Brutal Youth: A Novel

by Anthony Breznican

  * * *

  The mysterious boy in the church loft knelt there for the entire service, just a pair of eyes behind the back of a high pew.

  When he couldn’t stand the curiosity anymore, Davidek handed his wooden staff with the swinging red candle to Justin Teemo, the other candle-bearer. “Hang on to this for me,” he said, his robes swishing as he crossed the altar and disappeared into the changing room, where he pulled the black-and-white altar robes off his street clothes and ducked out the back entrance.

  Davidek ran around the side of the building to the main doorways, where he slipped inside the church’s hushed back vestibule. An older man and woman were standing at the interior doorway, their backs to him, looking in at the service. Mr. Zimmer was standing with them.

  Davidek crept along the back wall and dashed up the steps leading to the loft. His footsteps caught the worried attention of the old couple.

  There was another door leading out into the loft, and it groaned as Davidek shoved it open.

  There he came face-to-face with the boy—but it was not Stein. This person was older, taller—he had no scar on his cheek and his hair was dark, but cut so close to the white scalp that it looked gray, translucent. Davidek had seen him before, but they had never met. He knew the face only from a distance, and from photographs in old yearbooks.

  It was Colin Vickler. Clink. The Boy on the Roof.

  Back then, he had been flabby, but was skeletal now, his face loose with skin and dark lines, the long greasy black hair shorn away to nothing. His eyes watered when he saw Davidek, and his head began whipping around in search of an exit that didn’t involve a thirty-foot free fall.

  Davidek said, “I didn’t…,” but before he could finish, the door behind him burst open again, knocking him hard in the back.

  Mr. Zimmer was standing there, motioning to Clink—come here—and the boy did as he was told, dashing past Davidek and down the steps as Zimmer followed with a hand on his shoulder.

  No one in the church below heard the clamor. They were giving out the diplomas now, and each one brought a rise of steady applause as the organ blasted a deafening rendition of “Panis Angelicus” up in the loft.

  Davidek looked down to where the boy had been sitting, and picked up a folded piece of white paper. On it was a crayon drawing of an empty jar, with the lid off, tilted against its side.

  He raced down the steps and saw the giant church doors sliding shut, cutting off a beam of golden sun. Davidek reached for the door, when he felt a hand grab his arm and pull him back. His mother bit at her lower lip. “Altar boy, my ass,” she said. “I knew you were using this as an excuse to sneak around. The whole church saw you ditch your post at the altar.”

  “Let go, Mom,” Davidek said, shaking off her grip. “I gotta get outside.”

  “Yeah? And just why is that?” his mother asked, her voice rising.

  “Because I have to,” Davidek told her, and when she lashed out to grab him with her other hand, he seized her wrist—and held it there.

  June Davidek’s son glared hard into her eyes. “Do I have to repeat it for you?” he asked.

  * * *

  When Davidek finally pushed through the doors, Zimmer was shepherding the older man and woman into their car. The frail boy was already in the backseat, and the gray-haired woman was bitching about how she knew this was a mistake, mistake, mistake as Zimmer closed the door of their blue sedan on her.

  Zimmer pointed at Davidek and told him to keep away as the car backed out of its parking space, then pulled into the street. In the back window, the boy known as Clink turned around and watched St. Mike’s grow small. Then the car was gone.

  “I didn’t know who it was,” Davidek said. “I thought it was—”

  Zimmer gripped the shoulder of Davidek’s shirt. “You’re pretty goddamn nosy, aren’t you? Don’t you think that kid maybe deserved a minute’s peace to watch his own graduation?”

  Davidek said, “No, look—I’m sorry!” as Zimmer released him and paced away, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of the freshman. “He’s alone,” Zimmer finally said. “He’s suffered a lot. He’s very—he’s had a very difficult year, as you can imagine.”

  Zimmer told Davidek he was sorry for grabbing him. Davidek said it was all right. Zimmer apologized again, and Davidek said, “So … What did you mean his graduation?”

  Zimmer clawed through his hair. He’d kept this secret all year, but now a part of him was desperate to explain it, especially since he would be gone soon. At least someone would know, besides himself—and Sister Maria.

  “It was part of the deal to prevent the Vicklers from suing the school. And it was a way to try to make things right,” Zimmer said. “Ever since he got out of the hospital last summer, I’ve been spending time with him in the evenings—home lessons, helping him toward a diploma. He’s medicated, and going through heavy therapy.… But this way he still gets to, kind of … move on with his life. He’ll get his diploma—and then he can start thinking about the next step.” Zimmer looked down the road to where the car had gone. “One last chance deserves another.”

  Zimmer turned back to the freshman. “I thought it would be nice for him to see tonight—even though he’s not a part of it. Everyone in their robes … His mother wanted to keep him home, but—eventually you have to face things. You know? You have to face the worst things in your life, or maybe you become one of those things.”

  Davidek said he understood. The teacher nodded quickly, as if it didn’t matter. “You won’t be helping if you tell people what you saw.” Zimmer was tempted to add: Just like I never told anyone about your night on the Steins’ front porch. But he didn’t. Sometimes you had to confront things, as he said, and sometimes you had to let them go.

  Davidek held out the paper with the empty jar drawing. “He left this. Do you have any idea what it is?”

  Zimmer opened the page, turning it over in his hand before folding it again and stuffing it in his pocket. “I honestly have no idea,” Zimmer said. “He draws these all the time.”

  * * *

  Inside the gymnasium church, the organ began to gush the smooth swells of “Pomp and Circumstance.” Davidek looked back to see his mother watching him from the doorway, but soon beaming graduates began to flow out of the church around her. Cameras flashed and hugs were exchanged. Father Mercedes and his two remaining altar boys led the procession out, with Justin Teemo, the lone candle-bearer, awkwardly balancing the two glowing staffs.

  Sister Maria stood at the head of the teacher’s row, clapping her hands excitedly, smiling at the passing graduates. Audra Banes broke from the line and hugged her, losing her graduation cap and having to chase it back down the aisle. “You’re a real inspiration, Sister. Thank you for showing me how to always stand up for what’s right,” the girl said. The nun looked overcome. She burst into tears, not because she was touched, but because she knew it to be a lie.

  In the row behind Sister Maria, Ms. Bromine stood among the other faculty, but was conspicuously not clapping. She couldn’t. Her forearms and hands were wrapped in heavy-duty white bandages, making them as thick as snowman arms. The report at school about her being absent due to illness was true. The weeds she had scrambled through during her fight with Davidek had turned out to be poison sumac, and every exposed inch of her arms and legs was now covered in an explosive red rash. For Bromine, it was an agonizing reminder of a moment she’d rather believe never happened. For everyone else in the faculty, it was just one more reason to stay clear of her.

  * * *

  As the blue-robed graduates poured out of the church like a polyester flood, Hannah Kraut remained invisible among her classmates. She expected to be shunned—she knew it would happen after surrendering her fabled notebook at the picnic. But it didn’t hurt anymore. A few of the more disgusting boys had muttered the old name “Fuckslut” at her in low tones as the graduates milled about the parking lot after tossing their caps into the sky.

  Mostly, h
er old tormenters were too preoccupied with their own self-congratulation to notice her anymore. She overheard plans for a late-night bonfire along the river in Brackenridge, where one of the kid’s parents had a cabin. The passing of plans and directions always hushed when Hannah drew near, not that she wanted to go to any of their parties anyway.

  She was searching for someone, and her overlong graduation robes brushed the ground as she walked. In her hands, she held a narrow rectangular package wrapped in bright red paper and tied with a silver ribbon. Inside was the framed picture she had planned to give to Mr. Zimmer on prom night; the one with Hannah cheesing broadly as she squeezed in next to the only person at St. Mike’s who could make her smile. Zimmer looked goofy, but was smiling, too, as she held the camera out with one arm and put the other over his shoulders, their faces pressed side to side. On the cardboard backing of the frame she had written:

  Thank you for seeing something beautiful in me.

  Hannah had meant to give it to him before the ceremony but hadn’t seen him with the other teachers. Someone said he’d been out sick. Another heard he was visiting a relative. Ever since prom, she knew Mr. Zimmer wasn’t the most reliable person, but she didn’t believe he would miss graduation—their last night, the big good-bye. At the Hazing Picnic, he even said he wanted a photo with her in her graduation robes. He had promised.

  Then she saw him, on the periphery of the crowd, moving toward the parking lot. Hannah hurried toward him, holding her gift in the air as she squeezed through the mob. She called out his name, but Zimmer seemed to move away faster. Then John Hannidy stopped him and said, “Hey, how ya feeling, Mr. Z! Have a nice summer, okay?” as he slapped Zimmer’s shoulder and walked off.

  That’s when Hannah caught up.

  She held out the package, but Zimmer was looking elsewhere, scanning the crowd, hoping to avoid Sister Maria, Father Mercedes … everybody. He’d already been seen by too many people.

  “Hell-o? Earth to Mr. Zimmer,” Hannah said, poking him in the arm with the wrapped frame. “I got you something. To say thank you—”

  He raised a hand and said, “That won’t be necessary, Hannah.” His voice was strange, businesslike. He looked everywhere but at her.

  Hannah pressed the package under his arm. “Come on, it’s a gift,” she said. “I know you’ll like it.”

  Zimmer took the package and held it against his leg, like a secret agent accepting stolen microfilm. “Thank you,” he said, not very convincingly.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked, but he was already disappearing into the crowd again.

  Hannah started following him, but that’s when she came face-to-face with Davidek, who was just standing around, looking as confused as always. She rose up on her tiptoes and saw Zimmer rounding the other side of the church. “Hey!” she said, and slipped a hug around Davidek. “Did I see you, like, skip out in the middle of church, altar boy? What was that about?”

  Davidek mumbled some nonexplanation.

  Hannah said, “Listen, you want to come with me over to Kings? Maybe get a hamburger or something? Celebrate graduation with one of those Kitchen Sink Sundaes they have? Those have, like, six different ice creams, and sauces and bananas and strawberries and fudge.… Huge! I’ve always wanted to get one, but, you know … don’t think I could kill one by myself.”

  A voice in the crowd cried sharply: “Peter!… Peter!” like a knife slashing against tin. It was Davidek’s mother.

  People were jostling all around them, but she pushed through and grabbed her son’s arm—but all he had to do was look at it to make her let him go again.

  Hannah said, “Is this your mom? Hi, I was Peter’s senior mentor this year.”

  Davidek’s mother shook her hand tersely. “Pleasure,” June Davidek said, her face suggesting an opposite emotion. “Come on, Peter. Time to go.”

  Hannah laced her fingers with Davidek’s. “Aren’t you going to come with me, Playgirl? We’ll have some fun—”

  “I’m sorry, but my little son is still grounded,” June Davidek said. She checked her watch. If she left now, she could deposit Peter at home and still make it to Dingbats for mojitos with Celia and Kay before the movie.

  The boy told his mother: “Listen, I’m going with my friend, Hannah, for ice cream. It’s graduation night. So back off, all right?” It was strange to call Hannah his friend after all they’d been through—all she’d put him through—but some part of it felt true.

  Davidek’s mother clenched her teeth, and got close enough to her son to whisper in his ear. “You. Are. Grounded.… Remember all the shit you caused us?” she said. “And I can’t make you move. But I can slap you. I can scream at you. I can pull at your shirt and cause such a scene that everyone in this parking lot will stop and stare. Is that what you want? Do you want to be the boy whose mommy spanked him outside graduation? Do you want your little girlfriend over there to see that? Because I’ll do it, Peter. I’ll make an ass out of you like you’ve never imagined.”

  She pulled his arm again. This time, her son began to walk.

  * * *

  Hannah’s parents found their daughter in the crowd as she searched for Mr. Zimmer, and delayed her by insisting on some photos. “Could you get one of your friends to take one of all three of us?” her father asked.

  Hannah said, “Let’s just take one at home with the timer.”

  “Aren’t you going out to celebrate with your chums?” her mother asked.

  Hannah smiled. “Nobody says ‘chums,’ Mom.” She told her parents that she actually wasn’t feeling well, and suggested they take off and she’d be right behind them. Her father laughed and said, “Oh, our little girl is just trying to get rid of us!” as he linked arms with Hannah’s mother, who kissed her daughter on the forehead and joked as they walked away: “Just try to be back by next Thursday.” They would be saddened in an hour when they saw her arrive back at their house alone.

  With almost no one left outside, Hannah was still searching. He couldn’t have left without saying good-bye. But when she approached a handful of teachers still talking by the school entrance, no one from that group, which was heading to the Anchor Inn to drown the school year in Yuengling, knew Mr. Zimmer’s whereabouts. “Was he even here?” Mrs. Arnarelli asked Mr. Mankowski and Mrs. Tunns.

  Hannah was the last student to leave the school. She walked along the side of the gymnasium church, trying to see if Zimmer’s car was parked on the street there, and she passed a trash can overflowing with plastic wrappings from carnations, candy wrappers, soda bottles, and mimeographed graduation programs. A flicker of silver ribbon fluttered over the lip, still lashed around some bright red wrapping paper, which was partially torn away.

  The picture of a pigtailed schoolgirl and her favorite teacher smiled from the trash.

  Hannah lifted it out. She even considered rescuing it. But the glass was cracked now. And someone’s half-finished Mountain Dew had seeped pale green stickiness all over it. And what did she want with this fucking photo anymore anyway?

  Hannah pressed her palm against the picture frame, wedging it deeper into the trash, where no one would ever see it again.

  * * *

  Davidek’s mother was steering her minivan toward the Tarentum Bridge when Michael Crawford’s black 4Runner streaked past along the shoulder of the road. On the back door was a short metal ladder, and clinging to the ladder was Bilbo Tomch, his graduation robe fluttering behind him like a superhero’s cape, one arm clasped around the ladder for dear life as he whooped and shouted.

  “God. He’s going to kill himself,” Davidek’s mother said, but her son didn’t reply. He was staring through his faint reflection in the window glass to the river below, with the long shadow of the bridge stretched out across it. The dark spot of their car traced along the glistening surface of the water.

  “I don’t know why you had to fight me back there,” his mother said. “Can’t you try having a civil conversation with me one goddamn tim
e?”

  Okay, how about this for “civil conversation”? he wanted to say. The way you tried to bully and embarrass me back there? That’s the last time. I’m done being pushed around by anyone—and that includes you and Dad. Do you understand? Or do I need to say: “Do I need to repeat it for you”—again … and again … and again … until it sinks in?

  But he was tired of fighting. And anyway, she’d find out soon enough. Stein’s first rule of combat was secrecy. Don’t declare war, just wage it.

  Things had changed. A boy learns a lot in his first year of high school.

  One was a simple lesson that a lot of people figure out around his age: Surprise, surprise—the good guys don’t always win. Sometimes, they’re lucky if they just get to keep on being good guys.

  Davidek wasn’t sure if he still counted as one or not. He hoped so.

  But now he also knew that it’s not enough to step in front of other people’s bullets; you have to be bulletproof, too. You have to be harder than anything anyone else can throw at you, and sometimes you risk losing yourself just trying to save yourself.

  Davidek could feel himself there now, on the edge of becoming someone he didn’t recognize anymore, and he didn’t like it very much. A year ago, he risked his life running out to save some kid he didn’t even know; and now that he knew a lot of kids at St. Mike’s, all he wanted to do was see them get what was coming to them—what they’d been dishing out to everyone else. He’d always assumed that as you got older, you became better, that you learned how to be brave, or wise, or do what was best for other people. Now he believed the opposite was true.

  He guessed that’s how someone turned into a Ms. Bromine, or maybe even his own mother and father—who wanted to start over so badly, but had no idea how. It was hard for him to remember a time when his mom and dad seemed happy, or even interested in anything about their two boys except unloading their own frustrations on them. Whether it was the clip-on tie, or begging for a late-night ride to find out what happened to Stein, they never listened when he asked for help, never trusted him. And so he had quit asking, and quit trusting them, too. That part was his fault, he supposed. All he needed was a friend, but you can’t find that in people who hate where they’ve ended up but still expect you to follow in their footsteps. The upperclassmen of St. Mike’s certainly proved that.