by Heidi Ayarbe
“You’re the one who shoulda died,” said Alex. “You’re the fucking loser who followed Jason around. You’re the fucking shadow.”
A quiet rage surged through me. Troy, Pinky, and Alex turned crimson, erasing the gray of the hallway and the purple of the evening light. I reached for Alex’s neck and shoved him against the locker.
He trembled, his breath rank with fear.
29
“How could you do this, Kyle? This isn’t you.” Mom paced back and forth. “This is—Jesus, I need some air.”
Who am I, then?
I held an ice pack to my head.
I didn’t remember the explosion. I didn’t remember anything but Cordoba holding on to me. Holding me back. Bringing back the gray. And Alex. Whimpering, crying, begging, pissing.
That would be some mess for Janitor Parker to clean up.
Principal Velásquez tapped her fingernails on the desk. Tackity-tackity-tackity… pause…tackity-tackity-tackity.
Mark stormed in through the door. “What happened?”
My head throbbed. Alex’s mom held him in her arms. He sobbed in the corner of the room, far away from the rest of us.
We waited for Troy’s and Pinky’s parents to come. When they arrived, we all sat around an oval table in the meeting room, Alex included. Mom and Dad stood behind me.
“Kyle, why don’t you begin?” Tackity-tackity-tackity… pause.
“I, um—”
“He was gonna kill me!” Alex shouted. “That’s what was gonna happen. He had me in a choke hold. He wouldn’t let go. He’s a freak. A killer. He probably killed Jason on purpose too.” Alex wiped his nose.
The hair bristled on the back of my neck and my breathing became shallower. Maybe he was right.
Mrs. Keller hugged Alex and stroked his hair. “My baby, my baby,” she whispered. She was one of those hairspray casino moms. Lots of makeup, glittery jewelry, and high heels.
“Kyle,” Dad said, moving forward. “Can you tell us anything at all?”
Indiana Jones was named after George Lucas’s dog. Fuck or derivatives of the word are used 272 times in Reservoir Dogs. The Blair Witch Project was filmed in eight days.
“Kyle, I’m talking to you.” Dad pulled up a chair beside me and put his hand over mine.
I jerked my hand back, then felt embarrassed for Dad. His only son couldn’t stand to be touched.
Jesus, I’m a freak. They’re right. They’re all right.
Dad crossed his arms and sighed. “Kyle, can you tell us anything?”
I thought of the soft library light, the quiet dark hallway, and the thundering pain. “I don’t know.”
The other parents started to talk at once about my mental instability; my obvious psychopathic tendencies; my explosive temper. “I demand that he be expelled today, right now. I will not have my son go to school with such a violent boy.” Pinky looked really small next to his parents. Even his thumbs. So much for genetic engineering. They were a family of mutants.
What’s worse, Jase: being a freak or a mutant?
What’s the diff?
Good point.
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Mr. Cordoba said. “As I said before, he was protecting himself. Do I have to point out that Kyle is the only one here bleeding?”
Nobody said anything. The meatheads’ parents glared and stayed quiet for a while.
“Who, then, hit you with the bottle today?” Tackitytackity-tackity… pause.
“I don’t know.” That was the truth. It was too dark. “One of them, I guess, since they were there and all. But I don’t know who.”
“Principal Velásquez, every student has a right to defend him-or herself from harm. Kyle was, in my opinion, doing just that.” Mr. Cordoba crossed his arms. He looked even bigger than Mark.
Mr. Cordoba’s defense propelled Dad and Mom into action. They were exempt from guilt—from having to live with the possibility that their only son was a serial killer, stalking popular kids throughout high schools everywhere, ruthlessly murdering them. “Kyle, have they attacked you before? Do they bully you?” Mom asked.
I wasn’t gonna rat. Rats sucked more than the fucking jock squad. “Um, in PE things get a little rough sometimes. Normal stuff, though. No big deal.”
“Bullying?” Pinky’s mom pushed her chair out and stood tall. Everybody else followed suit, leaving me alone at the table. It was like a scene from 12 Angry Men. I could've renamed it 12 Angry Parents, Parole Officers, and School District Employees. Pinky’s mom towered over everyone except for Mr. Cordoba. “There’s no proof that my son has ever laid a finger on your son.” She glared at me. “And only one boy in this room has a parole officer.” She flashed Mark a look.
I kept my mouth shut.
“Well, if there’s bullying going on at this school, I think we need to address it, Principal Velásquez. Here and now.” Mom was on fire. She didn’t even reach Pinky’s mom’s shoulder. I hoped she’d be able to run fast in case we needed to bolt. I looked at Pinky’s mom’s thumbs. Huge. And she had the arm span of an ape.
“Bullying? In this school? It has never been brought to my attention.” Tackity-tackity-tackity, tacka-tacka-tackity.
The only thing separating these guys from gangsters was their letterman jackets.
“Are these boys the perpetrators, Kyle?” Mom asked.
Perpetrators? “It’s just PE class. No big deal.”
“But he tried to choke me,” Alex whined.
I didn’t remember that part. I just remembered the red—the anger.
“All of you get in-house suspension. All four of you.” Tackity-tackity-tackity.
“What about basketball? We haven’t lost a game all season.” Alex jumped from his chair. Snot bubbles formed and popped.
Principal Velásquez crossed her arms in front of her. “Well, I guess you’ll enjoy watching it from the stands. You’re all off the team until after your suspension.”
“Oh, you’ll be hearing from us, Principal Velásquez.” Pinky’s mom stomped toward the door. Principal Velásquez’s diplomas rattled against the walls. “We’re not through here.”
“Oh, Ms. Deiterstein, I do believe we are finished.” Principal Velásquez didn’t take shit from anybody—especially parents. “And all of you will complete these anger-management and conflict-resolution packets. Due after winter break in January.”
Nobody said anything.
“Tomorrow you gentlemen will begin your in-house suspension. I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make tonight—including one to Coach Copeland. Thanks for coming, everybody.” She grabbed each parent’s hand. I wondered if her nails dug into them when she squeezed.
Mark nodded triumphantly and shook Mr. Cordoba’s hand. “Thanks.” Then he clapped me on the back…again. “Never again, Kyle. This can never happen again. Got it?”
“Sure, Mark. It won’t.”
“You’ve got to let it go. Let it go when these kids go after you like that.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Okay, Kyle. Good. We’re good now.” Mark put on his jacket.
Pinky, Troy, and Alex followed their parents out the door.
“I can’t believe she thinks she can kick me off the basketball team,” Alex muttered.
Mr. Cordoba cleared his throat. “I don’t think it would be prudent for the four of them to be together. Kyle had better do his suspension in the library.”
Tackity-tackity-tackity… pause…tackity-tackity-tackity. “Sounds reasonable.”
Mom, Dad, and I walked to the parking lot. It was like the reels of our lives had been taken and filmed over—just blurry images were left on the film. I wondered if Jason’s death would eat us away, bit by bit, until we crumbled into nothing.
Mark rumbled off on his Harley. Mom and Dad got into the car.
Mr. Cordoba walked next to me. I half waved and said, “Thank you.”
He stopped and looked me in the eyes. “A book must be an ice axe to break the seas frozen ins
ide our soul.”
I sighed. “What?”
“Kafka,” he said, and handed me a book.
My head hurt too much to even think about some nutty novel. I looked down. The Catcher in the Rye. I flipped it open and saw Jason’s crooked signature—no caps. Tears burned my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered.
Mr. Cordoba put his hand on my shoulder and nodded.
30
They wanted to take me to the ER to make sure I wasn’t brain damaged or something. But they calmed down once my head stopped bleeding.
We dropped Dad off at the Hub. He had to relieve some worker who’d called in sick. Everybody called in “sick” around the holidays, especially Thanksgiving.
When we got to Richmond Avenue, I looked in the Bishops’ front window. Mrs. Bishop still had that candle lamp lit, waiting for Jason to come back. Mom didn’t talk until we walked in the door. “Sit. Now.” She pulled out a kitchen chair. “We need to talk.”
Not that again.
“Look at me.” Mom crossed her arms.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a big deal.” I went to the fridge for some peanut butter and jelly.
“Kyle Michael Caroll, I want to know what’s going on with you. You’re distant, withdrawn, and now this? I’m worried about you.”
“So, what? I can’t defend myself?”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” she said. “It’s…it’s everything.” She paused. “That boy was terrified, Kyle.”
My jaw muscles tightened. I clenched my fists around the jar of jelly, feeling an electric surge shoot through my body. It was like I was at the edge of a cliff and any minute, any second, I could jump and crash to the ground.
“We just—” She sighed. “We want things to be normal for you again.”
“Why? Why do you want things normal for me? So life can be easier for you?” The burning started up in my stomach again.
“Kyle…” Mom’s voice trailed off.
“Why doesn’t anybody have the balls to say that things will never be the same again? How come that’s so hard to say?” I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. I swallowed and bit my lower lip.
“You keep pushing us away. You won’t let us help. You won’t move on. We don’t know what to think, Kyle.”
Move on? Move on? I have no right to move on.
I felt the heat creep up my body and fill everything with crimson red. The edge of the cliff was a step away. I jumped into the void. “I’m sick of all the bullshit.” I clutched the jelly jar. “You have no idea how I have felt every single day since then. You have no idea,” I whispered. Sweat beaded on my forehead. “And you want me to move on? Tell that to Jason. Tell that to Chase. Tell that to the Bishops!” I squeezed the jar. It shattered and fell to the floor. I looked down. Drops of blood mixed with globs of raspberry jelly.
Everything went into slow motion. Mom and I looked from the blood to my hand to outside the front window. We watched Mel drive up and run into the house. She came into the kitchen and looked from me to Mom. “Oh, wow, Kyle. Are you okay?”
I nodded.
“Can I help?” She came forward.
I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Mel stepped out of the kitchen.
Mom grabbed a towel. “Put your hand over the sink. I need to pull out the glass.”
I wanted to close my fist and grind the pieces into my palm. But Mom looked horrified, so I held my throbbing hand over the sink, watching the blood trickle out of the cuts.
“Kyle?” Mom said. “What can we do? What can we do to help you?” Mom held my hands in hers.
I looked down at where my orange sneaker tips poked out from under my pants. I didn’t know if I’d make it another 144 days. I didn’t know if I could even make it one more day. “Nothing.”
Mom ran her fingers through her hair. “Okay. I, um, maybe we should call Dr. Matthews?”
I sighed. They hadn’t realized that my visits with Dr. Matthews were a waste of time.
On the way to my room, I turned around at the top of the staircase. Mom looked so far away, like I was seeing her through a camera lens.
In my room, I flicked off the lights, threw myself onto the bed, and stared up at the ceiling. Somehow, I finally fell asleep.
The rope burns, scraping across my neck. “Nah, you do it.”
“Fuck, why do I always have to do things first?”
“You’re taller.” I loop it around his neck.
“See, that’s not so hard. Watch this.” He jumps, swinging back and forth, back and forth, a happy grin on his face.
Then his body jerks.
Hiccups.
Spasms.
He smiles.
I watch the smile fade—first the lips disappear, then nose, eyes. A blank face. Nothingness.
I jerked awake and gasped for air. I grabbed a blanket and crept into the hall. Lying outside Mel’s door, I waited until the first light of morning.
31
When light from Mom and Dad’s room spilled into the hallway, I tiptoed back to my bed.
“Kyle? It’s time for school.” Mom called through my door.
I faked a horrible cough and lay under the covers, working up a sweat.
Mom knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”
“Yes,” I said in my most gravelly voice.
Mom came in and placed her hand on my forehead. “You have a fever.”
I nodded. It wasn’t too hard to look sick, since I’d lost about fifteen pounds over the past eight weeks and had hardly slept in days. My face had taken on a kind of skull-and-crossbones look.
Dad came in. “He’d better stay home today.”
Mom looked worried. “I can’t miss another day of work. Are you covered at the Hub?”
Dad shook his head.
“I’ll be fine,” I whispered. “I just need sleep.”
Mom bit her lower lip and scowled. She looked at her watch.
“It’s just a few hours. I’ll come home after the lunch rush,” Dad said. “And he can call me if he needs anything. You’ll call, right, Kyle?”
I closed my eyes and pretended to drift back to sleep.
“I’ll tell the school.” Mom’s heels clacked down the stairs.
The familiar sounds of breakfast drifted to my room. Mom burned Dad’s eggs again. I heard Mel laughing at something Dad said. They actually sounded happy. Free. Free from Kyle.
Before leaving for work, Mom slipped into my room and kissed my cheek, her eyes filled with concern. “Will you be okay for a few hours?”
I grunted. “Yeah. Don’t worry.”
She put my cell phone on the bedside table. “You call Dad if you need anything, and he’ll be home before you know it.” She bit her lip. “You know how much we love you, right?”
I listened as they left the house, the front lock clicking and car doors slamming. Then I got up and grabbed my notebook. Maybe if I remembered, it would be okay.
SCENE THREE: Take Eleven—Chinese fantasy (Zhang Yimou) style
Dissonant violins play in the background. The sound of bullets ricocheting off objects overtakes the score. FADE OUT score.
WIDE-ANGLE SHOT of the scene. The shed is at the left-hand corner of the shot. It’s a high-contrast color shot; the white of the shed stands out against the green grass and bamboo in the background.
CUT TO: Kyle crouching down to squeeze out the dew from his pajama pants. He pauses, catches his breath, then stands again.
CUT TO: Jason, holding the gun, twirling it, and shooting at various targets in the shed.
The camera ZOOMS OUT, and we see light streaming into the shed like crisscrossing strings, surrounding Jason. Kyle is in the background, hardly visible in the shadows.
ZOOM OUT: Jason shoots, the bullet piercing the roof of the shed.
CLOSE-UP of Kyle. He pauses, then does a martial-arts triple flip and pokes his finger through the bullet hole in the ceiling, landing safely on the ground.
J
ASON
(Holds the gun out to Kyle.) Check this baby out. It’s pretty tight, huh?
KYLE
Sweet, Jase. That’s sweet.
JASON
What do you wanna do?
KYLE
I dunno. What are we s’posed to do with it?
JASON
(Pulls up T-shirt collar around his neck, like a pastor. He scowls.)
Well, Kyle, let’s see what our options are. We could A: put the gun away and continue to freeze, B: put the gun to good use, or C (and my personal favorite): rob the local convenience store, frame Mel and Brooke, move to the Cayman Islands, and never, ever have to work again.
KYLE
(Relaxes his shoulders and laughs.) We don’t work now, you moron.
CLOSE-UP shot of our hero—Jason. Blindfolded.
JASON:
Do it! Just do it!
Silence. The ricocheting bullets have stopped. We hear a sickening sound as the bullet pierces Jason.
ZOOM OUT. The shed is in the left-hand corner of the shot. Fall turns to winter to spring, then summer, then fall.
ZOOM IN. Jason lying in a puddle of blood.
CUT TO Kyle, staring at Jason.
CUT TO the gun in Kyle’s hand.
The dissonant sound of violins begins again, accompanied by the sound of the wind through the trees. FADE OUT.
I reread the entry. More dialogue, but still incomplete. I closed my eyes. Remember, I thought. Just remember. But nothing came. Just the shrill sound of the bullet as it left the gun’s barrel, and Jason buckling over. I put my notebook away and got dressed. I walked out to the shed and held my hands against the door. The cold seeped from the metal surface through my gloves. Snowflakes tumbled from the sky. Gusts of wind whipped them into a whirling frenzy. I clasped my hands in front of me and closed my eyes.
