Hero-Type

by Barry Lyga

  I shrug.

  "You could have been a wonderful role model for your classmates," Goethe goes on, and the Spermling nods righteously. "You could have been an inspiration. Instead, you've..." He trails off, as if he's not sure exactly what I've done.

  "I what? I spoke my mind? I encouraged other people to think for themselves? Is that a crime?"

  "You didn't go about it in the most mature fashion, Kevin."

  "Well, I'm sixteen—what do you want?"

  That shuts him up for a second; I don't think he expected that.

  "And now, uh, skipping classes..." Goethe goes on.

  "Just gym."

  "Physical fitness is very important," the Doc scolds.

  Just then, the Spermling does something that could be a grunt or could be a snort—who knows? He's so fat that he snores even when he's awake. I can't help it—I grin like a smartass. Yeah, physical fitness is real important. Exhibit One—the Spermling.

  "Oh, yeah, totally. Clearly."

  The Doc catches my drift, but he just says, "Nonetheless."

  Silence. I don't really have a smart retort to "Nonetheless." What a lousy, conversation-killing word.

  So I get some chewing out and some detention and I get dismissed.

  But then something bizarre and amazing happens.

  When I emerge into the murky halls of SBHS, Tit comes up to me, breathless, before English starts.

  "Kross, where have you been? You missed gym and you—"

  "I was meeting with the Doc and the Spermling."

  "You missed it! Oh, man, everyone's talking about it! I was there. You missed it."

  "Missed what?"

  "Crazy J beat the crap out of Mr. Kaltenbach in gym!" His eyes dance like someone's flashing a strobe light in his face.

  "Really? Are you sure?" Crazy J has beat up just about everyone in the senior class at some point. He's a really screwed-up guy, but I've never heard of him beating up a teacher.

  "I was there," he says again, as if that explains everything. "Mr. Burger had us inside because of the rain, so we were doing chin-ups. Kaltenbach had the baseball team doing laps around us. And then out of nowhere—wham!" Tit smacks a fist into his palm to make the point. "Crazy J hauls off and punches Kaltenbach. Hard. Knocked him right on his ass. He hit his head on the bleachers, man!"

  And then...

  And then a tiny miracle happens.

  By the time I'm out of English, it's like my life's been reset to the day before the library and the Surgeon, and the ribbons, wiped off the South Brook radar screen by Hurricane Crazy J. The hallways are abuzz with talk of Josh Mendel's latest and greatest affront to civilization.

  All traces of my celebrity and notoriety have been swept away in the most recent tide of teen scandal. At the end of the day, I head to the parking lot, unnoticed and alone.

  How weird.

  Of course, I haven't been reset. I still did it all, still said it all. I still have two bumper stickers on my car that I don't want there.

  Fortunately, they're not going to be an issue much longer. When I get home, there's a package waiting for me. Two new stickers inside—the perfect size to cover the original stickers.

  But I put down the box and look at the picture of Leah. And at my broken video camera, crushed when I dropped my backpack to tackle the Surgeon.

  I think of what I said to Flip in SAMMPark. How he was doing something wrong. Not something clever.

  Is that what I've been doing all along, ever since this hero stuff started? Have I been doing clever things to cover up my own sin?

  Yes. Yes, I think so.

  OK, here's the truth. The last and final truth, the thing I've held back. I can't hold it back any longer, because I'm tired. I'm not that strong and it's just too heavy.

  That day at the library.

  It's not just that I was following Leah.

  It's not just that I was taping her.

  It's that...

  When he attacked her...

  I didn't run back into the alley because I heard her scream. I was already there. I knew her routine. I knew she cut through the alley. I was waiting for her. Just like he was.

  I saw it. I saw him moving toward her. From behind a Dumpster.

  I jumped him just as he was about to grab her and stick her with the needle. I did that.

  But ... but you see ... I saw him. I had maybe a minute. A full minute. Do you know how long a minute is? It's forever.

  A minute when he didn't see me. When no one knew I was there.

  And I just watched.

  I watched him approach her. I saw the needle. I knew what he was going to do, what was going to happen. And I did nothing. For a full minute.

  I watched. And when Leah screamed, it was like I suddenly realized that this was real. This was live. It wasn't on one of my tapes. It was happening. Leah was about to be drugged and raped and murdered.

  And I just stood there! Watching it!

  It would have been so easy just to stand there and keep watching. To keep taping. Just let it happen. Take no action. I mean, that's what I've always done—nothing. So it would have been easy to keep doing exactly that.

  And end up with a videotape of Leah's abduction to go in my creepy, screwed-up voyeur's collection.

  I am actually worse than Michael Alan Naylor. At least he had the balls to act on his own. Me? I didn't move a muscle until Leah screamed.

  And I have a videotape to prove it.

  Chapter 37

  Penance and Reconciliation

  IT'S NOT ENOUGH TO FEEL BAD about what I've done. It's not enough to hate myself for it.

  As long as those tapes exist, I'll always be tempted to look at them, to watch those stolen moments of Leah walking the halls at school, sitting at lunch—any place and any time I was able to catch her.

  "Stolen moments" is the perfect way to put it, actually. Because she didn't know. She didn't say it was OK. I just did it.

  I break my own cardinal rule about never throwing away anything incriminating at home. I just can't bear another second with those damn tapes in existence. Every time I look at them, I think of me, skulking around, in the shadows. A damn stalker. I can't handle it.

  So I crack the cases under my foot. I pull out the tape and crumple it up and then make sure to break it in several places. It's several twisted messes by the time I'm done with them all.

  Dad asks about them, of course. Sees them in the trash. Of course.

  "The machine ate them," I lie.

  He's holding up a handful of tape like it's a dead cat. "Did the machine break the cases, too?"

  "I got pissed." I shrug.

  "What was on here?"

  "Old Ravens games."

  Dad regards me for a second, then tsks. "Watch your temper, Kevin."

  When I'm alone, I sit there for a long time, looking at the new stickers, the broken camera, the picture. And this is what I realize: You can't go forward until you've dealt with what-ever's behind you. It would be the easiest thing in the world to run to California, but that would accomplish nothing.

  I don't know what to do next. But I think I know where I can find out.

  It's weird being back at Sacred Heart after so long. It's been at least a year since I've gone to Mass. I slip in just as the evening service is starting and slide into a pew way in the back so no one sees me.

  And, man! It's funny how it feels so familiar. Like I never went away. Father McKane starts off with the greeting and I'm doing the ole north-south-east-west like I never stopped.

  "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all," he says, and I don't even need to look down at the missal because I'm already saying, "And also with you." Like no time has passed at all.

  I think about that night at SAMMPark, when I told Tit about Leah. Maybe God has been watching me. Maybe it's just that I couldn't understand what it meant. That I was supposed to tape Leah at the Burger Joint and become obsessed
. And then I was supposed to follow Leah to the library. Maybe it's like I was sent or something. All so that I could become a hero and then fall from grace and learn a lesson about real heroism. All to protect her, regardless of what came next.

  Or maybe it was all coincidence and accident, but maybe coincidence and accident is how God works. Maybe those are his tools.

  "Let us acknowledge our failures," Father McKane is saying, "and ask the Lord for pardon and strength."

  And the words spill out of me:

  "I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do..."

  And that's the kicker, really. It's the stuff we don't do that kills us, in the end. It's when we don't tell people things, like me not telling Leah how I felt for so long. That's what led to the rest of it.

  I let the readings and the Gospel wash over me. Always liked this part—the part when stories are told. And then the sermon, where Father McKane ties it all together and makes all of those stories relevant somehow. With Easter coming up, he talks a lot about resurrection, about renewal, which is cool with me because I feel like I've been resurrected, in some ways. If not reset, then at least given a new lease on life.

  And here's the thing about resurrection—it's not a chance to start over. You don't come out of the tomb and say, "Great! Forget all of that stuff I did before; now I'm a whole new person." No, you're the same person—you just have a chance to be better. You get the chance to fix the things you screwed up, the things that would have stayed screwed up if you hadn't come back. Like, when Jesus came back, he didn't go off and play piano in a bar somewhere, right? No, he picked up where he left off and kept teaching, just in a different way.

  And I realize that this is what I need to do. I can't let Crazy J's temper tantrum sweep away anything I might accomplish. People—especially high-schoolers, but people in general, re-ally—have short attention spans. But that doesn't mean that I should stop talking. It just means I have to keep getting their attention.

  So that's what I'm going to do. My argument, my debate, my fight, didn't end when Crazy J decked a teacher. It just moved into a new phase. I'm not sure what that phase is yet, but I know it's there.

  I'm one guy, and look at what I stirred up just by asking questions about these things. Imagine what two people could do. Or three. Or ten.

  Or four hundred and twenty-seven.

  And then Father McKane snaps me back to the present by saying the prayers over the gifts and then we're all giving each other the sign of peace. There are startled looks as people realize it's me, that I'm right here, right here in church. But no one turns away.

  And then we're lining up for communion. When it's my turn, Father McKane's eyes crinkle as he grins.

  "The body of Christ," he says.

  "Amen."

  I take the wafer and slip it into my mouth. Walking back to my seat, I'm suddenly aware of how everyone is watching me. But that's OK. I've dealt with worse.

  At the end of the Mass, I wait and watch as everyone files out, shaking hands with Father McKane and chatting with him before going on. It's an evening service, though, so it's not that crowded and pretty soon everyone's gone except for him and me.

  "Kevin." He smiles at me. "Good to see you again."

  And he's like the only person to say that to me in a while.

  "Do you have time to hear a confession, Father?" Better get it out before I lose my nerve.

  He nods. "Of course, Kevin. Of course."

  And so here I am in the confessional, that little box that Mom used to call the "outhouse of sins" when Dad wasn't listening.

  "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been..." And here's the ironic part about confession—it really tempts you to lie. To lie about what you did or didn't do. Even to lie about how long it's been since your last confession. I figure that's why you start off saying how long it's been—to confront the temptation to lie right up front and get it out of your system.

  "It's been fourteen months since my last confession." I feel really, really bad saying it. Fourteen months is a long time and I can't even remember all of the many sins I'm sure I've committed since then. I tell this to Father McKane.

  "I remember the big stuff, sure, but I'm sure there's a lot of stuff in there that I'm just not remembering. So I can't confess to it, so I can't be forgiven, which means I'm damned, right?"

  "If you're truly sorry in your heart, God will forgive you all your sins, Kevin. Let's hit the big stuff, OK?"

  "OK."

  Deep breath.

  Second temptation to lie.

  Avoid it.

  I tell him about California. About Mom's offer, about how I wanted to take it. About uncharitable thoughts toward Dad—that's a commandment right there, not honoring thy father and mother, you know?

  I'm stalling, I realize.

  I tell him about the pranks with Officer Sexpot. (I don't call her Officer Sexpot to him—he's a priest!) He makes a little strangled sound that I think is a laugh, but I don't know.

  Yeah, stalling.

  What's the point?

  So, I tell him...

  "There's this girl..."

  And I tell him everything. Everything. Right down to the videotape and the stalking. This is the big stuff—you've got multiple commandments, here, from lying ("bearing false witness") to stealing to coveting. Bigtime coveting. I'm in the Hall of Fame for Coveting, tell the truth. They build statues to me there. Which—crap!—is like a false idols thing. Damn, another commandment!

  "And you destroyed this tape?" Father McKane asks. He's very serious now. Usually he's a pretty happy-go-lucky guy, which is one reason why I've always been cool with confession. Then again, I've never confessed to anything truly horrible.

  "Yes, Father. All of them."

  "And you have no intention of making another one?"

  "I couldn't even if I wanted to. The camera's busted."

  "I ... see."

  "But even if it wasn't," I say in a rush, "I wouldn't do it anyway. I've learned my lesson. I've figured it out. It was wrong. I didn't think I was hurting anyone, but that doesn't mean it was OK to do it. And I see how it can lead to other stuff that's not so cool."

  And then there's a long silence. So long that I start to think he's fallen asleep or something, so I press my face real close to the screen between us and try to make out his face, but of course I can't, which is the whole point of the screen in the first place. This is all supposed to be anonymous, but it never is.

  "You've had an interesting fourteen months since the last time we spoke," he says suddenly.

  "It's been the last month or so that's been really interesting."

  "Yes. I follow the papers."

  More silence. Is he waiting for me to confess to the magnets? The bridge support? The burning flags? All of that stuff? Because I won't. No way, no how. Most of it I wasn't involved in, but the stuff I was involved in, I believe with all my heart. No way in the world I'll apologize for it. Not to him. Not even to God.

  "I can absolve you for most of this, Kevin. But you know ... you can't look outside of yourself for authority. For forgiveness. God forgives, but first we must forgive ourselves. Before this has all been made right in God's eyes, there's something you need to do. Think of it as your penance. It's the only way you'll ever feel better about this again."

  I know exactly what he means.

  Chapter 38

  Revelation (Again-Lucky me!)

  SO HERE I AM, SITTING IN MY CAR at the end of Leah Muldoon's driveway. My stomach's a mess of acid and grinding. It's like I've swallowed rocks and my gut is doing its best to digest them, but they won't break down, so they just keep colliding against each other and churning and rolling.

  The picture of Leah is like a hot coal in my pocket.

  I close my eyes and try to make it better. I try to imagine a happy ending.

  I give h
er the picture and she says, I don't understand. You ... Of all people, you could have had this. All you had to do was ask me.

  And then...

  And then she rushes into my arms ...

  Throws herself at me ...

  Peppers my face with kisses ...

  But probably not.

  That's what I'd like to have happen. What I fantasize, what I dream. But let's face it, the world just doesn't work that way. And it has nothing to do with anything. It just is.

  So I'm going to walk up the driveway. I'm going to ring the doorbell. I know Leah's home because her car's in the driveway. But if she doesn't answer the door I'm going to ask her mom or her dad or whoever does answer to get her for me. And then I'm going to hand her the picture and I'm going to say nothing. I could spout out stuff about how I've been watching her for years and how I've adored her from afar, but what would be the point? Nothing would change. Nothing would improve. Not for either of us. I've confessed to God and that's cool. I'll give back the picture, which is a confession all its own. But she doesn't need to know the details. They would just disturb her. Hurt her. And I don't want to do that.

  Father McKane just said I had to make amends with Leah. He didn't say I had to be an idiot about it.

  So.

  I walk up the driveway. Before I can even ring the bell, though, the door opens and there's Leah, her head tilted, looking at me like a dog that isn't sure if you've got a treat or not.

  "Hi, Kevin." Since she's clueless, she's happy to see me.

  I can't speak. My lips won't move.

  "Kevin?"

  There's a million things to say, but I can't think of a single one right now. I pull the picture out of my pocket.

  I hand it over to her. Her eyes go wide and she says nothing at all. She certainly doesn't throw herself into my arms and cover my ugly mug with a mass of kisses. Which is fine and is exactly what I expected, so...

  I worried about what to say at this moment, but you know what? There's nothing to say. So I just walk back down the driveway to my car.