Cheated

by Patrick Jones

  Have you ever been drunk?

  It sounds better than it feels. The big thing in junior high was to brag about getting drunk. It was like a badge of honor not only to get drunk but to make sure everybody knew about it. I noticed most people told stories about getting drunk with cousins at parties, or while camping, all stories that were probably just lies. You do that a lot in junior high, lie about stupid small stuff, lie to impress people, lie to escape punishment from your parents. And lie just because you can. I never lied to Mom about being drunk, because she never asked, and she never noticed. Except for a few times here and there, it wasn’t something Brody and I did a lot, maybe because his father was a drunk. Aaron was the one who kind of pushed us to do it with him, which was funny because he normally did what we wanted. But freshman year he told us that his sister would buy booze for us, if we gave her some money, and we could use her trailer to drink. We tried beer, Jack Daniels, lots of stuff. But Brody was the big one for Bacardi, so in tenth grade that was all we drank. Unlike other people, though, we didn’t brag about it outside of our circle. It was our secret, but as Brody and I found out that night, it wasn’t the only secret that Aaron was keeping. Keeping secrets is a lot like getting drunk: it makes you feel good at first, but in the long run, it just eats away at your life.

  Third Period

  I bolted out of my seat at the back of the room and got to the door in record time as the second period bell rang, but I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. When Whitney walked past me, her books cradled where I longed to put my head, I couldn’t say, Whitney, would you come to homecoming with me? My tongue tied up in my mouth, and sweat rolled down my forehead in the overheated hall. Unable to speak in English, I took a deep breath, and hurried to Spanish.

  Ten minutes into the class, my head was down on the desk, one ear open in case Mr. Rice called on me, one eye open on ex-friend Garrett in case he finally wanted to settle his debt.

  It all went down, the fight and our friendship, a few days after the end of our freshman year. We were out back behind Garrett’s house. Brody had Aaron gather some kindling, while Garrett and I dug a pit. It took just one flick from Brody’s bone white lighter to start the fire. Everybody was in a bad mood because Aaron didn’t get us anything to drink. I was surprised to even be there since I’d noticed a change in Garrett. While we all went our separate ways after school—Brody to sports, Aaron to his Xbox, Garrett to student council stuff, and me to my house to watch TV or listen to music—we’d remained tight. But by the end of the year, Garrett started dressing nicer, talking a little less trash, and hanging out with us a lot less. So, it was cool that Garrett wanted to hang with us again.

  We started talking about the only thing that mattered: girls at school. Garrett started the conversation and suggested we name names of different girls at school who we’d want to hook-up with. Brody jumped right in and went first. He surprised us by naming Cell Phone Girl. I guessed Brody wanted to figure her out as much as I do. Aaron went next, naming Debbie, the never-seen girlfriend from Detroit. But we pressed him to name someone that the rest of us knew, so he offered up the name of Terri White, who was Nicole’s best friend.

  It came to my turn, but before I could even answer, all three shouted Nicole’s name. They enjoyed watching my face turn scarlet in embarrassment, but saw it change to red-hot anger when Garrett said, “If Nicole was my girlfriend, I’d do it with her until my dick fell off.”

  “Well, at least I have a girlfriend,” I shouted at Garrett. He didn’t need to know Nicole and I hadn’t done anything, nor ever would, thanks to her “purity pledge.”

  “My turn. You know who I’d love to do,” Garrett said, then pointed at me like he was calling me out. “Your mom. I tell you, Mick, she’s one hot MILF!”

  “Dude, that’s so wrong,” Aaron said, breaking his normal code of silence.

  “What, it’s true, isn’t it?” Garrett shouted at Aaron, but he was looking at me.

  “Shut up,” Brody shouted.

  I was angry, yet strangely paralyzed, unable to move in defense of my mom. When Garrett started laughing, I dove into him, and we rolled through the remains of the fire. I threw punches, and at first, Garrett covered up and kept laughing. The smack of my hand against his head was ineffective, and he rolled on top of me. I got my hands up, but Garrett was quick with a punch, splitting open my eyebrow. The sound of Garrett’s fists bouncing off my skull crackled like crossed wires. Sweat mixed with blood flowed down my face like a raging river. But before Garrett could land the knockout punch, Brody ended the fight, with a hard stiff kick to Garrett’s face. Garrett went down flat on his back like he’d been hit with a ton of bricks. “Let’s go,” was all Brody said, as I pulled myself off the ground, dusted the black ash from my shirt, and wiped the blood from my face. Aaron quickly followed Brody, and the three of us left Garrett’s big mouth and probably broken nose behind.

  Garrett and I never spoke again, exchanging only angry looks at school. Like ex-Dad, he wouldn’t admit fault or say he was sorry. When Mom asked why I wasn’t friends with Garrett, I just grunted, but I wanted to say, I don’t see Garrett anymore because Garrett said he wanted to fuck you. I stood up for you again. I’ve stood up for you twice, so when will you protect me?

  My eyes were closed as memories flooded my mind until I heard Mr. Rice say almost into my ear, “Tiene bueno siesta Señor Salisbury?”

  “Mucho bueno.” I picked my heavy head up off the desk, waited until Mr. Rice turned around, and then swallowed down two more aspirin. In a few hours, my head would stop hurting from drinking too much, and in a few weeks my heart might stop hurting from missing Nicole. But as I looked at my bandaged hand, I wondered when my life would be healed.

  What was the worst day of your life?

  Before November 5, it was June 18. That’s the day that I destroyed my family. It was just a few days after school was out; I’d just finished fifth grade. Brody’s mother took him, his two brothers, and me to the mall. Brody’s brothers went one way, we went another. What if we would have gone with them to the food court instead of the arcade? What if we would have been there an hour earlier or an hour later? What if I wouldn’t have seen my father and a woman who was not my mom come out of a jewelry store laughing, kissing, and holding hands?

  “Buddy, let me explain.” Dad rushed over like he was putting out a fire.

  “Daddy, who is she?” At ten, I didn’t understand all the rules of the adult world, but I knew this woman wasn’t my mother and that my father shouldn’t be kissing her.

  “Mick, listen, she’s an old friend of mine,” he’d said. “It’s not what you think, buddy.”

  “But you were—” I started, not really knowing the right words to capture what I saw, not knowing what I should feel, only knowing my father wasn’t telling me the truth.

  “Your mother doesn’t need to know about this, you understand,” he’d said, then put his hand gently on my shoulder. “You have to promise not to tell her about this, buddy.”

  “But—” I stopped when Dad’s gentle touch turned to a hard squeeze.

  “Mick, look, I’ll explain all this later,” my father said, but I knew that was a lie, too. “Do I have your word? Your word, Mick, is your bond. I can trust you, right, buddy?”

  If I promised my dad, I let him betray Mom. If I told Mom, I was betraying him. My hands stayed by my sides, my eyes on the floor, and I walked away unsure what to think, feel, or do. If you were me, what would you have done?

  Fourth Period

  I hated PE, but it was the only class in the day where I saw Brody, although he was late as usual. I guessed he was in the principal’s office. Since he was no longer on the football team, Brody caught crap from everyone for everything. I tried to make a quick change in the locker room, but Rex Wallace cornered me.

  “What’s up, 151?” Rex said to me, then smacked my arm.

  “Why do you call him 151?” some stupid jock standing behind Rex asked.

 
; “It’s because I’m so smart; it’s my IQ,” I said.

  “No, it’s because he’s a drunk like Brody,” Rex replied, his voice loaded with contempt.

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Bob and Rusty told me they caught you staring at Whitney at the bus stop,” Rex said, his voice all puffed up like his chest. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Think about what?”

  “You already blew it with Nicole, but anybody could have seen that coming,” Rex continued, pushing his finger into my face. “Face it, loser, you’re out of your league.”

  I wanted to tell him, I know that, Rex, but I’m trying real hard to forget it.

  “Just let Roxanne do you again,” he said as he smacked my arm.

  Before I could respond, I heard Brody’s thundering voice. “Knock if off, Rex!”

  “Relax, Brody,” Rex said, then turned to face him.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Brody said, then spat at Rex’s feet.

  “You have no discipline,” Rex shouted. “You cost us a state championship.”

  “And you have no dick,” Brody shouted back. “And no balls!”

  “Take it back,” Rex said.

  “You take back what you said about me,” Brody shouted as he took one step closer.

  “What do you mean?” Rex said, taking one step back.

  “I know it was you,” Brody said as he tilted his head to the left. He looked a little crazy.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You turned me in, you ratted me out.” Brody jabbed his finger hard into Rex’s chest.

  Rex took another step back. “Don’t blame me for something that’s your own fault.”

  “That’s not the point,” Brody said. “You don’t rat out your friends.”

  Rex tempted fate and facial injuries by letting out a small laugh as he said, “Brody, you were my teammate, you were never my friend.”

  Brody responded not by shouting, but by whispering, “If it was you, I’ll kill you.”

  Rex staggered back, just as Coach Simpson arrived. He was wearing a baseball cap to cover his bald head and a windbreaker to hide his gut. “What’s going on here?” Simpson said.

  Rex looked at Brody, and then at the floor before he said, “Nothing, Coach.”

  “Very well, then. Let’s pump some iron,” Coach Simpson said as he unlocked the weight room door with one of the fifty keys on his chain. Turning that key was the highlight of his teaching efforts for the day.

  Like a leper, Brody walked by other ex-teammates to hit the bench press. Like everybody else on the football team, he had signed the Words of Honor oath not to drink or do drugs. He kept to it freshman year. He’d been a killer on the field, moved up from JV to varsity after three games. He was a running-back vacuum consuming any ball carrier that came his way. The team lost in the state semis, but Brody was a tackling machine in the tournament game.

  At the Labor Day party, Brody started the night in the basement shooting pool. He won game after game. Pretty soon, no one would play him, so I took on the tackling dummy task. After a while two senior teammates wanted the table. Brody told them to go to hell, but they pushed him away. Rex walked over and told Brody it was his house, his table, and his rules. I whispered to Brody it was time to go. He gave up the pool table but kept his cue. He let out a string of curses as he stomped to the other end of the basement. He looked at the locked glass liquor cabinet, then yelled across the crowded, noisy room at Rex. “Where’s the key?”

  “The key to what?” Rex shouted back, but it was too late.

  Brody took the pool cue like a baseball bat and shattered the glass of the Wallaces’ liquor cabinet. He reached in so fast to grab the Bacardi bottle that he didn’t seem to notice the glass cutting his arm.

  “Brody, you asshole,” Rex shouted as he, and a few others, headed toward Brody.

  “I know, your house, your rules,” Brody shouted back, then with a mostly full bottle of Bacardi, we raced up the stairs, past the pool, and out into the woods. Less than an hour later, after I ruined my life with Roxanne, we were both back downstairs. Since no one could beat him at pool, he loudly challenged his fellow teammates to any other contest.

  “Go home, Brody,” Rex said, realizing Brody wasn’t leaving on his own.

  “Make me,” Brody shouted back.

  “Guys, help me out here,” Rex said, and finally there was strength in numbers as three or four soft-drink-breathing Dragons stalked toward Brody. Before they could lay a hand on him, Brody made a break, tearing up the stairs and out the front door this time. I was one step behind him. He headed for the street and jumped on the hood of a Grand Am parked in front of Rex’s house. He then leaped from car roof to car roof, leaving in his wake the smell of rum and the loud ringing of alarms that sounded like a tornado warning siren blaring into the night.

  Brody kicked me back into the present when he said, “Hey, 151, I need a little payback.”

  “What’s up?” I replied.

  “Your dick whenever Whitney’s in the room.”

  “Serious.”

  “Think you could help me out over lunch? I need help typing up Kirby’s stupid English paper,” Brody said as I added a few more pounds for his next lift. “I’ll owe you.”

  I nodded my agreement, but wondered why Brody had said, “I’ll owe you.” I wanted to reply, Brody, we’re friends, we don’t owe each other anything other than friendship. You, me, and Aaron, that’s all that matters: not his money, your muscle, and whatever it is you guys see in me. But I didn’t say anything; I just kept it all inside. As he pumped iron, I felt my frustration, with Rex, with Nicole, but mostly with myself, pump like poison through my veins.

  Do you remember when you met your best friend?

  I was five, almost six, riding my bike just up and down the driveway; I wasn’t allowed by Mom to go out into the street. I’d seen a kid who looked about my age now at the end of the driveway. It was a beautiful fall day, but my mom made me wear this ugly orange windbreaker to protect me from the cold. Brody pulled his bike into the driveway; he was wearing a big smile and a Lions T-shirt. Even then his hair was long, and he was bigger than most kids our age.

  “Hey, you wanna ride bikes?” Brody shouted, still at the end of the driveway.

  “Um, I’m not supposed to go out of the driveway,” I replied.

  “What’s your name?” he called out, then added, “I’m Brody.”

  “Michael,” I said softly because even then I hated my name. “Call me Mick.”

  “Mick, come on, just down the street. I’ll race you,” Brody said then inched closer.

  “I’m not supposed to be in the street. Mom said,” I replied, so embarrassed.

  “Dare you, double dare you,” Brody put his bike next to mine. He pretended the bike’s handlebars were a motorcycle, making loud sounds as his hands rubbed the bars. “Let’s go!”

  I paused for a second as Brody took off with me in pursuit. I rode that day until my bottom was sore. It was more sore later when Mom found out and my dad spanked me until I think I heard a bone crack in his hand. I couldn’t have known then, of course, that if I hadn’t followed Brody down the road that day, my life would be so different now, and forever.

  Lunch

  I hightailed it from gym, not even showering—which was my usual routine—so I could stake out a computer in the school library. I easily got around the filter, the way Aaron had showed me, and checked my messages. But there was nothing from Nicole, to no surprise yet bitter disappointment. The only person I knew in the library was Cell Phone Girl. She was by herself in the corner pretending to read a magazine while text messaging on her phone.

  I kept looking at the clock in the library willing it to move faster, to bring Brody, but once again, I felt helpless. That’s one of the worst things about waiting: that feeling of helplessness. Like counting the change, my Salisbury DNA imprinted a hatred of waiting. Ex-Dad won’t go to a drive-through fast-food window
if there’s more than two cars in front of him. He would walk out on promised outings, like movies or baseball games, before standing in any line.

  But I waited. It was all I did anymore. Not just wait for Brody, but for Nicole to talk to me again, and take me back. Some of the worst waiting were the hours between when I cheated on Nicole and when she found out. Maybe it was how guys in prison on death row feel.

  And if not Nicole, then I waited for Whitney, or someone like her, to love me. I waited for Roxanne to say she was sorry she’d messed things up with Nicole. I waited for Nicole to forgive me for messing up, and for me to forgive myself. I know Mom’s never forgiven ex-Dad. I waited for him to apologize for his broken promises, his lies, and for making me choose. As I stared at the clock, all I could remember was after the divorce waiting in offices for lawyers and counselors. It didn’t matter if it was good waiting or bad waiting, all of it left me with the same feelings of helplessness and burning anger. Once the fire starts, it doesn’t care what’s in its path; it doesn’t choose, it just consumes.

  With less than fifteen minutes left in the lunch period and my stomach not just growling but screaming, Brody finally showed up so I could type up his report on the poem “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost, for Mrs. Kirby’s English class, which he had next period.

  “So, where are your notes?” I asked him.

  He just smiled as he opened up a black notebook. At the top of the page it said “The Road Not Taken” and at the bottom it said Brody Warren. And there was nothing in between.

  “You didn’t write anything?” I said, so frustrated.

  “Well, we were busy last night, 151,” Brody said, then laughed too loud for a library. I wanted to say, Brody, we’ve had two weeks to do this paper, why did you wait until the last minute? But that’s not the thing you say to a friend unless you’re turning into your mom.