Interim (18 page)

Regan nodded. “So what happens?”

“I can’t tell you that. You’ll have to read it when I’m finished,” Caroline said.

“But that’ll take forever,” Regan whined.

“Will not. I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”

“A whole novel finished in two days?”

“I started it Monday.”

“A whole novel finished in a week?”

“Yeah.” Caroline chewed the end of her pencil. “It’s not like writing’s hard. What? You thought it’d take me a year?”

Regan chuckled. “Hey, what do you think about reading some of my work?”

“Your poetry?”

“Uh huh.”

“Already have.”

“What?”

“I’ve read your poetry. I don’t understand it.”

“You went into my room without permission?”

“Never, Regan. I follow the rules.”

“So . . . ?” She waited for an explanation.

“It was sitting on the mantle. You left it there. I thought it was an open invitation.”

“Uh huh. So you didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Caroline replied. “I said I don’t understand it.”

“Well, I don’t understand half of it either,” Regan confessed. She crossed her arms and lay her head in the crook of her elbow.

“In that case, maybe writing isn’t for you,” Caroline said. “Stick to soccer.”

“Noted.”

“Want me to read some to you?” Caroline asked.

“Please.”

Caroline smiled. “
Darwin licked Celeste’s cheek. She thought it was his way of saying, ‘I’m sorry’
.”

“Darwin is the horse, I presume?”

“Duh.”

“Continue.”

“
‘I’m not mad at you, Darwin, but you shouldn’t run away like that. What if something happened to you, and I couldn’t find you? I wouldn’t be able to help you.’ Darwin nodded
.”

“I thought he could talk. Why isn’t he giving her an explanation instead of licking and nodding?” Regan interrupted.

“He hasn’t started talking to her yet. This is before he reveals to her that she’s an animal whisperer,” Caroline explained.

“Ohhhh. Gotcha. Carry on.”

Caroline cleared her throat and continued the story.

“Sorry, one more thing,” Regan said.

“Gosh, Regan! You’re the worst listener ever!”

“I’m sorry, but I have to know what an animal whisperer is.”

“Really? You couldn’t figure that out? It’s a person who can hear animals talk. They’re like animal protectors—especially for the animals who can’t stick up for themselves. Animals who are treated badly and need help. You get it?”

She got it, all right—the image of sixth grade Jeremy popping into her mind. He was the wounded stag laying helpless and bleeding in the middle of a pack of hungry cats. They gnashed and pawed and hissed. And she only came to his defense once. Only spoke to him once—a regret that glowed a dull pain from time to time inside her heart until she remembered that he didn’t want her help. He didn’t want her friendship. He told her so, all those many years ago.

***

He slunk soundlessly behind the tree—a large cat whose fluid movements made him imperceptible to even the sharpest ear.

“One, two, three, four,” he counted silently to the beat of the song—“Games Without Frontiers.” It jerked and pulsed inside his ears, headphones muffling the outer world and narrowing his focus on one thing: his objective. “Five.”

He swung around and positioned the rifle against his shoulder, aiming for Brandon’s chest. Much easier target. The head would be more rewarding, but the surface area was much too small, and he didn’t have time to gamble with his chances.

He pulled the trigger. The last of the bullets grazed the left side of the tree trunk, and he cursed under his breath.

“Scenario A,” he said quickly, swinging the gun down and around in front of his chest, and pawing for his ammo. “Brandon—because he’s a crazy fuck—comes at me. I have a few seconds to reload, or I pull my pistol.”

He counted out the seconds as he released the empty magazine and inserted the new one. It wouldn’t slip in easily, costing him precious time, and when he finally released the bolt catcher—bullets tucked snugly and awaiting his order—he knew he was already in a chokehold.

“Goddamnit,” he seethed, falling onto his back as Brandon’s ghost arms tightened their grip.

He was much too familiar with those forearms—pale and speckled with various-sized freckles. Brandon’s birthmark was among them—a large, flat, almost perfectly oval-shaped stamp just above his right wrist. He studied that mark every time Brandon trapped him, threatening death. The mark of Cain, he decided, when he learned about history’s first recorded murder.

“I’ll put a bullet through that, too,” he said, and hopped up from the ground. “Scenario B. Motherfucker runs.”

He whipped the pistol from the holster strapped to his right side. Resounding
bang!
Kid on the floor. Blood spilling from his head. Yes, he hit the back of Brandon’s head.

“Now you can’t hurt anyone else,” Jeremy said, slipping the pistol back into its holster.

He sank to the ground, wiping the perspiration of hard work from his forehead, listening to Peter Gabriel’s fading words about war. He adopted the song as his anthem when he first heard it played on his father’s stereo a few years ago. It was a weird night of nostalgia, and Mr. Stahl sat in the center of the living room surrounded by the music of his happier past. Gabriel was among the artists, and Jeremy hung back in the doorway to the living room working hard to decode the lyrics.

Maybe he got it wrong, but he heard a story of warring children. Mean children. Children out to harm with words, with deeds. Children out for blood in the war-ravaged hallways of Any School, USA. He fought a war there every day. He fought a war at home, too. And instantly, his idea of justice was born.

He stole the CD and put the song on repeat every night before bed so that he would never forget his mission. Those kids needed to play nicer, he thought, growing more confident in his plan, his purpose. Metal could stay a flying fist. Metal could silence an ugly word. Flesh was weak; metal strong. And he would be the boy who wielded the metal—eradicating the abuse for good.

He was exhausted from his two-hour training. The private woods on the western border of the Wasatch Range provided a perfect target practice area. He spent a few days mapping out the school building plan—marking areas with various color string—to authenticate his training as much as possible. He bought targets and pinned them to trees, labeling each with a thick black permanent marker: Brandon, Ethan, Jamal, Jon, Josh, Mike, Justin, Tara, Alexia, Casey.

He debated for some time if it was ethical to shoot a girl. When the idea for bloody retribution first occurred to him, he started reading the Old Testament. He needed an example to look up to, and who better than the Old Testament wrathful god? He didn’t take shit from anybody. He just killed them instead—women and children included. For a while, Jeremy was all in. This was justice, after all, wasn’t it? These sinners deserved it, didn’t they? But then he asked himself how a newborn could be a sinner, and his foundation cracked in two. It eventually fragmented completely the more he read until he could no longer believe the words.

His thoughts drifted to Casey. She was no newborn. She was a scheming bitch, and he still couldn’t fathom how she brainwashed Regan into choosing to associate with
those
people. He wasn’t dismissing Regan as some innocent victim, though. The difference between the girls? Well, he had loved Regan since sixth grade. Love excuses many things, and while he abhorred her choice to conform, he was still desperate for her.

Regan was kind. She never treated him ugly. Casey was kind once, too, when she was a fucking dork. But she changed. She let the evil seep slowly into her heart and brain, twisting and training her into just another monster within the ranks of the popular kid army. She was so pretty on the outside, but he imagined her inner self looked more like an Orc.

He realized he chose wisely. Everyone on that list deserved his wrath. Everyone on that list had pushed him to the brink—whether by word or fist—and damaged his soul. They stole the light from him and convinced him of their innate evil. They couldn’t continue to steal people’s light. They couldn’t continue to grow in wickedness. How could he live with himself if he learned years later that one of them caused someone to commit suicide? If one of them beat his wife to death? If one of them drowned her babies? He could not. He would not take the chance.

He eyed Casey’s target from afar and stood up slowly.

“You don’t deserve to have babies,” he said, lifting the rifle to her heart.

He took a deep breath.

And fired.

~

Yes, Dad. I’m using these guns for good.

~

“You’re quiet,” Brandon observed, nudging his girlfriend.

No reply.

“I said you’re quiet,” he noted again, this time with a slight edge to his voice. “I threw this party for you.”

Regan turned her face to hide the grin. For her? He threw this party for her? She hated parties—had always hated parties—and if he weren’t such a moron he’d remember her telling him that on several occasions.

“It’s just a lot of people,” she said softly.

Brandon sighed. “Regan, how many times have we been over this? They’re your friends, too. You act like they’re not.”

“They’re not.”

“They are,” he insisted. “Any friend of mine is a friend of yours.”

Riiight
.

“I just tried to do something really special for you,” Brandon went on. “I care about you.”

Yeah, he cared about controlling her.

She bit her lip. The words that almost tumbled forth would have instigated an argument, and she was in no mood to fight. She never wanted to fight with Brandon again. She wanted to be rid of him altogether.

Then just tell him!
her brain screamed.
Tell him right now!

Regan shook her head.

“Why are you shaking your head? What? You don’t believe me when I say I care about you?” Brandon asked.

Regan cleared her throat. “I appreciate it. I do.”

His mouth hung open.

“What kind of response is that? You appreciate it? How about you say you care about me in return?” He turned his face.

“No no, I meant the gesture. The party. I appreciate it, but it’s not how I wanted to spend my birthday.”

Brandon’s mouth tightened.

“I mean, I don’t even talk to half of these people. And they’re already wasted. It’s just not my scene,” she continued.

“You make no effort,” Brandon snapped, whipping his head around to look at her. “We’ve been dating since ninth grade, and you’ve made no effort to get to know my friends and be a real part of my life.”

What?
she thought.
Is this guy for real?

“Lately I feel like you don’t give a shit about me,” he said.

I don’t.

“I explained everything to you about Hannah, but I feel like you still don’t believe me.”

I don’t.

“And I can’t tell you how much that hurts. I told you the truth. I threw this party for you. It’s like I can’t make you happy,” Brandon pouted. “I mean, who are you? I just . . . I don’t even know . . .” He paused and looked at her shirt. “Why are you wearing that?”

Regan flushed, eyes falling to her chest. “What is your obsession with my clothes? Why do you even care?”

“I care because I can’t help but think it’s a sign of you pulling away from me,” Brandon said.

Yep. Casey went running to him after all. Just as she’d threatened.

“And I don’t like it. I don’t like you dressing that way,” he said. “You need to change it.”

Regan jumped up. “Are you really saying this to me on my birthday? I mean, seriously. Are you really telling me what to do? You’re a jerk!”

Brandon stood up, towering over her.

“I’m not trying to be a jerk, okay? I’m just saying that appearance matters, and lately people have been like, ‘What’s up with your weird girlfriend?’ How do you think that makes me feel? We’re supposed to be setting an example.”

“We are? What example? How to act like assholes?”

“Watch it,” Brandon warned.

“Don’t threaten me,” Regan shot back. “I’m sick and tired of you telling me what to do and what to say and what to wear!”

“I don’t tell you what to do,” Brandon argued.

“You just did! You told me to change how I’m dressing!” Regan cried.

“You make it sound like I’m saying that kind of stuff to you all the time,” Brandon said.

“You do! Maybe not overtly, but you do. You always have. If there was something you didn’t like about me, you’d let me know with your little bullshit subversive comments. Sometimes I’d hear them from Casey. Pffst! Like I didn’t know you’d gone to her. Like I couldn’t figure out that you’d sent her to fix something about me that didn’t jive with your super cool persona.”

“Jive?” Brandon asked, raising his eyebrow.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t been manipulating me for years!” Regan shouted.

“I haven’t.”

“Okay then.
Molding
me. How’s that?”

“Molding you?”

“Yes, Brandon. Molding me. Changing me. Making me what you want me to be,” Regan replied patiently. “And I’m sick and tired of it! I’m not that girl. I’ve NEVER been that girl. I don’t take orders from boyfriends. I don’t let people boss me around. I don’t shut my mouth. I don’t let guys—”

She fell backwards onto the sand, smacking her tailbone painfully. He put her there with a hard shove.

“I didn’t mean it,” Brandon said quickly. He reached out his hand. “I forget my own strength sometimes.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Just take my hand, Regan.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” he whined. It was pathetic and insincere and everything she hated about him.

“No, you’re not.”

She knew it was unwise to argue. Resistance might fuel his anger even more, and then she’d walk away with a bloody nose or purple eye. The safe thing to do would be to take his hand, lie to him that everything was okay, and then sneak away when she had the opportunity. Then she could break up with him via text, and she’d never have to worry about being alone with him again. She’d be surrounded at school. She’d make sure she was never left alone at home. It could work. All she had to do was take his hand. For now.

“Get up, Regan,” Brandon ordered. He waved his hand at her impatiently.

No
, she thought, raging against her feminine survival instincts.

“Fuck you,” she said, her eyes fastened on him. “I’m not touching you.”

Brandon dropped his hand in slow motion. She watched his face turn from genuine surprise to dark malice. She knew what was coming. It lay dormant in his arm muscles for three years. All he needed was a legitimate reason, and now, she’d given him one. She disobeyed. She said no.

He whipped his hands out in a flash, grabbing her upper arms before she could run away. She squealed as he hauled her to her feet. And then it happened. He slapped her—hand whipping across her cheek in a blinding sting. The sting was rife with purpose—threatening, demanding a change she was unwilling to make. Demanding a person she was unwilling to be.

The mark would pulse red for a few minutes—maybe an hour—and then disappear like it was never there. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew not to punch her. Bruises give guys like him away. But a slap is elusive, like the glimpse of garbage brought to the surface by a churned wave, only to disappear into the depths within seconds. Physical evidence erased with only the message remaining:
I was here. Now try to prove it
.

Regan glared at Brandon as she massaged her cheek.

“I wanna scratch your eyes out,” she hissed.

“No, you don’t,” he challenged.

“I wanna scratch your eyes out,” she repeated.

“Stop saying that.”

“I wanna scratch your eyes out!”

“Shut up, Regan!”

“I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” she screamed into the night air.

She let the words float along the breeze, make their way to the partygoers, who she knew were too drunk to care. But she said what she wanted to say, and that’s all that mattered.

“Can’t you understand that I love you?” Brandon yelled.

Regan snorted. “You’re fucking crazy!”

“I didn’t mean to hit you.”

“Yes, you did! You’d been waiting to do that!”

Brandon affected shock. “Never, Regan.”

“Oh, shut up. Just shut the fuck up! I’m leaving, and you’re not gonna put your hands on me. You’re not gonna stop me. You’re not gonna follow me. You understand?”

Brandon wouldn’t give up. She knew he wouldn’t. It was his nature to get what he wanted. Every. Single. Time.

“Regan, let me take you home. I don’t want you going back by yourself. It’s dark out here. I don’t—”

“Don’t you get it?!” she screamed. “YOU’RE the monster! You! If I have anything to be afraid of, it’s you!”

“Regan . . .”

“No. Don’t say anything. I’m going.”

She turned on her heel and fled into the night. She heard his faint voice in the distance trying to coax her return.

“I
am
sorry! No matter what you think! I didn’t mean it, Regan! Come back . . .”

But she didn’t go back. She knew she could never go back. There was only one place she wanted to be, only one person she wanted to see. And she was going to him.

***

She stared at him without blinking, though the blaring florescent lights of the garage made her eyes well. They were particularly shrill, juxtaposed against the black night—angry and uninviting. She thought she’d made a mistake coming here, and the panic rippled through her chest, convincing her that she didn’t belong. But then she saw the side of his mouth turn up—a half grin, tentative grin—and she knew she was welcome.

“Hi,” he ventured.

She nodded and croaked a “hi” in response.

He was a cliché standing beside his beat-up Camaro, sporting a tight white T dotted with oil stains and other filth. Sweaty, matted hair stuck to his forehead and obscured his eyes, partially camouflaging the scar hugging his left temple. He pushed a hand through his bangs, and they stuck up straight, the grease on his fingers acting like hair product.

Jeremy leaned against the car and waited.

“It’s my birthday!” Regan cried suddenly. She felt the instant flush—prickly heat tickle its way up her neck to her cheeks, pooling there in a deep crimson.

Jeremy grinned. “I know. I saw your locker today.”

Regan shrugged. “They did a decent job decorating it.”

“Yep.”

Shuffling silence.

“The balloons were a bit much,” she said.

“Saw you struggle a few times to change out your books.”

She hung her head. “I felt silly. I mean, it’s not like birthdays are a big deal . . .”

“Sure, they are,” Jeremy countered.

Regan nodded, unconvinced. She brought her hand to her face and tested her cheekbone. No soreness. She snorted.
Like it never happened
.

“I thought you’d be with your friends,” Jeremy said after a moment.

“I was,” Regan replied.

“Why’d you leave? Party over?”

“In a sense.”

Jeremy frowned. Something was definitely wrong. He tried to lighten the mood.

“Where’s my cake?”

“Huh?”

“I said you could come visit me here if you brought cake,” he reminded her. “You can’t tell me there wasn’t cake at your party.”

She smiled. “Ohhh. I guess it was kind of rude not to bring you some, huh?”

“Maybe.”

She blushed. “I didn’t really have time to wrap any up.”

“How come? Did you make a break for it or something?”

“Well . . .”

“Hold up. Is your party still going on?”

Regan smiled sheepishly.

“You ditched your own party?” Jeremy burst out laughing.

Regan giggled. “It was a booze party down by the lake. I’m not into those. Brandon set it up because it’s the party he wanted. You know? It’s not the party I wanted. I didn’t want a party. I wanted everyone to leave me the hell alone.”

Jeremy reached for a wrench. “I understand that.”

“Yeah, I know you do,” Regan replied.

“And you thought you’d have a better time here?” Would she honestly say yes?

“Yes.”

He froze, clutching the wrench.
Really?