Tonight We Rule the World

by Zack Smedley

  “Okay, different question: Do you have any desire to finish our last conversation?” he asks. “About what happened, I mean.” “What do you care?”

  He looks pissed at the question. “Because I have a brain?” I knock my sneakers together.

  “I didn’t trust you when I first met you,” I tell him. “Oh yeah?” Luke says, his brow knitting. “Was I acting weird?”

  “Not really.”

  “So you’re just suspicious of everyone you meet, or …?”

  “As a matter of fact, yeah.” I glare at the pavement, wanting to say more. I want to tell him how I trusted people, until I didn’t. And once you fuck that, it never gets un-fucked up. It’s just gone, and it stays gone, and people like him who had nothing to do with it are stuck dealing with it.

  Instead, I just wave in his direction. “Trust doesn’t come back.

  I wish it did. I wish it was like your, your … spleen or whatever, where if you damage it, the organ re-grows—”

  “You mean your liver?”

  “Which organ re-grows?”

  “Your liver.”

  “Then that’s what I meant.”

  He smirks at his lap. I wait for him to look at me for the next part.

  “I decided to trust you even though I didn’t think I should.” I shrug. “Don’t ask why. I don’t know what kind of … magic you worked, or whatever, but I thought, ‘You know what, maybe this guy isn’t that bad.’”

  “And then I completely blew that up,” Luke says. “Yeah. I get it.”

  “But you don’t.” I lean toward him, framing up the air. “You were it, dude. When I got home from the library, I was all set to cut ties with Lily. I was an inch away from being out of the woods. Then you did what you did, and turned out to be exactly what I was afraid of. So I stayed with her—I put up with another thousand pounds of bullshit, and that’s what I’m pissed about. That’s the part you don’t get.” I rub my forehead, my voice strained. “You were the silver bullet, man. And you fucked me.”

  We both blink at the pavement for a while.

  “Well,” Luke says, still soft, “you’re right. I didn’t know any of that, and yeah. Of course that’s going to feel awful; I can only imagine.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I reported it to the school because I’m an idiot,” he says. “That’s the short version. The long version is that I was scared for you, and—as I may have mentioned one or two or a million times—I have serious problems with figuring out when to pull the trigger on something.”

  “Scared?” I laugh. He doesn’t.

  v“I’m serious,” he says. “We were all set at the end of the night, and I was like, ‘Heck yeah, we’re good.’ Then you said that thing at the end about staying with your girlfriend because you—quote—‘didn’t have a choice.’ And this can be a gray area, right? It’s a big ol’ mess. But we’d just said all that stuff about me not listening to doubt, and I was all turned around. I literally thought because I was scared to do it meant that I should; and by the time I decided, hey, maybe I shouldn’t, I already had.”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “Yeah, no shit, dude!” He spits out a scoff, grabbing his own head. “Do you have any idea how it felt when you texted me later that day, and I realized I’d undone … I mean, everything? For it to turn out exactly like all my other screw-ups—but about you, and about this—dude. I’ll say it any number of times you want: I fucked up. And the only reason I’m even still bringing it up is because it’s important to me that you know I thought I was doing the opposite. And I’m sorry.”

  Now it’s my turn to take that in.

  The two of us finish our ice cream in silence. He throws away my napkin for me afterward.

  “Can I ask you something?” Luke says.

  “Yeah.”

  “You called me a silver bullet earlier.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why does there have to be one at all?”

  “Because I need one.” I shrug at him. “Simple as that. I can’t pull myself out of this shit without one. I’d need to … tell more people what happened, and I’m too much of a pussy to do that.”

  “Have you tried to?”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing with the devil’s advocate thing here, but trust me when I say there’s nothing you can suggest that I haven’t thought of a hundred times before.”

  He repeats, more gently, “Have you tried to?”

  I purse my lips, squeezing my eyes shut. I can’t look at him.

  “Alright.” Luke scoots a little closer to me. “Hypothetically. If you were going to get out of this. Where would you start?”

  “I’d tell people what happened.”

  “But which people?”

  “Someone who could do something about it.” “Who would that be for you?” My eyes are still shut.

  Until I pull out my phone, shakily type a text message, and hit send:

  Can I come see you tonight?

  Dad’s reply, almost instant, is simply an address. I wipe my nose on my arm.

  “Side note,” Luke adds. “I’m clearly not good at advice, so take all that with a big ol’ grain of salt.”

  “Oh.” I wave the phone at him. “Too late. You should’ve told me thirty seconds ago.”

  “Well, there I go again.” But he pats my shoulder and says, “I hope it works out.”

  The two of us stand.

  “What happens now?” I ask him as we amble toward the car. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want this to be the last time I talk to you.” “It doesn’t need to be.” Luke shrugs, his face scrunching up. “But I want to let all this … marinate. I think that’d be good.” “For what, a few days?”

  “Mm …” We reach my car, and Luke stops so he can face me. “I’m thinking more like a few months.” “Is that … negotiable? Can I text you?” “Sorry, man.” He shakes his head. “This is what I want.” “I’m not mad at you anymore.”

  “But that’s the thing—you should be, right?” He smiles at me, but his voice is serious. “I appreciate you hearing me out, but I’m not going to pretend I was right to do what I did just because you’re okay with it. Like, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to. But you just told me how much I screwed up your trust—a lot, it sounds like—and I’m hearing you, and I want to make that right. So I’m not comfortable just … magically fixing things in one conversation, like, ‘woohoo, we’re good!’ Like, I actually wouldn’t be comfortable with that. I’m right there on the path with you, friend. This is me; this is you …” He holds up two hands. “And we’re going like this.” He moves them upward, side by side without touching. “We might want them to do this”—he rubs them together—“but they can’t do that until they get way the heck over here, right?” And he lifts his hands all the way above his head. Then he drops them with a shrug. “Maybe that’s me being a stubborn asshole.”

  “A little.”

  “A little, for sure. What else is new, right?”

  I watch him say all this. And I think about how he’s treated me: always listening, asking how I’m feeling, never judging me or making me feel wrong for liking the things I like. It’s so easy to breathe around him. And I ache with how much I wish that day back in ninth grade had gone differently—what my life could’ve looked like if I’d ignored Lily’s wave just like Luke did to her; and if I’d approached Luke just like Lily did to me.

  I want to say all this.

  I want to say, You gave something back to me that I thought was gone for good.

  I want to say, God, the things we could’ve been.

  (God, the things we could’ve been.)

  “Tell you what,” Luke says, clearly seeing that I’m disappointed. “Here’s what we’ll do. You go do your thing at Lanham, have a good semester. Then when you’re back for winter break, if you want to get coffee or have another night in the library …” He taps the emblem on his shirt. “You’ll know where to find me. We’ll pick this back up t
hen.”

  I open my mouth to push back. But I hear the sureness in his voice and I see the victory in his eyes, and I can tell this is the way forward … not just for me, but for him too. He’s finally taking hold of his own behavior: action without impulse. A proper plan.

  I swallow a lump, knowing it’s time to leave now—I have a drive ahead of me.

  So I say, “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Good. Sounds like a plan, Stan.”

  “My name’s not Stan.”

  “I know it’s not.” He looks right at me. “Take care, Owen.” “Don’t tell me what to do,” I say in a voice full of fake, indignant anger. But we’re already hugging.

  FOUR

  I LEAVE FOR DAD’S CABIN DIRECTLY FROM THE parking lot, just as the sun sets to touch the highway. It’s the longest drive I’ve ever made on my own—eighty-two miles.

  I start out choking the wheel in an iron grip, keeping my eyes on the road and my mind fixed on breathing slowly. I feel myself gradually relax mile by mile, owning the fact that I’m still moving, still here, still safe. Putting pavement behind me and moving myself through unfamiliar towns.

  A warning light appears on the dashboard about halfway through the trip, but I realize it’s just the low fuel indicator. My first instinct is panic, but I beat it back and adapt. Pull off the road, refuel, pull back on, and continue. I decide I want strawberry milk, so I run inside the mini-mart and buy some.

  I can do that.

  (Still moving, still here, still safe.)

  The whole trip takes just over an hour and a half. The road disappears for the final stretch, giving way to gravel and dirt. Another mile of darkness, and then I spot it: a tiny little light at the top of the hill. The incline feels too steep to drive, so I park at its foot.

  I shut off the car, letting go of the wheel and leaning back. My hands hurt, but my chest is lighter.

  (Eighty-two miles.)

  Made it.

  It washes over me the instant I open my car door: overwhelming silence. Absolute absence of all stimuli; stillness in all directions. No cars, no horns, no lights, no footsteps, no music, no noises. Total tranquility.

  I’d always pictured the cabin as being in the middle of a thick forest, but I find that this is the opposite—the hill overlooks nothing but open field, an endless expanse of land. Moonlight etches odd patterns over the ground, sending skewed shadows in every direction. And to my right, lying in the grass as I march toward the cabin: hand-built bookshelves. One, then another … another. Dozens of them, enough to fill a library; all tossed in an enormous pile like a stack of broken toys. Polished wood weathered by rain and snow and sleet. I recognize my father’s craftsmanship as I run my hand over several of them; all are nearly identical save for the tiniest, almost indistinct differences between each. A decorative notch placed half an inch higher than the others. A crosspiece angled at forty-six degrees instead of forty-five. A whole mountain of imperfect iterations—a hundred failures.

  (Builder.)

  Every last one of them is riddled with bullet holes.

  (Destroyer.)

  He didn’t get them perfectly spaced, but he tried.

  (Dad.)

  I send a warning text as I approach the door. A wooden sign is mounted on it, the cabin’s name burned into the grain:

  Valhalla

  I knock twice, then try the knob—it’s unlocked. Light spills onto the dirt under my shoes, climbing farther and farther as I swing the door open.

  I’m standing in the Studio.

  The room in front of me is laid out identically to it. There’s a copy of everything, even down to the area rug. On the right, an old TV is bolted to the wall. Hanging beside it are a dozen photographs of our family, as well as uniformed people I don’t recognize. Below that, a sword mounted to a polished wooden plaque that reads 0341. On the left, a leather couch and handmade coffee table, seated directly beneath a square skylight. And sitting in my chair at a writing desk identical to my own: my father.

  He lifts his head from his phone—my text on the screen—and I meet the gaze of a man who’s aged fifty years in five weeks. His face is falling off; drooping, pale. Where there was once a pristine buzz cut, his hair is grown out—stringy and more matted white than silver. His stiff hands, weathered with blisters, rest limply on a polished wooden walking cane. His eyes are gaunt and gray, dimmer than before. Wearier.

  He’s the world’s tallest walking corpse—chewed up and spat out by a war that never wanted him. Tiny.

  He says my name like it’s a question.

  I don’t answer.

  He gets up with a grunt, leaning on the cane and limping to usher me into the next room. The cabin is larger than it seems on the outside—just off the living room is a little eating area, complete with a wood-burning stove and freestanding sink. A handmade table sits with two chairs along the wall, where I spot the old drawing of mine hanging up:

  Me + Dada.

  “There’s Kava tea on the stove if you want some,” Dad says. “What’s that?”

  “It’s made from the roots of the Piper methysticum plants in the garden out back. The kavalactones in it help ease the mind.” “I thought you couldn’t stand gardening.” “I can’t.” “So why do it?”

  “It’s how you get the best tea.”

  The ensuing silence makes me realize a contemporary classical tune is playing gently from a turntable in the corner. Max Richter, I think.

  I nod toward his cane. “What happened? Did you hurt your knees?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “About twelve years ago. It’s just now that I’m doing something about it.” He taps it on the ground. The polished handle has elegant carvings etched below it.

  In a steady voice, I tell him, “Please sit down.”

  The entire ocean empties out of my chest, giving me the ultimate rush as I murmur the order and—incredibly—he obeys. I seat myself across from him at the kitchen table. For a moment we just look to each other … utterly drained, the both of us. So spent. Worn away and whittled down into these feeble skeletons.

  There we stay.

  (Until.)

  “Please pass me that,” I tell him, gesturing to a jar of pens on the table. Then I ask him to get us pieces of paper. Once again, he obeys.

  “What is this?” Dad asks when he returns to his seat, arms folded.

  I take one of the papers and pens and tell him to do the same. “What is this?” Dad repeats.

  I look at him, wielding the pen in my hand like a weapon and say, “I’m going to tell you what happened. And you’re going to tell me too.”

  “What is this?” Dad repeats.

  “I’m going to write down everything that happened to me that night. And I know there are things that happened to you too that you can’t say. The shit that made you hit me that time when I was little and put bruises on Mom’s arms while you were asleep. So I want you to write those too. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “Owen.” Dad is speaking in a new voice now—weaker, but more agitated. “I’m not going to do that.”

  “You need to.”

  He doesn’t blink. Neither do I.

  “You’re right,” I finally say. “I don’t need to know; I get that. But I want to.”

  “You do not; Owen, please, I promise you. There is a reason I’ve never told you this shit, okay. Your mother, either. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about with my stuff either.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “I want us to.”

  “Owen.”

  “I want us to know what we’re talking about. I want us to talk.”

  “I’m asking you. Please.”

  I stare at him until he looks away.

  “There’s something important I need you to understand,” I say. I reach for words and find them. “You asked me over and over again who did it. And I didn’t want to tell you.”
/>   “I know.”

  “I’m here now because I do. Not because any of that shit you did actually worked. And not because I’m trying to get some apology out of you.”

  “Owen.” Dad shakes his head like a child who won’t eat. “I don’t want your forgiveness, okay. That’s a thing that’s earned.”

  “I’m agreeing with you—I didn’t come here to forgive anything. I came here to talk,” I say. “We’ve never talked. Not in the real way. I want us to be people who talk about everything; that’s what I want.” I take a breath. “And I came here to tell you what happened on my terms, not yours. So that’s my counteroffer; that’s what I’m asking. I’m asking you to share your shit since I’m sharing mine. If you don’t want to, fine—it’s not like I can force you. But I’m asking.”

  He looks to me, then to the roof.

  I look to the roof, then to him.

  He shakes his head.

  And picks up his pen.

  “I’m going to start writing now,” I say.

  Dad keeps perfectly still save for the sharp, quick tracing of his pen over the pad. Ink striking paper.

  I rub my eyes as I start to write. I pause, trying to tap into the words that could embody everything stirring in my head, as I start to write. I think of Lily—wincing, wading through all our memories and making little noises—as I start to write. I think of my classmates—all the rumors floated about the incident—as I start to write. I think of my father as I start to write. And I start to write.

  FIVE

  The Story.

  SIX

  WHEN I FINISH READING MY FATHER’S WORDS, I STAND and begin to pace with my hands over my trembling mouth—willing myself to not get sick.

  When my father finishes reading mine, he does the same thing.

  The two of us eventually collapse into chairs in the living room—me on the sofa, him in a seat dragged from the kitchen. I fold my arms, but he stays like he was—hands frozen over his mouth. Failure written all over his face.

  “Oh God.” Dad shakes his head. “Owen. Oh my God.”

  I don’t answer. Images are running wild in my mind—grotesque scenes of horror and hell painted by my father’s words.