Brutal (5 page)

“Thanks, but I'm doing fine.”

He nodded. “I'm sure you are, and you are obviously an intelligent young woman, but I think sometimes things are easier for those students who grasp the concept of teamwork. That's what the committee is all about. We want this to be your home, and at home, comfort and positive atmospheres are important.” He glanced out the door, where Theo was waiting for me. “We work hard at Benders High to offer students the opportunity to be part of the whole. To cast away the defensive mechanisms that create the subgroups that isolate students. Inside, we're all really the same, you know?”

I almost laughed. Homogenized diversity celebration. Communism with a spin. “Yes, I know what you mean. And thank you. I'll stay away from Theo. I can already tell he's not a team player.”

He shook his head, frowning. “I wasn't alluding to any one person, Ms. Holly. My intent is only that you feel welcome here, and I want nothing more than for things to go well for you and this school. And from experience, I know that sometimes having the courage to join in and be a part of something great is scary.”

God, Theo wasn't exaggerating. I'd seen it before, but this guy dripped crap between the lines. “Thanks.”

“Very well, then. And remember, come see me if you've anything on your mind. Perhaps I can help.”

I walked out and shook my head. Theo walked beside me. “What?”

“Wow.”

“Halvorson?”

“Yeah. He doesn't want me hanging around you.”

“Oh, that. The anti clique thing. Benders High prides it self on that. Halvorson has his own float during the Grape Days Parade.”

“No way.”

“Way.” He laughed. “His idea of getting rid of cliques is to get everybody to join the best clique. He gave you the teamwork talk, didn't he?”

“Yep.”

“Everything is fair and equitable if everybody is on the same team.”

“And now you'll tell me what the best team is?”

“The good-people-that-wear-the-same-clothes-and-have-combed hair clique. Sports, drama, the illustrious and award-winning choir, orchestra, chess, debate, anything with light and neutral colors that makes Benders High run like clockwork.” He smiled. “You'd better find something quick or you'll be on the outside looking in. Oh, wait.” He looked me up and down. “You're already on the outside. Sorry.”

I didn't tell him about my deal with Dad. I'd be meeting with the choir teacher after school, and somehow Theo made me feel guilty about it. I glanced at the clock on the hall wall. “I've got to go. See you?”

He walked away, waving over his shoulder. “Sure thing.”

The end of sixth period, math, finally came around, and I headed to the music building. The choir room was C102,
and Mrs. Baird stood at a white chalkboard, wiping it down with a paper towel. Short highlighted hair cut into a prim bob, a dark blue knit sweater with a white turtleneck underneath, and beige slacks with low-heeled black shoes greeted me. A garish necklace around her slightly wattled neck was the only sign of creative flourish. A badge of rebellion. I stepped in the room. “Hi.”

She turned around, looking me up and down. “Hello.” She smiled. “You must be Poe. Your father told me you might be interested in choir.”

I rolled my eyes. “Word travels quick around here.”

She stepped up to me and shook my hand. “How was your first day?”

I shrugged. “Fine. Thanks.”

She looked me up and down again, an insult under her friendly smile. I half expected her to stick her fingers in my mouth and check my gums. “So you're interested in singing?”

“I said I'd check it out.”

She smiled warmly. “Well, do you sing in the shower? Everybody sings in the shower, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“We have a slot for you if you'd like. Depending on your range, that is. The main chorus is quite good. Not on the level of the Elite Choir, but they do quite well at competition.”

My interest suddenly faded. “I don't sing well with others.”

She raised her eyebrows, smiling. “Well, the choir is a group movement, as you know. Unless of course you're a soloist, but those spots are full.”

I shrugged. “I am a soloist.”

She furrowed her brow. “You know, Poe, it takes years of training to make soloist. The four soloists we have now have been singing since they were in kindergarten. In fact, we are one of the only schools in the nation to have soloist rankings. You're sure you wouldn't like to try the main chorus?”

“I'm sure.” I looked to the door. “I've got to go. Bye.”

She nodded. “Okay, then. Would you do me a favor, though?”

“What?”

“When I talked to your father and he told me you were in a little band of some sort, he asked that I listen to you sing before any decisions were made. Will you sing for me?”

I should have walked out, but I'd made a deal. Okay, I'm lying. I wanted to sing. I wanted to stuff it down her wattled throat. “Are you sure? I don't want to take up any of your time. I'm not trained professionally.”

She led me further into the room, ignoring the jab as she sat at the piano. “Don't be so hard on yourself. The acoustics in here were specially designed, and they make anybody sound good. Why don't you step on the stage and take center.” I stepped up, half tempted to sing in my best impression of Donald Duck. Then we'd see how these walls made me sound. She folded her hands in her lap at the pi ano. “What would you like to sing?”

I thought about it. “ ‘Bridge over Troubled Water,’ by Simon and Garfunkel.”

“A difficult piece.”

I shrugged.

“All right, then. Take my lead.”

“I don't need accompaniment.”

She stared, smiled, then nodded. “Very well. Begin when it suits you.”

Earlier and to a few oddball stares, I'd warmed up in the girls’ bathroom. I was ready. I began, and just like always, twenty seconds into it I found myself lost to the real world. The only thing I knew was the feeling my voice gave me. Like if there was something perfect in this dirty world, I could find it through singing. Like I could blow down a building or stroke a butterfly wing with this song.

When I finally shut my trap and stopped singing, Mrs. Baird sat staring at me. The silence of the room finally gave way to her. “I'm afraid I owe you an apology.”

I picked up my bag. “Not interested.”

She stood. “I'm sorry. I didn't think …”

“I told you I'm not interested.”

Flustered, she lurched forward, light in her eyes. “I want you in this choir as the lead soloist. In the Elite Choir. Your pitch was perfect, your range is incredible, and I didn't hear an off-key note. Not one. How many octaves can you range?”

“I don't have professional training, remember? It takes years.”

A hint of anger lit her eyes. “I was just saying that the competition for those spots was intense.”

“No, you weren't. You were saying I didn't have a chance in hell and the spots were already taken. You made that decision the second I walked in the door and you looked me up and down.”

Her jaw tightened. “Well, they are taken. Or were. But
I'll not mince words. You're better than they are, and though you may not think so, I run my choir based solely on talent. Not politics.”

I smiled. “Five minutes ago I was a waste of your time.”

She ignored it. “We'll call today a late tryout. A walk-on.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I told you why not.”

“I'm not going to beg, Poe. You'll be wasting an incredible talent if you walk out that door. I can get you recognized. You can have a future.”

“I don't want your kind of recognition or your kind of future, thank you.”

“Poe…”

I shook my head. She wasn't that bad, but this wasn't for me. I didn't deal with school politics and bullshit, and that's why every school I ever went to had me in at the first ring of the bell and out at the last. “I had an agreement with my dad, Mrs. Baird, and I did it. I'm not singing in your choir.”

She nodded, upset. “Okay, then.”

• • •

As I walked from the school grounds, I didn't feel good about anything. The way she'd looked at me when I first walked in was nothing new. I got that from teachers constantly, but it still made me feel like a lump of crap. Some teachers loved and lived on having contempt for students.

I imagined myself in one of their silly robes, front and center at a competition and singing my heart out, and I didn't laugh at it. I knew I'd like it. I would. I'd like the
feeling, because that's what singing was all about. But I wasn't about to be a part of something that every grain of my being was against, and the name of the varsity choir, the Elite, said it all. If you didn't look the part and play the part and have all the proper pedigrees, you were nothing.

I wasn't nothing, though. I could sing, and now the tables were turned. I shut her out and made her feel like crap just like she went around doing to other people. She could take her professionally trained hand puppets and stick them up her big butt for all I cared.

I turned the first corner from the school and saw Velveeta walking a block up, his lanky gait recognizable even from this distance. I quickened my pace, hoping to catch him before we got home, but then he took a left through a large vacant lot and disappeared.

As I approached the overgrown lot, I saw the path he'd gone down and followed, thinking it was a shortcut. As I entered the narrow path, I saw the flash of his T-shirt before he disappeared around the brush thirty yards ahead.

Then I heard muffled voices. I slowed, not sneaking, but interested in what was going on, and rounded the corner. Maybe he was scoring some dope or something. The path straightened from there on, with the backyard fences of houses on one side and the brush on the other. Velveeta stood in front of two guys, both of them big, and the smiles on their faces weren't friendly.

I stopped, watching as they talked. I couldn't hear what was being said, but Velveeta held a piece of paper in his hand and kept gesturing to it. Then one of them laughed, ripping the paper away and crumpling it up. He threw it on the ground, then pointed, directing Velveeta to pick it up.

Velveeta shuffled, and this time I heard the guy order him to pick it up.

As Velveeta bent, the bigger of the two pounced on his back and smashed him to the ground, pinning his neck with his palm. With Velveeta's cheek pressed against the dirt and the crumpled paper in front of him, the other guy squatted down and laughed. “Eat it, cheese head.”

My stomach did somersaults, and I knew I should do something. I didn't, though. I couldn't. I don't know why. My feet froze to the path. I could only watch as one of the guys picked up the paper and forced it into Velveeta's mouth. “Chew it, bitch. Take it down, boy. That's right. Eat it.”

With the paper stuffed halfway into his mouth, Velveeta refused to chew. The kid pinning him pressed harder on his neck. Velveeta grunted, and his body, sprawled on the ground, tightened spastically, resisting the pressure. Tears welled in my eyes, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell them to stop, but like a car wreck, I couldn't stop watching, either. Velveeta chewed. They laughed. “Choke it down, retard. Oh yeah. Did your dead bitch of a mother feed you like this, you desert pig?” the one on top said, then ordered him to swallow it.

Velveeta didn't, and this time, the kid squatting in front of his face reared back and punched his forehead, the dull thud reaching my ears. I stepped out and yelled, screaming my head off with every cussword known to man coming out. They sprang up, staring at the screaming crazy loon for a few seconds before flipping me off and strutting down the path laughing. Velveeta lay still.

I walked to him, not wanting to be here, but not able to
leave. I didn't want to see this. Nobody should see this. I knelt. His breath came in sharp rasps, eyes wide and staring at nothing as drool from the corner of his lip puddled in the dirt. His cheek bulged with the paper, and like a slow-motion movie scene, he parted his lips and the mushed-up contents plopped out, filaments of slobber running streams from it to his mouth. He didn't move. I looked away. “Are you okay?”

He didn't answer, and as I knelt further and put my hand on his shoulder, he flinched. I took my hand away. His breathing calmed, but his eyes remained fixed on nothing. “Go away.”

I stood, picked up his backpack, set it beside him, and looked at anything but him. “I'm sorry.”

He didn't reply, just lay there, and I left.

Dad was home by four-thirty, and I avoided him. I couldn't get
Velveeta out of my head, and it bothered me. I'd seen kids picked on and beaten up and harassed. Every kid has, and I'd even been targeted once or twice. But I wasn't one of those dweebs running around talking about how traumatized I was and how the healing needed to begin.

My general outlook on life was that shit happened, and if you didn't have the guts to take care of business, you deserved it. That's why I was so bothered by why I was so bothered. Any reality-based person who looked at Velveeta knew he took crap from other kids. And adults. Some people were born to be picked on, and he was one of them. That's the way the world worked, and no matter what anybody tried to do about stopping it, they couldn't. The strong preyed on the weak, the smart preyed on the dumb, and the smarter stayed away from it all. Human beings were cruel creatures.

What bothered me so much about Velveeta was the way he'd taken it. The way he lay still with his eyes wide reminded me of how an antelope looked when a pack of lions
attacked it. Sure, he'd been defiant by refusing to swallow the paper, just like an antelope will run until the jaws close around its neck. But just like the antelope finally standing still as the jaws clamp and the claws rake its flesh away, there'd been an air of resignation around it all. Those staring eyes just waiting for it to be over. Like he knew this was supposed to happen and it was natural for it to happen to him.

It made me sick. I'd seen guys kicked in the head and put into comas during fights at raves and parties, and it hadn't bothered me as much. This time, those two lions hadn't pulled down their prey for any other reason than entertainment, and I'd stood there and watched it.