by Tom Leveen
“Because I thought he . . .”
I bite my lip. This part hasn’t exactly been brought up yet.
“Thought he, what? Was gay?”
“He wasn’t,” I repeat. “No, it’s not that. I know he wasn’t.”
“Okay, so you thought he—what?”
“I thought he knew I was kidding,” I say. And several of the words crack like an old bat.
“Oh yeah?” Andy says. “How do you figure?”
“I told you he was kind of a friend of mine,” I say, and feel like it’s a confession that’s been beaten out of me. “That first kiss we talked about? Yeah, well. Mine was Kevin.”
Tori Hershberger We are taking State this year. That’s right. I said it.
Like · Comment · Share · November 15
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Marly DeSoto go tori! its your birthday! go tori!
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Lucas Mulcahy is it your birthday tori????
You like this.
Marly DeSoto lucas you’re so dumb. its an old joke.
2 people like this.
Albert Jiminez Lucas was just a kid when people were saying that. He doesn’t know.
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Tori Hershberger Thanks Marlycat! :) Lucas, don’t listen to Albert.
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Kevin Cooper You can do it Tori!
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Marly DeSoto no one asked you cooper. go read Twilight again.
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THIRTEEN
“Whoa,” Andy says. “You kissed him?”
“Just once. But yeah.”
“How?”
“Well, not with tongue . . .”
“Oh my God, no,” Andy says, and Noah doesn’t even try to suppress a laugh. “I mean, how did it come about?”
I feel myself blush. “Oh. Right. Well, that’s the thing, the other boys put him up to it. I don’t think he really wanted to do it. We were at a school dance and they kind of surrounded us and pushed him into it.”
“I remember that,” Noah says.
“No-ah,” Andy sings, “did you help push him into it?”
“No,” Noah says. “We didn’t really know each other at the time.”
“Did you wish you were the pushee?” Andy goes on.
I think it takes Noah and me the exact same number of moments to figure out Andy’s phrasing. Because when I get it, I look at Noah and he looks at me at the same time.
Noah lets his mouth fall open, but it’s another second or two before he answers, “I probably wouldn’t have needed to be pushed, no.”
Softball and baseball are slow sports for the most part. They’re more about the drama, for lack of a better word: the story. The Yankees versus the Red Sox, or rooting for the Cubbies every year because, well, Jesus, they’ve got to catch a break someday, right? But sometimes there’s a moment, whether it’s a high school field or a major stadium, when everything changes. Bill Buckner missing an easy grounder, or a three-run homer to tie a game. It brings both the home and visiting crowds to their feet, and every speck of dust flying around the infield becomes charged with history.
Well—that’s what just happened. A game changer.
Noah clearly sees it too. He almost looks apologetic, like he knows the timing couldn’t be worse. Luckily—ha-ha—we have Andy to keep us occupied.
“But Kevin was pushed,” Andy says. “Or cajoled, or put-upon, or . . . bullied . . .”
“Yeah,” I say, before Andy can keep going. “They said he was a—”
“What?”
“Sorry. I’m just a little sensitive about word choice right now.”
“All things considered, I doubt you have much to fear from me, Tori.”
“Faggot. They said if he didn’t kiss me, then he must be a faggot.”
Noah winces. He must remember that part too.
“Ah,” Andy says.
“Yeah. I wish he wouldn’t have done it.”
“Did you stop him?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “He was cute.”
Andy snorts a laugh. Noah raises an eyebrow.
“But still,” I say, “in retrospect, he shouldn’t have done it if he didn’t want to.”
“How do you know he didn’t? You sound pretty cute to me.”
I let the second part of that comment slide, because I have no idea where to go with it. I avoid Noah’s eyes.
“He wanted to kiss Rachel Roland, not me,” I say.
“They ended up dating for two years,” Noah adds.
“Right, exactly,” I say. “He even apologized to me for kissing me. He said it wasn’t personal. So, okay. Whatever.”
“Did it bother you?” Noah asks me.
“What, that he did it?”
“That he did it but didn’t want to.”
“I don’t—no, it didn’t. Not in so many words.”
“How many words does it take?”
“Look, you didn’t see his face when he was coming in,” I say. “It looked like he was smelling dog poop. It was a real confidence booster. So fine, sure, maybe it did bug me.”
“Uh-huh,” Andy says, and I imagine instantly what he’s thinking: But you’re still alive and he’s not.
This thought makes me mad. I can’t help it. “He should have stuck up for himself. Why wouldn’t he do that? They would have left him alone then.”
“How do you figure that?” Andy says.
“Sixth grade,” I say. “First day of school. New bus, new route. This Godzilla-size jerk named Vince Bretz, I’ll never forget his name—”
“Oh yeah!” Noah says. “Screw that guy! Sorry.”
“I know, right?” I say. “So Vince Bretz is sitting about in the middle of the bus. And every boy who walks down the aisle, he trips. And every one of them gets up and either punches Vince in the arm, or yells at him, or shoves him, and each time, Vince just laughs. But he never tripped them again either.”
“Let me guess,” Andy says.
Noah pinches the bridge of his nose, nodding.
“Exactly,” I say. “Except for Kevin. Kevin just got up and went back the other way, sitting up front by himself. Sixth grade. What might’ve been different if he’d hit Vince too that day?”
“Well,” Andy says, “I hate to state the obvious, but I guess we’ll never know.”
“Yeah.”
“Sooo . . . I dunno, can I just . . . ? I don’t want to put words in your mouth or anything, but are you saying it’s his fault?”
“Kinda. Yeah. Yeah, I am. Sorry if that makes me a bitch or whatever, but that’s what happens when you let someone push you around.”
“It does reveal a lot about your worldview.”
“ ‘Worldview’? I thought you said you were sixteen.”
“A very precocious sixteen.”
“And what’s it reveal?” I almost add, O wise sage of the universe, just to stick it to him, let him know how it feels, but I don’t.
“It reveals that you believe every human being on earth should have the innate ability to defend him or herself, and if they can’t, they deserve to—”
“Hold on!” I say, partly because I don’t agree with what he’s about to say, and partly because I just can’t hear him say it.
“What?” Andy says.
“You are putting words in my mouth,” I say. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“No, I’m extrapolating a belief system based on what you said about Kevin.”
“Well, you can stop. It’s not true.”
“What’s not true? I haven’t said anything yet. You cut me off.”
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. He’s starting to sound like all the lawyers. I can’t keep up.
“Just, whatever,” I say. I turn to Noah for help. He raises his shoulders with a What do you want me to do? look.
“I think this is importan
t,” Andy insists. “Clearly you feel that victims are somehow to blame for their situations.”
Furious, I say, “Maybe they are. How about that? Maybe they are. Kevin was. And I am too.”
Andy grunts. “You’re a victim? Explain that one to me.”
“I told you, people are talking all kinds of shit about me! But I’m still here.”
Andy doesn’t respond for a minute, which is good, because it takes me that long just to settle down.
“You really believe that?” Noah asks, quietly. So quiet, I’m not sure Andy hears. If he does, he doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t know,” I say. I take a breath, collect my thoughts. What’s left of them. “Okay, no, not exactly. Maybe it’s not Kevin’s fault. But all I did was make one tiny joke on Facebook that wasn’t even all that mean, and now it looks like my life is essentially over. So, sorry if I’m feeling a little pissy.”
“You’re right,” Andy finally says, and I have to drag myself back to his part of the conversation.
“What?” I say.
“You’re right,” Andy repeats. “You’re still here. Kevin gave up. I guess I never really thought about it like that.”
“What do you mean, ‘never’?”
“I just mean, did he ever ask for help? With like, you know . . . depression, or that he was being pushed around, anything like that?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Huh.” After a pause, Andy says, “What do you think your chances are? Really.”
“What, you mean to get out of it? Like, not go to jail?”
“Yeah.”
Noah leans forward, eyeing me carefully. My mouth goes dry.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe pretty good, I guess. We didn’t think it would even go to trial, though, so, we’re kind of already screwed in one sense. Our lawyer said there’s precedent in other states to be found not guilty. It’s kind of a bogus bunch of charges anyway.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, come on, it’s not like I tied the rope around his neck.”
“Scarf,” Andy says.
“What?”
“It was a scarf, wasn’t it? Not a rope.”
“Yeah. Right. Sorry. Where did you . . . ?”
“In the news,” Andy says. “So, now how did you get onto his Facebook page in the first place? Had he friended you?”
“Well—yeah. A while back. But it wasn’t his page, it was mine.”
“Yours.”
“Yeah?”
“So he trusted you.”
I don’t reply because something black and spiny erupts in my stomach.
Tori Hershberger Whoever dreamed up high heels should be made to wear them all day at someone’s wedding. My feet hurt like hell!
Like · Comment · Share · January 5
2 people like this.
Noah Murphy whose wedding?
Tori Hershberger I don’t even know her. Some friend of my mom’s.
Kevin Cooper I’m sure you were very pretty.
You like this.
Marly DeSoto cooper got married? so they finally legalized that in this state, huh? BAM!
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Lucas Mulcahy BAM!
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Kevin Cooper Srsly? wtf did I ever do to you marly?
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Lucas Mulcahy queerbag
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FOURTEEN
When the black spines in my gut shrink back a bit, I say, “He just sent messages from time to time, that’s it,” and feel utterly stupid for having said it. Don’t I have any better defenses than these?
“Okay,” Andy says, “but that last post was pretty pointed, wasn’t it? From what I read.”
“Maybe, but . . . well, come on! I can’t read his mind. God, you and my brother, I swear.”
“What about your brother?”
Noah’s face acts like a physical translator to Andy’s voice, making the expressions I imagine Andy is making. It would be funny if I weren’t so tired.
I wonder if Andy’s safe now. I wonder if I can get off the phone and finally go to sleep.
“We’re not on the best of terms,” I say.
“How come?” Andy says.
“Well, partly it’s because we’re not exactly rich, and the biggest pools of money we had saved up were for college. Me and him, my brother, I mean. We had to dive into that to pay for the lawyer.”
“Oh. Suck.”
“Yeah. I’ll be lucky to get into one of those faux colleges they advertise on TV during the day. I had my sights set on U of A, but that’s looking pretty unlikely at present.”
“And your brother?”
“He’s pissed. I mean, the money comes from my account first, obviously, but if it’s not enough, then . . .”
The spiny black creature reappears in my gut. What the hell? I thought I was handling this all right. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, making me more emotional or something.
“Then?” Andy says, of course.
Knowing it won’t make sense, I say, “It’s this damned stupid last name of ours. Hershberger. How many Hershbergers do you know?”
“Offhand? One.”
“Exactly. Well, he was in class and this kid—I mean, college kid, you know—turned to him after roll call and asked him if he was related to that . . . that Hershberger bitch on TV who killed Kevin Cooper.”
Hissss.
There must be an acid leak from the popcorn ceiling or something, because there’s that burning sensation in my eyes again. Noah gives me a sympathetic look; I hadn’t told him this particular part yet.
“Ouch,” Andy says.
“Yeah. I thought, um . . .”
My throat constricts.
“You thought what?”
I can only speak if I keep my molars crushed tightly together. Makes for an interesting speech impediment.
“I thought he’d defend me,” I say through those teeth. “Some asshole just called his little sister a bitch and he just takes it? Backs down? What the . . . God!”
I suck my lips between my teeth, clamp down hard. For all the things to be upset about, somehow reliving this scene the way Jack shouted it at me that day hurts worst. Just like Kevin, I can’t stop myself from thinking. Jack and Kevin both, two people who don’t have the guts to stand up for themselves. Or, say, their sisters.
After a moment Andy says, “What’s your favorite song?”
Noah and I both look at the phone.
“What?” I say.
“Favorite song.”
“Are you, like, trying to change the subject for me?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re a real gem, Andrew.”
He laughs, once, abruptly. “Thanks. Favorite song.”
I sniff, unwilling to admit I appreciate the shift in topics. “That’s a completely unfair question. Song favorites change all the time.”
“True. Give me your favorite right now. Today’s top song. How about you, Noah?”
“Today?” Noah says. “Uh . . . ‘Kaze,’ by Chatmonchy.”
“Hmm. Not sure you spoke English there, but okay, moving on. Tori?”
“Ummm . . . okay, how about ‘Respect and Fear’ by Just This Once? I was listening to that this morning.”
“You’re asking me.”
“Huh?”
“You said, ‘How about,’ as if there was a right answer. There’s no right answer. I’m just curious.”
“Oh. So what’s yours?”
“Today?”
“No, yesterday.” I said it as sarcastically as I could manage.
“Yesterday it was ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ by the Beatles.”
“Okay, I was totally kidding about the yesterday thing.”
“I know. Today I think it’s ‘I Got You Babe’ by Sonny and Cher.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Look them up. Favorite food.”
“
Today?”
“Anytime.”
“Well . . . honestly, my dad’s garlic mashed potatoes.”
Noah makes an orgasmic sound, which actually brings a quick smile to my face.
“He usually only makes them on Thanksgiving, but also on my birthday,” I go on while Noah feigns being stoned by the mere mention of the dish. “I could eat it every day of my life, but I think the waiting makes it even better.”
I don’t mention he made them tonight and no one had any. My smile disappears.
“I gotta back Tor up on that one,” Noah says. “I’ve had them. They are really good.”
“What’s he do with it?” Andy asks. “I mean, how are his different from every grandmother’s on the planet?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but I think there’s some kind of alcohol in it. Wine, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want a bucket of it. Ah, God. Thanks, Andy. Now I’m craving it.”
“Sorry.”
I hear him yawn. So he’s human after all. I let myself yawn in response. Noah only grins.
“Well,” Andy says, “I want to say thank you for playing with me tonight.”
“Playing?” I say. “So this was a joke, then?”
“No. Not a joke. Maybe I’ll even get it right this time.”
Probably because I’m so tired, it takes a couple of seconds for the meaning of his words to sink in. “Wait, this time? You mean you’ve tried to . . . do this before?”
Andy chuckles. “Still can’t quite make yourself say ‘suicide,’ can you?”
I don’t bother commenting on the accuracy of his observation.
“That’s okay, I understand,” Andy says. “Yeah. Once.”
“Yeah, you once tried to?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I can’t stop myself from asking, “How?”
“Tylenol. You know, it’s amazing how easy it is to find ways to kill yourself. You ever think of that?”
As a matter of actual fact, I had, but wasn’t for one second going to admit it to Andy.
“I suppose,” I said. “So what happened?”
“It wasn’t pretty. A friend of mine found me and took me to the hospital. They make you eat this charcoal stuff, and the next thing you know, it’s coming out of every hole in your body, including a couple you didn’t even know you had.”
“That’s disgusting.”
