by Zack Smedley
He looks right at me.
“But you know who did this,” he says. “Right?”
I don’t know why I don’t just lie. But I nod once.
“Okay.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see his jaw tighten. “Then we need to pass that along to the state police. That’s our only move left.”
“No.”
“Owen.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are single-handedly holding everything up. How do you not get that, bud; how do you not get that you’re holding everything up. Without you giving that info, we can’t do squat. I mean, nothing. We can’t go the police, we can’t get more help from the school; we can’t sue the school; we can’t sue the guy.” He crushes his hands together like he’s trying to conjure up a better talking point. “You are holding the golden fucking ticket, man. And you’re rolling over on it. Why are you working so hard to give this person an exit ramp? I’m really asking.”
I shake my head at my lap. “I just don’t want to deal with this anymore.”
“But the name,” Dad says, his voice straining. He taps on his own knee for emphasis. “If you just give them that, they can take it from there. The school had every reason to want to downplay this already, and then you refused to give them anything to work with. You are handing this guy a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
I snap my bracelet in silence.
“So now,” he says, his face hard, “the questions will change.” (Silence.)
“It’s time for us to face reality. What do I mean by that? Glad you asked. It means”—he sighs through his nose—“that as of now, you need to disabuse yourself of the idea that turning in the guy who did this to you is in any way optional. This needs to happen, okay. And you’re going to fight me on it, and I’m going to tell you right now—I’m not going to budge on this. Telling you that right now. So we can do a whole song and dance—that’s probably going to feel like the better choice for a little bit. Fine with me. What happens next is up to you. If you want to mope and sit here and spend your time not doing what I ask, I’ve got all the time in the world to wait on you. Because this is your one shot. This right here is your freebie. After that, no name? Guess what—we switch to Plan B.”
Snapsnap. Snapsnap.
“I’ll tell you right off the bat, you’re not going to like Plan B,” he continues. “And I’m not a fan of it either. It involves us taking away something of yours. And I know what you’re thinking—well shit, Dad, no video games for a month? Sounds doable. Wrong.” He imitates a buzzer. “You tell us who did this, or we take away the Studio.”
“Wh—” I climb to my feet. “Wait, what?”
“First step would be getting rid of the furniture.” Now he’s not looking at me—he’s muttering to his boots. “After that it’s ripping out the flooring, the trim, the drywall, the electrical … that structure goes back to being our garage. Now. Owen.” He rises to his feet, looking down at me with folded arms. I hold his gaze.
“I do not want to do that,” Dad continues. “Your mother really doesn’t want that—she’s fighting me tooth and nail on this. But if you keep holding out, this is what that looks like. By the time you’re waving goodbye in August, that space of yours will once again be a workshop, and you’ll be SOL. Is that what you want?”
I don’t respond to him.
“Of course it isn’t. And it isn’t what I want either, okay. Took me a long time to build that place. But you cooperate with us on this, or it’s going to get dismantled nail-by-nail. You think that’s an exaggeration; it is not. I’ve cleared my schedule; I’ve put all my projects on pause—this is the only thing on my radar now. This is my radar. This is what doing things the hard way would look like.”
I scratch at my thumb, every muscle screaming with the urge to squirm. I fight it, clenching my teeth.
“Or,” Dad says to the floor, eyebrows perching optimistically, “we can just grit our teeth and do this. It’ll take you two seconds, if you do this. Two seconds, and I’ll be out that door, out of your hair, you can go back to your writing, or whatever… . I’ll never bring this up again. Your mother, either. That’s a promise from both of us. I tell you all this, because I need you to think really hard about everything I’ve just said.” Once again, his eyes meet mine. “Now, I’m asking you—and this is a real question, so I want an answer—do you believe me when I say I’ll take that place apart nail by nail?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you believe me when I say I’ve cleared my schedule for this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re getting the sense that this is going to be a lot easier for both of us if you just help the police out here? I’ve successfully gotten that through your head?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, there we go. So far so good. Hey—look at me.”
My stomach is clutched in an invisible fist… . My chest feels like it’s about to collapse. Because I see that image of our friend group, reunited after Lily and I patched things up. And I think about all the uncertainty surrounding the incident—who even knows if it’d count as a crime? Who would believe that my tiny, nice-as-could-be girlfriend held me down and did what I’d accused her of doing?
“Hey—hey. Look at me,” Dad barks. “You don’t look down there … out there, up there, wherever. For two seconds, for this, you look at me.”
I do.
“Owen,” he orders, softly. “Tell me who did this to you.” “No.”
“Oh, GOD DAMN IT!” Dad explodes. Because of course he does. His fist hits his palm, and he lunges in huge circles, pacing like a prisoner in solitary until he swivels on his feet to face me directly.
“So, okay. Clearly you don’t get what this is. That is abundantly clear.” He rubs his temples, the veins on his forehead bulging against the scarlet flush of his skin. Then he says, “Owen,” throwing up his arms. The way he says my name is chilling. It’s almost the same tone as, come on, man, but with more anger behind it—a loaded warning. An incredulous, what-did-you-just-say voice. A challenge.
I see his challenge and I say nothing.
“Owen,” he repeats, when I don’t respond. “Tell me who it was.”
I see his challenge and I say nothing.
“Owen Patrick Turner.”
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
SEVEN
THE SHOUTING MATCH STARTS EARLY THE NEXT morning. Dad is in the Studio hauling furniture out into the yard, and Mom is yelling Mom-things at him. She does a lot of talking with her hands. I only catch a few seconds of it as I leave the house to walk over to Lily’s… . Mom is telling him to come inside. He’s not responding.
Lily can always tell when I need a distraction, so she’s come up with one: The five of us are gathered in her backyard to turn an old slab of wood into a group graduation mural.
“Can you try not hitting me with that? There you go,” Vic says to Austin as he helps move the board to a picnic table. “We’re going left—your other left—other left—dude, how many days until you get a diploma?”
“Not all of us are going to Hopkins Engineering, Vic!” Austin snaps. I try to chuckle but can’t quite force it. I’m still thinking about what’s being done to the Studio on the other side of the street.
“Are the edges all the same?” asks Beth, framing up the board with her fingers.
“Wh—obviously the edges are the same. It’s a square,” says Lily. She’s dressed in painting clothes—a ratty tank top and pajama shorts—but still has neon socks underneath.
“I know what it’s supposed to do, I’m just saying it doesn’t look straight.”
“Hey, O, it’s perfect for you,” Lily says, at the same time as Vic says, “Great for Owen!” at the same time as I say, “Sounds like my kind of thing.”
At least intergroup needling is still alive and well.
“Does it need to be even?” Lily asks.
“It can be whatever we want it to be,” Beth says wistfully.
“How many ei
ghteen-year-olds does it take to trace lines,” Austin sings, wiping sweat from his forehead with his T-shirt.
“I’m seventeen,” I, Lily, and Beth say at the same time.
“How’re we picking the squares?” Vic asks him. We all crowd around the slab. “It’s your project.”
“Technically it was just my hardwood,” Austin points out.
“AW, YEAH,” the entire group says in a chorus of suggestive groans.
“I can pick the squares,” Lily says. “Let’s get a ‘before’ picture.”
We all gather around it—Austin and Beth holding it up, Vic flashing a peace sign, Lily snuggled against the wood like she’s dating it; and me, as always, at the front taking the picture. Then each of us start grabbing at the paints Lily has laid out, trying to decide on our background colors.
“I need to figure out if I want light blue or royal blue for my section,” I say.
“You don’t want that,” Lily says. I’ve taken my bracelet off to paint, but my fingers reach for my wrist—I know her trust-me-I-know-better-than-you voice all too well by now. “You want the writing to stand out, so you should either do white or a light tone.”
“No thanks,” I say. I look right at her as I say it to remind her of our agreement. She notices, but her mouth is twitching in a dude, seriously? smirk.
“Come on!” She pours out a glob of white and grabs a brush, raising it to my section. “Trust me, it’ll look good. You’ll thank me as soon as you see it.”
“Can you stop?”
“Hold on.”
“Can you stop?”
“Hold on.”
“Hey!”
Everyone jumps. I claw at my wrist again—shit.
They’re all on edge now, wide-eyed, looking at me like I need help with something. Nervous confusion. It’s a look I’ve gotten before, but never from them.
“Dude,” Lily says, stepping back with her hands raised. “What’s with you?”
Controlyourselfcontrolyourself.
“Personally, I don’t care about my paint color,” Austin jumps in, uneasy. Beth adds in a quieter-than-usual voice, “Yeah, mine doesn’t matter.”
Vic raises a hand. “I’m sweaty and gross, so I’m going to get water. Peace.”
Austin and Beth join her.
Great. I’m the asshole.
Lily turns to me after they leave—arms crossed, eyebrows raised.
“Okay … huh?” she asks.
“We talked about this,” I say. It comes out more sheepish than I’d like. “Huh?”
“The ‘no means no’ thing. Remember?”
“Huh?”
I rub my mouth. “Remember—I said, you start taking no for an answer. You agreed to that; you said it was no problem.”
“Yeah, I—for sex stuff! I didn’t realize you meant it for like, everything—”
“That’s not true,” I snap. “I distinctly remember, I said, it doesn’t matter what the issue is. I made sure to say that.”
“No, you didn’t.” She shrugs, then holds it there. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t remember that.”
I ball my hands into fists, resisting the urge to put them through the slab. I thought we were done with this. Reset. And now, as always, that voice shows up in the back of my head: What if she’s right? What if I’m remembering this wrong?
I pick my battle.
“Okay.” I swallow. “From now on, take no for an answer, about literally anything. Doesn’t matter what it is—” I try to think of different words to use than last time, so she’ll remember it. “Just … literally anything. Okay? Do we agree?”
“Yes. Literally anything. That’s fine.” She still has her eyebrows raised.
“This is the last chance. Seriously,” I say. But it’s the same thing I said last time too.
EIGHT
March 17th—Senior Year
Journal:
Still can’t sleep. I’m starting to get nightmares and they won’t stop.
I’m so full of thoughts about what happened, and I can’t share them with anyone. I don’t know how to tell I can’t tell my parents or friends. Even putting them down here now is such a chore, because it’s just me and my keyboard.
I don’t like revisiting these or unpacking these and I don’t know how to do that either!!
Can’t make heads or tails of basic things that used to make sense …
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO …
P.S. If it sounds like I’m falling apart or something, don’t worry about that kind of bullshit with me. I’m no pussy.
NINE
THE NEXT TEN DAYS FEEL LIKE THE START OF A NEW life. There’s no school, no studying, and no Studio I’d be able to do it in. By day I’m going to the senior picnic and grad parties with the group. But by night, all that joy runs down the drain as I lie in bed, trying to tune out the sounds of a hammer bludgeoning wood in the backyard.
Mom tries to talk to me, but I shrug her off. She’s not going to be able to stop Dad, and we both know it. I wonder if she’s kicked him out of their room—he’s back to pacing around the house at night.
I don’t like how my graduation robe looks on me. But it’s my favorite shade of blue, so I deal with it.
All the people in the living room—Mom, Lily, and Vic—applaud when I emerge downstairs. The girls are in their robes too. Lily has five cords draped over her shoulders for all her extracurriculars, and her hair is wavier than normal. Vic, whose cap is decorated like a circuit board, shakes her robe and points at mine, like, hey, we match!
Meanwhile, Mom—wearing a floral dress and armed with a fancy camera—is a bit of a mess.
“Oh! There he is,” she says, smiling, but she’s tearing up. She hugs me and says, “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” into my shoulder, then, “And Lily! Oh, sweetie …” As they hug, Mom says to her, “Thank you for everything you’ve done for him. And congrats—yay! And Vic! Come here, gamer girl.”
“Car in ten minutes, Jen!” Dad barks as he steps into the living room. He looks supremely out of place, dressed in a proper gray suit stretched over his huge chest with a white tie tucked into the jacket. (He stopped wearing his uniform years ago.) He gives me, Lily, and Vic the once-over and says with a thin grimace, “Looking sharp, you three.”
I nod back. Dad and I are still on incredibly thin ice, but he’s putting on the nice-guy act for today. He gets a point for that, I guess. Maybe half a point.
I hear the storm door open, and Beth calls, “Hi hi!” She and Austin find their way into the living room, Beth in a pink dress and Austin in a white button-down.
“This is weird, this is weird!” Beth is saying in a nervous singsong.
“What side’s the tassel supposed to be on, by the way?” Austin asks, examining his cap.
“I was just about to ask that,” Lily says.
“I guess it’ll either be correct now, or it will be later,” I point out.
“Pictures!” Mom says. “Nobody move; pictures! Austin and Beth, do you want to put your robes on?”
“Car in nine minutes!” Dad reminds her. “If you think we’re going to get acceptable seats later than that, you are dreaming.”
The next five minutes are filled with all the expected pandemonium as Mom takes pictures of Lily and me, Lily takes pictures of me with Mom and Dad, then the others join and we start the whole thing over. Eventually my parents head out—thankfully Lily is driving us all separately from the adults, so we can leave for our group’s senior week trip right after.
I realize I forgot my tie, and Lily joins me upstairs to grab it. I pick up my best one—it’s bright reflective silver. I look fancy. I look … old.
“Wow,” I murmur to myself.
Lily scrunches up her face, grabbing a few other ties from my dresser and holding them up to my head. She says, “Turn your head—oh, nice eyes, yeah,” as I rotate so she can better see my face. She does some calculations, then points to a tie on my bed. “Do that one—
the dark brown. Goes really well with your eyes.”
“No thanks. I like this one.” I point to the silver.
She smirks, and my heart sinks. “Oh, dude.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just …” She smiles and nods at me like I’m supposed to finish the sentence. Then, “You can do the silver if you want to look like a middle schooler going to his first dance. If you want to look like a graduate, chuck it.”
“No.”
“When are you going to trust me?”
“Lily.” I give her warning eyes. “Remember? What we talked about?”
“Ohh, the … yeah.” “Yeah, that.”
“But like, this is graduation.” She bites her lip. “You want to look good, right?”
I keep staring at her.
“You’re still doing it,” I say. I’m seized by a rush of anger, the kind that makes you want to shout at someone until you’ve reduced them to tears.
“Okay, geez.” Lily’s eyes are wide. “I didn’t realize this fell into that category; I’m sorry. I figured it was just clothes.”
“Clothes count. Did you really not know that?”
“You want to do this here? When we are … moments from going to high school graduation?” she asks. She tenderly touches my arm, rubbing it. “How about this: Right now we focus on getting to the ceremony, then we’ll have more time on the senior week trip.”
“And we talk there.”
“Absolutely. And as far as this”—she points to the tie—“I’m just giving you my opinion, man; wear whatever you want. I’m just saying some people will think you look dumb if you wear the silver. But it’s up to you.”
