by Laurent Linn
You see a lot when you lie on the floor, eyes wide open. But nothing helps. Nothing stops this repeating loop of panic in my brain. Reliving every bloody image, every brutal detail. Your body is supposed to take care of you, purge sickness, heal itself. Is reliving Kobe’s beating really going to flush this nightmare from my head? Watching Doug slam Kobe’s head into the car over and over and over? Feeling Buddy’s spit on my skin?
It’s Sunday morning. Boo was just Friday night, not even two days now, but it could’ve been weeks ago. Or minutes. The time warp comes and goes.
The rest of the world seems to continue. The same crap is on TV, I have to make the same stuff for dinner, and the same neighbor’s dog keeps barking at cars driving by.
After screwing with my head, the police didn’t interrogate anyone else Friday night. They said we should just go home. So we did, Audrey and Trent grilling me in the car about what the cops wanted.
With Mom working her night job and Dad asleep in front of the TV, it was easy to come straight to my room. I never quite got it before, but now I do. You actually can cry yourself to sleep.
Then yesterday somehow went by. Like a movie, I just watched. And this morning . . . watching.
The doorbell rings. My stomach drops.
I push up on my knees and peer out the window. Athena’s parked at the curb. I exhale . . . just Audrey.
All weekend, every freaking car door slam had me on alert. But the police were done with me, right? What do I know?
I stand and try not to disturb Harley, who stays curled in a little cozy ball on the carpet.
There’s talk coming from the hall. Since Mom’s still at her church, Dad must have let Audrey in. Then I hear Trent’s voice say, “You should—”
“Knock?” Audrey says, opening my door. “Why? See, he’s up and dressed.”
Harley slinks past my legs into the closet. She doesn’t get Audrey.
Trent plops down on my bed, silver belt chains jingling, as Audrey closes the door.
I blink. “Did I know you were coming?”
“No,” she says. “But it’s time—wow!”
Trent points at my head. “Lookin’ slick, there, Graphite Boy. Literally.”
“Oh, yeah.” I reach up and pat my hair, newly cut, flattened, and smoothed back.
When Mom forced me out of bed yesterday afternoon, she freaked over my hair. I told her the truth, or the basic truth, that I’d tried cutting it myself.
Of course, I didn’t say anything about what happened at Boo. The fewer pieces they have of the “your son is gay” puzzle, the better.
“Mom hauled me off to Dad’s barber, and he did his best,” I say. “He evened out the long parts so I can almost cover up the gaps with hair cement.”
“Least your head’s protected now,” Trent says. “Looks solid.”
Audrey smiles. “I think it’s cute.”
“Yeah,” I say, “like a first grader on class photo day.”
Doorbell again. I spin and look out the window. Just Dad’s friend Pete. Dad calls down the hall that he’s off to watch the game. I yell, “Okay!” The game. As if I’d know what the hell game he means. Through the window, I watch him limp with his cane to the car and off they go. Guess I’m off Dad Duty for a while.
It’s so sunny outside. How can it be sunny? I shut the curtains and sink into my desk chair. From my X-Men action figures lined up along the bookshelf, I pick up Angel and fiddle with his wings.
Audrey opens the bedroom door again, all the way. “Now that we’re alone, d’ya mind?” She eyes my dirty clothes and crap on the floor. “Stuffy in here.” Even on a Sunday she’s all blingy with her hair straightened and everything. Oh, right, it’s after church.
She perches on the edge of the bed. “I haven’t heard anything more since I messaged you yesterday. I’ve been scanning local news, websites, whatever I can think of. Nothing.”
Trent shoots her a look.
“Well,” she says, “some BS online and all, of course, but nothing I care to repeat.”
“Don’t have to,” I say. “I saw it.”
Trent blows his hair from his eyes. “Doug got away with it, free and easy. Of course. Damn prick. ‘Self-defense’ my ass.”
I stare at my hands. “As soon as his father showed up that night, I just knew it.” And then, of course, after what the cops said . . . or didn’t.
I take a breath and turn to my computer. “Let me show you something. Everything’s going to be okay. He sent me this a couple hours ago.”
They peer at the screen.
“Who?” Audrey says.
I open the message. “Kobe.”
hey A—
im at hospital. all painkillered. very banged up. nothing permanent they say. lots of horrible healing
i remember a little. that asshole doug for sure. thank god for drugs cuz I don’t know what id do. wouldnt be pretty. not pretty. pretty. funny word.
my momz raising hell with police and everyone
i heard you tried to save me like damsel in distress. none of my stupid socalled friends did shit. no one did.
my hero. too bad you didnt get there sooner.
—K
I stare at my Angel action figure as they read Kobe’s message over again.
“Oh, my.” Audrey breathes in deep. “Thank God. When I think of what he looked like, just . . .” She shakes her head.
Trent lies back on the bed, which squeaks. “Good news there. Freaky message, though. I’d be careful. How’re you holdin’ up?”
“I’m not,” I say.
Audrey turns to me. “That was amazing what you did, Adrian. Going to help Kobe like that.”
“What? It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Okay,” she says, “yes, it was stupid. But it was also amazing. Brave.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
Trent studies me for a moment, eyeing my hair, then says, “Hey, can I see it?”
“See what?” I ask.
“Exhibit A, the drawing so powerful it drove you to attack your own head.”
“Really? It’s just a sketch.”
“Oooh, this oughta be good,” Audrey says.
I sigh, then slip my art out from the Michelangelo book where I hid it Friday morning. Should have destroyed this.
“It’s not finished.” I hand it to Trent.
“Dude!” He pores over it. “Whoa. How do you do this? Check it out.”
“You don’t have to try to make me feel good.”
Audrey takes it and shakes her head. “No, really, it’s true. I will say, though, his hair’s not that inspiring.” She glances at my hair. “But Graphite does seem alive.”
“Well, he’s not anymore,” I say. “Yesterday I took down the site.”
They both pipe up. “What! Why?”
“You kidding?” I sink into the chair. “Too dangerous. And who cares, anyway? Other than me.”
“I check out your site,” Trent says.
Audrey nods. “And no one knows it’s yours.”
Trent smiles. “Wish you’d conjure up a palace for me. But farther away from here than the moon, like in the Andromeda Galaxy.”
My stomach flips. “Guys, can I show you something? Promise you won’t get upset.”
Audrey places my sketch on the drawing table and squints at me. “That depends. . . .”
I pull down Maxfield Parrish, Master of Illustration from my bookshelf and take out a bunch of my art hidden in the pages.
I hold my drawings to my chest so they can’t see. “Okay. Don’t be mad I never showed you these before.”
They exchange looks.
“No one’s ever seen these,” I say, “so you don’t have to worry.”
Trent grunts. “Just show us already.”
I inhale. “Oh, boy.” I hand Audrey the comic panels of my superhero versions of them. Trent scoots over next to her and they study the pages.
Silence.
Oh, god, the
y hate it.
Trent blows the hair from his eyes and pulls a page close to his face. “Whoa. Dude.”
Audrey gasps. She looks up at me, then back at the pages, then up at me again. She holds out the page of Sultry after the tornado. “That supposed to be me?”
I swallow. “Uh-huh.”
“Sultry? Sultry! Were you on drugs or something when you did this?”
I can’t help but smile. “No.”
Trent blinks at me, mouth wide open.
There goes my smile. “Uh, what do you think?”
He blinks again. “Dude. This is awesome. I got X-Ray Vision! Look how you drew my hair. Cool.”
Audrey taps one of the pages. “He drew me like a hoochie mama!”
Trent and I crack up.
He points at her. “Did she just say ‘hoochie mama’?”
She stifles a smile. “And you made me all bossy-like! I’m not bossy.”
Trent laughs harder and falls back on the bed.
“Sultry’s assertive, not bossy,” I say.
She looks down at the pages. “Sorry, but this ain’t me. I’ll take those boots, though, and those legs you gave me. But otherwise, nuh-uh.” She shakes her head.
Trent rolls to his side and scans the pages. “So why am I called Willow? Because I’m freakishly tall as a tree? Might as well call me Sequoia.”
“No.” I get up and look at the page he’s holding. “You’re Willow because you’re so grounded that you don’t snap when a big wind comes along. You flow with the breeze.”
He sits up all the way, hair falling back in his face. “Yeah, right. Don’t think so.”
They keep looking through the papers a little longer but don’t say much else. Then Audrey gathers the pages up and hands them to me.
Trent chuckles. “Least you didn’t make me a hoochie mama.”
Audrey slaps his knee. “You better not call me that ever again if you value your life.”
I place the pages back in the book and put it away. Least now they know.
She gives me a hopeful smile. “They’re beautiful drawings, though.”
I slump in my chair. “Thanks.”
Awkward silence.
“All right.” She sits up straight. “Time to take action.”
“Huh?”
“Adrian, this is now an official intervention. For two days you don’t return my calls. You barely respond when I send you messages. You don’t leave your house. Enough hiding out and hoping it all goes away.”
Trent reclines and fluffs a pillow under his head. “Always works for me.”
In the corner of my eye I notice Harley peeking around the closet door, but she stays put.
Audrey straightens out her cascading gold necklace so it lies perfectly on her chest, like armor. “All right, we have to focus—”
“I know you mean well,” I say, “but I just can’t . . . I dunno. I just can’t.”
“We need to plan. You don’t know what you’ll be walking into tomorrow morning. So before first period, you should go to the assistant principal’s office and see Mr. McConnell and explain—”
“Whaaaa?” Trent springs to life.
“Why would I do that?” My voice cracks.
“Why wouldn’t you?” she says. “He needs to know what really happened from—”
“Yeah, right,” Trent says. “That won’t do jack. It’ll only make it worse.”
She rolls her eyes. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Yes, it would. No way am I getting interrogated again.” I pick up my Angel figure from the drawing table and pace. “And if Doug found out I blabbed to the school? That’s as good as signing my own death certificate.”
“You’ve got to let them know your side—”
“No! I’ve done enough damage.”
“Fine.” Audrey holds up her hands. “Have it your way.”
“Look, it’s already better,” I say. “Kobe’s okay. Well, not okay, obviously, but not, like, in a coma. He’s messaging and stuff. And his mom’s raising hell, so why should I?”
Audrey grunts. “Still, you should—”
“Why don’t you tell the school, then?” I say. “If it’s gonna make everything so much better.”
“I’m not going to play messenger for you. You’re the one who saw how it happened,” she says. “And you’re the one who confronted Doug.”
“You guys,” Trent says, “Doug was shitfaced. He won’t remember crap. And even though he got away with it, he probably got his fat wrist slapped—he did pummel a dude, you know—so he’ll be on good behavior. Least for a while. And it’s not like Adrian actually did anything. Why make it so much worse?”
I nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“No, you’re not.” Audrey turns to me. “Look. Buddy spat in your face! And I heard what he said when you ran out there, that you were Kobe’s ‘boyfriend.’ That may not be true, but now the worst possible people think it is. No, hold on! Let me finish! You can’t just pretend everything’s all right, because, no matter what, they think you’re gay now. You don’t know what they’ll do.”
“Ow!” I gripped Angel too hard and pinched my palm. It broke off his wings. “Dammit!” I throw the pieces to the floor.
“Audrey,” Trent says, “you’re just upsetting him more.”
I flex and rub my hand. “I know you’re only trying to help. But Trent’s right. Yes he is! I just gotta lie low. What else can I do?”
She folds her arms and fixes me with a stare. “Plenty. I’m only looking out for you.”
“What,” Trent says, “and I’m not?”
I kick the broken action figure pieces to the side. “Look, I just gotta think about this some more.”
Qapla’! Qapla’!
“Your computer,” Trent says. “It’s speaking in tongues.”
“It’s just Klingon.” My new message sound. What now? “Hey, it’s from Kobe.”
going around. thought you shuld see . . .
“There’s a link that says ‘funny fag.’ Huh?”
Trent shakes his head. “Don’t open it.”
Too late. It’s a short phone video.
Some freaked-out kid in a parking lot, wide-eyed and shrieking.
It’s me.
THEY SAY IF YOU WERE to meet yourself on the street you wouldn’t recognize yourself. That there’s no way to know how other people see you.
But now I think I do know.
Watching that video on Sunday of me screaming at Doug was like plummeting through cracked ice into frigid water. At first you panic, but eventually you freeze.
Audrey and Trent finally gave up on their intervention and left me alone, which was good. I needed quiet.
I have no clue who took the video. It doesn’t matter since there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it—nothing. Except watch it again. And again.
Most kids from school don’t care who sees what they put online, and some of them wrote a lot about Doug and Kobe, and a little about me. They posted a few blurry phone pictures too . . . and that video. The way they describe me could be true: Faggot. Wuss. Freak. Clueless. Little girl. Unbelievably stupid. Screwed up. So dead.
Maybe I would recognize myself on the street after all.
When your parents pay more attention to themselves than you, it doesn’t take a lot to convince them you’re sick and need to stay home. And when you actually feel sick—sick to your soul—well, it’s true.
Audrey attempted another intervention Monday night but finally gave up. I’m not the best company anymore. I did agree to talk to her and Trent on the phone, though, so I heard more than I want to know about what people are saying at school. Otherwise, I’ve blocked out the world.
Even Graphite doesn’t help. I try to sketch, but . . . nothing.
I never replied to Kobe’s message with that video. Probably why he hasn’t contacted me again. Well, he is in the hospital, after all, and busy recovering. I hope.
My staying home sick worked for the past tw
o days, until lack of any fever, vomiting, diarrhea—or the truth—convinced Mom it’s just teen hormones. She doesn’t tolerate “laziness” in people. Except Dad, of course, but not much she can do there.
So this cold Wednesday morning I’m plastering back the remnants of my hair with the thickest gunk Mom bought me and am dressed all in black, but I don’t bother with a hoodie. It doesn’t really hide you, just feels like it. Or felt like it. Before.
I check my computer one last time, but still nothing from Kobe. This is driving me crazy. I type a quick message.
Hey ~ sorry so silent. How are you? I hope much better.
~Adrian
I hover the cursor over Send, then just finally click it. Maybe that was stupid and I shouldn’t get more involved, like Trent says, but I want to know.
Tap-tap-tap.
Mom knocks on my bedroom door. “Ade, I’m fixin’ to leave.”
I shut down the computer. “You can come in.”
I need to finally tell her about my phone. Oh, boy.
She steps into my room, decked out in her too-tight power-red skirt and jacket, hair straight and highlights gleaming. All set for her day job. Must be showing one of her few expensive houses to expensive people today. “Now, you won’t be late for school, correct?”
“I’m all ready, see?”
She looks me up and down. “Good. Now, what’s today? Wednesday? Can’t keep track. I’ll take care of your dad’s dinner tonight.”
I follow her to the front hall through a cloud of that citrus perfume she wears on Important Days. Dad’s not in the living room, so he must still be in bed. This is my chance.
“You look great, Mom. I’d buy a house from you.”
She and her reflection frown at each other in the wall mirror as she fiddles with her bangs. “Sweet of you to say, but tell that to these buyers. Been trying to sell that home for months.”
“You will.”
Okay. It’s now or never.
“Uh, Mom?”
She twists open her magenta lipstick, which clashes with her outfit, and leans close to the mirror. “Yeah, honey?”
I steady my breath. “Something bad happened.”
The mirror Mom’s eyes look into mine. “What?”
“I still can’t believe it. But you know that old phone of yours you gave me?”