Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  “Here’s the deal,” Scott says, raising his voice like he’s playing for an audience, setting up a punch line. “No one’s ever, ever gonna believe a fuckin’ word you say once we get done with you. Nope.” I bring an outstretched hand back to my face, quickly wipe the tears from my eyes, but they keep coming, keep streaming down my cheeks. “They’ll want to know how come the orphan killer is loose at Oregrove. Tom’s dad tried to warn Coach, but you’re still around and Ronnie Gunderson paid the price.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” Studblatz says.

  “I mean, everyone knows it takes a fuckin’ monster to fuck a kid with a broom,” Scott hisses. “And when they hear you sputter and blubber, big strings of drool coming out that fucked-up face ... sheeyit, boy. K-K-K-Kurt B-B-B-Brodsky ain’t gonna be such a hero anymore, is he?”

  “Kiss your scholarship offers good-bye,” Jankowski adds.

  “Yeah, fugly,” Studblatz says. “And when we get through with him, you can add that little faggot, Danny, to your victim list.”

  “Go find your little friends,” Scott says, and then spits on the mats. “Go pretend you can save them. And tell ’em we’re waiting for ’em. Tell ’em we’ll get them alone, eventually, so they better learn how to man up and take it!”

  “Hey, K-K-K-Kurt.” Tom juts his head forward. Spit flecks the corners of his mouth. “How come you’re not sssssssaying nothing? Cat got your tongue?”

  Studblatz howls at the joke.

  “Yuh-yuh-you suh-suh-suh-said it all,” I stutter, still backing up, never taking my eyes off them. When my shoulders bump up against the wall, I startle, then reach out for the door, pull it open, and hurriedly retreat through the locker room the same way Danny and Bruce left. Soon as I spin forward, I run out the building, past the parking lot and down Plymouth Lane. I keep running until I’m at least a half mile away from school, until I’m sure none of them are coming for me, until I can’t run no more. All alone, I bend over, hands on my knees, puking my guts out, my throat burning.

  Only then do I press the stop button on my little digital recorder.

  49

  DANNY

  I come across the world’s oldest janitor. Thin as me and my height with white hair pomaded back against skin as tanned and creased as old cowboy boots. A pack of cigarettes sits in his chest pocket and one cig rests behind his left ear. His stitched name tag reads GENE. He is pushing a dry mop through hallway trash like a snowplow. Gene’s pretty much a fossil but he’s still an adult. Not even Scott would commit murder in front of an adult.

  “Help!” I call out, rushing toward him. He’s wearing earbuds and I don’t catch his attention until I’m standing right in front of him. He pulls out one earbud, irritated, then does a double take, sees something in my face that worries him. I touch my chin and my hand comes away sticky and red. “Help,” I repeat. He nods, pulling out his other earbud, and follows me. Gene doesn’t move fast. When we finally reach the gym, I take a deep breath and step aside to let him enter first, not ready to face whatever horror it might hold. I half expect to find Kurt’s beaten body, bloodied and unmoving, lying on the mats.

  “No one’s in there,” Gene reports when he comes back out. “Place is empty.”

  “You sure? You check the storage room?”

  Gene nods. “See for yourself, son. Now I got to get back. You better clean up. You tell the principal what happened.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I step into the gym. Lights are still on but the place is empty. Whole place gives me the creeps and I’m leaving when I see a wink of silver metal on the pommel horse. My phone. Propped up on the chalky brown leather. Set there so I’ll find it easily. I jog over, grab it, then get out of the gym and fly out of the school. I’m jogging home, looking over my shoulder, expecting a car to race up any minute, when my phone beeps. A text from a number I don’t recognize. Doesn’t take more than a second to narrow down the texter, though, or figure out who wants me reunited with my phone so I can receive their uplifting messages.

  U R DED!

  50

  KURT

  She meets me in the parking lot of McDonald’s, the only place I can think of that isn’t school and isn’t Patti’s. Only place that feels safe. Since I sent her the text, I’ve downed two Big Macs, two cheeseburgers, a large fries, a large Chicken McNuggets, a large Coke, and an apple pie. Her pip-squeak Toyota zips into the parking lot and I’m moving to it, coming up on the driver’s side before it even parks.

  “Kurt,” Tina says, cracking her door, her face opening up into a smile. It’s a great smile, I think, wishing I didn’t need her for anything but the smile. I’m about to speak when the passenger door opens and her friend Indira steps out. The little car’s got an oversize stereo and a woman’s voice mewing from the speakers about lost kisses while a piano plunks low keys. Why’d Tina bring a friend? A flame of rage licks across me. I grab Tina by the elbow and roughly pull her out of the car. I don’t mean to, but can’t help it.

  “What the ... ?” Tina starts to speak, confused.

  “Tina?” Indira asks meekly.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! “Kuh-kuh-come alone!” I say, glancing over the roof of the car at Indira.

  “Jesus! If you want to ask me out on a date,” Tina snaps, “McDonald’s won’t do and you’ll have to ease up on the groping. Also, you’ll have to—”

  “I nuh-nuh-nuh-need . . .” I cut her off. “. . . yuh-yuh-yuh-your help.” Those four words are hard as hell to string together and it’s got nothing to do with the stutter. The way I grew up, you don’t ask people for nothing. All it does is let them know you’re soft. Weak. If they know you’re soft, they don’t help. They attack. But this time, I got no other option. There’s no other way.

  “Yeah, right!” Tina rolls her eyes. “You want me to help you. Is this a joke? Am I being punk’d right now?”

  “I nuh-nuh-nuh-need . . .” And all that has happened that afternoon and the memories it brings back up in me and the bad future it threatens me with—all that wells up inside me until Tina and the world beyond her melt. Lamar’s nowhere to be found and this thing is coming whether I want it to or not. “Yuh-yuh-yuh-your . . .” I try. I really try to hold it back but it won’t be held back no more. It claws its way out of a crack in my heart and this ... this ... thing blasts up out of me, part moan and part sob. It embarrasses the hell out of me, laughs at me and my muscles, tells me they won’t ever, ever make up for what I let happen to Lamar. Stutter or not, no words can explain how awful and scared I feel. All I can do is turn away and thump the roof of that stupid car.

  And then Tina’s arms wrap around my waist, hugging me, holding me even though she is small and I am big. Another sob crashes out of me and I almost pound her car again in frustration. I hold back. I let my heavy arms settle around Tina, pulling her tight into me like she’s the last life vest in the angriest ocean. I bury my face in her jet-black hair with the blond roots and cry like the big baby Scott claims I am, cry like I haven’t done since Lamar left me behind in this world.

  51

  DANNY

  Phone’s beeping so much with incoming text threats I turn it to vibrate, set it on the kitchen table, and watch it slowly buzz-crawl across the lacquered wood while I eat a bowl of Cocoa Puffs for supper. When it gives off the long brrrr of an actual call, I pick it up. I don’t recognize the number, but know it’s not one of the three football captains that don’t seem to ever sleep, judging on how often they like to remind me I’m going to die.

  “Huh-hello?”

  “Danny?” a girl’s voice asks.

  “Yeah?” My answer more of a question. What if it’s one of their girlfriends, luring me to talk before they hand off the phone to Scott or Tom or Mike?

  “It’s Tina,” she says.

  “Oh, uh, hi,” I say. Why’s she calling me?

  “Kurt just left. We’ve been talking for a long time.”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “Danny, he told me everything.”

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sp; “. . . about?”

  “Danny,” she sighs. “I know. I know everything.”

  My phone beeps while she talks and I know another text has just come in, waiting for me to read it.

  “So what?” I ask, annoyed now. Why the hell did Kurt tell Tina?

  “Danny, Kurt needs your help. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared. Probably as scared as those bastards are.”

  “Those bastards,” I say, “are not scared.”

  “Yeah, they are,” she says. “They’ll never call it that but they’re freaking out that you guys are going to finally tell the truth. And they should, because you are.”

  “Trust me,” I say. “I know scared. I know freaking out. Those guys aren’t it.”

  “Danny, there’s a way to fight them and make it all stop but we need you to make it work.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you,” Tina says. “Kurt needs you, Danny. He needs you to help him speak up. It’s about time, don’t you think?”

  My phone buzzes again with another text. I stir the rest of my soggy Cocoa Puffs around in my bowl, my hunger completely disappearing.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Remember you thanked me for sticking up for others,” she reminds me. “It’s your turn, now. You owe it to Ronnie. You owe it to Kurt. Jesus, you owe it to the whole school. At the very least, you owe it to yourself.”

  “I’d rather keep as far away from those three as possible.”

  “How’s that working out for you so far?” she asks. “Or Bruce?”

  “Bruce just wants to shoot them,” I say.

  Tina laughs.

  “I’m not joking,” I tell her. “I think he might do it. And I’m okay with that. Seriously,” I say, and realize I’d like nothing more.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” she says. “One that doesn’t involve murder.”

  “What makes you think you can outsmart them?”

  “Uh, I’m a girl and they’re boys,” she says. “By default, I win.”

  “How about we stop the stupid schemes that only seem to piss off these guys more and more,” I suggest.

  “How about you listen to what I have to say,” she suggests back.

  As I’m mulling this over, the phone buzzes with another incoming text. I guess I don’t have much to lose.

  So I listen to Tina. My phone keeps beeping with new messages as she talks. In the end I’m not sure if the text threats convince me or Tina does, but eventually I agree to help her help me and Kurt.

  “One more thing,” Tina says. “Give me Vance Fisher’s number.”

  After hanging up, I stir my soupy cereal some more. I glance at my phone. Twelve new texts in the last hour.

  SPIT OR SWALLOW?

  SNICH GOING DOWN

  U CANT HIDE

  DED MAN WALKING

  U R DED MEET

  I stop reading after five and delete the rest. I’m feeling more and more anxious, and it hits me, again, how scared and lost Ronnie must’ve been during his last days. He asked me for so little—just to tell the truth, tell him what I saw—and I turned away from him. God! I wish I could have that last phone call with him back, wish I could do it all over again.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper over the table, acting as if Ronnie is sitting across from me now. “So, so sorry. I’ll make it right. I swear.”

  The texts keep coming.

  HOME ALONE?

  DADDY CANT SAVE U & MOMMYS DED!

  TIMES UP

  NOK NOK

  HERE WE CUM!

  The hungry growl of a big engine rolling into my driveway makes me bolt for the front of the house. I lock the doors and shut off all the inside lamps and TV. It’s night out and a supercharged Camaro sits in my driveway, its headlights blasting our house. I peek out from behind curtains drawn across our front-yard picture window. I call my dad’s cell but it goes to voice mail. Figures. The Camaro reverses at an angle, tires rolling across our lawn, so the headlights hit the picture window. Then it stops.

  Without thinking I dial Coach’s number, which he gave us after Ronnie died. The Camaro’s high beams flash on, pentetrating our house’s lace curtains like X-rays. Coach’s phone is ringing ... and ringing.... Come on, come on, pick up!

  Outside I hear the Camaro engine rev like it’s getting ready to drive right through our house. I chance another peek around the curtains, see the passenger door open and Tom Jankowski step out.

  Shit!

  “Hello?” Coach Nelson’s voice answers over the phone.

  “Coach! They’re trying to kill me!” I pant. “Right now!”

  “Huh? Danny? Is that you? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

  Tom’s throwing something. I hear it thud against our garage door. He throws again and again and more thuds pelt the side of our house. One slams against the picture window I’m standing next to, hits a foot from my head, and cracks the glass. I see the outlines of a smashed egg, lit from behind by the car’s headlights, running down the pane of glass. The car’s driver’s side door opens and Scott steps out. Then Mike Studblatz gets out. They’re both holding baseball bats, walking straight toward the window.

  “Coach, they’re—” Fear catches my throat as I realize they’re about to shatter the thin glass and come grab me.

  “Danny, tell me what’s wrong, kiddo. Talk to me.”

  Our neighbor’s outside house lights come on across the street and their dog, Judo, starts barking. Mike, Tom, and Scott freeze, spin around, then jump into the car. The Camaro backs out, wheels spinning on our lawn, leaving a single black track of torn-up grass. As it flees the crime scene, the Camaro’s back tires flame our street with a smoky screech loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood, alerting everyone to the fact that my world is totally exploding.

  “Danny?” Coach is still on the line.

  “Uh . . . sorry, Coach,” I exhale. “I, uh . . . I’m having a nightmare. I’m sleepwalking. Must’ve dialed your number by mistake. I’m awake now.”

  “Sleepdialing?!” Coach scoffs over the phone. “You on something right now?”

  Yeah, I think. Fear!

  “Maybe you want to talk for a while?” he tries. “You sound pretty scared. Where’s your dad?”

  “I think ... I think I’m okay.” Now that the Camaro has left, I start feeling foolish for panicking and calling Coach. “My dad’s doing late rounds at the hospital.”

  “I think I should speak with him when he gets back. Have him call me this week. Tell him anytime.”

  “Okay, sure,” I say, knowing I’ll never pass on the message.

  52

  KURT

  Chugging back toward the huddle, I scan the fence line for Danny but find no sign of him in the sea of fans. I glance up at the enclosed control booth at the top of the stadium, wonder if Tina’s watching me right now. Oregrove supporters are out in force tonight for the last home game before a string of away games to finish out the regular season. Scott shouts to be heard over the crowd noise. To stay warm, fans of all ages hug themselves, hop up and down, break out into chants while clapping gloved hands, wave big foam #1 fingers, and hold up homemade signs with player names markered on them. They call out to us as if we’ll answer their personal requests for more defense or to fire up.

  I take it all in, pretty sure this will be the last time I’ll ever have fans pulling for me. Come Monday, after Tom’s dad makes good on his threat and after my three captains see to it everyone misunderstands my past, the only crowds waving at me will be ones carrying pitchforks and torches, trying to run me out of town.

  Terrence slaps me in the belly to get my attention, then points up to the Jumbotron. “You paying them or something ?” he asks me. In big flashing letters the Jumbotron reads: BRODSKY EXPRESS! COMING AT YA!!!

  “Who you blowing up in the booth to get all the attention?” Terrence asks.

  “Tina,” I tell him without a single stutter.

  “No shit? That little Dracula girl runs that thing?”
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  GO GET ’EM! the Jumbotron flashes.

  “Hey, Brodsky,” Scott barks at me. “You want to join us here or you going to paint a picture?”

  “Wake the fuck up, Brodsky,” Tom growls.

  In the huddle, I can’t bring myself to even glance at those two, so I focus on the tops of my shoelaces while scuffing the turf with my cleats. The Columbus Bears are decent but we’re still leading by two touchdowns with only a minute left before halftime. If we win tonight, our record will be good enough to give us home field advantage in the play-offs. The sellout crowd knows this, makes noise, in fact, like tonight’s game is the state championship.

  “Okay, play action reverse on three,” Scott tells us. “Terrence, stay sharp ’cause their nickel package is weak on the left flank and you can bust for some yardage. Pullman, hold your lane. Tommy, drive that cocksucker, sixty-seven, into the ground for me. He’s been up in my grille all night.”

  “Got it.”

  “On three, on three,” Scott repeats. We all clap our chapped hands once—part ritual, part signal we understand the play—then break huddle. I glance up at the Jumbotron again like I got a tick. A cartoon chorus line of dancing hot dogs wearing top hats and twirling canes tells us they’re ready to be eaten in four-packs at the concession stand. I try to refocus on the game but it’s hard. As we set up and Scott shouts his cadence, my eyes wander off number 79, my blocking assignment, and begin searching the crush of fans along the fence one more time, hoping he hasn’t backed down, hoping he won’t leave me hanging.

  Where are you? I wonder.

  “HUT!” Scott grunts. I drive forward into the line, smashing into oncoming shoulders, helmets, and arms, feeling the wall of bodies in front of me slowly give, slowly shift left. Terrence squirts past with the ball, gaining six yards before the Bears’ secondary drags him into the grass. The play’s barely been whistled dead but Terrence already has his head cocked toward the Jumbotron, ready to watch himself in slow-mo instant replay. The crowd stomps and claps its approval.