kevin slapped his back after.
“You kicked John Handley’s ass out there, man! Zach and I stuck around to watch the video. Do you know what we saw? Do you know what Ben got on tape?”
“Proof!” Zach said.
Kevin nodded furiously. “Ben’s gonna show it to Mrs. Dawson on Monday morning! Do you know what she’s going to do, Rudy? Do you know what’s going to happen?”
“No,” Rudy said.
“They’re going to put your name up where John Handley’s used to be! You’re going to have your own plaque by the office. Can you believe it?”
---
I want to go back . . . Mr. Kloom . . . please . . .
I’m still working on it.
Mr. Kloom?
I’m here. You’re not alone. If you slip up, it’s no big deal, that’s what practice is for. It fixes you up. Then a suit covers the flaws. You’ll find you learn more after a hard fall than a sailing homer, and that’s a cold fact of life.
But I—
Ready to take a hard fall?
---
“Class,” Mrs. Anderson said, “I have an announcement to make. We have a new student today, and I’d like you all to make him feel welcome. Chad, would you stand up, please?”
Rudy’s eyes went wide. It was the boy from his dreams—the boy who led him into the kitchen, the boy who chased him at the track, and the boy who showed him how all this ended.
And he was here, in Rudy’s classroom, like he belonged.
“I’ll sit, thanks,” Chad said confidently, and looked at Rudy.
---
“John Handley’s going to be POed,” Jake said, coming out from the kitchen.
“No shit,” Sam said. “He loved his plaque.”
“It’s beautiful. We’ve got it on video.” Jake cracked up and ice cream threatened to fall out his mouth.
“What’s so funny?” Rudy asked.
“It’s just . . . I wish we could film him seeing his plaque removed.”
Jud chimed in: “Finally, he can get a taste of reality, maybe stop being such a sour bully.”
“Oh my God,” Jake said. “Bullies Gone Sour could be the title. I gotta write that down.”
There were more knocks at the front door, and more kids piled in, congratulating him. Rudy’s dad ordered a couple of pizzas. At the end of the night, he even let Rudy have a taste of beer. Odd that Rudy didn’t like it, since he enjoyed drinking with Mr. Kloom.
---
“There we go,” Mr. Kloom said. “I got you back for a little while. Did you get that check, by the way?”
Rudy hastily poured himself a drink.
Mr. Kloom hopped off the counter. “Answer me now.”
“He said he’ll pay tomorrow. On delivery.”
“On delivery!” Mr. Kloom threw up his hands and champagne slopped onto the floor. “Why didn’t you—”
“He said he’ll write you a check.”
“A CHECK? Didn’t I tell you I’ve been screwed like that before?” Mr. Kloom lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of Rudy’s shirt, yanking him close. His face contorted with rage and for a moment Rudy didn’t see the man he knew—he saw a man that would shake and shake until Rudy died from a brain aneurism.
Then Mr. Kloom backed off. “Sorry, kid, been off my meds all night. I’m drunk, too. What do you say we have another bottle?” He turned to add his newest empty to the pyramid.
---
Rudy got to school earlier than usual, and the building was the emptiest he’d ever seen it. He passed by the office, glanced in through the glass paneling, and saw a bunch of adults already at work, pecking away at keyboards. Also, two kids sat in the corner, one of them John Handley.
John watched Rudy pass. Beside him, Chuck Loore waved a videotape through the air, and John slapped it down.
Rudy didn’t stop to chat, and was soon passing the awards case. Below some faded immortal jerseys were the track awards. Well, the track award—John Handley’s centered plaque.
JOHN HANDLEY
1997
Middleburg Intermediate
50 Yard Dash All-Time-Record
4.76 seconds
The prospect of having his name engraved made the hairs on Rudy’s neck prickle up.
---
“Speaking of meds,” Finch said, “how’s about we get a real party started?”
Mr. Kloom straightened and then staggered forward. “That’s a brilliant idea, Finchy boy. I’ll just run out to the car and—”
“No need, Klum.” Finch crouched behind the counter and came up with an orange capsule. It was unlabeled, just like the ones Mr. Kloom dosed himself with. “I still have some left from when—”
“HUSH!” Mr. Kloom said. “The kid’s here.”
Finch looked to Rudy. “Shit, sorry. I’m drunk, you know.”
---
Rudy could feel Chad staring at him as Mrs. Anderson allowed the class to work silently.
Chad whispered, “Turn around.”
Rudy tried to ignore him.
“Hey, turn around,” Chad said again.
The intercom turned on with a click, followed by the muffled sound of fumbling hands. “Mrs. Anderson?” Said a woman’s voice from the office.
“Yes?” she responded, talking up to the speaker.
“Could you please send Rudy Cloven to the office?”
---
“Business is business,” Mr. Kloom said, “but party time is party time. Don’t say no, either, or I’ll fire you on the spot. You better not say no, that’s kid’s SHIT. You’re not a child anymore, you made your first sale. Drugs are bad for children, not responsible adults, okay? Do you get what I’m telling you?”
Rudy understood just fine. He was afraid of drugs for one reason: he didn’t know how they’d affect his visions. He couldn’t risk any more confusion.
---
On his way to the office, students patted Rudy on the back, congratulated him, and called him things like Track star, Wheels, and The Handley-Handler.
In the office, Chad also sat in a chair in the waiting area. Rudy’s first thought was to run; but another glance showed him everything was normal—secretaries at their computers, the lights on, nothing black and white.
So he gulped and sat down next to Chad to wait.
“Authority’s made up of a bunch of dick cheeses,” Chad said.
“I guess.”
Mrs. Dawson’s door swung open. “Rudy Cloven,” she announced, and he was happy to leave Chad’s side.
---
The pills were bitter, chalky and not easily swallowed.
“Those are Grennidil, kiddo,” Finch said. “Created by Doctor Grenn, also the inventor of dill pickles.”
“No, no,” Mr. Kloom said. “It wasn’t the pickle guy. It wasn’t him, I remember who it was. It was Doctor Do-Dil, inventor of dildos. And it’s not Grennidil, it’s Dillodill.”
Rudy put his hands inside his pockets, feeling a bit fidgety. He found this little balled up, plasticy . . .
He bolted to his feet so fast that both Mr. Kloom and Finch jumped.
“Jesus, kid,” Mr. Kloom said, his eyes only half open. “You can’t just jump around unannounced whenever you want to. How about a FUCKING warning first!”
Rudy went under a light and turned the thing over in his fingers. The twining was tight, no doubt there, but it was definitely wrapped around something. He went behind the counter and searched the unfinished shelving for scissors. He found a pair, but the blade was too thick to fit under the line.
---
Both John Handley and Chuck Loore were already inside the principal’s office, sitting at the conference table. Mrs. Dawson closed the door and told Rudy to have a seat. He did. John Handley cracked his knuckles with wringing hands.
Mrs. Dawson sat and folded her hands on the table. “Okay, Chuck, go ahead and play it. John, hit the light.”
A projector threw up a silent film on a pull down screen. The video showed Rudy stretching on the track with John hopping from side to side. The camera panned up to the crowd and Rudy saw his friends holding up the RUDY > HANDLEY sign. The camera came back to Chuck, who smiled and continued to twirl a whistle around his fingers.
“Do you recognize this?” Mrs. Dawson asked Rudy.
“Yes.”
“See those tiny numbers in the bottom right hand corner?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s keep watching,” she said.
Chuck announced things through the megaphone, and the camera zoomed out to show the whole scene.
“Damn good speech,” Chuck said. “Wish we had the volume on.”
The camera lightly shook as it focused on Rudy and John.
“Proper lineups,” Mrs. Dawson said. “Your toes are behind the line.”
Rudy watched himself prepare, and he leaned forward in anticipation, looking behind his movie-self for Chad on the turf. It wasn’t so easy, because the camerawork was shaky. When he’d seen Chad appear, he’d panicked. But on film, it was just two runners, and as Rudy hit the finish line, the video stopped.
“Now,” Mrs. Dawson said, “did you watch the time elapsed?”
“Um. I don’t remember what it started at.”
“That’s okay. Play it again, Chuck.”
The timer at the bottom counted in fractions of seconds, and Rudy kept track.
“And now?” Mrs. Dawson asked, when it stopped again.
Rudy said the time.
“That’s NOT true!” John yelled, standing and pushing back his chair. “The video is too blurry to make out the finish line. Look, you can see it’s fuzzy! The fuzziness makes it look bigger than it is.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Chuck said. “He’s ahead of you on the track, we can all see that.”
“Chuck, shut the f-front door!” John said, censoring himself.
“Mr. Handley,” Mrs. Dawson said. “The video is very clear. Mr. Cloven read the same time both Mr. Loore and I did. Which means we have a new school record. Congratulations, Mr. Cloven.”
“Th-thank you,” Rudy said. Chuck’s grin widened.
John huffed and looked between them, opened his mouth as if he were about to scream, and then shut it before any sound came out. His eyebrows furled and he stormed from the office, slamming the door on his way out.
Mrs. Dawson asked, “What color plaque do you like best?” and she showed him a magazine ad.
As he flipped through the options, he saw the strangest thing—one of the models on the page, holding a plaque, was a man with a blond ponytail.
It was Mr. Kloom.
The quote next to his picture read: Chad is waiting to get you alone.
---
“Finch?” Rudy asked.
Laughing, “Yeah?”
“Do you sell knives here?”
“And just what do you need a knife for?” Mr. Kloom asked.
“Trust me,” Finch said. “That’s just the drugs at work. You’re just losing your mind.”
“Do you or not?”
He pointed over his shoulder. “Aisle eight in the back, kitchenware. Don’t go opening up all my shit, now.”
Rudy pushed past them and through the aisles. He found a boxed knife set hanging from a hook. He took it down and tore it open, letting the pieces fall where they pleased. There were four different knives, one serrated. Plastic ties held it down.
Don’t tell me I have to go back to the damn counter for scissors.
But a pair of kitchen shears hung nearby. Rudy took them down, cut the ties of the serrated knife, and sawed the balled-up fishing line. It came apart, layer after layer, and the thing inside bulged from the release of tension. He didn’t have to cut for long because the wire fell off after a while. Now, he had a tiny crumpled piece of glossy paper in his palm, most likely from a magazine.
Why would someone wrap this all up and hang it from their house?
Rudy unfolded it, carefully, because it was no bigger than a spitball. The font was incredibly small, maybe torn from a disclaimer at the bottom of an ad. He brought it up for a read.
His heartbeat went from an unnoticeable tick to a racing thump.
This isn’t real . . . this can’t be real.
Printed on the paper was:
HELP
31:
“SORRY ABOUT THE MUG shots on Handley’s locker,” Chuck said, “but I wanted some action, man, you know? Now you’re a hero! Because of me! Really, you should thank me.”
“The plaque is kind of cool,” Rudy said, “but Jesus, did you really have to provoke him like that?”
“Sometimes a hard fall is better than a sailing homer,” Chuck said, and he left the office without bothering to hear what Rudy had to say.
Chad got up from his seat, his posture wobbly and his arms too long. His blond bowl-cut made a straight line over his eyebrows. “Enjoying your newfound fame?”
Rudy didn’t want to answer, and he didn’t want to leave this office with Chad just waiting to follow. He was looking for some excuse to stick around when a girl with glasses came inside, holding a clipboard.
“Rudy Cloven?” she asked in a high, sweet voice.
Chad nudged his side and Rudy slapped his elbow away. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“I heard you made a new school record for the fifty yard dash. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “I’m Clarissa. If you don’t mind, I’d like to do a quick interview for the school paper.”
“It should just be the two of us, I think,” Rudy said.
She smiled. “Well, yes.”
---
Rudy ran to the front of the store, to where both Mr. Kloom and Finch were throwing back champagne, their clothes more disorderly with the passing hours.
“Find the knife?” Finch asked.
Rudy slammed the HELP slip on the counter, quieting both men.
“What’s that?” Mr. Kloom asked.
“I got this same letter from my mother, from when I was younger.”
“Bad vibes,” Finch said, after reading it.
“Where’d you find it?” Mr. Kloom asked.
“Hanging out a window at Mr. Earl’s. Someone’s in that house.”
“Dammit, kid, I told you not to start snooping around, didn’t I?”
“Aw shit, you’re gonna get Klum all upset.”
“Shut up, Finchy boy.”
“I’ve got to go in there,” Rudy said.
Mr. Kloom grabbed Rudy’s shoulders and positioned him so that they stood face-to-face. “Listen to me, okay? You’re not going over there, not if you want to stay with me.”
“You don’t get it. The messages are exactly the same! They’re even the same size!”
“What are you even gettin at here?” Finch asked.
“It’d take all night to explain,” Rudy said, “and you probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
Rudy pushed the cup away, vaguely aware that Mr. Kloom was shocked by his reaction. “I don’t want any more to drink! My mother was trying to tell me something and I need to know what!”
---
As Rudy followed Clarissa out of the office, Chad grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Chad reached into his own jeans pocket and brought out something that looked like a bullet. He pressed his thumb against the ridge of the metallic head and it popped open. “Have some of this before you go.”
Rudy looked inside and saw a bunch of white powder. “What is that?”
“It’s Fun Dip,” Chad said. “You just put your nostril over top and inhale. It gives you a sugar rush.”
“Inhale?” Rudy asked.
Chad nodded.
“Coming?” Clarissa said, standing in the doorway.
“I gotta go,” Rudy said. He and Clarissa left the office. Left Chad behind.
“Who was that boy?” she asked.
“He’s new.”
“Oh. Nice of you to show him around.”
“Yeah. We have a school paper?”
“Yes, but I want to get your story into the Middleburg Times as well.” Clarissa led him into the library, which was different now that the book fair had left. The balloons and odd merchandise were all gone. “Right here,” she said, and they sat at a table. She clicked her pen, angled the clipboard. “So, let’s start with the basics. Name?”
“Rudy Cloven.”
“And where are you from?”
“From here, in Middleburg.”
“Oh, a home-grown celebrity, good. When did you learn you could run?”
“Last Friday.”
She looked up, not writing. “I’m sorry . . . last, Friday? So . . . you didn’t know you were fast until three days ago?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and scratched some notes. “This is going to be better than I thought. Okay, and how did this race get organized?”
Rudy told her all about Chuck’s setup, omitting his name.
“This keeps getting better,” she said, scribbling madly. “What about the plaque? When does it get put up?”
“Should be ready next week.”
“Great, great,” Clarissa said, her head bobbing as she wrote. She made one final dot and looked up, smiling. “Perfect, it’s perfect.”