Shadow of the Past (12 page)

“Leave . . . me . . . alone!” Mark
snarled, accentuating each word with a punch. Jack flailed his
arms, desperately and pitifully slapping at the punches as they
rained down on him.

“Mark!” she shouted, stepping forward,
but one of the boys that had surrounded them grabbed her wrist and
pulled her back.

“I don’t think so, bitch,” he said,
putting a hand on her shoulder and pulling her out of the way as he
walked past her. Jack’s other friend, who’d watched the whole thing
in gape-mouthed silence was shaken to action by his friend’s sudden
movement. Mark didn’t notice either of them, concentrating instead
on Jack’s bloody face.

Christine grabbed the boys hand before
he pulled away, and when he turned to look she swung her knee up
into his balls. His surprise turned into gasping pain and the
shocked look that boys got when every urban legend and health film
about exploded testicles flashed before their eyes.

She ran forward and got to the other
boy just before he grabbed Mark, slamming into him with all her
weight, and sending him skidding on his face across the gravel of
the parking lot.

“Mark!” Christine screamed, grabbing
the back of his jacket and trying to pull him to his
feet.

Mark turned and his eyes were blurry
with tears and squinted with concentrated hatred. For a second it
didn’t seem like he recognized her, but she grabbed his clenched
fist (it was sticky and hard to get a hold of) and pulled Mark away
from Jack’s stunned and moaning figure.

“We have to go!”

The fist in her hand began to tremble,
and she realized Mark was coming back from whatever ugly sinkhole
he’d lost himself in.

The kid Christine pushed had rolled
over and was glaring at them. Mark took a couple of steps back, and
then grinned, letting out a coughing, tear-choked laugh. He
stumbled towards the scooter, reaching down and scooping up his
helmet.

After a couple of false starts the
scooter lunged forward. Mark held the bloody helmet in his lap and
once she knew her grip on him was solid, she looked back to make
sure they weren’t being chased. Jack was sitting up and watching
them drive off, face spattered with blood and eyes burning with
impotent rage.

“Mark! Mark, slow down!
Please!”

A blurry car-esque shape sped in front
of him with a horn blaring and Mark realized he couldn’t see
clearly. He swerved out of the way, the V listing perilously.
Christine’s hold on him tightened and he could feel her face press
into his back.

For a way to go this
wouldn’t be half bad. Go out on a high note, right?

Once the scooter had righted itself he
slowed down and risked using a hand to wipe at his eyes. Once he
could see clearly he rounded a corner to a quiet side street,
pulled over to the curb and shut the engine off. He was panting,
wheezing in and out through a phlegm-packed nose, and his entire
body was shaking.

Well, it’s what you get for
acting like a rabid animal. Was it everything you hoped for,
killer? Better than the fantasy with the axe, or the one where
you’re strangling him in front of all of his smug fucking
friends?

She was tugging at him, trying to get
him to turn around and look at her. Whatever sudden
adrenaline-fueled strength he had was now gone, leaving only a
panic stricken mess. It was the last thing he wanted her to
see.

“Oh god, oh god,” he sobbed, pulling
away and putting his head on the handlebars.

“It’s okay,” she said, getting off the
V and kneeling in the street next to him. She pulled him to her
again and he didn’t have the strength to resist this time, letting
the sobs come in full force as he leaned into her
shoulder.

Again with the crying?
Jesus, it’s a wonder you’re not dehydrated all the time. Pick one:
crybaby or lunatic. We can’t do both, you don’t have that much
depth.

He thought he could smell blood on her
but he realized it was him, on his hands and probably on his face
from when he wiped his eyes. He tried to pull away but she held him
in place. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s all over
now.”

He rested his head on her shoulder
looking down at his stinging, wet hands in his lap.

No it’s not, tough guy. Now
it’ll never be over. You know that, right? Jack will never let this
go and he’s going to turn your temporary victory into the first
shot in an all-out war.

Chapter Twelve

What Mark hated the most after
subjecting someone to one of his hysterical crying breakdowns was
how they looked at him afterward. First it’s with sincere looks of
concern, as if he’d break down again at any moment over something
ridiculous, like “I asked for Coke not Pepsi! Bawwww!” Over time,
when it became obvious that pathetic weeping wasn’t going to be an
all the time thing, the reaction became a kind of offhand teasing
as if the whole thing was a joke or magic trick that he’d maybe
whip out if given enough encouragement. “Hey, I made sure I brought
you a Coke so you wouldn’t freak out like you did last
time.”

Why couldn’t they just let
it go? Did they think he enjoyed reminiscing about it? Last year in
Biology Ken Shenkman randomly turned to him and said “Hey, remember
that time in 7
^th
grade when Mr. Hollman made you cry at the black
board? That was pretty wild, huh?”

No, it wasn’t “wild,” Mark thought, it
was something I was trying to forget but thanks for bringing it up
fucknozzle.

It was even in Steve’s eyes, sometimes
with concern, like the other day at the funeral, and sometimes with
that mischievous “I take things too far” glint. The only person
that never had it was Clara and she’d seen him plenty of times at
his blubbering, snot-caked worst.

Now it was in Christine’s
eyes.

He saw it when he dropped her off at
home and she waved at him when he looked back at her. He realized
there was more to it when he kissed her cheek and she pulled back
ever-so-slightly. This wasn’t just about crybaby Mark Watson, this
was about the “New and Improved Holy Shit He Beat That Guy with a
Helmet” Mark Watson. He wanted to say the perfect something to make
her realize that today was just the final straw in a long line of
horrid, humiliating straws that he never thought he’d get rid of,
but there was no way.

The girl he was going to have the fresh
start with and who he wanted to be perfect for just saw him at the
worst he’d ever been. So much for that plan.

Mark wasn’t surprised when he got to
homeroom the next day and there was a referral to go directly to
the office. He’d spent the night wondering when Detective Prescott
would show up at his door, helmet retrieved from the garage and
held aloft in a plastic bag. Finally, the piece of evidence he
needed to bring Mark Watson down to the station and sweat him out
under the lights.

There was no helmet or lights, and
thankfully no dreams that night either (although he wasn’t sure if
he’d slept long enough to have any). A couple of the kids he knew
nodded at him when he passed them on the office, one of them even
putting up his dukes and bobbing and weaving around until he
passed. Mark wasn’t sure if he was being congratulated or
mocked.

Are you Mark Watson? What do
you think?

The office for Mark’s end of the
alphabet was in the basement and when he got there he showed his
pass to the secretary. She waved him to a seat while she buzzed the
inner office to let them know he was here and probably to bring out
the Lecter-style restraints. He hadn’t said a thing to Joe about
what happened, and it finally sank in that he wasn’t going to be
able to keep it from him. And Joe would not just talk about it he'd
yell and take things away because that was the way things were
done.

“Mr. Watson, right in here,” a voice
rumbled at him. Standing in the doorway of one of the offices was
Mr. Lafayette, the assistant principal assigned to this office. Mr.
Lafayette was tall and built with the semi-loose muscles of an
athlete who had left his prime far behind him. His skin was deep
brown, his head was clean shaven and he wore a pair of glasses that
were almost comically small for his stern, imposing
face.

Mark squeezed past Mr. Lafayette and
was directed to take a seat in front of the desk next to Ms.
Kennedy, Mark’s guidance counselor. She was in her mid twenties and
as small as Mr. Lafayette was large, with shoulder length, tightly
curled black hair and an olive complexion. The only times he’d
talked to her was when he was picking out classes for the next
year.

He’d never been in Mr. Lafayette’s
office before, but realized that if it had the two-way glass it’d
be a dead ringer for the “interview room” he’d talked to Detective
Prescott in.

“So,” Mr. Lafayette said, taking a seat
across from Mark “would you care to explain to us the events of
yesterday afternoon?”

I think they speak for
themselves.

“Well,” Mark said, sitting on his hands
to keep them from shaking. “I, ah, got into a fight with some guys,
and, uh, then I went home.”

“You just ‘got into a fight?’” Mr.
Lafayette said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “A fight that
landed one student in the hospital because you hit him repeatedly
with a,” he paused to look down through his glasses to consult the
folder that lay open in front of him, “helmet of some sort. It just
sort of happened, right? Just like that?” Mark took a breath and
held it, trying to make everything perfectly still.

“Not just, I . . . I was minding my own
business and they came up and started it. I didn’t do
anything!”

“You don’t put another student in the
hospital by not doing anything, Mr. Watson. Do you know that Jack’s
father was talking about suing? Not just you, Mr. Watson, but the
entire school district.”

“I . . . I didn’t know
that.”

“Now you do,” Mr. Lafayette said. “So
what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Watson?”

“They . . . ” Mark said, his voice a
tiny squeak, looking from Mr. Lafayette to Ms. Kennedy, who sat
with her fingertips at her chin like she was carved from marble. He
swallowed and tried again. “They started it, sir. They just came
up, and they, they just started messing with us! I was just
defending myself and they just kept pushing at me!”

Mr. Lafayette’s eyes narrowed and Mark
hoped that he hadn’t made things worse for himself. “So ‘they
started it’,” he said, no trace of question in his voice. “That’s
your story.”

“It’s no story! That’s the way it
happened! Jack and his friends have been pushing me and pushing me
for years and this time I pushed back! I was defending myself, and
my, uh, girlfriend.”

“If these boys have been bothering you
so much, why didn’t you report it to a teacher or Ms.
Kennedy?”

Do you seriously work at a
school? Really? Are you sure you don’t just hunker down in here and
wait for the lights to go out?

Mark closed his eyes and tried to keep
from letting his breath out in an exasperated sigh. “Well--” Mark
started, trying to find a way to explain it that wasn’t like how
you’d talk to a child.

“Actually,” Ms. Kennedy interrupted,
“this happens quite frequently. Students don’t feel comfortable
reporting bullying or intimidation to other authority figures. I
thought I had given you that article about it I found over the
summer to read. Fascinating stuff, really.”

“I must have missed that one,” Mr.
Lafayette said, turning his glare to her.

“I’ll be sure to put a copy in
inter-office mail for you.” Mr. Lafayette opened his mouth to say
something, but she turned to Mark. “As I said to Mr. Lafayette,
Mark, when we talked to the other three boys that were there
yesterday none of them gave me very convincing explanations as to
what led up to the incident in question, but they were more than
willing to point fingers your way. I guess that makes a little bit
more sense now.”

“However,” Mr. Lafayette said, “that
doesn’t excuse what happened. This was an assault, with a weapon,
and that’s not acceptable no matter how justified you think you may
be. We have to suspend you for a week and then evaluate the
situation from there.”

Mark let out a sigh, and Mr.
Lafayette’s scowl deepened. “Let me be very clear on this, Mr.
Watson: if anything like this happens again, and I do mean
anything, you are gone. Cut class, have excessive absences,
anything
, and I will have
you removed from this institution. This is not a license to create
mayhem. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir. Crystal
clear.”
Licenseless mayhem WILL NOT BE
TOLERATED.

Mr. Lafayette collected his papers and
files into a neat stack. “Ms. Kennedy will sign you out and give
you some forms to give to your parents. See that they get and sign
them.”

“Yes sir. They won’t miss
them.”

Mark got up, gripping his backpack with
white knuckles as he darted out the door.

“Mark,” Ms. Kennedy said, following him
and placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him from going any
further. “I’m sorry about that. He must not have read about your
parents in your file.”