Brutal Youth: A Novel

by Anthony Breznican

  Zimmer crinkled his brow. “I’ve just heard some stuff, Hannah. About a … notebook?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s how you made them stop teasing you, isn’t it? Gathering up everyone’s worst secrets to throw back at them. Kind of ingenius, really. My little Madame Defarge, always sitting, waiting, listening.… Maybe it’s time you should let it go, though.”

  Before you lose something more.

  Hannah closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She thought of her visit to the office—Ms. Bromine leaning into her face, detailing all the old horror stories about Hannah the “fuckslut” for Father Mercedes and Sister Maria. “You know how they treated me, Mr. Zimmer? You know the things they said about me?”

  “Yeah, but these new kids aren’t the ones who treated you badly,” Zimmer responded, assuming she was talking about the students who had bullied her all these years. “Please don’t take this out on some innocent freshman who never did anything to hurt you.”

  Hannah stopped. “Wait. What are we talking about here?”

  The teacher watched the rest of the Phys Ed class move ahead. “We’re talking about you, Hannah,” he said, kicking at the ice on the sidewalk. “That scared little freshman who came asking me for help—you should have seen him. He’s not so different from how you were once.”

  That scared little freshman … She hadn’t thought Davidek would be nervy enough to alert the school administrators. The kid had some surprises in him.

  Zimmer put his arm around Hannah, and got her walking again. “You know, out of all the students I’ve ever seen at St. Mike’s, you’re the one I like the most,” he said. “And you’re the only one I wish never came here.”

  She looked up into Zimmer’s battered and scarred face. She understood now: Bromine’s source had been Zimmer, and Davidek had started it all. After years spent isolating herself, she had forgotten: Only the people you trust the most can hurt you the worst.

  They stopped in front of the bowling alley’s swinging glass doors, which belched out the oily smell of wooden lanes, rented shoes, and lightbulb-toasted pizza. A couple of senior guys inside were playing the Big Choice claw game by the jukebox—the St. Mike’s equivalent of Phys Ed extra credit.

  “I’m surprised Davidek waited so long to start crying for help,” Hannah said.

  Zimmer shrugged. “He seemed to think a lot of people already knew.”

  “A lot,” she agreed flatly. “But no one else ran to the teachers.…”

  “Until it went too far,” the teacher reminded her, and Hannah tightened her fists inside the sleeves of her coat.

  “You like to let people off the hook, don’t you, Mr. Zimmer?” All except me, she thought. You didn’t look the other way with me. Not this time.

  The teacher opened the door for her. “I like to think I see the best in people,” he said. “You included.” Hannah’s white teeth pressed together between her soft, peachblood lips. Zimmer thought she was smiling at him. But she wasn’t.

  She was trying not to hate him.

  * * *

  The sun made a cameo appearance one day in late February, turning the white winter landscape into a giant gray Slurpee for a day. After school, a familiar Jeep pulled up in front of Davidek as he trudged through the parking lot slush toward his bus. “Hey, little boy, want a ride?” Hannah asked, tipping down her sunglasses.

  “Uh, maybe another time,” Davidek said, walking around the Jeep, but Hannah revved the engine and blocked his away again.

  “I’ve been rotten to you. I’m sorry,” she said. “Why don’t you get in the car. I’d like to start over, if we can.”

  Davidek was tired and pissed off. He had gotten bitched out by the ancient Sister Antonia last period because he was the only one in French class who hadn’t yet volunteered to bring a food dish to the International Day festivities, even though they were more than three weeks away. In the Jeep, Hannah had a scrunchie in her teeth and was pulling her scarlet hair back into a ponytail. He looked from her to his bus, then opened the Jeep door. Her back wheels sprayed a fan of gray ice as they pulled out into the street.

  Hannah was bouncy, and more chipper and cheerful than he’d seen her. “I need to pick out a dress for prom. You want to come to the store and help me?”

  Davidek made a face like someone discovering that milk has gone sour. “Isn’t that kind of a girly thing to do?”

  “I want a guy’s opinion,” she said, and nudged his shoulder. “You are a guy, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  He acknowledged, yes, he was a guy, but not one who felt like dress shopping. Hannah’s enthusiasm faded. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll just take you home. Boring.”

  They rolled down Butler Road with the windows down and the warm air tossing their hair and St. Mike’s growing small in the distance. “Remember when you first saw me and thought I was somebody else?” she asked. “Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be somebody different than I thought, too.”

  Davidek shrugged. “All right.”

  She stopped at a red light and lowered her sunglasses. “I didn’t think you were the type to run and cry to Sister Maria, Ms. Bromine, and Mr. Zimmer.”

  Davidek sat forward in his seat. “I didn’t do that.” He was a bad liar. “Well, not Ms. Bromine, or—”

  “It’s okay,” Hannah said. “I’m not mad at you. I’ve been thinking about it, and … you’re right. I did put you in a bad spot.”

  Davidek’s heart leaped. “Wait. So you’re not going to make me read that stuff at the picnic?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “You’re going to read it. That’s not changing.”

  Goddamnit. Davidek looked out the back window of the Jeep. He could jump out now and walk back to school, but his bus would already be gone.

  Fuck it. This had to stop. And this was as good a time to make a stand as any. “Hannah, you should know I’m never gonna read those things. I don’t care what you say or what you do. I’m not going to be your shield, and do your dirty work, and make everybody hate me for the next four years just so you can get a little payback out of this stupid hazing ritual bullshit. I’m just not going to do it. End of story.”

  As the Jeep rolled toward the great blue span of the Tarentum Bridge, linking the two sides of the Allegheny Valley, the Jeep took a turn instead of crossing the bridge into New Kensington, where Davidek lived.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To see if I can change your mind,” Hannah said.

  The Jeep bounced down a ramp that deposited them on a narrow street running below the bridge and alongside the river. Battered row houses stretched off down the road, as still as gravestones. Hannah turned on a driveway under the bridge, leading to a ramp that sloped down into the frozen river—a boat launch for the spring and summer seasons.

  Hannah pulled her Jeep beside the bridge’s colossal concrete leg, hiding it from everything except the river, shuffling its dissolving sugar-plates of broken ice toward Pittsburgh. High above them, the bridge span blocked out the sun and sent down thunder from the rumbling, unseen traffic.

  Hannah turned off the Jeep’s engine and slid one leg up beneath her plaid skirt to sit a little taller. “Do you have any secrets?” she asked, taking off her sunglasses and tossing them on top of the dashboard.

  Davidek guffawed. “What—are you going to blackmail me?”

  “I was thinking about it,” she said.

  The concrete leg of the bridge rumbled beside the Jeep—a convoy of trucks hauling large rolls of steel from the Kees-Northson mill, probably. It drowned out Davidek’s laugh.

  “You telling me you don’t have any secrets?” Hannah asked, laughing along with him—just for the hell of it.

  Davidek’s disbelief was irrepressible. “Oh no, I’ve got lots!” he said. “Let’s see.… I guess you know about my abortion? My six abortions. What else?… Oh, I killed JFK. And Elvis. And I’m a porno star who goes by the name Pat McGroin. All the skeleto
ns in my closet are your hostages, Hannah!”

  Hannah picked at her skirt idly, not looking at him. “What about your brother, the draft-dodger?”

  That made Davidek crack up. “Actually, he went AWOL. He was already enlisted. There isn’t any draft.”

  “You’re not embarrassed?”

  “That one’s only good for pissing off my mom and dad. They spend their lives hiding from it. I have immunity from family embarrassment—one of the advantages of being the kid they don’t care about.”

  The bridge column beside them groaned as another heavy vehicle trundled across the top. Hannah’s hands fell to her skirt, plucking at the fabric again, drawing it up on her thighs. “When you were little, did you ever pick on a girl? Like a girl in your class? They say boys always pick on the one they like, to get her attention.…”

  She took one of Davidek’s hands and placed it on her bare knee. She leaned close enough for him to smell the scent of soap and water on her neck. “Yeah, you know…,” Davidek said, reaching for the door handle. “Fake flirting with me, that’ll work. Thanks.”

  Hannah stared through the windshield, out to the empty river, the distant shore. “Want to hear one of my secrets, Peter?… Sometimes when a girl asks you to look at dresses with her, she doesn’t really want you to look at the dresses.”

  Her mismatched eyes met his as one hand went to her shirt and undid a button. Then another. Then all of them. Davidek tried to say something but never got beyond the first syllable of any word.

  “I really did like the way you looked at me…,” Hannah said. “When you thought I was someone else.” She let her blouse fall open and leaned forward. Her breath smelled like cherry Starbursts. “I like how you’re looking at me now, too.”

  She pushed him back as she kissed him, her tongue probing his mouth as she laced her fingers with his, pressing his hands down against her bare, warm thighs.

  * * *

  It was impossible to tell how long the kiss lasted. Time and space ceased to exist as Davidek’s brain scrambled to memorize every scent, every touch, every sound. He had kissed a girl before, but only once—Tara Frank, a girl he had crushed hard on throughout eighth grade. She had agreed to kiss him at the class Christmas party. A smooch under the mistletoe. It had been incredible. And nothing like this.

  Hannah pulled away, sliding back up against the driver’s door. Davidek gasped, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, flashing an evil little smile as her fingertips traced the tops of her breasts. “We’re alone.”

  Hannah was still sitting on her left leg, but she extended her right leg and used the gearshift between the seats to pop off her white canvas shoe. She put her toes against Davidek’s chest, nudging him backwards.

  He said, “I’m sorry. I’m not very experienced.”

  Hannah put a dagger in his heart. “I know. But it’s okay.” She arched her back and pushed her bra-covered chest up into the air, hands clawing behind her back.

  “Hannah…!” Davidek turned his head nervously toward each window.

  “Yes…?” she said, part ecstasy, part annoyance as her bra clasp sprang loose.

  “Hannah, I…” He stopped speaking, watching her twist and draw her arms into her blouse sleeves, one at a time, shimmying as she removed the bra without removing the shirt. She held it out to him with one hand—a simple B-cup with lace trim. She clasped her uniform blouse with the other hand, and through the thin fabric, Davidek could see the threat of every fantasy he could imagine.

  “Take it,” she laughed, jiggling the bra, and he did, holding it like it might snake-bite him.

  Her bare foot slipped down into his lap and Davidek jumped. “You’re hard,” she said. “But you’re not thinking about her now, are you?”

  Davidek squirmed. “Who?”

  “That girl we bought the cigarettes for.”

  “Let’s just … go somewhere.”

  “We are somewhere,” she said.

  “Somewhere alone.”

  “You are alone.”

  “We’re outside, Hannah.…”

  A tube of glittery lip gloss appeared in her hand from beneath the seat. She began to ice her mouth heavily. “You know what they say about me, right? The stories they tell?…”

  Davidek bobbled his head.

  “Not all rumors are false,” she said. “Do you think I’m bad?”

  “No,” Davidek said emphatically.

  “You’re always telling me no,” she said. Her foot brushed his hard-on again. “Would you like to make me excited?” Hannah released the blouse, letting it fall open. “Don’t say no this time.”

  Cool air from the icy riverside had begun to seep into the Jeep, but pinpricks of sweat beaded all over Davidek’s body anyway.

  “The things I like—they’re not what other girls like. They are bad.” She leaned forward, picking up the fallen bra, and began smearing his mouth with a kiss. He groped at her breasts, but she grabbed his hands, pushing the bra straps over his arms and sliding the garment up onto his chest. He pulled away, his face shining with sparkling lip gloss. “What th—?”

  She collapsed back, biting her index finger seductively.

  “Shh … Shh … Peter…,” Hannah said, and Davidek lost his words. The bra was stretched across his chest, bunching his tie up against his glittery chin. He looked insane, but didn’t care. He was insane.

  “Can you show me?” she asked, inching up her skirt to reveal a white snug of panties.

  “Show you what?” Davidek sputtered.

  “Show me … you,” Hannah said.

  Davidek knelt in the seat, towering over her, the loose bra straps dangling around his shoulders as he drew down his zipper. At the moment he reached inside to free himself, Hannah said: “Peter—look at me.”

  He did.

  She was holding a yellow disposable camera.

  There was no flash. Just a click.

  “That one’s for the yearbook cover,” she said, winding the film. The camera clicked again as he lunged at her, one hand still stuck inside his fly. He toppled onto the steering wheel, honking the horn, and Hannah brought her knee up into his side, knocking him back into the passenger seat. He pulled his hand free, his fly hanging open, the white underwear sticking out like a mocking tongue.

  She snapped another shot, winding the film to the next frame as fast as she could. He scrambled to rip the bra off his chest. “Ooh, good,” she said. “Action shot!”

  When he grabbed once more at the camera, Hannah finally touched him where he had always wanted—but with a swift punch.

  Davidek collapsed, his mouth a little circle of pain, still smeared with secondhand lip gloss.

  “Don’t try to take it again,” she warned, tucking the camera safely under her seat. She began to rebutton her shirt as the freshman, still clutching his aching groin, grasped the door handle and tumbled out onto the snow-crusted ground.

  Hannah adjusted her mirrors and fired the Jeep’s engine. “You can find your own way home, right? I know it’s a long way, but … You understand.” She reached over and tossed his book bag out the open door, then pulled it shut. And locked it.

  Davidek gasped in enough air to wheeze out: “Fuck you.”

  “Almost,” she laughed. “But it didn’t quite happen.… Here’s what will happen, though. We’re going through with my hazing plan. You’ll read the notebook when I tell you to read the notebook. Got it?… No more crybaby running to Bromine or Zimmer or your parents or anyone else. Not unless you want to be the next Playgirl centerfold.”

  Davidek shambled to his feet, glowering at her.

  “I’ll keep the camera under wraps and give it to you later—undeveloped,” she said, putting on her sunglasses. “But I promise, you’ll see those pretty pictures stuck to every locker in the school if you ever forget. So don’t forget.”

  “Forget what?” he said, scowling.

  She smiled. That little half smile. Her true smile. “Now you do have a s
ecret.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Why did he kill the albatross?”

  Davidek was staring out the window. He didn’t notice Mr. McClerk walk over and stand in front of him, holding his book open, and he didn’t hear the English teacher’s question until the second time he asked it. By then, the other kids in the class were already giggling.

  “Mr. Davidek, why did he kill the bird?”

  Davidek’s mind was still in a Jeep underneath the Tarentum Bridge. He couldn’t think of a thing to say except, “Who?”

  Mr. McClerk snapped his book shut with one hand. “The protagonist in Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Did you read it this weekend?”

  “Of course.” He hadn’t.

  “Then please tell me why he killed the bird.”

  Davidek looked at Stein, who shrugged. He hadn’t read it either. “Umm,” Davidek said. “Because the bird was evil?”

  Mr. McClerk removed his glasses and wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “Mr. Davidek, I rarely say any interpretation of literature is flatly wrong—but that’s a very, very stupid answer.”

  Davidek sucked on his top lip and stared at the desk. Across the room, Seven-Eighth’s hand shot up. “He killed the bird because it was a Christ figure,” she said. Davidek winced for not thinking of this. Everything was always a Christ figure with Mr. McClerk.

  The English teacher confirmed this by triumphantly pointing his glasses at Seven-Eighths. “Yes, that’s one answer. But is there something more to it? Something universal to all of us that would motivate self-destruction?” No one answered him, so he walked to the chalkboard and wrote: IMP OF THE PERVERSE.

  “Mr. Davidek, do you remember this from our reading of Poe last fall?”

  Davidek thought he had read that story, but right now he could remember only one thing, and it involved a yellow disposable camera. “Um, yeah,” he said.

  Mr. McClerk put his glasses on. “Then please remind us from our readings of ‘The Black Cat’ and ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’: What did Poe mean by the term ‘Imp of the Perverse’?”