Hero–Type (21 page)

It took breaking the camera and the end of my taping to make me realize it. It took standing here right now in Leah's room, looking at her things, at her private things. The bed she sleeps in, piled high with pillows of different shapes and sizes. The full-length mirror where she sees herself every day, looking at her clothes. Sometimes naked, here, in private, where no one else is supposed to be.

My knees go weak. I make myself walk across the plush, lavender carpet until I stand before the mirror. She has photographs taped all around it—a collage frame of her life and her friends. The mirror reflects ... not me. Not to my mind's eye. No, to my mind's eye, I see Leah. In her solitude. In her privacy.

Here's what it was about the camera.

It was being able to
watch.
Without having to worry.

The rest of that summer, I kept the camera on all the time, even though it killed the batteries and wasted lots of tape. I loved the idea of letting fate or whatever determine what I would see.

But I kept coming back to that first time. To Leah.

She never came into the Burger Joint again. At least, not that summer. But when high school started a few weeks later, guess who was in my English class? And my science class? And my history class? And guess who had the same lunch period as me?

It was like the universe was trying to tell me something. I had to decide if I was going to listen to it.

And I did. I listened to it. For two years. until that day.

I wasn't studying. At the library. That day.
The
day. I didn't go there to go to the library at all.

I was...

I was following her.

Leah.

Following her, and—

God.

God, I'm a terrible person. I'm such a...

The mirror shows me the worst person in the world.

I was stalking her, OK? I used to do it all the time. I'm quick and quiet and no one notices me and I would follow her around and... would videotape her. Everywhere she went. Through a hole in my backpack.

And then watch the tape later. A stupid, jerky, out-of-focus—

It wasn't just the one time. It wasn't just the one tape.

It was almost
two years.
Two years
of following her everywhere. Memorizing her class schedule. Memorizing everything I could, taping everything I could.

Piles of tapes. Leah's high school life, documented in shaky-cam.

Leah going to gym.

Leah coming back from gym, her hair still slightly damp from the shower.

Leah at lunch with her friends, laughing, yelling, eating.

Leah with the Dance Club in her tights.

Rehearsing with the Drama Club—
The Crucible.
She played Goody Proctor and it was the one time I was able to videotape her without having to hide it. I convinced the school paper to let me tape the show with a tripod.

My pride, my shame: an up-skirt shot from the Home-coming pep rally last year.

A day when I ran into her at the Narc, in the cereal aisle, and followed her to the deli counter and then to frozen foods before she disappeared through swinging doors labeled "Employees Only."

All those and more. More and more and more.

OK? There. OK? You know now.

The only difference between me and Michael Alan Naylor is that he got caught.

T
HE REFLECTION OF ME IN THE MIRROR
has tears running down its cheeks. He wipes his eyes, and the motion draws my attention to one of the pictures. Leah, in a black and pink striped top with black skirt and boots. God. Just standing there. Sort of gazing at the camera like she's not sure
how
to gaze at the camera. Not smiling; not scowling. Not doing much of
anything.
Just...
there.

Not particularly beautiful. I guess that's why Tit was surprised when I mentioned her. I have to tell the truth—she's not the hottest girl at South Brook. Not even the hottest girl in the sophomore class. She's a little too plump, probably, and her face is a little crooked, and she doesn't really do much with her hair.

But here's the thing—I don't care. I just don't.

I'm holding the same backpack I used to tape her. It took me a while, but I eventually figured out how to position the camera and how to hold the backpack so that I could tape her while looking like I was just carrying the pack over one shoulder.

The same backpack. My hand finds the hole, the carefully positioned hole.

No camera anymore. And let's all thank God for that, you know?

I'm no hero.

I say it silently to the monster in the mirror.

He gives me a look that says,
If I had a new camera tomorrow, I'd do it all again.

He says,
If I had a camera right now, I'd hide it in her bedroom. I'd see
everything.

I force myself to turn away and cross the hall to the bathroom. I close the door and sit down on the edge of the tub because suddenly my legs are too weak to hold me up.

God, what is
wrong
with me?

This isn't even my second time here. It's more like my fifth. I couldn't drive until recently, but I've known her address almost since the beginning. A couple of weekends, I walked all the way out here to Breed's Grove. Walked here and scoped out the neighborhood. Snuck around in the dark, making endless circuits of the house, trying to figure out...

Oh, God. Trying to figure out which window was hers. And what...? What would I have done if I'd known?

I let myself cry in Leah's bathroom. I've sullied her so much already, what's the big dif if I get some tears on her bathroom floor?

After a few minutes, I figure Mrs. Muldoon might think I've died in here. I change into my bathing suit and splash cold water on my face to cover up the redness of my eyes.

Then I go back down the hall and turn and go out through some French doors to the pool, like I never did anything wrong. I'm good at pretending.

I feel out of place immediately. The guys are the ones who shove me around. The girls are the ones who ignore me. No one even bothers to look over at me.

There's a table with drinks and snacks on one side of the pool and a DJ is playing old eighties music really loud. They don't notice me, or if they do, they don't show it. I don't know what the hell to do. But I know this: I'm going to try to be good. I'm going to try very, very hard to be good.

Leah sees me and comes running over.
Now
everyone notices me.

She's wearing a green and lavender two-piece. It's modest by bikini standards and Leah isn't even in the top five of the hottest girls at this party, but it's
Leah
and I devour her with my eyes.

"Look! Kevin's here!" she calls out, so of course everyone looks and it's like a stalker's worst nightmare—everyone watching
him
as
he
watches.

She throws her arms around me, and I'm way too aware of the stretches of naked flesh on both sides of the equation—my torso bare, her belly and arms. I pray to God—
please
,
please—
not to let me get an erection. Please.

"You came!" she says. "I'm so glad." And then she kisses me on the cheek and gives me an extra hard squeeze before letting me go. "Drinks and snacks are over there. Mom's getting pizza in, like, an hour."

She grabs my hand and pulls me closer to the pool and the other kids.

"I think you know everyone, right? Great!" She goes off to pour herself something to drink. Yeah, I know everyone. By sight, at least. It's not like we're all chums or anything. And they all sure as hell know me—I'm the guy who saved Leah's life, but they don't remember that. All they know is I'm the guy who hates America.

"My brother's over there," says one guy. "Extended his tour. Again."

Great. I don't need this.

"Not tonight!" Leah says, coming back out of nowhere. "We're not talking about stupid politics. We're having
fun.
We're celebrating. Kevin saved my life and the DA called my parents today and said their case is so strong that they'll probably look for the death penalty."

This is news to me. Some of the guys nod grudging respect my way. They're all thinking,
He's such a wuss we could kick his ass easy ... but he
did
stop that guy.

Yeah, I did. And you all saw it on TV. I watch Leah and I remember sitting next to her on her sofa while
Justice!
taped us. At one point, she said, "You know, I never believed in destiny or fate. And then Kevin saved me. He was in the right place at the right time. What are the odds? It had to be fate."

I wish that were true. I wish it had been fate and not just me.

And then what I've been dreading happens: John Riordon shows up from around a corner, carrying a Frisbee. "It went into the garage—" he says, before breaking off.

There's a tension in the air. The DJ keeps playing music, but no one's listening. They're all watching. Riordon is more intimidating the less clothes he wears. When he got all dressed up for the morning announcements, you couldn't see the massive shoulder muscles, the six-pack abs. He could crush me like a walnut.

"Tell ya what," he says, sauntering over to me. "I'll make you a deal. You don't be a dick tonight and I won't call you on it, OK?"

I grind my teeth to keep myself from saying,
Shouldn't
I
be saying that to
you?

"Sure, John."

He wings the Frisbee at someone who's just gone flying off the diving board. The guy catches it in midair and flips before crashing into the pool. "Six points!" Riordon yells, and charges to the pool, and everyone forgets about me.

And what do I do for the next infinite number of hours? Well, as the sun goes down and the Muldoons' outside lighting comes up, I do what I've always done: I watch.

I actually behave myself; I watch people other than Leah. I'm the outsider here. I'm the ugly duckling—there's no way around that. So I just watch and I try to stay uninvolved. I'm only here because Leah wants me here...

And because the Council is, right now, doing something that I can't afford to be involved in. Because everyone will come to me, assuming I did it. Which is close—it was my idea, but...

Just then—as if it's magic—my backpack rings.

I left the backpack near the door when I came outside. I dig inside for Fam's cell, which she loaned to me.

Flip's voice comes through, more excited than I've ever heard before—and that's saying something.

"Hail, Fool. Dude, it's done."

"Hail, Fool. How did it go?"

"
Awesome.
" He giggles.

"Did you call the fire department?"

"Yeah, right before I called you."

"From a pay phone?"

"How stupid do you think I am, Kross?"

"Sorry. Cool. I'll see you Monday."

"Don't forget—you owe me now."

"I know."

I put the phone back, suddenly worried that someone has overheard both ends of the conversation. But no one is even looking at me. No one's paying attention. Good.

Right about now, the Brookdale Fire Department is rushing to South Brook High. What they will find there—planted in the grassy pad in the middle of the bus turnaround, visible from the main road—is five jerry-rigged flagpoles, each one bearing a burning flag.

Five flags, all aflame.

Norway. Sweden. Canada. Australia. Denmark.

If Flip did everything right, he also videotaped the burning flags before calling the fire department. He'll hack and spam the video to the usual suspects, with superimposed text:

GUESS WHAT THESE FLAGS HAVE
IN COMMON WITH THE FLAG
OF THE UNITED STATES?

That
ought to get some attention. I think Dad would be proud, sort of. If I ever dared tell him it was my idea.

"Hey! Hey, you! Goofy-ass!"

I realize whoever it is is calling out to me. I must have a hell of a grin on my face.

"Me?" I ask. It's some jock, pointing to me from the pool.

"Yeah, you. Go get the Frisbee."

Why me? I frown. I'm not his slave.

"Come on," he says. "It went right around the corner there."

Oh, what the hell. It'll give me something to do.

I get up and go around the corner. It's darker here. No one can really see here from the party. I have a moment where I wonder if this is a setup, if someone's gonna jump me...

But then I see the Frisbee on the ground. I stoop to pick it up and then I hear a breath, caught fast.

I peek past some bushes.

And that's when I see it.

See
them.

Leah and Riordon, off in their own little world.

Only this time it's worse than it ever was in school. She says something like, "...have to get back," but he's holding her by the wrists.