Random (16 page)

Dakota Lorey
aw, thanks.

 Delmar Jackson likes this.

Marly DeSoto
if kevin cooper asked me to prom you know wht Id say?

Kevin Cooper
I WOULD NEVER ASK YOU TO PROM OR ANYWHERE! YOU SUCK AND PLEASE JUST STOP WTF DID I DO TO YOU????

Lucas Mulcahy
youd say not even if you paid me to suck your dick after! shut the fuck up cooper you dum shit. Shut the fuck up faggit go die

Tori Hershberger
It's okay, Super Duper Pooper Cooper. Your cock is still smaller than mine.

 5 people like this.

Marly DeSoto
hoo-ah, Hersh closing in on Lucas! nice job Tori. imagin life w/o Pooper. Ahhhhh ya!

 You and 2 others like this.

Tori Hershberger
Thanks, Marlycat. It's a gift.

Kevin Cooper
you guys seriously just stop and leave me alone. theirs no reason to be like that. I really can't take this today okay so please quit!

Lucas Mulcahy
shut the fuck up no one cares and no one likes you anyway so shut up

 5 people like this.

Tori Hershberger
Pooper Cooper, it's “there's.” You missed an apostrophe and misspelled it. They covered it in fifth grade, as I recall. Consider returning?

 You and 6 others like this.

I look at the tiny screen on my phone. Disconnected.

“No, no, no,” I chant, and dial Andy's number. No answer. I hang up before it goes to voice mail. I try texting him instead:

I'd have to take my brother's car and I'm not supposed to be driving.

I sit back down on the edge of my bed, waiting. A minute goes by, then another, then five. I am wide awake. Noah paces back and forth in front of me, his hand over his mouth.

“He didn't mean it,” I say out loud. “There's no way. No way.”

Noah stops. “We can't know that.”

I send another text:

Andy?

This time my phone vibrates with his response almost right away. Only two words.

Beautiful sunrise.

Oh, God. He's really going to do it.

Unless I can get there in time.

I shove the phone into my pocket and grab my shoes, pulling them on as fast as I can. “What time is sunrise?” I say, heading for the hallway.

Noah follows me, tapping furiously on his phone screen while I chew my lip practically off.

“Six forty-seven,” he says.

We both look up at the cow clock.

Six ten.

I look into Noah's eyes. “Come with me.”

“So you
are
going?”

“I have to!”

“Okay, but how?”

“Jack's car.” I pick up his keys off the pegboard and hustle to the garage door. “Come with me, Noah, please!”

Noah licks his lips. “Tori, I . . . man, I would, I want to, but I think it's a bad idea. If we get there and it's both of us, you heard what he said. He asked for you.”

“Noah!”

“Go,” he says. “Look, I'll—I'll try to find you, drive past or something, but you have to go now. But, Tori, please. You've
got to be careful, okay? You have half an hour. That's plenty of time. Don't drive stupid.”

“Okay,” I say. Then I reach up and hug Noah, tight. He hugs me back, even tighter.

“Thank you for being here tonight,” I say.

“Anything for you,” he says. “Now go. Just . . . go
safe
.”

I nod and go out to the carport. When did it stop raining? An hour ago? Two? Doesn't matter. I stop when my hand hits Jack's driver's-side door.

“You can't be serious,” I whisper to my ghostly reflection in the window. I'm not sure, but I think there are dark circles under my eyes. I remember I left the coffeemaker on, keeping the remnants warm, and that I forgot to put away the Coffee-mate. Mom'll be mad.

I start laughing. Hard. I have to jam my hand against my mouth to keep from screaming with laughter.

Mom'll be mad about the Coffee-mate while I'm out driving Jack's car up to the 57 to try to stop
yet another
guy from killing himself?

Really?

Shut up,
I think.
You're losing it, Tori. Shut up, focus, get moving. Put yourself in the box. Eye on the ball. Now. Go!

I get in the car, and wince when I turn the engine, wondering if anyone in the house can hear it. My heart pounds as I throw the gear into drive and move off down the street, trying to keep everything straight in my head: Stop at each sign, look left, look right, look left again, accelerate slowly,
check the mirrors, don't brake too early or too late. . . .

I've got my license, but only by a few months. I'd just gotten it when everything with Kevin went down, and haven't really been on the road that much. I'm almost at the first major intersection by our neighborhood before realizing the headlights are off. Good God. I flip them on, scan the dashboard for indicators of any other important steps I might have missed, then turn onto the road that will take me to the 10, then the 57.

I keep both hands on the wheel and lean forward so far that my back begins to hurt. I
accelerate slowly
until I'm doing five miles over the speed limit, faster than I've ever driven before in my life.

I can see the road now without the lights on. Not well, but I can see it. The world is growing gray, the darkness slowly evaporating as I climb the mountain. Normally I'd enjoy the ride; the mountains are beautiful out here, dotted with proud saguaros and desert bushes. Normally I'd also be thrilled to be behind the wheel. Such a new experience, and signifying a transition to freedom unlike anything I'd known before. That is, of course, unless I was going to be in prison.

Can't think about that now
, I tell myself.
Just keep your eyes open and look for a car pulled off to the side of the road.

It only takes a few minutes to find the exit for the 57, which is obviously a rarely used mountain road. I take the exit, glad at least that it's too early for anyone else to really be clogging the 10 except for a few random big rigs.

I take my foot off the gas to rub my eyes, as if slowing from
seventy to sixty-five will somehow be safer. Maybe it is. How should I know? I'm not even supposed to be here.

The switchbacks are making me dizzy, swerving left-right-left-right up the mountain, higher and higher, left-right, the world turning from grayscale to shades of blue and yellow and brown and—

There.

On my left, parked in the dirt, is a small white car. I don't know if it's a Sentra or not, because I'm not real big into cars, but it's got four doors and it just looks like something that would be called a “Sentra.”

Sitting on the hood, knees doubled up, is a guy.

I hit the brakes and slow down.

He does not have black hair. He has light brown hair. And he's making eye contact, as if he knew exactly when I'd be rounding the corner.

I risk a quick U-turn on the highway.
Shit
, that was stupid. A big semi could've been rounding the corner and taken me out in a heartbeat.

But I live to do stupid things another day, and maneuver Jack's car until it's behind the Sentra.

I shut off the engine and take a deep breath.

Just as a cop car slows and pulls up behind me.

Horses vs. Humans

by Allison Summers

Why is shooting a horse's ass a felony but causing the death of a teenager isn't?

Kevin Cooper, 16, lived in the safe little enclave of Canyon City. He logged on to his Facebook account on the night of January 11, just like countless teens do every night. There, he left a message on a Friend's post—note the capital—and this Friend's Friends went on to leave comments of their own about him. None of them was kind. And at first it seemed like the sort of typical high school joshing everyone's familiar with.

But Kevin Cooper had had enough. On the website, he confronted this Friend and her Friends. Rather than respecting his wish to be left alone, the group dog-piled him with online insults and catcalls that would make a trucker blush. Time and again, Kevin tried to assert himself and get them to relent. But “relentless” is really the only correct term for what went on that terrible night.

A police report shows that within an hour of logging off, Kevin Cooper tied a long scarf around his neck, tied the other end to the balcony railing outside his room, and leaped.

This past summer, a 14-year-old Tucson boy was arrested for extreme cruelty to animals, a felony count that quite easily, and legally, booted him into the adult court system.

His crime: shooting BBs at two horses' asses. And we don't mean the state legislature.

For their part in urging Kevin Cooper to execute himself, seven Canyon High students face minor misdemeanor charges. At worst, they will receive ten to thirty hours of community service and up to a year of probation.

Not too high a price for virtually assassinating a gay kid. Yes, “virtually” has a double meaning here.

“Throw yourself down some stairs already,” one student urges him in the Facebook comments.