The Boy Who Killed Grant Parker (22 page)

Though I could maintain a stoic public face, the anxiety was with me all of the time now. As the new kid I had felt as if I was constantly under scrutiny, everyone watching and judging every move I made. Now I was the new kid who had tried to kill the Wakefield football program with a single stroke, and it was distinctly … uncomfortable. I wanted to grab the mic from the sound booth and relate my story from the beginning—tell everyone about Grant's mistreatment of me and that, while I wasn't a coward, I certainly wasn't the kind of person who would intentionally attempt murder. There was just no entry point for a conversation like that.

I thought about gaining access to the video of my alleged assault on Grant and posting it on social media so people could see the truth. The one thing holding me back was the truth. The truth was … I was a coward. Not just a coward, but a victim. It wasn't who I wanted to be, even if that's who I really was.

*   *   *

After the game there was no time to worry about Grant or about my place in the cosmos. After the players and cheerleaders changed in the locker room we caravanned to the after-party. Penny rode shotgun with me with two of her friends in the backseat. I kept looking at Penny and the two cute girls in the backseat of the Camaro, thinking to myself, how did this happen? How did I end up this lucky? From dork squad to righteous dude. How the fuck did this happen?

*   *   *

Delaine's house was remote from the center of town—the perfect location for a high school party. A distant glimmering porch light was the only evidence of a neighbor. There was no one to be offended by the noise and call the sheriff to shut down the festivities.

The yard backed into the slope of a hill, but the side yard was littered with the typical detritus of country living—trampoline, aboveground pool, industrial-grade satellite dish.

I wandered the yard with Penny, who kept by my side the whole time. With her on my arm I felt stable among so many strangers. The people at this party did not interact at school with Don and his friends, were barely aware of their existence.

The only reason I was somebody was because I was the boy who had almost killed Grant Parker. Everyone else at the party had attended the same school since kindergarten. I was the “x” in the equation.

And before I knew it, I was high. An amazing body buzz that made me feel as if I might be able to take flight. Coupled with the four beers I had before hitting a joint, I was pretty far gone into the wilds of my own uninhibited self.

When I left Penny's side to go in search of another beer, I found Tony, along with Skip and Chet, in earnest consultation standing over the galvanized metal tub full of icy water.

“What's up?” I asked, breaking the conversation.

“We're out of beer,” said Skip or Chet.

“Sucks,” I said, realizing as I did that it really was a huge letdown. I had been wanting that fifth beer.

“Grant used to always get his older brother to buy for us, but since Grant's … not here…” The look he gave me was almost apologetic. “We just were trying to figure out where we can get some.”

“I know where we can get some beer,” I said.

“Yeah?” Tony asked. “Where?”

I spoke without thought. And now everyone was looking to me to solve our dry-party dilemma. The idea had risen in my mind fully formed. It was the kind of impulse that would be immediately quashed by a rational brain, but because of the beer, my instincts weren't bound by logic.

“The LARPers,” I said, alcohol loosening my tongue. “At their fort. They always have tons of beer.”

“What the hell is a LARPer?” Tony asked.

“I … I can't really explain,” I said. “You kind of have to see it for yourself.”

*   *   *

When we parked on the dead-end street, I had been unsure if I could find the LARPer fort without Don to guide me, but the path became familiar once I entered the woods.

“Ho-oly shee-it,” were the first words out of Tony's mouth when we made it to the clearing and he saw the LARPer fort for the first time. As advertised, the Land of Misfit Toys was in full swing. Swords and magic-infused Ping-Pong balls and even (
good Lord
) a costumed dragon were on full display. From the outside, where we stood hidden by the tree line, it was like watching a movie or a play. It gave me a small rush to be standing there watching them, the LARPers, who were blissfully unaware of our presence. Hogwarts was in session and all of the freaks were there.

“Yeah,” I said in emphatic agreement. I imagined Tony was as surprised as I was the first time I saw the LARPers in their natural environment.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

Excellent question. Who the fuck knows?

“Live-action role-playing,” I said simply.

“Like they play dress-up?”

“Something like that.”

“Are they queers?” Tony asked, for the first time sounding concerned, maybe afraid.

I thought about making a rude comeback, calling Tony out for being a homophobe. His “queer” comments made me uncomfortable, like being confronted with overt racism. Yet I held my judgment to myself and just said, “No more than Skip or Chet.”

Tony laughed in appreciation at my joke. Skip and Chet didn't catch the irony and took this, like everything anyone said, at face value.

Don wore only a subdued cloak, like a Hobbit or a Jedi, and he approached me as I broke the circle of trees ahead of Tony and Skip and Chet.

“Hey, Luke,” Don said, “I didn't think we'd see you.” As he said this last part Tony and the others stepped into view and Don's eyes widened. “Hey … guys,” Don said while looking a question at me. He didn't seem upset. Just bewildered. He didn't even have sense enough to look embarrassed about being caught in his masquerade. “Uh, welcome … I guess.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Tony asked, the “queer” moniker implied in his tone.

“Not much. Just hangin' out,” Don said.

“Yeah? You guys got any beer?” Tony asked.

“Sure. Come on over,” Don said, as if he were offering someone a drink in his own living room.

The four of us followed him into the glow from the bonfire. The LARPers had all stopped to stare at us, as if we were the ones in freakish costumes. No one spoke or hailed us in greeting, just watched us walk across the clearing to where the coolers and tubs held chilled beer.

“We've got a few different kinds,” Don said as he waved a hand over the collection of coolers in offering. “You want a Bud or a Schlitz or—”

“We'll just take all of it,” said Skip or Chet, and Skip or Chet snickered at that.

Don was still recovering from his shock over seeing Grant Parker's outlaw gang at the fort. Now he was completely confused. It hadn't dawned on him yet that we were not there to take bets on the sword battles. But he was about to find out the ugly truth.

“I don't know what…” Don looked a question at me again, and I just gave him a soothing smile.

“Maybe not all of it,” I said. “We'll leave you a six-pack or something.”

I was trying to do this nicely, but the words came out sounding condescending and oily.

I had set in motion the wave that was about to take over. I knew, of course, that it was wrong. In order, the Bible places “Thou shalt not steal” lower on the totem pole than “Thou shalt not kill.” But it's still a numbered offense—one of only ten.

This wasn't really stealing, I told myself. Don and his buddies would enjoy their swordplay and witchcraft with or without booze. Our party needed it. And I had a promise to fulfill to everyone there.

Skip and Chet quickly lost interest in our conversation and drifted over to the knights' arena. One of them shoved a boy who was so slight in stature he probably weighed less than his chain mail. The shove was playful, but with their superior strength and size, the boy was sent toppling and gave up his sword. Both Skip and Chet took up swords and started to drunkenly swing at each other and the other combatants, giggling as they did so.

They swung the swords wildly, not attempting to use proper broadsword fighting form the way Don and his friends did. There were a few startled cries as Skip and Chet whacked someone with the flat of a sword or swung the fake-though-still-able-to-cause-serious-harm weapon in a wild arc near people's heads.

“How much have you got?” Tony asked Don. “It's going to be a bitch and a half to carry it all back to the cars.”

“You came to take our beer?” Don asked, the idea finally clear to him.

“Well, not exactly,” I started diplomatically, but Tony cut me off.

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?” he asked with the confidence of someone who knows no one is going to give him a problem.

“I don't.…” Don stopped as he considered the question. There were only four of us. If the knights of the Round Table decided to fight us, they had superiority in numbers and in weaponry. But none of them were prepared to stand up and fight for themselves.

“If you want,” Tony said, his tone a quiet threat, “we can go back to the party. Round up everyone and just bring them back here. We can drink the beer here.” His smile was both fluid and sly. “Of course, then you guys would have to leave.”

Don was staring at me. Hard. And I let my gaze wander so I didn't have to answer the question in his eyes.

“No,” Don said, a little loudly. He cleared his throat and said it again. “No.”

“No, what?” Tony asked.

“No, you're not taking our beer. It's ours. We stole it fair and square. Get your own beer.”

“You see what happens,” Tony said, directing his comment toward me. “You upset the natural order of things. Don here thinks it's his turn to put me in a coma.”

Hoo boy. You see what you started?

“Just let us take the beer, Don,” I said. “It's no big deal. We'll make it up to you.”

“Forget it,” Don said to me. Then to Tony: “I'm sick of the way you treat us.”

Don took a breath, as if he was going to continue his speech, but before he could get another word out Tony quickly reached out and grabbed Don by the collar of his shirt and gave him a shake. “That's a mighty bold statement,” Tony said as Don's eyes bulged from surprise and sudden lack of oxygen. “You want to take it back.”

The squeak that emitted from Don's throat was impossible to decipher. Maybe a yes, maybe a no. Tony shoved him away, and Don took two stumbling steps but kept his feet.

The clearing had grown quiet as Skip and Chet and the LARPers all stopped to see what Tony was going to do next. I silently begged Don to back down and just let us take the beer and go. Time stood still as Don rubbed at his throat, his head down as he caught his breath.

I hoped this was the end of it, that Don would step aside and give in to us, and just when I thought things were going the way I hoped, Don surprised everyone, maybe even himself, by lashing out and swinging a punch at Tony's jaw. He was shorter than Tony so his fist had to fly up at an awkward angle, and there wasn't a lot of power behind it. It was probably the first time in his life he had swung a fist at another person in anger.

Though Don's fist did connect with Tony's chin, the punch was so weak that the gesture was more pathetic than threatening. Tony put a hand on Don's head and held him just beyond arm's length as Don cried out and swung his arms wildly, his fingertips barely grazing Tony's chest and sides.

Tony laughed and Skip and Chet joined in. I just watched in amazement as Don quickly wore himself out, wasting all of his energy on screaming and throwing wild punches. Tony kept his hand on Don's head and circled each time Don tried to step out of his hold, laughing the whole time.

None of the LARPers came to Don's aid, just watched him in fascination. I thought about saying something, telling Tony to stop.

But I didn't.

Though it seemed like Don's humiliation lasted an impossibly long time, he was soon too tired to keep lifting his arms and staggered back away from Tony's mocking control.

“You're a little shit,” Tony said, and I thought the moment had passed, that now we could just take the beer and walk away. But Tony wasn't done yet. Almost without any effort at all, he pulled his arm back and swung at Don's cheek. Tony's fist connected with a disquieting splat, and Don went down like a pile of bricks. One second Don was standing there catching his breath, the next he was lying flat on his back.

“Anybody else?” Tony asked as he turned to survey the LARPers.

No one ran to Don's side, no one spoke up to answer Tony.

“That's what I thought,” Tony said.

Skip and Chet took their swords and swung at the fire, knocking burning logs throughout the clearing, and embers flew up in sprays, drifting up to reach their place among the stars. In a confusion of shouts and yelps the LARPers scattered to avoid the burning projectiles bouncing around the clearing. It was a melee of fire and terror as the three attackers pulled apart the planks of wood that made up the sheltered part of the fort. The LARPers scattered into the woods, leaving their fallen knight behind on the field of battle. Don was lying still, though whether he was really unconscious or just playing possum I wasn't sure.

Skip and Chet and Tony laughed as they tore apart the fort and threw the lumber into the remains of the fire. Then we were loading all of the beer into the big cooler, the last permanent fixture of the fort, and we started back through the woods.

Skip and Chet each took up a handle of the cooler, their shoulders straining under the weight. But they didn't seem to mind the burden as they laughed their way back to the car. The cooler went into the back of Tony's truck, and Skip or Chet rode shotgun with me in the Camaro while the other climbed into Tony's truck cab.

“You believe that kid who was talking shit to Tony?” Skip or Chet asked me as he pulled the car door shut. “What was that little shit thinking?”