Bad Boy

by Diana Wieler

  But you can’t take this away from me, he thought stubbornly. He knew it was a selfish attitude. His team was in real danger of losing. But it was his first goal of the year and a triumph — a goal against the top team in the league. And nobody was going to make it anything less.

  Landau ran out of steam early, leaving them to brood. The gathering scattered, some into little groups, some alone. A.J. wandered down a corridor of lockers and sat by himself. Just for now, he thought. Just for a little while and then I’ll be finished and ready for whatever’s next.

  And when he was soaking in it, the rush of it, the heat and the sound of them, not cheering but screaming — he felt something clunk down beside him on the bench. A.J. looked. It was a skate. Derek Lav-alle’s skate.

  Lavalle was leaning forward on his knee, grinning. His helmet was off and his hair was bright with sweat. He seemed all pinpricks of light — teeth and hair and eyes.

  “Good goal, Brandiosa,” Lavalle said.

  A.J. stood up. He was not at ease with this guy towering over him. “Thanks,” he said flatly. Then he waited.

  “It was wild,” Lavalle said, still grinning. “The last thing they expected — hell, the last thing we expected. The two of you set that up or what?”

  “No,” A.J. said. “Just luck.”

  Lavalle shook his head, righting himself. There was almost a chuckle bubbling under his voice. “Well, it didn’t look like luck. Goddamned good play,” he said, turning to go.

  A.J. stared at Lavalle’s back in disbelief. Then he took a cautious deep breath.

  Three lockers from the end of the corridor, Lavalle turned, as if he had forgotten something. “Oh, by the way. He’s all yours.”

  A.J.’s nerves contracted in one quick, painful yank. “What?” he said.

  The winger gazed back serenely. “You know. The golden boy. Hey, I know when I’m beat. I’m bowing out gracefully. He’s all yours.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” The words clunked out as stiff, as unwieldy as bricks.

  Lavalle’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “Lying faggot,” he said.

  FIFTEEN

  “…MISERABLE snot-nosed punk!” Landau shouted in his face.

  A.J. was flattened against the wall. His shoulder hurt. The side of his head hurt. Despite the protective pads, Landau’s knuckles were digging into his collar bone, and that hurt, too.

  The coach shoved against him once more, mostly in frustration, then pushed himself off. Released, A.J. staggered. He caught himself and looked up, right into Landau’s laser eyes.

  “You’re not good enough, mister — nobody’s good enough — to pull that schoolyard shit in here.”

  A.J.’s gaze darted. The entire team had clustered around, their faces blank with disbelief. Against a set of lockers he saw Lavalle, one arm still pinned by Millyard. A rust-red smudge trailed under his cheek bone. A.J. couldn’t tell if it was from his lip or his nose. Lavalle wasn’t smiling anymore, but he was still standing. Landau had intervened too soon.

  The coach grabbed the boy’s attention again by poking at his chest with a thick finger.

  “You want to play the tough guy, you do it out there. In here, you belong to me. And I don’t give second chances for that garbage,” Landau snarled.

  “You’re gone, mister. Five games. I don’t want to see your face for a month. Maybe not even then.”

  A sound from Lavalle, the start of a word. Landau whipped around, slicing it off.

  “Don’t you even open your smart-ass mouth,” he ordered. “You’re walking a thin line with me, Lavalle. You push it and I swear, you’re next.”

  The referee’s whistle shrieked, cutting the heavy air. It was the signal to start the third period. No one moved.

  Landau glowered at them. “Well, shake it! Hustle! You want me to suspend the bloody lot of you?”

  They started to file out, the rumble of disbelief like a tremor among them. Lavalle was wiping his face with his sleeve as he trudged past. He didn’t even look in A.J.’s direction.

  Weitzammer grabbed A.J.’s arm. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I’ll talk to Landau. We’ll get you back real soon.” A pause. “I don’t know what happened, but … but Lavalle probably asked for it. He’s a jerk, A.J.”

  A.J. was staring at the lockers, where Lavalle had been. Weitzammer could hardly hear him breathing.

  The captain gave A.J.’s arm a friendly shake. “Hang in there,” he said, before he turned and left.

  A.J. counted to a hundred. Then he stripped and showered. He was under the water a long time. He washed his hair twice, maybe three times; he lost track.

  The empty locker room felt haunted. Noise from the game seeped in, eerily distorted, as if there were a rip in the wall and somebody else’s life was leaking into his. He didn’t stay long enough to shave.

  A.J. walked outside and sat down in the snow.

  Christmas was coming. The lights on the houses seemed to swell and contract, as if they were breathing.

  A.J., get up. You’re sitting in the snow.

  But it couldn’t be Christmas yet. They hadn’t gotten a tree or anything. And he hadn’t done his shopping. He always left it until the end, anyway. He never knew what to get people.

  Your ass is freezing. A.J., get up!

  Last year they’d gotten a surprise, him and his dad. The day before Christmas a lady had shown up at their door, holding a basket of fruit, all wrapped up in red cellophane. She was from their church, she’d said, and they’d had a special bazaar to raise money for gifts for single parents. She’d handed over the basket as if it were holy myrrh. When the door was closed, he and his dad had stared at each other, then burst out laughing. They’d never gone to church.

  You idiot. You can’t sit here all night. Summer’s on her way to meet you.

  A.J. lurched to his feet, pain shooting through his legs and backside. He couldn’t face her with the arena emptying and the team spilling out into the night. Summer would know, sooner or later, but he couldn’t bear for it to be tonight.

  And he had to get her to Treejack’s. They had to be there together. He began to run.

  The wind blew his hair into his eyes. If he was cold, he didn’t feel it. He didn’t pause, he didn’t slow down. He felt like a piece of machinery, a metal man, that once set into motion, was powerless to stop.

  He startled her.

  “What are you doing here?” Summer cried, when she opened the door to him panting on the step.

  A.J. leaned against the doorframe on his forearm. He couldn’t ever remember running like that.

  “What’s the matter?” Summer asked. “Did the game end early? Is something wrong? Where’s Tully? I thought you wanted me to meet you at the arena.”

  A.J. shrugged. Then he lifted his head and looked at her.

  Summer was not the type of girl who fussed. She did not spend half a date in the bathroom, fixing. To A.J. it was the way she moved, the way she held her head, that was the sparkle of her.

  Tonight was different. Tonight she had fussed, a little. Being a boy, he couldn’t tell what she had done exactly. All he knew was that the sight of her split him open. Powder-blue clothes, the colour of blue jeans after you’ve washed and worn them forever. The subtlest shine of pink around her mouth, a dot of gold on each earlobe. And something else. A softness seemed to surround her, powdery and perfect, as if she had been dusted all over with icing sugar.

  “A.J.?” Summer said.

  “Can we go now?” he asked abruptly.

  Summer sighed. “Sure, why not. Come in while I get my coat.”

  But he waited on the porch, hands jammed into his pockets, feeling the warm air waft through the open door. Summer looked at him strangely as she stepped out, but by that time he was already heading for the sidewalk.

  They were halfway to Treejack’s before she asked.

  “Why are we walking so fast? What’s the hurry?”

  “Sorry,” A.J. said, slowing down, e
yes glued to the ground.

  For a few minutes there was only the muted padding of their footsteps.

  “A.J., what’s wrong?” Summer asked finally. “Nothing.”

  “Did you have a bad game?”

  “I thought you never wanted to hear about the game” Immediately he was sorry. None of this was her fault. Fumbling, shy, he reached for her hand, but it was in her pocket. There were a few awkward moments before she realized what he wanted. Then they walked the rest of the way, mittens clenched, to Treejack’s house.

  It was a zoo. Someone had written, “Parents in Florida — Come on in” in spray-snow on the big picture window. Every light was blazing and the music thumped like a reckless heart. They could feel its raw beat on the walkway. Through the windows they could see the kids inside pressed shoulder to shoulder, a twisting, writhing mob. Summer’s mitten squeezed his. A.J. squeezed back.

  They welcomed him like a hero. It was too loud to actually hear anything, but they slapped him on the back and gestured. Hot shot. Bad Boy. A.J.’s polite smile felt painted on. What if they all knew? he wondered. How welcome would he be then?

  He led Summer into the kitchen, hoping there would be fewer people in there. But if anything, the kitchen was worse. It was where the liquor flowed from. Kids were sitting on the counters as well as filling the small, sticky floor space. Normally this would have panicked him, the touching, pushing and pressing, but tonight was different. He moved through the throng feeling numb, as if he was still sitting in the snow.

  Treejack was in the kitchen. But he was too drunk to be dangerous, A J. realized. His party had started at five in the afternoon. Treejack scoured Summer with a long, leering look, then gave A.J. the “thumbs up” sign behind her back.

  “How ya doing?” he cried over the noise.

  “Fine!” Summer shouted back.

  “How’s your brother? He coming tonight?”

  “No! He’s at the Elks!” Summer shouted.

  There was a big Christmas party every year at the Elks hall. It was supposed to be a great time if you could get tickets. A.J. was glad that Tully had. Beneath his numb shell, some instinct told him that there wasn’t room in this sweaty, swarming house for both of them tonight.

  Before he left the kitchen, Treejack dragged A.J. over beside the refrigerator.

  “It’s all yours if you want it,” he said, jerking his head towards a door near the back entrance. He pulled out a key which he pressed, grinning, into A.J.’s hand. A key for a basement? A.J. wondered.

  “It used to be a suite,” Treejack explained, and then he giggled. A.J. stared. Treejack had had more than just liquor tonight.

  “Have a ball,” Treejack said. He burst into laughter. “Get it? Get it?” He wandered away, still giggling.

  A.J. put the key in his front jeans pocket. It lay so flat no one would have known it was there.

  SIXTEEN

  “ALL right, who is she?” Summer asked pointedly.

  “What?” A.J. looked up.

  “I thought that would wake you,” Summer sighed. “You’ve been totally hypnotized by something — or someone — since we got here. I try to talk to you and you stare off into space!”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t hear you,” he mumbled. “The music’s too loud.” Just as he said it, he realized that the music wasn’t loud, that somehow it had faded to a comfortable buzz in the background. The crowd, too, had thinned, although most of the rowdies were still there.

  A.J. glanced surreptitiously at his watch. 11:30! Almost two hours had evaporated into the air, and he didn’t know how.

  “Look, it’s not that I care,” Summer continued, her arms folded over her chest. “Be with whoever you want. But you invited me, remember? These are your friends. Bored and ignored I can get at home.”

  They were in a hallway, near a linen closet. A.J. couldn’t remember how they’d got here, or why, but for the moment they were alone. He put his hands on her shoulders, maybe too quickly. She flinched.

  “There’s nobody,” he said. “I … I’m just not with it tonight. Really, there’s nobody. I’ve liked you for so long,” he whispered.

  He knew he was looking at her too intently. Summer’s eyes were wide and her mouth was drawn into a small pink line. His insides were racing. He had somehow surged into third gear, without ever hitting first or second.

  “A.J., is something wrong?” she asked again. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

  My whole freaking life is wrong, he thought. He felt pressed up against a creaking, groaning dam, scrambling to plug the leaks, not knowing which ones were biggest or worst, just jumping to cover this hole, and the next and the next.

  “There’s a place where we can talk,” he said.

  She did not see him use the key. He hunched in front of the door and pretended the knob was sticking. She balked at going down the stairs, but he took her hand, no mittens this time, and gently, firmly, guided her into the dark.

  He didn’t turn on the light. The two high basement windows faced the street, and once their eyes adjusted, they could make out the small fridge and table and couch. Summer turned around. Her powder-blue clothes had faded to non-colour. A.J. shivered. All cats are grey in the dark.

  “Now,” she said. “What is it?”

  He kissed her. “A.J.!” she giggled. He kissed her again, and again. He was not particularly good at it — he hadn’t had much opportunity for practice — but he liked her, and he understood about hugging. Pretty soon she was kissing him back.

  He steered her towards the couch and eased them both onto it. He wondered at his own courage; last August he could hardly look her in the eye. But the whole world had changed since August.

  He nuzzled her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair. She made a soft sound, but it was not an unhappy sound, and that was good.

  Except nothing was happening. A.J. felt the sudden pitch of panic. He was holding her and kissing her, and nothing! These last few weeks he’d been overwhelmed by his own heat. There couldn’t be nothing now!

  He held her tightly so that she would know how strong he was. When he kissed her, he could feel her neck muscles strain. She was struggling to keep her head upright. There were little noises, the rustle of clothing, murmurs in her throat; they sounded far away. He was caught up in his own sound, his breath like a train in her hair.

  Oh, yes. Oh, yes, I can. He played the words over and over in his head, a chant to kindle the tiny fire that had finally leapt into being.

  He was burning her now. She turned away from his mouth, trying to avoid the sandpaper stubble of his chin. He didn’t care. He found her collar and burrowed in against the soft skin of her neck.

  Do you get the message, Tulsa Brown? his heart cried.

  Summer tried to say something; A.J. wasn’t listening. He wanted to press an imprint of himself on her, on her skin. This was how it was supposed to be. His hands knew the way without being told.

  “A.J., don’t.”

  They were such little words, almost inaudible. He let them flutter away. “Come on, I mean it.”

  But she didn’t; she couldn’t. When she pushed at him with her hand, it felt like a bird’s wing. He was so strong. Metal man.

  “A.J.! Goddamn you — stop!”

  He didn’t know how it happened, how she wrenched herself out of his grip. One moment she was pressed against him and the next she was on her feet, trembling in the silver light.

  “Who do you think you are?” she whispered. A tear sprang over her eyelashes. She wiped at it angrily.

  “Who do you think you are!” Louder this time, shriller. The noise alarmed him. He moved to get up, moved his lips to say, “Shh.” She leapt back, as if yanked by a string.

  “Don’t you come near me.” She was struggling to button her blouse, but her hands were shaking, and she would not take her eyes off him. “I swear to God I’ll scream.”

  The tears were sliding one after another now, too fast and too many to brush away. She wa
sn’t supposed to cry. A.J. took a step, reaching out to touch her arm.

  “Summer,” he started.

  She turned and bolted for the stairs.

  In the empty kitchen, Tully was just opening his first beer. He hadn’t expected the party to have wound down yet; Treejack was notorious for his all-nighters. But considering the wasted look of the half-dozen people left, Tully wasn’t surprised that the party was dying.

  When the basement door burst open, he jerked up his head. Brother and sister stared at each other. He grasped the details in one sickening clutch, like catching a razor blade with his hand. Her tangled hair and twisted clothes; the dark mascara tracks on her pretty, proud face.

  Tully set his beer on the counter. Summer turned to dash for the front door. He caught her by the shoulders.

  “What the … ?”

  A sob shook her, but she would not look at him. She twisted away, intent on getting her coat and getting out. For a single stunned moment Tully watched her go. Then he whirled around and lunged for the basement, thundering down the stairs.

  “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’ve got a real problem now, scum,” Tully spat into the darkness.

  Lit by the open door above, he was a blaze in the cold basement. Arms rigid, fists tight, blond hair wild and white, like sparks around his head.

  Standing near the wall, far from the light, A.J. stared. He could hardly breathe. He was utterly locked into this voyeur’s fantasy, the dark thrill of seeing without being seen. The thought throbbed in him like a pulse. I could break you. I could break you into pieces, you stupid queer bastard.

  “You picked the wrong girl to jerk around. That was my sister, scum!” Tully hammered the particle board wall. “That’s a real big fucking problem!”

  A.J. could see him so clearly, his heaving chest and corded muscles, even the gleam of sweat at his throat. I have only one problem, Tulsa Brown. You are my problem. And I’m going to fix it right now.

  “Come and get me, faggot,” he said.

  Tully’s head jerked towards the noise, his lips parted in disbelief. Then he swore, a cry of rage and despair, and charged blindly at the far wall.