by Tom Leveen
The only message waiting for me in the morning is a pic from Kelly, showing off her costume. I let her know it looks awesome, and I don’t bother trying to reach Danny again. There are much more important things to worry about.
Things like: I’m going to lunch with Zach today! I need to find something really cool to wear. Something fascinating.
DREA
Halloween.
The bell beginning classes rings. In the school parking lot, me and Dad have been sitting in his Jeep for five minutes in silence. Dad hasn’t turned off the engine, though. It’s chilly outside, but not cold, you know? He has the heat on. I wonder if my Sally makeup will run. Kelly did an amazing job on the costume, and because of Dad’s job at the theater, I picked up few things about makeup, so that looks great, too. I look just like Sally, stitches and all.
Sally, who knits herself whole. Maybe Kelly was trying to tell me something.
The parking lot is emptying of students in various getups and costumes, eager to enjoy the regressive holiday and the Friday. Some teachers, it’s rumored, will be handing out candy.
Dad lights a cigarette in his trademark way and leans back into the worn cloth upholstery. The Jeep is twenty years old. He rolls the window down and gazes out, blowing smoke, as if channeling James Dean.
Poser, I think.
He isn’t looking at me. But this expression is his “thoughtful face.” His head is tilted at a slight angle, a master gesture one of my many “uncles” pointed out to me years ago.
“Any time Frankie tilts his head like that,” Uncle Joe told me, “he’s thinking about something. Just sit tight. He’ll say it eventually.”
So I wait, scuffling my sneakers against a pile of CD cases on the floor. I can’t believe Dad still uses CDs. How old. How stupid. I shouldn’t even be in the Jeep, except Kelly had to come early and do college research in the library. I see her truck parked at the other end of the lot. Now instead, I’m here, with Dad, who rather than just rolling up to the sidewalk to let me hop out, pulled into a spot and put the Jeep in park, like he had something to say.
Or, maybe— just maybe— he knows I do.
And then it comes. Even if I wanted to stop, I don’t think I can.
“Why don’t you love Mom?”
Dad acts unsurprised by the question. “I never said that.”
“Didn’t have to,” I mutter, and scratch my sleeve. My scabs are healing, itching like crazy.
But it’s been awhile since I cut. Dad turns his head toward me, then away again. He takes another drag.
“What about me?” I say.
Dad’s hand freezes, poised outside the window. We both watch as a late student rolls a huge silver truck into a handicapped space. How rude.
Dad says, “What about you, what?”
The late student, dressed all in black for the holiday, struggles with a green duffel bag. It falls heavily to the blacktop, and he heaves it with both hands to get it up and over his shoulders. I watch him with only half-focused eyes. He’s a movie playing in the background, nothing more.
I don’t answer Dad.
“What’s on your mind, kid?” he says softly, turning away from the kid with the bag, and tilting his head back to watch the trees wave gently overhead. It’s a pretty day.
Some organ in my torso twists like a wringing rag as I say, “I hate you.”
Dad looks over at me, studying. For the first time in years, I meet his gaze without looking away or blinking, even though it’s not easy.
“I know that.” His voice is still smooth, unemotional. But now there’s an undercurrent of something else. “I could guess why you do. But will you tell me? I want to hear it.”
I didn’t plan on this. None of it. I’d rehearsed a thousand different scripts in my head a thousand times, knowing Kelly was right and that I needed to say something, you know?
But I hadn’t expected to ever actually be saying it. None of this is like I imagined. I wanted, needed, a showdown with him, with both of them. Wanted to throw dishes like Mom, and hear them crash with great satisfaction against the kitchen tile, you know? Grab the steering wheel while driving someplace and veer us all into a light pole. Wait till a rare dinner out to cause a scene worthy of a Maxie— the local annual theater critics’ award. Scream profanities and accuse them of all they’d done wrong.
Instead, this. He isn’t taking his cues, isn’t following my script. But at least I’m listening to Kelly’s advice, telling him exactly what I’m thinking for once. At least I’m talking. There’s a faint pride in that.
“I don’t know why.” I go back to work on my thumbnail. I’ll have to switch hands soon. The kid in black has disappeared inside the building. Nothing now to distract us even a little bit.
“Sure you do, Sweet.”
“Stop calling me ‘Sweet.’ I have I name.”
“I know. I picked it.”
I don’t gasp, exactly, but I do feel my breath catch for a second. Dad gives me a sidelong glance.
“It’s true. I always knew my first girl would be named Andrea. That happens to be you.”
This news unwinds the solid organ that twisted earlier. “Why Andrea?”
“I just never met an Andrea I didn’t like.” He coughs a little laugh, which turns into a real cough, and he has to hack and spit out the window. “Do you like ‘Drea’ as a nickname?” he asks suddenly.
“Yeah.”
“I thought I heard your friend Kelly use it once. See, I figured with a name like Andrea, you had lots of choices. Andrea, Andi, Drea, Dre. There’re four right there.”
He laughs a bit, but stops quickly.
I plunge in. “Did Mom really sleep with someone else? Dustin?”
“I doubt it.” He takes a slow drag from his cigarette. “Your mom and I … we had the best time when we met. We laughed a lot. I mean, a lot. We had a blast. And over time, I think what happened is, we just assumed it meant we were in love. Andi, the reality is, I love your mom, and I’ve loved her for a long time. But I’m not in love with her, I never was in love with her, and she wasn’t with me, either. We’re terrible as a couple. If you haven’t noticed.”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“Well, please believe me when I tell you that we both love you. That’s never been a question, not once, not now, not ever.”
“You resent me.”
“No, I don’t. Can you believe me?”
I consider that for a moment. Can I? “Okay,” I say.
And it’s true. I can believe him when he says that.
“But can we do something about it?” I go on. “About you guys? I hate it. Dad, I hate it, and it hurts me, and I hurt myself, and I want to stop, but living there, it’s like—”
I stop. Cut myself short, so to speak, and the thought almost makes me laugh.
“What can I do for you, Andi? Give me an assignment. I’ll do it.”
“Do you love her?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is ‘sometimes’ enough to be married?”
“… Sometimes. Yeah.”
“If it is— I mean, if it really is? Then look at her. Tell her you love her if you really do. And if you don’t, then just call it off and get it over with because I can’t deal with you.”
Dad blinks. Frowns. Slowly nods. “All right. That’s fair.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“What do you mean, you hurt yourself?”
I’m tempted right then to roll up my skintight white sleeves with the broken-doll stitching Kelly did on them, show my scars, and tell him the entire truth. But the last bell for first period rang a while back. I should go. I’m already running late.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Hey,” Dad says. “I love you.”
“I know. I love you.”
“You still hate me, too?”
“Lil’ bit.”
“We’ll work on it?”
“Okay.”
He reaches over and pulls me awkwardly close in
the front seats, kissing my head. “Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
“Your costume looks incredible, by the way.”
“I know. Thanks.”
I—Andrea-Andi-Drea-Dre—climb out of Dad’s Jeep, pulling my backpack with me. I wave to him through the window after shutting the door, and he waves back. He pulls out of the parking lot while I meander casually toward the school, feeling better than I have in a long time.
I pull out my phone as I walk, sending Kelly a text. I did it. Talked to Dad. Thank you.
Kelly will be happy for me. We’ll catch up during lunch, and it will be the start of a good weekend. Maybe we can hang out, if Kelly isn’t busy babysitting.
I open the front door of the school and head down the main hall. The kid from the silver truck stands a few yards away, playing with something black. The hallways are like a tomb, long and silent.
“Hi,” I say, on a whim. It’s one of the very few times I’ve said something to someone first. But it’s that kind of day.
The kid looks up. He has no face. Or, more accurately, his face is covered by a matte-black mask with only eyeholes and some pinholes around the mouth. His Halloween costume consists of black, multi-pocketed pants, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and some kind of black vest contraption that makes me think of a safari.
It takes a second for me to realize that he’s pointing a gun at me.
He— it must be a he, right?— he holds it at his hip in both hands. For the barest of moments, I can see his eyes behind the dull black face mask.
“Sorry,” he says. His voice is muffled.
For what?
I try to say this, but then I’m being pushed. My breath coughs out, and I feel my shoulders smack into the brick wall behind me. I slide down, my eyes never leaving the boy in black. Like an afterthought, I hear a loud and fast sputtering sound.
I try to say something, wanting to tell him to stop, to leave me alone, I haven’t done anything wrong, haven’t done anything to him, whoever he is. But I can’t talk.
“Sorry,” the kid says again
What is this stuff in my mouth? It’s red. So red. Red like the blood when I’m cutting. But I stopped, I promise I did, I
Death of Me
COACH
He bangs his toe against the bed first thing in the morning, so that’s just god damn great. But at least it appears that his son is already up and out, and he fights against the guilt that rises in him when he realizes he’s pleased by it. No—not pleased. Relieved. A quiet morning is a thing to be appreciated, that’s all.
Got to do something about that kid, he tells himself. Got to, got to... take him outdoors, go fishing, hunting. Something.
“Daddy?” his daughter says as he limps crankily into the kitchen.
“Hey, Peach. What’s up?” He ruffles her hair. She appears to be dressed in some kind of English schoolgirl outfit, and he’s pleased to see it’s not slutty. It might be from those Harry Potter books, but he’s not sure.
“Um … listen, I know you’re going to be mad, but I have to tell you something,” she says.
“Tell me who you’re dressed as first.”
“Huh? Oh. Hermione.”
“Should I know who that is?”
“She doesn’t play for Green Bay, so, no.”
That makes him laugh, and the throbbing in his toe fades. He starts making toast. “Aren’t you running late for first period?”
“I have study hall, I can miss it. I have to tell you this thing.”
Pregnant, he thinks. If it’s one of his boys, oh, there will be god damn hell to pay. He’s not an idiot; Donte’s been making eyes at her for a long time. “Okay, so what am I going to be mad about?”
“So, you know the whole thing about that picture of the naked kid that was going around?”
“On your brother’s phone.” He resists a flare of anger at the reminder. “Yeah, I know all about it.”
“Okay, but, Daddy? I don’t … think it was his fault.”
He gets out the butter. This doesn’t sound like pregnancy. He’s glad he didn’t snap at her. “It’s not, huh?”
“Um … I took his phone? And then someone took it from me. I don’t know who. Might’ve been someone on the baseball team, I’m not sure.”
Coach frowns as this news slowly works through his brain. “Danny really didn’t have his phone? You’re saying he did not have it when the picture was taken.”
“No. He couldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
His throbbing toe and the early hour aren’t making things as clear as he’d like, so he repeats, “He didn’t take the picture.”
“I don’t see how it’s possible. I’m really sorry, Daddy.”
“Well, god damn,” Coach sighs. The district attorney hasn’t decided on a charge yet, so maybe this would change things. Maybe there’s a way out of this, after all. “I need you to tell all that to our lawyer and probably to the police, okay?”
“Will I be charged or something?” Amy says, and the fear in her voice hurts him. “It was just a prank. I was just messing around with him for his first day at school. He was being such a little shit …”
“No no, sweetheart, I’m sure it won’t come back on you. We just have to let them know so they’ll back off Danny. You were right to tell me.”
“Are you mad?”
“No. Your brother will be.” And that, he has to admit to himself, might be somewhat amusing, if it doesn’t cause the kid an angry fit. For a smart-ass, he’s been pretty quiet the last couple weeks. It makes Coach think about volcanoes, or the calm before a storm.
The thought shoots a jet of acid into his stomach.
“I told him already,” Amy says. “He’s just giving me the silent treatment. Ooo, shocker.”
Coach hugs her tightly, chuckling. Silent treatment, indeed. The kid hasn’t said a word to anyone all week, as far as he knows. “You want me to give you a ride to school? I think I’ll skip the gym.”
“Sure.”
Monica comes in, stretching. Coach notes she looks good, even in a robe and no makeup. He gives her a quick kiss and goes back to preparing his toast.
“Where’s Danny?” he asks her.
“I thought I heard him leave early,” Monica says, making bedroom eyes at him clandestinely so Amy won’t see. “Something to do at school, I guess.”
“Or to get high,” Amy says, helpfully.
“Worry about yourself,” Monica admonishes.
Coach grins. Once done with his food, he gives Monica another kiss, and tells Amy to hustle and get her backpack.
Now he realizes there’s one small problem.
“Where’re my keys?”
“Did you look on the peg?” Monica says.
“Of course I looked on the peg, I’m looking at the peg right now, where are my god damn keys?”
“Did Amy borrow them for something?”
“Don’t look at me,” Amy says, returning.
“I can drive you if it’s a big thing,” Monica says.
“My keys are a big thing,” Coach says.
“Look, mine are right here,” Monica says. “I can drop you off on my way.”
Coach opens the door to the garage, as if perhaps the keys will be floating there, thinking perhaps he left them in the truck’s ignition, the middle console, or hanging from the door lock.
“That’s not the point,” he rumbles. “The point is I need my keys for work, too, all the classroom keys are on it, so it’s not just about the car, it’s—”
He stops cold.
“Well I don’t know what tell you,” Monica says. “I’m pretty sure they were on the peg when we went to bed last night, so if they’re not there now then one of the kids must’ve taken them. Look in the truck.”
The truck is not, in fact, there. But that’s not what’s turned his blood into ice.
“Call the police,” Coach whispers. He can’t make his voice work.
Monica frowns. “If Danny took th
e truck—”
“Call the police NOW!”
His voice is high, like the wail of a wounded animal. Monica steps over to the open door as Coach runs to the tall gun safe kept in the garage. He holds the door to the safe open with his right hand and stares into it, like it’s a refrigerator full of Super Bowl snacks. Coach’s hand trembles as he reaches inside the safe and pulls out the only remaining weapon.
A pump-action pellet gun. The one he bought Danny over a year ago, the one that got him kicked out of school.
Monica steps into the garage. So does Amy.
“What is it?” Monica says.
Coach fights rising nausea. Rising certainty.
Monica touches his arm. “Dan? What is it?”
DREA
DONTE
I check myself out in the mirror of the boys’ restroom. The team decided to wear shirts and ties for Halloween. I’m looking good, and I know it. Looking good for Amy. Season’s almost over. Not our best, but I know I’ll have some offers coming in soon. Once the last game’s over, Amy’s going to talk to her dad. See what happens next. So yeah—I like looking good for her.
I double-check to make sure I’ve got the green hall pass in my pocket. Then I swagger out of the bathroom, heading back to Butler’s class. Part of me is a little jealous that Brady got a pass to go to the library with Brianna, but Brianna’s helping B look for schools and fill out the FAFSA form, all those sorts of things. It’s good. It’s a good thing to miss English for.
I think he’ll be all right. Maybe none of us is going to Ohio or USC, but that’s okay. I’m going to college, first one in the family. Brady, too. It’ll work out. Maybe we’ll all even go to the same place. Amy’ll be hearing back from her schools soon. We can compare locations, see if we get into the same places, or even just nearby.
Turning a corner, I see some kid dressed all in black, like a ninja or a SWAT cop. The weapon in the kid’s hands looks damn authentic. The tips of toy guns are supposed to be painted orange, like Ramon’s are.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket as we walk toward each other. I pull the phone out while addressing the kid.
“Damn, dude,” I say. “Dr. Flores know you carrying that shit down the hall?”