Leverage (30 page)

“Don't you remember how all this started?” I mumble in reply. It's my first practice back since Coach's house call. I'm not really sure how I feel about returning. I know I'm glad to see Bruce in the gym. At first.

“They gotta pay,” Bruce mutters through a locked jaw, staring across the gym at the storage room. “They gotta pay,” he repeats. I haven't gone back into the storage room and don't plan on it. That's why I'm down at the far end of the gym, stretching, when Bruce joins me. He slides his arms behind him and slowly rocks forward to loosen his shoulder muscles. “Besides, this is nothing dangerous. We're just going to make sure Ronnie's not forgotten.”

That's what my brain shouts.
No, no, no! What are you, crazy?!?! Wasn't the attack on Ronnie and his suicide enough?! Do you want to start a whole new round with these guys? We are small. Scott, Tom, and Mike are huge. And wicked. They do as they please and no one ever says anything. And they know that.

My brain motors on but my mouth won't budge except to nibble the skin on the inside of my cheek. Every single day since the attack is a nonstop loop of remembering all those horrible things that happened to Ronnie in the storage room. He isn't forgotten in the least. The attack opened my eyes: Oregrove isn't a school. It's a hunting ground. Scott, Tom, and Mike choose their targets at leisure and go unpunished. Teachers look the other way, say “boys'll be boys,” and bust the the rest of us for showing up two minutes late to class. It's a place where someone small as Ronnie gets chewed up. Where someone small as me is supposed to keep quiet, smile for the yearbook photo, and graduate without spilling any bad secrets.

Scott hurts his arm and all anyone talks about is when he'll be healthy enough to play again. Cheerleaders—those beautiful, awful cannibals who shred each other without ever making a fist—practically faint when he walks by them in the hall with his arm in a sling. That's how it works for royalty. Everyone cares about Scott and his arm while Scott cares about no one. And meanwhile, Ronnie's still dead because of what they did to him . . . and what I didn't do. People like Ronnie, like me, exist at Oregrove for the royalty to devour.

NO!
My brain shouts inside my skull.
Tell Bruce NO WAY!

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

 

“Let's make this fast,” I whisper as Bruce and I skulk down the halls.

“Don't sweat it,” Bruce whispers back. “We'll be in and out like commandos.” His energy is high again.

“Fisher should be doing this,” I grumble. “He loves this crap.”

“Why don't you tell him what happened to Ronnie, then,” Bruce snaps, “and I'll make sure to invite him on our next adventure.”

“There won't
be
a next adventure. This is it.”

“Right,” Bruce agrees. His plan, as explained during practice, is pretty simple, taking him less than a full sweep of the gym clock's second hand to break my will and convince me that revenge is my duty. That, by the way, is Step 1. Step 2 involves us leaving practice last, and together, like he's going to offer me a ride home. The school and the parking lot empty out by that time.

That leaves Step 3.

Bruce cracks the trunk of his Volvo and glances both ways, real suspicious, like bad guys do in detective movies. I think maybe he's joking until he pulls out two industrial-size permanent markers. The kind sold at art supply stores. The kind dumbasses use for tagging. He plants one in my palm before I can pull my hand away. It sits in my fist, feeling like a weapon, or, more accurately, like a get-expelled-for-life baton.

“Bruce . . .”

“Don't worry about it,” he tries assuring me. “We'll be quick. No one's going to know.”

“I don't think—”

“Come on!”
The cutoff is harsh, letting me know he's done caring about consequences or what I think. I follow him back into the school, stuffing the triple-size permanent marker into my gym bag.

We make it down into enemy territory inside of a minute—the varsity football locker room. This is serious. Too serious to involve others. Graffiti is grounds for immediate expulsion, no questions asked. No one else can know what we're doing or be able to prove it. Bruce performs a speedy reconnaissance around the locker room to make sure we're alone. Trying to explain our presence in the varsity football locker room would be impossible.

Satisfied the place is empty, Bruce moves decisively. Sweet chemical toxicity fills the air once he uncaps the big marker. Tom Jankowski's locker is first. Bruce scribbles hurriedly but carefully, making sure the name is clear. He moves on to Studblatz's locker and repeats the message.

“Okay, your turn,” Bruce says. “Hit Scott's locker.”

I do as instructed, hesitating only a moment, since it's already too late by then. Too late to go back. I pull the cap off my marker, hearing it snap. I press the wet wick against the thin sheet metal. I spell the name down the locker just like Bruce did the other two:

“Let's go,” Bruce whispers. “Their regular lockers are next.” I nod, still inhaling the heavy, sweet, chemical scent of fighting back. We scoot out of the locker room, peeking out the doorway and looking both ways before scampering down the hall and upstairs same as we did the time we sprayed pee in their lockers.

I sort of know where each of their three regular lockers is based on where I spot them hanging out between classes and the decorations the cheerleaders paste on them for game Fridays. Bruce, having planned for this moment, knows the precise coordinates and we go in fast. I sprint to the far end of the hallway and peer around the corner to watch out for janitors, late-working teachers, or delinquent students (like us), while Bruce tags Tom's locker.

Finished, Bruce waves me toward him to the next hallway. Running past Tom's locker, I see that Bruce tagged it with Ronnie's name the same way he did downstairs. But this time he's added “Murderer!” across the top. A nice artistic flourish, I think, popping the cap off my marker. Next up is Scott's locker and Bruce tags it quickly. Studblatz's locker is last. Bruce jogs to the end of the hall and plays lookout at the corner while pointing at me to tag it. The fumes from the marker mix with my adrenaline and my head starts getting light. I write Ronnie's name in bold letters, pressing hard, breathing deep. Across the top of the locker, I write “Murderer!”

“Go, go, go,”
Bruce mouths, scooping the air with his hands as a signal for me to catch up. As I reach him, he grabs my arm at the elbow and tugs me behind him. We fly down the next hall. With my head so light, it feels like I'm floating for a moment. I kick at the brick wall for no reason. I get only a dull thud that hurts my foot. So I kick a locker instead and get the nice, satisfying clang I want. Bruce glances back at me with a frown.

“Okay, slow down.” Bruce puts a hand out to slap my chest. “We walk from here.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“No reason to look suspicious. We just forgot something after practice and we came back to get it, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll give you a ride home,” he says.

In the car, I uncap the marker again and put the wick almost directly up my left nostril. I inhale repeatedly until I start feeling nauseous.

“That smells like shit,” Bruce says. “You're going to obliterate all your brain cells.”

“That's okay,” I assure him, recapping the marker. “Some parts would be better if they were obliterated.”

Bruce pulls into my driveway. My dad isn't home yet. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he says.

“Yeah, cool.” Everything feels nice and distant, including Bruce's voice, like it's all coming through a veil and nothing is that awful or bad. Nothing really hurts or seems dangerous, and places like Oregrove—where they cheer for guys who did what they did to Ronnie, where they crown them kings—are only a joke.

“Thanks for helping,” Bruce says, tapping the capped marker I hand him against his steering wheel. “It's the least we could do,” Bruce says. “It's still not enough. Not even close. But it's something.”

Y
ou think it's funny?” Studblatz asks in my ear, so close his breath parts my hair. He and Jankowski sneak up from behind, flanking me on my way toward English class.

“What's fuh-fuh-funny?” I ask, swiveling my head side to side, failing to hold either of them in my sights. When I slow, they slow, keeping a half step behind me. The skin along my back prickles like wood ticks are crawling all over me. Tom Jankowski and Mike Studblatz hold the triangle formation while I walk through the north hallway, pretty much blocking anyone trying to get by us.

“Hear that, Tom?” Studblatz asks. “He's p-p-p-playing stu-stu-stu-stupid.”

“Yeah, I hear him.”

“Wuh-wuh-wuh-what's the joke?” I ask, hoping they'll tire quickly and go off to class.

“You tell us,” Tom says.

“Huh?”

“Don't even try pretending you got nothing to do with it,” Studblatz says.

“What?”

“Better take acting classes with the theater fags 'cause you really suck at it,” Studblatz says. “Walk by our lockers. Walk by 'em, then keep pretending you don't know what we're talking about. It ain't no coincidence we got his name all over our lockers a day after you sputtered it at practice.”

I shake my head, totally confused.

“Wuh-wuh-wuh-what?”

“Tommy's dad's a cop,” Studblatz says. “You know that, right?”

“Yup,” Tom confirms in my other ear.

“He found out all about you. Told us what you did. Be real interesting if the whole school found out you killed a kid in some orphanage before they threw you in psycho-kid prison.”

This stops me cold. I turn around, the better to face my attackers.

“Aw shit, lookit his face.” Jankowski elbows Studblatz, then points at me. “Surprised much?” he asks me. “Guess your little secret ain't so secret no more. My dad says only freaks come out of those kid prisons—I mean, ‘juvenile detention centers.'” He says this last part making air quotes.

“And psychos,” Studblatz adds.

“You a freak K-K-K-Kurtis B-B-B-Brodsky? Huh?” Jankowski taunts. “You a psycho-kid killer? Who's the killer now, huh, Kurt? You think they'll cheer for you when they find out you smothered some kid to death?”

“Tom's dad's getting ready to warn the other parents,” Studblatz smiles. “Let the rest of 'em know what you are.”

“Then maybe we'll decorate your locker like you did ours,” Tom says. Their threat turns my legs to sand. I'm not sure I can stand up much longer, thinking about my past coming out, the truth getting twisted like it did the first time. All the students so happy to be my new friend will be just as happy to turn on me.

Tom reaches out and grabs my arm like he owns me, then pulls himself too close. “Who you think people are going to believe if they ever start asking questions?” he growls under his breath. “About Ronnie? About what happened to him? Your word against ours, stutter-man. Scott told us he fixed this with you already.”

The bass beat of my heart thumps in my earlobes.

“I duh-duh-duh-didn't suh-suh-smother Lam-mama . . . nobody.”

“Neither did we,” Tom says, still gripping my arm. “But you got a juvey record and my dad says that shit can get leaked real easy. Before you know it, it's just a Google search away.”

“Psycho's word versus ours,” Studblatz adds.

“And we don't got records.”

“Who you think everyone's gonna side with?”

An underclassman gets too close to this ambush. He's trying to squeeze by us when Studblatz shoves him into a wall of lockers, shoves him hard enough that the kid ricochets off the metal and drops his books. The kid doesn't say nothing, just rubs his shoulder and bends over to collect his books. No one helps him or even notices, really. Sight's as common as chewing gum stuck to the walls.

“It's too bad Gunderson killed himself,” Tom says quietly. “But we didn't have nothing to do with it.”

Jankowski's still got ahold of my arm. His threats have taken the fight out of me. Studblatz steps closer and they box me into the wall, double-teaming again, ready to take another shot at me.

“Wuh-wuh-wuh-what do you wuh-wuh-wuh-want?”

“Take a look at our lockers before the janitor finishes with them. Then tell us you don't know nothing,” Studblatz says.

“Here's a little warning,” Tom says. “Teammate to teammate. You don't know what you're messing with. Our parents, our coach, our fans don't want to see us fail. They won't let you or Ronnie or anyone else get in our way.”

Tom releases my arm. Him and Studblatz drift off into the hallway stream. I lean against a drinking fountain, gripping the white porcelain for balance, pressing the button with my thumb, pretending I'm thirsty when I'm really just trying to hold on while the sound of Lamar's panicked wheezing fills my ears. When the end passing bell rings I'm still at the fountain. Except for a couple kids sprinting to class, trying to escape a detention, the halls are empty. I finally shove off and plod toward Scott's locker, the closest of the three. A janitor wipes at the surface with a gray rag that smells up the area with ammonia. The rubbing is worthless. Only thing that's going to work is a coat of paint.

Ronnie's name runs the length of Scott's locker, spattering Scott the same way I'd done to Studblatz in practice yesterday. No wonder they thought I wrote it. I would've thought I wrote it if I were them. Worry creeps down my neck. My past is about to leak out and poison everyone here against me. I'll get blamed for Ronnie just like I got blamed for Lamar. My locker will get decorated but it won't be with football congratulations. It's starting. I can feel it. A dark force gathering and it can't be wished away. I trudge toward Tom's locker and then Studblatz's locker, whistling low with awe at the addition of the word “Murderer!” at the top. It has to be Bruce or Danny that did it. Maybe both.