Hero-Type

by Barry Lyga

  There's this Girl ...

  STILL PSYCHED ABOUT MY IDEA, I cruise over to the mayor's car dealership because I have to fill out some final paperwork. The mayor isn't happy to see me. I know this because when I get out of the car he shakes his head and says, "I can't say I'm happy to see you."

  I get some lecture-y talk about respect and such, about how he bent over backwards to give me such a great deal on the car and would it really hurt me to leave the ribbons there, and you know, Kevin, my name is on that car, too, right here on the little plaque on the bumper, so when you drive it, you speak for me, too, and look at this, it's all scratched up already and I don't know, Kevin, I really thought you were different, I really, really did.

  In the end, there's some kind of paperwork snafu and he claims that he needs to hold on to the car for a day or two to process some kind of warranty information, which I think is total bull, especially since he's got this smarmy grin on his face the whole time, but what am I supposed to do about it?

  So now I'm car-less.

  The car people let me use their phone to call Flip.

  Flip, fortunately, has a lot of free time on his hands. Which is why he's in charge of the Council. "Idle hands are the Fool's playthings," he's said to me a million times, which is kind of annoying because I know what the saying is really, and it makes me wonder if some of the other stuff he says that sounds so smart and so original is really just gakked from other people.

  So anyway, he's cool with picking me up and chauffeuring me around a little bit. He comes over in his beat-up orange coupe. Fam's riding shotgun, but Flip makes her get in the back so that I can sit up front.

  I don't really like that. I don't know why I don't like it, but it bugs me. Always has. Why can't she sit up front? But because I'm me, of course I don't say anything.

  "So, I've got this great idea for a Council prank," Flip says as we pull out of the lot.

  "Hold on. Me, too."

  Flip frowns. He's the leader, after all.

  "That's great, Kross. My idea is that on Friday we go to SAMMPark—"

  "I can't do Friday."

  "Council meeting Friday," Flip goes on, as if he hasn't heard a word I've said. "Officer Sexpot is going to take things to the next level, and your presence is requested."

  "Flip, I can't do Friday. Really. And my idea—"

  "Dial it back to chill, Kross. Everything else has merely been a prelude. This is going to be the true return of Officer Sexpot. up till now, we've been dicking with national issues. But that doesn't really hit people where they live—Friday we're gonna wake Brookdale up."

  "That's great, but listen, Flip. If you do my idea, you'll get a lot more attention."

  "All this patriotic crap is boring," he goes on. "There's only so much humor in it, you know? Besides, it's too easy. There's nothing sexy about it. No imagination. 'Oh, boo-hoo! Someone doesn't love America! Oh, woe is me!' Whatever."

  I grit my teeth. Flip just hates it when he's not in control, and right now he isn't. He's not in charge of anything. I'm tempted to tell him that, but I still need him. "Look, there's a lot we can do with the patriotic stuff. There's a lot of good points to be made."

  "We make mischief, not points."

  "I thought we were supposed to do both at the same time. Isn't that why we do any of this?"

  He shrugs. "We do the things I say we do."

  I can't win. "I'm telling you, my idea is better. And seriously, I can't do anything Friday anyway."

  It finally sinks in. Flip glances over at me and raises an eyebrow, something he thinks makes him look very adult but actually only makes him look very lopsided. "Excuse me, Fool Kross? Are you really bailing on the Council and the ultimate triumph of Officer Sexpot?"

  "I have a party to go to." Ugh. As soon as it's out of my mouth, it sounds ridiculous. I have a party to go to. Like I'm a starlet or something.

  "A night with Dionysus or a night with Loki. It's your choice, Kross."

  Man, I hate when he does that. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "A party happens and then it ends." Now he sounds like a professor somewhere. "You go, you drink, you potentially get laid"—he looks over at me again, as if appraising my chances and wondering what's lower than zero—"and then the next day it's over and that's it.

  "But a night with the Council lives in infamy. This latest exploit of Officer Sexpot's will be the pièce de résistance, the tête-à-tête, the crème de la crème of Foolish behavior."

  I believe him. I really do. Flip doesn't do anything halfway, and if he's got something new worked up for Officer Sexpot, then I'm sure it's better than the other Officer Sexpot pranks we've pulled this year. But it's Leah. How do I explain that to him?

  I give it a really lame shot: "There's this girl..." And I stop because Fam's in the back seat and you don't talk about chicks when other chicks are present. That's pretty high on the Guy Rule List. And besides, where do I go from there? There's this girl and she doesn't give a crap about me, but I follow her around like a stupid puppy dog anyway... I'm an idiot.

  "Ah! Are you in love, Kross? Are you? Because that would be a supremely foolish thing to do at your age." I hear no capital letter that time. And by the way—oh, please. He's only a year older than I am. "You should be thinking of many, many girls, dancing wenches garbed for your pleasure. Don't let yourself be nailed down to one chick. Not only are there plenty of fish in the sea, but dolphins and other mammals as well."

  Maybe compared to a male porpoise I'm somehow desirable, but I don't think that's what he's aiming for.

  "Look, Flip, that's all great, but can I just tell you my idea?"

  He nods. "If you must."

  So I lay it all out for him. I've got it all figured out, even where to get the materials. Flip follows along, saying nothing.

  "...and everyone will think I did it," I tell him, "but I'll be at the party with tons of witnesses, so no one will know."

  He pulls the car into my driveway. "I don't know, Kross."

  "Flip! Come on, man. It's genius."

  "Well, sure. But I don't get it. How is it funny?"

  "It's not supposed to be funny. It's making a point."

  "So ... how is that funny?"

  "Flip!" I'm gonna rip my hair right out of my head.

  "Seriously, Kross. There's no joke there. It's a fine idea, but—"

  "Joey."

  Fam. From the back seat. She's been so quiet this whole time that I almost forgot she was even there. Flip must have actually forgotten, because he jerks like someone just cattle-prodded him.

  "What?"

  "Joey, listen to Ke—to Kross. This is what the Council exists for, right? To mess with people's heads. To show them that the world they see isn't what they think they see."

  He leans back in his seat and drums his fingers on his steering wheel.

  "You have a point, Fool Kross. Your idea has merit." He says it like he just knighted me. Never mind that I'm not the one who said it—Fam did. I glance in the back seat and she grins at me and gives me a thumbs-up.

  "So you'll do it?" I ask Flip.

  "Indeed. But you have to help me with my plan. We'll push it back. Yours will take some time and planning. We'll do it on Friday instead of mine, then do mine next week."

  "Fine. Sure. Great!"

  I rush into the house before I realize that I never asked Flip what his idea is.

  That can't be good.

  Chapter 27

  I Get my Party on

  BY THE TIME FRIDAY NIGHT ROLLS AROUND, I'm totally ready for another weekend. I could use a month of weekends at this point.

  Before I can relax, though, I have the party to go to. I have to go to it now. I have no choice. The Council is prepared to pull my prank tonight ("All systems are a-go-go," Flip told me) and I have to be far away when it happens because everyone will assume I did it.

  I get dressed and I'm digging under the sofa bed for a videotape without even really realizing it. What's
going through Leah's mind, I wonder. What is she thinking? Why does she keep flirting with John Riordon but then tell me that she admires what I'm doing?

  Speaking of which: What am I doing?

  Am I trying to change people's minds? Am I trying to keep people from being stupid? Am I really going to accomplish anything by pointing out some of the stupidities and hypocrisies of the world?

  I'm not even sure, tell the truth. I don't even know why it matters so much to me. Except that...

  Except that everyone called me a hero. Everyone looked up to me. And I know the truth—that I'm not a hero, never was.

  I put the tape in and watch it. I hate myself for it, but I can't help myself. I'm going to be seeing Leah in less than an hour. I'll be in her house. Around her things. And yet here I am.

  I bought into the hype, even just a little bit. For a little while there, I thought I was a hero. But I'm not. The fact that I'm sitting here, watching this tape, proves that I'm not.

  It's not the Burger Joint tape. It's another one. A different one.

  I'm no hero. I'm scum.

  I shouldn't go to the party. I shouldn't be around decent people.

  But who am I kidding? I'm going. I can't help myself.

  The mayor has my wheels, but there's still Dad's car.

  "You're on your provisional license, so I want you back before midnight," he reminds me as he hands over the keys.

  I tell him that's not a problem and then I throw a towel and my bathing suit into my backpack.

  I know the way to Leah's house. It's a gigantic rancher out in one of the exclusive developments in Breed's Grove—owning the Narc must pay well for Mr. Muldoon.

  I can't help it—coming out here makes me think about Susan Ann Marchetti. Killed by a kid from Breed's Grove and she gets a park named after her and a nice statue. Is dying heroic?

  The last time I was out here, there were two big trucks out front—a makeup truck and a satellite rig so that Justice! could broadcast live. Now there's half a dozen cars parked in the big circular driveway. I park Dad's heap where it will be tough to box me in—when it's time for me to go, I don't want to have go begging people to move.

  I sit out in the car for a minute for one final pep talk with myself. I ask myself for the billionth time: Why am I doing this? Why am I going to the house of the girl I'm, y'know, interested in, when all of her friends will be there? Friends who don't know me but know enough not to like me.

  Well, in this case, I have no choice, so I take a deep breath and go ring the doorbell.

  Mrs. Muldoon answers the door. Her face lights up when she sees me, which is one of the best things to happen to me in a long time. Then again, I did save her daughter's life and I guess that buys me some affection despite the whole hating-America thing.

  "Hi, Mrs. Muldoon."

  She gives me one of those one-armed hugs and a little kiss on my cheek, then ushers me into the house. It looks pretty much the same as it did before: The living room (where Justice! shot its episode) is bigger than my entire apartment.

  I didn't really look around much when I was here last time. There were so many people running all over the place and big lights and TV equipment set up that it looked more like a sound stage than someone's house. But now that I can actually see it, I gotta admit: I feel like an idiot for ever thinking I had a chance with Leah. She lives in a palace. I live in a basement.

  "Everyone's out back by the pool," Mrs. Muldoon says, gesturing down a hallway that's wider than Dad's bedroom. I look down at my shoes. It's like they're not worthy to walk on the hardwood.

  "Oh, of course," Mrs. Muldoon says, mistaking my hesitation for something sensible. "You need to change. Go ahead and use Leah's bathroom. Down the hall, your first right, then left. It's right across the hall from Leah's room."

  I spend the minute or two it takes to get there thinking how bizarre it is that Leah has her own bathroom, much less that I'm about to go into it.

  On the way, I see the backyard through a big picture window. There's something like twenty kids out there, running around the pool, doing cannonballs off the diving board. They're all having a good time. All of the guys are shirtless and the girls ... Lord, the girls are unbelievably hot, whether in bikinis or one-pieces. Jedi was right—it's wall-to-wall hotties.

  I hustle down the side corridor. The bathroom's to my left. It's incredibly clean and almost as big as Dad's bedroom.

  Her bedroom is to my right.

  I tell myself, "No." I even mouth it, my lips moving silently.

  But my feet have different ideas. I go to the right.

  SELF-LOATHING #5

  I STAND THERE, QUIET. I'm in Leah's bedroom.

  The first thing I think is this: I wish my camera wasn't broken.

  That summer two years ago, when I first taped her. When it all began. I tried so long to figure out what it was about that tape. Why it drew me in so much. Why I obsessed over it.

  Leah was my safety valve for a while. She helped me not think so much about Mom and Jesse leaving. And then ... Then, somehow, my safety valve became dangerous. Somehow, thinking about Leah became as bad and as painful as thinking about Mom and Jesse—only I couldn't stop.

  It took breaking the camera and the end of my taping to make me realize it. It took standing here right now in Leah's room, looking at her things, at her private things. The bed she sleeps in, piled high with pillows of different shapes and sizes. The full-length mirror where she sees herself every day, looking at her clothes. Sometimes naked, here, in private, where no one else is supposed to be.

  My knees go weak. I make myself walk across the plush, lavender carpet until I stand before the mirror. She has photographs taped all around it—a collage frame of her life and her friends. The mirror reflects ... not me. Not to my mind's eye. No, to my mind's eye, I see Leah. In her solitude. In her privacy.

  Here's what it was about the camera.

  It was being able to watch. Without having to worry.

  The rest of that summer, I kept the camera on all the time, even though it killed the batteries and wasted lots of tape. I loved the idea of letting fate or whatever determine what I would see.

  But I kept coming back to that first time. To Leah.

  She never came into the Burger Joint again. At least, not that summer. But when high school started a few weeks later, guess who was in my English class? And my science class? And my history class? And guess who had the same lunch period as me?

  It was like the universe was trying to tell me something. I had to decide if I was going to listen to it.

  And I did. I listened to it. For two years. until that day.

  I wasn't studying. At the library. That day. The day. I didn't go there to go to the library at all.

  I was...

  I was following her.

  Leah.

  Following her, and—

  God.

  God, I'm a terrible person. I'm such a...

  The mirror shows me the worst person in the world.

  I was stalking her, OK? I used to do it all the time. I'm quick and quiet and no one notices me and I would follow her around and... would videotape her. Everywhere she went. Through a hole in my backpack.

  And then watch the tape later. A stupid, jerky, out-of-focus—

  It wasn't just the one time. It wasn't just the one tape.

  It was almost two years. Two years of following her everywhere. Memorizing her class schedule. Memorizing everything I could, taping everything I could.

  Piles of tapes. Leah's high school life, documented in shaky-cam.

  Leah going to gym.

  Leah coming back from gym, her hair still slightly damp from the shower.

  Leah at lunch with her friends, laughing, yelling, eating.

  Leah with the Dance Club in her tights.

  Rehearsing with the Drama Club—The Crucible. She played Goody Proctor and it was the one time I was able to videotape her without having to hide it. I convinced the school paper to
let me tape the show with a tripod.

  My pride, my shame: an up-skirt shot from the Home-coming pep rally last year.

  A day when I ran into her at the Narc, in the cereal aisle, and followed her to the deli counter and then to frozen foods before she disappeared through swinging doors labeled "Employees Only."

  All those and more. More and more and more.

  OK? There. OK? You know now.

  The only difference between me and Michael Alan Naylor is that he got caught.

  Chapter 28

  No Point in Trying to be Good

  THE REFLECTION OF ME IN THE MIRROR has tears running down its cheeks. He wipes his eyes, and the motion draws my attention to one of the pictures. Leah, in a black and pink striped top with black skirt and boots. God. Just standing there. Sort of gazing at the camera like she's not sure how to gaze at the camera. Not smiling; not scowling. Not doing much of anything. Just...there.

  Not particularly beautiful. I guess that's why Tit was surprised when I mentioned her. I have to tell the truth—she's not the hottest girl at South Brook. Not even the hottest girl in the sophomore class. She's a little too plump, probably, and her face is a little crooked, and she doesn't really do much with her hair.

  But here's the thing—I don't care. I just don't.

  I'm holding the same backpack I used to tape her. It took me a while, but I eventually figured out how to position the camera and how to hold the backpack so that I could tape her while looking like I was just carrying the pack over one shoulder.

  The same backpack. My hand finds the hole, the carefully positioned hole.

  No camera anymore. And let's all thank God for that, you know?

  I'm no hero.

  I say it silently to the monster in the mirror.

  He gives me a look that says, If I had a new camera tomorrow, I'd do it all again.

  He says, If I had a camera right now, I'd hide it in her bedroom. I'd see everything.

  I force myself to turn away and cross the hall to the bathroom. I close the door and sit down on the edge of the tub because suddenly my legs are too weak to hold me up.