Sway (24 page)

I stepped away from her, forcing her to let go of my arm. “You don't get to go there, Bridget,” I said coldly. She winced as if I had slapped her. And just like that, the magic of our private world was shattered. “Just because I told you about my mom doesn't give you any special right to talk about her,” I spat as anger bubbled up out of an empty abyss.

Now it was frigid when only a few minutes earlier it had been crisp, the lights on the trees now glaring when a moment before they had been a subtle dance of light. I looked into the distance, refusing to meet her eye.

“What did Pete tell you?” I asked angrily. “What did he say about my mom?”

She shook her head, her brow wrinkled in confusion. “Pete didn't tell me anything. I
know
you. Know you're hurting. Maybe if you could just talk about it—,” she started lamely and I quickly cut her off.

Though I didn't want to, I was going to hurt her anyway. “You think you know something about it but you don't know shit.” As the words left my mouth, icy and short, a sharp, stabbing pain went through my gut.

“Then what do you expect me to do?” she asked. “How can I care about you if you won't let me?”

“I didn't ask you for anything,” I said dully. “I didn't ask you for anything and I don't want anything.” My heart, already a dry, shriveled husk, turned to ash and collapsed in on itself.

“You're such a god-damn hypocrite,” Bridget said. “You punch Pete in the face for hurting my feelings. What about you? You're just like him. You hurt me because you think I'll just always forgive you. Saint Bridget. Maybe this time I won't forgive you. Maybe I'm tired of forgiving people.”

I sighed and rubbed my forehead wearily as she sniffled and wiped at her tears. After a minute I reached to pull her into a hug. Her arms were folded against my chest and her face buried between her hands as I held her and stroked the back of her head. I put my hands on either side of her face and pressed my forehead against hers. Her cheeks were hot and wet and I wanted to drink her tears.

As I stood there, smelling a faint mingling of peanut butter and oranges on her breath, I thought about kissing her. If I had kissed her right then, she would have let me. But I didn't. And so I lost her.

“I should go,” she said as she pulled away, wiping the back of her hand across her cheek.

“I'll take you home,” I said, but she shook her head and reached to take her backpack from my shoulder. I reluctantly let the strap fall into her hand.

“No. I want to be alone,” she said as she pushed both of her arms into the straps of her backpack and settled the weight onto her back. “I'll take the bus.”

“Bridget, knock it off,” I said. “It's dark already. I'll drive you home. You don't have to ever talk to me again, just let me get you home safely.”

“I'll be fine.” She turned then and walked away, head down, shoulders bent under the weight of her backpack, her hand coming up to wipe the tears from her face every few seconds. The people passing her on the street turned to study her curiously as she walked alone, crying.

I followed her from a safe distance, waited in my car as she stood at the bus stop near the Siegel Center. The bus to her house came and left without her getting on it. I was starting to wonder if I should go to her and talk her into letting me drive her home when another bus came and she boarded it.

I followed the bus as it wound through town and turned up the hill toward a newer neighborhood of huge brick homes that sat back on immaculately landscaped lawns. By then I knew where she was going. My chest ached with it, but I would still watch to make sure she got there safely. I parked and cut my lights as the bus pulled to the curb.

Bridget said good night to the driver as she stepped off the bus and into Ken's arms. He was waiting for her, wearing frayed jeans and his letter jacket, had come to meet her instead of letting her walk alone at night. As they started to walk toward his house he put his arm around her shoulder and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Though Bridget and I were almost the same height, Ken was a full head taller than she was. She looked small and delicate beside him.

The scar tissue on my soul was already there long before my mom's death. It was her life that had scarred me, not her death. I was beyond scarring when she killed herself, had been for a while.

 

THIRTY-TWO

“What's up?” Joey asked when she stopped by my locker after lunch. “Skinhead Rob called me at home yesterday. At home,” she enunciated carefully. “He wanted to know why he hasn't heard from you. Why you aren't calling him back.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll call him today,” I said.

“What's going on with you?” Joey asked.

“Why does there have to be something going on? I've just been busy.”

“Busy with what? I mean, why are you avoiding Rob? Digger too. You haven't moved any product in two weeks. I didn't know people like you could just hand in a letter of resignation. Blood in, blood out, all that creepy stuff.”

“I told you not to worry about it,” I said with an air of indifference I didn't feel. “I can handle Rob and Digger.”

“Tscha,”
she scoffed. “No one can handle Rob. But even Rob doesn't scare me as much as that guy Grim. He's an ogre.”

“Well, Rob should scare you more than Grim does. Grim's just big and dumb and inbred—Rob is a true sociopath.”

“You could have him killed,” she said. “Surely you have a hit man among your circle of friends.”

“It's not the worst idea you've ever had,” I said.

“I'm not even going to ask what's going on inside your head right now,” she said as she held up a hand to silence me. “The way your brain works is one of the great mysteries of the universe—like why people put ketchup on their eggs, or how anyone ever thought Tom Cruise was hot.”

“I think it was because of that
Top Gun
movie. I've seen it. The woman who played his girlfriend looked old enough to be his mom, which is kind of hot.”

“Ew. Let's not get into you and your Ms. Fuller fantasies. Please. I just ate.”

The sound of someone crying out in fear or pain drew our attention suddenly to the end of the hallway. Clint Napier stood cornered by three guys, all at least twice his size. Clint was notable only because he was flaming. He headed up the drama club and consistently outgayed even the gayest stereotypes. From my reconnaissance work for Ken, I happened to know Clint was friends with Bridget, and the two of them ate lunch together a couple of times a week.

The three guys had taken Clint's backpack and were playing keep-away with it, like young bullies on the playground. Clint was shouting as they roughed him up, his voice high-pitched with anguish. His cries turned to real sobs as his situation turned to hopeless.

The guys threatening him were all members of Ken's posse, getting a little sport out of picking on a weaker kid. I watched them out of the corner of my eye as Joey and I were walking past. Just as we were almost beyond them, Clint cried out again in terror and pain and begged for them to leave him alone. This only prompted a round of laughs and high fives among the douche squad.

I stopped and sighed as I tipped my head back and squeezed my eyes shut. Was I really going to do this? Really? Why couldn't I just walk by and pretend like it wasn't happening? Bridget's face drifted into my mind then and all I could imagine was what her reaction would be to Clint's plight, fat tears welling up in her doe eyes and breaking the dam of her lower eyelid.

Crap.

I walked over to interrupt the fag-bashing party as Joey watched in puzzlement, her head cocked to one side like an inquisitive golden retriever.

“You guys got a problem?” I asked, directing my question to the biggest one. If one of them was going to hit me, I wanted it to be the one who had the best chance of knocking me out right away.

“No problem here,” he said, his chin thrust out defiantly.

“Why are you messing with the kid?” I asked with a nod at Clint, whose eyes were wide with terror and shock.

“Why? Is he your boyfriend?” the guy asked, and his buddies howled in laughter as if it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

“Yes,” I said. “He's my boyfriend. So, why don't you back off him?”

“What did you say to me, faggot?” he asked as his eyes narrowed and took on the same look you get from a wild animal—not intelligent, just wary and ready to kill you if you make the wrong move.

“I…” I paused, then shrugged. “I don't remember exactly what I said. Something along the lines of leave the kid alone.” I turned to Clint, who had become a statue, his forehead creased with worry and doubt, hunched over and hugging himself, like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. “Get your stuff,” I said, gesturing to his backpack, lying on the floor.

Clint's eyes shot to the face of his attacker, seeking approval.

“Well, come on. I don't have all day,” I said impatiently.

“Hey, wait a second,” the big guy said.

“What?” I shot back. “If you're going to beat him up, get to it. Otherwise this whole thing is just a waste of time.” I waited for a few heartbeats to see what they would do but they all stood frozen, unsure how to address this nonthreatening threat. Clint was hugging his backpack to his chest as he waited to see what would happen. I was curious myself but took that moment to turn and walk away.

“That was unbelievable,” Clint said in a breathy voice, tagging along behind me as I fell into step beside Joey again. I felt the eyes of his three attackers following us down the hall but they didn't come after us.

“Get lost,” I said to Clint.

“Seriously, you just saved my ass,” he said, tripping at my heels. “Thank you so much.”

“Yeah, okay, you thanked me,” I said. “Now, go on. Get out of here.” Clint looked completely baffled as he moved away from us.

“Oh, my God, what was that?” Joey asked as she laughed out loud and put her hands across her belly as if to hold in her mirth.

“I don't need him thinking we're besties all of a sudden,” I said to cover my awkwardness. “He'll be like a stray dog.”

“You are straight cray, you know that?” Joey asked.

“Zip it, Joe.”

“You're like one of those real-life superheroes. You should get some tights and a mask. We'll have to think of a really good name,” she said thoughtfully as she put a finger to her lips and squinted off into the middle distance.

“Keep it up,” I said in a low growl. “I'm not above hitting a girl.”

“Seriously,” she said, “what was that about? Did you recently convert to Unitarianism or something?”

“It was just business,” I said.

“Are you going to invoice him later for services rendered? Or was it
just business
the same way it was just business you arranging for Theresa to win homecoming queen?” Joey's voice was casual but there was the glint of amusement in her eyes.

“Just business as in it's my business and none of yours,” I said, furious with myself now for doing something as stupid as getting involved in Clint's problems.

“And for a second there, I thought maybe the Wizard had given you a heart,” Joey said. “But I know what this is about. This is all about that girl Bridget.”

“Are you high?” I asked. “Is that why you're like this?”

“I should have known it was because of some dopey girl,” she said, ignoring me. “I'm not blind, you know. That guy Clint is a friend of hers, isn't he? I've seen them around together. Is that why you hang out with that Pete kid? So his sister will think you're the bomb-diggity?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“God,” she said smacking her forehead with her hand as she stopped in the middle of the hallway. “I can't believe I didn't see it sooner. You're totally in love with her. And she's like a Disney princess. Guys are all so predictable.”

“Nobody asked you.”

“Ooh, touchy,” Joey said as she started to back away. “An Achilles' heel. I never would have believed it.” Then she turned and walked away with an offhand wave over her head.

 

THIRTY-THREE

I hadn't seen it coming, so I didn't factor the beat-down I got from Ken into my plans. That same afternoon I saved Clint from torture at the hands of Ken's posse was the day Ken cornered me on my way to my car after school.

Ken's look of shock mixed with anger greeted me when I strolled into the restaurant that Saturday evening for Pete's birthday. Ken was already with Bridget and her parents when I arrived, so he didn't dare say anything, but he locked his gaze on mine and we exchanged a silent battle of wills that went unnoticed by everyone else.

Pete's birthday dinner would have been mildly amusing had it only offered the entertainment of watching Ken suck up to Mr. and Mrs. Smalley and eye me suspiciously every time I opened my mouth to say something. It was made surreal by the fact that Pete's parents had chosen the Putt 'n' Play as the place to take us to eat, complete with arcade and people wearing funny hats who humbled themselves for five bucks an hour to sing “Happy Birthday to You” while clapping and marching in an impromptu parade. I counted eight renditions of the song while Pete stoically bit his lip, dreading his turn in the limelight.

I was still nursing a split lip and the dull ache in my head and chest, though it had been three days since Ken pummeled me in the school parking lot. From the look he was giving me across the table, I knew that if Bridget weren't witness, he'd have permanently disfigured my face the second I showed it at Pete's birthday dinner.

Ken was wrong, about a lot of things. It was arguable that my friendship with Pete had begun because I wanted an excuse to see Bridget on a regular, but our friendship had transcended her. And I had no intention of taking Bridget away from Ken. She belonged with someone like Ken, someone who would look after her and treat her like the angel she was. Someone not me.