Two Roads from Here

by Teddy Steinkellner

“Woooooooooooo!!!” I shouted, gyrating my hips, rocking out with an invisible Hula-Hoop.

  “Yeah, lady! Get down with it!” Mona said, grooving on the bed.

  “Show me them high kicks, girl!” I hollered back at her. Mona blushed. I prodded her with my foot. She stood and did a couple of the Rockette kicks she’s famous for on cheer.

  “Okay, let’s see that booty!” she shouted back at me. I shook my butt up, down, and around, like I was washing a car in a rap video.

  “Grapevine!” I called out. We both started grapevining randomly across her room.

  “Disco!” Mona said. We shimmied our shoulders and disco-pointed with our arms.

  “Dougie!” I said. We each Dougied across the room and then laughed like crazy because we don’t know how to Dougie and there was no one there to teach us.

  “Polka!”

  “Nae Nae!”

  “Macarena!”

  “Oh!” I blurted as the song reached its end point.

  “Dirty Dancing!”

  I scampered to one side of the room. Mona got in front of her bed and crouched low. I ran right at her and jumped in the air, and she tried to catch me and lift me up like the girl with the big nose from the movie. But I crashed onto her face, and we both fell on her bed and burst into giggles all over again.

  “Hey, Nik,” she said as our laughter died down. “I have a question for you.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “You want to go to prom with me? Like as friends?”

  I thought about it for a second, but only a second.

  “Are you kidding me? I’d love to.”

  • • •

  Then, of course, it happened.

  The very next day, it happened.

  I got asked to prom. Again.

  Mona and I were passing through the Greek at lunch. We never eat there anymore. Too many cheer and dance girls and too many pea-brained boys who worship at the altar of the cheer and dance girls. And speaking of, well, you know, brain stuff, now that Brian’s come back to campus for special ed, he’s usually in the Greek with Allegra Rey, and I really can’t bear to face him—I mean him more than anybody. So Mona and I were on our way past the amphitheater and over to the terraces in front of campus—when the trumpeter stood up.

  It was like the bugle boy in a boot camp who rises at dawn and wakes everyone up, because this guy started playing, and everyone else, all the hundreds of people eating lunch on the benches, they shut their mouths and went to attention at once.

  Then a trombone player got up, all the way across the Greek from the trumpeter, and he joined in playing. Then a saxophone boy. And another saxophone boy.

  I recognized the song at once. From that movie my parents never let me watch. The detention movie. The one where they all smoke pot and dance on bookshelves and everyone except the nerd gets to hook up at the end.

  Mona tapped me on the shoulder, like, let’s get out of here, but I didn’t move. Whatever was happening, I wanted to see who was doing it and who it was for.

  A very large tuba player stood up at the top of the benches, and another kid with a silly-looking horn. They played too, and by this point the sound was very full, like it filled the amphitheater, and no one was saying a word. Everyone had their phones up, to record the scene.

  And just when the music swelled, right as the song was about to end, that was when I got this split-second chill, this sudden surge of fear—

  Oh my Lord.

  Please no.

  Anyone but him.

  Wiley was in the marching band with these same boys. Wiley had used these boys before, and this exact song, to try to confess his love to Allegra. Wiley had been creeping on me for weeks, spying on me from afar. I knew he and Cole had been up to no good that whole time. I just knew it. Wiley the stalker was getting revenge for what happened between us in detention. He was trying to corner and shame me in front of the entire school.

  Just as the music ended, I saw him.

  Standing there, at the bottom of the Greek, right in the middle of the stage. He had a megaphone in one hand, a bouquet of roses in the other.

  DeSean Weems.

  “Hey,” he said into the megaphone.

  “Why is he pointing at you?” Mona whispered.

  He was pointing at me. D motioned to the stage, like, Come on down; it’ll be okay. I looked at Mon like, Is this okay? She shrugged like, Who the hell knows?

  I made my way down the steps, into the belly of the Greek, every pair of eyes on me.

  “Hey, Nik,” DeSean said as I met him, his voice amplified for all to hear.

  “I regret how I acted before. I try to be a good guy, you know, and, like, all I was to you was a bad boyfriend. You know what I’m saying? But I want to do better by you. I want to be a better man. So listen, baby, I got something I need to ask. . . .

  “Nikki, will you go to prom with me?”

  • • •

  In so many ways, it felt like a mistake.

  I thought I didn’t care what the cool girls thought. I thought I didn’t worry about my status. I thought I didn’t need a guy anymore. DeSean hasn’t spoken to me in months, so how could I trust that? I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine, not with so many people watching us. And the last time we dated, all he wanted was one thing from me, and one thing alone.

  On top of everything, I didn’t want to leave Mona in the lurch.

  And yet, as I stood there, weighing my options in the center of the spotlight, I thought about something else too. Something buried way down deep. A certain thing I’ve dreamed about ever since I was a toddler in Texas:

  The fairy tale.

  The girl in the storybook doesn’t find her love immediately. She has to kiss a few frogs. She has to deal with dragons. But at the end of the story, after all the hardships and heartache, there comes that magical moment. Cinderella puts on the glass slipper. Snow White is awoken by true love’s kiss. The maiden has suffered enough. She is ready for the hero in her life. She lets fate save the day.

  So which one was it?

  Who did I want to be?

  The sun beat down. The folks in the stands held their breath. The band players held their instruments right to their lips. DeSean held my hand in his, looking as sweet and vulnerable as I’ve ever seen him. I couldn’t feel the tips of my fingers.

  My head said no. My heart said yes. I had to make my choice. But there was no time to think.

  14. COLE MARTIN-HAMMER

  We crouched in position, high atop our sniper’s perch. I alternated between scanning the hallways below and entering new search terms on my phone. Every few seconds, Wiley poked his head out of the bunker and readjusted his binoculars. Yes, he has actually started bringing binoculars on our after-school stakeouts. Gerd, I love that kid.

  “Type in ‘Allegra Rey boob job,’ ” Wiley whispered. “Or ‘Allegra Rey boob reduction.’ Ooh, ooh, or ‘Allegra Rey nip slip.’ ”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s take this a little serious. Why would any of that stuff be on the Internet?”

  Wiley put his binoculars down. “Why would anything be on the Internet?”

  He lowered his voice. “I mean, we’ve found worse.”

  I whistled. “Fair enough,” I said. “Poor Ms. Foxworth. I almost feel sorry for the girl.”

  “She deserves everything coming her way,” Wiley said. “You open the Ark of the Covenant without permission, you deserve to get your Nazi face melted off.”

  “You know, I’m not sure that’s the perfect analogy—”

  “Besides,” Wiley continued. “That one’s over and done with. We got our Nikki revenge out of the way. It’s Allie’s life we need to ruin now.”

  I took a moment. I let the words wash over me. I covered my mouth to keep from grinning too wide. “Well, well, well . . . ,” I said. “The bumbling sidekick becomes the diabolical master.”

  “Thanks,” Wiley said, beaming.

  I held up my screen. “But it’s been weeks now,
and we still haven’t found a shred of incriminating evidence against the girl. And as you might guess, that’s a first for me. So I’m all for crushing her dippy, drippy dreams, but good gerd I have no friggin’ idea how we’re supposed to do it.”

  “Shh,” Wiley said, gazing down at the ground. “There they are.”

  The theater class had been let out for the afternoon. And fresh off last weekend’s final performance of Seussical, our old friends looked positively triumphant. There they were indeed. Frumpy Butt and the Whale.

  Brian was giving Allegra one of his bucking bronco piggyback gallops. She was laughing hysterically, imploring him to put her down, but at the same time loving the ride. The two of them looked like a sickeningly sweet Hallmark card. A carefully crafted piece of barf.

  Right at that moment, Wiley twitched.

  I spun around. The boy’s whole body was convulsing. His mouth was practically frothing.

  “Sidekick,” I said. “Are you okay—?”

  He stopped on the spot. He held up a finger. I shut my mouth.

  “I’ve got it,” he said.

  “Got what?”

  “Revenge,” he said simply. He leaned toward me, cupped his hand, and whispered in my ear.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “What do you mean, ‘make a movie’?”

  He whispered. He whispered more. He whispered the entire thing.

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh, good God.”

  • • •

  My whole drive home, I couldn’t get my mind off Wiley’s scheme.

  It was good, to be sure. If executed properly, the plot would accomplish everything I ever wanted. It would wipe the smirk off Allegra’s face. It would sully her name in this town forever. It would punish her for stealing my spot at Stanford, the life that should have been mine.

  More importantly, and my personal vendettas aside, the plan would help Wiley. It would allow him to claim his redemption, perhaps even find his inner peace. That’s the whole reason I took the boy under my wing to begin with. Because he seemed lost. Because I wanted him to find himself, the way I’ve found myself. This plan could accomplish all of that in one fell swoop. It is that powerful.

  Honestly, maybe it’s too good. I’m a longtime rumormonger, and proud of it, but damn, when push comes to shove, I do question whether I truly want to be a life destroyer. We are getting into unprecedentedly heavy territory here. Moral-turpitude-level shit. I mean, I already feel twisted about the stuff we found on Nikki. I wonder if I’ve created a monster in Wiley.

  I needed to lie down.

  I parked in front of my house. I bypassed the usual home cigarette. I went inside, up to my room. I opened the door.

  It was there that I discovered an unexpected, unwanted visitor.

  “Cole,” he said. “It is so good to see you.”

  My father was sitting at the foot of my bed. He looked scraggly yet somehow not disheveled. His eyes were puffy but weirdly calm. He looked like he’d just found Jesus, or had aliens stick something up his butt.

  “No,” I said.

  I shook my head no, and I shook my hands no, and I backed away. I had to get out of there as right now as possible. But my pops sprang off the bed and rushed up to me, seizing me from behind. He wrapped me in the hardest hug, and though I tried to squirm free, he had that old-man strength. He wouldn’t let go.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  I sat on the corner of the bed, as far away from Earl as I could.

  “The ward agreed to let me out early,” he said. “So I could be there to see you graduate. At the top of your class, no less,” he added, his eyes flashing.

  “Second in my class,” I said. “To Allegra Rey.”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Didn’t your mother say she’s going to Stanford?”

  “No,” I said. “She’s not. She chickened out of an amazing opportunity. An incredible life. Does that ring any bells?”

  My dad ignored that.

  “Well,” he said. “Second in your class. Still pretty good.”

  “If only I’d had someone to teach me math.”

  My dad forced a broad smile. “Regardless,” he said. “Graduation day. What do you think?”

  “I think you can come watch me wear a dopey hat for three hours, but it doesn’t make you my father.”

  Earl shook his head. “Come on,” he said. “I’m trying.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re not.”

  “I’m here,” he said. “I’m trying.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Still trying to be proud of me after eighteen years, but the fact that you haven’t exactly pulled it off, that should say something.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Let this be a happy moment. At least try.”

  “Why don’t you try?” I said. “Instead of slicing your wrists or jamming your gullet with pills every time you get the chance?”

  “Hey, Cole—”

  “Seriously. Stop faking this shit. Why don’t you leave? This room, this life—your call.”

  “Come on, now.”

  “I can’t believe you’d use that word: ‘try.’ As if you’ve ever tried with me. The only thing you tried in your life, you failed, and now I have to deal with this insufferable nonsense.”

  “Son—”

  “I’m not your son, okay? You could have been a real father, but you weren’t. All you did was try, allegedly. And I already know what’s coming next. You’re going to try all over again, the love part, and the proud papa part, and inevitably, you’ll go crazy again, and you’ll try you-know-what again, and maybe you’ll even succeed this time, so do me a solid and shut your mouth, because none of it is good enough. You hear me? None of your empty bullshit is worth it—”

  “YES. IT. IS.”

  He leaped off the bed, his arms flexed, both hands in fists. He stared right at me, his nostrils flaring.

  “YES, ALL THIS BULLSHIT IS WORTH IT.”

  He sat back down, his breathing heavy.

  “I am a tormented person,” he said after several moments. “I am self-destructive. I am broken beyond belief. I wish I were not these things. My moods, my reactions, and even my premeditated actions, I cannot account for any of them. And that is a very scary thing to realize, that you are a ticking time bomb. Especially when you do not value life, as I have not for so long.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. My mind flashed back to when I was a little kid, when I dreamed of going to Stanford because that’s where my parents had met, that’s where they’d been happiest. I used to watch my dad as he watched the football games. I listened as he talked about how connected he felt to the place. I wanted to be just like him.

  “I admit that I’ve taken too much out on you. I desperately wish it weren’t true, but I know it is. I am jealous of you, Cole. You were born into a very different body than me. A superior vessel, no question about it. And for so long, I’ve held on to that resentment, that unshakeable feeling of inadequacy. For so many years, I’ve felt there was no way I could father you, not the way you deserve. You are capable of so much. I feel power over nothing.

  “So yes, I tried to take a way out. You might think of it as the easy way. I want you to know there was nothing easy about it.”

  Right after I learned of my dad’s attempt, one of the first things that hit me was how he tried to do it the summer before my senior year, before I applied to college. He didn’t want to see me go to Stanford. I was sure of it. That’s why he never helped me with math, as much as I needed him. He never wanted me to be better than him, even though I indisputably was.

  “Fortunately, Cole, I did just try that day. I did not succeed. And I am so happy to have failed. To be sitting here right now. Because I can tell you this: There is nothing I can do about what led me to this point. I cannot change my brain, my DNA, everything I’ve done to hurt you, every painful memory from the past. All I can do now is attempt to be a decent person. All I’m trying to do is good.

  “You cannot control what happens
to you. Not really, not ever. Even if you’ve got life ninety-nine percent figured out, there is still that one percent that will come back to haunt you, that will bring you to your knees. And that’s not fair. But it’s the truth.”

  But he was lying. Even though I never managed to ace the math, Stanford still wasn’t out of my control. I could have gotten in. I would have, if I’d done what I wanted to do. But I got rejected because I succumbed to the system. Because I tried to do “good.” Because I was another stupid cog, just like my father.

  “Luckily, thankfully, mercifully, you retain power over who you are. If you want to be good, even if everything is bad, then you can be good. And in the end, you just have to hope that you will create more good than bad.”

  No. My dad had no right to be saying this. He didn’t deserve the chance to try to fix me. He’s failed me. I’ve gotten used to life without him. I don’t need him anymore. I don’t need him.

  “I never wanted to leave you. I have always wanted to be there for you. And I’m here now, trying the best I can. I’m here now.”

  With that he exhaled, like he was letting go of every pent-up breath, every lingering bit of tension in his body. He leaned over slightly and took a corner of my comforter, which he used to dab his eyes. Then he sat up, all the way up. He took me in his arms. He held me close. As he clutched me, he said one final thing.

  “I’m sorry, son. I am so sorry.”

  As for me, I just sat there for endless minutes. I just sat there and took it. I felt his heart pound, and I listened to him weep, and I closed my eyes tight, all the while thinking, Oh my God, what has just happened? How can I forgive him? How can I not forgive him? What does this mean? What does it mean for me? What in hell am I supposed to do now?

  15. ALLEGRA REY

  Allegra,” my father said. “Would you review this bill for me? I want to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  “Allegra,” Augusto said. “Watch me do a cartwheel!”

  “Allegra,” Alejandro said. “Watch me turn my eyelids inside out!”

  “Allegra,” my abuela said. “Not so much rice pudding, gordita.”

  “Mija,” Mama said. “My tea.”