by James Fuerst
She seemed to be telling the truth, but it wasn’t what I wanted to know. “No, Stacy, why’d you go with him in the first place?” That was the best I could do; anything more and I didn’t know what would happen.
Her cheeks were crimson, her eyes were wet, and her shoulders dropped just a little. “Because … he asked me to.”
“And you said okay?!” I felt like hanging myself. It was so obvious, so ridiculous; it was almost funny. Suddenly I wasn’t too fond of that word anymore, okay.
“Uh-huh.” She nodded. “What was I supposed to say?”
“How about fucking no? Did you ever think of that?”
“But he told me he liked me and was begging and whining and crying—I didn’t know what to do!”
“So you just said okay, what the hell, and whack, whack, whacked away?”
There was acid in that, hot blistering acid, but the way it came out almost made me laugh. Not like a good laugh, though. No, there were no gags or punch lines or answers here. It all meant nothing; I could see that now. If you asked her for it, she just handed it over, gave it up. What we’d done meant nothing. What I was after meant nothing. The case meant nothing. All of it was nothing. And that was funny, not like hilarious, but a different kind of funny; bitter and hollow and dead, but funny all the same. I should not have been the least bit surprised. Nah, I’d always been shit, I’d always been a joke, I’d always been nothing, and Stacy was exactly the confirmation I needed.
There was just one more thing I needed to ask.
“Stacy,” I said, “are you a slut?” I just felt like I had to know.
She recoiled, as if I’d slapped her. “What?”
“Are you a slut? It’s a simple fucking question.”
“But why—” She faltered and stepped back. “He begged—”
“Yeah, we covered that already. He whined, he begged, he cried. Fine. The kid’s a baby and a pussy and a liar and a bully. He manipulated you till you said okay, and then he leaned on you and pushed you around and intimidated you and threatened you and got you between a rock and a hard place and made you do something you didn’t want to do. I get that; I get all of that. But that still doesn’t answer my question.”
Stacy looked confused; it might’ve been a little too much for her, maybe because she really wasn’t all that smart. But I wanted an answer, and I was going to get it. “It’s a simple question. Yes or no. Are you a slut?”
Her face plunged. She backed up again, tripped over her heels, and fell on her butt into the grass near the steps leading to Darren’s lawn. She sat there, legs splayed, crumbling, breaking up. I stepped forward and she flinched, covered herself. She had to be scared; she had to. I had problems, I was violent, I’d punched a woman in the face, knocked her out cold, and everybody knew it. So why wouldn’t I beat the piss out of a girl? I was standing over her, fuming, pressing down, losing control, she could see it; I had to know, and she would tell me.
“Answer me.”
“I, I, I—”
I was straddling her knees, bending forward, my fingers curling slowly to fists. “Are … you … a … SLUT?”
“P-p-please, Huge, don’t.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, but wasn’t convincing. “Just answer. Yes or no. Are you a slut?”
“I … I don’t know.”
It stopped me breathless and cold. I might’ve been able to take one or the other, but I couldn’t take that: Stacy didn’t know what she was; she wasn’t anything yet, just like me.
Stacy’s eyes flooded, her mouth wrenched down, she pulled her hands to her face, and she wept: she sobbed and heaved and shook and folded and moaned and the ground was gone, totally gone, and I was pitching forward, plummeting, toppling end over end, losing it, all of it, completely, everything, all of me—gone, nothing, destroyed. I’d made her suffer, I was watching her suffer, right here, up close, and I was less, far less, than I’d ever been before, less than shit or negative numbers. I was filth, scum, a mad dog in need of putting down. And I felt it. Not for me, though, I didn’t feel for me, there was nothing there, nobody home, but for her, I felt for her, how I was wronging her and how she’d been wronged, no matter what she’d done or with whom. Just the threat of a single fucking word had nailed her down, ripped her apart, and skinned her alive, like their words had done to me. But I wasn’t thinking about me, I wasn’t, I was going, I was gone. I leaned over—panting, trembling, crazed—pressed my lips to Stacy’s forehead and whispered, “I’m sorry, Stacy, I am. It’s not you, that’s not you, you’re beautiful, you are.” And I meant it, more than anything I’d ever said.
Because it wasn’t her. It was him, them. What he’d done, what he’d said; what they’d do and say in turn, and what they’d all believe. It didn’t matter if it was right, if it fit, was an error, a mistake, or a bald-faced fucking lie; if enough people said it, and enough went along, then everyone would believe it—it would count, it would stick, it’d be true. And she’d have to live with that; we’d all have to live with that, and that was retarted, truly fucking retarted—and that wasn’t even a word.
But we all did it; we all were retarted. I was, I did it, I’d just done it, I could see that now, although now was too late. I’d come too far, burned the bridges, razed the ground, and there was nothing left behind me and nothing waiting ahead, so I had to run and keep on running because, no matter what I would or would not do, I could not turn back.
I was bolting up the wooden steps, slashing my way up the slope, with nothing in me, before me, or holding me back. I was gone, totally fucking gone.
But I knew where they were.
NINETEEN
I tore through the backyard at a speed that didn’t seem possible—two hundred and fifty to three hundred yards of frantic acceleration, all of it uphill; whipping the extra horses, inventing new gears, seventh gear, eighth gear, ninth gear, faster and faster, leaning forward, digging down, wanting more, stretching for it, tenth gear, eleventh gear, finding more speed, more velocity, but still not enough, never enough, pressing forward, craving more, needing more—racing, crying, and screaming out loud.
It all flashed into view and blurred by so quickly that most of it didn’t register, but what really stuck with me was how everyone just watched. They saw and heard, turned with puzzlement or alarm, snapped to, shook it off, and stepped back or aside. Other than that, they did nothing. A foot, a hand, an elbow, a hip, a knee, a feint step—anything would’ve knocked me off stride and sent me crashing down, but nothing came. I couldn’t blame them. They were just the small-town teenagers of small-town parents, minding their own business and having a good time. Maybe they were confused. Maybe they felt like they were missing something, something important that explained everything and made it all okay. But the many eyes that caught mine seemed to know the danger was real, and just looked on and did nothing.
Maybe I’d missed something, too. Not just at the moment because I was blazing forward, out of control, eyes clouded by tears, and baying like a banshee. No, maybe I’d missed something on one of the many steps I’d taken to get here. Shit, maybe I’d missed a lot of things. Then again, I couldn’t tell, and wouldn’t have stopped anyway.
The first thing I saw as I approached the broad, flat area to the right of Darren’s yard was little furry Chakha over to my far left, at the edge of the swimming pool, with a play-fighting Cynthia on his shoulder as he dove them into the water. I remembered overhearing that Cynthia wanted to hook up, and Neecey busting on her about it, and I guessed this was why, because Chakha wasn’t good looking. Then, just before I dashed through the revelers on the lawn, I caught a quick glimpse of the wood decking at the back of the house, with its crepe paper decorations, citronella candles, patio chairs and lounges, umbrella-ed tables with plastic plates, cups, and napkins on them, the trash can for the keg, one for the wine coolers, and one for the trash, all of which had poster-board signs taped to them, in large, handwritten, Magic Marker bubble script that I recogniz
ed and knew as Neecey’s.
That’s when I realized Neecey could’ve gone into my desk just to get my Magic Markers, and that she could’ve overturned the key to the side drawer without even noticing it. And I knew I could’ve made a mistake there, and that I still could’ve been missing something, maybe something important, and that maybe it had to do with what I saw when the partiers had finished splitting before me—Razor, Neecey, and Darren standing to the right of the barbecue pit, a few feet into the grass, near the hedge and ground lights, away from everyone else, talking.
The music was loud, driving, and jumbled all the way through, and although it was sizzling speed for a kid my age, it still must’ve taken me thirty-five or forty seconds to cover all that ground, enough time for me to realize that I should’ve paused to ask a few more questions before I did what I was going to do. But I was screeching forward, furious and wild, with a hollow heart and a target in sight, lined up and ready to go, which was all I needed and exactly what I got.
Well, sort of.
Left to right, it was Razor, Darren, and Neecey huddled in a semicircle by the hedge, all of them three-quarter lit from below by the ground lights. Neecey saw me first. Her hair was up, her skin was Shake-N-Bake tan; she had on thin hoop earrings, a white tank top, and her hands were on her hips. She looked pretty, she looked great; she always did. When she saw me—I was maybe twenty yards out and closing fast—her dark eyes flashed wide and thick with fear. Almost instantly, though, her face changed; her eyes sank, her mouth frowned, she looked resigned, worried, defeated, like mom’s face when I’d done something wrong, terribly, terribly wrong. It seemed like she was shaking her head no, or started to and stopped, I couldn’t tell which. She stepped back, though, she definitely stepped back: two big steps.
Darren was next. He was standing beside Neecey with his shaggy orange hair, slow brown eyes, pukka bead choker, red Hawaiian shirt, and arms folded on his chest. His face was turned toward Razor and his lips were slightly pursed, like he was skeptical or smelled something bad. But he turned his head a little just as Neecey moved back and caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye—ten yards now and counting—and he looked baffled at first, just like he would. But then he changed, too, right away. His eyes glinted, his mouth turned upward, and he seemed to smile as he unfolded his arms and rubbed his hands together.
I didn’t know exactly what to make of that, and as much as I wanted to crack Darren’s face wide open and watch his brains spill out, his turn would have to wait, because Razor was first on the list. He was on my left, with his flattop hair, tight face, thin brow, narrow eyes, cruddy braces, and a dark blue Jim McMahon football jersey, cut off at the shoulders to show his long bony arms, which he was waving and flapping around, palms up, like he was asking or begging for something. Oh, he was, but he was focused on Neecey and Darren, so he didn’t look up or see me coming at all.
I heard that cracking shrill voice of his in the split second before it happened, and I realized Razor was just some spoiled, candy-assed kid who played quarterback and bullied people and had rich parents who never said no, and that he’d been given all he ever wanted but still held his breath, stomped his feet, cried, yelled, and threw fits until everybody coughed up more.
I pitied him for that, being spineless and weak, but I was too filled with hate to stop myself. Yeah, hate, for everything and everyone. I hated Razor and kids like him, bullies and babies and everyone like that; I hated the kids at the party, kids at school, teachers, counselors, coaches, cops, priests, principals, and mall security; I hated the old man for leaving, mom for working so hard, Neecey for growing up, grandma for growing old; I hated all the old-timers and their smelly old folks’ homes, the misers who ran them, owned them, made money off them; I hated bigots and pushovers, people who watched, people who helped, people who believed and did what they were told, people who went to church and people who didn’t, people who lied and schemed and broke rules and hurt others and got away with it, and people who tried to catch and punish them. And I hated the Circle and the mall and the reservoir and the town and the whole fucking world for being petty and pointless and cruel, and I hated myself for being a part of it, the smallest, meanest part, and exactly the same as everyone else.
I dropped the pedal again, one last time, went faster still, disgustingly fast, put everything I had into it and packed my fist and wound it tight and pulled it back and lashed it forward with all of my body, hurling it like a javelin at the moon. But it had rained all day and it was wet and slick and muddy and my sneakers sucked shit and my left foot slipped and slid forward as it planted; my balance lurched and shifted, but I caught it quick, just in time, and snapped my right leg around, got my foot down, whipped my hips and shoulder through, and chucked my fist, myself, full-bodied and flying, right at Razor’s sternum. But I was off. I slipped and came up short. My fist missed its target by about twelve inches, due south. I’d come blasting out of the woods in homemade ninja shorts, shirtless, screaming and crying, going Mach 10, had wound everything up to throw a punch, a murderous punch, slid forward, lost my balance, caught myself, readjusted, launched it, and then landed it, but not anywhere near the spot I’d aimed at or expected. With all that momentum, all that I had, I punched Ray “the Razor” Tuffalo right in the nuts.
Nah, you were never, ever supposed to do that, and every single guy who’d ever lived knew it. Razor’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open and he tried to grab his stomach but I was still moving forward, the momentum carrying me through, and I crashed into him, onto my hands and knees, with my face in his crotch. He bent forward, over my shoulders, and as I tried to get to my feet, the pain must’ve started catching up with him, because when you got hit in the nuts, it took a second or two for the pain to flower and bloom, and then he pitched forward, groaning, sucking air, and fell on top of me. He was long and bony and heavy and right on my back, pressing me into the ground, grass, and mud, which oozed between my lips onto my tongue, but when I squirmed free a little and was able to push him away, he rolled over like a dirty diaper, because that’s all he was, filthy and flimsy, and he’d just gotten totally clobbered in the balls, so he was pretty much helpless, too.
I got to my feet, wiped my mouth, and stood over him, ready to bash his ear through the other side of his skull, rearing my fist back to do it, when I just glimpsed, coming at me, a guy I hadn’t thought to look for but should have. Because if Razor was there, then Tommy Sharpe would be with him, and he was bigger and meaner and broad and solid and gigantic as all hell and was maybe two feet away, letting his massive fist fly, BLAM, and my world lit up from within, all white, blinding white, then pale yellow, then this wavy blue, and then black and red checkers, and my eyes came open and somehow I didn’t go down, although I should’ve gone down and wanted to, because the second one was on its way already and I had no time to move or think, and BLAM, I got it again, and that one hurt, that really fucking hurt, like getting clubbed with a cinder block, and my neck whipped back and I felt myself falling and the left side of my head cracking open and I went down, straight down, right on top of Razor.
I was down but not out—exactly how, I had no earthly clue—and I’d somehow fallen on my back, so I was lying on top of Razor, who was starting to stir, maybe recover, while I was facing up, watching the light show fade in front of my eyes, and then looking into the kind, forgiving face of Tommy Sharpe, who was leaning over me, locked and loaded, and I knew the next one would kill me—it was gonna rock my left eye socket again, the one he’d just bashed twice, but it’d smash clean through this time, sending his fist and shards of bone straight into my brain, and I’d be dead.
But I wasn’t afraid, I was too rabid, loopy, and punch drunk to be afraid. No, I was curious. I wanted to see if he could do it, I wanted to see if he had the guts to pulverize someone weaker and smaller to death. So I kept my eyes open; I wanted to watch.
Tommy’s pale blue eyes were steady and glistening, his giant fist was drawn all the way b
ack and holding firm, and everything about him said he had the physical strength and the steely stomach and that, yeah, he was going to do it.
Out of nowhere, the fist shot across from my right like a bullet into the left side of Tommy’s jaw—thwack—and before Tommy had a chance to do anything, even straighten his head—which had been totally whipped, snapped, and clocked—the next punch was already in his stomach—whoomp! Razor was pushing at my back now, trying to get to his feet, and the shouts of Fight! Fight! were growing, pouring in; I made myself as heavy as I could and pinned my arms and legs down to keep Razor where he was. The next one wasn’t a punch, but a short, brutal kick to the side of Tommy’s knee, buckling it, so he stumbled, and then no more kicks or punches; he was behind Tommy now, twisting Tommy’s wrist back to his shoulder blade, driving him forward, riding him down, pushing his face into the ground.
Razor grunted, surged, and finally threw me off; I flew forward onto my hands and knees and, for the first time, tasted the blood. Razor got to his feet, but he was too late and outnumbered. Everyone from the party had gathered around, and the crew were circled in closest—Sticky, Burger, Squat, Roni, Lyle, Chakha—looking extremely perturbed and decidedly unfriendly should something, anything befall their leader as he knelt on Tommy Sharpe’s back.
“Dude, you want more?” Darren panted. “Because I got some if you want it.”
“No, D, chill,” Tommy grunted.
“I so can’t hear you, dude,” Darren taunted, “so like speak up and tell me what you want.”
“No more, D, no more.”
“Can I let you up, dude? You cool?”
“Yeah, I’m cool. I’m done.”
I began lifting myself off the ground and turned my head to watch.
Darren got up slowly, putting plenty of distance between him and Tommy Sharpe, just like a pro. Tommy got to his feet, stood up straight, and started brushing himself off. He was six or seven inches taller than Darren and fifty or sixty pounds heavier, easily, but Darren had kicked his ass like nothing, like he wasn’t even there.