by T Cooper
“Oh, you have?” he asks suggestively.
Uh oh, here comes the boom . . .
“Homeroom,” I quickly add, but it sounds muffled through my helmet.
Jason stands quiet for a few seconds, head swiveling back and forth, back and forth. I’m wondering which way this is going to go, but after a beat, he slaps my ass real hard, and nods Audrey off, “We’ll be done in five, meet you at the car.”
She starts walking away, and I watch her go. Jason watches me watch her.
“Focus!” he blurts menacingly, right up in my face, then slaps my helmet on both sides with his palms. He starts cracking himself up like a lunatic. “She likes you.”
“I don’t even know her, man.”
“Well, she wants to know you. We were worried that she was into chicks, but I bet if anybody could turn her, you could.”
There really is no bottom with this guy.
“I’m sure your sister is dope, but I’m not up for a relationship,” I say.
“You a fag or something?” For a second I’m terrified, the memories of all the evil Jason has done to me, to my friends, rushing back. I feel sweat rolling down my spine, adrenaline spiking. Inside, I’m still Drew, Oryon, Kim. My fight-or-flight hasn’t calibrated to my new hulking form. Then Jason chuckles, low and greasy like. “Just kidding, brah. No fag throws a football like you do. Am I right?”
Change 4–Day 12
We won the game 38–3. I threw for three touchdowns. Ran for two more.
At the final whistle, my teammates all rushed me one after the other, ramming into me in midair. It took me about four times of almost being toppled over before realizing I was supposed to jump up too, to slam our bodies together in the air. Endless slapping my helmet. Pure glee and optimism on everybody’s sweaty faces. The coaches beaming, like their jobs are secured for another year and they can pay for their daughters’ braces. Coach Tyler gave me the game ball, and he never gives out game balls.
When I finally got a break and took off my helmet, a cyclone of maroon, black, and white charged at me, a trio of Central cheerleaders, with one launching herself onto my body, wrapping her legs tight around my waist, and squeezing. When she pulled back and I got a full glimpse of her face, I realized it was, of course, Chloe. As I tried to peel her off me, I caught Audrey’s eye up in the stands. She sort of waved, and I tried to free an arm to wave back.
Next thing I knew, a light flared on, blinding me, and a microphone was shoved in my face: a local TV news reporter asking me about the forty-two-yard pass into the end zone in the first quarter. I don’t even know what I said, “Blah blah blah, instinct, blah blah blah, couldn’t do it without my teammates,” but afterward Jason told me to expect my phone to be ringing with recruiters starting first thing Monday morning. (That’s what happened to him, after all.)
I’d been Kyle less than two weeks, played a single game, and I was already a local hero, a school savior, a model in Europe, the subject of a sex raffle.
I was already everything to everyone, and I’d done next to nothing to deserve it. It was such a sharp turn from Kim, Oryon, Drew. So plainly unfair. It made my stomach hurt.
But also. If I’m honest. It felt a little bit awesome too.
Change 4–Day 19
We won again. At home. This time a shutout, 28–0. I threw three of the four touchdowns we scored. Everybody was saying there were more fans in the stands than usual. People already speculating about a state championship run.
I know it’s stupid football, and I could take it or leave most of it, really. All the pomp of the march through the crowd and out to the field, kids idolizing you like you’re a god, strange adults holding signs with your name and number on them, proud of you for being able to throw a piece of leather successfully to another person who’s good at catching it. That can all go. But the game itself, the math and mystery when I’m running a play, it’s practically the only time I’m not worrying about Audrey. Or my vision of her death. I’m only fixating on where to put that ball.
When the game ended, the team and what seemed like half the student body hit up a kegger at one of the guys’ houses. The usual parents-out-of-town, spoiled-rich-kid-with-lawn-furniture-ending-up-in-the-pool deal. Andy came too, excited to be reaping the benefits of rolling with the star quarterback, everybody sidling up to him to get information about the mysterious Kyle Smith.
For kicks, whenever someone asks something, Andy confirms it, whispering as though the receiver of the information is the chosen one being let in on Kyle’s little secrets.
Model in Paris? Yes, for a year while taking a break from high school.
Auditioning for the next big teen TV series? Totally.
Crown prince of a small but powerful, wealthy foreign nation? Yes, but please don’t tell anybody; he must lay low for security reasons.
“That girl wants to make out with me,” Andy whispers, pointing across the TV room at Chloe’s minion, Brit.
“Trust me, you don’t want any part of that,” I say.
The front door of the house suddenly blows open, and it’s . . . Jason. The guy who never stops hanging around high school parties. He’s flanked by two friends of the exact same type and disposition, from the football team five years before. And they have hard liquor. A ton of it.
“Really? Him?” Andy seethes. “Isn’t he like forty?”
“You better make yourself scarce unless you want round two with your archnemesis,” I say, getting my phone out to call Andy a Lyft.
He scoots out as Jason shouts, “My nizzle!”
Jason practically sprints over to man-hug me, making a big show of it in front of everybody in the room. He’s already drunk. Or high. Or both.
“What’s up?” I manage, as I see Audrey slip in the door behind him.
“You kicked some ass tonight!”
“Thanks,” I say.
“We are going to rule the school this season,” he slurs, then leans in and whispers, “I have a surprise for you later.”
My ear is damp from his booze breath. It’s hard not to recoil, but I have to keep my enemies close, especially now. He goes over to crank up the sound system, then sing/yells at the top of his register: “It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes!” as three sophomore girls surround him and start undulating together like some sort of twenty-first-century Roman orgy.
I feel like leaving, but then Audrey approaches and chirps super brightly, “Hi, Kyle.”
“Hey,” I say, taken a bit off guard.
“Not exactly Alvin Ailey,” she says, jerking a thumb toward her brother’s display.
“Oh, well,” I stammer, flustered at her being so close.
“Great game tonight.”
“I thought you hated football,” I slip.
“Says who?” Audrey asks, narrowing her eyes.
“Your brother said something, like that you think it’s for meatheads or—”
“Oh,” she giggles nervously. Come to think of it, she always seems nervous around me now. “Well?”
“Well what?” I ask.
“Are you a meathead?” Audrey lifts her shoulders an inch, drops her chin. Is she . . . flirting?
“Sometimes.” I lift my shoulders too, like we’re mirror reflections of each other.
“Good to know,” Audrey says cheekily.
We both fall silent, glance around the room. I wonder if she can hear my breathing, because it’s deafening to me. This whole scene reminding me of the first post–football game party we went to together freshman year, when we were cheerleaders. How naÏve and young we were, so excited to be around all the cool kids, even though they were anything but. How we picked our way through the bacchanalia trying to find a quiet spot—until we came across Jason snapping photos of a girl who had passed out, her underwear exposed.
God, he’s a creep.
I turn to Audrey, my desire to confess reinflamed by my trip down memory lane. She swivels to face me. We stand like that, like we’re at t
he altar, the words so close on my tongue. I’m Kim. I’m all of them. I’m yours.
“What is it?” she asks, sensing something.
“I was thinking about how sexist this song is,” I blurt. “I got a friend with a pole in the basement?”
“Yeah, it is sexist, but it’s got nothing on I’ll let you lick the lollipop,” Audrey says, cocking her head at me, like tectonic plates are shifting in her brain. We go back to awkwardly surveying the happenings in the room around us.
“I gotta say, Kyle, that was some pretty lady-friendly analysis for a meathead,” Audrey finally says, breaking the silence. And then, “These parties always suck.”
You can say that again.
And then, as she pivots around, Audrey brushes her side against mine. Not sexually, more playful, warm, like a cat on the leg of a sofa.
Oh man.
As much of a half-wit as he is, Jason knew it: Audrey does like me. Like, likes me likes me. WTF does that mean?
On the one hand, it feels amazing and right and exactly what should be happening—her drawn to me because of some sort of essential me-ness. We’re soul mates! Pulled toward each other in the inexplicable way poets have written about through the ages.
On the other hand, what if she’s only digging on me because of my outside, falling prey to the external like everybody else? Never mind that Audrey seems to have gotten over her pining for Kim super freaking fast. Yes, it’s twisted, this messed-up part of me that’s jealous. Jealous of MYSELF! But if Audrey has given up and moved on to the next shiny object, how strong was that connection to begin with?
At least she’s wearing the bracelet. Which means she’s still searching for me . . . right? I could tell her. I should tell her.
But I can’t. So I say, “Yep,” and excuse myself.
And then I start drinking.
* * *
Five Jägermeister shots later, I suddenly care less about A, B, C, D, and all of the above. I brush off Audrey, keeping a safe distance and making it easy by falling into gross frat-brah behavior with Jason and his buddies, who keep passing me shooter after shooter, with watery beer chasers. Kids keep coming up to me like they’re paying tribute to the king, like I’m Kanye in my leather semicircle VIP booth at the club, and they all come to fist-bump me over the draped red-velvet rope. Everyone trying to connect with me somehow, so many exaggerated smiles and, “Yo, man, this! Yo, man, that!” The immediate blind worship so far removed from any of my prior experiences it makes me feel like the bug man in the Men in Black skin suit. If only all of them could see what I look like underneath.
Jason sidles up to me with two Solo cups of beer in his hands and whispers, “You want your surprise now?”
He slings an arm around me, the beer sloshing out of the cup and onto the back of my neck and shirt, which first I’m annoyed at, but then almost as quickly I don’t care, because my gums feel numb, and I’m dizzy, and I’m an imposter, and nothing matters. Jason leads me up some stairs and then down a hall, through a bedroom door.
Inside, there are two girls in front of a chest of drawers, studying themselves in the mirror. They spin around when they see our reflections behind them.
“What’s going on?” I mumble, so very drunk.
“It’s your MVP trophy for winning tonight,” Jason says, pulling the door closed.
The girls giggle, press themselves together, and Jason hands them each a cup filled with beer. They both take big gulps. And then another. They seem so young. Like Drew was.
“Drink up,” Jason encourages, roaching up on the girl to the right. He puts a meaty hand on her cheek, yanks it sideways for a sloppy kiss, juts his chin toward me. On cue, the girl on the left takes another swig, leaves her beer on the dresser, then slinks over to me, stretching to kiss me full on, open-mouth. I can’t really not kiss back.
It is at this point that my addled brain realizes that by trophy Jason meant a living, breathing human being. He kills the lights, and the girl with me begins making out even more forcefully. I don’t know where Jason and the other girl went, or what they’re doing, only that this girl is pushing me backward toward the fluffy bed, her hands traveling down to my belt. She starts undoing the buckle, and I grab her to make her stop, scoot back.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask. “What’s your name?” As I talk, I realize I can barely understand myself. I feel like my brain is in a pickle jar.
“Jenny,” she answers, climbing on top of me, quickly undressing. My head is spinning.
“Are you okay with this?” I ask, and she murmurs something that sounds like yes. Then she mumbles something else before her head goes limp and she collapses on the bed.
“Jenny?” I whisper. “Jenny, are you okay?”
But there’s no answer.
She’s not moving. I shake her gently.
Nothing.
“Jenny?” I try louder.
“Dude, what are you doing?” I hear from somewhere in the room, but I can’t tell where. Maybe the floor? It’s Jason’s voice. “She wants you.”
I stand up, the room is all off-kilter, I have to force myself not to vomit.
“What’d you put in those drinks?” I say, but I’m not sure it’s coming out like I intend.
I can see Jason on the other side of the room. He’s on top of the other girl, and they’re on a blanket. She’s in the same state as Jenny.
“Something’s wrong. They need help,” I say, but my words jumble again.
“Are you crazy?” he hisses. “Be cool, man.”
I lean back over Jenny, put my ear close to her nose, and feel a few solid breaths. She’s alive. Thank god. I cover her up, reach in my pocket for my phone to call 911.
“What are you doing?” Jason says, sounding angry.
“Calling an ambulance.”
“What the fuck for?”
The door cracks open: “Jason, I need the keys, can you get—”
It’s Audrey.
Now she’s stopped midsentence, jaw frozen open, spotting me by the bed, Jenny passed out under the blankets. Audrey flees the room before I can say or do anything. I drop my phone.
“Goddammit!” Jason yells, and he pulls the blanket around his waist and hustles down the hallway after her. “This is your fault!”
He isn’t wrong, I think. Then my vision goes dark.
* * *
My mind fights to keep me awake. I have to report him to the police.
Should I report him to the police?
If I report him, I’m implicating myself.
But maybe I should be implicated.
I didn’t know. How could I know he’d dose those girls. Dose me too?
But I should’ve realized. Because I know Jason.
Time spins, colors bleeding together. Breathe.
I get up, splash water on my face, make myself throw up in the toilet, just as Jason returns, weaving back into the bedroom wrapped in nothing but a tasseled chenille blanket, saying he couldn’t find Audrey. He doesn’t seem to care.
He pokes a toe at the girl comatose on the floor.
“April,” he trills, shoving her harder with his foot. “Aaaapril.”
She doesn’t move. Jason just laughs, drunk and high (on god knows what).
“Where’s Audrey?”
“Who gives a shit?” he snorts. “Such a nosy little bitch.” He scratches under his arm, smells his fingers.
“And these girls?”
“Just some freshmen ass,” he says.
“So you, what? Doped them?”
“Dude, they wanted this. It’s just sex. You’re the QB! You get some. They get bragging rights. It’s a win-win.”
“But if they’re freshmen, you banging April is illegal.” (Same for the roofies Jason must have slipped in their beer.) “You’re nineteen. She could be fourteen. That’s statutory rape.”
At this, Jason’s face goes pale, no doubt less concerned with the moral failing of drugging girls to have sex with them than losing any cha
nce at a football scholarship once his knee heals.
“Dude, being accused of that fake shit is every man’s nightmare,” he sputters.
“You should probably split,” I say, thinking of nothing so much as Chase, and how when he saw Jason assaulting me as Drew freshman year, he didn’t make polite conversation but instead beat Jason’s face into tapioca. I wonder why I’m not doing the same. Because I certainly could.
As Jason yanks on his clothes, I ask, trying to sound casual, “How much did you give them?”
“Look who’s curious now,” he says. “Not much, half a pill each. Just trying to give us a little fun, man.”
And then he leaves the room, with just me and the passed-out girls in it, and disappears into the thumping party below.
Soon as Jason’s gone, I check on April to make sure she’s still breathing too. She is. I get out my phone, google how long roofies take to wear off, if I can do anything to speed up the process. I’m woozy and my muscles feel like bungee cords, but at least I’m conscious. I’m pretty sure Jason slipped me Ecstasy, since it seemed like what he was on. I remember hearing him talking in the locker room when I was Oryon about how X makes sex so much better.
I notice April is naked from the waist up. Luckily I have two years of experience with bras. I wiggle hers on, prop her head to the side on a pillow (in case she pukes), then head over to Jenny on the bed—when I notice the door cracking open again.
“Hello,” I call out, “can somebody help me?”
It’s Audrey. Another expression of sheer horror on her face. With the lights on, this scene probably appears way worse than it did when she burst in before.
“Can you help me finish getting clothes on them?” I ask, struggling.
Audrey is reluctant, but pads over silently, and I hold the sheet up so as to give Jenny her privacy while Audrey slips her arms through her shirt, not that Jenny was noticing.
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” Audrey says. “Here, lift her chin.”
We finish dressing Jenny in silence, then I pull up the blankets, prop her ear to pillow in case she vomits too.
Then we wait. Audrey across the room on a window seat, me on the bed next to Jenny, checking her breathing every couple of minutes. It seems like Audrey might have a lot to say, but she’s not saying it.