Wild and Crooked

by Leah Thomas

  Brad leans out of his cubicle. Ms. Patrick doesn’t bother sniping at him. Her eyes are on me. I bet her nails are cutting her palms.

  “It’s okay, Ms. Patrick. Really. I don’t care about the parade.”

  “That’s—that’s not the point. It will be fair this time.”

  “This time?”

  “I will not stand by and watch another good person get railroaded.” It’s not quite a shout, but it bursts from her like a confession. “I won’t be part of it again.”

  “Ms. Patrick, how long have you worked here?” I take a step closer. “Did you know my dad?”

  “You have to get to class.” Her phone rings, and she’s eager to answer it. I have a dozen more questions to ask, but she’s right. Things are going to be bad enough without me being late to the slaughter. Plus, a giant pair of armpits is floating near my shoulders.

  I push the door open and step into the hallway flood, letting the current whip me around. I should get big boots like Gus to anchor me. For now I’ll just have to walk.

  The attack comes from above. The cafeteria balcony.

  Scrambled eggs slap me in the forehead and slip down my nose. They’re followed by a shout from Officer Newton, and then a lunch tray smacks me on the crown, hard enough to make my legs crumple. I’m baptized with icy, sticky milk.

  Well, I’ll be damned. The sky is falling.

  GUS

  I WAKE UP wondering whether yesterday was a dream. I’m aching on the Wheeler sectional, no pictures of Dad in sight. Instead of pancakes, I eat Corn Pops. I do my daily PT exercises in the corner next to the water heater, rushing because I don’t like to be seen doing them. Phil’s picking his face in the bathroom mirror, rambling about D&D. We wait for his dad to leave for work, and I skirt John’s worried glances.

  Phil’s awful driving is a comforting, familiar thing.

  It’s hot for October. The turning leaves are on fire in the sunlight as we pull up to Jefferson High. I wish I had edgy black sunglasses on, and not only to hide behind them.

  I keep pulling at my socks. The mismatched OTKs are uncomfortable because the angelic and demonic wings tickle the backs of my knees when I walk. They aren’t a good fit for me, especially with my leg throbbing.

  But if I waited for things to fit me, I’d be waiting forever.

  “Do you think Mom’s called the police?” By now she’ll have forced open my bedroom door. Will she come get me? Will she want to, after what I said to her? Will she wear the sharp jacket and shoes? I left a note, but maybe she won’t read it.

  Phil shrugs and gets out of the Death Van. He waits for me.

  “ ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’ ” Usually Phil’s homages feel melodramatic. Today they feel about right.

  “Do you . . . um. Kalyn?”

  “I suspect she’ll be in a mood. Who wouldn’t be, upon seeing that?”

  Phil points to a banner someone’s hoisted up the flagpole. It’s got bold, broken words on it, spray painted in red. Spences Behind Fences. I whisper out the words under my breath. When I drop my stare to ground level, the meandering morning crowd parts.

  I hear a click—did someone snap a photo? I wonder how quickly it’ll be online. Do I look half-dead? Did they get the banner in the shot, too?

  You don’t expect a potted plant to transform into a tragic figure. This is close to option a: The crippled side note with a tragic backstory who adds texture to a country setting.

  Glances hit like hailstones. I’m still so tired that I can barely get my body to move, let alone hurry. I wore these fabulous socks, but no one is thinking about them.

  My unappreciated socks. Phil’s unappreciated hand-painted shoes. I wish people would see what we want to be instead of assuming what we are.

  “Excuse me!” A sharp voice cuts through the middle of the crowd. There’s a ripple of movement as people are jostled aside. “Excuse me. Are you in a wheelchair, young man? No. Get off the ramp, or get run down.”

  A plaid-clad lady pushing an old woman—no, pushing Grandma Spence—in a rattling wheelchair storms out of the crowd. This has to be Kalyn’s mom. She’s throwing very deadly stares at everyone, but she pauses when she sees me. The stubborn set of her jaw is familiar, and it means Kalyn probably came to school today.

  Mrs. Spence’s departure seems to snap some spell, or maybe the bell does that. Rubberneckers abandon the plant-boy spectacle and make for the school entrance.

  “Can I help you with anything, Gus?” someone asks.

  “No.” I don’t bother with eye contact.

  “Well, anytime! I’m your guy! And I want you to know that skank isn’t going to bother you today! None of us will let it happen.” A clammy hand grips my shoulder. “Spences behind fences, man!”

  “Hey, Gus.” Another person I’ve never spoken to. “I heard about what’s happening, and I want you to know that it’s a crime that they’re even considering putting your family through this. My dad was actually friends with your dad. He was in his PE class actually, and we think Gary Spence should probably get the chair.”

  “I—I don’t—” I stammer, but Phil’s ready this time.

  “ ‘Get thee to a nunnery!’ ” he bellows.

  That’s pretty low-hanging Shakespearean fruit. It proves Phil’s feeling a bit overwhelmed, too. Beyond that, Phil’s actually touching me. Just barely—two fingers on my back—but still.

  Phil’s stare is pointed as we ascend the steps that tripped me. It’s specifically pointed to the left of the entrance, where the Gaggle is gathered. Today they’re not singing songs about STDs. Garth crouches at their center. He waggles his fingers at me.

  I can’t believe I admired him. Why? Because he wears eyeliner and a kilt sometimes? Appearances aren’t everything. Maybe I wanted to think they are. Believing appearances mattered let me justify feeling like I don’t matter. But if appearances have little to do with worth, I’ll have to figure out why I really feel worthless sometimes.

  Phil clasps my shoulders and puts himself behind me like a lanky overcoat. “Let’s get indoors. Recoup under cover.”

  We hear screaming as soon as we step into the foyer.

  Phil draws himself up, using his height to pressure people out of the way. We press through the bodies spanning the hallway to discover the source of the commotion.

  There’s a mess on the floor beside the lockers that line the wall beneath the cafeteria ledge. A breakfast tray’s been overturned. Chocolate milk and scrambled eggs are blown all over like brain matter. Orange juice, too, based on the smell. A rolling apple bumps against the toes of the crowd.

  “Get to class!” Officer Newton roars.

  He’s crouched beside the supine form of Eli Martin, two meaty hands on Eli’s shoulders. I’ve never seen Officer Newton’s face this red, though his default is cherry tomato. I’ve never seen Eli Martin unconscious.

  And I know what happened. It’s more like instinct than solving a mystery.

  “Where is she? Where’s Rose?”

  “She was just here.” The reply comes from a girl with striking cheekbones. “It was scary, honestly. Eli dropped his tray on her head. Rose got back up and started climbing the lockers.” The lockers aren’t tall, but neither is Kalyn. “She grabbed Eli by the shirt while he was leaning over the ledge. Rose just yanked him down, and he hit the floor. It was just really . . . ​I don’t know. It was really scary.”

  On the floor, Eli lets out a wheezing cough.

  “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. It happened in like ten seconds. It was really—”

  “. . . scary. Okay.”

  Kalyn’s fled the scene.

  I can’t run fast, but there are wings at my knees and they carry me her way.

  Kalyn being in the kiln room might be predictable.

  The truth is, she’s not always unpredictable. She’s not always fun, and she’s not always tragic. She’s Kalyn, and that’s hard to categorize. Even thinking that seems wrong, becau
se it’s still thinking “of” her and not about her. That’s not how people work.

  I shove the door in and Phil follows.

  I have to squint without my glasses, but clearly this is no sanctuary today. Remains of clay pots have been broken at her feet, sharp shards of glaze fallen to dust.

  Kalyn’s let her wild hair loose. The strands are wispier than I guessed, especially near the frizzy tips. They remind me of the tiny capillaries within lungs, the alveoli bristles that catch my eye on hospital waiting room posters. An egg swells on her forehead, white and purple and angry. She isn’t a sci-fi heroine. She’s Kalyn.

  She’s holding a long shard of pottery, some broken old bong or another.

  Her hand is steady as she jerks it sharply sideways, shearing a huge portion of hair from the left side of her head. It falls like red water from her fingers.

  “Kalyn!”

  “Primscilla I ain’t,” she grumbles. “That’s all.”

  Kneeling’s not easy, but I put my hands on the dusty linoleum and feel tiny pieces of her there. The broken red threads of her hair make my hands lose purchase. Maybe that’s why I fall against her, but it’s not why I drape arms around her.

  “Don’t hurt yourself. Please.”

  “Hell, Gus. It’s just a haircut,” she whispers into my neck. “And hey. If I do scalp myself by accident, it’ll save the kids of Jefferson Fucking High some trouble.”

  “Not me.”

  Her laugh is damp with tears. “You most of all, Gussafras.”

  “My name’s really just Gus. One syllable. Gus.”

  “What, just Gus?” Kalyn pulls back. “You’ve only got half a real name?”

  “I get half a real everything.” I mirror her tearful smirk.

  “Crop off the other side, too,” Phil blurts. “Shaved heads are a staple of badass science fiction protagonists. Ripley. Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta.”

  Kalyn rolls her eyes. “Fine, Phil. Go get me some real scissors.”

  “Kay . . .” I hesitate.

  “What, Just-Gus?”

  I don’t know if Kalyn cherished her hair. It was always braided or rolled up and hidden away. But no one grows hair that long by accident.

  “Your hair . . .”

  “People around here are starting to get ideas about pumpkin-haired girls.” A twinge enters her voice. “I’m getting ideas, too. Whoever me is, I don’t want to be her.”

  “Maybe that’s what happens when you’re raised halfway.”

  “Again, while I understand ‘halves’ are among our story motifs,” Phil pipes up, “your hair would be more appropriate if you cut it evenly.”

  Kalyn glares. “That’s it. Please go away now, Phil.”

  Phil bristles. “You can’t eject me from this story.”

  The past few days have tested us, and I’m not sure Phil’s passing. “Phil. Just . . . just give us two minutes. Please.”

  He departs, PSP at his fingertips. “ ‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’ ”

  “Keep an eye on that one,” Kalyn says. “Not sure his heart’s in the right place.”

  “I’m not always sure he has one. But he’s not the one holding, um, cutter, I mean, a sharp object to his head.”

  She stares at the heap of hair in her lap. “Shit, man. You’re right. We haven’t even made it to class yet and my hair’s been murdered. But your socks look dope.”

  “Thanks.” I rest my back against the shelf beside her, like this was any other day.

  “Also, you’re super cute without your glasses.”

  “Gross.” I take her hand. “Did your dad call last night?”

  She shakes her lopsided head. “Did you talk to your mom?”

  “It . . . ​didn’t go well,” I say. “I sort of ran away from home.”

  “You what?”

  “That’s enough,” says a booming voice. “Out you get.”

  Phil has returned, but not with scissors. With Officer Newton.

  “Shit.” Kalyn’s hand tries tucking the ghost of her hair behind one ear.

  “You assaulted another student.”

  “He assaulted me first, thank you kindly.”

  “Oh, I know,” Officer Newton barks. “I was there.”

  “Time for another suspension, huh?”

  “Wrong.” Officer Newton unfolds his arms. “You aren’t getting out of class that easy. Not for witnessing an accident.”

  Kalyn gapes and I frown. “I’m sorry, Officer Pi—Newton, but Eli getting snot-beaten was an accident? Who the hell’s gonna buy that?”

  Officer Newton’s face is blank. “I have a witness.”

  The girl with striking cheekbones peers around the door. She spins a different story than the one she shared with me: “Eli dropped his tray on Kalyn, then fell over the ledge when he was craning over to mock her. I saw the whole thing.”

  “Sarah? Why would you . . .”

  “My parents never met your parents,” Sarah blurts, suddenly tearful, “but for some reason they’ve ordered Spences Behind Fences T-shirts. I asked them why. They said it’s to support the community. But you’re part of our community, too, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Kalyn says blankly. “I guess.”

  “So I’m just doing what’s right,” Sarah declares. “Defending my friends.”

  Kalyn wipes her eyes. “Okay, Sarah.”

  Officer Newton coughs. “Ready to return to class, or will I have to drag you?”

  Phil’s hung back in the hallway. I can’t see his expression. Bringing Officer Newton here was either revenge or bad luck.

  “No need.” Kalyn stands. “I’m dyin’ to go put some learning in people. I mean, get some learning in me.”

  She proffers her hand. I take it. “Same.”

  “Probably best you two aren’t seen making eyes,” Officer Newton suggests. “Cut your bodyguard some slack and call it quits for now, lovebirds.”

  We don’t bother correcting him, although Kalyn sticks out her tongue.

  We didn’t come all this way to vanish.

  PHIL

  AS WE NEAR final announcements, the whole of Jefferson High is a wire pulled taut. If this is a guitar string, surely it will snap. Metaphors are not my strong suit.

  Has today been decent entertainment? I do not know. Gus and I have spent hours dodging stares and bizarre attempts at human connection. I’ve been more shield than shadow, warding off ne’er-do-wells who want Gus to know they support him.

  Here is an outline of the day, as we experienced it:

  1st Hour, Homeroom: For the last ten minutes of homeroom, Gus and I completed homework in unusual quiet. Our teacher pretended to read with his feet on the desk. His eyes glanced frequently over the top of the book. He rarely turned a page. Gus was not studying so much as plotting, writing a long unknowable list in his notebook.

  Before 2nd Hour: Gus and I visited his locker to fetch his textbooks. Lilies lay at his locker’s foot. Valentine-like notes of condolences were pasted down its front.

  “I’m not dead,” Gus said.

  Within his locker Gus discovered an anonymous hate letter, its angry scrawl incongruous against the backdrop of red hearts.

  “ ‘You’re father would be ashamed,” I read. “Next time date hitler why dont you.’ Not a correct apostrophe in evidence. Appalling.”

  Gus did not reply.

  2nd Hour, AP Government: Our notoriously strict teacher, Mrs. Ollette, would not alter her method for something so measly as a murder scandal. She did not balk at discussing the intricacies of the judicial system. Eyes had a tendency to fall upon Gus whenever the word “jury” was uttered.

  3rd Hour, AP English: Soft-hearted Mr. Alfonso did balk. Our test was canceled; we were granted the entirety of class to free read. He claimed it was a “homecoming treat,” but when Gus shut his copy of 1984 after two pages and began scribbling down words on his mysterious notebook list again, he was not asked to stop.

  Before Lunch: Gus was summoned to
the office.

  “Your mother stopped by,” Ms. Patrick informed him.

  Gus deflated. “Um. Do I have to leave?”

  “No. She dropped this off for you.”

  Gus took the bag with his good arm and sagged under some surprising weight. He leaned against the glass window and pulled a large shoebox from the bag. Eventually he contrived to prop it open. We were treated to a vision of cherry-red leather boots.

  Gus stared as if they were the most incomprehensible mystery of all.

  I solved it. “Ms. Patrick, which mother was this?”

  “Oh. It was, um . . . the gardener? Tammy, is it?”

  “Tamara, the landscaper,” I amended.

  “I like your socks,” Ms. Patrick told Gus as we left.

  Lunch Hour, Speech Therapy: I’d met Gus’s speech therapist before, at potlucks during which Dad invited coworkers to our home as if to say, “Yes, my wife left me, but I can still have dinner parties and raise our children well!” never mentioning that one son lives perpetually in the basement and another is devoid of human empathy. We walked in on the speech therapist gnawing on a peanut butter sandwich and watching cartoons on a portable DVD player.

  “Gus, it’s been a while! I wasn’t expecting you. Avoiding the cafeteria?”

  Gus nodded.

  “Right. Here’s the deal. We can start therapy today, or we can postpone that to next week and you can sit quietly and watch Avatar: The Last Airbender with me.”

  I watched a girl bend water to her will; Gus laced up his tall red boots and scribbled in his notebook.

  Before 4th Hour: For the first time since parting this morning, we encountered Kalyn in the hallway. Officer Newton held a student, a member of Garth’s Gaggle, by the scruff of her black tee while Kalyn wiped brownish spit from her face. Her unbound half head of hair was ever more tangled. She looked furious but also, perhaps, scared.

  She marked Gus and her aspect shifted; immediately a mask fell into place. She smiled at his boots, then seemed to remember herself and looked away.

  Gus wanted to go to her.

  “Officer Newton is right,” I reminded him. “Best not to engage.”