Mercy Rule

by Tom Leveen

  “It’s a felony, Danny,” Dad says. “And not the fun kind, either. This is the kind of thing that follows you around the rest of your life. Jesus Christ, child pornography. You really are out of your mind.”

  I clear my throat and fold my hands in front of me so I don’t swing at him.

  “Just so we’re clear,” I say, unable to even look him in the face because

  I

  AM

  SO

  PISSED.

  “It’s your contention that I— I— was in the locker room, with a phone that I told you multiple times was lost, and took a picture of a naked kid, and then posted it online. Because that’s the kind of thing I routinely do.”

  “We don’t know what you routinely do,” Mom says.

  “Except get into trouble,” Dad adds. Brilliantly.

  I nod slowly. “So, then, you are completely uninterested in the truth.”

  “What I’m interested in is the police not calling me at work,” Dad says.

  “Because that is becoming routine,” Mom jabs.

  “Touché.” I’m amazed they can’t see the forge-like heat of my rage emanating off my skin. Surprised it’s not burning them.

  I back up, slowly, carefully, no sudden moves.

  “Just for the record,” I say, “I did not do this. I am innocent. Even Dr. Flores believes me. I think. This is not something I would ever do. I have no interest in doing it, I don’t see the humor in it, and I don’t fancy people thinking of me as a pedophile. I also like to think that somewhere deep down in those primitive brains of yours you know I’m telling the truth—”

  “Danny—” Mom says.

  “— but the reality is, you have no interest in whether I’m telling the truth or not. And that, folks, is pretty much the part of this I will take to the grave.”

  They don’t even bother yelling at me as I walk carefully to my room and close the door.

  DONTE

  After weight room, me and Brady head for the showers. This one crazy fat kid who’s always drawing stuff on his arms and legs escaped a bit early, probably precisely so he could avoid this moment, when the athletes come in to get cleaned up before the next class starts.

  But I’m not in the mood to give him shit. I only ever do it for laughs, anyway. It’s not that it means anything. You got to be able to laugh at yourself, in my opinion, otherwise this world’s gonna make you crazy.

  I see faded black marker on the guy’s left arm, some kind of vine drawing. It’s kind of stupid to be all drawing on yourself, but the work is good. I can admit that to myself, anyway. And now that I think about it, the kid really has lost some weight. Good on him.

  We take fast showers, then head to our lockers. The fat kid is almost done getting dressed, standing by the long bench between rows of Spartan-blue lockers.

  “You fat shit,” Brady says out of nowhere.

  The kid doesn’t answer. He slows down, like Brady’s comment has dunked him in water, making every movement a struggle. But he doesn’t look over, doesn’t respond.

  Another guy— I think his name is Zach— walks past, drying his hair. Zach’s new to weight room this year, and it’s not working for him.

  Zach glances at us and disappears around a row of lockers. Then he backs up. “Hey, man,” he says to Brady.

  Brady turns and pulls his shoulders back. This Zach kid is tall— tall enough he should be playing basketball, but too skinny. Me and Brady can take him if we need to. Or want to.

  “What?” Brady says.

  “Look, not for nothing, but you’re like the king of the whole school,” the Zach kid says. “Everyone looks up to you. And this is what you’re going to do with it? With that kind of power?”

  “You trying to tell me what to do in my house?” Brady says, taking a pointedly slow and menacing step toward Zach.

  Zach just looks disappointed. “Really? Your house? Come on.”

  In that second, I see what Brady doesn’t. Zach’s not looking for a fight, but he won’t back away from one if one starts. There’s no way for this to end well for the team unless someone steps in.

  “It’s cool,” I say, putting myself between Brady and Zach. “We were just messing around, it’s cool.”

  “Cool,” Zach says easily. “Hey, have a great game Friday.”

  In my mind, I respect it. Zach said it with casual sincerity. He wasn’t kissing up like a lot of people might.

  “Thanks, man,” I say, and punch Zach on the arm. Not full strength, but enough to let him know that me at full strength would be a reckoning. Got to keep things in perspective.

  Zach nods a bit, then goes on his way. By that point the fat kid has snuck away, anyway. I notice it, but Brady doesn’t. He’s still scowling after Zach.

  “Lucky little bitch,” Brady says.

  “He’s cool, don’t worry about it. You all right, man?”

  Brady says nothing for a bit. Then he swings hard at the nearest locker, denting it. Then he swings again. And again. Soon he’s shouting. Cursing, swearing. Words I know very well but have never strung together in quite this order, or with quite this ferocity. Brady tears into the row of blue lockers like they’re linemen.

  I take a step back, putting myself in the walkway between rows. A few heads poke out from farther down, and I raise a warning hand: Don’t come over here. They need no more urging than that. They either pull back into their rows, or leave the locker room entirely, heads down. No, sir, didn’t hear or see a thing.

  A bell rings, and Brady’s head snaps up. He steps away from the lockers and drops down onto the center bench, breathing hard. Blood drips from his hands onto the concrete floor.

  I don’t budge. I’m pretty sure the locker room is empty now.

  It’s quiet right up until the final bell for next period. Seven minutes of silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of my quarterback.

  “Okay?” I say at last.

  “I’m gonna kill someone,” Brady says.

  “All right. Want any help?”

  “No.”

  And then he grunts something like a laugh. I can’t help snorting too, laughing at the stupidity of it all. Brady looks at his wrecked hands.

  “Coach’s gonna kick my ass.”

  “We’ll wrap them up,” I say. “I’ll get the ice and shit.”

  “I don’t know if I can throw today at practice.”

  “Sure you can, man.”

  “I don’t know, D. Swear to God. I don’t know.”

  “It’s the Wildcats Friday. We can mercy rule those suckers.”

  Brady grunts. Our team forced a mercy ruling against the Wildcats last year, and afterward we partied so hard not one us made it to practice Saturday morning. Coach never said a word about the missed practice; just gave us all a stern look Monday after school and said, “Keep your heads in the game. What kind of game is this?”

  “Man’s game!” the team shouted in unison.

  “What kind?”

  “Man’s game!”

  It was one of those Hollywood moments, and I figure Brady wants to relive it again this season— probably as badly as I do.

  “Be right back,” I say, and head to the first aid closet for the gear.

  I’d never admit it, but for a minute there I was actually scared. I’ve never worried about whether or not I could smoke Brady, because we’re friends. And because Brady keeps losing— or at least not gaining— any weight.

  But back there at what’s left of the lockers … man, if Brady cut loose like that on a guy, it wouldn’t be easy to get him down.

  By the time I’m done wrapping Brady’s hands, I still haven’t decided whether or not to tell Coach what happened. Brady doesn’t ask if I will or not.

  CADENCE

  I’m not supposed to leave campus for lunch because I’m a wee freshman. But the security guard at the gate doesn’t seem to care enough to check IDs. Pete drives me and Danny out of the parking lot and that’s that. This guy isn’t that worried about s
ecurity, I guess! I feel very grown-up and responsible, right up until Pete speaks.

  “I been thinking,” he says as he lights a joint. “We need really good names for our dicks.”

  Oh, dear. I could have stayed on campus, had my nice reduced-price lunch. But no. I elected to hang out with these two again.

  “Some really badass names,” Pete says. We turn right and head for McDonald’s. Gag reflex! Blegh!

  “For mine, too?” I ask him. I’m in shotgun again.

  “Oh, no,” Pete says, totally serious. “I’m just talking about me and Daniel-san. I mean, unless you got one. Then, yeah, that’s cool.”

  “I don’t. But thanks.”

  “So what do you mean?” Danny asks, taking the joint from Pete. “Like, Hulk?”

  “Yeah. Or like … Rock Jack! That’s totally my dick’s name.”

  “Or, how about Fluffy?” I say.

  Now I know why Pete lets me tag along. I crack him up. I mean, he can’t even breathe. What the heck, it’s the only time anyone laughs at me like this. Meaning, in the good way. “Or … Professor Flaccid?”

  He howls. I check to see if Danny’s smiling. Hmm … looking out the window. Maybe trying not to smile!

  “No no no,” Pete says, waving his hands in the air, the steering wheel a mere nuisance. “I got it … Doctor Boner the Third.”

  “This is great,” I say as he chokes to death. “I’ll get home today, and my dad will say, ‘What did you do in school today, Cadence?’ and I’ll say, ‘Sat around with two of my friends who got high and talked about what to name their penises,’ and then he’ll say, ‘Really? Where do they live? I’d like to remove their spinal cords with this ice cream scoop.’”

  Pete stops laughing.

  Danny says, “Really? He’d say that?”

  “Something like it, yeah. He was in the navy, remember? He’s kind of badass.”

  “Did he swab the poop deck?” Pete says, and he’s off again, rolling around in his seat in hysterics. The person trying to take our order at the drive-through is unimpressed.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I say to Pete.

  “That’s what my dad tells me,” Pete says. “Only he says ‘recockulous.’ Like, replaces ‘dic’ with ‘cock,’ get it?”

  “Uh … yeah,” I say. “Is he like a stand-up comic or something?” Come to think of it, that might explain some things about Pete!

  “Nah. He writes video games. Like, the story worlds and stuff. You guys want any? I got a shit-ton of them at home. I don’t really play much.”

  “Sure,” Danny says.

  “What do your parents do?” I ask Danny, since he never ever talks about them.

  “My mom’s a real estate agent,” he says.

  “Ugh, boring,” I say. “What about your dad?”

  Danny sits back in his seat, shutting his eyes. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Catholic priest!”

  “Good guess, but no.”

  Pete manages to order three Happy Meals. Fitting, somehow. Then we go to that same parking lot at the park.

  Pete finishes off the joint, chucks the end out the window, and opens his Happy Meal. Unwrapping what passes for a cheeseburger, Pete says to Danny, “You got any more Adderall coming you want to trade?”

  “Working on it,” Danny says, quiet.

  Pete turns on his stereo so we can listen to more “Floyd,” singing along, more stuff about life and death.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, reaching to turn down the volume. “What is it with all the drug stuff? I’m not judging, or I’m not trying to anyway, but like, really, explain it to me.”

  “What, you never want to just check out for a while?” Pete says. “It’s like recess, dude.”

  “If you say so.”

  “She doesn’t get it,” Danny says, eyes closed. “She’s Cadence. Everything’s all glitter and unicorns in her world.”

  “Awww!” I say sweetly. “You could go ahead and fuck yourself if you want.”

  That sure gets his attention. Danny blinks rapidly at me while Pete freezes with his cheeseburger halfway to his mouth.

  “S’matter?” I say. “I can’t say any F-bombs in my glittery unicorn world? You’re not the only one with problems, Danny. You’re not the only one who wants a recess every once in a while. My mom and my dad and my brother drive me crazy sometimes. Johnny gets so depressed we can’t get him to leave his room for weeks. My dad’s done stuff for the navy he’s not even allowed to talk about and we know it drives him crazy. I have to go to this school where everyone’s so mean to each other all the time. Then there’s you guys, who I like a lot, but all you want to do is get high and jump in on the meanness! All I did was ask a question and you had to go all dickhead on me.”

  Danny doesn’t say anything. His expression is way too hard for me to read. Pete makes a theatrical show of turning the volume back up on the stereo so it won’t seem like we’re not talking to each other.

  When we get back to school, there are two security guys standing at the parking lot entrance, and they’re checking every ID of every person in every car coming back onto campus.

  Curses. Foiled again. Happy Meal, indeed! I’m busted for being a wee freshman off campus, and Pete gets busted for being the big bad junior driving the car with the wee freshman inside it. Danny gets in no trouble at all.

  Fortunately, Pete isn’t upset by the fresh new referral he got handed, although I’m not happy about mine. But then, I knew what I was doing. My bad. We’ll have to put in an hour of detention after school this week. I figure I’ll do mine today, get it over with. Pete says he’ll probably skip it all together, because there’s a chance our referrals will just get lost in the system.

  Danny doesn’t say anything.

  So I figure, whatever, not my problem, I’ve done nothing but be nice to him, I don’t need to sit around being a punching bag for his drama. “Do I got Everlast stamped on my forehead?” Dad says sometimes when me or Johnny or Mom get bitchy. “Then don’t beat me up.”

  VIVI

  I ditch the entire morning’s worth of classes, car shopping with Aunt Marlene. The salesman is dubious at first, but Marlene’s no fool. She convinces him that we are not only serious, but we also have cash. So by the time the bell goes off to end lunch, I’m driving into the student parking lot with a new model year Chevy Camaro. And this car— oh, this car, she is nice to me. She purrs along the streets, taking turns smooth as a sports car should. She’s red. Caliente red. Cops-more-likely-to-pull-you-over red.

  But while I love my new car, it doesn’t help. It doesn’t change what they said, or what they think of me. It won’t fix my parents being apart. Nothing will fix that.

  I brought it home first to show Daddy, still high off the new car smell. Daddy looked at it from the window of the downstairs guest bedroom where he is staying while he heals. He didn’t say anything for a long time. I thought he was angry.

  He wasn’t. He put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Things are different, mija. We’ll be okay.”

  I thought it would make me feel better. Shove that white trash crap right back into THE Brianna Montaro’s face. Into all of their stupid faces. I’m going to get straight 100s this year, and steal that valedictorian right out from under that … bitch.

  I want to believe him when he says we’ll be okay. I just can’t yet. I haven’t even told him about me and Sam.

  Sam.

  I still have to talk to him. I’ve got to, before it’s too late.

  He texted me all yesterday, and then again this morning, between classes based on the time stamp. Walking to sixth hour, I know he’ll be there, in Mrs. Garcia’s class, and I have to talk to him. But should I tell him the truth, tell him exactly what his ex said to me? I don’t know.

  Sam isn’t paying any attention to Mrs. Garcia. I know this because he keeps staring at me, but pretending not to. I pretend to listen to Mrs. Garcia. Pretend not to know that Sam is watching me.
/>   Sitting beside Brianna Montaro makes my stomach hurt. She is not pretending to pay attention— she really is. She scribbles furiously in a notebook, and I know she’s recording the entire class on her phone, artfully hidden in a blouse pocket. Is that against the rules? I don’t think so. Having a phone out is, though.

  While I’m watching her, Brianna Montaro shoots a wicked glare my way. Except not at my face. At my desk. Not cheating— we’re not having a quiz or test. She wants to see what I’ve written for notes.

  What I’ve written so far is: HAMLET, REVENGE, GUILDENSTERN, a small heart, and SAM.

  “For all Hamlet’s talk about revenge,” Mrs. Garcia is saying, “the truth is, Hamlet also wants the throne. So while he does technically get his revenge on Claudius, Hamlet doesn’t obtain what he’s really after, which is his father’s place on the throne of Denmark. Hamlet loses.”

  Brianna Montaro snorts, quietly. It’s like she’s empathizing. Saying, Yeah, Hamlet, I always lose, too.

  Whatever.

  “Hamlet ultimately loses everything because of his single-minded pursuit of vengeance,” Mrs. Garcia says.

  “Is that the— what’s it called— theme?” Zach says.

  “Maybe,” Mrs. Garcia with a teacherly shrug. “What do you think? Does vengeance ever come without cost?”

  It’s been almost exactly twenty-four hours since I talked to Sam. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me since the move. But how can I tell him what happened in the bathroom yesterday, what Brianna and those girls said about me? This isn’t like the Sharpie thing. We didn’t know each other then, and I didn’t know he was Brianna’s ex. This is … personal.

  Because the truth is, maybe she was right. Maybe I really am what she said. I feel like an imposter as it is, living in that house, in that neighborhood, where my dad’s skin color and name and accent scare and confuse the neighbors. I can see them imagining weed trimmers and portable, gasoline-operated leaf blowers in his hands.

  It doesn’t matter which half of my race those girls attacked. It all feels the same.

  And Sam did go out with her. He saw something he liked, right? What if this whole thing with him and me is fake? What if he’s really just one of them in disguise? So I can’t talk to him. I’m too scared, too embarrassed. What if I told him what happened, and he starts laughing at me, or worse? What if this one good thing that’s come out of the move is going to be taken away?