by Eric Bell
“Wha . . .” I croak out.
But Nathan’s voice comes through crystal clear. “Your phone,” he says. “Where is it?”
“My . . . phone?”
“Give me your phone,” Nathan says, his voice perfectly even.
Suddenly I’m awake now, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “Nathan, it’s, like, three in the morning. Why do—”
“One more time,” he says. “Give me your phone.”
Why does he want my phone? Whatever the reason, I’m not doing it. “No,” I say. “Take some loose change or something. You can’t have my phone.”
There’s a pause. Then Nathan raises a fist, and smashes it right between my legs.
Everything turns white. I howl out in absolute agony as his knuckles dig in, but he puts a pillow over my face with his other hand so nobody can hear. I’ve never been in this much pain before. Even when he almost breaks my arm, it’s not this bad. I feel like I’m going to barf and cry and explode, oh God, make it stop—
He lifts the pillow up and I’m curled over in the fetal position, sniffling. “Give me your phone,” he repeats.
I can barely move, let alone get up to give him my phone. But I don’t want another wrecking ball to my private parts, so I moan, “Sock drawer.”
Nathan rummages around for a bit, then there’s a bright, phone-shaped light shining on his tear-streaked face, then my door slowly shuts, and I’m left behind to pick up the pieces. I don’t fall back asleep. I worry about the flames, and whether the fire’s going to spread, and what bad things Nathan’s planning on doing with my phone. (I also worry about whether I’ll ever walk again. That’s kind of important.)
When the sun comes up and my alarm goes off, I’m a mess. Barely slept, hurts to move, gut churning, screaming and crashing sounds in the back of my head. Today can only go up from here.
. . . right?
SEVENTEEN
Wednesday’s bus ride, with all its potholes and bumps, isn’t too good on my lower body. I try not to wince as I move around, try not to limp as I walk. Trust me: if you’re a guy and this has never happened to you, make sure it doesn’t, okay?
When I get to the main entrance, there’s a crowd around the main bulletin board where all the school clubs post information. Kids are laughing and pointing at something. One of the nice things about that summer growth spurt is I can usually see over most crowds, so it looks like everyone’s laughing at—
Oh my God.
Oh God, no.
My legs get wobbly and I almost fall over; I have to hold on to the wall to keep myself steady. This—this can’t be—how did—
He took my phone.
I never deleted the picture after I texted it to Mrs. Truman. I completely forgot about it.
And now it’s—it’s—
“What’s all this?” Madison asks, walking up from the side.
“You should go to homeroom,” I whisper.
“What? Why?” Madison asks. “I want to see what everyone’s—”
A guy yells, “Hey, there he is!” Soon, the crowd turns its attention on Madison, parting the way toward the photo hanging on the bulletin board, the photo of Madison in a bathing suit, something he never wanted anyone to see.
Madison turns as white as a crumpled-up sheet of paper.
Now I can see the caption, written across the bottom of the photo in handwriting I definitely recognize:
Fatison Truman poses for his glamour shot
Laughter comes from every angle, all directed at Madison. My friend slowly backs up, mouth dangling open, and looks at me with eyes deep with gaping, bleeding hurt. He doesn’t have to ask, “How could you?” His eyes do the asking.
I look down.
He starts to sob, and runs away.
The crowd calls after him. “Where you going, Fatison?”
“So he’s a crybaby and a fatty, huh?”
“Hey, let’s roll him down the stairs like a beach ball!”
“What’s going on here?” Principal Dorset yells, walking down the hall. He takes one look at Madison’s picture and yanks it off the bulletin board. “Who’s responsible for this?” he shouts to the crowd of kids, before all of them run away.
Except me.
“Alan Cole,” the principal says. “Do you know who did this?”
I did, I want to say. I gave him my phone. I didn’t delete the photo. I was—am—a coward. I could say who did it. I could defend my friend.
I could get punched in the balls again.
“No,” I whisper, my head so low I’m practically stooped over.
Madison’s not in his seat in homeroom when the bell rings. Maybe he left school early. Maybe he’s never coming back. Maybe I was the worst friend in the world, after everything he did for me.
“Hey, where’s Fatison?” Rudy asks when Miss Richter shuts the door.
“Shut up, Rudy!” Sheila Carter practically screams.
“Yeah, that’s not cool,” Connor says next to me.
“That’s an instant detention, Rudy,” Miss Richter says, her voice unyielding. “This classroom is starting a no-tolerance policy for bullying. That applies to anything. One strike and you’re out. Are we clear?”
General murmurs. Rudy sinks in his seat a little.
I turn to my left to see what Zack has to say—
—but Zack’s not here.
I look at the clock hanging over the door, trying to ignore the beads of sweat forming on my back. He could be running late. Yeah, that’s probably it—he took a wrong turn somewhere and stopped to admire a brick with moss. He’ll be here any second.
But he isn’t here any second. Any minute. We line up to leave.
“Miss Richter,” I ask once everyone leaves, “is Zack sick today?”
The teacher shakes her head. “Not that I know of. He was on such a roll with getting here on time too.”
I gulp. “Okay. Th-Thanks.”
“Alan,” Miss Richter says as I walk away. “I hope everything was okay after your parent-teacher conference. You are a good kid. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, okay?”
I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears and leave before she notices.
In swimming I can barely focus. I’m so far behind with CvC; he’s up on me by at least three, so I really need to pass the test today or tomorrow. But what’s the point? There’s no way I can beat him. I don’t know why I tried, why I thought I had even a tiny chance. I don’t know why I thought my art could change the world. I don’t know why I thought anything.
Marcellus raises his head at me. “Morning,” he says. “Today we’re going to—”
“Where’s Zack?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“What did he do to Zack?” I whisper.
Marcellus slowly shakes his head. “He does what he wants. I’ve got no part in it.”
“But you know,” I plead. “Don’t you?”
I look up at Marcellus Mitchell. Quiet, observant Marcellus Mitchell. Is he an introvert, like me? Is it possible we could relate to each other in some way that isn’t centered on me being tortured?
“Grab on to the wall,” Marcellus says. “Let’s see some kicks. Make sure to work real hard when Coach Streit comes over—”
I climb out of the pool.
“What are you doing?” Marcellus asks, a hint of surprise in his voice.
I storm over to the locker room as everyone watches me. “Cole!” Coach Streit calls. “Where are you going?”
I sit down on a bench by my gym locker and shut my eyes. No tears this time. Like Mom.
People like us need to band together. We need to accept our badness and stand up together against everyone else.
“What’s your problem?” a voice next to me sneers.
I open my eyes. Oh good. “The coach sent me to check up on you,” Ron says. “What’s up, nerd? All that screwing around in the water must be getting to you.”
“Leave me alone,” I whisper.
“Can’t do that. Coach
Streit wants me to bring your soggy butt back to class. Heard about your brother. You ask me, he makes you look good. At least you’re not him.”
“I just want to be left alone.”
“Fine.” Ron shrugs. “Be a little baby. Losers like you make me sick.”
“Don’t forget ‘big’ and ‘fat,’” I say dully. A happy memory flashes across my brain, but it’s quickly drowned in the white noise surrounding everything else. “Big, fat loser. That’s me.”
Ron shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Once he leaves, I stay in the locker room until everyone else comes in to change. I get a zero in today’s class to match the one I’ll be getting later in art class. It doesn’t matter.
Behind my eyes, flames dance.
It’s lonely today at the Unstable Table. Penny gives me the stink eye from behind her scarf as I walk past, and Connor is busy telling a joke at the Stable Table, but there’s nobody to sit with me today. Which is good, because I don’t deserve any company.
Eventually I hear my name. Connor is waving me over. I ignore him and force some food down my throat.
When I walk into social studies, the first thing I see is Madison, sitting at his desk, looking off to the side. Jenny Cowper snickers when she comes in the room. Everyone else takes a seat, but all our eyes occasionally go to Madison.
“Right,” Miss Richter says. “Now—”
There’s a knock at the door and one of Principal Dorset’s secretaries appears. She motions Miss Richter over and whispers something in her ear. Miss Richter’s face twists like she saw three trains crash in the middle of an earthquake, and she addresses the class, “Read pages one twenty-one through one thirty-five. No talking.”
Then she’s gone.
It takes three seconds for Miss Richter’s rule to be broken. “What’s that all about?” Rudy asks.
“Somebody probably threw up in the cafeteria again,” Shariq says.
“But why would Miss Richter be called away?” Rudy asks. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Talia adjusts her glasses. “Everyone should be quiet. As your class president, I’ll need to report back to Miss Richter if we can’t behave.”
As the group chats, I look at Madison, head down on his book, buried in his arms. And I know, right then, right there, that I have to make this right, I have to apologize, I have to tell him. I take out my phone (which was on my dresser when I woke up) and type:
my brother took my phone. so so sorry. should have deleted.
Across the room, I hear a little vibration. Madison slowly lifts his head up. He looks down at his phone with red eyes, reads my text, and puts his head back down.
Doesn’t even look at me.
That’s when I realize he’s gone. My friend isn’t coming back to me.
I follow Madison’s lead and bury my face in my arms.
Miss Richter’s gone for half the period. When she comes back, she’s clearly not her usual self. She takes a deep breath, then says, “I trust you were all quiet while I was gone.”
An electric current of unease runs through everyone. We all look at each other. What could have happened?
When the bell rings, Miss Richter says, “Alan.”
The current shocks, jolts. My legs thud along the floor, so slow, so lumbering.
With the room empty, Miss Richter leans forward in her desk. For the first time I see a crack in her armor, a chisel in her steel wall. I notice the name placard on her desk: Miss Kathleen Richter. “I want you to tell me the truth,” she says. “Do you know what happened to Zack this morning?”
Oh God. Oh no. “No.”
“One of the janitors heard humming coming from a locker. Zack was stuffed inside.”
I grab on to the wall.
“He refuses to tell us what happened,” Miss Richter continues. “They pulled me aside to try to get him to talk about it, but he’s keeping quiet. You’re friends with him though, so I thought you might know. And you did ask about him this morning. This is a very serious thing that’s happened to your friend, Alan. If you know anything about who did this, please tell me.”
I can’t look up. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. This is—it’s all my—
“Are you . . . ,” Miss Richter starts. “You are. You’re blaming yourself. Why?”
I croak out, “This wouldn’t have happened . . . if Zack . . . and Madison weren’t my friends.”
“What wouldn’t have happened?” Miss Richter asks. “Whatever this is, it isn’t your fault.”
That’s when it finally clicks. That’s when it all finally falls into place.
Fire and water and introverts and extroverts and losers and winners and smart kids and being yourself and whether or not people are fundamentally bad. It all sort of . . . clicks.
Whatever this is, it isn’t your fault.
After eight years of being told it’s my fault, I guess I needed someone to say the opposite. To let me realize—maybe it’s not.
“Miss Richter,” I say, “I am going to make this right.”
“You need to tell me what’s going on,” my teacher says.
“I can’t. Not yet. Trust me. I—I think I’ve got this one.”
It’s not my fault. I didn’t delete the picture and I gave him the phone, but it’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. I didn’t do this. This wouldn’t have happened if Zack and Madison weren’t my friends, but it could have been anyone I was friendly with. He would have tortured Talia or Connor or Rudy or even Ron if he’d thought they were in my corner.
This is all Nathan Cole’s fault.
Sometimes even smart kids need to be taught lessons. And this goldfish needs to stop being bait for any hyena that goes fishing.
My name is Alan Cole, and I am not a coward.
Not anymore.
EIGHTEEN
16 Werther Street looks empty when I get off the bus. Looks. Nathan keeps his bedroom door shut all the time to make sure nobody knows when he’s home or at Marcellus’s. I walk up the steps anyway, heart thumping a mile a minute, and I knock on the door down the hall from my room.
No answer.
“Open up,” I call.
Nothing.
Taking a deep breath, I push the door open.
“Hey!” my brother yells, sitting up from his desk. “Get out of here! Did I say you could come in?”
The walls of Nathan’s room are covered with posters for Star Trek, The Lord of the Rings, and other sci-fi and fantasy movies; his bookshelves are crammed with all kinds of books, from Stephen Hawking to Orson Scott Card to more Tolkien; his desk is full of little wooden toys he built when he was younger, and I know he got so agitated because he doesn’t want anyone to know he still plays with them. (Guess what he was doing when I walked in.) “We need to talk,” I say.
“Pretty ballsy, young rookie,” he says. “But my schedule’s full right now. I’ll hit you up sometime in the next few days.”
“Nathan,” I say, trying to fill my voice with as much oomph as I can manage, “I could’ve gotten you expelled today.”
“Greater men than you have tried,” Nathan says, waving his hand.
I grunt. “This is serious. I can’t believe what you did.”
“What I did?” Nathan asks. “Don’t you mean what you did? I had to punish you, after all. I’ve been watching you all week while you goof around with your stupid new friends, even though I was looking for Vic. I learned their names. They weren’t Vic. You were the one who gave me your phone, which had all their contact info and an ugly photo of this Fatison jerk in a bathing suit. But he wasn’t Vic. You were the one who led this Zack reject on, and all I had to do was send him a text pretending to be you telling him to come to school before any of the buses because I had something important to tell him. He wasn’t Vic either.”
My heart aches. Zack was so loyal, he showed up on time, and so early. . . .
“I wouldn’t have spilled the beans if I found Vic. I was just curious to see what kind of guy my lit
tle brother would like. That’s all. But I couldn’t find him, at school or in your phone or anywhere. I don’t know if Vic Valentino even exists, you little turd. I think you lied to me. And that made me angry. It’s all your fault.”
Nathan wanted to punish someone yesterday night, and when he couldn’t find Vic’s name in my contacts, he settled for Madison and Zack. And me. “No,” I say, as firmly as I can. “It’s not. It never was. I’m done letting you boss me around.”
“Oh yeah?” Nathan asks.
I gulp. “Y-Yeah. I’m done.”
“Oh yeah?” Nathan asks.
I don’t say anything. My brother cackles his hyena’s laugh. “Pathetic. You’re ridiculous, Al. You talk so tough, but when was the last time you’ve ever stood up for yourself? When was the last time you’ve ever been anything but a total pushover? You’re going to be public target number one for the rest of your school career! You didn’t forget, did you?”
I squeeze my hands into fists.
“Let’s recap the score,” Nathan says, ticking items off his fingers. “Number one: I made you cry. Number two: I found your stupid paper you hid in a stupid spot. Number three: I became the most well-known kid in school, and number four: I got my first kiss. Go ahead, try and argue them. I dare you. Last but not least, number five: I gave up my most prized possession. Trust me. So what if I didn’t pass the swimming test? So what if I didn’t stand up to Dad? I did more than enough. You’ve only got two.”
“Three,” I say. “I made someone cry.”
Nathan raises his eyebrows. “Who did you—”
“It’s not my fault,” I say. “But Madison still cried when he saw me act like it was. Most prized possession, well-known, cry. That’s three.”
“So what?” Nathan asks. “What else are you possibly going to do by the deadline? Stand up to Dad? Like hell you will—you can’t even stand up to your own reflection. You’ll never be able to get my paper out of the vending machine, because you’re a stupid chump. Nobody—girl or guy—will ever want to kiss you. And where would you learn to sw—”
