Shooter

by Caroline Pignat

  “So he’s dead?” Xander cuts in again.

  Izzy rolls her eyes.

  “Yes. He died this past winter,” Alice explains. “Gran said she couldn’t keep the kennels and run the farm and take care of Noah all on her own. They only let him attend high school until he’s twenty-one, so that means this is his last year here at St. F.X., too. So I told Gran, she isn’t on her own. That I’m not going anywhere. That I’m not Mom.” She shrugs. “Gran needs me. Noah needs me.”

  It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. Not the scrawny klutz that came tripping into the washroom. Not the blushing nerd who can’t shut up. Just a girl who cares—a sibling who would do anything for her brother. No matter what the cost.

  Maybe that’s what siblings are supposed to be like.

  “What about what you need, Alice?” Izzy’s voice brings me back. But I know what Alice is going to say, even before I hear it.

  “My needs don’t really matter,” she says. “It’s always about Noah.”

  Like how it’s always about Randy. Even now.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t always like it,” Alice says. “But that’s just the way things are.”

  And you can’t change the way things are.

  ALICE

  The Hulk is watching me, but his expression is different, somehow. He gets it. He knows what I’m talking about.

  But Isabelle clearly doesn’t. “Sounds like you’re a supporting character in your own life.” She shakes her head, disgusted. “It’s your life, Alice. You should be the lead.”

  I don’t expect her to understand. “It is what it is.”

  “It’s not fair!” Isabelle gives me that look—the one I see countless times from strangers whenever Noah stims or hums, freaks or flaps, or bobs or babbles—whenever he does the million things that make him Noah.

  They look at me with pity.

  I hate that the most. Pity doesn’t do me any good, and I should know. I’ve wallowed in it many nights. Right around 4:00 a.m., when those questions I buried all day came bubbling back up:

  Why?

  Why did she leave me?

  Why didn’t she take me with her?

  Why doesn’t she call more often?

  Why doesn’t she love me?

  Gran says Mom doesn’t have the strength to deal with Noah. Or the guts to face the guilt. It’s just easier for her to stay away. To keep busy. To forget.

  The Hulk speaks, his voice strangely quiet. “Life’s not fair.”

  “Not fay-yar,” Noah echoes, in his Scar voice, “not fay-ar. Life’s not fay-ar.” He has the words and the British accent down. I wonder if he has any idea what it really means.

  The Hulk continues, “But you can’t run from it—no matter how hard it gets. Because if you start running—you just never stop.” He looks at me, in me. He understands. “I don’t know about missing moms, but I’d give up anything…anything to have my brother here.”

  And for the first time in my life, I see a look, not of pity, but of longing. The Hulk wants what we have, Noah and I.

  I meet his eyes. Hold them for a moment. “Thanks…Hogan.” He shrugs it off like it’s no big deal. But it is, for me it’s huge.

  “Okay—but your brother is definitely dead,” Xander blurts at Hogan. “That I know because—”

  “Xander!” Isabelle cuts him off. “Geez, don’t you have a filter?”

  “No.” Confused, he looks down at his camera. “I never use one. I’d rather see things as they really are.”

  We sit in awkward silence, looking everywhere but at each other.

  “He’s right. It’s true.” Hogan lets out a deep breath. “It’s been two years, I should be able to at least say it.”

  But he doesn’t.

  Xander tilts his head and stares at Hogan. “But is it true that you killed him?”

  I gasp. People gossip like that behind Hogan’s back—but only Xander is dumb enough, or maybe honest enough, or brave enough to say it to his face.

  Hulk Hogan killed his brother.

  I heard he stabbed him in the change room.

  No, he squashed his head like a melon—right between his palms.

  Blood everywhere.

  It can’t be true, right? It has to be just a rumor. It’s too terrifying, too unbelievable. Hogan stares at the splatters of red drops on the white tiles. Blood from my cut. Nobody moves, or speaks, or even breathes.

  “I did it,” he finally says, his voice barely a whisper. “I killed my brother.”

  HOGAN

  Randy and me were raised to fight. Hell, my parents even named us after their WWE heroes Macho Man Randy Savage and Hulk Hogan. That was us. “The Mega Powers.” He was two years older than me. Two years stronger. Two years smarter. And I hated it. Hated losing all the time.

  No matter how I tried as a kid, Randy always won. Beating me, literally, with his chokeholds and atomic drops, his hair-pull hangman, and then, finally, jumping off our bunk beds in his signature finish: a diving elbow drop. “Oooooh yeah!”

  “Randy!” Mom would yell from the kitchen. “Stop picking on your brother!”

  He’d laugh then. And that only made it worse—that I needed my mom to save me.

  “Had enough, Hulkster?” he’d tease with that stupid smirk. And, room spinning, I’d get up and go back for more, when really I should’ve stayed down.

  I should have stayed down.

  In grade 10, I made the St. F.X. football team—much to Randy’s surprise. And I was good—much to mine. All that wrestling, all those years learning to deke Randy’s grasp, learning to push back, I guess it paid off. In tryouts, I blew past the O-line and broke through the block. Before I knew it, I was diving for Randy. Body-slammed him before he had a chance to throw. I stood up over him, held out my hand. But he slapped it away.

  Holy crap, it felt good.

  “Nice hit, Hogan,” Coach Dufour said, coming to stand beside me. He smacked my shoulder pad. “Looks like there’s a new King in town.”

  Everyone laughed. Well, everyone but Randy.

  Coach double-teamed me, made it even harder for me to get at Randy. But that made me push even more. Pretty soon, it got to the point where Coach pulled me aside. “You can ease up a bit when you break through the line. Just in practice. I can’t have you breaking our quarterback.”

  I felt like my chest was going to burst. He might as well have shouted at me to “stop picking on your brother.”

  Everything changed then. People noticed me. Randy wasn’t the KING. He was just R. KING now. I smiled when Mom sewed his new name patch on his game jersey, and even more when she sewed mine: H. KING. This was his last year on the team. But I was just getting started. Who knew how far I could go? Even Coach said that.

  And at the home opener, I had this feeling their quarterback was gonna pass to the tight end, so I broke off the line and stuck with my man. My gut was right, and next thing I know, I’m catching an interception. An interception! I even ran it back the length of the field for the winning touchdown as Izzy and her friends jumped and cheered me on. For the first time, I felt like the Fabulous, the Incredible, the Amazing Hogan King. Hell, after I reached the end zone I even did Hulk Hogan’s signature move—cupped my hand to my ear to hear the crowd roar.

  And did they ever.

  I was a new man after that. I was someone people noticed and admired. I wasn’t Randy’s little brother; I was the Hulk. I could do anything. Maybe even get Izzy. Perfect, amazing Isabelle Parks. Because if I had her, then I’d have it all. And when she kissed me at the bonfire that night—I felt like that shooting star overhead. I thought it was a sign, that streak of light.

  But I know now, it was what it was. A hunk of nothing, burning up and fizzling out as it fell.

  “Nice game, loser,” Randy said in the locker room after our defeat in game five. It was my fault. I’d played terribly. Whatever streak I’d been on early in the season had fizzled out. Their running back broke through my gap twice, and
even the quarterback snuck around my end—all of them touchdowns. All of them my fault. Even the interception, the gift thrown right to me, hit me in the helmet and bobbled free.

  He stood in his underwear, still dripping from his shower as he rubbed his hair with a towel. “Maybe football isn’t your sport. Why don’t you see if Isabelle wants you on her cheerleading team? No, wait, they won’t want you doing the lifts.” He laughed, and threw the wet towel at me. “You might fumble a cheerleader.”

  “The way he’s playing,” Darren Greene echoed, “fumbling might be the only thing he’ll ever do with a cheerleader!”

  The room exploded in jeering.

  “You’re right,” I admitted, “their three TDs were on me. But our TDs…or lack of them,” I turned to face Randy, “dude, that’s on you.”

  His smile dropped.

  I waved my arm at the team. “They can’t catch…if you can’t throw.”

  The room went silent. I’d broken some unwritten rule, I guess. Or maybe, maybe I’d hit the nail on the head. He’d been off his game just the same as me. Only nobody called him on it. Nobody ever called Randy on anything.

  I opened my locker to grab my shirt and I never saw him coming. My face hit the metal doors and he pummeled my side. I shoved back, hard. He staggered into his teammates, who had circled around, but they pushed him up, pushed him on. It was our WWE bedroom brawl all over again, only this time he had an audience and they were cheering his name.

  Ran-DEE! Ran-DEE! Ran-DEE!

  I was on their team too, but no one was cheering for me. I realized then how stupid I was to think I mattered. A lineman, like me, was expendable. A finger. One of many. But a quarterback, well, he was the heart of the team—and I’d stupidly just taken a stab at it.

  I looked at them all chanting his name, eager to see me get my ass kicked.

  Screw them! I turned my back. Screw them all!

  “C’mon,” Randy taunted. He shoved my shoulder. Once. Twice.

  My fists balled.

  “Let’s go…Hulkster,” he said, sarcastically. “Show us what you got.”

  He jumped me from behind. Slipped his palm up around my neck in a half nelson. And, just like that, he had me locked in, driving me to my knees. I felt it bubbling up inside me, that familiar rage. The one only Randy could stir up.

  “Quit it!” I yelled, breaking free and shoving him hard. My chest heaved.

  “Quit it!” he mimicked. “Or what? You gonna tell Mom?”

  He smirked, that stupid smile I always hated. “Maybe I should give Isabelle a call. Show her what it’s like to be with a real Macho Man.” He thrust his hips in and out. “Oooooh yeah!”

  I don’t remember running at him or tackling him or even hitting the floor, next thing I knew we were punching, wrenching, kneeing—in a full-on, all-out brawl. Only we weren’t kids goofing around on carpets and mattresses, we were almost five hundred pounds of muscle and madness.

  Randy slammed my head into the floor, and I saw stars explode and fizzle. When I came to on my back, he was standing on the bench just over me, getting the crowd wild as he readied for his classic diving elbow drop. The one I’d seen a million times before.

  Only this time…I struck first.

  I kicked hard. Swept his legs out from under him. Randy fell back off the bench. Back into the lockers, slamming his head against the corner of the one I’d left open.

  He dropped.

  “Ooooooo!” the guys shouted. “Nice one, Hogan!”

  But I didn’t care what they thought. I didn’t care about any of that as I crawled over to Randy. He hadn’t moved. And Randy never stayed down.

  “Randy?” I turned his face towards me. His eyes were open—but not seeing. A dark gash on the side of his head oozed red. It ran into a sticky puddle that spilled wider and wider with every second.

  “Holy shit!” I shook him slightly. “Randy! Randy! Wake up!” I looked at the team, now silently gathered around us, the terror I felt mirrored and multiplied on their faces.

  “Somebody!” I yelled. “Get help!”

  I lifted Randy’s head and pressed my palm over the wound.

  That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Stop the bleeding?

  Stop the bleeding!

  STOP THE BLEEDING! Please God, make it stop!

  But the blood oozed hot and slick through my fingers; my brother’s life, pooling red in the grooves of the gray-tiled floor as it ran to the drain.

  ISABELLE

  “It was an accident,” I say, but Hogan won’t even meet my eyes.

  I know what he’s thinking, the poor guy. That’s why I have to convince him. I know how much Hogan idolized his brother, and how proud Randy was of him. I don’t know exactly what happened that day in the change room. But whatever it was, I know it was a mistake. It had to be.

  “Hogan. It wasn’t your fault.”

  I tried to tell him that for months after the accident. But he wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t even return my phone calls. It was like a part of him died when his brother did, and he shut everyone out. Even me.

  I thought I mattered more than that.

  Come to think of it, I’ve thought I mattered more to every guy I’ve fallen for. But I get it now. They all saw me as a trophy. A conquest. Another one of their awesome achievements: get Isabelle Parks.

  Hogan, John, Trevor, and now Darren—the players who played me. Did Coach Dufour, like, make that a part of their spring training? Break records. Break the O-line. Break Isabelle’s heart.

  Each time, I thought it was my fault. That I’d done something wrong. Or that I hadn’t been enough. Or gone far enough. And every time a guy shattered my world, Bri came over to patch it together with facials, chick flicks, and two tubs of Chocolate Peanut Butter Häagen-Dazs. When Hogan shut me out. When John dumped me (by text—seriously?!). When Trev and I went on-and-off-again for about four months. After that last messy breakup with Trev, I swore I’d never let any guy EVER hurt me like that again.

  Little did I know, the next person to break my heart would be Bri.

  The worst part of this whole mess isn’t about Darren. Darren is Darren. A prick. And if I admit the truth to myself, maybe he was a bit of a trophy for me, too. I’d never dated a quarterback before. Honestly, our relationship was temporary, at best.

  But Brianne. BRI?

  How could she do that to me?

  We’d been through so much together. Girl Guides. Training bras. Braces. Boyfriends. I was there for her through her parents’ divorce, and all the times she needed a place to escape this past year when Social Services got involved. We were supposed to be each other’s bridesmaids—friends for life. And yet, she threw it all away on a dare. If that’s what it was. A stupid drunken fling.

  Did I mean so little to her, too?

  Alice catches my eye. She looks concerned. After my freak-out, I don’t blame her. I feel like I’m having a heart attack, or a panic attack, or some kind of nervous breakdown.

  My face is flushed, my head is pounding, and my heart literally aches. I take a few deep breaths and close my eyes. One meltdown today is enough. Mom keeps telling me these are “the best days of my life.” Dear God, if things get any worse than this, I won’t be able to take it.

  I look at Alice’s fanny pack. “Got any Tylenol in there?” I’m that desperate. I’d actually take whatever she had.

  “Sorry.” She shakes her head as she pulls out a roll of Life Savers and offers it to me. A green candy peeks from the tattered wrapping. Bits of tissue and dog hairs and god-knows-what-else are stuck to it.

  Okay. Maybe I’m not that desperate. Besides, I usually only eat the red and orange ones.

  Alice holds it out to me and smiles with her big eyes like some kind of demented Twisted Whiskers card. Like she’s offering me her left lung. Like it would literally kill her if I said, Um…no thanks.

  So I take the candy. Pop it in my mouth. Try not to gag. Ugh, the things I do for people.

  “Look, Hog
an,” I say, determined to be heard. He ignored my phone calls and texts back then, but he can’t ignore me now. “I know you must miss your brother. And I think you blame yourself for…for what happened.”

  He picks at his cuticles until they bleed. A habit, I guess, judging by the scabs on his other fingers. Just another way to vent a pressure cooker of pain. I know all about that.

  “But you have to believe it wasn’t your fault.” I need him to get it.

  “What do you know about it, Iz?” He doesn’t look up. “You weren’t there.”

  “No,” I say. “But I know you guys were close. I know how much Randy cared about you.”

  Hogan lifts his eyes to mine. “Cared? Randy didn’t give a crap about me.”

  “What?” I remember the way Randy used to look at Hogan with such pride. Heck, it was Randy who told me Hogan was interested in me. “Don’t be ridiculous. He talked about you all the time.”

  “Ya,” Hogan mutters, “trash-talked.”

  Ohmigod! Why is he being so hard-headed about this? “At least you had a brother. At least you had fifteen years together.”

  Hogan finally looks up, stares at me like what I’m saying isn’t something good. “Yeah. AT LEAST.”

  “Seriously,” I say, “I’d give anything to have a sibling.”

  Everyone thinks they’ll be happy when they get the next iPhone or trip, or Kate Spade purse. But what if you had all of those things? What if you got whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it—and you were still unhappy? What do you hope for then? On the DREX trip, I realized the people we met there had a richness to their families that I’ve never known. And when I came home and pulled back the curtain on my life and saw the real Oz—I saw the sad truth. All this time, I’ve just been kidding myself. My life is not happy. Or perfect. Or loving. It’s empty.

  I don’t expect them to get it. Alice, Hogan, Xander. My life is just too complicated for them.

  I look back at Hogan, willing him, at least, to understand about Randy.

  “I partied with those guys a lot, Hogan. Probably more than you.” He doesn’t argue. We both know it’s true. “And yeah, Randy trash-talked about a lot of guys, but never you. When it came to his big little brother, Hulk Hogan—Randy loved to brag.”