Tonight We Rule the World

by Zack Smedley

  I don’t remember a lot else about back when he was in the Marines, but it feels like a whole different life. Groceries came from the commissary, not the store. An American flag flew proudly on our front porch. We sported all the military brat gear, and every birthday party of mine was at a bowling alley since that was the one thing every military base seemed to have. We moved around every couple years, and I’d have a meltdown each time. Around the house, everything was yes, sir; no, sir; yes, ma’am; no, ma’am. Each evening meal was preceded by an inspection to ensure I’d cleaned my room and made my bed.

  It all changed one night when I, at age seven, did something I was told never to do: I came into their bedroom at night without knocking. I’d had a nightmare that made me wet the bed, and I couldn’t stand sleeping in it, and I forgot to knock. I just walked in—the lights were off, and the TV was playing infomercials. Dad was closest, so I started shaking him. When it didn’t work, I shook harder.

  It happened all at once. It was like the last shake I gave his shoulders ended up being one too many, and as his feet hit the floor, my father transformed into a monster—a beast of a man that erupted into a killing machine, swinging his tree trunk arms at lightning speed: a hurricane of human force. The first punch landed squarely on the side of my head. That’s all it took. My body flew backward like it had been nailed by a Brink’s truck, and I SLAMMED into the wall; crumpling, seeing stars, stunned.

  The noise woke up Mom, who woke up Dad, who saw what he did; and as soon as he saw he started screaming, “Holy fuck! Holy fuck!”

  He kept yelling it as he wheeled around and started punching again, this time with full purpose and directly into the wall. Drywall dust kicked up in all directions; Mom yelled at me to run, and all the noise hurt my ears even more than the punch had, and my father screamed and screamed and I sobbed and sobbed.

  The next morning, Dad went out and didn’t come back for days. I don’t know where he went, but when he finally returned, he had a box of my favorite donuts. He didn’t apologize for what he’d done. None of us said a word about it. But he finally reported his PTSD, got a disability rating of thirty from the VA—later bumped up to fifty for his knees—and was medically discharged from the Corps.

  All of the old Dad—the pride, the patriotism, his spotlessness—started to slip away until it was a hollow shell. He walked around angrier. The flag came down. He yelled at people more—never without reason, but always with unwarranted intensity. He became a man who assumed the worst in everyone he met … walls built overtop torn-down trust.

  And all the while, he’s been trying to sink into this new life: We moved into Old Friendship Landing, rated the safest community in the state. We would die in this house before he ever made us move again, he said. He turned to classical music and furniture building at his cabin up in the mountains. He always needed to be doing something, because he’d never known anything else. He became Steve Turner, the Builder.

  I asked him what war was like, once. He told me: “It’s boring.”

  “Hold this,” he says, handing me a flashlight. I lean in with it while he wrestles with the bolts on the steering pump, veins bulging on his sweat-soaked forehead. My whole body is aching at this point, and I’m covered in sweat too, but I know better than to ask for a break.

  We get the compressor out just as the sun goes down, and Mom pokes her head out to let us know that dinner’s ready. Dad snaps at her that we’ll reheat it once we’re done. Steve Turner has never once, not ever, taken a break from getting his ass kicked by a project.

  “Hold the light steady, Owen. Steady … never mind; God damn it.” He wrenches the flashlight from my hand as more classical music floods the garage. “Take this hose—that’s the refrigerant line. Stick a paper towel on the end so no gunk gets in.”

  “Can I use the bathroom?” Anything to get out of the humidity for thirty seconds.

  He sighs hard. “Can you hold it? Fine, go. Quickly. Get bug spray while you’re in there … getting eaten alive out here.”

  As I walk through the house, Mom says brightly, “All done?” I don’t answer.

  Half an hour later, Dad and I are leaned back against the car, watching the vacuum pump suck out residual moisture. We catch our breaths, eyes shut.

  Then he says, “I want to start doing weekly email check-ins with you.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m reading this book.” “Okay?”

  “It says you’re supposed to check in periodically with the survivors of sexual assault, to see how they’re doing. So that’s what we’re going to do. Doesn’t need to be weird, doesn’t need to be too personal. Just every Saturday, send me an email to let me know how you’re doing. If it’s the word ‘good’ with your signature at the bottom, fine with me. But we’re going to do it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You don’t get a vote,” Dad says, when I open my mouth to object. “One email a week won’t kill you.”

  “The school said they can manage whatever counseling I need.”

  “The school.” He says it like it’s the name of a universally hated baseball team. “Yeah, that’s funny. I got news for you, bud. Those jokers couldn’t manage their way out of a cardboard box if it had an exit sign taped over the goddamn flap.”

  “They said there are rules for how they handle it.”

  “All beside the point. Do you have any idea how many times someone’s made me a promise to take care of something only to turn around and fuck it up?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, me neither; I lost count a couple decades ago.”

  “Mom keeps saying things will work out.”

  “Your mother is what we call overly optimistic, okay. Wonderful woman, but she could walk into a room of shit and she’d start looking for the pony.” He wipes the sweat off his brow. “The pump is done. Help me transfer the faceplate.”

  The two of us spend another hour kneeling in the driveway, working via flashlight. Mom sticks her head out the door to let us know our dinner is in the fridge, then goes off to bed. Dad doesn’t say a word, but I can tell he’s in pain—his knees shouldn’t be taking this kind of punishment for five minutes, let alone an hour on the hard ground. But he sits there and shakes and keeps doing what he’s doing, all the way until the new compressor is primed with oil and its faceplate is secure.

  “There,” Dad says, giving it a test wiggle. “See? That’s not going anywhere.”

  He tries to get up, but grunts and keels to the side. His hand smacks against the side of the car to steady himself—with his size, it rocks the whole vehicle. He belts out one crisp, “Ouch,” through gritted teeth.

  “I can help, hold on,” I say, rushing over behind him. “Lean back.”

  “I’m fine; just protect the compressor, will you.”

  I watch him as he holds onto the car, pulling himself up as he blows out air slowly. His face is twisted up, but he’s not going to stay down. Not him; never him, no sir.

  The day I broke my arm back in ninth grade, Dad gave me a talking to in the hospital room about pain.

  “I broke a few bones in my day,” he said. “Most of ’em when I was younger and being an idiot. Your grandpa Bill would always tell me, ‘Tough guys don’t feel pain.’” He did the imitation in a mock-deep voice, then mimed chucking something over his shoulder. “Buncha BS, man. Of course tough guys feel pain. Everyone feels pain. I’ve had any number of things that hurt like hell; I bet that arm hurts like hell too. But what really makes the difference, I’ve found, is that tough guys don’t show it, okay. They take all that pain and crush it. In the Marines, we had this thing we’d yell anytime something hurt … SITFU. Know what that stands for?” Then he said with a wry smile, “Suck it the fuck up. You try.”

  “SITFU.”

  “Anytime it hurts, just say that: SITFU!”

  I know he was trying to help, and I get what he meant. But all I know is that none of his advice made my arm hurt any less. It just made it feel like my f
ault that it hurt so much in the first place.

  TWELVE

  August 31st—Junior Year

  Journal,

  Guess who lost his virginity today? (Hint … this guy!)

  Yeah, I can’t believe it either. Someone check if hell’s frozen over yet.

  It happened after the end-of-summer pool party hosted by the neighborhood. Lily and I were supposed to walk there together, but she texted saying she’d meet me there.

  I tried not to be pissed during the walk over. Honestly, she and I had been in a rough patch for a bit now. It started toward the end of last year, when the pressure of finals had our stress levels going overboard. I thought things would get better over the summer, but she got a job at the local coffeehouse that sucked up the last of her free time. And the past few weeks of gearing up for junior year—“the most important one for college!”—started bringing all of the school bullshit back. Gone are the days of us going to the playground every day when we get off the bus. Now it’s us looking at universities we want to apply to, and me fending off my Dad’s nagging to pick a career other than screenwriting.

  But out of all of it, the thing that’s caused the most friction is how absorbed Lily has gotten in student government. Back when we were underclassmen, all her focus was on her writing. She harped on her whole thing about wanting to matter, and she poured all that into her poems—not to mention our joint projects. But then she redirected all that energy into SGA. Now, it’s like she’s out to win a service award. She started all these new initiatives—charity events and even town halls—so the class can give her feedback. People love her for the job she’s doing, and she eats it all up.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for her. But I can’t stand the moods it puts her in. It’s given her a real edge—one that wasn’t there when we were younger. Her perfectionist brain is in constant overdrive, and she expects the most from everyone. And the more stressed she is, the more we’re at each other’s throats.

  When I met Lily, I thought she was damn-near perfect. Then we had our first rough patch, and I thought things were ruined. And soon we grew a long enough history where there was no absolute good or bad anymore; it was just her and me, with our own weird little collection of moments and makeups and memories of every kind. We learned to both take a step back and remember that we’re on the same team. Our magic phrase is the one Lily likes to use: “Look at us.” Remember why we’re here—remember that we love each other, and we can get through this because it’s us. We say that, then we resolve things, then we kiss and apologize and say “I love you” before we leave.

  Anyway. I walked to the pool alone.

  Austin was already in the locker room along with two other guys: David—our neighbor, who was home from college—and a boy whose name I didn’t know, but I recognized him as the odd guy who refused to wave to Lily and I on the day I met her.

  “There he is,” Austin said when he saw me. He and the others were showering in their suits. The air smelled like chlorine.

  “My fault. Left the house late.” I set my backpack on one of the benches. “Lily had to do some posters. I was finishing them for her.”

  “Does she at least let you pick out your own collar?” David asked as Austin gave a mock sob. The boy in the corner smirked but didn’t say anything.

  I flipped them off. The “Owen is wrapped around Lily’s finger” jokes have been in full run since the start of our relationship.

  I stripped off my shirt and took a second to study myself in the mirror, flexing a little. I started going to the neighborhood gym this past summer with Austin and Beth, and it showed. My arms had some actual shape to them, and my shoulders were more filled out. Lily had also talked me into getting contacts—no more ‘90s Dad glasses.

  “Hey,” called David from the other side of the locker room. “Are you about to jerk off to yourself or something?”

  I realized I was still posing for the mirror. I dropped my arms and dug my board shorts out of my bag.

  “Is that a thing?” he continued, frowning. “Jerking off to yourself?”

  I squinted. “Well … hold on. Do you mean picturing yourself doing stuff with other people? Or do you mean like, having sex with a clone of yourself?” “I’d fuck myself,” Austin said.

  “Amazing, I’ve been telling you to do that for years.”

  “Whoa—good one. Fucking incredible joke, dude.”

  I pretended to throw my flip-flop at him. He flicked water in my direction.

  “I’m talking about like, where you look in the mirror while you do it,” David said, shutting off the shower and drying himself off. “I feel like that’s not weird. I’ve definitely done that before.”

  “Jerk off to yourself?” I said. “That would make you autosexual.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s where you jerk off to yourself.”

  “Yeah, dumbass, weren’t you listening?” Austin said.

  The two of them headed to the pool, clapping me on the back as they walked by. I realized I was alone with the nameless stranger, who was rubbing sunscreen on his legs.

  After a minute, the guy said, “I didn’t expect to learn a new word when I went to this thing.”

  It took me a second to realize he was talking to me.

  “Huh?”

  “Autosexuality,” he said, pulling off his shirt. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “The million dollar question: Is it gay to enjoy your own dick?”

  It seemed like he was trying to joke around, but he stumbled over his words, so it was hard to tell.

  “That’s a tough one,” I agreed. “I guess 50 percent of your brain is like, ‘Dude, there’s a dick in your hand.’”

  “When I was younger, I didn’t see a problem with that. But I’m also bi, so I’m not a great test subject.”

  “Oh.” I turned away as I wiggled out of my shorts and underwear. The guy did the same behind a makeshift towel curtain he draped over the locker door, which hid some things but not everything. Suddenly I felt half-shy, half-invigorated at being so exposed. When it came to my sexuality, I’d probably known for a couple months now that things were … flexible. My recent porn searching had taken me some interesting places, and while there was no doubt I loved everything with Lily, I didn’t really hate the idea of stuff with a guy, either. Especially not with this guy, and especially not if we were going to keep talking about our dicks.

  I waited until he left, then turned the shower on cold.

  Once I found Lily and got in the pool, Beth and Austin quickly engaged us in a game of couple vs. couple chicken. I wound up losing on purpose because the feeling of having Lily’s legs wrapped around my neck started to make my shorts tent.

  She poked me in the side and grinned at the noise I made.

  “What?” I asked, wiping my wet hair out of my eyes when I resurfaced.

  “Just you,” she said, pecking me on the cheek. I shot a nervous glance over to the picnic benches under the pavilion, where my parents were chatting with Mr. Caldwell.

  “What’re you thinking about?” Lily asked, giving her dad a wave.

  I shrugged, shimmying my shoulders to the beach music from the speaker system. “Not much. Everything’s a little loud.”

  “Is it the music? I can ask them to turn it down,” she said, her smile slipping.

  “It’s more the people.” I flinched at a crowd of little kids screeching and splashing on the other side of the pool.

  “Got it.” Then, keeping her arm snaked around my shoulders, she said, “We could go somewhere with … fewer people?”

  I wondered if she meant that the same way I heard it, but then she grinned at me and her hand trailed south, and I knew it for sure.

  Cut to: Her and I racing across my yard toward the Studio, towels billowing over our shoulders. The minute we shut the garage door against the sun, we were kissing and touching and peeling off each other’s bathing suits, her hands ru
nning through my damp hair as we wiped each other’s skin dry. Then she asked about the condoms we bought last month but hadn’t used yet, and I asked if she was sure, and she asked me the same thing.

  In a blink we were on the couch, me telling Lily I was nervous in my trembling voice with a trembling laugh, and her saying how cute I was and to just follow her lead. Don’t think about it. Don’t calculate. Don’t focus, just feel. Then she started doing things that made me feel everything, and she just completely let herself go, egging me on and kissing me with her wicked grin. And I sat there torn in half by how much I loved this and how much I didn’t plan to be here. Doing this. But it was her, so we worked it out like we always do. We took it slow. I stopped at one point to say, “This is so fun!” and Lily laughed and shushed me. We got on the couch, and when that was too awkward we tried the floor with pillows, then that hurt my back and butt, so we went back to the couch, laughing with each other and making love in the patch of sun from the Studio skylight.

  I needed to pick something to look at to last longer, so I fixed my gaze on the shell of my cast sitting on my desk hutch. Lily’s red name on it. I looked at us—the boy with the broken arm, and the girl teeming with too many words. Her and me and me and her. Teetering on the precipices of our hearts.

  I thought back to the first time she gave me a hug—it was during one of our tutoring sessions, when we were talking about our middle school “firsts” and I admitted to her that no one besides my parents had ever hugged me. She’d said, “Aww, I’ll hug you!” then did it. I remembered I loved the security of it. Safety, stability—an anchor.

  It was like a film reel. I saw her and me going from sitting in my yard studying, to laying in it watching the clouds, to running around in the rain. I blinked and we were kids—a girl giving a boy his first hug. Then I blinked again, and we were adults—a man and a woman both glowing with the intimacy they just shared and holding each other the same way they used to.