That leaves Step 3.
Bruce cracks the trunk of his Volvo and glances both ways, real suspicious, like bad guys do in detective movies. I think maybe he’s joking until he pulls out two industrial-size permanent markers. The kind sold at art supply stores. The kind dumbasses use for tagging. He plants one in my palm before I can pull my hand away. It sits in my fist, feeling like a weapon, or, more accurately, like a get-expelled-for-life baton.
“Bruce . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” he tries assuring me. “We’ll be quick. No one’s going to know.”
“I don’t think—”
“Come on!” The cutoff is harsh, letting me know he’s done caring about consequences or what I think. I follow him back into the school, stuffing the triple-size permanent marker into my gym bag.
We make it down into enemy territory inside of a minute—the varsity football locker room. This is serious. Too serious to involve others. Graffiti is grounds for immediate expulsion, no questions asked. No one else can know what we’re doing or be able to prove it. Bruce performs a speedy reconnaissance around the locker room to make sure we’re alone. Trying to explain our presence in the varsity football locker room would be impossible.
Satisfied the place is empty, Bruce moves decisively. Sweet chemical toxicity fills the air once he uncaps the big marker. Tom Jankowski’s locker is first. Bruce scribbles hurriedly but carefully, making sure the name is clear. He moves on to Studblatz’s locker and repeats the message.
“Okay, your turn,” Bruce says. “Hit Scott’s locker.”
I do as instructed, hesitating only a moment, since it’s already too late by then. Too late to go back. I pull the cap off my marker, hearing it snap. I press the wet wick against the thin sheet metal. I spell the name down the locker just like Bruce did the other two:R
O
N
N
I
E
G
U
N
D
E
R
S
O
N
“Let’s go,” Bruce whispers. “Their regular lockers are next.” I nod, still inhaling the heavy, sweet, chemical scent of fighting back. We scoot out of the locker room, peeking out the doorway and looking both ways before scampering down the hall and upstairs same as we did the time we sprayed pee in their lockers.
I sort of know where each of their three regular lockers is based on where I spot them hanging out between classes and the decorations the cheerleaders paste on them for game Fridays. Bruce, having planned for this moment, knows the precise coordinates and we go in fast. I sprint to the far end of the hallway and peer around the corner to watch out for janitors, late-working teachers, or delinquent students (like us), while Bruce tags Tom’s locker.
Finished, Bruce waves me toward him to the next hallway. Running past Tom’s locker, I see that Bruce tagged it with Ronnie’s name the same way he did downstairs. But this time he’s added “Murderer!” across the top. A nice artistic flourish, I think, popping the cap off my marker. Next up is Scott’s locker and Bruce tags it quickly. Studblatz’s locker is last. Bruce jogs to the end of the hall and plays lookout at the corner while pointing at me to tag it. The fumes from the marker mix with my adrenaline and my head starts getting light. I write Ronnie’s name in bold letters, pressing hard, breathing deep. Across the top of the locker, I write “Murderer!”
“Go, go, go,” Bruce mouths, scooping the air with his hands as a signal for me to catch up. As I reach him, he grabs my arm at the elbow and tugs me behind him. We fly down the next hall. With my head so light, it feels like I’m floating for a moment. I kick at the brick wall for no reason. I get only a dull thud that hurts my foot. So I kick a locker instead and get the nice, satisfying clang I want. Bruce glances back at me with a frown.
“Okay, slow down.” Bruce puts a hand out to slap my chest. “We walk from here.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“No reason to look suspicious. We just forgot something after practice and we came back to get it, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll give you a ride home,” he says.
In the car, I uncap the marker again and put the wick almost directly up my left nostril. I inhale repeatedly until I start feeling nauseous.
“That smells like shit,” Bruce says. “You’re going to obliterate all your brain cells.”
“That’s okay,” I assure him, recapping the marker. “Some parts would be better if they were obliterated.”
Bruce pulls into my driveway. My dad isn’t home yet. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
“Yeah, cool.” Everything feels nice and distant, including Bruce’s voice, like it’s all coming through a veil and nothing is that awful or bad. Nothing really hurts or seems dangerous, and places like Oregrove—where they cheer for guys who did what they did to Ronnie, where they crown them kings—are only a joke.
“Thanks for helping,” Bruce says, tapping the capped marker I hand him against his steering wheel. “It’s the least we could do,” Bruce says. “It’s still not enough. Not even close. But it’s something.”
38
KURT
You think it’s funny?” Studblatz asks in my ear, so close his breath parts my hair. He and Jankowski sneak up from behind, flanking me on my way toward English class.
“What’s fuh-fuh-funny?” I ask, swiveling my head side to side, failing to hold either of them in my sights. When I slow, they slow, keeping a half step behind me. The skin along my back prickles like wood ticks are crawling all over me. Tom Jankowski and Mike Studblatz hold the triangle formation while I walk through the north hallway, pretty much blocking anyone trying to get by us.
“Hear that, Tom?” Studblatz asks. “He’s p-p-p-playing stu-stu-stu-stupid.”
“Yeah, I hear him.”
“Wuh-wuh-wuh-what’s the joke?” I ask, hoping they’ll tire quickly and go off to class.
“You tell us,” Tom says.
“Huh?”
“Don’t even try pretending you got nothing to do with it,” Studblatz says.
“What?”
“Better take acting classes with the theater fags ’cause you really suck at it,” Studblatz says. “Walk by our lockers. Walk by ’em, then keep pretending you don’t know what we’re talking about. It ain’t no coincidence we got his name all over our lockers a day after you sputtered it at practice.”
I shake my head, totally confused.
“Wuh-wuh-wuh-what?”
“Tommy’s dad’s a cop,” Studblatz says. “You know that, right?”
“Yup,” Tom confirms in my other ear.
“He found out all about you. Told us what you did. Be real interesting if the whole school found out you killed a kid in some orphanage before they threw you in psycho-kid prison.”
This stops me cold. I turn around, the better to face my attackers.
“Aw shit, lookit his face.” Jankowski elbows Studblatz, then points at me. “Surprised much?” he asks me. “Guess your little secret ain’t so secret no more. My dad says only freaks come out of those kid prisons—I mean, ‘juvenile detention centers.’” He says this last part making air quotes.
“And psychos,” Studblatz adds.
“You a freak K-K-K-Kurtis B-B-B-Brodsky? Huh?” Jankowski taunts. “You a psycho-kid killer? Who’s the killer now, huh, Kurt? You think they’ll cheer for you when they find out you smothered some kid to death?”
“Tom’s dad’s getting ready to warn the other parents,” Studblatz smiles. “Let the rest of ’em know what you are.”
“Then maybe we’ll decorate your locker like you did ours,” Tom says. Their threat turns my legs to sand. I’m not sure I can stand up much longer, thinking about my past coming out, the truth getting twisted like it did the first time. All the students so happy to be my new friend will be just as happy to turn on me.
Tom reaches out and grabs my arm like he owns m
e, then pulls himself too close. “Who you think people are going to believe if they ever start asking questions?” he growls under his breath. “About Ronnie? About what happened to him? Your word against ours, stutter-man. Scott told us he fixed this with you already.”
The bass beat of my heart thumps in my earlobes.
“I duh-duh-duh-didn’t suh-suh-smother Lam-mama . . . nobody.”
“Neither did we,” Tom says, still gripping my arm. “But you got a juvey record and my dad says that shit can get leaked real easy. Before you know it, it’s just a Google search away.”
“Psycho’s word versus ours,” Studblatz adds.
“And we don’t got records.”
“Who you think everyone’s gonna side with?”
An underclassman gets too close to this ambush. He’s trying to squeeze by us when Studblatz shoves him into a wall of lockers, shoves him hard enough that the kid ricochets off the metal and drops his books. The kid doesn’t say nothing, just rubs his shoulder and bends over to collect his books. No one helps him or even notices, really. Sight’s as common as chewing gum stuck to the walls.
“It’s too bad Gunderson killed himself,” Tom says quietly. “But we didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
Jankowski’s still got ahold of my arm. His threats have taken the fight out of me. Studblatz steps closer and they box me into the wall, double-teaming again, ready to take another shot at me.
“Wuh-wuh-wuh-what do you wuh-wuh-wuh-want?”
“Take a look at our lockers before the janitor finishes with them. Then tell us you don’t know nothing,” Studblatz says.
“Here’s a little warning,” Tom says. “Teammate to teammate. You don’t know what you’re messing with. Our parents, our coach, our fans don’t want to see us fail. They won’t let you or Ronnie or anyone else get in our way.”
Tom releases my arm. Him and Studblatz drift off into the hallway stream. I lean against a drinking fountain, gripping the white porcelain for balance, pressing the button with my thumb, pretending I’m thirsty when I’m really just trying to hold on while the sound of Lamar’s panicked wheezing fills my ears. When the end passing bell rings I’m still at the fountain. Except for a couple kids sprinting to class, trying to escape a detention, the halls are empty. I finally shove off and plod toward Scott’s locker, the closest of the three. A janitor wipes at the surface with a gray rag that smells up the area with ammonia. The rubbing is worthless. Only thing that’s going to work is a coat of paint.
Ronnie’s name runs the length of Scott’s locker, spattering Scott the same way I’d done to Studblatz in practice yesterday. No wonder they thought I wrote it. I would’ve thought I wrote it if I were them. Worry creeps down my neck. My past is about to leak out and poison everyone here against me. I’ll get blamed for Ronnie just like I got blamed for Lamar. My locker will get decorated but it won’t be with football congratulations. It’s starting. I can feel it. A dark force gathering and it can’t be wished away. I trudge toward Tom’s locker and then Studblatz’s locker, whistling low with awe at the addition of the word “Murderer!” at the top. It has to be Bruce or Danny that did it. Maybe both.
I walk into English class late, wanting to pretend it won’t matter what Mike, Tom, and Scott say, but knowing better. At least Bruce and Danny know the truth and have the will, unlike me, to tell it. If and when my captains spread their lies, maybe Bruce and Danny will defend me, working their mouths in ways I never could.
On the field for practice, Scott, still out of pads and not practicing, walks over to me. He carries a football in his unslung hand, flipping it up a few inches and catching it over and over.
“Hey, man, you should know that Studblatz and Jankowski get a little worked up about stupid things,” Scott says, flipping the football again. “I told them you didn’t write that stuff on our lockers. I also know you stick by your teammates. You wouldn’t say something, or make up lies that weren’t true. I told both of them that. You stick with your own. I know you, Kurt. Better than you think. I know you’re loyal. They don’t see that yet, but they will.” Scott peers through my face mask like he’s having trouble finding my eyes in the shadows of my helmet.
“Now work on your cross-step,” Scott says. “I’ll make sure Warner gives you smooth handoffs all game. But if Robbindale beats us while I’m on the bench, I’m holding you responsible, you understand?”
“Yeah,” I say.
The way Scott smiles at you, it can make you almost forget what he did. He isn’t just popular because he’s quarterback. He carries something in his face, a switch he turns on and off. When he turns it on and aims his beam at you, he can make you feel pretty important, like, of all his friends, it’s you and only you who really gets him. He hits me with that beam now. It’s strong as the sun peeking through the rolling clouds and it’s hard to hold the line and hate him when that smile feels like the only source of warmth you got.
After practice I hole up in the one place offering me a little control over my life. The weight room. Pumping up in Oregrove’s state-of-the-art weight room is like depositing another check in my security account. Coach’s pills increase the payoff, I’m sure, as I pop the D-bols and switch into sweats. Lamar and I used to do push-ups in our bedroom because that’s all we had. At the next group home, they had a creaky weight bench in the basement and a few dumbbells. I got too strong for those. The last high school, Lincoln, had no money for fancy stuff. Not until I got here did I know what the good stuff was.
Sometimes I come in early to have the whole place to myself. Nothing better than heaving up cold steel and feeling it submit. Now, that’s power. That last set, pushing with all you got, watching that bar tremble above your head, knowing if you fail, that bar’s going to slowly come back down on your chest and pin you—no better way to get your juices flowing. So you drive it up, partly out of fear and partly out of want, your arms vibrating with every last morsel of energy inside you cooking away. Your muscles boiling down all anger and hate into rivers of greasy sweat draining off through your pores until you’re crispy burned and the winner in a not-so-small battle.
Under a helmet or alone in the weight room are the two places I can talk almost normal. “You got this,” I tell my reflection, curling the dumbbells, fascinated with how my muscles grow and bulge to master the weight. “One more,” I say. Or, “Bring it home, baby,” or “Come on, now, don’t disappoint me.” I almost speak perfectly. It helps, also, to wear the headphones and play the music Tina copied for me. The recorder the school loaned me and that Tina upgraded cranks real loud, loud enough to blast away anything bad trying to grow between my ears. Rock the tunes at full volume and everything else—Crud Bucket, Lamar, Ronnie—disappears for a while.
By the time I finish in the weight room, my body is demolished. Exactly how I like it. I’ve got the showers and locker room all to myself. I walk down empty hallways still cranking my tunes, safe from having to talk to anyone, fumbling a hello or turning my scars away from a stare. I dial through my playlist, try some of the latest music Tina put on a new flash disk and slipped through the vent of my locker with a note attached.
Kurt,
If you liked the first playlist (and you would have if you’re at all cool), you’ll DIG this one. Guaranteed. Tina
Or:
Kurt,
Here’s a vintage mix. Listen to it when you’re sad. If you want some songs for walking in the woods on a rainy day, I’ve got an even better playlist. I’ll drop it off tomorrow. Tina
I like Tina’s playlists and her little notes. It can’t hurt, I figure, dropping off requests back through her locker.
Tina,
I like “Demon” but the “Earth” playlist is too soft. Can you make me another metal mix for working out? Kurt
I still haven’t used the recorder for its original purpose: to record myself speaking words off the list Ms. Jinkle gave me and play it back and try to correct my stutter. I hate the sound of my voice, hate hearing my tongu
e botch everything. I sound retarded. I sound stupid. It’s way better listening to wailing guitars and stomping drums.
39
DANNY
Every year since fifth grade, I’ve gone to Oregrove’s home football games, not to actually watch the game, but to run around with packs of friends on the big grassy hill near the bleachers. That’s where we’d play catch with the mini-footballs that half the boys brought; spy on older teens making out under the bleachers or behind the concession stands; tease the girls we thought were cute; and toss peanut shells and popcorn into dangling coat hoods of anyone who looked like a parent. Friday night games used to be the best part of the week.
Not anymore.
For me, the carnival atmosphere around the games has vanished. Watching the tightly packed stands and the mob on the grassy hill, I think maybe everyone comes to Friday night games not because they’re that great, but because there’s nothing else to do around Oregrove. And yet I’m still here.
I’ve come to watch Kurt play and cheer him on while hoping the rest of his team gets hit by an asteroid or drops dead from eating bad lunchroom corn dogs. It’s not easy rooting for Kurt but rooting against the rest of the team; I’m still refining my system. For instance, when the big new Jumbotron flashes KNIGHTS!!! KNIGHTS!!! KNIGHTS!!! I refuse to make a peep. But when Kurt punches into the end zone and the Jumbotron starts flashing KURT!!! KURT!!! KURT!!! I holler loud as anyone until his name rings the stadium. Our shouts are drowned out only by the huge stadium speakers booming with the sound of an approaching freight train that ends with a long, loud whistle blast. ALL ABOARD THE BRODSKY EXPRESS!!! the Jumbotron flashes. In the last couple of weeks, the local sports news has buzzed over Kurt. I spot a few homemade posters in the stands: GO, KURT, GO! and #27 IN THE HOUSE and NOTHING STOPS THE BRODSKY EXPRESS.
Scott Miller stands on the sideline wearing his game jersey over regular clothes with his left arm in a sling. Hopefully, it’s arm cancer.
Leverage Page 23
