The Bravest Thing

by Laura Lascarso

  “Regarding?” she asks.

  “Coach Cross,” I say somberly. She nods, looking a little fearful. I think she might ask me to come back another time, but she makes a call to the principal, Mr. Jeffries, and he comes in shortly after. The three of us settle in around her desk.

  “I’d like to record this,” I tell them. I only want to have to say this once. They agree, so I lay my phone on the desk and push Record. Then I tell them everything, beginning with the beatings Trent endured as a kid, the way Coach Cross runs the football team, some of the things he’s said to us during practice and games, threats he’s made. I tell them about the bullying Trent has doled out over the years. I don’t name his victims, but I give them enough detail for them to get a full picture of what’s been going on. Then I come to what happened with Hiro, beginning in basketball, the fighting and the cruel pranks, and then how they attacked him.

  I get a little teary at that point and have to take a breather. Before Hiro left I told him my intentions, and he let me take a picture of his chest. Mrs. Potts and Principal Jeffries look pretty horrified when I show them. I tell them what Coach Cross said to me about not allowing faggots on the football team. And some of the pranks and vandalism that have happened to me since coming out. I don’t need to tell them the shit storm they’ll be in if this information gets out. I can tell from their expressions they already know.

  “Thank you, Berlin,” Mr. Jeffries says when I’ve finished. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to come to us with this. I’m sorry for all that you and Hiroku have endured. I didn’t realize….” He trails off. “In any case, we take this matter very seriously. I hope you know that. And please tell your father he’s welcome to contact me at anytime.”

  I pick up my phone and stick it in my pocket. I shake their hands. I don’t feel the need to ask them what they’re going to do about it. I’ll give them time to confer, and if nothing changes, I have this recording. I’ll take it to the higher-ups. There’s always someone farther up on the food chain.

  In the weeks following my statement, there are a lot of changes around Lowry High. Coach Cross is suspended immediately, investigation pending. The rest of the coaches are interviewed about their roles. The tension between me and the football team escalates as well, with them blaming me for the loss of their leader. Strangely, though, Trent doesn’t retaliate. It makes me nervous, like maybe he’s plotting something big. I’m on my guard all the time, trying to anticipate the next attack.

  One afternoon in early February, I’m out in the barn shoveling hay when I spy Trent there in the doorway. I didn’t hear his truck come in, which means he must have parked it down the road. I grip the pitchfork, intending to use it as a weapon if needed, but all Trent holds is a near-empty bottle of whiskey. It isn’t close to dinnertime, and he’s already drunk as a skunk.

  “Berlin Webber,” he says, kind of slurring my name. He shuffles into the barn, stumbling a bit. I can’t believe he drove over here drunk as he is. Luckily the roads that lead to our ranch are wide and empty.

  I stab my pitchfork into the ground and wipe the sweat from my brow. A couple of months ago I’d have welcomed the opportunity to beat his ass, but at present I’m not looking for a fight.

  He comes in closer. He smells as bad as he looks, which is more than just drunk—ill and a little crazy.

  “You the one causing all this trouble?” he asks and digs one finger into my chest. I shove his hand away. Strangely, he doesn’t seem as angry as I expected.

  “Don’t start what you can’t finish,” I say to him, a throwback to old times when he used to pick fights with me, then end up having to beg for mercy.

  “You always were a cocky son of a bitch.” He wipes at his mouth and sways a little on his feet. With one good shove, I could send him sprawling. He’s sweating more than what seems normal. I can’t tell what’s going on inside his head, because it isn’t rage behind his dark brown eyes, but something else. I square off with him. If he wants to come at me, I’ll be ready.

  He raises one arm, but instead of punching me, he grips the back of my neck and yanks me in toward him, kissing me full on the mouth. He tastes like the bottom of a bottle. I stumble backward and trip over the pitchfork, landing on my backside in a pile of cold horse shit. My mind is spinning. Trent just had his tongue in my mouth. It’s like waking up one day to find the sky underneath you.

  “I thought you were a faggot,” he says. Now he sounds angry.

  “So what?” Does he think me being gay automatically means I’m available?

  “So.” He kicks at the pitchfork and turns away. I stand up and wipe my hands on my jeans. Hiro was right about him all along. But what’s changed for Trent? Why now?

  “My dad’s going to kill me when he finds out,” he says. “Especially now.”

  I glance over at him. I don’t know what to say. I’m not in a position to counsel Trent on how to come out to his father. Honestly, it seems like a bad idea to me too.

  “You don’t have to tell him.”

  He grips his head with both hands and tears at his short hair. “You know how hard it is to hide it?”

  I sigh, recalling all those times Hiro passed by me at school and I had to ignore him. “Yeah, I do.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest, sticks his hands in his armpits. He looks like a little kid trying not to fuss. “You never looked at me that way. The way you look at him.”

  I suppose he means Hiro. He sounds almost… jealous. Was part of his retaliation motivated by envy? That doesn’t make it any better. If anything, it’s worse that he knew exactly what I was going through. I know forgiveness is a virtue, but I’ll never forgive Trent for what he did to Hiro. Never in a million years. At the same time, I know what it’s like to struggle alone. I never hated myself for being gay, but I think Trent does, and has for a while.

  “Being gay isn’t a sin.”

  “The hell it isn’t.” He knocks the bottle against his head, and the liquor splashes against the sides. “I can’t do this anymore,” he moans.

  I don’t know what he’s talking about—being gay or hiding it? “You can’t keep hating yourself for something you can’t control. Your dad is the sinner here. He’s a bully and a meanass man. You don’t need his approval or his respect, and no matter how hard you try, you probably won’t get it anyway. All you can do is be the best person you can. Being gay, it is what it is.”

  He rubs his arms and glances over at me with a forlorn look in his eyes. “You probably hate me, don’t you?”

  I hate him for what he did to Hiro, and the fact that he got away with it, but in this moment, I mainly feel sorry for him. “I feel bad for you, Trent. I know what a struggle it is. It won’t always be like this, though. In a couple years, you’ll be out on your own. And then, fuck your dad. In the meantime, don’t be such a fucking asshole to everyone else, because it’s not their fault.”

  He nods, keeping a stiff upper lip. “You going to tell anyone about this, Webber?”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  I realize I’m probably the first person he’s come out to. It makes me feel guilty. Maybe if we’d both been honest, we could have helped each other along. I get the sense he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He turns to go, and I call out to him, “You want a ride home?” He’s still a long way from being sober.

  “Getting a ride from a faggot is probably riskier than drunk driving,” he says. I shake my head. There are about a hundred nicer ways for him to say it.

  “Take care of yourself, Trent.”

  “Yup.” He raises his bottle of whiskey in a good-bye salute.

  I go back to mucking the stalls, reflecting on Trent and our friendship over the years, and how sometimes the bravest thing you can do is be honest with yourself about who you are and who you love.

  Hiroku

  I GET lucky in Austin. I scour the web for wedding videographers until I find one who needs an assistant. I also introduce myself to the editors of the Beat,
Austin’s major music media outfit. I send their photo editor, Emilio Vasquez, a link to my portfolio. A lot of my pictures are of Petty Crime, but I assure him I can cover most any band. He puts me to work right away.

  I don’t have a good flash anymore—I left mine with Seth in Allister—so I spend my last couple hundred bucks buying one online. It comes in the day before I’m scheduled to shoot, which doesn’t give me much time to practice, but I make the most of it.

  “These are incredible,” Emilio tells me via chat when I send him a link to the photos from my first assignment, a band called Little Sinister playing out in Austin that weekend. I shot them in a graveyard at night. The band was all about it and even contributed their own props, like a shredded umbrella and goth-looking canes and top hats. I added some aftereffects: fog and a filter that made it look like a scene from a silent movie, kind of dirtied it up as well. After that, Emilio gives me a regular gig of photographing the bands that are coming to town. A lot of them like my work and say they’ll hire me to do their promo stuff. Within a few weeks of being back in Austin, I’m already making a name for myself.

  Between freelancing for the Beat and filming and editing wedding footage, I’m earning enough cash to keep me in ramen and peanut butter sandwiches. I talk to my mom almost every day and even get a few words in with my dad. Mai is back in my life and happy for me that I’m doing so well. Berlin and I text throughout the day and FaceTime at night. I know he’s anxious to visit, but I still feel like I’m not ready, like I need some kind of proof that I can really do this whole adulting thing on my own.

  The next week Emilio makes me an offer.

  “Seth Barrett from Petty Crime wants to give us an exclusive interview,” he says. I can hear the excitement in Emilio’s voice. Petty Crime is the next big thing. They just launched their sophomore album, China Doll, the one they recorded in Allister. The song the album is named after is getting played around the country. It’s the one I helped Seth write, the one that’s supposedly about me.

  I argued with Seth about the whole Chinese-Japanese thing, and he told me Japan Doll just doesn’t roll off the tongue in the same way. There’s a video for it, too, but it’s cheesy as hell and feels totally fake. It isn’t set in the desert like I wanted, but in some seedy train yard like a bad Bon Jovi video. The guy they found to play me looks Korean. And he isn’t nearly as pretty as me, but whatever.

  “What an opportunity,” I say to Emilio. I already know what comes next.

  “Seth requested you specifically. I figured from your portfolio you all must have worked together before. He wants you to do the written piece, too, in addition to the photos. I told him that wasn’t your bag, but he was kind of pushy about it. If you get the questions answered, I can pretty it up later. You cool with that?”

  Seth must have scoured the web for my name and seen it pop up in a photo credit on the Beat. I lie back on my bed and rub at my scar. There’s no limit to Seth’s insanity and no easy way to escape him. I could refuse Emilio, but if I want to live and work in Austin in this industry, our paths are bound to cross. And maybe this is the test I need to prove I’m over him.

  “Hiroku? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” I sit up. “Where does he want to do the interview?”

  “At his apartment in Red River. I can text you the address.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know it already.”

  We end the call, and I think back to the first time I ever saw Seth, out on the basketball courts with his ripped-up jeans and floppy hair, hard, lean muscles, and sly grin. Even then I knew he was trouble. I was fourteen and just starting to entertain the idea of being with another guy. The first time Seth looked at me with his bedroom eyes and spoke to me in that silken voice, I practically came in my pants right then.

  I think about the last time I saw him, through a fog of withdrawal, the crazy look in his eyes and the way he swung that guitar like he was going to bash Berlin’s skull in. And me, a hopeless, helpless wretch. It makes me so sad to think about where we started out and where we ended up.

  Taking someone as backup feels like cheating. I have to face Seth on my own. I’ll treat this like any other job. I pull out my phone and jot down a few interview questions. If I stick to the script, what can possibly go wrong?

  I WEAR professional clothes instead of my usual jeans and T-shirt. I have this crazy idea that if Seth sees me as a serious journalist type, he might not try any shenanigans. Wishful thinking.

  “Hiroku.” He says my name in one long, musical sigh, like he’s in the throes of passion. He’s shirtless and barefoot when he answers the door with an easy grin on his face, practically oozing smug anticipation. No trace of remorse whatsoever. He must be having one of his manic days.

  “Seth,” I say as stiffly as I can muster.

  He opens the door wide, and I come in just far enough so he can close it behind me. I brought my camera equipment as well. My plan is to snap pictures first, then conduct the interview. That way I can make a speedy exit if I need to.

  “How’s my bike?” I ask.

  “I sold it to help pay for all those drugs. I still have some, though, if you’re interested….” He smiles like a fox.

  My body twitches and my heart races at the prospect. I remind myself it’s not worth it.

  “Let’s start with pictures.” I pull my camera out of its bag.

  “Did your beefcake expire?” He eases back into one of his floor cushions like a sultan. I pull back the heavy curtains to let in more light and snap a few pictures of him in his resplendent glory, getting low to the ground to really capture his regal air. That’s the fantasy of Seth Barrett and the image he chooses to project, but like most of what he does, it’s only an act.

  “I still remember the first time I saw you,” he says when I don’t answer his question about Berlin. He leans in toward me, eyes me hungrily, and licks his lips. “Do you?”

  “On the basketball court,” I say like I don’t give a shit. Seth said he wanted to play even though he wasn’t dressed for it. The rest of us, being younger and decidedly less cool than him, said okay. It quickly became apparent that he’d never played before, but he was so charming and funny that nobody cared. From the time he introduced himself to the end of the game, when he asked if he could walk me home, he only had eyes for me. It was such a thrill to have his attention. I felt powerful and cool that this hot, talented, older guy wanted me. Looking back, it was an obsession for the both of us.

  “It wasn’t playing basketball,” he says. He sits back and tugs at his crotch lovingly. I snap a few more pictures; no doubt he’ll like those. “It was a couple weeks before. You were walking through the neighborhood, collecting leaves. I was in the garage, tweaking out on my guitar. You were cute as hell, so I followed you to the park. I realized along the way you were only picking up the red ones. Then when you got to the park, you threw them up in the air and snapped pictures of where they’d fallen on the ground. Then you picked them up and did it again.” He sighs, a dreamy look on his face. “I can still see the leaves falling all around you like red confetti. You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”

  I remember that day. At least, I remember those photos. It was during my nature phase. I was trying to emulate a photographer who made complex designs with different colored leaves and sticks. It’s strange to think about it from Seth’s perspective.

  He stands and goes over to the window, winces at the light streaming in. I notice the dark hollows under his eyes and the yellow tinge of his skin. He isn’t taking care of himself. I snap a few more pictures. These are more honest portraits.

  “You were so young,” he whines. “It was practically criminal. That’s probably why your mother never liked me.” He scratches at the windowpane with his fingernail. My mother didn’t like him even when she thought we were just friends. She said she always felt like he was lying when he spoke to her. She wasn’t wrong.

  “You know what that was like?” he asks
me. “To have to be so patient? I had to teach you everything. You remember?”

  The first time we had sex I was barely fifteen, and even with all the preparation, it still hurt like hell. Afterward I cried, and he held me and told me over and over how much he loved me and how the next time, I’d like it more. He took it for granted there would be a next time. I guess I did too.

  “You remember,” he says. He glances over at me with sorrowful eyes. I don’t like seeing him in pain, even though I know he’s only doing it to manipulate me. He makes me feel like that same vulnerable, trusting kid. His stupid China doll.

  I hide behind my camera. I’m here on assignment. Click. Click. Click.

  “Did you care for me at all, or was I only imagining it?” he asks. It’s a trick question. To lie would make me out to be a coldhearted bitch. To answer truthfully would confirm that I’m still not over him. So I say nothing.

  “I’m sorry for what happened in the desert.” He takes a step toward me. I take a step back, a strange waltz. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  I decide I have enough photographs, and the situation is escalating. My body feels like it’s pooling at my feet, my mind getting soft and pliable as a piece of wax. I put away my camera and pull out my phone, hit Record.

  “A lot of music critics say your sound reminds them of the grunge scene of the early nineties, bands like Candlebox and Alice in Chains. Who are your main influences?”

  “Really, Hiroku?” He rolls his eyes. “My influences?”

  The question is pretty standard. I stand there silently and wait for a response. When it seems I’m not going to get one, I continue on to the next question. “China Doll was recorded in Allister, Texas, just outside the Chihuahuan desert. What was it like working with Van Palamuso on the album?”

  “Do you want a bump?” he asks.

  “Do you want that included in the interview?”

  He throws up his hands. “I just want a straight answer from you, Hiroku. That’s all I ever wanted. Did you ever love me, or did I imagine it all?”