Brutal Youth: A Novel

by Anthony Breznican

  “Fuck you, Green.”

  “Say it! You basically already have. Or are you too much of a coward to actually do it?”

  The words exploded from him, like a spray of poison. “Nigger, Green. Is that what you wanted to hear? That’s what they call you, your bullshit upperclassman ass-kissers. Happy?”

  Green was silent on the other end of the line. Davidek couldn’t even hear his breath anymore. “I always stood up for you, Green. I always said you weren’t.”

  But Green didn’t respond to that either. “Green, I wasn’t … Green! Come on, I’m sorry. I’m just … I need your help, Green. Green!…”

  Davidek kept talking, kept pleading, kept saying he was sorry, even though he knew his friend had already hung up. Eventually he just held the phone out from his face and looked at it, as if it had just bitten him. The sky had faded to dark blue, and the sickly green glow of the telephone keypad was the only light between the houses now.

  Stein had once made a prediction about Green: “What word do you suppose his ‘pals’ will call him the nanosecond he crosses them? I’ll give you a hint—it starts with N, and it ain’t nipple, Norwegian, or nymphomaniac.” Davidek’s heart sank to know he was the one who’d made it come true.

  The shrill buzzing of a busy signal squawked from the phone and an insistent electronic voice said, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.” Davidek hurled the phone against the concrete blocks at the base of the house, where it smashed and fell silent into the tall weeds. As he bent and scrounged for it, he slapped one flat palm against the foundation. Then hit it again. And again. And again, until his skin split.

  * * *

  Bill Davidek turned down the volume on the Columbo TV movie he was watching. “What’s the matter?” he asked his wife, who was standing in the archway staring at him with her arms crossed.

  She pouted. “Peter says you’re driving him home later from this silly prom thing he allegedly has to do. Do we really have to let him go? Does the school really make the new kids do work there?”

  Bill Davidek shrugged. “I didn’t last long enough at St. Mike’s to make it to prom.”

  “I can’t believe he didn’t even ask me,” she said. “That’s because he knew I’d say no. You’re too easy on him.”

  “Jesus Christ…,” Bill Davidek said.

  They heard the back door open in the kitchen, and June called to her son from the living room: “Peter?… Come in here, please. We need to discuss this prom thing.”

  There was no answer. “Peter—come in here!” his mother said. “Do I need to repea—?”

  Davidek stepped into the light of the kitchen hallway, and his mother’s words broke off. The boy’s eyes were red, his lips swollen. He was clammy, and his pale skin looked like a freshly used bar of soap. “I need a favor. A ride,” Davidek said. “I need you to take me to my friend’s house. Please?”

  His mother scoffed. “Your friend’s house now?” she said. “We’re telling you, you’re not going anywhere. Not the prom, and certainly not for a playdate…”

  Davidek turned to his father, as if his mother didn’t exist. “Dad, can you take me? I need to leave now.” His father turned up the volume on the television.

  “I think you’re confused about how things work around here,” Davidek’s mother said. “We tell you how it’s going to be, and you’re going to start listening, mister—”

  Davidek backed away into the kitchen. They heard the loud spray of the faucet in the stainless steel sink.

  “Get back here when I’m talking to you!” his mother screamed. She crossed her arms and said to her husband: “Are you going to let him treat us this way?”

  June turned toward the kitchen hallway, and yelled. “Peter!” But her son didn’t answer. The two parents listened, but the only response was the steady, angry hiss of the faucet.

  “Peter! Get in here!” his father said wearily.

  June spotted droplets of blood on the kitchen tile and walked toward them. “What the hell is wrong? Did you cut yourself?” she called. Bill Davidek turned down the volume again, irritated. “What’s the problem now?” he asked.

  June turned the corner into the kitchen, which was empty. The sink, loaded with dishes, was beginning to overflow with water. Bill Davidek appeared behind his wife as she turned off the faucet with a slap. He looked toward the wide-open back door. “He’ll be sorry when he comes back,” he said.

  June pushed past him. “I’ll be damned if he thinks he can just do whatever he wants. I’ll chase the little shit down.” She reached for her car keys, which usually hung on a little wooden plaque beside the stove that read: KEYS TO THE KINGDOM. The plaque had a picture of Jesus having a chat with some sheep.

  But her car keys were gone. So were her husband’s.

  Bill Davidek walked to the front door and looked outside. His truck was still there, thank goodness. His wife appeared at his side. “Where is my goddamn minivan?” she asked.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Davidek hugged the steering wheel of his mom’s Aerostar as the rushing scenery attacked him. He had never controlled a moving vehicle before, though as a little boy—like all kids—he fantasized about it while sitting in the driver’s seat with the ignition off and the steering wheel locked in place.

  But when he twisted the stolen keys in the ignition outside his house, he wasn’t prepared for the fluidity of real-life steering. Each turn seemed to send the wheels beneath him sideways—as if the tires were trying to break free, and then the hulk of the rest of the vehicle would lurch over to grab them back. The white streetlamps were flickering on as he piloted the car down his quiet street, gaining speed as he imagined his mother and father running in furious pursuit behind him.

  He swerved out of his neighborhood onto a four-lane strip known as the Bypass, so called because it looped away from New Kensington’s downtown business district en route to the Tarentum Bridge and the main freeway leading to Pittsburgh. It was no place for a first driving lesson. Especially one that didn’t have a teacher. The terror of driving actually cooled Davidek’s other panicked thoughts—of reaching Stein’s house, and what he might find there.

  Davidek overcorrected on a curve, and the minivan wiggled crazily down the road, hanging over the dotted center line. Staying in one lane just seemed too narrow to him. The Bypass cut through a section of woods, which opened on an intersection with a stand of condominium apartments on one side, and on the other a brown-brick strip mall with a Kings Family Restaurant and a real estate office that shared two misspelled words on one sign:

  CARMEL APPLE PIE TODAY

  MORTGAGE! 5 PRECENT DOWN!

  The rapidly approaching traffic light hanging over the road did not stay green, and Davidek noticed the red too late, holding tight to the wheel and flattening his foot on the brakes, unleashing a hideous squeal. The minivan blasted out peals of blue smoke, and Davidek imagined the tires stretching backwards on the road like soft butter as the car jerked to a stop.

  Davidek tapped his fingers on the wheel, trying not to look at the other drivers, and after several decades, the traffic light finally turned green again. He pressed his foot softly on the gas and crept past the Giant Eagle grocery store, rolling out onto the great steel and concrete tongue of the Tarentum Bridge.

  The long, straight blue band, shining off the surface of the river below, yawned out ahead of him—four lanes of sheer terror, leading to infinite plunges into watery oblivion. The traffic here was more reckless—cars, buses, and trucks weaving around him like a slalom. Blasting their horns at his slow-pokery.

  As he drove above it, he wondered absently if any couples were necking in their cars in that hidden spot below the bridge, where Hannah had once tempted him so coldly, so deliciously.

  * * *

  Hannah fixed her makeup.

  She peered into the rearview mirror of her Jeep and cracked open the door so the dome light would come on. Hannah didn’t wear makeup very often, so she h
oped it looked all right. When she was finished, the Jeep door swung open, hatching the pink chiffon Hannah into the world like a fuzzy Easter Peep. The crumbling asphalt made it hard to walk in her high heels. She balanced awkwardly, fingers tracing the red hair that fell in curls across her shoulders. She tossed her jean jacket inside the Jeep and slammed the door, then smoothed down the ruffles of her pink-puff dress and composed herself.

  The crowd of family and friends had put away their flashing cameras and were beginning to depart. Mr. Mankowski hadn’t yet coiled his microphone cord when he spotted Hannah. The bald man cleared his throat and announced: “Here is Hannah Kraut, looking lovely in a light-colored dress.” He smiled at her, and didn’t point out to those still around to hear that she was alone, which made her smile back.

  The thrum of music from inside bulged against the walls of Veltri’s Restaurant, like the pulsing of a giant heart, clarifying instantly as the glass doors swung open, revealing a black-tie crowd of teenagers meandering about a semi-elegant habitat of ferns and mirrored columns, more ready to eat than dance, despite the best intentions (and frenetic light display) of the DJ. There were already kids sitting at Hannah’s table, watching some freshman volunteers help the restaurant staff deliver plates of food.

  Against the far back wall was the long table for teachers and chaperones, but Hannah didn’t see Mr. Zimmer. Then she heard his voice behind her. “I thought you skipped on me!” he said, surprising her with a tap on the shoulder. He grinned at her in his pale gray suit.

  “Very stylish for a guy who prides himself on being unfashionable,” she said.

  He frowned playfully. “I don’t take pride in that.”

  Tears were gathering in the corner of her eyes as he linked his arm with hers and escorted her into the dance. “Thank you,” she said softly, but he didn’t know for what. Then, trying to seem casual, she nudged his shoulder with her small fist. “Dance with me later, all right?”

  “Right,” he said, hands in his pockets.

  “You promise?”

  Mr. Zimmer smiled and nodded more dramatically, the way students do when they’re promising after three warnings not to turn in their papers late anymore. She could tell he was uncomfortable. “You don’t want to…,” she said.

  Zimmer laughed, “Uh, it’ll look strange,” he said, flattening his hands together. “But, no funny business, okay?” He figured he could make it look benign to the others—like she was dancing with him as a joke, because who would ever want to dance with a mug like him. He wanted to say no, but was overwhelmed by sorrow for Hannah, who was so friendless and needy. He’d been there himself. He wanted her to be happy.

  “Wait until you see my moves,” Zimmer said, ratcheting his arms in exaggerated robotic gestures. “You’ll live to regret cutting a rug with me.”

  Hannah’s eyes began to tear again, and she lowered her head against his chest as she hugged him. Mr. Zimmer raised her chin. “I’m kidding, Hannah,” he said, trying to get her to smile. “I’m not that bad.”

  * * *

  Davidek’s van was parked crooked on the street in front of the convent. The engine was was ticking as Davidek walked across the lawn.

  He decided not to go to Stein’s house first. Maybe he was afraid. Anyway, he only knew how to get there by starting from the school, and before he did anything, Davidek wanted to see Sister Maria. She should have told him if Stein was out of the hospital. She could tell him now if Stein was better, or … He didn’t want to think about the alternative. Stein had to be better.

  Davidek pounded on the convent door. He kept expecting police sirens to race after him. His mom would certainly be willing to turn him in. His father probably just wanted to go back to watching TV. Davidek felt a thrill at the thought that his parents had no clue where he was or why he had gone—or how to get him back. Let them feel helpless now.

  He knocked on the convent door again and a tiny head appeared in the cross-shaped window. The prunelike face of Sister Antonia demanded to know who he was.

  “Sister, it’s … Peter Davidek, I’m a student at the school—”

  “Who?”

  “Peter Davidek … I’m a student.” He said it louder: “I’m a student.”

  The nun’s eyes regarded him without recognition. “This is a nun’s convent,” she said.

  “I’m looking for Sister Maria,” Davidek said. “I have something to ask her. It’s something important. I’ve come a long way and I need her to talk to h—”

  The wrinkled face disappeared. Davidek considered knocking again, but Sister Antonia returned again. “I have a piece of paper and a pencil,” she said through the glass. “Tell me your name again and spell it. Spell it right.”

  “I’m looking for Sister Maria,” he said.

  “I told you,” the nun insisted, even though she hadn’t. “Sister Maria’s not here.”

  The prom, Davidek thought. Of course.

  He spelled his name, but had to repeat himself three times before Sister Antonia could finish scrawling it. Then she tapped the pencil against the glass and said, “Now I have your name. If you bother me again, I’m going to tell the police!”

  “Just call Sister Maria. It’s an emergency!” Davidek said, and hurried back to the minivan. The old nun’s eyes watched through the cross as he drove away.

  At the corner beside the school, along the edge of the field where the church once stood, Davidek stopped to think. Turning left would take him back the way he’d come. The other way led to Stein’s house.

  Davidek sat there several minutes, then spun the wheel. He even remembered to use his turn signal.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Ms. Bromine was not an official Parish Monitor, but she volunteered her observational services on prom night nonetheless. Note-taking was a job that delighted her. When she had been a student at St. Mike’s, she had always been excellent at writing down exactly what was said to her, and as a teacher, she’d been waiting years for the chance to speak her own mind. Now she’d get to do both.

  The guidance counselor had never liked proms, even when she was a girl. Her senior year date, Billy Fredickson, had tried to put a hand up her dress on the way home. She hadn’t let him. Now she wondered which boys would be trying that tonight, and which girls might let them. The proms she attended as a chaperone seemed to grow more debased every year. Once the meal ended, it was disgusting how quickly bow ties sprang off, shirttails came untucked, and cummerbunds went askew. Girls kicked their high heels under the table and danced with grubby feet. She wondered what else they’d be taking off when they left the prom.

  As the other Monitors patrolled the dance, making the occasional note, Ms. Bromine sat alone at one of the abandoned tables and filled the pages of her stenographer’s pad while trying to block out the deafening music.

  Many of her observations were petty:

  7 p.m.—Male student (JAY FRAMALSKI) steps on hem of skirt of female (short black hair, green dress—possible outsider date) while entering prom. She shouts S-word loud enough for everyone to hear.

  And

  7:35 p.m.—Dinner served buffet style. DJ (professional?) announces order of tables to be served. Sez, “Enjoy your meal, then get your BUTTS on the dance floor.” “Butts” = inappropriate language.

  Other things weren’t wrongdoing at all, though she tried to make them seem that way:

  8:01 p.m.—Principal (SISTER MARIA HEST) standing near food, observing crowd, has exchange with students. Senior student MICHAEL CRAWFORD proceeds to touch principal inappropriately = grabs her hands, mockingly dances with her, releases her. Principal laughs (Reinforces LACK of authority!!!)

  Bromine noticed Hannah (marked in the notebook as “well-known problem student”) approach Mr. Zimmer at 8:10, 9:15, and 9:55 P.M. and wrote “UNUSUAL” in all capital letters beside each instance.

  In between were several other low-grade concerns:

  8:35 p.m.—Meal is free for monitors, but chicken is undercooked.

 
AND

  9:08 p.m.—Fellow Monitor Mr. August Shristmeyer (spell??) informs me that underclassmen volunteers were seen behind restaurant—SMOKING CIGARETTES.

  After Bromine observed a fourth “suspicious” interaction between Hannah and Zimmer, the guidance counselor approached the girl directly and asked if she might be of assistance:

  10:00 p.m.—Kraut girl is VERY rude. Approached to ask about nature of conversation with Zimmer. Told to “F- myself.”!!!!!!

  10:10 p.m.—Approach fellow teacher (Zimmer) to inquire about behavior of Kraut girl. He sez it’s “nothing.” Keeps blowing me off. NOTE: This is why Zimmer is problematic for school. Proving it tonight again—NOT COOPERATIVE.

  10:18 p.m.—Zimmer approaches and apologizes. (SAW me writing in notebook I’ll bet!) Sez Kraut girl is having troubles, nothing serious. Sez graduation “weighing heavily” on her. Asks NOT TO WRITE THIS DOWN!! (Too bad!!!)

  Around 10:30 P.M., she noticed Sister Maria missing from her seat at the chaperone table. Mrs. Tunns said the principal was called away by a waiter to a phone call. “Who?” Bromine asked.

  The Spanish teacher shrugged. She took a sip from a glass of red wine.

  “Eleanor, is that alcohol?” Bromine was horrified.

  Mrs. Tunns fluttered her eyes. “Do you want to card me?”

  Bromine huffed away and immediately wrote about the incident in her notepad, followed by the words: “BAD EXAMPLE.”

  * * *

  The call Sister Maria received came from Sister Antonia. “Sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency,” the ancient French teacher said after one of the waiters asked Sister Maria to come to the phone in the manager’s office. “There was a boy here looking for you.”

  Sister Maria couldn’t imagine who it might be. The elderly nun recited the name as she’d written it: Peter Daffodil.

  “What did he want?” the principal asked, but Sister Antonia didn’t know.

  “The boy said you’d know what it was about.”

  “Can you put him on?” But Sister Antonia said he had gone away more than an hour ago.