The Bully (3 page)

Detective Harrison got up and stood in front of the man, blocking him. Then two other men came into the room and grabbed the man with the mustache from behind.

“You little son of a bitch!” the man yelled at me. “You killed my son! You killed my fucking son!”

The men pulled the screaming man out of the room. But I could still hear him yelling, “That little fucking bastard! That little piece of shit!”

During the commotion, my father entered the room.

“All right, I think this is enough questioning,” my father said to the detective. “We’re going home now.”

“I’m not through yet,” the detective said.

“I don’t care,” my father said. “You made my kid cry and I think that’s enough for one day. Please have a car take us home.”

The detective agreed to let us go home, but he said that he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t have to speak to me again.

When my father and I arrived home, it was almost dark. There was still a chalk outline of Billy’s body in the driveway and about a dozen neighbors were still standing around outside the house and in the driveway, including some kids I knew. Everyone was suddenly quiet as I followed my father up the stoop.

My mother was home. She’d already heard what had happened and she was angry at my father for not calling her at work and telling her. Then my mother hugged me tightly and told me how much she loved me.

“Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay,” she told me. “You don’t worry about anything.”

My mother continued to hug me for a long time, then I told her I had to go to the bathroom. In the bathroom, I cried some more, thinking about everything that had happened, afraid for what would happen next. Now everyone in the neighborhood believed I was a killer and everyone at school would believe it too. Billy Owens’ friends would probably give me the worst beating of my life. Or maybe they’d even kill me.

When I left the bathroom, I heard my parents talking downstairs. From the landing at the top of the stairs, I eavesdropped.

“I don’t know why he was fighting with this boy in the first place,” my mother said. “It isn’t like Jonathan to fight.”

“All kids fight,” my father said.

“Not Jonathan,” my mother said. “Maybe that’s why he was acting so strange yesterday. He wouldn’t touch his supper.”

“Look,” my father said, “I think the faster this whole thing blows over, the better it’ll be for all of us.”

“Did he talk to you about anything…anything that was going on at school?”

“No, of course not.”

“I’ll have to call the school and find out.”

“Just let it be,” my father said.

“You mean just pretend this never happened?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you want to do that? Something like this won’t just blow over. He’ll need counseling—he’ll have to work out whatever he’s feeling.”

“He’s not getting any counseling.”

“Are you crazy? He was traumatized today.”

“He’s a big kid. He’ll be fine.”

“He won’t be fine. How can you say he’ll be fine?”

“I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”

“Well, I want to discuss it.”

“That’s enough.”

“It’s not enough. Don’t tell me when it’s enough. I’ll tell you when it’s enough.”

There was a loud smacking sound and I knew my father had slapped my mother across the face the way he sometimes did.

“You fucking bastard!” my mother screamed. “You goddamn son of a bitch!”

A door slammed and there was silence.

* * *

In the middle of the night I woke up and my father was sitting next to me in bed.

“Jonathan,” he whispered, “wake up. Wake up, Jonathan.”

“I’m up,” I said in hoarse voice. I’d been crying before I went to sleep and in the middle of the night and my pillow was still wet.

“What did the detective ask you?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Come on, he must’ve asked you some questions. Did you stick to the story?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You did good, Jonathan. I’m very proud of you.”

It was the first and last time my father ever said he was proud of me.

He kissed me on my forehead and left the room.

* * *

I didn’t want to go to school and my mother wanted me to take a day off too, but my father insisted that I go. As usual, my father got his way.

There were a few reporters waiting outside the house. My father told them that I wouldn’t make any public comments. Then my father led me past them as they shouted: “Why did you do it, Jonathan?” “Did you kill him on purpose, Jonathan?” “Do you feel any remorse, Jonathan?”

The reporters followed my father and me the entire two-block walk to school, shouting more questions. I wanted to tell them the truth, but I knew I couldn’t do that, that I’d never be able to do that. I started crying and my father said, “Just grow up for chrissake. You didn’t do anything wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Near the entrance to the school, I fell to my knees and refused to go any further.

“Get up,” my father said. “Get up before you get me very upset.”

I got up slowly and went into the school.

In the hallway, on the way to the classroom, kids stopped and stared at me and they started whispering things to each other. I was afraid that the kids would start calling me names and threaten to beat me up, but nothing happened.

Mrs. Rosenberg stopped me when I came into the classroom.

“Jonathon, how are you?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said, continuing past her.

I sat in my usual seat in the back of the class and opened my loose-leaf. As Mrs. Rosenberg taught a math lesson, a few kids turned around and looked at me, but no one said anything.

During lunchtime, I thought I’d get beat up for sure. Billy’s friends were probably gonna all attack me at the same time, and the rest of the kids would cheer them on. Sure enough, a minute or two after I sat down, Ronny Harrison and Craig Stern, two of Billy Owens’ best friends, came over and sat down across from. I decided that when they started to beat me up I wouldn’t do anything. I’d just get beat up and hopefully that would be the end of it.

“Hey, Jonathon,” Ronny said. “We were just wondering—you wanna come sit at our table?”

I knew it was a trick. Once I got to their table, they would all start beating me up.

“That’s okay,” I said.

“Come on,” Craig said. “You can sit in Billy’s old seat.”

I decided to go, figuring if I was going to get beat up eventually I might as well get it over with. But, instead, all the kids were nice to me. They didn’t say anything about what had happened with Billy and Ronny even invited me to his birthday party.

During the rest of the day, other kids who’d never said a word to me before came up to me and started trying to be friends with me. I felt like I’d killed The Wicked Witch of the East. I’d thought that everyone liked Billy, but I realized that everyone hated him as much as I had, including his best friends.

Later in the afternoon, Mr. Greenberg, the principal, came to the class and took me back to his office to speak with him in private. I thought he was gonna scold me, or even suspend me, but he seemed happy that Billy was gone too.

“I just wanted to tell you that no one here at the school blames you for what happened yesterday,” he said. “It was just an accident, an unfortunate accident, but still an accident, and if you ever want to talk about it I just want you to know that I’m always available for you.”

It seemed strange to me that Mr. Greenberg wasn’t angry at me. After all, he had no way of knowing whether it had really been an accident. The police were still investigating and, for all Mr. Greenberg knew, it could’ve turned out that I’d killed Billy on purpose.

But, later in the day, I realized that Billy had been a big headache for the principal, getting into trouble all the time, and Mr. Greenberg was just glad that Billy was gone.

I guess kids always became more popular after they beat up someone, but since I’d done more than beat up someone, I’d killed someone, and not just anyone—Billy Owens, the toughest kid in the whole school—I became more popular than Billy had ever been. I wasn’t just Jonathan Zimmerman anymore—I was Jon Zimmerman, the cool tough kid no one wanted to mess with.

Detective Harrison came to talk to my father and me several more times, but my lying was improving. I didn’t feel like I was just telling a story anymore to cover up for my father. I wanted to believe that
I
was the killer and eventually I started to believe it. When I thought about that afternoon I’d see Billy and me fighting on the porch and then I saw myself, pushing Billy through the railing. My father had nothing to do with any of it.

One night, my father came into my room and told me that the investigation was over—the police believed our story. It seemed like everything in my life was gonna be great, but the very next day I came home from school and my father was waiting for me at the door.

“Now you’ve done it you little shit,” he said. “Now you’ve really done it.”

I had no idea what I could’ve done wrong. I’d been lying to the police, telling the exact story my father had told me to tell.

I tried to run away, to hide in my room, but my father grabbed me from behind. He stuck some piece of paper in front of my face.

“You know what this is?” he demanded. “You know what this is?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a summons,” he said. “We’re being sued. Billy Owens’ parents are fucking suing us for ten million dollars. You know what that means?”

I shook my head, starting to cry.

“It means they’re saying it’s our fault. They’re saying the railing was busted and should’ve been fixed. But this isn’t our fault, is it, Jonathan? It’s
your
fault. If you didn’t start this whole thing with this kid, none of this would’ve happened.”

I broke away and ran up the stairs. Or at least I
tried
to run. Halfway up, my father grabbed me and he carried me into the study. I was screaming and crying, but this only made him angrier.

“God damn it, Jonathan,” he said.

He put me down and then he punched me in the face. I fell to my knees, sobbing, tasting blood on my lips.

“Get up,” he said. “Get up and act like a man.”

I didn’t budge.

“I said get up!” he yelled, then he grabbed me by the hair and lifted me to my feet.

“Stop,” I begged. “Please stop!”

He cocked his fist again, then he let go and said, “Get the hell away from me, you fat piece of shit. I don’t wanna see your fucking face.”

* * *

I cried until I feel asleep. When I woke up the room was dark and I heard my mother and father arguing. I opened the door a crack and heard my father telling my mother about the lawsuit. Then my father started yelling at my mother, the way he had at me, and I thought he was gonna hit her.

Later, my mother came into my room. I thought she was gonna tell me that she’d had enough of my father, that it was time to pack our things and move out. I was starting to imagine how great it would be to live someplace else, far away from my father, when my mother said:

“Why did you have to do it, Jonathan? Why did you have to do it? You ruined everything, our entire lives. We’ll have to sell the house now, we’ll be poor forever, and you don’t care, do you? You just don’t care.”

I didn’t understand why my mother was so angry at me, why both of my parents seemed to hate me. I wanted to tell her the truth, but I didn’t. I just let her go on blaming me for everything.

At school the next day, Mrs. Rosenberg noticed the fat lip my father had given me and she asked me what happened.

“Nothing,” I said. “I just fell.”

“It doesn’t look like that could’ve happened from a fall,” she said.

“It did,” I said. “I was playing outside and I tripped and I fell on my face.”

Mrs. Rosenberg said she would talk to me about it again later and she seemed disappointed in me.

But the bruises seemed to make me even more popular with the kids in my class. Now I was even tougher and more dangerous than I’d been yesterday and everyone wanted to be my friend.

In the schoolyard, I was hanging out by the handball court, talking to Ronny and Craig and some other guys, when Ronny started making fun of Paul Steinman. Paul was short and very thin and wore thick glasses. All the cool kids in school always picked on him.

I went over to Paul and stared at him without blinking. I remembered what my father told me, about how I had to be a man. I liked seeing how afraid Paul was, how I was making him cry.