The Bravest Thing

by Laura Lascarso

  “Give me your shirt,” he shouts hoarsely. My hands curl into fists as my head swivels around to make sure no one is hiding in the bushes. I dare any of them to step to me now. I should have known they’d come after Hiro. That Trent would hurt him to get to me. Because Trent’s a coward and a piece of shit.

  This is all my fault.

  I pull off my shirt and hand it over to him. He gingerly puts it on, then doubles over in pain. I rush over and grip his shoulders carefully to help him stand.

  “Is it your ribs?”

  “Yeah,” he utters through clenched teeth. They must have bruised or broken a rib for him to be in that much pain. His arms and legs look okay, thank God.

  Hiro stays hunched over for a minute, then slowly rises to a standing position.

  “You’re hurt. Let me take you to the hospital. We can call the police from there. Trent’s not going to get away with this. This is a hate crime.”

  Hiro shakes his head like he can’t believe I suggested it. Then he starts laughing. It sounds a little unhinged.

  “This isn’t a hate crime, Berlin. It’s just boys being boys.” He copies our country accent. “Just a little smear the queer. A little rough-and-tumble after the big game.”

  I edge in closer. I should have settled this thing with Trent myself a long time ago, but I was selfish, a coward. And now they’ve hurt Hiro to punish me.

  “That’s not what this is. Come on. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  Hiro shakes his head. His left eye is swollen and his lip is cut. I’ll do so much worse to Trent and whoever was with him. But first I have to get Hiro to a hospital.

  “I’m done.” His voice is empty. He curls inward, protecting his ribs. “The fucking bigot brigade wins again.”

  Hiro straightens up and walks stiffly toward his bike. I follow behind, not knowing what to do. I don’t try to touch him even though that’s what I want most of all, to just hold him.

  “You shouldn’t be driving,” I say. “Please, let me take you to the hospital so they can look you over. Your parents can meet us there. We don’t have to go to the police right away.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t you get it? We’re not going to the police, ever. You don’t even know your own privilege. Jesus, you’re just like the rest of them.”

  “I’m not,” I say weakly. I’d never do this to another person, but I’ve also never done anything to stop Trent. Hiro isn’t his first victim. There were others Trent has bullied and intimidated over the years. I stood by and watched it all.

  I lift Hiro’s motorcycle from where they kicked it over. “Please come with me.” I grab for his hand, but he tears it away.

  “Go home, Berlin.”

  He dons his helmet, climbs onto his bike, and kicks on the engine, drowning me out with the roar of his motorcycle. He disappears into the night in a cloud of dust.

  I run back to my truck, thinking I can at least follow him to make sure he gets home safely, but by the time I’m on the road, the sound of his motorcycle is a distant hum, and he’s gone.

  Hiroku

  ADDICTION IS a mind game. When I was in rehab, it was easy to stay clean, because the pills they had me on made me feel dead inside and there was no easy way to get my drug of choice. Snorting antidepressants just isn’t the same.

  In Lowry, it was harder because I knew I could drop in to Austin in an afternoon and be high within the hour, but I kept thinking of my mom visiting me in rehab, how sad and tired she looked, how patient she’d been with me, how unconditional her love, even when I was fucking up left and right. I thought of my sister Mai when she graduated from high school and how I wanted to be someone worthy of her company. I thought of my father and hoped that someday I’d be able to turn this ship around or bail it out enough to have some kind of relationship with him.

  I thought of Seth and how if I let my addiction get the better of me, then he’d win. Anger is a strong motivator—at least, it is for me—and I was fucking pissed. But in all those scenarios, the reason I was able to stay sober was because I wanted it. Because I still had some small shred of hope that if I could just get away from Seth, my life would be better. That I might even be happy, or at least not so fucking sad all the time. I’d find those highs naturally, through my art or in sports, maybe even with another guy.

  There is no future for me in Lowry. Berlin suggested I go to the cops. What a joke. They aren’t going to do shit about it, not even with the proof of Trent’s hate crime on my chest. A queer kid versus the high school quarterback? Berlin is delusional if he thinks Trent is going to be punished for what he did to me, and I can’t be drawn into his fantasyland anymore.

  What I want now more than ever, to deal with the pain and degradation, the fucking hopelessness that is my situation, is to get high as fuck. To fucking forget Lowry ever existed, wipe it off the map completely. Drugs treat the symptoms, Dr. Denovo warned me, not the problem.

  The problem is beyond me, and when faced with the choice, I’ll take the devil I know.

  I head for Seth’s apartment.

  IT’S NEARING eleven when I arrive at Seth’s place, the Berlin hour, as I’ve come to think of it, when he’d text me after practice or when we’d meet. But those days are over. The stick of dynamite has blown the town to smithereens, and with it went the fair-haired sheriff and his deputy.

  I stand outside Seth’s door and lean my forehead against it, debating with myself. I can still walk away. I can go home, sleep it off, and start over tomorrow morning. I’ll take online school. My mom will let me if she sees what they’ve done, but I don’t want her to know. Her son has been branded for being a faggot. She’ll blame herself for coming to Lowry, even though it was my fault we had to leave Austin in the first place. Some part of me wishes they’d just killed me, so I won’t have to live with it. Every time I look in the mirror, I’ll see it. Every time I’m with someone, they’ll see it. Jesus Christ, it feels like the walls are closing in on me.

  I hit Seth’s door with the palm of my hand, once. He probably isn’t even home. Then what will I do? Get on my motorcycle and fucking ride. The idea appeals to me. I can get lost out west, just disappear altogether. Dip behind the horizon like the setting sun.

  I turn away from the door as it opens and Seth appears, shirtless, a glazed look in his eyes. He’s either just gotten high or gotten off, maybe both.

  “Hiroku,” he says like we’re both trapped in the same dream. He reaches out one hand to touch me, but I step back. He doesn’t like that, but he tempers his expression. He was never good at hiding his feelings. “You’re hurt.” His eyes turn soft and misty like he’s going to cry. It annoys me, mostly because I’m mad at myself for coming here and saddened by how badly I need him to want me. Despite everything, he did make me feel as essential as the air he breathed.

  Seth steps back into his apartment, narrows his eyes, and says to someone unseen, “Leave.”

  Seconds later, a pretty young thing stumbles through the doorway, barefoot, holding his shoes in one hand and clutching his shirt to his chest. Of course Seth hasn’t been celibate in my absence. Still, it never feels good to meet your replacement.

  Seth doesn’t say anything more to me, just opens the door wider and steps aside so I can enter. He closes it quickly behind us and deadbolts it from the inside. He’d probably padlock it if he thought that would keep me here.

  “What are you wearing?” he asks. He creeps closer and sniffs the shirt. It smells like Berlin, the forest after the rain. Seth knows it isn’t my smell. His shrewd eyes narrow.

  “I need a shower.” I haven’t assessed the damage they did to my chest, and my face isn’t feeling too great either. I have a high tolerance for pain, but this is in another stratosphere. I hope the pain is worse than the injury itself, but somehow I doubt it.

  Seth motions to the bathroom, even though I know where it is already. Not much has changed since I left him. Unlike me, he didn’t feel the need to clean house. The apartment has the sam
e brothel atmosphere, with lots of curtains and moody lighting, floor cushions and plush pillows set up in different areas. Perfect for blowing your mind with drugs, then blowing each other. I cringe to remember all I did in this apartment with him, for him, at the pleasure of his company, the way he’d trot me out like a doll and manipulate me in front of others. I had to be high to withstand it.

  I head to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. My mind is fuzzy from being in his apartment. Seth’s everywhere all at once, a barrage of sensations. All those memories I’ve scrubbed clean from my psyche are swirling back now, filling my head with conflicting emotions.

  I turn on the shower to drown out the sound of my whimpers as I peel off Berlin’s T-shirt. My mangled flesh has fused with the cloth, and it hurts like a bitch getting it off.

  “Fuck me,” I utter when I see the brand in the mirror. I grip the counter to keep myself from passing out, splash some cold water on my face, and convince myself to look again. It’s hideous, a fist-sized lesion on my left pectoral, directly over my heart. I wonder if that was Trent’s intention or if he just got lucky.

  What remains of my flesh is gooey and bloody, with areas of blackened, charred skin. I look like a piece of meat. I can’t catch my breath, so I grab a towel and stuff my face into it, trying to calm myself down.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  Even though I locked the door, Seth is there at my shoulder, a horrified look on his face, which freaks me out even more. He drops the towel and clothes he was carrying and grabs my shoulder to see the wound better.

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” I snarl and tear myself away, stretching the tender, broken skin in the process.

  “Did that redneck do this to you?” he demands. His eyes are wild. Is it because he truly cares about me, or is it because someone else has ruined his property?

  “His friends.”

  “Shit, Hiroku, where the fuck have you been?”

  “Hillbilly hell.” I point to the bathroom door. “Get the fuck out, Seth.”

  He glances again at the mirror, where my hideous flesh is still on display. It looks like a zombie tried to eat out my heart. I look fucking disgusting. I want to die. But first I want to get high.

  “Should we go to the emergency room?” he asks hesitantly. “Or the police?”

  “No, I’ll handle it. Go do what you do best.” He studies me again, almost like he doesn’t recognize me, then bows slightly and backs out of the bathroom, leaving the door open. I wonder if it’s on purpose, so I’ll know who’s still in charge.

  In the shower, I finally let go and cry, shaking with rage and digging my fingers into my arms to keep my mind from deserting my body. I stand with my back to the water because the sting of it on my chest is too much, even for me. After I’ve cleaned the filth and sweat and fear off my skin, I climb out of the shower, dry myself gingerly, wrap the towel around my waist, and locate Seth’s hydrogen peroxide and bandages.

  “I can do that for you,” he says. He’s back in the bathroom, looking for any opportunity.

  “I got it.” I unscrew the lid and douse my wound with peroxide. It hisses back at me like a snake, foaming up something vicious. I grit my teeth as a fresh burn eats away at my flesh.

  “Fuck, Hiroku.” Seth covers his ears with his hands and squeezes his eyes shut. He used to do the same thing after we fought. Like he can’t handle my pain, even when he’s the one to inflict it. I thought it was because he felt guilty, but maybe he truly feels it himself. He does tend to make everything about him.

  After it airs out a bit, I slather it with Neosporin. Only then do I realize what the mark is, a semicircle with a W cradled inside. Webber Ranch, the same mark I’ve seen on Berlin’s cattle. Trent thought this through. If I go to the police, he’ll say it was Berlin who did it. It happened on Berlin’s land, and Trent made it look like Berlin set me up. I can’t even swear Berlin wasn’t there, since I didn’t see anyone’s faces.

  Thank God Berlin wasn’t there. Thank God Trent didn’t think to make him watch. I shake my head to rid myself of all their sadistic faces.

  “I fucking hate Lowry, Texas,” I spit at my reflection, then bandage up the massacre of flesh on my chest. I can’t bear to look at it anymore.

  “I’m so sorry, Hiroku,” Seth says miserably.

  Which part is he sorry for? The drugs? His cruelty? My banishment? Or is he simply sorry that I’m suffering? I don’t ask him, though. I can’t handle another confrontation tonight. He comes up behind me and rubs my shoulders. I let him because I’m weak and it’s inevitable, the two of us. My willpower is shattered. The shirt he laid out for me is my favorite Petty Crime shirt. I pick it up but I don’t put it on because I don’t want anything tugging at the bandage.

  “I knew you had my shirt, you bastard.”

  “It’s all I had left of you,” he says pathetically, probably to make me feel bad. It almost works.

  Seth kisses the side of my shoulder, letting his lips graze across my skin, sending a shiver down my spine, part pleasure, part revulsion. I shouldn’t be here, but I have no other place to go. He trails one fingertip down my arm and appraises me. I know he likes what he sees, aside from my recent defacement. I need that right now, to feel beautiful in someone’s eyes.

  “I missed you,” he says, his voice dripping with desire. He leads me out to the living room to a soft, velvet chaise fit for a prince. On his glass coffee table are three pretty white lines waiting for me like virgin brides.

  “Feel better, baby,” Seth whispers like the devil on my shoulder, but the devil is inside me, a sleeping dragon stirring awake.

  I snort all three lines and sink back into the plush cushion, which is a cloud, and I’m floating up and away from all of earth’s bullshit. I’m an angel with wings, a fucking supernova. My powers are limitless and the bigots way down on earth are ants. I crush them with my mind, and my magnificence outshines the stars.

  Berlin

  I DON’T remember driving to Trent’s house. My mind is still reeling with what I just witnessed, my worry over Hiro, my fury at Trent and the guys I once considered my closest friends.

  I barrel up to the Crosses’ front door and pound the solid oak with both fists. With a fiery rage coursing through my veins, I could have ripped the door right off its hinges. Coach Cross answers.

  “Webber,” he says with a sneer on his face, a cold beer in his hand. “Is it true, then? You a fucking faggot?”

  “Where’s Trent?” I blame Coach Cross too. He made it the standard to hate on gays by calling us pussies and faggots and demanding that we prove our manhood in stupid ways. His homophobia is a cancer that’s diseased the whole team.

  “Trent’s busy,” Coach says to me with a cold, hard look in his eyes.

  “Tell him I want his ass on the front lawn or I’ll smash his window. He can come face me like a man.”

  “Is that what you are?” Coach asks me, his lip curling in disgust. “A man?”

  I come in close to him. I want him to see the fury in my eyes, feel the rage rolling off my skin. Violence is a tang in the air, and my fists are clamoring for a fight. “I’m more of a man than you’ll ever be, Coach.”

  I dare him to come at me with his fists the way he’s done with Trent his whole life. I double-dog dare him. I’ve been hoping for a reason to lay him out ever since I saw Trent’s first black eye when we were eleven. The beatings only stopped when Trent grew to be bigger than him. But like a true coward, Coach Cross doesn’t start fights unless he knows he can win them.

  “It’s too late for this shit,” he says, then slams the door in my face. I pace their front lawn, clenching and unclenching my fists, thinking about what I have in the back of my truck that can break a window. The door opens and Trent comes stumbling out on the lawn, rubbing his eyes like he’s been asleep. What a fucking liar.

  “All these years we been friends,” I say to him with my finger in his face. “I’ve had your back the whole time because I felt bad for
you because your dad’s a meanass man. But no more, Trent, and never again. We are fucking done. You’re a sick, twisted fuck, and I’m goddamned ashamed to say I ever considered you my best friend.”

  Trent screws up his face like he’s unimpressed, the same cruel sneer as his father. “You’ve got a whole lot more to be ashamed of than that, Berlin. You like the treat we left for you?”

  “I’m going to the police. I’m going to tell them what you did. They’ll arrest you. You’ll get kicked off the team, and you’ll fucking deserve it.”

  “I’ve been here all night.” He spreads his arms like he doesn’t give a fuck what I say.

  “There are boot prints and tire treads all over my property.” I’ll make sure the police see the proof.

  “I’ll tell them it was your idea. After all, it was your brand.”

  I don’t understand what he means by it. My brand? Then I remember the way Hiro had slumped over, the pain he was in, how he leaned to one side so that his shirt didn’t touch the skin. I thought it was his ribs.

  He didn’t want me to know what they did to him.

  “You branded him?” My voice is shaking, and so are my hands. The ground tilts, and I feel like I’m going to puke.

  Trent hoots and slaps one knee. “Boy, was he a scrapper. You should be proud of your boy. Took it like a champ.”

  I can’t control my hands. They shove Trent backward, and I tackle him to the ground. We’re about the same size, but I’m a lot stronger, plus I’m furious. We wrestle like we did when we were coming up, but there’s nothing playful about it now. I want to pound his flesh with my fists. Make him bleed. Fucking destroy him. I pummel his ribs, and he grunts in pain. I cross his face. His head snaps to the side from the force of the blow, and his mouth spews blood like a fountain. It’s not enough.