Unnatural Deeds

by Cyn Balog

  “But your…your aunt…”

  He was silent. He looked down at his menu and opened it. The waitress came. I ordered french fries. He asked if he could share mine. So we got a huge plate of fries. When the waitress left, he said, “She’s not really my aunt.”

  Well, duh. “Oh really?”

  “She… Long story,” he said, prepping me.

  “I’m listening.” I was actually on the edge of my seat. Was he going to tell me something genuine?

  “My mother had me when she was young,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving mine. “Really young. Thirteen. So my grandparents raised me. But they both died last year within a couple of months of each other, and by that time my mother had gone off to Mexico with a new husband who’s, like, old enough to be her grandfather. I’ve never met my stepdad, and my mom’s not exactly the most loving mother on earth, so I sure as hell wasn’t going to live with them in Mexico. So rather than put me in foster care, they arranged to have me move here to live with his first wife’s youngest sister, Bethany. Who you met. She’s my aunt. Kind of. Step-aunt, I guess.”

  My mouth dropped open, and an “oh” came out. Suddenly, the big cloud of mystery that had been hovering over Z’s head lifted. No wonder he made a joke of everything. He hadn’t had the easiest life. “That’s…”

  “Messed up, I know.”

  “But you have family. They’re just—”

  “I don’t consider any of them my family. Not my mom. Not my stepdad. Bethany is just someone I’m living with until I’m legal. And then I’m out of there, quick as that.” He snapped his fingers. “Every one of them will use you until you’re no longer useful and then throw you away. Anyway, I don’t talk about that. To anyone.”

  But he’d chosen to tell me. That meant something. He was the one person in school everyone wanted to know, and yet I knew him best. I shivered at the thought. We could be real friends. I could have an ally at St. Ann’s, instead of walking the halls desperately alone. I wanted that. I tried to think of something to say, something that showed I understood, that I was there for him. Something meaningful.

  Before I could, his grin returned. In a flash, the vulnerable Z disappeared. “It’s all good. Now, what about your parents? You get along well?”

  I told him about my mom and dad, the boringest story ever told. How my parents met in college and fell in love. How they were into two things—church and me. I cut it short though because I was sure Z didn’t want to hear that my parents loved me so much they nearly smothered me, when his were the opposite.

  Leave it to Z to find the common link in our childhood stories. “You’re an only child too,” he observed. “That means we’re both used to getting our own way. Am I right, Vic?”

  I’d laughed, buoyed by the thought: A real friend at St. Ann’s.

  But now I see it much more clearly. Z wasn’t interested in friendship so much as followers. And he always got his way. Anything else was unacceptable.

  Chapter 12

  Suxamethonium chloride (INN), also known as suxamethonium or succinylcholine, is a nicotinic acetylcholine receptor agonist used to induce muscle relaxation and short-term paralysis.

  —Narcotics and Their Proper Usage

  Z dropped me off at my house a little after five. By that time your stepdad’s Ford F-150 was back in the driveway, but I didn’t care anymore if you happened to see me leaving a strange boy’s car. I was in a state of bliss. Z and I were friends. Our relationship was defined, and it was everything I wanted. I was friends with the most interesting guy at school. And I had a caring, talented boyfriend too. Life was good.

  The garage door was open. Your dad had strung a scrawny deer carcass from the rafters. There were two black holes in its backside, and blood dripped from them into a green bucket. You sat deep inside your garage, on the concrete stairs going into your house, with your elbows on your knees, watching the deer like it’d been your best friend. But you managed to force the corners of your mouth into a smile when you saw me. Your voice was monotone. “Behold the spoils of our latest hunting excursion.”

  You started to untie your boots as I stepped into the darkness of the garage, being extra careful to stay as far away from the deer as possible. The stench of your stepdad’s cigarette smoke hung in the air. I fought back the urge to gag. As I got closer, I noticed your jeans were covered in blood and tufts of wispy white fur. “It looks like a baby.”

  You pulled off a boot. Your sock had a hole. You grimaced. You said, “It is. My stepdad got pissed he couldn’t find a buck, so he took it out.”

  “Isn’t that illegal or something?” I asked, but I knew what you were thinking. Better it than me.

  “In the words of my stepfather, ‘it’s only illegal if you get caught.’” You threw your boots on the ground beside the stairs, and dried mud flaked off them.

  Just then the door swung open. It was your mom. She took a step back when she saw me. “Oh, hi, Victoria,” she said, wringing her hands and wincing at the sight of the deer behind me. “What are you doing in here?”

  I gave your mom a smile. “I wanted to see how the hunting expedition went. Venison stew this week?”

  She returned the smile slowly. “That’s right. Well, I guess I’ll just leave you.” She tentatively started to close the door and then said, “Don’t stay out here too long. It’s almost dinnertime. And be careful with all these…things lying around.” She nodded toward the gear strewn on the floor.

  “I’ll take care of it.” You got up and started going through your stepdad’s camo-and-fluorescent-orange gear, which he’d left for you to sort out. You started hanging each piece on its respective hook. You’ve always thrived on organization, so most of your life has been cleaning up your dad’s messes.

  I leaned over to help you but stopped when I saw blood crusted on one of the arrows. “Gross,” I said.

  “Who’s anyone kidding? No one likes venison stew but my dad,” you said, picking up an arrow with a head that looked different.

  “What is that one for? Bigger deer?”

  You shook your head and showed it to me. “These have a compartment for poison. A spring-loaded release injects it into the bloodstream when the arrowhead pierces the deer.”

  I studied it. “Why do you need to poison a deer? Isn’t shooting it with an arrow enough?”

  “Deer run when they’re hit, and sometimes they run a long way before they die. This is a muscle relaxant that basically paralyzes and kills them on the spot,” you said. “It’s also illegal, in case you were wondering. Bambi didn’t stand a chance.”

  You pulled out a small, brown glass bottle. The label said succinylcholine chloride. Just looking at that vial, my hands began to shake. “Is that what you used for…”

  He nodded. “It didn’t hurt.”

  Oh, it hurt all right. How could it not? Our gazes trailed over to the deer. From this angle, I could see its lifeless black eyes. I gagged. Time to change the subject. “Did you and your dad bond?”

  You looked at me like I had three heads. “What do you think?”

  It was a dumb question. Your dad probably drank a thermos of coffee laced with something extra the whole time, until he was so sloshed he couldn’t remember his own name. You probably had to carry the deer back to the car for him and spent the whole harrowing ride home digging your fingernails into the armrests. I could just imagine your dad passed out on that ugly, flowered sofa in your living room, with his dirty-socked feet propped on the arm.

  That was better than what could’ve happened, what happened before. You know the time I’m talking about. There’d been a big buck and you’d missed it. On purpose? I don’t know. But your dad was pissed. That was a given. You never told me the details, but your hair didn’t hide the sore on the back of your head or the brown stain that stretched from the collar of your jacket down your sleeve. He’d hit you. Probably wit
h the end of his bow. In my mind, that’s how I saw it: him coming after you, rage distorting his face. You’d spent a good chunk of your savings on another bow for his birthday. He’d hit you with his bow, but he blamed your hard head for breaking it.

  “How was your day?” you asked, inspecting me. “Why are you all red?”

  I felt my face. “Am I?”

  “You’re all dressed up. Did you go somewhere?”

  I looked down at my jeans and T-shirt. “This is dressed up?”

  “Your hair is down. You never wear it down.” I opened my mouth to explain, but you shrugged and said, “Looks pretty. I mean, you always look pretty, but you’re even prettier with it down.”

  I blushed, not so much from the compliment but because it suddenly felt like deception, wearing my hair in a “pretty” way for someone else. I didn’t mean it that way, you know. “Thanks. I went to a movie with a friend.”

  You didn’t look at me. “Hot new student?”

  “He’s a friend,” I reminded you. “And I didn’t know it was just going to be the two of us. I told him all about you. He has a girlfriend too.”

  You nodded, and we finished cleaning up the rest of the mess in silence. The whole time though, I knew you were still thinking about your stepdad. You always got that tired, dead-eyed expression whenever you spent time with him. You told me you were feeling faint and needed to get your insulin and lie down, but then said something about maybe hanging out tomorrow.

  As I walked back to my front door, my thoughts were on you. On how unfair it was that you were so wonderful and brilliant and being suffocated by that horrible man. Then my phone dinged. I read the message from Z.

  Thanks for listening.

  And then…oh God. I’m sorry, Andrew. My thoughts turned right back to Z, where they stayed for the rest of the weekend.

  Chapter 13

  What were your impressions of your classmate Z?

  A clown. Never took anything seriously. He was always in a good mood. That’s why everyone gravitated to him. He had no shortage of friends.

  In your opinion, was he a poor student?

  No, he was smart. If he concentrated and did the work, he probably would have been one of the best students in class. But he had other things on his mind.

  Like?

  No clue. There was a rumor he was dealing, but I don’t do drugs, so how would I know?

  So he wasn’t one to devote time to his studies.

  No. He was the kind of guy who probably didn’t have to. Things came easily to him, no matter what he did.

  Such as what?

  Such as…everything.

  —Police interview with Gerri O’Donnell, junior at St. Ann’s

  I can’t explain how the atmosphere at St. Ann’s shifted, but I saw change everywhere. Nobody talked about it, of course. But I knew the cause. Z affected everyone in the school. It was as if all the people he’d come in contact with had become the movie-star versions of themselves.

  Brainy Gerri never wore anything other than the school’s regulation pink blouse, buttoned to the very top. Today though, her two top buttons were undone. Parker Cole came in with a brand-new haircut and dye job. She and Rachel were wearing bright-red lipstick and black eyeliner, which they had to remove after homeroom since it was against school policy. Some of the guys had taken to chewing gum. During morning prayers, instead of kneeling straight, people would kneel with their butts propped against their seats. Reese, the hardest of the hard-asses, seemed to smile more. It was like the whole uptight school had suddenly let out the breath it was holding.

  And it was all because of Z.

  Even I have to admit that I took more care in my appearance. I’d never been athletic, but early that morning, I went for a run. Just a short, half-mile jaunt around the block, but I felt better about myself. I wasn’t about to test school policy by wearing makeup, but I curled my hair, rather than sweeping it into the standard ponytail. I made a conscious decision to stop biting my nails. I wore earrings—though nothing too fancy. When I gazed at myself in the mirror, I practiced standing straighter with my chin up so I didn’t look as much like an arthritic old lady. Before Z arrived, it took me minutes to get ready for school. Now it took me an hour. I think his mere presence gave us a reason to try to be our better selves.

  My parents noticed. Father Leary noticed. They were glad that I was feeling good, exercising, making an effort with my appearance.

  Z didn’t notice any of it. Or maybe he was so used to having that effect on people that he didn’t care. He breezed into Reese’s class on Monday—as I was practicing keeping my shoulders back and pushing my chest out—and said, “Hey, Precious.”

  “Precious?” I wrinkled my nose, even though I liked the attention. I’d never had much of a reason to think I was precious to anyone.

  “You have a good rest-of-the-weekend?”

  I nodded and noted the way everyone in the room seemed to turn to face him, like flowers tilting toward the sun. Parker flipped her hair and batted her eyelashes, pouting when Z ignored her. I smiled. She wanted his attention, but he was friends with me. He’d chosen to let me into his life, not her.

  Which was probably why I’d spent all of Sunday thinking of him. Even at church, while Father delivered a stirring homily on God’s forgiveness, I thought of Z. Prayed for him. He prayed right along with everyone during school masses, but I’d never seen him at church. I had to wonder how he spent his Sundays.

  He smacked his gum and took a bright-red square of paper out of his back pocket and started unfolding it. It was a poster for Macbeth. “I’m doing this,” he said surely.

  I said, “You are?” but of course he would. He was outspoken and attracted attention the way most people only dreamed of. He was made for the stage. Me, however? Never!

  I bristled. He already had baseball, which I couldn’t pretend to be into. Now he’d have another activity without me. Soon he’d be so busy with the jocks and the thespians that he wouldn’t be mine anymore.

  But he isn’t really yours, I scolded myself. How could such a silly thought be in my head? He was sure to go off and find cooler people to hang out with, and then I wouldn’t be Precious anymore. I wouldn’t be anyone. My voice was soft when I acknowledged, “I guess you’d be a good actor.”

  He nodded at the crumpled sheet of paper. “Yeah. I would rock this Shakespeare thing. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’”

  Reese strode into the classroom and didn’t zero in on the gum in Z’s mouth, but on the red poster in his hands. She said, “Are you thinking of auditioning, Z?”

  “That I am,” he answered, which made her clap her hands together. “Wonderful!” Probably the last time she’d found something wonderful was in 1976.

  The bell rang, and Reese launched into a discussion of Borges’s “The Zahir.” Have you read it, Andrew? The Zahir was a coin that the narrator received as change, and somehow, that seemingly innocent object consumed all of his thoughts. He became obsessed with it, unable to think of anything else.

  Once again, Z seemed to know everything about the short story. Reese nearly bent over and kissed him on the top of his golden mop. When class was over, I asked him, “How do you know all this?”

  He put his finger to his temple and whispered, “I have a good memory.”

  “That will help you remember your lines,” I observed. “For the play, I mean.”

  “You should do Macbeth too,” he said. “Ever fancy yourself an actress?”

  “That’s not… I’d be terrible.”

  “Why?” he asked, as if the answer wasn’t totally obvious. I’m not someone people watch for enjoyment. But he was still staring at me, waiting, so I had to answer.

  “My voice is too quiet. No one would hear me.”

  After that, he dropped the subject, but I kept thinking about it. What would it be li
ke to be onstage with all eyes on me? I daydreamed about wearing a beautiful costume and standing beside Z. He performed miracles every day. Maybe he could make me watchable. Maybe his friendship was all I needed to be someone other than meek, forgettable Victoria Zell.

  At lunch, I ate by myself, trying to reread “The Zahir” but constantly sneaking looks in Z’s direction. Every day, he sat with the other baseball jocks. They were insulated in their own little shell, oblivious to the world around them. So I was surprised to see him crack a joke, and then, while the rest of the guys burst into fits of laughter, look over at me. Was he making jokes about me?

  I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. He palmed his phone, one thumb moving expertly over it. A second later, my phone dinged. I’d made the ringer extra loud so I wouldn’t miss another text from him. I tried to act nonchalant, but I was dying to know what was going on. My fingers fumbled on the zipper as I pulled open my purse. The message said: Look inside your locker for a surprise.

  I looked up. He was smiling at me. I wrinkled my brow and mouthed, “What?” My palms had already begun to sweat.

  His thumb started going again. My phone dinged.

  Can’t tell you. You have to look. Go. Now.

  I got up, told the lunch monitor I had to use the bathroom, and walked out of the cafeteria at as leisurely a pace as possible. Once I got away from the doors, I slipped into a run.

  My locker? How had he gotten my locker combination? What was he up to? Was I the butt of some stupid jock joke? I got the combination right on the second try, lifted the latch, and pulled open the door. On the top shelf, just at eye level, was a bag of candy kisses.

  My heart thrummed and my cheeks burned as I hugged them to my chest. Then, I pulled out my phone and texted: How did you know my locker combination?

  Ten seconds later, the text came back: I have my ways.

  He must’ve looked over my shoulder to figure it out because he wanted to surprise me, to make me feel special. And I did. No one at school had ever made a gesture like that for me. I was about to respond when he sent me another text: You are too sweet to be corrupted by someone like me.