Rules of My Best Friend's Body

by Matthue Roth

  You’d think he never heard the word before.

  I realized then, he probably hadn’t heard it before. At least, not in connection to that night, or in conjunction with what he’d done to Larissa. That whole time, he hadn’t thought about her or asked her whether she wanted it or even cared about the possibility that she hadn’t. In his mind, everyone did what he wanted them to do, all the time. He was so damn spoiled, why would anyone not help him get what he wanted?

  His shock of surprise morphed into disbelief, and then annoyance.

  “Is that what Larissa told you?” he said. “Puh-leez. She’s crazy about me. She was so into it, I had to drop out of this place to stop her talking to me all the time. You and I both know—”

  “You and I don’t belong in the same sentence,” I said. “Ever.”

  And I punched him in the face.

  i will make you hurt

  My body must have been preparing for the punch even before my mind was ready to do it. My hand curled into a fist so tight that it was cutting off its own circulation, nails digging into my own flesh. My muscles were pulled taught, coiled up, ready to spring. My teeth grinded against each other, even before I said what I said. My entire body was like a jungle cat, a predatory Jack-in-the-box, wound tight as metal could go, ready to spring.

  And then he set me off.

  I sprung.

  His body flew backward. Arms splayed out, legs rising off the ground like a video game. I half expected his body to vaporize or turn into coins. And then I would get my reward, start flashing with the power of invincibility, or grow a tail, or gain the ability to launch fireballs out of my sleeves.

  It didn’t, of course.

 

  He was back on his feet in no time. His fist landing in my stomach. I was too far away, and it barely hurt. But he was rushing toward me, eager for more, yelling I’ll kill you, I’ll KILL you, bloody murder painted across his face. His face filling with blood now, and rage.

  It must have been a mirror of my own.

 

  Kids seized his arms, and mine. Kids pulling us apart, away from each other.

  Why? I thought loudly. Don’t they realize I’m beating up Mitch Martin? Who would want to stop this? Justice had to be done.

  There were more people pushing through the crowd, and they reached us. From one direction, Milt. He was shouting. “Let ’em breathe, let ’em breathe. I was in Iraq. You just gotta fight these things out.” When he reached us, his jaw popped open in shock.

  “You?” he said when he saw me. I think he was a little bit impressed.

  The second person to reach us was Principal Tolsky. She did not look impressed at all. She took one look at both of us and spun around. No hands were holding us back now, but we weren’t able to leap at each other’s throats. Her presence paralyzed us. That hot anger had passed, leaving behind a dull, throbbing rage of a different sort.

  hot rage

  Once we were inside Dr. Tolsky’s office, my head started to clear. I felt like a drunk coming out of an alcoholic blackout, half asking myself What have I done? and half What do I do now? I’d gone ten grades without being called to the principal’s office. And even though this was Hebrew School and not real school, it had an unpleasant sensation of foreboding, like this could lead to real life consequences as well. My extra-curriculars were screwed. Probably my social life as well. Not to mention my parents.

  We sat in shiny padded chairs in a ring of three, all facing the principal’s desk. Mitch to one side, me in the middle, Larissa to my right. She got called in a short while ago, while Dr. Tolsky was still piecing together what had happened.

  Now Larissa sat with us, slumped miserably in her chair, making eye contact with the floor. She refused to acknowledge either Mitch or me. For once in my life, I was fine with that.

  Mitch, meanwhile, looked down his nose at me as if he wanted to bite me in half. I studiously avoided noticing him at all. Dr. Tolsky shuffled some papers. This seemed to go on forever.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Well what?” said Mitch immediately.

  She shook her head once, strong, as though that was the wrong answer.

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  “Arthur decked me in the stomach!” Mitch cried.

  “He leaped right into my fist,” I said. “And also Mitch hit me, too.”

  All during the long silent wait, I’d been planning exactly the words I would say. Somehow, on the outside of my mouth, my speech sounded a lot less effective. Also, a whole lot shorter.

  “And Ms. Fleishman?”

  Larissa didn’t move any part of her body. Except, presumably, her lips, which were concealed by her long sheltering hair, and those moved only barely. “I have no idea why I’m here.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.” She was unhesitating.

  Dr. Tolsky frowned. She never had to deal with real actual confrontations. I mean, this was Hebrew School. She didn’t know how to react to resistance. It might have been the first time within these walls that somebody actually cared about something.

  “You have no idea why these two boys are here?”

  “Because they’re both sanctimonious idiots.”

 

  The principal sunk back into her chair. Her chair, I noticed, was nicer than ours.

  “Honestly,” said Dr. Tolsky. “Honestly.”

  Her fingertips massaged her lips. It seemed like she was having trouble picking out exactly which words to use on us.

  “I mean, look at the two of you. I know you have a lot of pressure and a lot of priorities. Hebrew School isn’t supposed to be the most important thing in the world—I get that, guys, I really do! But, really? You two smart, perceptive, skilled gentlemen are fighting with each other—fighting over a girl?”

  Mitch’s mouth swung open, first incredulous—he looked like he’d just gotten pranked on camera—and then he snorted as if he was about to burst out laughing. I felt a surge of prickly electrical energy. I needed to shout, no Dr. Tolsky that’s not it at all!

  I caught a glance from Larissa. I could feel the ten-yard burn of her eyes, of her stone-set face. Don’t you dare.

  “There’s this thing the ancient rabbis talked about, it’s called the Evil Inclination—”

  “I know about it,” I said quickly.

 

  “Oh, me too,” said Mitch. His eyes glinted something steely. “I know it so well.”

  Dr. Tolsky continued as if she hadn’t heard. “And it’s with us all the time, at every moment. And we can never be sure what form it takes—it’s not evil, like, ha-ha evil, the kind of thing you can look at it and say, yep, that’s Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. Sometimes it takes the form of the most righteous feeling in the world. Sometimes you’re being hateful and destructive, and the Evil Inclination convinces you that you’re one hundred percent doing the right thing.”

  She looked from Mitch to me to Larissa. No one was giving her anything.

  Dr. Tolsky switched tactics. “Larissa, I’m sorry for drawing you into this. But, honestly, I’m stumped. Is there anything you can say to them?”

  Larissa let out a groan that could have summoned a tsunami.

  “I don’t think either of them would know what sense is,” she said, “if it punched them in the stomach.”

  Dr. Tolsky took off her glasses and scrubbed them with the edge of her shirt. She really wasn’t an idiot. The more lulls and dead-times there were in this conversation, the more my eyes decentralized and I started checking out the books on her bookshelf. There was some really good stuff there, even not-specifically-Jewish stuff. I even caught sight of some Sartre.

  “Larissa!” I said. “We’re not the same at all. I’m your friend. Mitch is—he’s an animal!”

  Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Woof,” he said, deadpan.

  “Do I have to be here for this?” said Larissa.

  Dr. Tolsky bent away from us. Her chair bobbed up and down, and she
took in the ceiling with a serious measure of thoughtfulness.

  “Do you have to be here?” said Mitch. “Why the hell do I have to be here? I quit this place! You aren’t even legally allowed to hold me in your office!”

  At the word legal I wanted to leap up again, but I remembered Larissa’s stoic look, as impersonal as we’ve ever been. I never wanted to see that look again.

  “You know what, Mitch? You’re absolutely right,” said Dr. Tolsky, and pushed the intercom button on her desk. “Have a good day. You’re free to go.”

  “About time,” muttered Mitch. He snatched up his jacket, shot one last dirty and triumphant look at us, threw open the door to her office, and walked out.

  And stepped right into the waiting arms of a security officer.

  *

  The building that the Hebrew School was a part of was a multi-purpose building—there was a gym, a restaurant, and the aforementioned old people’s leisure facilities. It was the most inoffensive place in the universe, but every few years they still got an anonymous bomb threat, or an anti-Semitic whacko in the lobby, or something. Because of this, there was a second-rate, generic-looking security force they employed to hang around the building. The officer stationed most frequently near the Hebrew School, during its hours of operation, was an unlikely character named Riff, a bald and bulky weightlifter who was getting on in years—his head stubble, when it showed, was bright white—and was rumored to be an ex-biker, an ex-boxer, and a former member of the Aryan Brotherhood. Once I asked him if that was true, and if so, why was he working for the Jews, and he replied with a grin that I’m still not sure if it was ironic or not, “Well, you guys control all the money, don’t you?” He was pretty nice, though, for the most part.

  Anyway: Riff and the other security people had no official legal jurisdiction, no arms, and no uniform (well, they had matching hoodies with a logo on it)—but that day, Riff came the closest he ever did to acting like an actual police officer.

  He pinned Mitch’s arms behind him and wrestled him down the corridor, out of the school, in front of everyone. He walked Mitch right out the main doors and shoved him into the parking lot.

  Everyone talked about it for weeks. It was a great image. Or it would’ve been, if we were there to witness it.

  As soon as Mitch was out of the office, Dr. Tolsky’s head collapsed into her hands, on her desk.

  “Christ,” she said. “You kids.”

  There was a second during which Larissa’s and my glances met. Confused as to what had just happened and unsure what they had planned for us. Then Dr. Tolsky recovered and sat up, back to normal, and talking again.

  “That utter moron,” she said. “That, excuse me for saying this but, that prick. He thinks he can drop out of my school, badmouth it to his parents, and then waltz right back in just because he has a crush on one of my students?”

  She smiled at her own aggressive behavior. “Now, as for you two. You really don’t have to stick around for this period if you don’t want to. I’ll speak to your teachers. If you have a way of getting home, that is. Larissa, I am so sorry you had to go through that. I’ve always seen you guys hanging out quietly, talking peacefully, never any of that I-own-the-world stuff like Mitch Martin gives. Ever since I started here, I’ve tried to make the Hebrew School a place that can protect people like you from people like—well, him. Sometimes it even succeeds.”

  We both gave her dull stares. Much later when I thought about it, it actually seemed like a nice sentiment—a nice dream. But in the moment, neither of us wanted to hear it.

  “I’m really sorry, Larissa. I’m sorry you had to go through any of this. Do you want Arthur to walk you out? Do you want to be alone?”

  “Alone,” said Larissa quietly.

  Before either Dr. Tolsky or myself could say another word, she got out of there.

  The office seemed suddenly empty. I pushed my chair back uncertainly and rose from it. Dr. Tolsky turned back to her papers.

  “Oh, and Arthur?” she said as my hand touched the handle of the door. She signed her name to the bottom of a piece of paper and whipped it into the air, between two fingers. “Take this with you.”

  Once I was outside, I read it. It was an official school notice. I was suspended for two weeks.

  *

  I bolted. I ran down the hallway, not caring who was watching from the doors of their classrooms. A teacher might have called out for me to stop, but I didn’t hear. I reached the parking lot just in time to see Larissa’s car pull out.

  I stuck around till the end of the period. The last thing I wanted was to call my parents and ask them to pick me up half an hour early, then have to explain why.

  I found a place on the campus to sit—a hidden place, surrounded by trees and evergreen bushes. I let the winter creep into my fingers, under my jacket and into my bones. I used to think I wanted to run away to California, a land that seemed magical and adventurous when I was a child. I don’t know when it switched to New York, but it seemed like the sort of place where someone like me could have a lot more friends than I could in Philadelphia. A bigger place, a place where they accepted you no matter what kind of freak you were, where being a freak could get you things like lots of money, and respect, and famous. New York was expensive, but when you lived there, you’d work a New York job, get paid a New York salary, get known, and accepted, by every other important person in New York.

  I’d been outside for a while now, and the numbness was starting to set in. New York was a cold place. I guess I had better start getting used to that. I tucked myself away, into the trees, and dug my gloveless fingers into the frozen snow.

  I watched the people from afar, kids cutting class and college students walking, and I felt invisible. I enjoyed being invisible. I’d been spending a lot of time alone these days, but it still didn’t feel like enough.

  ruok

  r u o k ?

  I texted her. Just those five characters. I didn’t want to push, but I didn’t want her to be alone. Clean, noncommittal, to the point. If she didn’t want to reply to me, she didn’t have to.

  I couldn’t take the thought of her not replying. My mind retched and reeled. It refused to compute the utter possibility of it. After thirty seconds, my phone hadn’t so much as vibrated. After two minutes, I decided I should probably not be holding it directly up, thumb on keypad, the screen an inch and a half from my eyes.

  I started to draw a comic. Not a continuation of the last story—I mean, Crystal Orbs, really? Even I was already ashamed of that one—but a simple, straightforward poster-size action scene. I divided the posterboard into two triangles. I began sketching the arrangement of body parts, a tangled swastika of limbs (the Indian kind, not the Nazi kind). The upper left triangle was Mitch-neto, flying backward into the air. The lower right triangle was me, punching him.

  My hands had just started getting into the details—costumes, facial expressions—and my brain had just started asking whether this wasn’t a colossally stupid idea, reliving the fulfillment of a lame and dangerous fantasy, when the phone saved me. It was set to silent, but its little plastic body shuddered so hard that it flopped off my desk and down onto the floor. I scrambled to check the text. It was from Larissa.

  Well I’m not being raped at this very moment, if that’s what you mean

  If I ever had a doubt that I was texting Larissa—not that I did—that would have dispelled it. Only Larissa could be so callous and so sensitive at the same time; so wry and ironic about her own trauma. Humor. Praise be to G-d, she answered me with humor. Even though our friendship was malfunctioning, toxic, or simply blown up, we still had our witty rapport. I replied fast, an ironyless smile face and a can I call before she had a chance to put down her phone and walk away.

  A few moments later, my phone rang.

  “Yello—”

  “What is it, Arthur?” she said. “I have homework.”

  “I wanted to know if you were okay. You probably don’
t want to talk to me, but if there’s anything I can do, even secondhand—”

  “And staying away is too hard?”

  “But I’m trying to be your friend—”

 

  “The worst part of what you did today,” she said slowly, “is, you don’t even realize what you did to me.”

  “I didn’t do it for you. He was asking for it.”

  “See? You don’t even realize it now. You told the whole school I was raped.”

  A moment of silence. My brain feels like it’s on fire.

  “I didn’t say anything, though!”

  “Maybe not, but you basically did. Yes, Mitch is a jerk. But there are about a million other ways to be a jerk, Arthur, and I think you just about pounded the nail on its big ugly head.”