Boy Toy

by Barry Lyga

  "We're very grateful for the judge's compassion and that this nightmare is over and this young woman can go on with her life," Cresswell said.

  Sherman was twenty-four at the time of her arrest. She will turn thirty later this year.

  Gil B. Purdy, the district attorney who prosecuted Sherman, appeared in court to protest her release.

  "This woman is a sexual predator. She preys on young men. I don't see how we can let her out on the streets," Purdy told the press immediately after the hearing.

  State police arrested Sherman five years ago based on allegations that she had engaged in sexual activity with a local minor male while she taught at South Brook Middle School. She was also accused of providing that same student with alcohol. Sherman initially pleaded not guilty, but later changed her plea to guilty.

  Reach staff writer Stephanie Gould at stegould@ lowecotimes.com.

  Remorseful? Really? I have a hard time believing that. That just doesn't sound like her. I'm tempted to call the reporter and get a first-person account of what happened in the courtroom, but she probably wouldn't even talk to me.

  I carefully clip the article from the paper and throw away everything else.

  At the bottom of my closet is a fire safe I bought at Staples, hidden under some gym clothes and old toys. Within is a sea of tiny plastic cases—microcassettes. A copy of every tape Dr. Kennedy has made of our sessions. Five years of my life, completely documented on tape. Not many people can say they have that.

  Also in the safe is a clipping of every article from the Lowe County Times about Eve Sherman. I look through them for the first time in years; there haven't been many articles since she went into prison. Headlines jump out at me:

  Sherman to Serve Jail Time

  Sex, Lies, and Videogames

  Sherman Attorney: "No Insanity Plea"

  Sex-scandal Teacher Changes Plea

  Eve is out of prison. She's out. She's ... somewhere. Is she staying in the state? She can't teach anymore, so what is she doing? What about her husband? The article is a piss-poor source of information.

  I lock the safe again, now including the new clipping, then cover it with its camouflage, lie back, and drift off to sleep, flickers sparking and wheeling off into the dark.

  Session Transcript: #1

  Dr. Kennedy: My name is Dr. Kennedy. I don't know if you remember, but I saw you at the courthouse the other day. Do you remember that?

  J. Mendel: Yeah. What's your name?

  Kennedy: I just told you: Dr. Kennedy.

  Mendel: That's not what I mean. What's your first name? You know mine.

  Kennedy: My first name is Gene. Do you always want to know adults' first names?

  Mendel: I don't know.

  Kennedy: Can we talk a little bit about Mrs. Sherman?

  Mendel: No.

  Kennedy: Don't you want to know why I want to talk about her?

  Mendel: It's like the police and my parents. You want to know everything.

  Kennedy: Well, look. I want to know things, but only so that I can help you.

  Mendel: I don't need help.

  Kennedy: Do you understand what's happened to you?

  Mendel: I'm not stupid.

  Kennedy: I didn't say you were. Your grades are very good—

  Mendel: Do you have everything about me in that file?

  Kennedy: Not everything. Not the important things. I need you to tell those things to me.

  Mendel: I don't want to.

  Kennedy: Well, let's start slow. Why don't you just tell me how it started?

  Mendel: Are you going to tell everyone else? Are you going to tell my parents?

  Kennedy: Oh, is that what you're—? No. There's something called ... Do you know what doctor-patient privilege is?

  Mendel: Yeah. I saw it on TV.

  Kennedy: Well, that's what we have between us. Anything you tell me, I can't tell anyone else. Not the judge. Not your parents.

  Mendel: But you tape-record it.

  Kennedy: What?

  Mendel: You tape-record it. I saw you push the button before. Anyone can listen to what I say.

  Kennedy: The tapes are just to help me remember what you say. That's all. See this door here? See the lock? I'm the only one with the key. Your tapes will be locked up at all times. No one will get to them.

  Mendel: I want them.

  Kennedy: Excuse me?

  Mendel: I want copies. Of the tapes.

  Kennedy: That's not—

  Mendel: That's how I want it. I'll tell you everything, but I get copies of the tapes. This way, if you tell someone what I said someday and you lie, I'll have proof.

  Chapter 5

  Waking Games

  I awaken to the sounds. I hate it when this happens.

  Through the ductwork that runs along the ceiling of the house, you can hear a lot at night when it's still. And, yes, that means I can hear my parents having what they call sex.

  This isn't quite as creepy as it seems; I've been hearing this every once in a while as long as I can remember, though the frequency over the past few years has been nearly nonexistent. It usually doesn't keep me up, but tonight I must be on edge, every nerve ready to fire, as if someone's stalking me.

  After some rustling of bedclothes and squeaking of bed-springs, there's silence until Mom starts to complain and Dad says, "I'm sorry, honey. I'm sorry," and I turn over in bed, pull the pillow around my ears, and force myself back into sleep before I can finish the thought, before I can finish thinking, I do it better.

  Later, bang! I'm up again, suddenly, as if an alarm's gone off in my skull. Clock says it's three a.m. My brain is fuzzing and buzzing. I don't even remember sleeping, but I guess I must have been. The house is quiet, still. It's like there's no one here at all. or maybe like the entire world disappeared while I was asleep, leaving nothing but a silent black void outside my bedroom door.

  Through the vent, Dad snorts out a sudden burst of ragged breath that ends as soon as it began. The world is still out there.

  Remorseful.

  What the hell does that actually mean, anyway? How did she say that? Did she actually say, "I'm remorseful for what I've done"? Or did she say something vague that sort of sounded remorseful and the reporter just paraphrased it?

  And wouldn't she say "I regret" instead of "I'm remorseful"? They're two different things. I mean, remorse is ... Remorse...

  I kick off the covers and switch on my light. According to my online dictionary, remorse is about having a sense of guilt for something in the past. Regret is about being sorry. Two different things. It's subtle, but they are different. Which one did Eve claim? Did the reporter get it wrong?

  And what's up with that prosecutor? I remember him—he interrogated me five years ago. He was a real dick; he was an assistant DA back then, but he thought he was hot shit. And let me tell you—he loves the word "predator." He used it so often when he was interrogating me that I started keeping count.

  Here's what amuses me about the whole "predator" angle: Predation is a part of the natural world order. You don't get pissed at a lion for eating a gazelle; that's just what lions do. They prey. So by calling Eve a "sexual predator," aren't we saying that she's doing something that's part of the natural order? It isn't that we have to like it, any more than we have to like the idea of some poor eland bleeding to death on the veldt. But it's nature.

  I have learned an enormous amount in the past five years.

  Like what? What did she learn in the past five years, other than how to teach inmates how to read and how to avoid getting stabbed in the showers? How do the other prisoners treat a woman who did what she did? Is it like being a child molester? I read somewhere that child molesters are considered the lowest of the low in prison; even mass murderers hate them. Everyone is out to kill them.

  Did someone try to kill her in jail? Did she have to fight to protect herself?

  What did she learn?

  And who was her teacher?

  And
then I'm awake again. Still feel like I haven't slept at all. I only know I did because there's a big chunk of blank in my memory and the clock has jumped ahead to almost six.

  Rachel...

  What did she mean by "I'll take you up on that"? I told her underhand wasn't the same as overhand. You don't "take someone up" on that; you either agree or disagree with them.

  And underhand isn't the same as overhand. It just isn't. I've seen Rachel pitch a couple of times when I ended up at softball games, and the style is completely different. We first met when we were kids, playing rec center baseball and Little League together. She had a decent fastball back then, but her slider was an absolute killer. I rarely hit off her, but she had control issues—she walked me a lot. My on-base percentage was sort of ridiculous, but I was pretty small until a big growth spurt hit me in middle school; my strike zone was tough to nail, so I got walked a lot. I had to teach myself to swing at a lot of bad pitches if I ever wanted to hit the ball, and then I had to un-teach myself the same thing.

  Once we got older ... Well, we would have gone into separate sports anyway. Brookdale is just barely progressive enough to let boys and girls play baseball together through sixth grade. But after that, it's "separate but equal." Even if the nightmare at Rachel's house hadn't happened five years ago, we still would have been seeing less of each other.

  By now I'm too keyed up to go back to sleep. My alarm will be going off in half an hour anyway. I do some crunches, some pushups, some curls and flies with the resistance bands I keep under the bed. Exercise is good—it's tough to think too much when you're exercising. You get all caught up in the repetition and the counting and focusing on your form, and there's no room for flickers or memories or recriminations.

  My stomach rumbles, but I hear Mom and Dad bustling around in the kitchen, getting their lunches ready and drinking coffee. I feel awkward seeing them in the morning after I've heard them through the vent. As if they'll be able to tell that I could hear. Or that there will be some weird sign of failed sex on them—like the scarlet letter, almost—that I'll have to pretend not to see.

  I wait until I can't wait any longer; I don't want to be late picking up Zik and condemn him to the indignity of taking the bus. Even though I haven't heard Dad leave yet, I head out to the kitchen.

  He's sitting at the table, stirring the contents of a big metallic coffee mug.

  "You're up early for someone who doesn't have to go to school," he says.

  "I'm taking Zik to school." Like yesterday, I want to add, but don't. Dad's not known for the quantity of clues in his possession.

  "That's nice of you." He frowns and peers into his mug. His eyes go to the creamer, and I can almost see the conflict within him.

  "Look," he goes on, reaching for the creamer, "your mother is going to be out late tonight. Some baby shower or wedding shower or..." He regards the creamer in his hands, then tips it enough to let a few drops into his coffee. This seems to make him happy. "Some damn shower or other. Anyway, I was thinking we'd just do pizza for dinner. Does that work for you?"

  "Sure, Dad. Whatever you want. Can Zik come over?"

  "Sure, sure. How is Zik these days?"

  I love how he says "these days," as if he hasn't seen Zik in years, as if Zik is some stranger from a remote land who shows up on the summer solstice and that's it.

  "He's doing OK. Pissed at me for getting suspended. He says I'm gonna lose my swing without practice."

  Dad grunts. "You won't lose your swing in three days. That's stupid."

  My dad is not one for idle chitchat.

  Dad leaves for work and I slug down a granola bar and milk before heading out to the car.

  Chapter 6

  I Am Iron Man

  When Zik climbs in next to me a few minutes later, he has a weird look on his face. Almost as if he's trying not to smile.

  "You OK?" I ask him.

  "Oh, yeah. Sure." He gives me the once-over. "How about you? You OK?"

  Is this about the newspaper article again? "Yeah, man, I'm fine."

  Zik nods as if he doesn't believe me. There's an anticipatory silence in the car as I pull away from Zik's house, as if we're each waiting for the other to say something. After a few moments, Zik breaks the silence.

  "Here, J." He pulls a spiral-bound notebook out of his backpack and holds it up to me.

  "What's that?"

  "Eyes on the road!"

  I tap the brake and come nowhere near to rear-ending a Honda. Nowhere near. Seriously.

  "Well, don't fucking wave shit in my face while I'm driving!"

  He tosses the notebook into the back seat. "I copied all my notes from bio, history, and English last night. For the last two days, you know? Sorry I couldn't go to your math class for you. Or physics." He pauses. "Or Spanish."

  Zik and I share most of our classes, but there are a couple of the really high-level math and science classes that I'm in alone. But in the meantime, he's saved me from having to hunt down all of this stuff from my teachers in most of my classes.

  "You saved my life, man. Or my GPA, at least."

  He grins. "Gotta keep the Streak alive, Iron Man."

  Years ago, a ballplayer named Cal Ripken Jr. became known as the Iron Man because he had this ungodly streak of consecutive played games: 2,632 by the time he was finished. People who like baseball like to talk about home run records and hitting records and pitching records—they bring up Bonds and McGwire and Clemens and Wood; all that. But people who love baseball know that Ripken's record is the record, the record that will go unbroken as long as we live. Why? It's simple: Anyone can have a good season and hit enough homers to kick Barry Bonds out of the record books. Anyone can have a lucky game and get twenty-one strikeouts in nine innings, thereby eclipsing Clemens, Wood, and Johnson at once. But Ripken's record spans seventeen seasons. It's not a case where you can have a good game or a good season or juice yourself up on steroids and break a record. You can't break Ripken's record with luck or a burst of skill. You have to be dedicated. You have to have a superhuman focus that pushes you through injuries, bad days, and all the petty stupidities the world throws at you ... all the while maintaining a level of ability that suits the major leagues.

  Zik calls me Iron Man because I haven't had less than an A in any class since third grade.

  It's nothing I set out to do. I wasn't trying, at least, not at first. But somewhere around sixth grade, Zik noticed; that's when he started calling me Iron Man. It was just an in-joke between friends, so it didn't mean much. And I figured that once I hit high school I would, inevitably, get a B at some point.

  But it didn't happen. Or, at least, it hasn't happened yet, and given that it's April of my senior year, the odds are on my side. The longer I went on my personal streak, though, the more intense it became. For most of my life, I got straight A's as a matter of course. I never even thought about it. Schoolwork just came easily to me, and it was no problem to hit my scores. But once I became aware of my own success, it started to gnaw at me. I started to obsess over it. Every paper, every test, had to be an A. I couldn't get a B on something and then pull it up with a bunch of A's later—no, I had to get all A's, all the time, or else I'd start to panic. One slip could lead to more, after all.

  I wonder if that's how it was for Ripken? At first was it just fun playing the game? And some breed of stubbornness or persistence or overblown work ethic that compelled him to play through injuries? And when did he first realize that he might be able to challenge Lou Gehrig's old record of 2,130 games? That record stood for fifty-six years before Ripken broke it—it was so inviolable that it was practically a law of physics. And then Cal Ripken, the Iron Man, did the baseball equivalent of discovering cold fusion.

  So sometimes I wonder—when was that moment that it occurred to him that not only could he break Gehrig's record ... but he had to? In press interviews, Ripken always said that the streak and the record were secondary to the game, and I've always said that the learning and the p
rocess of learning are superior to the actual grades...

  But honestly, the one thing Cal Ripken and I have in common is this: We're both full of shit. Because streaks and records have a way of worming into your mind whether you want them there or not.

  I've got six weeks left of school. I could bag my classes and end up with a B average in most of them and still go to college. And that would be a lot less pressure on myself. But I can't do that. My parents don't understand that. Hell, even some of my teachers have told me to take a break.

  But Zik gets it. Zik gets it, and he sat up last night copying his notes into a second notebook. Because Zik wants to see the Streak continue.

  And unlike most people, Zik knows that I earned each and every one of those grades. Even the ones in seventh grade, when Eve was my history teacher. Even those.

  Chapter 7

  OK, Baseball

  Here's the thing about baseball—at the end of the day, it's not really a team sport.

  Which is just as well, because I'm not one for teams. Teams generally are a collection of loosely aligned assholes who all think they have something in common when they really don't. Jocks are jerks, plain and simple. I've seen it my whole life. Just because I have a talent with a bat, I've been witness to some real primo acts of assholery—front-row center seat, let me tell you. Freshman year, I saw a new kid just about dunked headfirst into a flushing toilet for the ever-popular swirly.

  I say "just about" because I intervened. I was only a freshman, but even then I was somewhat legendary to the upperclassmen. I was the only freshman that year to start on the varsity team, and in the early practices I had batted well against the senior pitchers, going 6 for 7 with a double and a triple for a whopping .857 batting average and an unheard of 1.286 slugging average. Now, granted, that was just in practice, but I was a freshman hitting against seniors. It got people's attention. Early on, Coach Kaltenbach set me aside for "special attention."