Nailed

by Patrick Jones

  “But they wouldn’t let us play inside and we wanted to—” I start to explain.

  “Bret, what makes the plays we do here work? I mean, when they’re really good? Is it because everybody just says the lines they want and ignores the other characters?”

  “No, it isn’t,” I admit.

  “It works when people do their parts. When they do what’s needed for the greater good of the play and not just for themselves,” he says. “If every student did exactly what he or she wanted, you know what we’d have at this school? Chaos. And nobody wants that, right?”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, caught like a fly in my web of Alex-like egomania.

  “Well, I’ll let you drop the lead, but I still want you in the play.”

  I shake my head vigorously, exaggerated in a way that would be over the top even from the distance of the stage. It’s not just that I don’t want to be in a play. I want to be left alone.

  “You can’t quit. You’ve got to stay connected, especially now,” he says. I wonder what he means and what he knows. Do teachers talk about their students? Does he know about Kylee and Sean? Why should he know when I didn’t until the other night?

  “Okay, you win, Mr. D.,” I say, too tired to argue, especially with someone so right.

  “Good, but the only part I can change out is the role of Hugo Peabody. You’ll like it because you get to do a lot of physical comedy. You could probably even work in some wrestling falls.”

  “What’s his part again?” I ask, struggling to get reconnected.

  “His character is the jilted boyfriend.”

  “Perfect!” Comedy pins tragedy’s shoulders to the mat.

  Twenty-two

  March 21, Junior Year

  “More coffee?”

  “No thanks, Elizabeth,” I say without looking up, not wanting to gaze into her retro-glasses. I’m waiting with Alex at Venus for her shift to end and my life to begin again.

  “Sean wants to talk to you,” Alex says once Elizabeth heads away from the table.

  “Alex, you need to tell him.”

  “Look, I can’t get in the middle of this!” Alex snaps, fueled by frustration.

  “That’s fine, because there’s nothing for you to be in the middle of,” I reply.

  “What about the band?” Alex asks, since we’ve not rehearsed in over a month.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to do something that you don’t want to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Choose,” I tell him as I watch his face fall.

  “God, Bret, don’t make me.”

  “You can be friends with Sean if you still want, it’s your life. But as far as the band, I won’t be in it if he is. I don’t ever want to see Sean again, period,” I say, amazed at how certain I seem about the bottom line, but there’s no Stone Cold Austin homage here. This is me.

  “He says you can work something out about what you did to his ride,” Alex informs me.

  “I don’t have anything to work out because I didn’t do anything.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Alex says. “And don’t ever use me like that again.”

  “Feels pretty shitty to get used and lied to, doesn’t it?” I vent, angry at Alex, angry at myself, angry at the world, and angriest at a world without Kylee.

  “Do this for me, you owe me,” Alex says softly.

  “How do I owe you?” I ask.

  “I didn’t know it at the time, but I did help you wreck Sean’s SUV by bringing him here and getting him out of the house like you asked,” Alex replies with force.

  Part of me wants to tell Alex how much Kylee dislikes him, just to poison the air around Sean. All my anger is turned back, at least for today, against Sean. Why would I want to hurt Kylee? I loved her, although that verb remains tense as I avoid the temptation to call her and plead my case. Every time the phone rings, I go from hope to humility, as I realize it’s not her calling to say, “I’m sorry, cutie, come back.” Looking at lovely Elizabeth, with her short, spiky bright red hair, set off by the dull blue of the Venus waitress polo shirt, I’m lonelier than ever.

  Alex pauses for forever. “Where are you and I going to rehearse now?” he asks.

  “I’ll figure that out, you start writing new songs,” I say, feeling reconnected.

  “And finding us a new drummer,” Alex adds.

  “How about Will Kennedy?” I say, almost hoping he didn’t hear me.

  “Are you crazy? He’s jazz band,” Alex replies with disgust. “He can’t play my songs.”

  “Why don’t we give him a chance?” I counter.

  “And he’s a jock, right?” Alex raves on. “Plays baseball or something, right?”

  “But he’s doing the band for Bye Bye Birdie and he seems okay.”

  “Who are you again?” Alex says, then laughs. “A jazz-band jock, wow.”

  I take a deep breath, then take the plunge. “It gets worse before it gets better.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks, as Elizabeth joins us at the table. Following a quick kiss, she puts her tired feet on Alex’s lap for him to rub.

  “We need to get a drummer because I got us a gig in a couple of months,” I say.

  “Finally, I get to see you play,” Elizabeth says dramatically, then kisses Alex’s hand.

  “Where?” Alex asks.

  “I was talking to Becca Levy. She’s in my English class and is planning the prom—”

  “The prom!” Alex yells, but I notice that Elizabeth has this twisted grin on her face.

  “That’s perfect,” Elizabeth says to my surprise. She swings her long legs under the table, and leans forward. “Don’t you see?”

  “See what?” Alex asks.

  “Everybody will be all dressed up, and you’ll punk ‘em,” Elizabeth says, looking older and sounding wiser than her eighteen years. She’s a tough one: it took Alex over a month to get her to agree to a date, then another month before he told her he was only in high school.

  “We’ll shove our songs up their tight white asses,” I say. “This will be our payback.”

  “No way Morgan will allow this,” Alex says.

  “Look, Becca says it’s no problem and—” I start to explain.

  “I see what this is about. You and Becca?” he says with smugness in his voice and his studded eyebrow raised in disbelief.

  “This isn’t about Becca,” I reply.

  “We’ll need a warm-up gig,” he says, obviously on board, if appalled.

  “Let’s do something at the Birdie cast party. Will’s in the band for the show, so—”

  “Baseball pals, proms, you’re turning into a regular high school hero,” Alex shoots back. “Next thing you’ll be running for student council, making speeches, and waving the flag.”

  “Listen, Alex, I won’t be part of the problem by staying silent,” I say, my mind racing back to the warmth of the Edmonds dinner table. “I’m part of the solution.”

  “Maybe that’s your wrestling name: Bret the Problem Solver,” Alex jokes, as the three of us head off into the night: Alex and Elizabeth into each other’s arms, and me to my misery.

  Almost as soon as they drop me off and I walk in the door, I hear the phone ringing. Before I can answer, Robin rushes to it. She’s on the phone for a while, before she yells with a middle school-girl giggle, “Bret, it’s Becca.”

  “Becca Levy?” I shout back. If my heart still functioned, it might have skipped a beat at this news. I pick up the phone in the living room.

  “Hello, Bret. It’s Kylee. I’m sorry I lied to your sister, but I have to talk to you.”

  I want to scream, but I have no voice. Instead, I stare into the telephone receiver.

  “Don’t hang up! Please, let’s talk. I’m so sorry,” she says.

  “We don’t have anything to talk about,” I spit out. But I can’t slam the receiver down.

  “Cutie, I’m so sorry about everything,” she says, just like her voice in my dreams.


  “Does Sean know you’re calling me?” I snap back.

  “This isn’t about Sean, this is about us,” Kylee says, not about to be distracted by my bitterness. “There is no Sean. That’s over. That was a mistake, you have to forgive me.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” I lie.

  “You have to talk with me. Cutie, I miss you so much. About Sean—let me explain.”

  “I’ve read your explanation,” I remind her, the blackness of the ink still chills me.

  “I know, I’m sorry about what I wrote, what I did. I wish I could take it all back,” she says, I think, because tears are drowning out her final words. “I want to make things right.”

  “Where are you?” I ask, letting my heart bully my head.

  “I’m at home, I’m all alone and scared. Please come over.” Kylee sounds as lonely and forlorn as anyone in the world, except perhaps for me. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m so sorry that I hurt you, Bret. I’m sorry that I messed up everything. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It hurts too much, Bret, it hurts too much,” she whispers. “I don’t want to live anymore!”

  “Kylee, what are you—?” The phone goes dead, then I race for the door.

  I grab the car keys, but running out the door, I realize that Mom took the Metro tonight. I see the light on, as always, in the garage. Gasping for breath, I go inside, but Dad is nowhere to be found. His Camaro is there though, and I know where he keeps the keys.

  “Bret, what’s going on?” Dad says, startling me when he steps into the garage.

  “I need to borrow your truck tonight.” I ask, but don’t beg.

  “I don’t think so,” he chuckles, reaching for a Marlboro.

  “Then what about—?” I glance at the Camaro.

  “Don’t even think about it.” The humor and color drain immediately from his face.

  “Then can you give me a ride?” I ask, willing to admit my dependence in my desperation.

  He lights the smoke. “Where to?”

  “Kylee’s,” I say coldly.

  He shakes his head, a gesture I don’t see as much since our breakthrough night when I changed the oil in Mom’s Metro. “Bad idea, son.”

  I don’t have time for explanations or excuses. “I need to see her.”

  He slams the hood of the pickup down and wipes the grease off his hand. “How long?”

  “Just drop me there. I’ll get back myself,” I say.

  Another head shake. “If you go back, you’ll stay back, know what I mean?”

  “I think so,” I admit, tugging on my ponytail, now lacking color. When Kylee left my world, she took part of me with her. I want it back. I want her back. I want the old Bret back.

  As he climbs into the cab, there’s another head shake, smoke leaving his lungs, a knowing smile dawning on his face, all followed by a question: “Still doing things the hard way, huh?”

  “Now what?” I ask, nearly an hour later, in bed with Kylee. We let our bodies speak, for there are no words, doubts, or regrets as Kylee is mine again above all else. I don’t want to talk about why or when or how often. There’s no taking her back, since she never ever left my heart.

  “I didn’t want to live without you, cutie, it hurt that much,” Kylee says, explaining away her exaggerated excuse to get me in her house and bed again. She leans over to kiss me, and I run my hands up and down the length of her body. She told me the second I walked through the door that she was sorry, that things with Sean were over, and that she wanted me again. Our bodies fit back together like two separated pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

  “Kylee, I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Bret, I’m so sorry,” Kylee says, her voice wavering on waves of emotion.

  “Have you missed me?” A positive answer will wash away all my negative thoughts.

  “More than I could ever tell you or show you,” she continues. “I’m sorry about Sean. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

  “It’s okay,” I reassure her, deciding that forgiving her betrayal beats out being without her.

  “I had to see you again,” Kylee says, her eyes starting to mist. “It just happened, but it won’t happen again. I can’t be apart from you. I know I’m not strong enough to stay away.”

  “Not like me,” I tease and show off my almost nonexistent biceps, allowing a light laughter to illuminate the darkness that had invaded our lives. I pump my arms, even though I have nothing to flex other than my morals. I know I look ridiculous; that’s the real joke.

  Kylee laughs, puts her hand back around my neck, and pulls on my ponytail. “Wrong muscles, cutie,” she says with a naughty giggle. When she laughs, I know that cracking Kylee up is like crack. I’m a Kylee Edmonds addict getting his fix and fixing our broken hearts.

  Twenty-three

  April 10, Junior Year

  “Will’s just another jock. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “He’s a drummer and that’s what we need,” I counter. We’re sitting outside on the porch in a light spring rain before playing a set with Will at the Bye Bye Birdie cast party at his house.

  “We need a good drummer, not some jazzbone,” Alex says.

  “Why don’t we just use a drum machine then?” I ask, avoiding Alex’s glare.

  “No, there’ll be no drum machines in my band,” Alex says, firm and final.

  “But a drum machine is always on time, doesn’t drink, and doesn’t steal your girlfriend,” I say, breaking the tension, and handing the shared smoke back to Alex.

  “Let’s see how he does tonight,” Alex says, as he burns a small hole in his Weekly World News“Bat Child Found in Cave” T-shirt, then leaves me alone on the porch to finish off the smoke and gear myself up to take the makeshift basement stage in moments.

  Other than rehearsing, I don’t see much of Alex anymore since Kylee and I got back together. I’ve also vowed to not spend so much time at her house with her parents. Her folks are happy that I’m back in the picture, even if Kylee wants to ease us out of her family portrait. Alex is happy that I’m not this huge hurricane of hurt anymore, but he hasn’t forgiven Kylee. I’m not sure if he’s angrier at her for breaking my heart or busting up his band. I’ve forgiven but not forgotten, and neither has Sean, who is now the one going out of his way to avoid me at school. He’s even hanging around Hitchings, probably more to taunt Alex and me than from true friendship. It’s a mixed group at the party, since Will straddles both camps, so I’m worried Hitchings might bully his way into the party as he did the last one at Will’s house.

  I don’t know Will that well yet, but he seems like an interesting guy. He uses his strong drummer arms to hurl fastballs every spring, but he also plays in a jazz band and wants to try acting. He’s one of these guys that everybody likes, but he’s not a drone normal. He manages to avoid the smackdown by not sticking out too much, yet he can still be himself. I admire that.

  I’m trying to get better in that regard too. I see Mrs. Pfeil every week. She’s good at listening, like Mom, and she protects me from the hateful actions of Hitchings, the harsh actions of Morgan, and the attention-loving antics of Bret Hendricks. Mr. Douglas has been great too. He keeps telling me, “Put it in perspective, decide what’s important.” I don’t see the big picture a lot, sometimes just a small fragment, like the thing with Dad and the oil change. I didn’t lose anything by giving in. I gained the rights to the Metro, with the added and unexpected bonus of earning a little respect from my dad, which I had thought was an impossible equation.

  I pull on my once-again violet-tipped ponytail, and in doing so I flash back to the first time that Kylee and I kissed. It was outside at a party like this one. I was so infatuated with her; she doesn’t get that the longer I know her, the deeper my fascination with her grows. It isn’t just about attention; it’s about intention. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

  I hear Will
laying down the drumbeat, then Alex fills it in with a fury of feedback. I come in from the rain, grind out the butt on the porch stairs, then start toward the basement to make a big entrance with my fedora firmly atop my head, my bass, and a microphone already onstage for me, and Kylee dancing once again before my eyes up front.

  Alex frowns as he fingers the frets on the Gibson, unwilling to hide his disappointment over the fact that since Will is new, the six songs we’re doing are all covers. We’re a little sloppy, but even still, following Kylee’s lead, positive dancemania has broken out on the basement floor. I call for the last song and ask Kylee, clad in her now cutoff Emma Goldman red T-shirt and denim shorts over pink fishnets, to join us onstage as a guest dancer. We’ve got no spotlight, but my smile is large enough to light the stage.

  My smile and the music fades as darkness descends down the stairs. It’s Sean, with Hitchings and his bullyboy pal Jack Bison, in tow. Alex turns up the volume, but it’s no use. They start heckling us, heaving their bodies toward our stage. Will puts down his sticks, moving over toward Sean and Hitchings. He’s trying to talk to them, jock on jock, but Sean keeps cackling, like a hyena, and finally Will goes upstairs, I hope to dial 911.

  Alex keeps playing, but looking at the alcohol-infused anger in the eyes of Sean, Hitchings, and Bison, I decide to surrender the stage.

  “Look, Sean, I don’t want any trouble,” I say, taking a step backward.

  “Pussy!” Hitchings slurs. “Maybe you ain’t no faggot, but you’re still a pussy.”

  I let it pass, because I have no other option. I look toward the crowd, and give a deep bow, throwing kisses. “Thank you, thank you very much. We’re leaving the building!”

  “Fuck you very much,” Hitchings says, knocking the fedora off of my head. Sean staggers past me, not saying a word. He picks up Will’s drumsticks and starts churning out a beat.

  I bend down to pick up my hat, but Hitchings stomps it. “Just try and take it,” he says.

  I move away, but in doing so I bump into Bison, who bounces me back toward Hitchings, who pushes me out of his way. Alex sets his guitar down, getting it ready for the case, but Bison picks it up. Alex says something, but Bison pushes him aside. Bison starts wildly grinding on Alex’s Gibson, as Sean drums a demon dance, and Hitchings screeches into the mic he’s strangling. En masse, our audience moves upstairs, away from the noise. As the room clears, I spot Kylee alone in the corner, standing still, looking small, afraid, and lost. Like I feel now.