The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder

by Cookie O'Gorman

  “Just what are you saying?” Mom’s voice was starting to sound more Southern, a sure sign she was getting ready to rip someone’s head off. Rapier had no idea what he was in for.

  “I’m saying that maybe your daughter encouraged this boy,” he continued, “made him believe she wanted to do something more than just kissing.”

  I balked, the thought making me feel ill.

  “Whether it was intentional or not”—he leaned back—”you’d have to ask her.”

  “Now, you listen here, Hal Rapier. You can say what want about me and my ways, but if you ever, ever say anything derogatory about my daughter again, I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it up your ass.”

  Wow. Way to go Mom.

  Rapier sputtered while Mr. Claxton tried to smooth things over.

  “Now, see here, I’m sure Hal didn’t mean it like that, Miss Doherty.” The principal’s voice was pacifying, but Mom was having none of it.

  “No, you see here. My daughter is a virgin.”

  You could’ve heard the sweat gliding down Principal Claxton’s forehead; the V-bomb was that powerful. I could’ve died right there, but to my horror she kept going.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Probably the only one you’ve got in this school, and she guards her virginity like a treasure. I’m betting this boy”—she pointed a finger at McCreary—”can’t say the same. Now, you better do something about this and quick, or I promise you I’ll sue him for harassment and each of your sorry asses for negligence.”

  At this point, the principal’s face was red as a tomato, his mouth and eyes wide in shock.

  Mom gave the bald man behind the desk the squinty-eye. “Don’t test me, Bill.”

  And Principal Claxton folded.

  “Well, yes...yes, of course,” he said, sounding strained. “You can be sure he’ll be punished accordingly, as soon as it’s feasible.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows, and Aunt B said, “And what the heck does that mean?”

  I watched another bead of sweat trail from the principal’s hairline down his face.

  “Well, you see, it is Friday, so...” he trailed off.

  “So?” Mom said.

  “It’s not the best day to start expelling people,” Mr. V said diplomatically.

  Mom was blank-faced.

  “For Christ’s sake.” Rapier jumped to his feet. “We’ve got Regionals tonight! We can’t win Regionals without our star quarterback.”

  Aunt B’s lip curled. “Are you talking football?”

  “Damn right, I’m talking football!” Rapier shouted. “Bill, you can’t just take Grant out of the game. He’s the team’s only hope of getting to state.” He threw an arm around his golden ticket. “And you know the boy has to play. Grant is football. Without it, what’s he got? Besides, far as I can tell, he didn’t purposefully do anything wrong.”

  “He sure the hell did,” Mom exclaimed, and Aunt B snorted, crossing her arms.

  It struck me as I sat there, hand still held captive by my mom, just how lucky I was. I had two fiercely protective women ready to gouge out somebody’s eyes if need be, and the only thing McCreary had was…Rapier. Gross.

  “Delilah?” Principal Claxton said, and I looked to him. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not really.” I squirmed as every eye landed on me. “Disgusted and repulsed me, sure. No one should touch someone else without permission or say the things he said. And for the record, I said no and did not encourage him in any way. But he...he didn’t hurt me.” I smiled then, remembering McCreary’s face as he fell, hands over his privates. “I didn’t give him the chance.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked, looking concerned.

  I nodded.

  Looking over, I saw McCreary staring at me, jaw hanging open like a guppy.

  Principal Claxton cleared his throat. “Mr. McCreary, on Monday, you’re to report to the I.S.S. Room to begin your suspension. I’m setting a term of two”—Mom shot him a glare—”three months. During that time, you’ll also be required to serve sixty hours of community service. If you fail to meet either of these conditions, you will face expulsion from Bowie High School.” He paused. “Did you hear me, son?”

  McCreary finally looked at him. “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the game?” Rapier said.

  “Let him play.”

  Everyone turned to look at Aunt B in shock.

  “What?” she said, locking eyes with McCreary. “He won’t gain a single yard.”

  Without blinking, she began a chant that sounded vaguely like “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” raising her hand until all five fingers were pointed at McCreary’s chest. Rapier jerked a pale, wide-eyed McCreary to his feet and out the door. I thought I heard the word “witch” as they left.

  “What was that?” I asked once they were gone.

  Aunt B winked. “A little doubt goes a long way. Did you see that boy? Grant McCreary’s going to have a hard time holding onto the football, you mark my words.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Thirty-two to nothing, that’s just embarrassing,” George said with relish.

  “It was pretty sad.” Ronnie shook his head. “Seven sacks, ten turnovers, all in the first quarter. They should’ve taken McCreary out sooner.”

  “Don’t.” George scowled. “Every time I hear that name I get the urge to do something violent.” She looked over at me. “You sure you don’t want me to—”

  “Positive,” I cut in before she could finish.

  The first and only person I’d told about the whole debacle was George. We always traded horror stories, no matter how awful. Since then she’d offered to do several unseemly things to McCreary; the least of which had been ripping off each of his fingernails and feeding them back to him...through his nose. George could be very creative. I’d had to decline, of course, but it was the thought that counted.

  “I don’t get it,” Ronnie said. “What’d he do?”

  George sniffed. “You mean besides being born?”

  He turned to me. “Delilah, do you know why George’s face gets all serial killer whenever I say McCreary’s name?”

  I shrugged. Lying was never fun, especially lying to a friend, but Ronnie couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Plus, I was afraid (for Ronnie’s sake) of what he’d do to McCreary if he ever found out.

  “You know,” I said, trying to distract him, “I heard it’s the first time Bowie’s lost in the first round of Regionals since the school opened.” Aunt B was probably off somewhere congratulating herself. I felt bad that the McCreary incident caused Mom to break up with Mr. V. But as with most relationships, football was a deal breaker.

  “Yeah,” Ronnie said, again with the headshake, “a real shame. That must’ve been the worst game of McCreary’s life. He couldn’t hold onto the ball for anything.”

  “Speak of the devil,” George growled.

  I followed her gaze. Grabbing my stuff for first and second period, I shut my locker, watching as McCreary and Bruce had it out. What they were saying was drowned out by the noise in the hall, but they were obviously arguing, whispering furiously back and forth. All of a sudden Bruce said something that made McCreary get this pained look on his face. Straightening up, Bruce gave him a nod then crossed his arms.

  And then McCreary turned and walked straight for us.

  Head down, he stopped in front of me. “Doherty,” he said. “Can we talk?”

  Ignoring George’s curse, I followed him a few feet away.

  “Listen,” he said gruffly. He couldn’t seem to look me in the eye. “Bruce...he told me there was never anything going on between you two. And even though that’s hard for me to believe—real hard—he said that if I didn’t apologize he’d give me something worse than a black eye next time.”

  His hand moved to the purplish-blue skin near the side of his eye. It looked worse now than it had Friday.

  “And well”—he cleared his throat—”I guess, I’m here to apologize.”

&
nbsp; I waited.

  “Never thought you’d be the first to turn me down,” he muttered, looking at a point somewhere near my ear. I was enjoying this way too much to take offense. “I mean, you’re you; I’m me. I thought you were just teasing, thought you’d want a piece like everybody else. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a damn rapist.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “So...yeah...I’m sorry, Doherty.”

  “Okay,” I said after a beat.

  McCreary looked startled. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.” What did he expect, confetti? “I accept your half-ass apology, McCreary, but I hope you learned your lesson. When a girl says no, she means it. You need to respect that.”

  McCreary’s only response was a grunt.

  Bruce joined us, telling McCreary, “Better get going. You still got to go by the office.” And with a grimace, McCreary walked off as the first bell rang.

  Bruce smiled, slowly twirling that football of his between his hands.

  “So,” he said, “do I need to send another spiral his way or did Grant apologize?”

  I smiled back. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Good.” He started tossing the football higher, about a foot in the air, catching it after a few loops. The motion made me dizzy. “So, you okay? I mean, after the other day?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Pointing to his hands, I asked, “What is it with you and that ball?”

  “Oh.” Bruce looked down then tucked it under his arm. “It was my brother’s from when they won state. They gave him the game ball, and he gave it to me just before...”

  I could feel his grief across the small space separating us.

  “Fucking train,” he muttered. “Couldn’t even find much of him, so the funeral was a joke.”

  The miserable look on his face made my heart hurt. At some point, without my noticing, Bruce and I had really become friends. It was tough to watch him relive the loss of his brother.

  “It was the last thing he ever gave me. Dave said it’d bring me luck, and I actually believed him,” he said. “Believing something like that from a dead guy whose brakes failed. Pretty stupid, huh?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think that’s stupid at all.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope.”

  He grinned into my eyes a moment then looked past me. “Hey, Wilder. How’s it going?”

  I turned just as Wilder was closing his locker. I couldn’t understand the way he was looking at me—and there was no doubt about it; his eyes were on me, not Bruce. His posture was relaxed, his face impassive. But his jaw and eyes were as tight as fists.

  Shifting his gaze, Wilder said, “Going alright, Diamond.” He spared me a nod, said “Hey there, Doherty,” and then walked past like nothing had happened.

  Confused, I turned back to Bruce. “So, you and Wilder are...close?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, noticing my expression. “My brother and his sister used to have a thing going.”

  “Wait, what?” Why hadn’t I heard about this?

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Dave would drive over there to see Anne and bring me along, couldn’t afford a babysitter.” He shrugged. “Things got pretty hot and heavy there for a while, so I got to know Wilder—as much as you can know someone like him, anyway.”

  That got my attention. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing really. Wilder’s just one of those guys who doesn’t talk much, keeps to himself. He’s guarded, a hard person to know, you know?”

  Yes, I thought. That was the perfect description. Ethan Wilder, hard to know, the guy who’d make you feel shivers one minute then turn around and give you the death glare the next.

  The warning bell sounded.

  “We should go,” I said. “I’ll see you.”

  Before I’d taken more than three steps, Bruce said, “So, you wanna go out?”

  Skidding to a halt, I turned back to him, eyes wide. I felt like one of those armadillos you see frozen on the side of the highway, the ones who were just crossing the street, minding their own business, before being sideswiped by a truck. Bruce was the truck.

  I was speechless. I had absolutely no words—armadillos didn’t talk after all—and Bruce just stood there grinning at me with his lucky football, looking like he was enjoying this moment a lot more than he should’ve been.

  “Well, now,” he said under his breath, “I guess that’d be a no.”

  I still couldn’t believe this was happening.

  He looked down, nodded to himself. When his head came back up, there was a full smile on his lips. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “Bruce, I...I’m sorry.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “No need to be sorry, Doherty.” He tossed the ball up and caught it. “My pride took a hit today, but don’t you worry. When you change your mind, I’ll be here.”

  With a wink, he was gone.

  I got to class a couple minutes before the last bell, my thoughts still on what went down in the hall with Bruce. My cheeks flooded with color as I remembered his words: “When you change your mind.” Suddenly all those good luck hugs didn’t seem quite so innocent.

  And now, George was looking at me, face expectant, waiting to hear what’d happened, when I’d barely had time to process.

  Instead of jumping right to it, I said, “Did you know Dave Diamond used to date Wilder’s sister?”

  “Sure,” George said. “It wasn’t necessarily public knowledge, but when the virtuous Anne got swept away by the cross-town rival, even the reverend himself couldn’t keep it a secret. You should really pay more attention, D.”

  “Bruce Diamond just asked me out,” I blurted. I’d expected her to laugh or curse or say something along the lines of “What’s the world coming to?”

  What I didn’t expect was her outright acceptance.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I figured he would.”

  “You did?” I didn’t try to hide my disbelief. The knowing look in her eyes ate at me more than anything.

  “Glad to see he finally grew a pair.” George smiled. “So, what’d you say?”

  “Well no, of course.”

  “Of course.” The teasing lilt to her voice had me grinding my teeth. “And Bruce?”

  “He told me he’d be there when I changed my mind.”

  “Sounds like something Diamond would say.” She nodded to herself. “What about the demon spawn?”

  George had called McCreary much worse, especially in the past couple days. “The jerk apologized,” I said. “Bruce made him.”

  She mumbled something about meddling jocks as the bell rang, but I wasn’t paying attention. How could someone like Bruce be attracted to me? I mean, sure, we got along fine. And yes, alright, I considered him a friend, but that was it. I’d never pictured him as anything else. I couldn’t picture him as anything else. He was Bruce freaking Diamond for crying out loud!

  A few minutes into class, Rapier cleared his throat.

  “How’s that mother of yours, Doherty?” Today, the coach’s voice sounded more venomous than usual. I guess that was what losing a game—thirty-two to nothing—did to a man.

  “Just peachy,” I said and turned the question back on him. “How’s your mother?”

  “Oh, she’s good.” By the evil glint in Rapier’s eye, I knew I’d walked into a trap. “Been faithfully married to the same man for over twenty years. She ain’t got much in common with Jeanine “The Machine” Doherty, though.”

  I winced. Somehow I’d never heard the nickname. It was the most blatantly crude insult he’d made so far, which was saying something.

  “Well, anyway,” he added, “give her my best. She always gave me hers.”

  There was smugness in his tone. He looked so darn pleased with himself that for a second, I had a real and powerful urge to chuck my pencil at him, pointy end first.

  “Bastard,” I said under my breath.

  “Don’t listen to that asswipe,” George muttere
d. “He doesn’t know what that hell he’s talking about.”

  “No talking!” Rapier said with a sharp look at George and me. I was afraid he might’ve heard, but then he went back to his magazine. Rolling her eyes, George passed me something under the table.

  Whispering while barely moving her lips (a skill she’d learned in sixth grade, mastered in seventh), she said, “Got the info you wanted. The reverend’s pretty clean, but his way of thinking is kinda jacked up.” George nodded to the earphone she held. “Take a look.”

  I took it, and with a practiced motion had the bud in my ear, elbow resting on the table, my hair shielding the cord running down to the phone in my lap. George wasn’t the only one who’d learned a few things in middle school.

  Trying not to look suspicious, I looked down, pushed play...and watched a ten-minute-long video of Jim Wilder preaching about discipline. His message wasn’t a new one. “Spare the rod, spoil the child” was the motto of many a Southern household. But the zeal he put into his words, his repeated use of the phrase “so sayeth the Lord,” was delivered with such passion. The highlight of the performance came when the preacher himself took off his belt, held it high above his head, and snapped it a few times, just to drive home the point that kids sleeping in church shouldn’t be tolerated.

  The image chilled me.

  As the screen went black, I passed the phone back to George with stiff fingers.

  “I told you those Baptists don’t play around,” she said. “Dang it, now I feel bad for Wilder. Must’ve been hard growing up in that house.”

  I nodded mutely. She didn’t know the half of it.

  “Hey, D”—she ducked down, trying to catch my eye—”you okay? I know it wasn’t all that informative, but I did sit through the entire service. There’s more—”

  “So St. Clare, I guess I’ll be seeing you after school.”

  Hearing Rapier’s toxic drawl, I looked up. Only that voice, directed at George, could’ve distracted me from the terrible thoughts running through my head. Jim Wilder would have to wait. For now, I had another monster to deal with.

  “What?” George turned to Rapier, confused.