Cornered (39 page)

“Ray Harryhausen,” I answered absently.

“Yeah, that guy. Anyway, there's this one with cowboys AND dinosaurs. I don't think we can buy it here, but can we rent it? I think Ramon would be all over that.”

I couldn't take my eyes off Tyler as he approached Maren, smiling at her, probably asking her the stupidest question ever uttered in the history of stupid questions. At least I hoped it was. I imagined Maren smiling at him as she pulled a katana blade from nowhere—slicing him neatly in two, from his skull to his big toe—before she turned and calmly finished restocking the shelf. In reality she set her stack down and walked him to a section. I wondered if Scarecrow had a bathroom so I could go vomit in it.

Noticing she didn't have my full attention, Brooke waved a spectral hand in front of my face until I blinked and looked at her. “I'd say you look like you've seen a ghost, but I've seen what that expression looks like. And this isn't it,” she said, her
head cocked speculatively. “In fact, your face looks like it did that time when we dared you to drink unmixed soda syrup straight from the tap.”

I held my cell phone up to my ear and pretended I was talking to someone. It was the best way to talk to Brooke in public without getting stared at. “That's about how I feel.” When I didn't continue, she rolled her hand in a “bring it” kind of gesture.

“Tyler.” I didn't need to say anything else. Brooke already knew all about it.

• • •

The day I met Brooke was the happiest day of my life. It really was. Okay, so it didn't have much competition. The day before that my only social interaction consisted of the neighbor's cat hocking up a dead mouse on my shoe. Sure, it meant he liked me, but I could've done without it. My life wasn't bad. It just . . . was. If you picked up the
Life of Frank
movie case at Scarecrow Video, the best review on the back would just say, “Meh.”

The day started out in a regular fashion: I got up early, ate breakfast in the company of a sticky note left by my parents, and went to school. Nothing exciting.

Most days I went to school early so I could park in the lower lot because it was the closest to the classrooms. It was the safest, most visible place since the school had a security guard patrolling the lower lot. He was supposed to patrol the upper lot too, but he had bad knees and tended to avoid the stairs.

Traffic was bad on the way to school, which made me later than usual. No cushy lower lot for me today. I assumed upper lot mode—messenger bag to the side in case I needed to run, key ring held in my fist so that the keys stuck between my clenched knuckles, and my headphones in but not turned on. I wanted to look like I wasn't paying attention but able to hear anyone approaching. I thought warmly of the day, somewhere in the near future, when I would be able to actually listen to my iPod.

I took the side stairs so I could cut across the field. Since I couldn't have safety in visibility, I figured I'd go for sneaky. The thing is, I'm terrible at being sneaky. I made my way down the steps, turned the corner, and ran straight into Tyler. He was maybe five feet away leaning against the cement wall at the base of the hill, smoking. He stared at me while he took a drag, eyes calculating. I stood frozen, staring as the smoke twined around his head.

“You see something you like, freak?” He ran a hand down his chest and laughed. I blushed and started walking, trying not to panic, struggling to keep a normal pace. I had to either walk past him or turn around and go back to my car, which really wasn't much of a choice. You needed to approach Tyler like you would an aggressive dog—running would only make him chase. He had longer legs and would catch me, no problem.

When I passed I felt the burning butt of his cigarette hit my neck. The sting was brief but painful, and for a second I stumbled, almost tripping over my own feet. Tyler came up beside me and I bowed my head, trying to avoid eye contact. That
would only make it worse. I could see his sneaker by the fallen cigarette, feel his hot breath on the side of my face. Tyler never hit me—he was careful not to lay a hand on me on school grounds, and I was careful to never see him
off
of school grounds. But the threat of it was always there, imminent, like a shark fin circling a life raft. Would today be the day?

You can't go to a teacher and tell them that someone is menacing you. No one gets expelled for being ominous. I wasn't getting threatening notes left on my car or finding dead rats in my locker. If the security guard came upon us right now, the most he could do is walk between us to make Tyler back up. But if he never actually
did
anything, why were my palms sweaty? Why did my heart skitter like a gibbering thing every time he came near me? Because even though I'd never seen the shark, I knew what the fin looked like. I knew what followed.

There was a click and I saw the cap of the Sharpie fall next to the cigarette. Like the coward I was, I stood there and did nothing as he wrote on the back of my neck. His hand was almost gentle as he clasped my shoulder and leaned in so that the tip of the marker felt like it was biting into my skin. He took his time, and though it only took a handful of seconds, they stretched out until they were fat, bloated things.

I stood and I trembled even after he walked away, his shoeprints in the dew the only proof that he'd been there. It wasn't until I heard voices from other students approaching—laughing, happy, normal voices—that I started moving. I clapped a hand onto the back of my neck and bee lined for the bathroom.

There was a small restroom by the art building that I usually went too. It was totally out of my way but usually empty since it hadn't been remodeled like the others. The faint smell of mildew was always evident, the toilets were always broken, and it never had any TP. But since I never actually used it to go to the bathroom, none of that mattered.

Bent over the sink with my shirt off, I covered my neck in that abrasive powdered soap and started scrubbing. I was on my third handful of paper towels when I heard the door swing open. I'm sure I presented quite a scene.

There was no way to see who it was from the angle I was hunched; I could only make out a hint of black trouser leg, black leather dress shoes, and an honest to god black wool trench coat—complete with a bright purple scarf. I knew that a vest and a white shirt lay underneath it, because that was generally what Andy wore. I'd never seen him in T-shirt or flip-flops. No one else dressed like he did, like he was about to get into a limo and be whisked off to the opera. On some kids it would look affected, but on Andy it looked natural.

I stood up, keeping my fisted handful of paper towels to my neck as I turned off the water. Andy had an amused expression on his face, and he tapped his long fingers along his jaw as he watched me. “And to think I was going to go straight to class.” He took of his scarf and folded it neatly. “Okay, out with it. This is a story I'd like to hear.”

I didn't know Andy that well. We had a few AP classes together, but our paths didn't cross much. He was the only
person I knew that read more than I did and his brown hair was neatly styled every day, his delicate features always composed. He belonged in the '40s, straight out of a New York City nightclub. I think the only reason he didn't wear full suits to school was so he didn't get beat up all the time.

But he was kind and he was smart, and at this moment—as I sat hip-deep in humiliation—I was wishing we were friends. When I wasn't immediately forthcoming (I was staring at the small puddle by one of my shoes) Andy rolled his eyes. He put his scarf in his pocket and removed his jacket, pulling open a stall door so he could hang it up on a hook.

“All right, let me see.” When I hesitated, he grabbed my wrist and gently pulled it away. “C'mon and show papa.” He sighed when he saw it, and my face reddened.

“I didn't write it.”

I didn't know you could raise an eyebrow sarcastically until I saw Andy do it. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn't be hiding out in this picturesque restroom, scouring off your skin to remove your own handiwork.” He gave a matronly
tut-tut
. “I wish they would get more creative. I'd give all the bullies a thesaurus for Christmas, but I know they wouldn't read it. Still, slanders of the sexual orientation nature? Might as well take a time machine back to the eighties.”

I didn't think my face could get any redder, but it had to be practically volcanic by now. “I'm not . . . not that I think there's anything wrong. . . . I—”

Andy laughed. “Don't blow a gasket there, my graffitied
friend. No one's accusing you of anything. Well, I'm not accusing you of anything at any rate.” He reached for his leather messenger bag, the only thing he wore that looked old and worn, but in a loved vintage way. “Now rinse off so we can get you cleaned up and clothed, before someone finds us in here and we really confirm some rumors about you.”

My face colored again as I went to rinse. “I don't mind, you know. There are worse things to be called.”

He continued to search his bag. “You just don't want to walk down the halls with a homophobic slur on your person. I understand, Frank. Now shut up and rinse.”

I did as I was told, and when I finally got all the soap off, I stood up straight and patted my neck dry. Andy stood behind me, holding a bottle of what looked like astringent and those cotton pads girls use take makeup off—which was kind of weird, since it didn't look like Andy wore makeup.

He must have seen the look on my face. “Let's just say this isn't the first time I've had to do this.”

“This happen to you a lot?”

He put the pad to the top of the bottle and tipped it until the liquid seeped into it. “Not as much as it used to, but more often than I would wish. It's really hard on the skin.” He leaned in to wipe my neck and hesitated. “This is going to sting since you've rubbed your neck pretty raw.”

I grabbed onto the sink's edge and drew a deep breath. “Okay.”

It did sting. A lot. But we got most of the marker off. All
that was left when Andy was finished was part of the
f
and a hazy
a
and
t
.

“Now it just looks like someone tried to write ‘fat' on your neck while you were walking.” Andy wiped a thin sheen of antibiotic ointment to help with the residual burning. He definitely came to school prepared.

“Andy?” I asked as I pulled on my shirt.

“Hm?”

“You're awesome.”

“I know,” he said.

The school day passed, as they tend to do. I caught a few people staring at my neck, but no one asked what was going on. If I'd had a friend they probably would have talked to me about it, but I didn't, so no one did.

At the end of the day, I walked back to my car, only to find that my tires had been slashed. All of them. I'd like to say I was surprised. Shocked. Angry. But really, I was just tired. I called the tow truck number I had saved in my phone and gave them my name and the location of the car. I didn't need to stay. They had my bank card on file. If this continued, I was going to have to get a full-time job. The money I'd saved from summer work just wasn't going to cut it. People often talk about the pain and degradation of being bullied. No one really talks about the cost. Not that money is more important than those other things, but having to pay the expenses of your own humiliation just rubbed rock salt into the wound.

I didn't feel like going home to an empty house. After
today I needed noise. I needed to hear people and sit in the middle of their mindless chatter and pretend—just for a second—that it was directed toward me. That I was in the middle of something, even if it was imaginary.

I put my headphones on and started to walk. The school had mostly emptied and in a moment of recklessness, I actually turned my iPod on. It felt decadent. The gray of the morning had burned off leaving the sky blue and the day warm. Sunlight filtered in through the trees, and I felt the weight lifting off the farther I got from school.

It was a mistake, really. As close to hubris as I got. I'd made it all the way down by the skate park when I tripped on something and hit the ground hard. My iPod went skittering along the ground. When it landed face up I could see that the screen was fractured into a hundred tiny pieces. I lay there listening to the sounds of wheels on concrete, the clack as the tips of boards kissed the smooth edges of the bowl.

I caught sight of a girl sitting on the top of a bench, her back to me, her face turned in profile. She was wearing a black uniformed polo shirt with the word PLUMPY'S scrawled in red cursive over a cartoon chicken, its wing holding a hamburger. The chicken looked pretty happy about the meal, even though I wasn't sure if a chicken would even eat a hamburger. The girl's blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes bright even from this distance. It was the first time I saw Brooke. She had a water bottle held loosely in her grip and was frowning at me.

An arm grabbed me by the back of my shirt and yanked me roughly to my feet. Tyler. Of course it was. He'd probably been following me for ages and I hadn't heard him because I'd had my stupid headphones in.

He started roughly brushing me off, smacking a little too hard to knock the bits of leaves and twigs off my arms. “I thought you guys were supposed to be graceful. Didn't you take ballet with the rest of the fruits?”