[sic]
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“You think all this bullshit makes you better than me?” I asked him, stepping up as he stared in disbelief at the phone, which scraped across the linoleum floor. “You think having all this stuff matters? It’s just junk your mom bought you.”
“At least I’ve got a mom.” The punk murmured murder.
My hand flew forward, balling into a fist the moment before my knuckles hit his lip. I twisted the fabric of his shirt around one hand, preparing to punch again. He flinched, head twisted away.
“I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this shit—you, your clothes, or your phone. Play with your fucking toys, I’ll be over here evolving.” I shoved him again. The bully stumbled into the pack; I stepped through them, made it ten feet and was grabbed by a teacher.
I watched our audience as she dragged me to the office. For the first time, something other than pity and disgust shone in the eyes of other students. Respect.
Eureka.
13. The quack
Junior year
“Stupid Barbie bitches,” Nora spat as she stalked off. I struggled to keep up with her. “Bobble-headed trolls…makeup by DuPont. Snotty, snobby, slutty, skinny…” she stuttered and stopped. She’d been waiting for the bus with me when two slimmer, more popular girls targeted her.
“Hey, it’s all right. Don’t worry about them. What they think of you doesn’t matter—you’re great,” I said.
“I want to punch each of them in the throat. Line them up, Jacob, so I can start punching throats.”
“I’ll go grab one,” I joked, turning back to the school. “I’ll hold her arms, you handle the throat-punching.”
Eyes rolled. She groaned and stopped walking, shoulders slumped. “How do you deal with it?”
We locked eyes. “You know how I handle this,” I said.
“Don’t start on that Eureka crap again.” She stretched her hands out across tight shorts, pulling them further down her thighs. We watched the bus stop from fifty feet away.
“Maybe Eureka would do you some good.”
“What are you saying, Jacob? I need to change?”
Couldn’t go there. I could see she was uncomfortable with her own body—but how was I supposed to tell her that? If I even suggested it, she’d go all defensive.
I tried something different: “I like you how you are. I always have, you’re awesome. If you were just like every one of those other girls in there,” I motioned toward the high school, “I wouldn’t even want to talk to you. And what would you do without me?”
“I’d have one less person to worry about. Jesus, did you even start Ms. Lachey’s report? You know it’s like forty percent of your grade, right?”
“Let’s not focus on the ungodly number of things wrong with me. I’m too easy of a target. You’re damn near perfect, Nora—you’re smart, you’re funny. I’m just saying, you can do anything you want. You can just change it, right now.”
“I know,” she said. “And that’s sweet, really. Sometimes, I wonder what I’m missing. The friends, the parties, all that stuff. Being popular…but could you imagine my fat ass with a boyfriend?” she asked, snorting at herself. “I’d probably crush him.”
“I’d go out with you,” I said. The words tumbled out awkwardly; she cocked an eyebrow. We stood and stared at each other for five, ten seconds—felt like ten minutes—until she smiled.
The growling of a diesel engine saved me from a follow-up. “I’ve got stupid Mr. Aschen today, so I’ll call you later tonight, all right?” I yelled as I got in line for the bus.
Nora nodded, still smiling. “You got this,” she reassured me.
My legs swung back and forth under the chair. I stared idly at paintings of beaches, lakes, birds, and other calming crap. What sort of artist was so goddamn boring, they’d spend hours working on pictures of ducks chilling in a pond? What was that supposed to do?
What does this piece mean to you? The critic would ask the artist, hand on chin, ready to be impressed.
I like ducks, the artist would answer. They go ‘quack.’
Another half-hour spent in the waiting room of Mr. Aschen’s office. Another half-hour wasted.
David and Steven sat on either side of me. Kent was inside, apparently going into overtime. He was forty minutes into a thirty minute session, which meant we’d all be staying later than we wanted.
“Probably admitting he can’t read,” Steven mumbled. David snickered.
“Shouldn’t be saying anything,” David muttered. “Tell the shrink what he wants to hear, get in and out. Waste of my time.”
I rubbed my forehead. Being trapped in between all this soothing bullshit gave me a headache. I hated that outside of school, this was the only time I saw the Six.
The door opened and we fell silent. Kent trudged out, eyes misty. Steven snickered; Kent jumped at the smaller boy in mock attack. It worked and he flinched, practically folding between the slats of his chair. Kent smirked and kept walking out the door.
Mr. Aschen called from his office: “David? Are you ready to talk with me?”
“Why do you even ask? Trying to trick me into thinking I have a choice?” David asked as he trudged over to the counselor. They entered the office; the door closed.
Steven leaned forward. “Hey, man. I need your help.”
“What?” I folded my arms across my chest.
“Kent is making my life hell.” He pulled up his shirt; three purple bruises marked his abs. “I can’t handle this, man. Do you know what it’s like having to live with him? School is bad enough; now home is worse.”
“You did call the cops on his dad,” I reminded him.
He fell back into his chair, wet sheen over his eyes. “Don’t blame all this on me! You know you wanted this to happen. You tagged me, didn’t you? Plus, in my head—I thought Kent would be gone and I would still be home. It’s easy on you; you never have to see him.”
“What am I supposed to do? Pretend I called the cops?”
“Exactly,” Steven said. “Take the blame.”
“I can’t, man,” I said. “I mean, I feel bad—and I’m glad Mr. Gimble is gone, but you know…”
“Do you know what I’m going through? Fuck.” He clutched his head. “I tried to do everyone a favor. Get rid of the landlord—everyone wanted it. We all know he was a piece of shit. I did the right thing. Then they find a roach in my dad’s ashtray. Then we’ve got a drug dog tearing up the trailer, and they find his stash. So, who cares if they stepped on my Playstation, right? Because they’re taking me with them. Apparently, I can’t live by myself. I’m sixteen! Bullshit. And, my dad was fine. But David and Cameron, you know—his mom completely lost it. Her mom loaned her out for rent—someone needed to shine the light on all that shit. I’m glad this happened, but goddamn if it doesn’t hurt. Everyone dragged out of their homes…I didn’t plan on that. You gotta help me carry this.”
How was I supposed to answer? Everything he said was true.
Steven stood. “How about you take the blame for the same reason I went through with it?”
A cold chill crept up the base of my spine. I didn’t try to run. “Come on, don’t do this.” Weak objection.
Steven stepped across the room and touched me on the arm, where my hand clenched the chair. “Tag.”
“Are you serious?”
“Hey, man—you get to enjoy life without the landlord, right? Well, pay your part for it. Please.”
Shit. I did feel bad for him. I could imagine Steven, miserable at home and at school, constantly being picked on by someone. And in a way, he had a point. Nothing in Broadway was right. Eureka changed it all.
No real choice, then. Not even a real tag; just a manipulation. But, he needed my help.
I stood and marched out of the office. Kent waited outside, hugging legs to chest, chubby jowls spread out across the knees where his head rested.
I sat down. “Hey, man,” I said.
“Hey,” he responded, face sullen, eyes down.
“Sorry about all this.” Poor Kent. He might be a little violent, but with a dad like his—whose fault was that?
Kent nodded, yellow bangs of his bowl-cut grown out long enough to reach his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t feel sorry; it’s not your fault.” He saw an ant on the cement below him, and smashed it with his thumb. “I hate foster care. It’s like school. My whole life is school.”
I twisted around and glanced at Steven, who stared through the window inside, pointing at his watch.
“I need to tell you something,” I said. “Please don’t beat the crap out of me after I do.”
Kent sniffed, then turned to look at me. “What?”
I told my lie: “This is my fault. You’ve been blaming Steven, but I’m the one who called the police. We were in Steven’s trailer and he tagged me. I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen. I just wanted to protect Cameron.”
He watched me, searching my face for something. In truth, I did feel partly responsible, and so it wasn’t hard to commit to the lie.
“So…we okay?” I prodded, after he just kept staring.
The landlord’s son stood, pushed the bangs out of his eyes. Staring up at him really drove home how tall he was, how big. At least a hundred pounds on me. Kent looked at the parking lot, laughed. No humor in it.
I didn’t have a chance to hear what came next. The door to the counselor’s office swung open. David stormed out, practically leaping over Kent and I. Mr. Aschen came through the door and—
14. Blackbird
Now
Mr. Aschen finishes the sentence for his past self: “—I shouted ‘David, there’s more to discuss.’ But I was wrong. David’s problem was obvious from the first time he opened his mouth—” He’s interrupted by the sound of a woman screaming savagely. We turn to stare out the small square window of the interview room.
The howling is severe, coming from a small wretch who bites and scratches at the three guards trying to control her. Spiny hands cling to any surface they can find purchase; limbs extend insect-like, roach clinging to drain.
A guard grabs her arm but she wrenches free, running down the hallway, away from her captors. When she reaches the door at the other end and it won’t open, she claws at the barrier. No luck; the men corner her and wrestle her to the ground.
Mr. Aschen and I are standing, peering through the tiny window. When one of the prison guards lifts his baton to strike the still-struggling woman, I look away. My counselor does the same.
“You were saying?” I ask.
He looks shaken, deep wrinkles exaggerating every detail of his pained expression. “Nothing. Please, Jacob. Who killed David Bloom?”
“We’ll figure it out together. Let me get you closer to another suspect, then. You can’t understand this without understanding Emily.”
*
Junior year, Spring
“Slut,” one of the blondes said to her friend.
“Whore,” her friend responded.
“Skank,” came the rebuttal.
They weren’t talking to each other, though it might seem that way from a distance. They were talking about Emily, who waited for the bus beside me.
This was a common tactic employed by the vipers. If we fought back, they’d sound their alarms. To teachers, they’d look like the victims, even with their venom in Emily’s veins.
But, Emily bent back fangs. She was all dyed black hair and army boots, thick mascara and blood colored lipstick. Lithe, pale frame covered in leather bangles and bracelets, studs and spikes. Most people left the house with varying degrees of comfort and style in mind. Emily? War.
“You know what I look forward to most about my life?” she asked me, tone dripping sarcasm.
“What?”
“Complete lack of responsibility for my future,” Emily answered. The two blondes stopped talking. “I can’t wait to abandon this token education and latch myself to some successful man, so I can stop being asked to do all this thinking.”
“Delightful,” I exclaimed. “I hope one day, I can afford to have sex with you.”
“At least I can get a man,” one of the blondes responded, finally addressing Emily.
Emily only smiled, painted lips curved tightly—bow bent back, ready to fire. She took her time responding, first glancing down at herself. Creamy skin, tight body, all visible through the cigarette burns in her clothes. Looked like something you’d sacrifice a virgin to summon.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Emily asked the snakes. “The joke is on you. You’re barely a person; you just do what you’re told. The hair, the makeup, the way you dress. It’s a script! The music you like, the movies, the way you talk. Just so when you and all your identical friends are lined up at the sorority mixer, you’ll have a chance of being bought.”
The blonde scoffed, but stayed quiet. Teeth sucked, tongues clucked; both girls retreated, dissatisfied. These girls were nail clippers, and Emily was bolt cutters.
“That’s exactly why they don’t like you. All that logic,” I said.
She hadn’t heard. Emily was distracted: she retrieved a vibrating cell phone from the child’s lunch-box she used as a purse. “David wants something. Want to come see what it is?”
“How’d you get a phone?” I asked, incredulous.
“I told an old man I would answer when he called. Do you want to come, or not?”
“Yeah, of course.” How could I say ‘no’ to that? “Where is he?”
“Near. C’mon.” Emily stood; I followed her, abandoning the bus. We walked around the school, watching the last few teachers escape as evening fell. We crossed the soccer field and ended at the baseball diamond. David stood at the corner of the concession stand, spray paint can in hand, work of art splayed out on the wall before him.
He’d painted an enormous human eye. Underneath this, the words: ‘You are who they say you are.’
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Bored,” he said simply, staring at his handiwork with one hand on his chin. “This isn’t doing it for me. I need to break into the office. Are you both okay with that?”
“God, yes,” Emily exclaimed. “Give me something to do. What are we waiting for?”
“The office?” I asked. “Do you really think that’s a good plan? Aren’t there cameras?”
David stared, eyes burning holes through me. “Are you really worried about getting kicked out of school?” he asked. “I mean, what do you plan on doing with your life, Jacob? Wal-Mart greeter? We’ve got a shot at doing something real here. Who cares what the teachers think?”
A hundred objections came to mind. I might’ve pointed out David’s spotless reputation and how he’d never gotten in trouble, let alone punished. I might’ve pointed out that my distant future wasn’t the concern, but rather the weeks of detention I’d face.
But I didn’t. With David standing there, I really only one had option all along. “All right, all right. Let’s do this.”
We followed David back to the central campus of the school. His lean frame strolled effortlessly across the field, as though he might walk for years and never show fatigue, some natural wanderer.
I held the door open for them; we entered the halls. Eerily calm, after school. Voices ricocheted by, fading echoes—a volleyball team, a choir practice. But mostly, the campus was deserted.
David stopped outside the entrance to the school’s office. I glanced up the hallway; no one coming, yet.
Black fingernails wrapped around the doorknob as Emily twisted. Locked.
“Can you pick a lock?” she asked.
“What are you, a secret agent? C’mon.” David grinned and pulled a tangled key-chain from his pocket; it jangled noisily. “They lock all the doors, but they don’t lock the janitor’s closet where they keep the keys. People are unbelievable.”
The office door swung slowly open. I was twelve again, on a stolen bike, standing outside a house David broke into.
This time, I didn’t make the s
ame mistake, didn’t even hesitate. I followed Emily and David inside.
Silence. A familiar pressure, like being underwater. The frantic sensation of trespassing. I froze in my steps, breath coming in rapid gasps as the blood seemed to drain from my head.
My two companions must have been immune. They walked ahead of me, chuckling, pointing at computers, file cabinets and locked desks, speculating what they might hold.
“Not here. We have to go deeper, in the vault,” David whispered.
The vault? I didn’t dare ask. Didn’t want to sound stupid. I followed them past the principals’ and nurses’ offices to the end of a narrow hallway. At its end: a thick metal door, slightly ajar.
Emily swung open the vault door, holding it open. Rows of filing cabinets greeted us.
“The permanent records,” David said, leaning in and taking a big breath of the drawer he’d opened. “The only reason anyone does anything in high school. This file is your whole identity. If you run for office someday, they check your record. Colleges, law schools—they all want to know what’s in the file. Your entire identity, as far as that part of the world is concerned. Right here, just open and waiting.”
“Make a girl thirsty,” Emily mumbled.
David opened another drawer. A column of papers slid out, stacks of neatly divided records. He thumbed through them, chuckling at his findings.
“This is crazy,” he said. “We’re holding their histories. If I scratch out a line here, make a note there—it’ll be a part of who they are. If I put a piece of paper in here that says this guy’s dad abused him, everyone will think that’s the case. Scared of the color green? Why not. Raised by wolves? Sure.”
His finger traced up and down the filing cabinets, searching for a particular record. When he found the cabinet holding his own permanent file, David retrieved the manila folder and pulled the documents out. “I can’t believe someone could hold this over me. Why do we let this happen?” The liberator bent the pages in half, then crammed them into his back pocket. These pages were replaced by a folded note that he withdrew from a front pocket.