Hooligans

by Chloe Garner

Would it have mattered?

  Would it have changed anything?

  No.

  The diagnoses were all the same, the treatments unchanged. She just would have…

  She would have felt like maybe he was still there. Aware that what he saw wasn’t real, that it was a disease, not some new, replacement version of himself who was so completely out of control.

  It would have given her hope, she realized.

  To be able to sit down with him at a meal and hear him use words in that calm, descriptive way… She would have felt like he was struggling with something very real, but it was still him.

  “It isn’t real,” she said quietly. “I need you to know that I still don’t believe any of it is real, but thank you for telling me what it is that Robbie is experiencing.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you know why he can’t tell me?”

  Trevor smiled, almost pity.

  “No,” he said. “There are too many reasons that might be true, and I don’t know. They’ve all been treated, and the treatments muddle reality, best I can tell, and make them really confused. What’s perfectly clear to me must get really, really confusing, like a dream, to them. No telling what they believe, at this point.”

  Lizzie nodded. It made sense, at least.

  “So… You have control that they don’t? Like, self-control? Discipline?”

  He shook his head, putting down his sandwich and standing, then sitting. Standing again.

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t want to tell you that yet. Are you ready?”

  She looked at what was left of her salad, then drank the rest of her water and stood.

  “Yeah, we can go,” she said. He nodded, and started off without her. She chased him to keep up.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. Trevor frowned at her, looking away and back at her with some of the agitation she recognized from Robbie. It was the first time she’d seen Trevor move like that.

  “I will be,” he said. “It’s just hard.”

  “What’s that?”

  He shook his head.

  “There’s so much,” he said. “There’s so much you don’t know.”

  “Then tell me,” she said simply. “I’m listening.”

  He smiled suddenly and took a deep breath, and he was back, his pace slowing, evening out, his arms relaxing at his sides to move the way they should.

  “It’s not important,” he said. “You’re listening. That’s what matters.”

  She frowned and he grinned.

  “We don’t spend much time with normal people,” he said. “It’s almost as strange to me as it is for you to be around me.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “How many of you are there?”

  “In our pack?” he asked. “Twelve, with Lara gone.”

  “Lara was a part of this?”

  He nodded, shooting her a quick look.

  “Central to it, actually.”

  She was confused, and it showed, but he ignored it.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said.

  “Okay,” Lizzie said slowly.

  “When you were little, what were your little pretend games about?”

  “What?”

  “Did you sit at a little table with your stuffed animals and your dolls and serve them tea?” he asked.

  “No,” Lizzie said.

  “Well, what were they?”

  “Um,” she said, remembering. Playing in the tent in the back yard. With Robbie, actually. Trevor waited, watching her as he walked. “We saved things.”

  “What kinds of things?” Trevor asked.

  She remembered.

  “People. Things. Buildings and animals and… a fire hydrant, once.”

  “How?” Trevor asked.

  It was a cool chill, an old memory that wasn’t unpleasant, but so far back that it felt like remembering someone else.

  “We had thousands of invisible agents and we told them what to do,” Lizzie said. She hadn’t thought about that since… Since before Robbie had gotten sick.

  “Was he sick even back then?” she asked.

  “Depends on how you look at it,” Trevor said, trailing off to indicate that he wasn’t going to tell her any more than that. She found that her hand was clutching at her stomach. She unfolded her fingers from her shirt and shook them out. Her palms were sweaty.

  She’d been playing along with his game, even back then. Before they’d known that there was something wrong with him. And he’d been normal.

  “We broke him,” she whispered. “He was okay until we found out he wasn’t normal.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Trevor said. “A lot more would have been going on at that point that would have been a part of him falling apart.”

  She shook her head.

  “But you knew, didn’t you? You knew, even back when we were kids, that he was what he was. It wasn’t adolescence. It was that someone noticed.”

  Trevor glanced at her, and that was real sadness.

  “I wish I’d gotten to meet him, even if he was a kid, back then. It’s hard to imagine who any of them would have been.”

  She swallowed, finding that suddenly she was on the verge of crying.

  “What should we have done?” she asked. “What could we have done that would have helped more?”

  Trevor shook his head.

  “If it helps, and I’m not an expert on anything but who we are, I don’t think Robbie is like anyone else any of the professionals he saw knew about. They did their best to treat him in a way that might have worked, if he weren’t exactly what he is.”

  “And what is that?” Lizzie asked.

  “I told you,” Trevor said. “We’re hooligans.”

  “You spraypaint buildings and steal bikes?” she asked. He laughed.

  “That’s exactly what we do,” he said. She shook her head.

  “And what has that got to do with mental illness?”

  “I can’t answer that because I don’t think we’re ill.”

  The sun was beginning to go down and she looked around quickly.

  “What time is it?” she asked. “How long have we been gone?”

  “Why?” Trevor asked.

  “I was going to cook Robbie dinner.”

  “If he’s even at home when you think it’s dinner time,” Trevor said.

  “He’d be so mad if he knew I spent the entire day with you,” Lizzie said.

  “You didn’t,” Trevor told her. “Just the second half of it.”

  She glowered at him and he grinned.

  “It’s not the end of the world if Robbie’s temper goes off. It keeps him from going comatose instead.”

  “Now there’s a tactic,” she said and Trevor snorted.

  “You don’t ever do anything without a plan. Go out and get lightbulbs, fix dinner, you’re just domestic chores and a list,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lizzie asked, insulted.

  “I mean when was the last time you took a dare?” he asked.

  “I’m a grown up,” she said. He raised an eyebrow and she shook her head.

  “Why would I take dares?” she asked.

  “When was the last one?” Trevor asked.

  “This is coming out of nowhere,” Lizzie said, grinning despite herself. “Why?”

  He shrugged.

  “Because you’re worried what Robbie’s going to think of you taking a walk with one of his friends, and you’re upset that you aren’t going to be at home to fix him dinner when he gets there.”

  “I am here to make sure he’s okay,” Lizzie said. “It’s kind of a special case.”

  “I still want to know,” Trevor said, tipping his head back to look at her. “When was it?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said.

  “When was the last one you remember?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “A sleepover in middle school.”


  “And what did you do?”

  She blushed. He grabbed her hand and pulled her back to walk next to him as she peeled away.

  “What did you do?”

  “I called a boy I liked and told him I liked him,” she said, putting a hand on her cheek. “It’s nothing. It was dumb. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “But it felt like it at the time,” Trevor said. She shrugged.

  “Took me ten minutes to work up to it,” she said, and he nodded.

  “But you’re too grown up for that kind of thing now,” he said.

  “Dares are for kids,” she said. He shook his head, running the tip of his tongue along is teeth.

  “No,” he said. “Dares are for people who want to feel afraid to have fun.”

  “And that’s not me,” she said. “It’s not.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because,” she said.

  “Because you like making everyone happy and being home on time.”

  “What’s so wrong with that?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Never been my thing, honestly.”

  “You should try it,” she said indignantly. “You might find that you like it.”

  There was a churlish look in his eye and she edged away again. He put his chin out again, a tiny little jerk of his head.

  “I’ll come home with you and sit at a table and eat dinner if you’ll take a dare.”

  She swallowed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A tattoo,” he said.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, still playful, but firm. No way that was happening. He nodded, like she had said yes and just didn’t know it yet.

  “Right here,” he said, running his thumb across the inside of her wrist. She felt the touch up through her elbow. “Small.”

  “Of what?” she asked.

  Stupid. This wasn’t up for negotiation. She wasn’t doing it. He shook his head.

  “You don’t get to see until it’s done.”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’d ever in a million years do that,” she said. “No.”

  He nodded again, turning down another street. She saw the neon sign three doors down and stopped dead.

  “I mean it,” she said. “No.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I’m not drunk?” she asked and he grinned.

  “We can fix that.”

  “I’d have to live with it for the rest of my life,” she said. “No. I’m not letting you pick a random tattoo to put on my arm. I don’t care how cute a smile you’ve got for me.”

  “You think my smile is cute?” he asked, his face changing, lighting up in a more innocent, boyish way.

  “Shut up,” she said, embarrassed. He grinned, working her, down to business again.

  “It wouldn’t be a random tattoo,” he said. “Say that it would be in memory of Lara. She had the same one.”

  “What was it?” she asked.

  “It wouldn’t be spontaneous if I told you,” he said. “Two dinners.”

  “A week,” she said, shocking herself. “And you show up on time, clean, and dressed well.”

  “Do the best I can,” he said.

  And they were walking again.

  She was shocked deep to her shivery core.

  What had she just agreed to?

  Had she even agreed?

  The terror of it… was thrilling.

  She wanted to pull away and run, but that was part of it. He was holding her hand and they were walking, and she felt every single step more than she’d ever felt anything.

  She was going to do it.

  On a dare.

  If Lara had had it, it couldn’t be that bad, could it? She wouldn’t have had a skull and cross-bones or anything like that.

  Lizzie tried to remember what Lara’s wrists had looked like.

  She’d seen them enough times, sitting down to a meal, passing food back and forth, watching TV at night and drinking beer.

  “Lara didn’t have a tattoo on her wrist, did she?” she asked.

  “She did,” Trevor said. “I give you my word, she had exactly the one you’re going to get. This is the guy who did it.”

  Her intestines were melting. She had jelly for guts, and she wobbled when she walked as her knees caught the same disease.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she whispered.

  “Yes you can,” Trevor whispered back. She realized she was leaning on him, that his face was next to hers, his nose against her ear. She shivered.

  She drew in a sharp breath and blinked quickly, trying to remember who she was. What she was doing. How he’d talked her into this.

  But they were turning to go into the shop, and a man with a long black braid came to the front desk and nodded at Trevor.

  “Hey man, what’s up?” the man said.

  “Got a victim for you,” Trevor said, friendly. The man with the braid nodded, looking Lizzie up and down.

  “You ever done one of these before?” he asked.

  “No, have you?” Lizzie asked, on the verge of hysterical. He grinned. There wasn’t much of his skin showing that wasn’t involved in one tattoo or another. She turned away, embarrassed and when she turned back he came around the counter.

  “What did you have in mind?” he asked.

  “You remember the one that you did for Lara?” Trevor asked, holding out Lizzie’s inverted wrist. “Here?”

  “I do,” the man said.

  “That’s the one,” Trevor said. “Only it’s a surprise.”

  “A surprise?” the man asked. “Gutsy. I like it.”

  “You have time now?” Trevor asked.

  “The chair is all yours,” the man said and led the way back to a private room where he closed the door behind them. Lizzie collapsed onto a chair like a dentist’s, grateful that her legs didn’t have to hold her up any more.

  “Don’t look,” Trevor said.

  “Going to take a minute to get set up,” the man with the braid said. “Want to get the pattern drawn out.”

  Lizzie sat up and Trevor pushed her shoulders back onto the chair again, gentle.

  “Don’t look,” he said, winking.

  “It’s going to hurt,” Lizzie said, and he nodded.

  “It’s not that complex,” the man said. “And it’s pretty small, but the inside of your wrist is no picnic. I’ll tell you the truth.”

  Lizzie found that her foot was twitching.

  “Don’t know if you heard it,” Trevor said, his voice normal, soothing. “Lara died a few days ago.”

  “I did hear,” the tattooist said. “A lot of your people have been through here getting work to remember her for. Haven’t gotten a straight answer what happened to her.”

  “Brain aneurysm,” Lizzie said.

  “Huh,” the man said. “I’d gotten the impression that it was an accident or something malicious. I guess maybe that’s better.”

  “Just a freak thing,” Lizzie said. “No way to tell it’s going to happen unless you happen to get a brain scan and see it.”

  “Huh,” the man said, sitting up. “You ready?”

  Lizzie braced and turned her face away. He laughed, not mockingly.

  “I’ve got a piece of paper here, and I’m going to use it to put the pattern on your wrist. Okay? You’ll know before I start the tattoo.

  She nodded, still not looking.

  There was cold, and then nothing, and then her whole body queased as something that sounded like a tiny drill started up.

  “All right,” he said. “Don’t wiggle.”

  There was a sound of humor, but it wasn’t funny at all when the needle bit her.

  “Ouch,” she complained.

  “Not that bad,” Trevor said.

  “It is,” she answered. “Really, it is.”

  “It’s in your head,” he said. “Nowhere else.”

  “No, it really isn’t,” she said. “And if this is you trying to make a p
oint, I wish you wouldn’t.”

  The fun of it had fallen away and now it just hurt.

  “I’m not,” he said. “Really I’m not. I bet I can stop it.”

  “By punching him?” Lizzie asked through gritted teeth. “That’s not very nice.”

  The man with the braid laughed. The buzzing and the needle and the pain didn’t slow down.

  “What if I…” Trevor said, and rested his hand gently and then firmly on the inside of her arm above where the tattoo was going.

  She swallowed.

  There had been a phantom of hope as his skin made contact with hers that it might just magically block the pain, but it was no different.

  “No,” she said. “Still hurts.”

  “Does it?” he asked, squeezing her arm.

  “Yes,” she said. “It does.”

  “But is it as bad?”

  “Yes,” she said more emphatically, and the man with the sadistic needle laughed again. He was a friendly guy, and she might have been able to like him, under other circumstances.

  “So I’ll just… stop, then,” Trevor said.

  “No,” she said. Too quickly. Way too quickly. He grinned.

  “I told you,” he said.

  His hand was warm against her arm, and his fingers, where they rested on her shoulder, smelled of car oil and leather, healthy, present smells.

  Somehow, it was different.

  It still hurt, but the bet was back on.

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t you dare enjoy this.”

  “What?” he asked. “Watching you be the bad girl for two minutes? Of course I will. You just did something so spontaneous you’re not going to believe it in the morning.”

  That was certainly true.

  “I’m going to enjoy watching you squirm in a button-up shirt,” she said.

  “I said I’d do my best,” he said quickly, defensively. “I don’t have a button-up shirt.”

  “Oh, you will by the time we get back to the house,” she said, enjoying the sound of triumph in her own voice.

  “What?” Trevor asked, at a loss. She nodded.

  “Oh, if you’re coming to dinner, you’re going to be presentable if it kills me, after this. You’re getting a haircut and a shave and we’re getting you clothes that fit…”

  The man with the tattoo gun laughed and sat back.

  “That’s got it. I think you got the bad end of that deal, man.”

  “We’ll see,” Trevor said, clearly not disagreeing.

  The man laughed and stood.