Waiting on Justin

by Lucy H. Delaney

  My reluctance to wait didn't come into play at all that morning at Smoker's Corner. In the winter, in inland California, there’s not much a young horny couple can do exposed in the great outdoors, even if they wanted to. I was snuggled up into his jacket to suck up his heat, and we were doing a good job of keeping each other warm with our not-quite-innocent touches. My hands were inside his jacket, reaching in as far as I could get them. His hands were doing about the same thing, only he would sneak them out into the cold to smoke from time to time. Back then, he chain-smoked when he was anxious. He finished a cigarette and hugged me close—so close I could feel the wrinkles in his shirt against me. I loved that he wanted me; I felt powerful knowing I could make this big, strong, tough guy go weak and vulnerable with a simple, purposeful move of my lips—or my hips. When he would groan, it was intoxicating—it made me want him; it made him mine; but I also knew he would never let it go too far. Oh, how I loved him then!

  We never knew when other wayward souls would come down to Smoker's Corner, and when they did, we would take breaks and separate. I liked to collect the dead leaves and make bouquets with them while we hung out with the others. Sometimes, mostly before first period, there could be fifteen or more of us there, deciding together if we wanted to show up to class that day or not.

  That morning, when other kids stopped by, the talk was about how Justin would beat Drew’s face in. One way or another, Justin was going to let Drew know it was time he moved on. We all knew a fight was imminent; I just didn't think it would be Justin's last high school fight.

  Right before we left, some guys from school, Pablo and Edgar, showed up and interrupted one of our trysts that wasn’t going to end anywhere climactic anyway. I bowed my head onto Justin’s chest, and we laughed. I looked at the boys smugly. I was caught. I tried not to look like I cared as much as I did.

  “Awwww, busted! You gonna finish this, Justin, or what?” Pablo joked.

  “Not now,” Justin answered back with a smile.

  “Whoa!” Edgar shouted, grinning and nodding.

  The boys came to get high, and we knew it. They were stoners. So was Justin, and by that time, so was I. There were no words spoken; we didn’t need them. We knew what they were doing, and they knew we wouldn't narc on them. In our classes the kids drew their color lines if seats weren't assigned—the whites with the whites, the blacks with the blacks, and the Hispanics with each other—but the lines were more fluid outside of class, especially when weed was involved. Our school was small enough that as long as we stayed cool with people, we were all willing to share our toys. Only now that we were older, instead of Matchbox cars, lizards, and dolls, our toys were smokes, beer, weed and leftover boyfriends and girlfriends. The rules were known, even if we didn't post them on walls like teachers did. The rule here was “share and share alike.” It wasn’t like we hadn’t smoked them out before, so the expectation was that we were automatically invited to get high with them if they brought it out. Pablo passed the pipe to me; I took a hit and passed it to Justin, but I knew he wouldn't smoke it. He was going to fight soon, and he liked to be clear-headed when he fought.

  “I'm good,” he said passing it back to Edgar, “You know Drew Risher?” Justin asked the boys while I exhaled.

  “He’s with Lizzie, right?” Pablo answered.

  “Not no more he's not. She’s done with him, I’m about to beat the facts into him to make sure he gets it.”

  “Nuh uh, when?”

  “After second period. He turned all OJ on her. Dude’s going psycho, following her everywhere she goes. It ain’t cool, man.”

  “I hear you, I hear you,” Edgar said, nodding.

  If it would have happened nowadays, we all would have been texting, Snapchatting and messaging what was about to go down, but we didn’t have that technology then. The amazing thing was, we didn’t need it to get the message across. Kids found out about stuff just as fast even before we had cell phones.

  Lizzie—the good girl, the honor student who never skipped—had been telling everyone her childhood friend, Justin, was going take care of Drew that day. The rumors started old-school style, with whispered words in the halls that morning, when teachers weren't around. Teenaged hype took it from there, and before the first-period class bell rang, everyone was on high alert, there was going to be a fight.

  Pablo, Edgar, Justin and I stayed together, making small talk and wasting time, until a few minutes before the bell rang. Usually we would have waited for the bell to help us decide to go or not, but today Justin wanted to be at Lizzie’s class when it let out. Unless Drew chickened out because of the rumors or because he grew a brain since the day before, he would probably already be there, too.

  The four of us walked up to the school together. Justin and I walked hand in hand until we got to the sidewalk; then we weren't a couple anymore. It was time for him to be strong and mean. It was not time for him to be seen as weak. I knew the rule and let go even before he unconsciously pushed my hand out of his, as he had done in the past before a fight. It was amazing to me how this boy I had loved as long as life itself could be so soft, gentle, and kind with me and then turn in a moment into a monster I didn’t recognize. He wasn’t one to mess with when he was pissed; too much of Clayton's rage was bottled up inside him, waiting for an excuse to get out. I didn't like seeing him mad. It scared me.

  I think it scared him, too, because he was the one who made the rule to keep me safe. He wasn’t mad when he said it; that's why I knew I had to listen and obey. He was making the rule to save me from himself.

  We had been lying on the couch together watching Star Trek TNG. It was a hot, almost-summer night. Clayton and Mom were still gone from the night before, and we were spooning, but he curled me in his arm and turned me to face him. I readjusted and rubbed my hand across his chiseled chest. As he looked at me, his eyes, like they always did, told me he loved me, and his fingers ran lightly up and down my arm. He had gotten suspended the day before for fighting and had the busted face to show for it. He never said if he won or lost that one; I wasn’t at the high school yet and I didn’t need to know.

  “Haylee, don’t ever get in the way when I’m fighting, you hear me? I don’t care if I’m winning, losing, or you think I’m a fool for fighting, or I’m fighting for you—stay out of it, all right? You can be there for me, but don't get in my way.”

  I didn't know how to answer, so I nodded. And every time I saw him fight after that, I obeyed the rule. I still wonder what made him say it. Had there been a girl at the fight getting in the middle of it? Did the other guy have a girlfriend messing the fight up? Did he hit a girl who got in the way during the fight? He never said. I never asked.

  He walks faster when he’s mad, and it was hard for me to keep up with him after I let go of his hand. I lagged behind Pablo and Edgar too, knowing it could turn into a brawl if Drew had other guys with him. I didn't want to be caught between them or hold them back while I scrambled out of the way.

  Part of me didn’t want to be there at all for the fight. I had seen a million fights by the time I was in ninth grade: Justin’s fights, other friends, Clayton and his buddies on Friday nights. Although I hated fighting, it was like watching a train wreck: I couldn’t walk away. Some dark place inside me was drawn to the carnage.

  It wouldn’t be good for Justin if I bailed either. He didn’t want me in fights, but he wanted me there while he fought, the way Rocky needed Adrienne. He never told me that; but I knew it was true. All men need their girl by their side; it's how they're wired.

  And as much as he needed me there, I needed to watch. We were part of each other, so for me to walk away from his fight—this one especially—would have been wrong. I never worried about Justin losing because he never did, except when he let Clayton hit him. More often I felt sorry for the other guy and worried that Justin wouldn't stop before he really hurt him. There were times watching him fight that I wanted to cry out and tell him enough was enough, but I didn’t want him
to yell at me, so I kept my words in my mouth. Truth be told, I liked him strong. What girl doesn't want her man to be the toughest guy around? I didn’t need him to fight to prove it to me, but he needed to prove it to himself.

  Unlike most guys in fights, Justin didn't fool around. It was never like the movies where the guys would talk about the reason for the fight and circle each other a dozen times before the first blow or kick; no, Justin went right for the knockout. Some guys really didn’t want to fight; they tried to talk and reason with Justin to get him to back down. In those cases Justin was the automatic winner, and everyone gathered around knew it. I hated it when he beat them down anyway; I told him that once, when we were alone after one particularly bad fight with a boy from another school.

  “You already knew you had him, Justin; why did you do that?”

  “I had to. Everyone was watching.”

  “You didn’t have to. He was scared; he was begging you like a baby not to fight him. Everyone knew it.”

  “I had to make my point.”

  “But you did. He even admitted it—he said he didn’t want to fight ’cause you would mess him up. You shouldn’t have done it.”

  “What do you want me to do, look weak?”

  “No. Look like you, just don't ... be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  I didn't want to say it, but he needed to hear it: “Like Clayton. You're better than him; don't be like that.” We were sitting together on the couch that time too, watching another afternoon rerun of Star Trek TNG. Since we were alone, it was safe to be close. His hand, bruised from pounding the guy's face in, was holding mine until I said that. He let go quickly and pretended to be suddenly focused on the conversation Captain Piccard and Jordie LaForge were having about warp drive engines on the Enterprise. When the commercial came on, he finally answered me: “You can't understand it. You're not a guy.”

  “No, not all of it, but I understand enough to know that when someone says they’re afraid you’re going to beat the crap out of them, that’s enough to make you not look weak. You don't have to be like that, please.”

  “I can’t promise you that, Haylee.”

  “Please, Justin.”

  “I’m done talking about it.” He turned the volume up on the remote. There was no sense in trying to keep arguing my point; I had made it, and I could tell it got to him. We didn’t say more about it then or ever, but after that conversation it seemed to me he did go easier on the guys who admitted defeat, which was most of them.

  But this time, with Drew, I didn't think that would be the case. Drew had it coming, and he was about to get it—big time. The only person Justin was more protective of than me was Lizzie, and we were probably even more protective of her than of ourselves. I was pretty sure Drew wasn’t getting out of the fight without bleeding. He'd be lucky to make it out conscious.

  “Hey!” Justin shouted when he turned around the corner, picking up his pace even more. Sure enough, the slimeball was right where we expected him: outside Lizzie’s classroom, waiting like a vulture for his prey. Drew saw Justin immediately but didn't have time to prepare for the first hit, idiot. Justin crushed his nose before he said anything else. Pablo's hand went to his mouth, making a fist and laughing with Edgar about the hit.

  “Ohhhh! Yeah!”

  Drew didn't even take it like a man; he squealed like a girl. The blood I was expecting didn't come. Maybe Justin's hit wasn't as hard as it sounded.

  “You think it's funny to follow Lizzie around? She told you to leave her alone.”

  “Dude!” Drew backed away and put his hands up to the side—cowardly, in surrender, not protectively like he wanted to fight. “What's your problem?!”

  “You won't leave her alone; that's my problem!” Justin answered before giving him Clayton's favorite, a sucker punch to the gut. “She told you to leave her alone. Did you not get the message? 'Cause I'm pretty sure she made it loud and clear.”

  The bell rang, and kids started pouring out of classes. They could smell the energy of a fight even before they saw it. Teenagers huddled and circled the two of them, while teachers sat oblivious in the comfort of their heated classrooms. They wouldn't realize there was a problem outside for several long minutes.

  “Justin!” It was Lizzie; she had seen the hit.

  “Lizzie, what did you tell him?” Drew asked.

  “I—I didn't tell him anything.” She was panicking. She wasn't trying to make Justin look bad; it just came out that way. She looked from one face to the other, pathetically at Drew, pleading with me and Justin, to the faces in the crowd. She was analyzing, processing, trying to figure out what to do or say to make it all go away, like she expected Justin to have done something differently to make Drew stop following her.

  “What, Lizzie? You want this guy to keep following you around? You want him to grab you and tell you what to do?”

  “No! But I don't want you to beat him up. You'll hurt him bad, Justin.”

  It was enough of an insult to emasculate Drew right there in front of everyone. The big bad football player was no match for the poor loser-kid, and Lizzie blurted the truth for all to hear. Even though he was scared, Drew did what comes naturally when a guy gets put down: he fought back to prove he could not be hurt by Justin.

  If Justin hadn't been distracted by Lizzie he would have seen it coming, but he caught Drew's right hook square to the chin. Lizzie screamed, but Justin shook it off. He was used to taking hits, it barely fazed him, except to make him more mad.

  The crowd went wild. We were loud enough to signal a ruckus was afoot. Teachers would be coming out any minute; if we knew better, we would disperse before they got there. But what do teenagers in the heat of emotion know?

  Justin couldn't afford to get in trouble at school right then; he had been suspended for insulting a teacher two weeks before. But it didn't matter. At that moment he was protecting Lizzie. He would give up his life for that girl to have a good shot at hers; giving up his education was of little consequence.

  To repay Drew for the hook, Justin turned around and clocked him good—three, four, five times hard in the face. Drew tried to block but was no match for Justin's speed and experience. The rest of the fight was for Lizzie.

  “She doesn't want to see you ... ” Punch.

  “ ... To talk to you ... ” Jab.

  “ ... To have you follow her around like a freak ... ” Punch.

  “ ... Or to lay a hand on her ever again!” Hook to the face. And then came the blood, like lava from a volcano—thick, slow, red, smearing on Justin's knuckles and Drew's cheek.

  “You got that, Bro?” Justin asked, stepping back to wait for Drew's answer.

  “All I wanted to do was talk to her.”

  “You're done talking now, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah, man! I'm sure.”

  “Tell her you're sorry.”

  Drew looked at Lizzie, “I'm sorry.”

  “And?” Justin asked.

  “And I won't mess with you anymore.”

  That was it. It was over before a single teacher broke through the crowd. The students wanted more. A fight for a good cause wasn't good enough; they were in it for the blood and beating, regardless of the reason for the fight. It wasn't a grudge match for Justin; it was about making the point to let Lizzie be. Justin made it loud and clear, and Drew conceded it. The fight didn't have to continue. Drew was a coward anyway; that's why he was all rough and tough with Lizzie—he wasn't a man; he was a little baby who wasn't getting his way. He got smacked down and learned real fast he wouldn't be getting what he wanted. Lizzie would be safe.

  In Justin's mind the fight was worth it because Lizzie would be free. Drew knew there would be a round two if he messed with her anymore. In my eyes it was the right thing for Justin to do. I'd seen him fight for far less noble causes before; this one was actually for a good reason. But in the eyes of the governing bodies of the s
chool, it was improper, inappropriate, and the last straw for Justin.

  Drew got suspended for three days for his involvement, but they straight-up expelled Justin. It was a death sentence. He hung up all his hopes and dreams. There was no point in coming back the following year; at that rate he would be almost twenty before he graduated. There was no point going home, either: Clayton would be pissed. My mom would do what she did best and use the expulsion as an excuse to head to the bar to gripe about having to put up with Clayton’s worthless son.

  I couldn't go back to class, even though I told Lizzie to finish the day like nothing happened. She was embarrassed that they were fighting over her. It really won her sympathy with her popular friends—her loser friend beating up the football stalker. The drama would be good for her high school career. She went to third period, but I followed Mr. Duncan, who walked between both boys, as they went to the office.

  “What are you doing here, young lady?” the receptionist, Ms. Solis, asked.

  “I'm waiting for Justin; he's talking to Sipe,” I answered nodding toward the principal's closed office door.

  “You need to go back to class.”

  “It's OK; I'll wait,” I said. There wasn't much the office workers could do with us kids who lived on the fringe. I could see it in her eyes; she looked at me the way Clayton and Mom did: she saw trash, a pointless waste of the oxygen I breathed. The only difference was she didn't say the words. She didn't have to; I heard her expression loud and clear.

  “Well, you can't wait here. What's your third period class?”

  “Doesn't matter.”

  She was getting impatient, but I was starting to have fun. This would be a good way to pass the time. She looked something up in the computer and found the information I wouldn't give her. She wrote me out a hall pass to my class and held it smartly toward me between two fingers.