Underneath (4 page)

Jesus, I just sat there
.

When his mother opened the door and spoke, startling him, he exaggerated his discomfort enough to convince her to let him stay in bed. He endured her maternal worrying until she was satisfied he wasn't going to die on her watch, and then cocooned himself in the covers.

When she was gone, he buried his face in the pillows and wept.

I just sat there
.

He wondered if Stephanie had gone to school today, or if, even now the police were on their way to Dean's house, to question him. The momentary thrum of fear abated with the realization that he had done nothing wrong. Freddy and Greer were the ones in trouble if the authorities were brought into it. And still he felt no better. Doing nothing somehow made him feel just as guilty as if he'd been the one holding her down, or pawing at her breasts, mocking her.

He wanted to call her, to try to explain without panic riddling his words, without fear confusing him, but knew he'd lost her.

But what if I hadn't lost her?
he wondered then.
What if Freddy hadn't interrupted us and we'd ended up having sex? What would that mean today? What would that
make
us?

He saw himself holding her hand as they walked the halls at school.

He saw himself holding her close at the prom as they danced their way through a crowd grinning cruelly.

He saw the look of need in her eyes as she stared at him, the possessive look that told him he was hers forever.

He heard the taunts, the jeers, the snide remarks but this time they wouldn't be aimed at Stephanie alone. This time, they'd be aimed at him too for being the one to pity her. For being blind to what was so staggeringly obvious to everyone else.

What the fuck is
wrong
with me?

Pain of a different kind threaded its way up his throat.

He didn't like the person his feelings made him.

He didn't like who he was becoming, or rather, who he might have been all along.

I just sat there…

As the light faded from the day and the shadows slid across the room, Dean lay back in his bed and stared at the ceiling.

Watching.

Waiting with rage in his heart.

For tomorrow.

* * *

"Mr. Lovell, we missed you yesterday," a voice said and Dean paused, the only rock in a streaming river of students.

The main door was close enough for him to feel the cool air blasting down from the air conditioner, the sunlight making it seem as if the world outside the school had turned white.

Dean turned to face the principal, a tall rail-thin man who looked nothing like his son. Small green eyes stared out from behind rimless glasses. His hands were behind his back, gaze flitting from Dean's pallid face to the object held in his hand.

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "I was sick."

"I see," Principal Greer said, scowling at a student who collided with him and spun away snorting laughter. "Well this close to exams I would expect you'd make more of an effort to make classes."

"It couldn't be helped."

Greer nodded. "Where are you going with that, may I ask?"

Dean lingered, his mouth moving, trying vainly to dispense an excuse, but finally he gave up and turned away. He walked calmly toward the main door.

"Excuse me, Mr. Lovell, I'm not finished with you."

Dean kept moving.

"Mr. Lovell, you listen to me when I'm talking to you!"

Now the scattering of students in the hallway paused, their chattering ceased. Heads turned to watch.

The doorway loomed.

"Lovell, you stop
right this minute!
"

Dean kept moving.

"You…your parents will be hearing from me!" Lovell sounded as if he might explode with rage. Dean didn't care. He hadn't really heard anything the old man had said anyway.

The hallway was deathly silent as he passed beneath the fresh air billowing from the a/c, and then he was outside, on the steps and staring down.

At where Fuckface Freddy was regaling two squirming girls with tales of his exploits.

"I swear," he was saying, "the bitch told me she got off when guys did that. I mean…in a goddamn
bowl
for Chrissakes! Can you believe that shit?"

It took four steps to reach him and when he turned, he squinted at Dean.

Sneered.

"The fuck
you
want?"

Dean returned his sneer and drew back the baseball bat he'd taken from his locker.

He expected Freddy to look shocked, or frightened, or to beg Dean not to hurt him. But Freddy did none of those things.

Instead, he laughed.

And Dean swung the bat.

* * *

His parents, talking. He lay in the dark, listening. They were making no intent to be quiet.

"Did you talk to him?"

"I didn't know what to say. He says his sorry."

"Sorry? He gave the guy a broken jaw, a busted nose and a concussion! Sorry isn't going to cut it."

"He was upset, Don."

"Oh and that's supposed to get him off the hook, huh? Did you ask him what the hell he's going to do now? Greer
expelled
him. You want to appeal against that? Just so our darling son can beat the shit out of the next guy who's dumb enough to cross him? Everyone gets upset, Rhonda, but not everyone pisses away their future by taking a bat to someone. I can't wait to hear what that kid's parents are going to do. They'll probably sue the ass off us."

"He says the guy was picking on him."

"Oh for Christ's sake."

"Well I don't know…you go talk to him then."

"I'm telling you…if I go up to that room, it won't be to talk."

"Then talk to him tomorrow. He's obviously got some problems we didn't know about. You being angry isn't going to help anything."

"Yeah well, jail isn't going to do him much good either, now is it?"

He lay in the dark, listening.

Smiling.

* * *

Over the next few days he was dragged to meetings, and heard the tone, but none of the words. Voices were raised, threats were issued, and peace was imposed. There were questions, different faces asking different questions, all of them threads connected to the same ball:
Why did you do it, Dean?

Had he chosen to answer those blurry, changing faces in all those rooms that smelled of furniture polish and sweat, he would have told them:
I just sat there
. But instead he said nothing, and soon the faces went away, the slatted sunlight aged on the walls and there was only one voice, a woman, speaking to him as if he were a child, but still asking the question everyone wanted to know and which he refused to answer because it belonged to him, and him alone.

"Dean, I want to help you, but you have to help
me
."

That made him smile.

"Tell me what happened."

He wouldn't.

"Tell me why you did what you did."

He didn't, and when she shook her head at some unseen observer, standing in the shadows at his back, he was released. No more faces, no more voices, just his parents, expressing their disappointment, their frustration. Their anger.

It meant nothing to him.

* * *

In the dark of night he awoke, unable to breathe, his body soaked in sweat, panic crawling all over him.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry

Look at you now
, a voice sneered in his ear and when he turned toward it, Fuckface Freddy was grinning a smile missing most of its teeth, his nose squashed and bleeding, one eye misshapen from when Dean had knocked it loose. His breath smelled like alcohol.
Look at you now shithead
.

Dean clamped his hands over his eyes, into his hair and pulled, screamed, a long hoarse tortured scream that made lights come on in more houses than his own.

Look at you now…

* * *

"These sessions will only be beneficial to you, Dean, if you open up to me…"

* * *

Look at you now…

* * *

"He starts at Graham High in the fall. Let's hope he doesn't fuck that up."

"Don't talk like that, Don. He's still your son."

"Thanks for the reminder."

* * *

Stephanie kissed him, her head making the covers ripple as she worked her way down his stomach. He moaned, filled with confusion and desire. Surely it couldn't all have been a dream, but if not, then he was thankful at least for the respite, this neutral plain where no harm was done and no one had been hurt.

Not here.

And when he ran his hands through her hair, she raised her face so that he could see the scars. So that he could touch them, remember them. But there were no scars. Only a wide gaping smile from which Greer's giggle emerged…

* * *

Almost a month later, his parents left him alone for the weekend. They'd asked him to come with them to Rodney's farm; his uncle was sick, and they claimed getting away from the house for a while might do Dean some good. And Rodney would be just tickled to see his nephew.

Dean refused, in a manner that dissuaded persistence, leaving them no option but to leave him behind, but not without a litany of commands and warnings. Then, on Friday evening, his mother kissed him on the cheek; he wiped it away. His father scowled; Dean ignored it. Then they were gone and the house was filled with quiet, merciful peace.

Until there was a knock on the door.

Dean didn't answer, but his parents had not locked it and soon Les was standing in the living room, hands by his sides, a horrified expression on his face.

"Dude, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Venting," Dean said, drawing the blade of his mother's carving knife across his forearm. He stared in fascination as the cuts, deep and straight, opened but remained bloodless and pink for a few moments before the blood welled.

"Hey…don't do that okay?" Les said, his voice shaking as he took a seat opposite Dean. "Please."

"It helps," Dean said, wiping the blade clean against the leg of his jeans. Then he returned the knife to an area below the four slashes he'd already made. Blood streaked his arm and Les noticed a spot of dark red was blossoming on the carpet between his legs. Dean had his arm braced across his knees, as if he were attempting to saw a piece of wood. Face set in grim determination, eyes glassy, he slowly drew the blade back, opening another wide pink smile in the skin.

"Jesus, Dean. What are you doing this for?"

"I told you," Dean said, without looking up from his work, "it helps."

"Helps what?"

"Helps it escape."

"I don't get it."

"No. You don't," Dean said and grit his teeth as he made another cut.

* * *

There were dreams and voices, the words lost beneath the amplified sound of skin tearing.

And when he woke, he knew his arms were not enough.

* * *

Summer died and took fall and winter with it, a swirl of sun, rain, snow and dead leaves that filled the window of the Lovell house like paintings deemed not good enough and replaced to mirror seasons that surely could not move so fast.

A somber mood held court inside. A man and a woman moved, tended to their daily routines, but they were faded and gray, people stepped from ancient photographs to taste the air for a while.

And upstairs, a room stood empty, the door closed, keeping the memories sealed safely within.

Another year passed.

* * *

"Two, babe," the kid said, running a hand over his gel-slicked hair and winking at the pretty girl in the ticket booth. On the screen behind him, garish commercials paraded across the Drive-In screen and the meager gathering of cars began to honk in celebration.

The kid glanced over his shoulder at the screen and looked back when the girl jammed two tickets into his hands. Using her other hand she snatched away his money, offered him a dutiful smile and went back to her magazine.