by Laurent Linn
Hold on a minute. I sit down again and check, make sure I didn’t miss anything from Kobe. No, nothing. So I write a quick message and ask what’s up. Does he want another visit? I hit Send and log out.
Hope he’s not still screwing with those pills.
I put on the Hobbit soundtrack. Changing into comfy clothes, I find that note in my pocket, written on the back of Graphite’s home page.
You need to be way more careful. Things you don’t understand.
Ok let’s talk in person.
Where’s a good place to meet so we can be in private?
From my drawer, I pull out the first two locker notes and reread them all. I still can’t get a sense if this guy is for real or screwing with me. Either way, I’m sick of playing this game. It’s time to take control.
I sit at my drawing table and pull out a blank piece of paper.
He wants to meet in person? Fine. Somewhere at school but hidden. Somewhere quiet to talk but easy to escape from . . . just in case.
Got it.
In the same scrawl I wrote my other note in, I scribble:
OK
Meet me before school Wednesday morning at 7:30 am in the auditorium balcony. You can get in from the hall upstairs. I’ll be there.
I’ll leave this note tomorrow. No matter who it is, I need to discover how they found my website.
If it is someone messing with me, either they won’t show up or I’ll finally find out who it is.
But if it’s Manuel or someone who really does care, maybe I can help.
This last note says, Things you don’t understand.
Time to get enlightened.
I SWEAR, IF I’M EVER a spy or a secret agent I’ll never choose a Dumpster for passing messages. So amateur and SO repulsive. What combination of cafeteria leftovers makes this stench? Actually, I don’t want to know. And pulling my shirt collar up over my nose doesn’t block out a thing.
Gross!
Get to school early: check.
Slip behind this hideous Dumpster unseen: check.
Shove the wadded-up note into the brick hole: check.
Slip out and away free as a bird: fail.
Why did every car known to man decide to arrive right now? It’s like some never-ending stream of people flowing by right here.
Come on, come on. Okay, is it letting up? I peer around—good. Just these two girls in sight, aaaand . . . there they go.
Holding my breath, I step—NO! Doug’s freakin’ pickup zooms into the lot.
Dammit!
No way I’m getting trapped. Go, Adrian. Go!
I don’t want to run, so I casually zip out and around the little cafeteria steps.
Doug pulls into his space just a few feet behind me. I move toward the main entrance and glance back—he’s opened his door and stares right at me.
Crap.
I keep going.
Okay. Maybe he didn’t see where I came from but only sees me walking. Act casual!
I turn the corner, out of his sight.
After a beat, I peek back around the corner. Still in the driver’s seat with the door open and one foot out, he’s turned away, grabbing something inside the truck.
The other seat is empty. No Buddy this morning.
Keeping my eyes glued on Doug, I dash over to a bunch of trees, then casually loop back into the parking lot. Ducking between parked cars, I block myself from his view a couple rows behind him.
He steps out of the truck, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. First staring at the corner where I turned, he then looks all around.
More people are arriving, but he just glances at them. He doesn’t see me.
Shutting his door and locking it, he scans around again.
No! No no no! He steps next to the Dumpster and checks it out.
Oh, my god. He saw. He completely saw me come out from back there.
Is he—damn! He’s going behind the Dumpster.
People walk past me, so I open my backpack and pretend to search for something. But I keep watching the Dumpster from the corner of my eye.
Doug comes out. Adjusting his cap, he pulls it down more over his eyes.
He leans against his pickup. What’s he doing? Just hanging there. Now he . . .
I freeze.
No. This is not happening. This cannot be happening.
In his hand is my note. He opens it, flattens it out. Reads it.
Shit.
My insides flip.
Nothing I can do. Nothing.
He’s reading it and knows it was me.
One last look around and he crumples it up. He shoves it in his pocket and takes off toward the entrance, disappearing around the corner.
I grip my bag to my chest. What do I do?
First bell rings. Taking slow steps, I head in, putting distance between us.
Think! What did I say in that note? Only a time and place to meet. Nothing more. No names. And it’s not my real handwriting in case he shows it to anyone. That’s good.
I go into the building. No sign of him. Lockers clang and laughter buzzes around me, but it’s like I’m moving through water. Everything seems blurred, muffled, slow.
Focus, Adrian.
Maybe it’s not so bad. So he knows I left a note for someone to meet me before school tomorrow morning. No big deal, right? I just don’t show up and that’s that.
I simply don’t show up.
I take a deep breath and step into French. Lev’s wearing a bright-green shirt, like a little oasis in the desert. My oasis. One smile from him helps bring me back to earth.
But then he tells me he can’t get together after school until Thursday, he’s so booked with club meetings and stuff. I say it’s okay, even though it’s not.
What about the Adrian Club?
I slump in my seat and get set for class.
At least getting through first period settles my brain.
All morning, going from class to class, I turn it over in my head. Maybe Doug just happened to see me and discovered that little white paper in the wall. Or—oh, god—maybe he’s been writing the notes all along and it is a trap.
If so, he wrote them to lure me in, like bait.
And I took it.
But that doesn’t make sense—that’s too calculated for a thug like him. He must’ve just seen me there and found my note.
Maybe?
At lunch with Trent, I almost let it slip about Doug, but I don’t need a lecture. Besides, Trent doesn’t need to hear about my problems today.
Boy, he looks wiped. He doesn’t want to talk about last night, none of it. And I don’t want to make him feel worse by telling him what I think of his mother. So I just say, “Let me know what you want to do this weekend. Anything you want. And you should stay over at my house.” I dramatically look over each shoulder, then whisper, “I’ve got a stash of peanut butter peppermint pretzel ice cream. We’ll whoop it up!”
He grins. “Yeah, that’s pretty wild, there. Is it legal?”
“It’s okay, my parents are my suppliers.”
“In that case, how can I refuse?”
Lunch ends and we move on.
Like a little gerbil, I get back on the treadmill of school and spin through class after class.
My head keeps spinning too. There’s got to be a way to use Doug finding the note to my advantage, whether he found it by chance or even whether it was a trap all along.
Wait a minute . . . if it was a trap . . .
My stomach drops.
I got it.
At seven thirty tomorrow morning, I’m showing up. And if Doug does too, I’ll be ready.
Whether he wrote the notes or not doesn’t matter. He’ll walk right into my trap.
Time to draw the line.
THE AUDITORIUM BALCONY IS PERFECT, as if I chose this setting for confronting Doug all along: quiet, deserted, more than one exit, and right in the middle of the school.
I check my watch. 7:12 a.m. I still have eighteen
minutes.
Last night I stayed up late forming this plan. Just like I would a work of art, I sketched it out, revised, and refined.
And now I’m ready—assuming he shows.
I arrived about twenty minutes ago and found the light switches. Way down below, beyond the balcony railing, the main auditorium is pitch-black and empty. But up here in the balcony I’ve dimmed the lights to the perfect glow. I need to keep it somewhat dark but still be able to see everything clearly.
I’ve checked out all the exits up here too. I can easily escape, assuming I can make it to one of them. If not, there’s a fire alarm at the top of each of the two aisles. At least I’d get someone’s attention.
Oh, my god.
What the hell am I thinking?
No. No freaking out. I am doing this.
And not just for me.
I shake out my hands. Focus. If I falter, I just need to picture God Hates Fags scrawled across my locker . . . or remember Kobe’s face.
It calms me already, but also pisses me off.
Okay, time for one last check of the main part of my plan.
I scoot across this top row of seats to the back corner where I hid out last week, cowering.
On a little tripod covered in dull black tape, I’ve set up my old video camera and arranged the lens to just peek over the top of the back corner seat. It’ll catch every sound, every image. Doug won’t see it in the dark, but it will sure see him.
McConnell thinks there aren’t any security cameras inside the school? There’s one now.
And it’s about to record Doug’s confession.
I return to my position. These two aisle archways have deep-purple velvet curtains hanging on each side, meant for pure decoration. In this dim light you wouldn’t notice if one was slightly fuller than the other. With me hiding behind it.
7:17. Still have—
Wait, what’s that?
I slip into place behind one of the little curtains and the echo of the auditorium disappears. Silent and so dark. I pull back the curtain edge just enough to see down the little entry hall. A sliver of bright fluorescent light glows from the end of the hallway. Someone’s opened the door, peers in.
He showed up.
That’s Doug’s silhouette for sure, with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and that damn cap on his head.
I grip the curtain tight to keep my hand from shaking.
He glances behind, then comes through the door. Alone. He silently closes it, which shuts out the light.
I hold my breath.
He just hangs there.
Did he think he’d come early and get here before me?
He eases in my direction but stops at the first archway.
“Hello?” His whisper is loud.
He turns, goes down the aisle. His phone lights up, casting shadows on his face like a freak show mask. Using it as a flashlight, he holds out his phone and slowly sweeps its light over the rows of seats.
I ease the curtain edge against the wall, leaving just a tiny gap to see out. I stand perfectly still.
Oh, no, please don’t—good. He looked right at the row with my camera but didn’t see it.
I let out a silent breath.
He walks down the aisle, aiming his light all around. Stopping at the bottom row, he then comes across to my aisle. Before clicking off his phone, he takes one last survey.
Wiping his forehead, he sighs and leans back against the railing.
If he were to give the all clear to someone he’d do it now, wouldn’t he? Let that prick Buddy know it’s safe to sneak in and hide before I got here?
But Doug doesn’t move.
He just waits.
We wait.
I inhale deeply. It’s time. I’m going to get that confession, make him admit that beating Kobe wasn’t self-defense, but a crime.
I sharpen my mind with Jedi focus, then pull back the curtain from my hiding spot at the top of the aisle. Stepping out, I stare down at him. “Why are you here?” My voice echoes.
He grips the railing. “Shit! Where’d you come from?”
“I said, why are you here?”
“Who’s with you?”
I clear my throat. “I’m alone.”
“You lying?”
“No. What about you?”
He lets go of the railing and straightens up. “Just me.”
“So why—”
“How the fuck did you get in my truck?”
I steady my voice. “I have a better question, Doug. Why did you beat the crap out of Kobe? Because he’s gay? You know what he did to you, right? NOTHING.”
“Wha—what is this?”
I move a bit closer down the aisle so we’re both in the camera’s view. “Is that your plan for me now? Beat the crap out of another fag? Writing those notes to trap me?”
“I didn’t write them to trap you!”
I stop. Oh, my god. He did write the notes.
“Then . . .” My voice catches. “Then why?”
He looks down. “Shit.” He just stares at the floor.
I freeze. “What is it?”
“I shouldn’t be here.” Glancing at me, he moves sideways across the front row. His duffel bag thumps against the armrests as he goes.
I hold up my hand. “Wait. I’m not done. Wait!”
Now in the other aisle, he looks at me across the middle section of seats.
“Okay,” I say, “I’ll tell you how I got in your truck if you tell me why you wrote those notes.”
He checks around us and says in a low voice, “You’re talkin’ too loud.”
I nod.
Pushing up the sleeves of his varsity jacket, he puts his hands on his hips. Then he crosses his arms. “Shit.”
“You already said that.”
He shoots me a look. “So . . . how is he?”
“Who, Kobe? What, suddenly you care?”
Staring at the floor, he says, “How bad is it? Like, is he . . . anything permanent?”
“Permanent?” I glare. “You mean physically, emotionally, or mentally? I’m guessing all of the above. Happy?”
He sighs. “Look, this ain’t easy for me.”
“Easy for you?”
He stays in his aisle but leans against a seat back. It squeaks. “I never . . . God. Guys get hurt in practice, but I’ve never hurt anyone like that. Never beat up a guy before. You gotta understand.”
What? “All I gotta understand is—”
“Just tell me. Is he gonna be okay?” He shifts his duffel bag to the other shoulder.
“Of course not.”
He closes his eyes, rubs his forehead. “So is he planning to do anything? I mean, like, you know—cause trouble?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I yell.
He points right at me. “I’m not a dumb-ass Thug, like in your stupid comic.”
“Yes, you are. And my comics aren’t stu—hold up. How did you find my website?”
He turns his head, stares out at the auditorium darkness. Then back at me. “Fine.” Grips his bag strap tight. “I know you saw my sketchbook, since you broke into my truck.”
“Hey, I—” Crap. Guess technically I did break in. I sigh. “Go on.”
“Well, now you know, I like drawing comic stuff.”
“So?”
“You may think it’s no big fuckin’ deal. But the one time the guys caught me drawing in my sketchbook . . . well, they still give me shit for that.”
“Why?”
He shakes his head. “Wow, you really are clueless, aren’t you?”
About the arcane ways of jocks? Yes, thank Obi-Wan. “So, about my website?”
“Dude, you always drew crazy shit in middle school, even back in elementary school. Fancy weird superhero shit. But you don’t suck at it.”
“Um, thanks?”
“I look at comic stuff online, and someone’s page linked to your site. It was so obviously yours, looked just like what you always drew, so I kept
checkin’ back. Then you wrote you were in high school, so I knew for sure—”
“You read my comments?”
“Well, yeah.” He tugs at the brim of his cap. “I’m, uh, well, I’m BigGreenBro.”
I stare at him across the whole section of seats between us. He’s lying. “You can’t be. That guy likes my art and writes intelligent comments.”
“You asshole. I’m not some dipshit moron, just ’cause I look like—ugh!” He punches at a seat with a thunk.
I jump but stand steady, heart pounding. “Wait. If it really is you, then what does BigGreenBro mean?”
He crosses his arms. “Really? Who’s the moron now? You saw what I draw, think about it.”
But his sketchbook was filled with . . . oh. I grip the back of a seat, fight the sensation of the floor tilting sideways. He’s seen all the art I’ve posted. Holy crap, I’ve been writing back and forth with him all this time. Talking about art—with Doug?
Of course. Big green bro. He’s obsessed with . . . “You’re the Hulk.”
“Guess you’re not as dumb as you look, either.” He smirks. “But I’m not the Hulk. That side’s the enemy. I’m not that guy.”
“Well, you may not literally be green—”
“Screw you! So I’m a huge guy? So I love football? I’m damn good at it. But I’m no . . .” He drops his bag in a seat. “Shit.”
Not taking my eyes off him, I lean against an armrest. This is too much.
Doug is BigGreenBro?
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not some stereotype dumb jock bruiser. The tough guy, the bully . . . the thug, like you and everyone else thinks.” He glares. “That’s not ME!” He thumps his chest.
Even with this whole section of seats dividing us, I step farther back in my aisle.
“How can you say that?” My voice fills the empty auditorium. “You keep harassing me—”
“You’re the one harassing me with that stupid ‘We’re watching you’ crap you put all over.”
“That’s not harassment. That’s justice. Besides, you were ‘watching me’ me first, every freakin’ day. You wrote ‘God Hates Fags’ on my locker, remember?”
“Screw you! I’ve been protecting you, asshole.”
Huh? “What the hell are you talking about? Protecting me?”
“Yes, idiot. You think I did that on your locker? No, I covered it up. Buddy wrote it. If it weren’t for me, he’d have already kicked your ass. I saved you in that bathroom, too. You’re lucky.”