Brutal Youth: A Novel

by Anthony Breznican

  Until now.

  * * *

  On the morning of Hazing Day, Hannah rolled out of bed and dressed in her workout clothes—sweat shorts, a sports bra, and tank top. The dim light of dawn rendered her bare room in hues of pale red. She looked out her window as she slipped on her shoes and saw a pink horizon of clouds but no sun. There were many more vehicles than usual parked on her street, and she could see figures sitting inside them, though she couldn’t make out the faces. She recognized all the cars from school, though.

  Davidek had been right. But she wasn’t scared yet.

  Hannah went over to her computer and tapped away … soon the printer was humming smoothly, filling its tray with pages. Hannah went into the room filled with her sister’s old medical documents and cleared out a blue plastic binder. She also found a three-hole punch and some brass paper fasteners and placed them on her desk.

  This is it, she thought. Almost done.

  No one knew this about Hannah, but The Boy on the Roof had changed her. The only person in her class who suffered as bad as she did was Clink Vickler, and when he self-destructed that way, it had seemed cowardly to Hannah. She wasn’t ready to quit, wiping herself out like a pathetic kamikaze. She had one year left, and then St. Mike’s was in her rear view. She’d be in college, and life would start over, with new happiness sprouting from the grim remnants she left behind. It was too bad she never got to know Lorelei—since they shared such similar dreams.

  As her junior year ended, Hannah began prepping for her metamorphosis. She read all the books she’d only skimmed in English classes, hired a coach for the SATs, and spent weekends at museums and libraries. (Why not? She had no friends to hang with.) She had been a lackluster student up until that point, and had a lot of catching up to do.

  Hannah was hurt when Mr. Zimmer said he could no longer tutor her after school, and she knew the kiss she shared with him had been a mistake, scaring him off. Or maybe she simply hadn’t enticed him enough.

  Early that summer, Hannah had examined her short, stubby body in the mirror one night, and picked at her frizzy blond hair. She had changed her look before. It was time to do it again—but do it right this time. She pored through fashion magazines, trying to find the most beautiful woman she could imagine before realizing the one she wanted to become couldn’t be found in any of them.

  For her birthday present, Hannah asked her parents to gut part of the basement and install workout pads, a weight machine, and a treadmill. She dropped fifteen pounds by the start of her senior year. Baby fat tightened into muscle, and her puckish, somewhat sinister face softened into something even she recognized as delicate. Maybe even beautiful.

  Her parents welcomed her blossoming transformation. Only one part of it bothered them, and that came just a week before the start of her senior year. Hannah returned home from the hairdresser, her kinky yellow locks straightened and hanging smoothly around her shoulders. That wasn’t unusual. She’d changed her hair before. But this time she had asked the beautician to dye it cherry auburn—and came home a redhead.

  Just like Claudia.

  * * *

  By the time Hannah finished her workout on the morning of the Hazing Picnic, her parents were up and dressed and already heading out the door. Her father hollered downstairs to her that they were going to the club for breakfast with the Tollersons, and maybe tennis later. He said, “Have fun at your picnic thing, honey!”

  Hannah hurried upstairs to watch their black BMW back out of the garage and turn down the crowded cul-de-sac. She opened the front door to wave at them, though it was only for appearance. She just wanted everyone to see she was still in the house so nobody would bother them. The road was jammed with cars now, and Hannah could see all her St. Mike’s classmates, waiting patiently for her to come out and play.

  How nice.

  Up in her bedroom, Hannah’s computer printer was still working, clicking and whirring and spitting out freshly inked sheets. She took a long shower, savoring the heat on her back, and took her time drying and brushing her hair, just to tie it back in a ponytail. Nothing fancy.

  Hannah bounded down the stairs with a loaded book bag over one shoulder. Her legs were coltish in a pair of tight khaki shorts, and her crimson T-shirt was rolled at the sleeves. She grabbed a banana from the kitchen table. There was a note on the counter: Have fun! Luv, Mom! and a hundred-dollar bill.

  Against the back wall of the garage, Hannah found a box of heavy-duty black garbage bags on a shelf scattered with tools, and grabbed some wire hangers that were stacked on top of old Halloween decorations. A thick orange extension cord lay coiled on the floor like an exotic snake.

  Hannah unzipped her book bag and thought of all the people waiting for her just outside that garage door. She had never felt scared like this before, and for the first time, Hannah was no longer sure she would get away with this.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Nothing arouses suspicion like good behavior from a troublemaker.

  Davidek had been a saint since his grounding over the minivan incident. No TV, music, phone calls, visits with friends, or any other contact with the outside world was permitted. If he had liked to read, they would have taken that away, too. His mother kept reminding him how lucky he was they didn’t have the police throw him in jail. His father kept reminding him of how lucky he was that child abuse is illegal.

  In the weeks that followed, Davidek’s angelic new nature annoyed both of them, and his mother especially scrutinized every word and action for fresh outrage. She knew he was plotting something, although he insisted he wasn’t—which, of course, was a lie.

  He wanted to ensure he could go to the Hazing Day Picnic.

  Davidek’s good-boy scheme to get the necessary brief reprieve also involved playing on his father’s own old memories. He’d been asking him about it all week, and had been surprised by how quickly his father agreed it was a mandatory school activity that the boy should definitely attend.

  “Hm, sounds like fun,” June Davidek said at breakfast that morning in a bitter tone that suggested “fun” was not allowed.

  Davidek’s father huffed through his nose. “It’s not really fun for freshmen, Juney. The seniors do pranks and things on them, kind of like a stage show. My year, I got the shit kicked out of me. Bastards.” He set down his spoon and rolled up a sleeve, drawing a finger against the soft white flesh. “Got a gash right here from a guy who hit me with a goddamn rail of fence.”

  “That’s part of a stage show?” June asked. “And the teachers allow this?”

  “Nooooo…,” her husband said, waving a hand at her stupidity. “See, me and Sinawski wouldn’t do what those jerks said, get up onstage and dance around in ladies’ dresses or some goddamned thing.” He looked at his son with a smile that was half pride and half fury. “We told ’em, ‘Up your ass.’ But as soon as the teachers weren’t looking … Whack!” He slapped his hands together, then scooped up another spoonful of colored Trix. “Fucking sneaks,” he said.

  June Davidek absorbed this. Then something was crawling across Davidek’s fingers, and he looked down to see it was his mother’s hand. She wore an expression of deep sympathy. “Maybe Peter shouldn’t go. I don’t remember Charlie talking about this.…”

  Bill rolled his eyes. He hated even hearing their other son’s name. “Probably not, because Charlie is a coward,” he said, and his wife and son stared at him. He said, “Peter’s going. End of story. He’s got to be tough about this. Show them he can take it.”

  “Why doesn’t he just resist?” his wife said. “Isn’t resisting what you did?”

  Bill frowned. “I didn’t run and hide. I showed up and told ’em to stick it. That’s different.”

  June wasn’t impressed. “So our son should go to the picnic to get whacked with a fence? Genius, Bill. Father of the year, once again.”

  Davidek spoke up, “No, it’s … I don’t know what my senior has planned. But the picnic isn’t like that anymore.”

 
“Our child stole a car, and you think he should get a picnic?” his mother asked.

  “No, but I don’t want him to be a social cripple for the next three years either,” Bill told her. “This thing … it’s an obligation. It’s like church every weekend. You don’t want to do it … but if you don’t, well—”

  “You’re basically going to hell,” Davidek added helpfully.

  “Maybe that would serve you right,” his mother said, and stirred her cereal without eating any.

  “He’s going,” Bill Davidek said decisively, adding something that surprised even the boy. “And I’m going with him.”

  Davidek and his mother looked at him with simultaneous expressions of: Say what?

  “I got invited.” He shrugged. “And I’m gonna make sure he does what he has to, and then I’m bringing him home. Okay?”

  “Invited by who?” Davidek asked.

  His father snapped, “Invited by mind-your-own-business.”

  Davidek’s mother stood from the table and dumped her bowl of uneaten Special K into the sink. “Great! He steals a car and gets a fun little Saturday out of it. He’ll never learn, Bill,” she cried. “You coddle him! He’s sitting there laughing at us!”

  They both turned to their son, who wasn’t laughing.

  * * *

  At roughly the same time Bill Davidek was revealing his plan to attend the Hazing Day Picnic, Hannah’s garage door rumbled open to reveal a scene of panic: The kids languishing on the street, waiting for her appearance, scrambled to get into their cars and veer them into the cul-de-sac as she rolled out in her Jeep.

  As she stopped at the blockade, Hannah looked back at her house, relieved that her mom and dad had already left, and wondered what they might think, and what they might do, if they saw this. Stubby little Bilbo and Prager and Strebovich were hustling over to her Jeep. Farther away, Audra stood beside her shiny white convertible Mazda (an early graduation gift from her father) while Michael Crawford drummed his fingers on the dashboard of his 4Runner. Lame old Mullen and Simms had parked the Pea Green Love Machine at the back end of the road, running at top speed to get close to the action.

  Hannah put her transmission into park as Morti and some of his Fanboys jerked opened her door and pulled her out into the street. “Hey, Fuckslut, heard you had a surprise for all of us today,” Morti said.

  “You bet, peckherhead,” she told him. “And wait till you—!” He grabbed her face and shoved her head back against the side of the Jeep, while the Fanboys held her arms and shoved her toward Michael Crawford’s 4Runner, where Prager and Strebovich pulled her into the backseat. Audra was overseeing this, saying, “Make sure you don’t hurt her!”

  “I’ll hurt you,” Hannah said. “I’ll claw out your fucking eyes!”

  Audra slammed the door shut, and Hannah began kicking at the window. Michael Crawford crawled from the driver’s side into the backseat, and fell on her, holding her still.

  Strebovitch opened the front passenger door. “Maybe she’s hiding it on her body,” he said, flashing his eyebrows. “Why don’t we give her a cavity search?” He reached over the seat to grab Hannah’s bare leg, pulling her closer. Hannah squirmed underneath Crawford’s weight.

  Audra ripped open the back door and slapped her idiot boyfriend on the back of his head. “She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt!” she said. “Where do you think she’s going to hide it?”

  Alex Prager opened the driver’s door, laughing softly. “Maybe she rolled it up and stuck it in her cooch.”

  Crawford looked back at his girlfriend, still pinning Hannah’s wrists against the seat. “You want to try holding her down? Go ahead!”

  Over by the Jeep, the concerned citizen students of St. Mike’s were scattering Hannah’s belongings in the street. Amy Hispioli had Hannah’s denim book bag, and she and Allissa Hardawicky had dumped it out on the grass. Bilbo was tossing maps out of the glove box. Hannah strained to get a better view. Hannidy and Lee Raymond were probing around the backseats. Carl LeRose was crawling on his hands and knees, sticking his puffy face under the wheel wells.

  “I found it!” It was Mullen. His buddy Simms was helping him take the spare tire off the back hatch, and underneath it, Mullen’s hands pulled out a square package wrapped in a black garbage bag, which had been wired back there with a coat hanger.

  Mullen tore open the plastic and held the stack of white papers in the air. The brass fasteners glistened in the sun. “I’m motherfucking Sherlock Holmes, you bitch!” he yelled at the imprisoned Hannah.

  Hannah tried to bring her knee up into Michael Crawford’s balls, but Strebovitch was still holding down her legs.

  Audra walked over and took the newly discovered pages from Mullen, flipping through them, marveling at the gray blur of text. “Jesus, every sheet is full.”

  “Why was it hidden there?” Amy Hispioli asked.

  Sandy Burk told her not-so-bright friend, “Well, obviously she saw us out here.”

  Hannah’s muffled voice shouted from the car: “I didn’t think any of you idiots would be smart enough to figure out how a tire iron works!”

  Hannidy reached out to take the book from Audra. “Let me have a look at that—” But the student council president held it away from her successor. “No, we agreed—no one would look at it. Remember?”

  “We need to be sure,” Morti said.

  “Just look at one page, Audra. Just a glance…,” said Amy Hispioli.

  Audra bent open the book, turning to a page at random. At the top of the sheet were the words:

  Audra Banes—A frantic bitch, who hides her reputation as a total slut behind polite …

  Audra snapped shut the pages, but her fingers were still in the book. She opened it again and scanned the long section about her. When she finished, she was braced for murder. Beneath the entry on her was a section about her boyfriend, which began:

  Michael Crawford—Compulsive masturbator, with a fetish for chubby girls and …

  Audra read the whole thing, her jaw clenching.

  “You’re supposed to glance at it, not read it!” screamed Prager. Everyone began jeering at Audra, and Bilbo snatched the binder out of her hands long enough to read the first few lines about her before she yanked it back from him. “It’s the real deal,” he confirmed.

  Audra fast-walked to her convertible and tossed Hannah’s notorious notebook into the trunk, slamming the lid with a thunderclap. “No one reads it. Not anymore. I’m taking it to the picnic. And we’ll all destroy it together—agreed?”

  Everybody looked at everybody else. There didn’t seem to be a better plan.

  The black garbage bag the pages had been wrapped in drifted along the street.

  Audra signaled to her boyfriend. “Get the fuck off of her, Michael.”

  Hannah crawled out from under him, eyes glowing. “You’re a whore,” Audra said to her. “You know that?”

  “Yeah,” Hannah said. “I know.”

  The other students were scattering, wandering away from Hannah’s Jeep, leaving the doors open and the spare tire rolling toward the curb, where it bumped and fell on its side.

  “I’m going to the picnic anyway,” Hannah said, though no one was really listening to her.

  “Go ahead,” Amy told her. “But if you go back into your house, you should know LeRose and some of the guys are staying behind to slash your tires. No copies for you, Hannah. You’ve lost.”

  Most of the cars were pulling away now, and as Mortinelli drove off, LeRose’s shiny Mustang pulled in behind Hannah’s Jeep, preventing any retreat back into her garage. Mullen and Simms volunteered to stay behind, too, and pulled in beside him.

  Hannah gathered up her scattered belongings, tossing them back into the Jeep. She rolled her spare tire back and struggled for a while to hoist it back onto its tailgate pegs. LeRose and Mullen and Simms just watched.

  When it was all put back together again—minus the notebook—Hannah gunned the engine of her Jeep. The fight was over
.

  Hannah drove forward. And her watchmen followed.

  FORTY-SIX

  Davidek rode silently in the seat beside his father, the minivan coursing down the unlined road like a strip of rainwater curving down a plane of glass. They were weaving through the shaded green woods of Harrison Hills Park, where the annual Hazing Picnic had been held since forever.

  The minivan emerged from the trees along a field of shaggy grass freckled with dandelions, where some sophomore guys were drawing lines for football with a chalk spreader. Blue and red balloons struggled to escape from every post of the big wooden pavilion. Senior girls were taping down the corners on a dozen wooden picnic tables draped in white paper, and arranging a big potluck buffet.

  Adjacent to the pavilion was a wooden stage, with an arch along the back hanging a thick black curtain. All students who spent their freshman year at St. Mike’s knew that stage as the place they once stood to make a public ass out of themselves. A few remembered it with good humor; some tried not to remember it at all. Everyone, sooner or later, showed up to see it happen to someone else.

  The Davideks parked on the grass at the end of the road along the edge of a big looping turnaround. There were more trees growing along the bank high above the river, and Davidek’s father walked over to look down into the canyon below.

  “Don’t fall in!” a voice called out to them.

  Davidek wheeled around into the wide, flat grin of the stranger he knew as The Big Texan—the man who had convinced his parents that St. Mike’s High School was a good place for them to send their son. The man loomed over him, teeth gleaming, and stuck out a meaty hand. The Big Texan looked like someone awaiting praise for a good deed. “How’s my second-favorite student? Good to see you, buddy boy.”

  “I’m good, sir,” Davidek said, shaking the man’s hand. Second-favorite?

  Davidek’s father came up and stood beside his son. The Big Texan’s smile stretched wider. He said to the boy, “Did your dad ever tell you what it was like on our Hazing Day? Hell, it rained.” He let the last word trail on, as if it still pained him. “We had a good time anyway.… Well, maybe not your dad. I guess that day would be a better memory for a senior than a freshman—no offense.”