Davidek pushed deeper along the ridge. The canopy of leaves created unlikely darkness in the bright afternoon sun, and odd rocks rose like ancient molars from the earth. There was no path anymore, and the thickening woods hushed the noisy picnic grounds behind him. Bromine surged toward him through the growth, pursuing the freshman alone. She yelled, “Stop!” and struggled over the uneven terrain, her round blond head bent low to avoid eye-poking branches. “You just bought yourself two months of detention!” she said.
The trees were skinnier here, leaning out on a gentle slope of crumbling shale that was thinly carpeted with black dirt. Davidek would never know it, but it was the same spot where Hannah Kraut’s senior had once sparked a joint with her.
The sun burned through the canopy, tinting the world yellow. A stream of trickling water cut through the hillside and dropped off the cliff into a deadfall of sharp branches, as white as bleached bones. There was nowhere else for him to go. This was the end.
A meaty hand snagged the back of Davidek’s head and jerked him backwards. Ms. Bromine knotted his hair in her fingers as she made him face her. “There’s a reason we call kids like you dead-enders,” she said.
Every vein in her body throbbed. Her face was nicked with little red scratches from the trees, and she had a smear of caterpillar web stuck in her hair. Sweat beaded up on her pink face and ran down her neck. She pulled Davidek close enough to feel his breath. “When I tell you to ‘stop,’ you damn well better listen. But you have no respect. And that’s why you get none in return.”
“It’s Saturday,” he said coolly, prying at the fingers in his hair. “This isn’t school. You’re nobody here. I don’t have to respect you anything—”
Little flecks of spittle hit his face. “I saw you destroy that food, buddy boy. Sick.… Just for a laugh, right? You make a mess and ruin something that’s supposed to be fun. Well, I saw it. And I’ve been waiting a long time for you to screw up in front of everybody like this. So they can all see what I see.”
She pulled at his hair again, trying to make it hurt. Trying to make him cry—the way she had cried after he and his rotten little friend Stein had humiliated her in the parking lot that first time she even met them. “You’re getting a century of detention, little brat.” That seemed like weak menace, so she added: “And I’m going to report you to the Parish Monitors and Father Mercedes. I’m going to get you expelled. How do you like that?”
Davidek laughed at her again. “If you expel me … how will I serve my, uhh, ‘century’ of detention?”
Bromine felt her heart having a fit. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t what she did, how she acted. She felt control slipping away, just as it almost had that night at the Valentine’s dance, twisting Noah Stein’s arm as she squeezed it in her sharp nails. But this time there was no one around to see her, and no one around to stop her. “You want a laugh, huh? Here’s what makes me laugh—” Her hand cut across his face.
The boy slid toward the ground, but Bromine still held him by the hair. He stared up at her, his teeth white and glistening. “You’re gonna get fired now,” he said.
Bromine jerked his head back. Her fingers were beginning to hurt from holding his hair so tightly. “You’d like that,” she said. “To humiliate me. But I know boys like you.…” She felt nauseated, dizzy; the air she gasped felt thick as water. Gretchen Bromine could feel the boy in her arms straining against her, every muscle taut as she pulled him against her. “Your friend with the scarred-up face taught me a little trick. Do you remember? I know I’ll never forget it.… It’s called ‘Who Would Believe You?’”
Bromine’s eyes were watering at Davidek’s smile. “Boys like you never cared for this school. Not like I did. It was all about you … what you wanted. It used to be a nice place when I was a girl.…” She could hardly finish. She began to choke: “Boys like you—made me—the bad guy. You made me—the monster. But it’s you. It’s you.”
Her free hand pawed sweat off her face. “You know how to play Who Would Believe You?” she asked, almost sweetly. She looked down into the boy’s lean, youthful face—his dark eyes staring up at her, the muscles in his arms braced against her.
She remembered boys like this. But they had once looked at her so differently.
Ms. Bromine pressed her lips against Davidek’s, sealing his face against hers, leaving a smacking taste of chips and salsa in his mouth as her tongue probed between his lips. The boy flailed in her grip, then slowed, his hands sliding along her sides, caressing her—until—
Bromine shrieked, rearing back as Davidek pushed up on his legs, squeezing fistfuls of her fleshy breasts and twisting them like he was ripping out twin champagne corks. It was the championship Purple Nurple of all time, a last-resort move he’d learned courtesy of countless beat-downs from his big brother, Charlie. If there was one mark Charlie made on the world, it was now imprinted on Ms. Bromine’s chest. The guidance counselor flopped her arms in a panic and sprawled backwards on her ass, her blue blouse making twin tents between his fingers as she fell away from him.
Bromine thudded on her back, kicking her fireplug legs to push herself away through the weeds.
“You’re right,” Davidek gasped, looming over her. “No one will believe this.”
“You assaulted me!” Bromine bellowed. “Get away!” Her hand scrabbled through the leafy undergrowth and seized on a chunk of rock—roughly the size of an orange, but sharp. It fit neatly into her hand as she struggled to her feet, ready to swing it at the boy’s face.
Behind her, a voice said, “Stop!… Now.”
Bromine’s hair dangled with leaves and stuck to the sweat on her face. She sniffed quietly, eyes focused on something standing in the woods behind Davidek. She began to sob, and crystal tears streaked down her face. “He attacked me!” she said. “You saw it!”
The slight figure of Sister Maria stood amid the maple saplings. The nun’s mouth was a razor line as she began to walk. “Yes. I did,” she answered, moving between them. “It looked like quite a little game.”
“Game?” Bromine barked. “I wouldn’t call it—”
“Yes,” Sister Maria interrupted. “I believe that’s exactly what I heard you call it. ‘A little game called … Who-Would-Believe-You?’ Isn’t that right?”
Bromine’s weepy expression hardened, becoming a silent declaration of eternal war.
“Maybe you should leave now, Ms. Bromine,” the principal said.
Bromine jabbed an accusatory finger toward Davidek. “He did it,” she said, her voice breaking. She repeated it again, louder this time, but the claim was useless. “I’m telling the Parish Monitors!” she declared finally, heaving to her feet.
“You’ll shut your mouth and never open it to contradict me again, Gretchen, or I’ll do what every teacher wished they could do when you were just a student—and boot you out for being a miserable, know-it-all, pain in the ass.” The nun squinted at the guidance counselor’s dumbstruck expression. “Oh, please. Your mother and father begged us to hire you. And all you’ve done in the years since is prove me wrong, time and again—I used to think even the rottenest students could eventually change for the better.”
Davidek piled on. “Maybe I’ll tell the Monitors what you just did to me, you perverted bitch!”
Sister Maria spun on him. There was rage in her eyes—but a pleading neediness, too. “Nobody is talking to the Parish Monitors,” the nun said. “So let’s decide that what happened just now in this clearing—all of it—never happened. Understand? If I find out either of you spoke about this, I will make certain we speak about all of it.” She looked squarely at Davidek. “Every last part.”
The guidance counselor backed away through the trees, overwhelmed with equal parts fear and fury, shouting that this was wrong, that whatever the boy said, whatever Sister Maria thought she saw … it was a lie.
But she had no more fight left.
Sister Maria and Davidek watched in silence as Bromine retreated, stumbling a
nd muttering through the trees like a lost bull. When she was gone, consumed by the forest, Davidek turned on the principal. “If you hate her so bad, why are you protecting her?”
Sister Maria started walking away, back toward the picnic—determined to present a smiling face to the Monitors and guests still gathered there. “For the same reason I’m protecting you,” she said.
Davidek brushed at the dirt and leaves on his clothes. “Sister!” he called as her figure grew small between the trees. “Sister, tell me again … who’s looking out for who?” Maybe she didn’t hear. If she did, she didn’t care to answer.
* * *
Davidek sat down on one of the big rectangular stones at the river overlook.
Upstream was a barge loaded with muddy grit and gravel, turning a distant bend between the hills in slow motion. No birds sang. The wind was still.
After a while, Davidek heard footsteps on the path behind him.
Green took a seat beside him on the rock bench. The heavy boy was holding his guitar, cradling it carefully, and his fingers began moving along the strings, strumming a soothing song. Green hummed the lyrics, not singing. Occasionally a word emerged, murmured more to himself than to Davidek. Finally, Green said, “I wrote this song, but I need to work on the lyrics. Maybe it’s better I didn’t have to sing it today.”
Davidek nodded. He said, “Sorry they didn’t let you.”
Green was still strumming. His chubby face split open in a smile. He hummed a few more lyrics and they watched the barge pass below them, short waves grabbing at its sides.
“I’m sorry about … us fighting,” Green said. “You said some things, I said some things … but what you did back there … just now—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry to me, Green. Don’t ever,” Davidek interrupted. “You don’t owe me any ‘I’m sorry’s.’ I’m the one who should have said it. Right away. Long ago. I’m sorry, Green. Sorry about what I said. Sorry about all of it.”
Green just kept strumming. When people are particularly good at playing guitar, the world around them stops existing for a while. The music carried over the bluff. Far below, the river moved the barge silently away from them.
“I wish sorry was a stronger word,” Davidek said. “I wish it were as strong as other words, the ones that make you need to apologize. Like what I said to you on the phone that night.… Because I am, Green. I’m so s—”
“That’s the cool thing about being real friends,” Green told him. “If you really mean it, you don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry. Once is enough. For good friends, I mean … Like us.”
The two freshmen sat silhouetted against the sunny river valley, looking down over the cliff at the slow, dark water churning by below.
* * *
Back at the pavilion, most of the students and guests had gone. The sun crept toward an orange horizon, but it was still a couple hours until sunset. Clouds of gnats buzzed over the grass fields. Davidek found his father’s car, where the old man was standing with The Big Texan.
Carl LeRose caught up to Davidek as he walked. “Hey, you know, if you were gonna smash all that stuff, you could’ve at least done it onstage. For a laugh.”
Davidek said, “Is that how everybody feels?”
LeRose raised his hands—nonthreatening. “Nobody feels anything, big guy. We’re cool. All right?”
“All right,” Davidek said, too tired to say anything else.
Davidek’s father was pissed. As his son approached, he threw open the passenger door. “Where the hell’ve you been?”
LeRose’s father, The Big Texan, laughed too loud and said, “Settle down, Bill! This boy did a helluva brave thing up there today. A helluva thing…” At first, Davidek thought he meant the smashed food, but The Big Texan was talking about his apparent refusal to read Hannah’s notebook, which now seemed like eons ago. “Your boy stood up for himself today,” Mr. LeRose said. “He stood up for all of us at St. Mike’s.”
Bill Davidek didn’t like hearing someone else tell him how to feel about his kid. The Big Texan put out his hand. “Not always easy to stand up to people … But you and I know that, don’t we?” Bill Davidek hesitated, then shook it, and whatever secret history they shared passed between them.
The Big Texan looked across the car to Davidek. “I want to thank you again, for everything, Peter. For helping my son, here, when he needed it. I believe we need more boys like you at St. Mike’s.”
Davidek’s father got into the car and started the engine.
“You know I wasn’t the only one who helped Carl that day,” Davidek said. LeRose’s father looked at his son, and Carl gave him a hey-I-was-unconscious shrug.
“There was another boy who helped me,” Davidek said, feeling nervous and talking a little too fast. “His name was Noah Stein.… He never wanted any credit, but Stein is the one who helped me get to Carl. One of the teachers was trying to hold me back, but he stopped her. With a big fat kiss on the mouth.”
“Bromine?” Carl asked, his face lighting up. “So that is true?”
The Big Texan said, “Okay, well, where is this mystery hero? Let’s meet him.” He looked expectantly at his son, who may have been an upperclassman suck-up, but had never worn a red scar on his cheek.
“Carl can tell you what happened to Stein … and what they did to him. Right, Carl?”
LeRose said, “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He was proud to be of service.
As Davidek’s father drove them away, the minivan passed Mullen’s boat-sized Pea Green Love Machine, parked along the grass near the football field. Davidek looked out the back window at a curious scene. Carl pointing to Mullen and Simms, who were still hanging out at the swing set, then walking his father toward the old green jalopy. The elder LeRose, The Big Texan, drew a small booklet out of his jacket pocket, studied the rear of the car, and wrote something down.
As the woods rose around them, Davidek’s father said, “I never liked that guy.”
FORTY-NINE
The parish council’s vote on whether to close the school was unanimous.
Father Mercedes paced the hallway outside St. Mike’s library as the ten members debated the issue in an upstairs classroom. Most of the seats in the library were still empty, though about two dozen more people were at this monthly council meeting than usual—mostly clusters of concerned school parents amid the twenty or so ancient, shriveled busybodies who spent their final years on Earth obsessing over the minutiae of church matters. They all waited in uncomfortable silence for the public portion of the meeting to begin. But it was starting late.
The priest took that as a good sign.
There was no doubt—St. Mike’s would be closed. Everyone knew it, because Father Mercedes wanted it. And Father Mercedes, as the pastor appointed by the Diocese of Pittsburgh, brought five votes to whatever decision the ten members decided. That gave him leverage to overrule any divided issue.
But winning by a slim majority was not enough to keep him safe.
Father Mercedes wanted certainty. If a majority of the council dissented in favor of keeping the school open, it might raise uncomfortable questions if he reversed such a controversial decision all by himself. Resistance from a few influential council members might draw the unwanted attention of the diocese. He hadn’t worked this hard to shield himself only to be undone by a few rebellious … volunteers. And their resistance would drag out the potential shuttering of the school, which increased the chance that holes in the parish finances would be revealed in the meantime.
He had to make sure that as many of the ten members as possible would go along with his plan. So as they pored over the stacks of notes from the Monitor program and debated the finances involved in maintaining the high school, Father Mercedes had taken action to tilt the odds in his favor.
The priest hadn’t wanted to do this. It was a risk. But the Hazing Picnic had been worthless. It was definitely a strange affair, and there seemed to be some rambunctious behavior he didn’t unde
rstand, but it hadn’t been the catastrophe he hoped the Parish Monitors would witness. Hannah Kraut’s infamous notebook failed to produce any noticeable stir, which was a shame; he had hoped she would reveal that nasty little rumor about her and Mr. Zimmer—so the priest could act as surprised as everybody else, sparing himself the responsibility of you-should-have-known. But the suspicion Seven-Eighths had shared with him remained Father Mercedes’s fail-safe, a weapon of last resort. On the morning of the vote, hoping to push one last panic button with the council, he finally used it.
Mercedes had spent the day visiting five of the council members he knew to be undecided. (Three others were already leaning in his favor.) He explained that he had a greivous piece of new information for them. Something he had just learned. Something that distressed him deeply. But still—it was something they needed to know.
“I learned of this troubling news from a student during the holy Sacrament of Reconcilation, so I cannot divulge her name…,” he said repeatedly throughout the day, knocking on doors and settling himself in living rooms, putting on a performance of deep anguish.
“This student … she has confessed to a sexual relationship with one of our most treasured teachers.” It was difficult to say that part with a straight face. Mr. Zimmer had provoked nothing but resistance against him. He was the worst of a disobedient faculty. And yet, he would be Father Mercedes’s salvation.
Who? they had demanded.
So Father Mercedes told them, feigning extreme reluctance.
“This revelation will not reflect well on the church…,” the priest had said. “We must consider this yet another reason to cut our parish off from the corrupt and damaging relationship with that school.”
There were many questions: How far did the relationship go? Father Mercedes wasn’t certain. Was anyone else involved? The priest said only that he prayed not. Will the girl come forward? Unlikely, for we can imagine the damage this could cause her and her family. What has the teacher said in his defense? Before we confront him, we must think of protecting ourselves.
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