by Laurent Linn
“I think I actually get it,” I say. “She got picked on a lot in elementary school. Really cruel stuff about her weight. And for being black. Back then, she’d always go to the teachers and they’d take care of it. She must think that’ll magically work for me.” Of course, I can’t imagine that would even work for her now—not at Rock Hollow High—but she doesn’t need the teachers anymore. She can take care of herself.
I rub my shoulders, which is like massaging granite, then tilt my head from side to side.
Trent watches. He stretches his arms and pops his knuckles. “Dude, gotta hunker down and don’t let it get to you. You can’t control the volcano, so just keep to your path.”
“And don’t rock the boat?”
He nods. “You got it.”
Easy for him to say. Maybe if I were over six feet tall and looked like Jack Skellington, I wouldn’t worry so much either. Except that I know he does, somewhere inside there.
I ask for his phone again, log on to my account, and check messages. “Nothing more from Kobe.”
“Listen, he’s probably just being a drama queen,” Trent says.
“He’s home from the hospital after getting beat up! Give him a break.”
He nods. “You’re right.”
A tiny girl toddles over and waves at us. As her mom calls her back, I smile and return the wave.
“But listen, Graphite Boy,” he says. “You’re already too connected with him. Doug’s watching. Only digs your grave deeper.”
“But what if Kobe is suicidal?”
Trent shakes his head. “Some people just like to scare you. Believe me, I live with the Queen of Give Me Attention. Remember when my mom threatened to set the house on fire because she thought no one loved her? Well, she never did.”
I sigh. Instead of Yeah, well, your mom’s not a kid who just got his face bashed in for being gay, I say, “Guess she felt someone cared after all.”
I know he and Audrey are just looking out for me, but why can’t they see what I see?
I give back his phone since I can’t think of what I’d say to Kobe anyway. Don’t hurt yourself any more than Doug did? Don’t worry, it’ll be okay? What the hell do I know?
With a teensy shopping bag in hand, Audrey strides over. “No better therapy than retail therapy. This mall is sanctuary.”
Hmm, maybe for some people. But I bet that lipstick cost as much as a cell phone. Must be nice to have that kind of pocket change.
Trent pats me on the back. “Dude here needs Starbucks therapy.”
We amble off to the food court as Audrey babbles about, well . . . I’ve tuned out. It’s all about her, anyway.
We pass store after store with mirror-windows and I look like crap. I’d avoid walking by the cute blond guy who works the sunglasses cart, but he never looks at me anyway. He really is hot. Which makes me think of Lev, and then the notes, still in my pocket. And Kobe’s scary message won’t leave my brain.
Enough!
I splurge on a venti latte and hope to hell this helps. Trent gets some Amazon-jungle-friendly soy thing while Audrey grabs her latte first and finds a table. Of course, it’s her choice where to sit. Like everything.
We plop down off to the side of the food court by the windows, rain softly thunking against the glass, which reflects the glaring theme park palette of neon lights and signs in here. I stare out the window into the flat, cold, gray world of Rock Hollow. Where out there is my place, my sanctuary? Certainly not the school. Paris, maybe? Yeah, right, like that’s in the realm of possibility. My house? Yes, but it’s really just my cramped little room . . . not much. I’ve never wished Graphite’s world were real more than I do now.
“So, back to the hot sauce,” Trent says.
I turn to him. “Huh?”
“Doug freakin’ makes hot sauce? You sure that’s what he and dickhead Buddy were talking about?”
“So insane, right?” I say.
“My friends: That. Is. Hysterical,” he says. “Can you imagine him in his apron, little bottles of spices all lined up? Ha!”
“ ‘Hot sauce’?” Audrey whips out her phone and taps away. “Must be slang for drugs. I’ll Google it. Doesn’t meth have a million other names?”
I glare at her. “Look, they were talking about his twenty-alarm hot sauce. People don’t rate drugs by ‘alarms,’ ” I say. “I was there. He was talking about cooking. Trust me.”
She keeps searching on her phone. Trent sips his coffee and raises his eyebrows.
“You don’t believe me?” I say.
She doesn’t even look up.
I blurt out, “Okay, Audrey. You’re pissed because I won’t go crying to the principal like you want. I get it.”
Her nostrils flare, but she keeps her eyes on the phone. “You don’t have to listen to reason if you don’t want to. That’s your business.”
I stare at my napkin and rip it into shreds.
“Sooo,” Trent says, pulling out his phone. “Movie? I can see what’s about to start.”
I exhale. “Cavernous dark room? Deafening sound system? Mindless fluff to make me forget my crappy life?” I say. “Yes, please.”
“Can’t. My parents expect me for dinner tonight.” Audrey clicks off her phone and tosses it in her purse. “Sorry.”
Trent slumps back.
“You know what? I need to get home.” I pick up my cup and stand.
Trent glares at Audrey and gets up. Turns to me. “You sure?”
“I just need to get home. Be alone.”
Audrey looks from me to Trent. “Whatever,” she says.
We walk back in silence past the stores and mirrors and squealing little kids and posing teens. But my pounding headache doesn’t stay behind. I toss out what’s left of my coffee. Caffeine’s only made me more jittery.
It’s pouring rain now, so we dash to the car. I get in the back as usual. Audrey stays quiet and doesn’t make even one comment about her upholstery getting wet.
Rush-hour traffic slows us down. Trent attempts to lighten the mood and starts telling us what crazy Hawaiian shirt one of his teachers wore today, but neither Audrey nor I say anything so he trails off. He tries again with another story but soon gives up, leaving only the patter of the rain and annoying squeaks of the windshield wipers.
We ease forward inch by inch as we near the big intersection with Mission Road.
Audrey sighs and catches my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Adrian, I’m sorry. I don’t want you mad at me.”
“Yeah?” I say.
“Look, I could call my parents and see if I can skip dinner. We could still go to a movie.”
I sigh. “It’s all right. I think I’ll just go home and sleep. Plus, I do have three days’ worth of homework I should at least look at.” Like that’s gonna happen. I glimpse my backpack on the floor. Audrey’s stupid pink folder peeks out through the zipper.
We make it through the intersection and traffic clears up. We’re almost to Trent’s house now.
“Hey, guys,” I say. “Remember that Wrestler Guy that keeps staring at me? I literally ran into him today, with two of his friends. It was freaky. His name is Calderón.”
“Ugh,” Audrey says. “Yes, I know. Manuel Calderón. Sits right next to me in AP history, remember? Self-centered jerk. Never shuts up.”
I loosen my seat belt and scoot forward to lean on Trent’s seat. “He was acting really weird, though. Sounds stupid, maybe, but he might have written the locker note.”
“Him?” Audrey laughs. “No way. His world revolves only around him.”
Trent looks over his shoulder at me. “What’d he do that was weird?”
“Well, he—”
“Nuh-uh,” Audrey says. “That guy?”
“Again, Audrey,” I say, “you weren’t there. I saw his face. He actually—”
“With his macho self? I’m tellin’ you, not possible.”
I push back into my seat, the seat belt clicking tight. “Well, I guess you know
everything, then, Audrey. Don’t you?”
The damn seat belt is locked. It won’t budge.
“All I mean,” she says, “is I see him every—”
“Oh, don’t explain. Your word is gospel.” I hit the button and the seat belt retracts with a thwack. “You know all about him, you know all about everyone. You know all about me.”
“Guys,” Trent says. “Let’s maybe chill?”
She slows to turn onto Trent’s street, then glances back at me. “Adrian, you don’t understand. I’m only—”
“No,” I say, gripping the door handle. “I completely understand. You’ve got all the answers, filed neatly in your little pink folders.”
“Oh, come on.” She pulls the car to the curb. “Trent, you understood what I meant.”
He holds up his hands. “Keep me outta this.”
I glance out the window. We’re at Trent’s house.
Shifting into park, Audrey says, “Listen, maybe it’s just that I can see things a bit more clearly.”
“Actually,” I say, “maybe you should listen. How could you possibly see things more clearly? You don’t know what my life is like, Audrey. You’re not me.”
She turns and glares at me, silent and seething.
I grab my backpack, fling open the door, and step right in a puddle. Dirty water seeps into my shoe. I shut the door and stand on the curb.
Trent gets out and looks at the sky. The rain has stopped. Out of her view, he motions toward Audrey in the car and mouths, What the? Then, stooping down to grab his bag from the seat, he says to Audrey, “Thanks for the fun time.” He holds the door open for me to get in front so she can drop me off at home next.
I don’t move.
“Well?” The car interior muffles Audrey’s voice.
The air smells fresh out here. Chilly but crisp.
“Don’t have all day, Adrian,” she says.
Leaning down to look at her, I say, “I’m gonna walk.”
I slam the door.
Audrey rolls down the passenger window and yells, “Adrian, get in the damn car.”
I grit my teeth. “Just leave me alone.”
“You are unbelievable,” she says, then zooms off, tires crunching on the wet pavement.
TRENT SHAKES HIS HAIR, STILL damp from the downpour in the mall parking lot. His gothy eyeliner is all smudged. “Audrey needs a puppy.”
I squint at him. “What?”
“Or a boyfriend,” he says, “or a philanthropic foundation or some crap to focus on other than you.”
“She just won’t let up!”
“Don’t waste brain energy on it.” He stares down the street as she and Athena disappear from view. “Wanna come in? Mom won’t be home for another few hours. At least.”
“Really? You sure that’s a good idea?”
“My damn house too.”
It’s stopped raining, but sporadic heavy drops fall on me from tree branches above. Exhaling deeply, I roll my neck, then heft my backpack onto my shoulder. “Okay, but your mom probably wouldn’t be too pleased to see Satan in your house. I’ll only come in if you’re positive she won’t come back early.”
“She won’t. Her insanity is predictable. Usually.”
I follow all black-clad, chain-jangling six foot three inches of him toward the house that his mom didn’t set on fire.
What do I do? Audrey wants me to freakin’ become a political movement and Trent wants me to hide under the covers until the storm passes?
No one gets what I’m going through. No one.
Well, actually . . . no, what am I thinking? That’s stupid, right?
As we get to the front door, I stop. “Ya know, I should probably get home after all. I’m wiped and, well, I can’t remember if I’m on Dad Duty tonight,” I say, knowing full well I’m not.
“Oh, right. That.” He glances at the house. “Babysitting parents rocks, don’t it?”
“Hey,” I say. “Can I use your phone?”
He tilts his head and looks down at me from his lofty elevation. “Be careful how involved you get with Kobe.”
“Lay off it, all right? It’s not like Doug’s monitoring my communications.”
That makes him smile. “Bet the only thing Doug monitors online involves big tits or touchdowns. So, yeah, you have nothing to worry about there.”
He hands me his phone. Then, from the box on the door, he gets the mail and flips through it.
I tap my password and—no new Kobe message.
I log out, close my eyes, and think.
The neighborhood is quiet, with just a few faint sounds of kid voices from some backyard nearby and the dull engine of an airplane far above.
Keeping the screen out of Trent’s view, I Google Kobe’s address and scroll through.
There.
I know that street. Not too far to walk.
“Bunch of religious crap. Big surprise.” Trent scowls at the mail he’s holding, then turns to me. “So, any more freaky messages?”
I take a breath. “Nope.”
“See? That’s good,” he says. “Best to stay away from that mess.”
Sorry, too late.
I quickly erase the search history and hand back his phone. “Thanks.”
He slips it in his pocket and pulls out his keys. “Dude, I know it’s never been your thing, but just go home and play some violent, bloody, killing video game to exorcise the demons from your head. That’s what I’ll be doing.”
It’s never been my thing before and never will be. I shift my backpack onto both shoulders. “Have fun with that.” I turn and give a little wave.
“May the Force be with you.” He bows and closes the door.
I start down the sidewalk. Once I’m out of view of Trent’s house, I cut through the alley and head in the opposite direction, passing one block, then another. Dogs bark at me from behind their fences. My footsteps and my breath form a rhythm. The air tastes like dead, wet leaves.
This neighborhood kinda looks like mine—how can Kobe afford his own Mustang?
It’s still chilly, but I’m sweating from walking so fast.
There it is. I spot Kobe’s powder-blue car—all cleaned up. His house is just a regular house: tan brick, brown roof, little yard with a few oak trees letting go of their leaves. Weird. I was imagining something more, well, dramatic. Like a circus tent.
Should I be here? He doesn’t want visitors, and hell, I don’t even know these people.
Oh, come on, just freakin’ do it!
I half-walk, half-tiptoe to the front door. My hand shakes as I press the bell.
“Who is it?” It’s a little girl’s voice.
“Is—” My throat rasps. “Is Kobe home? I go to school with him. It’s, uh, Adrian Piper?”
The door jostles like she’s jumping up to look through the peephole. Then, “Koooobaaaay! Someone to seeee yooouu!”
It seems a minute goes by. Then, through the door, “Adrian? Why the hell are you here?”
“Kobe? Is that you?”
“What do you want?”
Relieved, I smile at the peephole. “Just to say hi and see how you’re doing.”
Nothing.
“All right,” I say, “guess I’ll—”
The locks click and the door opens a crack. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says from behind the door.
“Well. Here I am.”
“You alone?” he says.
Very. “Just me.”
The door inches open wider and he peers around.
“Ohmygod,” I say.
He turns away, then sighs and looks right at me. “You don’t have to call me God.” He scans the street.
Horrible. I recognize the voice, but the face . . . The skin that’s not bandaged is bruised and yellow. Puffy, deep-purple bags are under his eyes. His nose must have been broken. “Kobe, I’m so sorry.” I try not to stare.
“Don’t worry, feels worse than it looks.” He slurs his words a little.
A w
eird pause, and then he says, “I’m gonna close the door. Are you coming in or what?”
So I enter. He locks the door and, with a slightly tilted walk, leads me past a staircase and through a little hall. It’s kinda otherworldly to see him barefoot, wearing just a T-shirt and baggy shorts, like spying an actor in the dressing room before a performance.
We enter a kitchen about as small as mine. But wow, this is nice. The black granite counters and pale wood cabinets are lit with tiny halogen lights, like a cozy art gallery.
“Come to see the freak?” he says.
“No,” I say. “Came to see you.”
“Same thing.”
He sinks into a chair at a glass table along the wall, so I take off my bag and sit across from him. Like a little audience of medication, pill bottles are lined up next to us. A hand-drawn schedule is tucked under a big orange bottle.
“That’s a lot of drugs,” I blurt out.
He glances at them. “Not enough.”
Is this for real or just melodrama, like Trent thinks? I can’t tell.
“I know it’s hard to look at me,” he says. “Just pretend I’m recovering from a full face-lift and that I’ll be even more gorgeous than before.”
The words are Kobe but the voice is flat, dull. It must be the meds . . . and, well, having your face bashed. Though it makes me queasy, I can’t stop staring.
He was cute, not like a model, but people always looked.
“How does it—how do you feel?” I ask.
He lifts his hand to rub his eye but stops himself. “Beyond. Hell. What do you think?”
His little sister—she looks to be ten—glides in on squeaky pink shoes, opens the refrigerator, and moves things around. Her hands are in the fridge but her eyes are on me. I guess I’m the new art on display.
“Hi,” I say.
Her eyes get wide and shift to Kobe.
“It’s okay,” Kobe says to her. “He’s not one of the bad guys.”
She stares at me, then pulls some yogurt thing from the fridge.
Kobe checks out the wall clock, scans the pill chart, grabs one of the bottles, and glances at his sister.
“C’mon,” he says to me.
He stands awkwardly and leads me through a sliding glass door to the backyard. We walk in silence to an old play set. Like it’s a chair, Kobe eases onto the bottom of the slide and lets out a sigh. “Make yourself comfortable.”