Brutal Youth: A Novel

by Anthony Breznican

  Stein’s face was a mask of shock and sorrow. Davidek couldn’t look at it, and he backed up the steps without either of them noticing him.

  * * *

  The next morning, Stein found Davidek beside his locker. Word had spread all through the school that Lorelei’s connection with Stein had poisoned her relationship with Audra, and Audra allowed that rumor to continue rather than admit she was afraid a freshman was trying to steal her boyfriend.

  “You’ve been a good friend to me, all this time. Never ditched me even when it would have made you a local hero,” Stein told Davidek, his voice drained of that usual dangerous enthusiasm.

  Davidek tried to make a joke. “I keep you around because you make me look like the nice one.”

  Stein didn’t laugh. “You are the nice one. You’ve got friends. You’ve got Green telling you stuff, and LeRose coaching you. You even have friends among the seniors … that redhead girl, what’s-her-name—Claudia—who helped you with the cigarettes? Why don’t you go talk to her? Ask her to pick you.”

  “The truth is, I don’t know her that well,” Davidek said.

  “Well, get to know her. I don’t want you to worry about who I end up with, because I honestly don’t care,” Stein said. “We’re brothers no matter what.”

  Brothers.

  “Thanks, Stein,” Davidek said. He wanted to say more, but he just said, “Thanks, Stein,” again.

  * * *

  Davidek found Claudia the next morning in the third-floor hallway, kneeling beside her locker as she separated a pile of loose papers. “Hey, how’s it going, Marlboro Man?” she said, zipping shut her denim bag and slinging it over her shoulder as she stood. “Haven’t seen you lately. How’d that cigarette thing turn out, anyway?”

  “Good,” Davidek said lamely, trying to figure out how to ask what he needed. He found himself distracted by the light freckles on her chest, curving down her breasts to the edge of her green bra, which he could just see the outline of through her white uniform shirt.

  “—the second floor?”

  Davidek snapped back to reality. “What?”

  “I said, ‘How’s life on the second floor?’ That’s where your locker is, right?”

  Davidek blurted “—so, can I be your freshman?”

  The girl laughed, errant flame-colored hairs falling forward in her face. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you! I thought seniors were supposed to choose, not have freshmen volunteer.”

  Davidek tried to explain but couldn’t. He tried to breathe, but that wasn’t working either. “I’m sorry, actually.… I’m just a bit desperate, so … I’m … sorry, I’m gonna go.”

  “Relax,” the girl said, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “So, all you want is for me to sign up as your big sister?”

  Davidek nodded, blood pulsing in his cheeks.

  “My own little freshman,” the girl said. “To be honest, I was thinking about choosing you anyway. You’re sweet. What you did for your friend with the smokes. It was … sweet.”

  Davidek beamed, delirious with relief: “Man, thanks, Claudia. I was afraid the other seniors would hav—”

  “Claudia?” the girl asked. Davidek blinked at her. A nervous and embarrassed smile bloomed on her face, and she drew back her fallen bangs and rubbed at her neck. “Right … I told you that, didn’t I.…”

  Davidek bobbed his head, perplexed. “Yeah, back when you—” His eyes fixed on hers, shimmering and smiling at the corners. One was blue. The other was green.

  “I was in kind of a weird state that day,” she said. “I’m a little bit unpopular around here with some people, and—well, I was testing you when you asked me for help. To see if you knew I was bullshiting you, or if … well … sorry about that.”

  She reached out to shake his hand, which he accepted absently. “My name is Hannah Kraut,” she said. “You’re Peter, right? Peter…?”

  “Davidek,” he said, his voice a whisper from another dimension.

  The redhead nodded and repeated it to herself: “Peter Davidek,” she said, smiling. If he had been capable of rational thought at that instant he would have loved how the words looked on her lips.

  “You look so serious,” she said. “Is there something else you wanted to say?”

  Davidek’s hand slid away from hers. He let it fall, and for all he knew, it hit the floor. “You changed your hair,” he said.

  PART IV

  Winter

  NINETEEN

  Seven-Eighths knew everyone called her Seven-Eighths. No one made a secret of it anymore. They said it right to her face, like it wasn’t even an insult anymore, like it was just her name. Some of them probably didn’t even know her real name.

  Sarah Matusch struggled not to let it bother her. At her old school, they called her “Hatchet Face,” which she was sickened to find listed in the dictionary. Sarah could live with the name as long as it was something created by morons, but not when the Oxford English Dictionary seemed to taunt her, too.

  Her parents were fundamentalist Catholics, lifelong parishoners at St. Mike’s who had met at the high school when they were both freshmen, and Sarah and her little brother, Clarence, were raised to worship not just the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, but also Father Hal Mercedes and Pope John Paul II—in that order. (The pope lost points for not reversing the liberal changes of Vatican II.) Father Mercedes knew the Matusch family all too well. He considered them zealots, and found them tiresome.

  They were strict and humorless—blindly, pathologically devoted to what they considered the “traditional” teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. They hated, for instance, that the Mass was now in English instead of Latin, though that change had been made almost thirty years ago. The Matusch family was also aghast when they complained to him about the textbooks in Sarah’s biology class and discovered that the Vatican had long ago accepted evolution as a true scientific phenomenon.

  During the family’s weekly confessions each Saturday, the mother would drone on about her frustrations with the leadership in Rome, the leadership in Washington, and the failures of the other mothers and wives she knew. When it was her husband’s turn, he would just grunt terse apologies for swearing, or slapping his kids—end of confession. The boy, Clarence, was only eleven, but was the family member with the most disturbing misdeeds to confess. He complained about feeling rejected and isolated in his parents’ house and considered setting fire to the home several times, though the daydreams made him feel angry at himself and ashamed. Father Mercedes tried to tell his parents about this, but they were more upset that the priest would consider breaking the Seal of the Confessional, the vow of secrecy priests took never to reveal what they hear during the sacrament of forgiveness. Father Mercedes merely suggested they take him to see a child psychiatrist to discuss his aggression issues. “If I ever catch him playing with matches, he’ll be going to see a doctor, all right—but not a head-shrinker,” Mr. Matusch said.

  Although they treated Father Mercedes like a demigod in most other instances, the priest felt only tired contempt for the Matusch family. Father Mercedes, who took such pleasure out of the richness and risk of life, was annoyed by their intolerance of it. They were the fringe of his parish, and Sarah was their dim-witted, hopeless spawn. He would have pitied her if she hadn’t made his weekly confession schedule so monotonous.

  Sarah always went on the longest of anyone in her family, whining about her lonely life at St. Mike’s and the agony of being called Seven-Eighths as the priest yearned for a cigarette and tried not to sigh or drum his fingers on the screen between them. No one who came to confession ever had anything interesting to say anymore. Father Mercedes missed those early years of his priesthood, when people still feared for their immortal souls enough to beg forgiveness for all kinds of crazy bullshit. He missed the young unmarried women, going on at length about their impure thoughts and actions. Those were the days.

  He always thought that what Sarah “Seven-Eighths” Matusch r
eally needed was a dose of real sin in her life. She confessed to things like looking too long at a shirtless man in the underwear section of a JCPenney catalog, and wanting to see a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie.

  The priest only wished the girl were more popular at school. Maybe then she could help him collect the ammunition he needed to expose Sister Maria Hest and the fallacy of noble old St. Michael the Archangel High School.

  That’s when an idea occurred to him.

  “Who are the ones causing you this grief, Sarah?” he asked.

  “The boys in my class mostly,” she said. “And the girls, too. Except for my friend, Linnie. But they make fun of her because she’s fat. She’s actually really fat.”

  A kind of annoyed energy was building inside the priest. “Please be more specific, Sarah. Who upsets you the most with this hurtful name-calling?”

  Her voice rose. “Lots of people, Father. There’s this guy Smitty, who makes fun of me a lot. Sometimes, though … I almost don’t mind because he’s cute.” A heavy silence followed. “At least he’s talking to me. Even if it’s just to tease.”

  Smitty. The priest thought. He asked her for his full name, and said he would check that with the school secretary.

  “Sarah, for your penance this week, I’m not going to assign you any Hail Marys or Our Fathers. No prayers at all. I just want you to do something for me. Do you understand?”

  Through the screen, he could see the lips on her fishy face tighten. “Like what, Father?”

  “I want you to take note of these boys and girls who call you such hurtful names. Observe them. Watch the things they do, and listen to the things they say. Can you do that?”

  She took a long time to answer. “Do you want me to be more like them?”

  The priest rocked his head back and forth, considering. “I want you to do whatever it takes to get close to them, then come back here and tell me what you learn.”

  “You want me to tattle?”

  The priest laughed. “Sarah, those boys and girls aren’t like you. They don’t come to confession and ask forgiveness for the wrongs they do. I want you to confess for them. I want you to use your position as one of St. Michael’s truly decent pupils to tell me things that the school’s principal and teachers cannot see for themselves. Together, we can help cleanse this temple of ours. Can you promise me you’ll do this?”

  “Y-yes, Father,” she said, then … “Can I also say some regular prayers as part of my penance? They make me feel better.”

  Whatever, Seven-Eighths, the priest thought. Knock yourself out.

  * * *

  Father Mercedes was no stranger to sin himself, though he preferred to keep his own private. There had been times of deep doubt and panic when he considered unburdening his soul to a sympathetic colleague, but he knew any reasonable priest would not just absolve him—he would be given the penance of turning himself in. That was Confession 101 for any minister who had a crime revealed to him. Father Mercedes would be forgiven by God, but only if he went public with his theft, his gambling, his greed, and asked for mercy. Father Mercedes preferred to make it right instead.

  If he succeeded in eliminating the school, he could remove a steep cost from the parish’s budget while simultaneously converting that empty structure into a revenue generator—a nursing home for the elderly (and preferably wealthy) parishioners of St. Michael’s parish. Such a windfall would help balance his grossly misaligned financial books, and that’s where he would find absolution—not in some byzantine religious ritual. Confession was for the Seven-Eighths of the world, the superstitious, the weak-minded.

  But first the school had to go, and since it had always been a source of pride for the parish, Father Mercedes would have to change that perception. Seven-Eighths was a critical part of making that happen, though it certainly took her long enough.

  “What about the other boys and girls at school?” the priest would ask each Saturday. “How are they treating you? Remember—I asked you to keep an eye open for me.…” Since he assigned her this mission in the early fall, there had been zero progress.

  As a spy, she offered him so little scandal and so much repetitive complaining about her nickname, her classmates’ use of swearwords, and other low-grade misdeeds that he found himself punishing her with unnecessary—and spiteful—amounts of penance. It started with fifty Our Fathers and fifty Hail Marys. The next week, when she still produced no useful intelligence, the penance doubled. Sarah spent hours on her knees, murmuring prayers.

  Ourfatherwhoartinheavenhallowedbethyname

  She recited them so much and so often that the words lost all meaning after a while, and her mind became a jumble of syllables that vacuumed up her entire consciousness. Her parents, naturally, were grateful to the priest for inspiring such piety in their daughter, although they secretly wondered what sins she had committed to deserve such harsh penance.

  With the first snow drifting down one Saturday in December, Sarah stepped into the confessional with her eyes glazed and her lips moving soundlessly:

  Ourfatherwhoartinheavenhallowedbethynamethykingdom

  The girl wavered on her knees. “Forgive me, Father.… Forgive me, for I have sinned…,” she began.

  Father Mercedes put his hand on the screen. “Sarah, Sarah,” he said, feeling sincere pangs of regret. “Let’s cut it out with these prayers. Just tell me what I need to know about the kids at St. Mike’s.”

  “It’s wicked there,” the girl said.

  “Wicked,” he repeated. Sure. Whatever. “Yes. What do you know that is wicked?”

  The girl was just a ghost behind the confessional screen, and the priest’s patience was short. He rattled off examples like a grocery list: Which girl is sleeping with which boy? Which are on drugs? Who’s cheating on tests? Where can he find out—?

  Seven-Eighths began crying, little tears streaming down her freakishly narrow face. “I can tell you,” she said. “But please stop these prayers, please. They’re in my head. They won’t turn off.…”

  “Yes, Sarah,” he said, his voice low and tender, reassuring. “Of course. You can stop them. I’m telling you that you can stop.”

  But first …

  “There’s this girl,” Seven-Eighths said. “And they say she has a notebook.…”

  TWENTY

  “That’s a neat trick, setting yourself on fire like that,” Green said, placing a reassuring hand on Davidek’s shoulder. Stein was leaning against the vending machine behind them, rolling his eyes. He’d been the first to hear about Davidek volunteering to be Hannah’s freshman. Green and LeRose were the second and third.

  LeRose was pacing around them, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled. “Jesus, I never thought I’d see a guy fuck himself up his own ass.”

  “I guess your dad is holding back on some of his tricks,” said Stein. He had been an even bigger bastard than usual since Lorelei dumped him.

  Davidek put his hands over his face. “Guys … please.”

  “Sorry,” Stein said, a rare apology. “Just kidding around.”

  LeRose flipped him the middle finger and turned back to Davidek. “Why was I wasting my time looking out for you?” he said. “Wish I’d known you were just going to kamikaze yourself.”

  Me, too, Davidek thought. Only Stein knew it had been an accident, and he advised Davidek to play it off like a deliberate choice. “Better to be a badass than a dumb-ass,” he’d said. So that’s what Davidek was doing.

  “Maybe she’ll take mercy on you,” Green said, trying to find the bright side. “Maybe she’ll be glad you’re not afraid of her, like everyone else.”

  LeRose scratched at the scar on the back of his head, which always itched when he got nervous. “You just keep telling yourself that, girls.”

  * * *

  For now Davidek was untouchable. The seniors had backed off when Hannah scribbled his name next to hers on the Brother–Sister sign-up sheet, as if he had contracted an incurable—and possibly contagious—
disease. Although, in a way, they were relieved.

  When they had all been trying to nudge Hannah toward Stein, it was because they expected her to inflict some heinous torture on the punk, but when word spread about her diary, and plans to make her freshman reveal its contents to everyone … that sounded more like heinous torture aimed at them. Stein might even be a willing participant in something like that. Suddenly, steering anyone to Hannah seemed like a horrible idea, but mobs have never been especially good at considering unintended consequences.

  When Davidek volunteered himself as Hannah’s “little brother,” LeRose and Green convinced their upperclassman friends that this was the best possible outcome. Davidek wasn’t an asshole like Stein, and could be persuaded to look out for them. Plus, he didn’t seem to be afraid of Hannah, which might disarm her. Better for them all to be nice to him—at least for now—and not tap-dance on the land mine.

  “You know how we all thought Hannah would be the worst thing to happen to a freshman? It’s starting to look like the best thing—at least for you,” Green told him. “This is a chance for you to show who you are.”

  “That means you’re going to have to talk to her some more,” LeRose said. “And keep us in the loop.”

  Davidek still didn’t see Hannah very often. No one did, except in class. She kept away from everyone, gliding from room to room without lingering in the halls. She had perfected her sense of stealth.

  Since she left school every single day for lunch, Davidek waited for her outside during the start of break one day, and caught her walking to her car with an armload of SAT prep manuals. “Taking the test soon?” he asked, a little too chipper. He could tell she sensed an ulterior motive.

  “Yeah, this Saturday, over in Freeport,” she said. Bruised rings of lost sleep hung below her eyes, and light-colored roots were peeking through the windblown tangle of her fiery hair.