Random

by Tom Leveen

  When is this going to end? Or maybe when isn’t as important as how. . . .

  Conversation started October 29.

  Tori Hershberger Are you okay? I heard about the fight. Did you really get kicked out?

  Kevin Cooper No I got ISS. Probably out of pity. I didn’t exactly kick his ass.

  Tori Hershberger What did Lucas do to you?

  Kevin Cooper I took a fist on the left cheek and a foot in the ribs. I’m okay.

  Tori Hershberger No, I mean, what did he ever do *to* you? Why did you pick a fight with him?

  Kevin Cooper I DIDN’T!! he just wouldnt shut up. I tried to ignore him and Mr. Black was late to class and he just kept pushing Tori. so I lost it I blew up and I decked him and tried to throw a desk at him. I did not pick a fight with him

  Tori Hershberger Okay. Sorry.

  Kevin Cooper Rachel broke up with me.

  Tori Hershberger What happened?

  Kevin Cooper I cheated on her. Basically.

  Tori Hershberger Cooper! You scallywag! With who?

  Kevin Cooper Different school, doesn’t matter. She’ll be happier this way anyway.

  Tori Hershberger Wow. That was like a record. Two years or something, right?

  Kevin Cooper Yeah.

  Kevin Cooper Thanks for listening Tori. This would have been a lot easier to text. do you still even have my number?

  Kevin Cooper Hello? Hershy? You there?

  TWELVE

  “WHUH?!”

  I bolt upright and swing my arms in a wide arc before sliding off the stool and ending up on my ass on the kitchen tile.

  Oh shit, I fell asleep.

  Oh shit, Andy.

  Oh shit.

  I stumble to my room, “Andy?” I say to Noah, who is sitting on my bed, back against the wall, ankles crossed. My phone is still face-up on the mattress.

  “Uh-huh,” Andy says over the phone. “Thought I lost you for a while there. Get your coffee?”

  I blink, blink again, blink some more.

  “What did you . . . ?” I say to Noah.

  “Nothing,” Noah says. “I told him about the Tokugawa Dynasty.”

  “It was fascinating,” Andy deadpans.

  “I’ll bet,” I say. I rub my eyes, which burn. “Lemme grab my coffee. Sorry.”

  I double back to the kitchen. The coffee’s done. I look at the clock, shaped like a cow, hanging over the kitchen door. Mom insists it’s “quirky.” It’s close to four a.m.

  I pour a healthy splash of Coffee-mate into a mug before filling it the rest of the way with coffee. Then I head back to my room, closing the door behind me.

  “Sorry it took so long,” I say.

  “No problem,” Andy says. “You’re a good friend.”

  I give Noah a suspicious look. “What makes you say that?”

  “You came back, didn’t you?” Andy says. “You didn’t leave me hanging.”

  You know how in movies there’s a smash cut that lasts just a frame or two of some weird flashback? I get one of those. Of Kevin.

  . . . didn’t leave me hanging . . .

  I shake my head and slurp a quick gulp of coffee, and don’t say anything in response. I sit at my desk, which is empty now except for a couple of books and papers. I should probably clean up the dust pattern left behind by my laptop. Someday.

  Mom and Dad took the computer away the day I got arrested. Until that afternoon, I think they thought the same thing I did: that it would all blow over. Feeling the cold steel of handcuffs slapped around my wrists gave things a certain, shall we say, clarity. The prosecutor meant business. And he meant it hard. That was the night I scrolled through the newspaper comments online. Not a good day.

  “You want me to remind you where we were?” Andy says.

  I take another sip of coffee, and realize it is surprisingly perfectly made. I always misjudge how much creamer to use, but not this time. The coffee is like liquid fire from the gods. I literally sigh after the first swallow, like in a commercial.

  “No,” I say. “I remember. I just can’t tell you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “My lawyer said not to talk about it.”

  “Lawyer,” Andy goes. “Holy crap. You’re not kidding around. Are you?”

  “Hey, I promised I’d stop asking you that, now you promise me, okay?”

  “So you really did kill someone?”

  “No!”

  I grit my teeth and pause, waiting to see if Mom and Dad’s door opens. I don’t hear anything. Noah crosses his arms.

  “No,” I repeat, quietly. “He . . . killed himself. I didn’t have anything to do with it. None of us did. But the district attorney says we did, so now we’re gearing up for a big court fight.”

  “You mean a trial.”

  “Yes, a trial, all right?”

  “You’re on trial for murder.”

  Andy is really good at stating questions as facts. It’s becoming an irritant.

  “Basically,” I say. It’s not the kind of statement or question that gets easier to hear or speak over time.

  “So this guy committed suicide?” Andy asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I guess that explains our initial awkwardness,” Andy says quietly. Then, in a normal voice, he says, “How’d he do it?”

  “Hung himself,” I say, as the coffee begins congealing in my throat. “With a belt or scarf or something.”

  “Hanged.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I mean, the word is ‘hanged.’ When it refers to a person, it’s always ‘hanged,’ not ‘hung.’ It’s grammatically correct, although I truly do not know why.”

  My eyelids freeze in place, wide open. “Are you seriously giving me a grammar lesson right now?”

  “Just saying,” Andy goes. And for whatever reason, probably because I’m so damn tired, I hear-feel that weird cell-phone-on-a-wooden-table reeee in my head again.

  “So what was his name?” Andy asks.

  I take a drink of my coffee. Mr. Halpern specifically said not to do this. Talk, I mean, not drink coffee.

  “Kevin Cooper,” I say.

  “That’s been on the news,” Andy says slowly.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re one of the Canyon City Seven.”

  Can I just take a time-out at this point to say how stupid that term is? I don’t want to say so to Andy, because—well, just because—but I mean, come on. We don’t deserve a big media label like that, like we were burning crosses or going around as a gang and curb-stomping kittens or something. That isn’t what happened, not at all.

  “Technically, I am, yes, but listen, you can’t believe all that stuff they’re saying,” I tell Andy. Talking about this again brings me to my feet. I start pacing. Bed, closet, bed, closet. I’m magically not tired anymore. Or maybe it’s the coffee. Noah watches me but keeps his mouth shut.

  “Why should I not believe it?” Andy asks. “What say you, Noah? Who should I believe?”

  “I think this one is between you two,” Noah says.

  I jump in. “Why should you not believe it? Because it’s bullshit, that’s why not! Jesus!”

  “Okay, okay,” Andy says. “Just asking. What really happened then? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything, that’s what I’m saying. Look, I’m not even supposed to talk about this. I can’t. It’s a legal thing.”

  Andy sighs. He doesn’t speak for a few seconds.

  “My life is in your hands, Tori,” he says finally. “Maybe you should talk about anything I want you to talk about.”

  My jaw falls open so hard I hear something in my right ear pop. Noah, too, looks down at the phone, his eyebrows mashing together.

  “Wait a sec, are you, like, blackmailing me with your own life?”

  “I guess. Yeah.”

  “Dude,” Noah says.

  “You realize how messed up that is, right?” I say.

  “I was messed up long before I called you, so, whateve
r.”

  “Hold on. It’s one thing to say you’re going to kill yourself because your girlfriend died. It’s entirely another thing to say you’ll do it if I don’t make some big confession to you.”

  Andy snorts. “Hey, I’m the loco one here. And it’s not just because the person I loved most in the world died. It’s how people feel about it that’s got me up here. It’s not pain, Tori. It’s hopelessness.”

  I look to Noah. He shakes his head and shrugs like he’s not sure whether to believe Andy or not.

  I mouth the words, I can’t risk it.

  Noah frowns again, then nods. Then he wiggles his thumb in the air and mouths, Mute.

  I tap the mute button, double and triple checking that it’s on this time. “Andy?” I say, just to check.

  There’s no response. Noah and I speak quickly.

  “I have to keep talking,” I say, whispering even though there’s no reason to. I can’t risk him using any excuse to drive off that cliff. “Maybe he’s not serious—or not anymore, anyway—but I can’t afford that chance.”

  “No, I get it,” Noah says. “He’s not sounding good. He sounds like . . . like he just doesn’t give a crap anymore. That can’t be good.”

  “No.” I rub my eyes again. They feel as dry and leathery as my mitt.

  “You’d better tell him,” Noah says gently, like he knows it won’t be easy.

  And it won’t. Going over the whole story again . . . dammit, why did he have to call this number? My number is on his phone, and the chances it would be destroyed in a car wreck, even a bad one, are pretty small unless the Sentra explodes, like he talked about, but I think he’s right that it wouldn’t really happen. . . .

  . . . And I can’t believe I am even thinking about it. I mean, my God! How can I be standing here considering the “legal ramifications” of my cell number being on the phone of another dead kid? Am I that self-involved?

  No. It’s not that; it can’t be that. This is a perfectly legit and reasonable fear.

  Isn’t it? I mean, I’m in enough trouble as it is, that’s all, so I just have to be cautious.

  That’s all.

  Andy’s voice smacks me back to the phone. “So tell me about it. What did you do?”

  Since he’s sort of backed me into a corner, I take a breath. My eyes close. I have this part memorized. Seared, really, into my head, where I’m sure it will stay for the rest of my life.

  I hit the mute button.

  “Aggravated manslaughter,” I say, and hope he can’t hear the way my voice shakes.

  “Um, okay,” Andy says, “can you say it again except this time pretend I haven’t actually graduated from law school?”

  “It just means that I said some things that weren’t real nice, and he killed himself over it, and now they’re blaming me,” I say, practically choking on the words. “Us, I mean. Blaming us.”

  “Well, what did you say?” Andy asks.

  “Nothing! I mean . . . nothing worse than what everyone else said.” I run a hand through my hair, pick up my coffee, put it down again. Not so thirsty anymore, it turns out.

  “So that makes it okay.”

  There he goes with that statement-question thing again.

  “I didn’t say that,” I tell him.

  “Okay, back up for a minute,” Andy says. “How exactly did you know Kevin? Cooper, was it?”

  I slump to my bed. But even if I did lie down, I wouldn’t sleep now. Absurdly, I wish Noah would put his arm around me, even if just for a few minutes.

  “Kevin was a friend of mine,” I say.

  “Oh,” Andy says, sounding surprised. Noah frowns a bit.

  “Not a good friend,” I add, and feel a quick needle prick of guilt in my stomach. I’m not lying; Kevin Cooper was never my best friend, or even a good friend.

  But a friend? Yes. I can admit it to myself even if I’m not supposed to to anyone else, according to Mr. Halpern.

  “Just someone I knew,” I say to Andy. “From around. You know. My mom calls it a perfect storm.”

  I close my eyes and rub them with my fingers. I don’t bother to tell Andy that I think she’s right. I also don’t tell him that we used to be better friends in junior high. Even last year, a little. Things changed this year, that’s all. It happens all the time. Softball was going really well; I was making new friends, even with the upperclassmen like Marly and Lucas and everyone. Things just—changed.

  Andy says, “Hmph,” and that’s all.

  “The county attorney has a thing about being hard on juvenile crime, or whatever,” Noah adds, looking at me as if for permission.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I guess that’s me. And the others. Juvenile criminals. And um . . .”

  I pause, because this isn’t getting any easier to talk about.

  “So his mom found the Facebook stuff, and printed it out and made copies and everything, and took it to the cops. They investigated everything and took it to the county attorney, who probably would have, like, given us misdemeanors at most.”

  “Would have?” Andy repeats.

  “The New Times got ahold of it,” I say. “I assume from Kevin’s mom, but I don’t know. And it turns out this one kid, named Paul I think, he’s thirteen . . . he shot at some horses with a BB gun, and they charged him with some kind of cruelty to animals crime. . . .”

  “Wait, hold up, what’s that got to do with Facebook?” Andy asks.

  “Oh, I’m getting there. So they charge this kid Paul with felony cruelty to animals. This was just over the summer. So this bitch of a writer for the New Times, Allison Summers, goes all ballistic about it. You know, ‘This kid was charged with a felony, but kids older than him who,’ um . . .” I clear my throat. “ ‘Who allegedly talked this poor gay kid into committing suicide, they get off with nothing.’ And I guess a lot of people read the New Times, because the next thing I know, we’re getting charged with stuff like aggravated manslaughter and . . . and now they’re calling it a hate crime, so if we get found guilty, that could add like ten years to any sentence, and . . .”

  And that’s as far as I can go.

  I press my lips together and hold them shut with my free hand. Jesus, what am I going to do?

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Andy says.

  I blurt out a gasp. “Because you asked!”

  “Nah, no,” Andy says, and I can imagine him shaking his head, long hair waving. If he has long hair, I mean. “You didn’t actually have to tell me all that. You could’ve made up anything you wanted. But instead you told me the whole story. How come?”

  He’s got a point.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Sure you do,” Andy says. “I mean, this is really serious.”

  “It’s really bullshit.”

  Andy doesn’t reply. I don’t add anything. We sit there for a minute. Noah cracks his knuckles one at a time. For no good reason, it occurs to me that he hasn’t yawned once tonight.

  “Okay,” Andy says finally. “Why is it bullshit?”

  And it all comes out. Like soda from a shaken bottle, bubbling, frothing, and pissing you off as you try to get out of its way.

  “Okay, for one thing? He wasn’t gay! He had a girlfriend for like two years. Rachel. So what the hell is up with this hate crime shit, you know? That’s totally not fair! What if I called a white guy the n-word and then shot him in the face? Is that a hate crime? No!”

  “I’d think the shooting-him-in-the-face part is a hate crime,” Andy says.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong!” I shout, ignoring both Andy’s comment and how late—or early—it is. “It was a bunch of stupid jokes on stupid Facebook, for God’s sake. Happens to everyone, all the time, what makes him so special?”

  “He’s dead.”

  My emotional explosion ends. I’m left holding a simile of a sticky bottle of flat soda.

  “That’s not my fault,” I say.

  “I didn’t say it was,” Andy goes. “Just that—you k
now, you asked why he’s different, and that’s what’s different. That’s all.”

  “But you see what I’m saying, right?” I demand. I didn’t realize until just now how badly I need someone to take my side. Not just out of loyalty, like Noah, or family, like Mom. Someone who really does see my side of the story. “I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t there, I didn’t throw him off the balcony.”

  “No,” Andy says. “I suppose you didn’t.”

  “What?” I say, not liking the way he says it.

  “Uh, what what?”

  “You want to say something, I can hear it in your voice,” I tell him. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Andy says. “I don’t know. Go on.”

  I rub my eyes again. “That’s it, that’s all there is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I try to keep it in. It comes out anyway.

  “People think I’m this homophobic murderer!” I shout, again oblivious to how I’m almost certainly going to wake up Mom or Dad any second now. “And now they’re saying shit about me, like I’m this terrible person, and I’m not! That’s why I don’t have a computer, I’m not stupid, I know why they took it!”

  I probably am making no sense to Andy now, probably not even to Noah, who knows most of this already, and I don’t care. It feels good to get all this out.

  “They just don’t want me to see what people are saying about me! I saw some of it before they took my laptop, and holy crap, you want to talk about ‘mean girls’? You want to talk about saying hateful things online? You wouldn’t believe the stuff people are saying. About all of us. Someone even threw a brick through my mom’s car window. A brick! Isn’t that assault? How about attempted murder, why isn’t anyone being charged with that, huh?”

  “So it’s a cycle,” Andy says, and his voice is maddeningly calm. I want him to get angry with me. For me.

  “Yeah,” I say, finally feeling a little spent, and sitting on my bed. “Something like that.”

  “People are bullying you for being a bully,” Andy goes on.

  “I’m not a bully. I told you it was just jokes.”

  “Well, but why were you making fun of him, then? I mean, why make the jokes at all?”