I was too self-involved to even notice you.
I only thought of myself.
I was too insecure to let you be you.
I called you faggot because I was questioning my own sexuality.
I picked on you to make myself feel better.
As soon as Denise notices us, she points us out to Tristan and he stops the rehearsal.
“Good work everyone,” he says. “We’re getting there. Let’s take five. Get a breath, grab some hydration, and we’ll take it from the top.”
He then stands and walks up the aisle to meet us, Denise trailing behind him.
“Miss Dunne,” he says, nodding toward LeAnn.
He’s a soft, pale boy with a bird’s nest of blond hair, big, bright red lips, and odd blue eyes with large dark circles beneath them.
“There a problem?” Denise asks.
Neither kid makes direct eye contact with any of us.
Denise Royal is even more ghostly than Tristan—a fact emphasized by her jet black Flock of Seagulls hair and her black lipstick and eyeliner. Her myriad piercings make it look as if she fell face first into a tackle box.
“Why’d you stop the rehearsal?” Kim asks.
Tristan doesn’t respond.
Denise, without looking at or acknowledging Kim, says, “This is a closed rehearsal. We’ve been given assurances from administration that we won’t be hindered or censored.” Nodding toward me, she says, “Who’s this?”
“Just a guy who used to go here too,” LeAnn says.
“Smells like bacon,” she says, still talking to LeAnn. “They both do.”
I smile.
“So we can’t stay and watch your play?” LeAnn says.
“You’re welcome to attend the premiere,” she says, making it clear she just means LeAnn.
“Is your play about a school shooting?” Kim asks.
Tristan looks at her directly for the first time, disgust and disdain filling his pale, puffy face. “Art isn’t about anything. It just is. It requires no justification or explanation.”
He says all this like he’s the first pretentious person to ever be on this planet.
“I won’t explain my work to you. I’m sure you wouldn’t get it even if I was willing to.”
“There’s nothing to get,” I say. “Nothing to intuit. You gave it all. Forcefully. There’s nothing left to explain. It’s all there on the stage.”
He nods and smiles as if I’ve just given him a compliment.
Denise nods. “It’s like theatrical rape. We’re sayin’ Take it hard, bitches. Whether you want it or not.”
Kim nods. “Yeah, that’s what it felt like to me.”
Tristan lets out a sinister little laugh. “That’s funny,” he says, as if he’s just received a new insight from his muse. “It’s like fuck the police. Literally.”
“Actually, it’s not,” Kim says. “If you’re gonna be a playwright you should probably know what literally means.”
“We’ll be sure to get a dick . . . tionary and do that,” Denise says.
“Anything else?” Tristan asks.
“When is your premiere?” I ask.
“Friday,” he says. “Which is why we need to get back to work.”
“We’re performing it in front of the entire student body,” Denise says. “During school. And mark my words. It’ll be a day none of these losers will ever forget.”
Kim looks over at me. “You marking it or should I?”
Tristan says, “This little piggy went to market. This little piggy made a joke.”
“Soon no little piggies will be laughing though,” Denise says.
“They’ll be squealing all the way home,” Tristan says.
10
You know what? Not everybody has to do what you say they have to or what you want them to. Does that come as a shock to you? You really do think you rule the world, don’t you? Well, you don’t. And high school isn’t the whole world anyway. I know it’s your whole world, but it’s not the whole world. You should maybe know that. You should also know that you are only doing what every other stupid and ignorant person in history has done. You attack and torment people who aren’t like you. You aren’t even original. You ruined my life. All I’ve done is pay you back in kind.
“Please tell me at our adolescent worst we were never that bad,” Kim says.
“Not even close,” LeAnn says.
“I remember being far too earnest and taking myself too seriously at times,” I say, “but I don’t think I was ever that pretentious.”
The three of us are back out in the hallway of the arts building, walking toward the music room and recording studio.
“You weren’t at all,” Kim says. “You were the sweetest boy. Always so nice to everyone.”
“You did treat everyone the same,” LeAnn says. “I always admired that. You could certainly be . . . serious . . . even humorless at times . . . like you were carrying around the weight of the world, but for an adolescent Atlas you were all right, and you certainly were so nice to everyone—no matter their race or socio-economic level.”
“And unlike John, you were never serious back then,” Kim says to LeAnn.
“Still not if I can help it,” LeAnn says. “Best defense mechanism I’ve found against the slings and arrows. How is that for some self-perception, and what about throwing in a little Shakespeare since we’re at the theater lab? Are y’all as impressed with me as I am?”
“More,” I say. “Of course, it would have been even more impressive if you hadn’t felt the need, like Tristan, to tell us what you just told us.”
She smiles. “What he and I have to say is too important to take a chance that you might miss it. It’s our duty to break it down for you dullards.”
“And I was always pining after some guy,” Kim adds, looking away wistfully. “I’m sure we were self-absorbed and maybe even a little dramatic, but we weren’t anything like that.”
“See why we thought of them?” LeAnn says.
I nod.
“They could be our own little Mickey and Mallory, right?” she says.
I think about the mass-murdering couple from Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers and try to picture the goth girl I just saw in the role of Mallory and the pale, puffy boy as Mickey.
The original Mickey and Mallory were victims of traumatic childhoods who became a rampage killing couple, a bloody Bonnie and Clyde sensationalized and spurred on by the media.
“I’m sure y’all had this thought,” Kim says, “but . . . what if they . . . Do you think they could be planning on doing the shooting during or at the end of the play?”
I nod. “Very well could be,” I say. “Send the actors out with real guns loaded with live rounds, or . . . more likely . . . make everyone sit through that dreadful drivel and then—”
“We’ll all be begging to be shot,” LeAnn says.
As we near the music room, we hear the fine fingerings of a skilled musician playing an acoustic guitar in an arpeggiated manner.
Kim taps on the door and we step inside.
As we do, Chase Dailey stops playing.
Looking up from his vintage-looking Guild guitar, his eyes widen when he sees the three of us.
Chase Dailey is a slight and slightly effeminate young man with long, dark hair and deep-set dark eyes. He has long, narrow fingers with nails in need of cleaning.
He’s alone, seated at a music stand in a large carpeted music room, his bare feet on the round, silver circle near the bottom of the stool he’s on.
“Everything okay, Miss Kim?” he asks.
She nods. “Everything’s fine, Chase.”
Foam egg crate acoustic panels mounted on the walls absorb much of the sound and all of the echo in the dead room.
“We were just walking by and heard your beautiful playing, thought we’d stop in and listen for a moment.”
“Chase isn’t just a great musician,” LeAnn says. “He’s an accomplished songwriter. Only problem
is they’re so sad you can only listen to a couple at a time.”
Kim says, “Chase this is John. He was in our class back when we went here.”
He puts his hands together gives me a small, heartfelt namaste nod.
“How’s it going?” I say.
He shrugs. “Ah, you know . . . could always be better.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I say. “You play beautifully.”
On our walk over, LeAnn had told me about Chase’s alcoholic mom and the severe abuse he had suffered at her hands—hers and the parade of user-abuse boyfriends that had worn a path through their home and lives.
Music is his escape, this music room his only sanctuary—one he remains in to avoid going home until the evening custodians finish cleaning and kick him out of the building so they can lock up for the night.
“Be a shame not to do the one thing you do . . . well,” he says.
“You mind playing a song for us?” Kim asks.
“I don’t want to sing, but I’ll play for you if you want.”
“Please.”
He does.
I’m not sure if what he plays is original or not—it’s a testament to his skill that I can’t be sure—but it’s extraordinary, complex, moving, intricate, impressive.
When he finishes the three of us clap for him.
“That was incredible,” I say. “Thanks so much for playing for us.”
He gives me his little namaste nod again.
“Well, we’ll go now and sorry to disturb you,” LeAnn says. She turns to leave, but then turns back toward him. “Oh . . . before we do. Remember what I spoke to your class about today? Can you think of any students who seem particularly stressed right now—bullied or just broken up with someone? Anything like that?”
“Everybody I know is like that,” he says. “And not just kids. The whole world is fucked. Whatcha gonna do?”
“Anything we can do to help you?” Kim asks.
He gives her a resolved look and shakes his head, his long, dark hair moving back and forth.
“Okay.”
“Well,” LeAnn says, “if you think of anyone who—”
“You thinkin’ someone’s gonna do something?” he asks. “Something violent or something?”
“What makes you say that?” she asks.
“Just from what you said today and how y’all’re acting.”
“Do you know of anyone who might do something drastic or violent?”
“If it were me . . . I’d look for someone who doesn’t have a thing—you know a girl or a sport or a hobby or a passion or a . . . something. It weren’t for this guitar, I’d’ve offed myself a long time ago.”
“We’re glad you have the guitar,” Kim says. “And you’re so good at it. But we want you to have more. Come see me and Miss LeAnn tomorrow, okay? Let us help you get more, have a better life. Okay?”
He nods.
“I mean it. Promise me you’ll come see us tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says, but doesn’t sound like he means it.
11
My thoughts and prayers are with you. May almighty God, the eternal father, hold you in the palm of his hand.
Baseball doesn’t get the crowd that football does in Pottersville, but it’s a good season, so the park is packed.
In the warm glow of a quiet, peaceful evening, the boys of spring stand in a greening field backlit by the sinking sun participating in the leisurely pursuit of their country’s officially favorite pastime.
The outfield fence holds the homemade signs of hometown business whose advertising dollars spent here won’t net a single additional sale.
As LeAnn, Kim, and I walk up, the park lights buzz and wink and flicker on, the beams of those near the backstop catching the curling smoke from the concession stand grill.
LeAnn turns to us and says, “Who would want to shoot up this living Norman Rockwell painting?”
“There are those . . .” Kim says, shaking her head.
“I guess there are, but damn . . . Seems like some Taliban shit to me.”
Kim nods. “That’s exactly what it is. Same destructive impulse.”
We stop along the back edge of the ballpark and take in the scene.
The announcer is a soft-spoken, twenty-something, African-American guy who was once a star here and went on to play in the minor leagues and even a few unremarkable games in the majors before returning home to become a roofer for his dad’s company. His dad, who was a star some twenty years before his son, is doing color commentary.
“At the plate now is the right-handed-hitting catcher, Bradley Conroy, hitting two-seventy-three with eight RBI’s so far this year. Short lead . . . and this one on one hop by the third baseman into left field. Well, Sanders was playing in, and that one was just over the glove by about a foot and a half.”
“Back-to-back singles . . . Another nice piece of hitting by Conroy for the Sharks.”
The home bleachers are mostly filled with parents and grandparents and the siblings of players too young and small to be on their own. Most of the Potter High students are swarming around the park in small packs, socializing, seeing and being seen.
Because there aren’t many visitors, the guest bleachers are filled with spillover from the home side, mostly teachers and faculty and the suck-up students who don’t mind sitting near them.
Beyond the dugout, the right field fence is lined with clusters of students sitting in the grass or on blankets, paying far more attention to each other than the game.
“Watch them,” LeAnn says, pointing to the two students she had in her office earlier, DeShawn and Sierra. “See how they move about the various groups of kids. They aren’t part of any discernibly defined group, but they are friendly with all of them. It’s like they haven’t chosen a side—or been relegated to one—and so by not being part of any, they are welcomed by all. That’s why they’re helpful. That’s why I thought we could use them.”
“I’m sure we will be,” I say, watching the two move about, greeting and being greeted by all the various factions just as she has described.
“Absolutely,” Kim says, “we just couldn’t give them information about other students. That’s all.”
“I get that now,” LeAnn says. “I should’ve thought about that part. I just got excited about playing detective and being able to bring actual informants to the table like I’m on The Wire or some shit like that.”
Kim and I both laugh.
“Just want to be a top cop like y'all,” LeAnn says.
“Speaking of . . .” Kim says, starting off in the direction of the concession stand. “Look who’s here and who he’s with.”
We follow her gaze to see Chip Jeffers standing in between the sheriff, Hugh Glenn, and the principal, Tyrese Monroe—Merrill’s cousin and the first black principal Potter High has ever had.
“Shall we?” LeAnn says.
“Sure,” Kim says as I nod.
And we begin to walk in their direction.
On our way, as we pass the Pirates’ mostly empty dugout, we pause to talk to Evan Fowler, one of the sophomore suspects from Kim’s list.
Evan is small even for his age, the high school baseball uniform too big for him. He wears his hat pushed way down on his head, just over his eyes, as if he’s trying to hide, his bushy, too-long hair spilling out around it as if ready for a bowl cut.
“Hey, Evan,” Kim says. “How’s it going?”
He turns his red face toward us and uses his tongue to unstick his lip from his buckteeth before speaking. “Same old same old. Ridin’ the hell out of this bench. Doin’ my job and keepin’ it good and warm.”
“Hang in there,” she says. “You’ll get your chance to play when you’re older.”
He shrugs. “Not likely.”
I wonder if he’s talking about getting older or getting to play.
“Hey,” the coach and Kim’s boyfriend, Ace Bowman, yells from the other end of the dugout. “Arrest that woman if she contin
ues to harass my players.”
His tone along with his big, easy smile is flirtatious.
He’s a tall, broad, once athletic man who has gone soft. His fleshy face is both puffy and loose, and his wide hips appear even wider in the piped, knicker baseball pants.
“Hey,” Kim says, pointing at him, “you take care of baseball and leaving policing to me before I arrest your cute ass for harassing a law enforcement officer.”
“Honey, you got the cuffs, I got the time,” he says, holding his hands out, wrists together.
As he talks, he has to shift the sunflower seeds around in his mouth. When he’s not talking, he’s chewing on them and spitting out the shells in a rapid, practiced manner.
In the stands closest to the home dugout, a set of male twins dressed identically in PHS T-shirts and jeans, the sleeves and legs of which are rolled up, and who look to be around sixteen or seventeen, are shaking pompoms and cheering loudly but insincerely.
Someone in the stands behind them tells them to hold it down, asks them why they’re even here, it’s obvious they don’t know anything about baseball.
“If you can’t be an athlete,” one of them says.
“Be an athletic supporter,” the other says, looking over at the dugout and adding, “Right coach?”
LeAnn notices me noticing them. “The Dupree twins,” she says. “Hayden and Hunter. Very troubled boys. Suffered horrendous abuse before being taken from their biological parents.”
“Why aren’t they on the list?” I ask.
“Never occurred to me,” she says. “They’re just so . . . soft and . . . I don’t know . . . effeminate.”
Kim steps over to us, “They’ll fuck anything that moves—or be fucked by them I guess, but . . . can’t see them hurting anyone.”
When we continue on and are far enough away so Evan can’t hear us, LeAnn says, “I just can’t see that sweet little bucktooth boy sawin’ down his classmates with an assault rifle either.”
“You’re probably right,” Kim says. “Hope you are. But there’s a lot of frustration and rage in that little body. I’ve seen it firsthand. Remember that fight he got in last year with that boy who had been bullying him? I thought he was going to kill him.”
Bloodshed (John Jordan Mysteries Book 19) Page 5
