by Laurent Linn
What? That can’t be right. I search my memory. My head spins.
“Why?” I say. “Why would you protect me?”
“Well, you’re an okay guy, even if you are a homo. And after what happened to your friend . . . if you got beat up, everyone would think I did it.”
Oh. My. God.
His cap casts a dark shadow on his face. “Look, I’m in deep shit.”
“Oh, really?” I turn and make sure the camera sees us both. Speaking clearly, I say, “You got your father to cover it all up. Admit it, you didn’t beat Kobe in ‘self-defense.’ ”
“You don’t get it!” He glares at me. “Everyone rides my ass, expectin’ me to be all this macho shit. Pushing, pushing. Coach, the team, frickin’ Buddy. My dad.” He spits out the word. “To him, my drawin’ and cookin’ is for pussies and soooo freakin’ gay.” He points at my face. “And I ain’t no homo.”
“That’s a relief. Wouldn’t want you on my team.”
He grunts. “And I ain’t no thug.”
“But you are, asshole,” I say. “You’re the one who said ‘God hates fags’ when you smashed his skull. You put him in the hospital.”
Pressing hard with his hands, he wipes sweat from his forehead and rubs it on his jeans.
We stare at each other.
“Look, I—” His words bounce around the balcony. He grimaces. Checking all around, he edges sideways across the row of seats toward me.
I back up the aisle. But he stops about ten seats away, in the middle of the row.
He speaks low. “I was drunk. And with everyone ridin’ my ass, twenty-four seven . . . all those guys screamin’ at me. I lost it.”
“That’s no excuse!” I hurl my words.
He balls his hands into tight fists and closes his eyes. “You don’t get it!” He punches a seat. Then pushes into my aisle.
I hop backward, ready to run.
He looks at the ground. “SHIT!”
BAM! With his boot heel, he kicks the side of a seat.
His face contorts like it did at Boo.
I back away, quick. Putting distance between him and me, I eye the archway. It’s not too far.
He kicks the seat again, hard. “This is such fucking”—bash!—“SHIT!” BASH!
He glares at me.
I’ve got to get out of here. I twist around fast.
Slip. Fall.
AHH! My face hits an armrest.
Oh, god! My nose!
I’m on the floor. Colors swirl in my eyes, in my head. I taste blood.
Doug steps over, looms above me. “What did you do?”
I push up, crawl up the aisle. “Don’t touch me!”
“I didn’t touch you!”
I try to stand. Ow! My nose throbs, blood dripping down.
Sitting back against the side of a seat, I squeeze my nose tight. “Just keep away!” It comes out sounding like a Munchkin.
“Don’t move.” He stands over me. “I mean it, don’t move.”
I gotta breathe—can’t faint.
He steps away, grabs his duffel bag, and hauls it over to me. Mumbles, “Crap!” Then he unzips the bag.
What’s he doing? I glance back at one of the fire alarms. I could reach it.
He squats down next to me with gray fabric in his hand. “Here, hold this to your nose. Squeeze. You hit the armrest pretty bad.”
I blink. “What is it?”
“Just a jersey.”
“Is it clean?”
He grunts. “Shit, you really are gay.”
I grab it. “Not funny.”
I gently let go of my nose. It’s still bleeding but doesn’t feel broken.
Press the shirt to my face. Ugh! It’s sweaty. So gross.
He points down at me. “I did not do this. I didn’t touch you.”
He turns his back and steps away, then grunts and faces the row across from me.
Bash! He kicks a seat.
I push up, get up. My head is pounding.
Scrambling away across a row of seats, I cling to the armrests. My nose throbs.
In the aisle, he slumps down cross-legged and takes off his cap, burying his face in his hands.
I keep moving away and get to the opposite aisle, putting the center section between us.
What the hell is wrong with this freak?
He lifts his face; it’s deep red. “What do I do?”
“What do you do?” My voice is muffled in the fabric.
I pull the shirt from my nose; it’s soaked with blood. I sit on an armrest and hold my nose again.
He grits his teeth. “This is screwed up. So screwed up. I’m in such major shit.”
Oh, my god. This is insane.
He sits there on the floor, panting, hunched over, staring at the carpet.
Keeping my eyes on him, I take deep breaths. I steady my pulse, clear my head.
I picture Audrey. Trent. Lev. Kobe. Even LaTrina.
Graphite.
In my mind, I populate this place with everyone I can so they’re standing next to me.
I’m not alone.
My shoulders relax a bit, my eyes focus.
Doug just sits there.
My nose is bleeding less now, so I pull away his disgusting shirt.
“Okay.” I break the silence. “You want to know what to do? How not to be a thug? I’ll tell you. Number one, you call off Buddy. You both leave me alone, leave all my friends alone. Number two—”
“What the—”
“I’m not done!” I stand. “Number two, you fess up about Kobe. It wasn’t ‘self-defense.’ ”
He whips his cap back on his head and pushes himself up. “You don’t get it.”
“No, I get it. I really get it.”
He glares at me. “You don’t have a damn clue.” Stepping to the side, he grabs his bag from the floor. Then heads up his aisle.
“I’m gonna keep going, Doug,” I say. “I’m gonna keep being me. I have nothing left to prove. But you do. Can you prove you’re not Thug?”
“Toss me my jersey.”
Does he think it could be evidence? Well, I don’t need it. I’ll have more documentation of all of this than just a bloody shirt.
I throw it to him. He lets it hit the floor. Then, avoiding the bloody part, he picks it up and drops it in his bag.
He jabs his finger in my direction. “This never happened. You understand? I was never here.” Then he starts up the aisle.
“They found them in his hand.”
He scrunches his face. “Huh?”
“Your keys,” I say. “Kobe must have grabbed hold of them. The paramedics pried them from his hand after you beat him unconscious.”
He stops, stares at me.
My chest heaves. “You told me why you wrote the notes, so I’m telling you how I got in your truck. Kobe gave me your keys. I went to see him. Trust me, he’s in way deeper shit than you.”
One last glare and he strides through the archway, down the little hall. In a moment there’s a muffled click from the door.
I dash up the aisle and check. Hall’s empty. He’s gone.
“Holy shit!” I yell into the empty space.
I touch my nose. Even though it stopped bleeding, it really hurts.
Steadying myself, I make it over to the camera. How long have I been in here? Did it shut off?
Shaking, I look in the viewfinder. Still recording.
I hit Stop and quickly rewind to see if—yes, I got everything.
Everything.
I GRAB THE CAMERA AND collapse the portable tripod, quick. It takes some effort with my shaky hands, but I’m just able to squeeze everything into my huge backpack and zip it shut. I can’t leave any evidence of this, this . . . What the hell was this?
Checking my watch, I see it’s almost time for the first bell.
I push open the balcony door and peer out into the hallway. The white fluorescent light practically blinds me.
There’s no sign of Doug. I slip out a
nd hustle down the hall. People stare and gasp at my bloody nose and shirt.
I dash to the bathroom, the same one where Doug says he “protected” me from Buddy.
A guy I don’t know does a double take and almost jumps away from me. “Whoa, man! You okay?”
Just a couple guys are in here, but they’re not bubbas. I ignore them and check in the mirror—ah! I look as scary and banged up as I feel, nose all bloody and swollen. Kobe’s face flashes in my mind. But I’m not as bad as him, not even close.
Still. This is SO screwed up!
Ow! I can’t press too hard. Wet paper towels at least get the blood off my face. I swirl water around my mouth and spit it out to get rid of the metal taste.
As I clean up I keep checking behind me in the mirror. A few guys come in and out, but no one I know. I avoid their questions and mumble that I’m fine.
My face is clean now, but my nose is puffy and . . . damn! Bruises spread like ink through the skin under my eyes.
The throbbing in my head is almost unbearable.
In a stall, I gently take off my T-shirt, then put it on backward, the clean side now in front. I’ll just have to wear my jacket all day to cover the rest, so I put that on too.
Back in the hall, I stare at the ground and slip past the comments that come at me.
That was freakin’ crazy! Doug beat up Kobe because of what . . . peer pressure? Because his dad thinks he’s not man enough?
And what’ll he do now that he’s told me all about it? Will he regret it and hate himself even more so he’ll come after me for real?
And he can pull whatever he wants. No matter who he is inside or out, he’s still king of football and his dad’s still a cop.
What have I got? Art?
The camera and folded tripod weigh down my backpack, making my clenched shoulder blades ache even more. Guess I do have something more than just my art. It’s not the confession I expected, but a confession nonetheless.
I go straight to the nurse’s office and get there just as the first bell rings. Maybe she can make this bruise less obvious? Stop the pain and swelling? Stop people from asking so many questions?
It’s not lying when I simply tell the nurse, “I slipped and hit my nose. Stupid accident.”
She sits me down and checks me out. “Pretty banged up but not broken.”
Thank Obi-Wan.
After I assure her yes, everything’s all right at home and no, I didn’t pass out or have a concussion, she has me lie back and hands me an ice pack to hold over my nose.
Ahh. It’s so cold it almost burns.
I close my eyes and replay what happened in my mind. I’ve captured everything on video, but what the hell do I do with it?
My head hurts, my brain hurts—this is all too much.
Okay, focus on the cold ice pack, the freezing cold.
After a while the swelling goes down some. The bruises are still there, but at least I’m not puffy and as scary-looking. My headache is better too.
The nurse releases me with a note. The halls are empty, but I keep an eye out for anyone, anything as I head to class. As soon as I step through the doorway, Madame Pauline stops and gasps. She questions me, but I give her the note and explain all’s good, I just fell. So embarrassing, right? Then I settle in and attempt a smile at Lev, but he looks freaked. I mumble, “I’ll explain after class.”
As Madame Pauline resumes, I pretend to hear what’s said but don’t listen.
As I pull out my notebook, my eyes land on the camera buried deep in my bag. I could show the video to McConnell, wipe that smug smile off his face and open his eyes. “Boys will be boys,” my freakin’ ass.
Or I could post it, send it into the world and show who Doug really is and what he truly did to Kobe. It’d be like unmasking him, showing how he feels about his dad, how he feels about everyone’s expectations, showing him losing control again and again. He always has his impenetrable mask so firmly in place—I doubt many have ever glimpsed what’s behind it. It’d be so easy to edit the video to hide my identity, blur my face, distort my voice, but keep Doug and his voice crystal clear.
My stomach drops.
Doug would kill me. He would flat-out kill me.
No. I’ve gotta keep this secret, from everyone. It can’t slip out.
Right?
The bell rings, and as we step into the hall, Lev pulls me aside. “What happened to you?”
I shrug. “No biggie. Just slipped in the hall and got a little bloody nose.”
“Little bloody nose? You’ve got black eyes!” Scrunching his forehead, he lowers his voice and says, “Was it Buddy?”
“Buddy?” My pulse speeds up.
“Well, after what happened yesterday with him and you before school . . .”
“Oh. No, haven’t seen him.” My voice is nasal. “Told you, I fell.”
“Did you trip on something?”
I grip my backpack straps. “I’ll tell you later—so embarrassing. I’d rather not focus any more on how I got this ugly face.”
Softly, he says, “There’s no way you could ever be ugly. It just makes you look tough.” He grins.
“Tough?” I grunt. “Don’t know about that.”
He pulls his hair back behind his ears. “I should go. Be careful!” He gives me a questioning look, and we head our separate ways to second period.
I hate lying to him, but I gotta figure this out.
All I do through the next few classes is recycle the same crap in my head, over and over. I dash between periods as fast as I can, then sit in class trying not to go insane.
But nothing makes sense.
At last it’s lunchtime. As I walk to the cafeteria, I keep my head down but stay on alert. I turn a corner and—coming this way, Audrey.
I spin around and walk in the other direction.
But then I slow down. Should I tell her?
No. Remember, I tell no one.
But I turn back around and go right up to Audrey anyway. After everything I’ve been through this morning, being grilled by her is way better than no Audrey in my life at all.
I wave.
She spots me and puts her hand to her chest. “Oh, Lord!”
“Uh, hi.” I turn my face away.
Mouth hanging open, she looks me up and down. Taking my arm, she pulls me over to the wall.
“What happened to you?” Her expression is so intense, so worried.
My face heats up, dull throb around my nose. I glance at her but can’t look in her eyes. “Nothing to make a big deal over. Just a little accident.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Accident?”
“Look, I can’t go into it now.”
“Uh-huh?”
I check over my shoulder. “Really.”
“Adrian, this is serious. If someone did this to you, then you have to go to the office, tell the principal. You can’t just . . .” She tilts her head. “Why are you grinning all of a sudden?”
“I miss you.” Just comes out.
She blinks, puts her hands on her hips. “Then why’ve you been so wacko?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I’m not the only one.”
She flashes me the Audrey Eye. But I wrap my arms around her and squeeze, resting my chin on her shoulder.
She hugs me back and I let go.
Lamely attempting to stifle a smile, she readjusts her light-green blouse. “You’re lucky you didn’t wrinkle this. Imported silk.”
That makes me laugh.
“So,” I say, “coming to lunch?”
“Oh, yes. You’ve got lots of explaining to do!” She hoists her purse over her arm and we make our way to the cafeteria.
Entering, I take a deep, deep breath. Safe zone—I lower my shields. Doug and Buddy and their friends don’t have this lunch, and I’ve got Trent and maybe even a table of drama kids on my side. And, it seems, Audrey again.
It takes a few minutes for Trent’s eyes to reenter his head after seeing me and Audrey come in
together, especially with me looking, well, like a raccoon. I’m much better than this morning but still “tough.”
I give Trent my usual “I fell but can’t go into it now” talk, but he’s kinda freaked.
And he looks wiped out. I’m dying to ask if his mom lost it again last night, but not with Audrey here.
Everyone’s got so many screwed-up secrets.
Since I brought my lunch, I can stay here and face the wall to avoid as much notice as possible. With Audrey chatting away, she and Trent head to the cafeteria line.
Once I pull out my lunch bag, I place my backpack on the floor and slip my legs through the straps. I’m never going to let this camera out of my sight.
Damn! I hate hiding anything from them, but this secret is too toxic.
My fingers itch for a pencil. I need Graphite.
Trent and Audrey return. Dropping her tray on the table in front of me with a smack!, Audrey settles in her chair and says, “Ooooookay, now. Catch me up.” She points to my face. “And start with this.”
Instead, I start with “Actually, there’s something you need to know first.”
I look at Trent and lower my voice so only they can hear. “She doesn’t know about Lev and Teen Drag Queen Bingo.”
Her eyes pop wide open. “Say what?”
I knew that would change the subject. And it’s so good to tell her at last.
Making sure no one overhears, I take my time detailing everything from the start. Except for the parts I didn’t share with Trent, either, of course. Those are healthy secrets, between Lev and me.
The bell rings and I haven’t even finished recounting the whole date.
Trent downs the rest of his iced tea and gathers his trash. “I didn’t know about the little kid giving you a ‘unigiraffe’ painting. This I gotta see.”
“It’s cute,” I say.
Audrey stares at me and shakes her head. “All this happened in a week? Well, seems I gotta personally thank this Lev.”
“For what?” I untangle my backpack from my legs to stand.
“For giving you something better to do than taping up eyeballs all over the place and tryin’ to get yourself killed.”
I almost say, “I’m actually trying to keep myself alive,” but instead just smirk.
She pushes up from the table. “No wonder you’re distracted, though. He is cuuuuute.” She picks up her tray. “Too bad all the cute ones are gay.”