American Youth

by Phil LaMarche

  The night air was sharp. It cut at his bare skin and he pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt and slid his hands into the pocket at the front. Autumn was upon them and the crickets no longer sounded. The boy felt as though he could smell the fallen leaves melting back into the forest floor. That was the smell of fall to him, the smell of decay.

  He sat on the short stone wall that ran halfway down the driveway. When his butt grew cold and stiff, he stood and walked back up the driveway and across the sidewalk at the front of the house. In the moonlight he could just make out the front yard. He could see the fresh soil of the tire tracks. The anger began to grow in him again.

  He heard footsteps in the sand at the end of his driveway and he saw Terry’s silhouette out there in the darkness. The boy made his way down the walk and out to meet him.

  “Hey,” the boy whispered.

  Terry nodded. “Come on,” he said, waving the boy to follow. Terry took a right turn at the street. The only sound was their feet scratching at the sand on the side of the road. They came upon a car parked in the ditch. When Terry opened the door, the interior light came on and the boy saw that it was Terry’s mother’s Ford. He stood for a moment, knowing that Terry didn’t have a license, knowing that no good could come of this.

  The boy knew he could shake his head. He could turn and walk back to his house and return to his bedroom. He could sit alone on the side of his bed and he could do the things he did to himself there. He flinched and shook his head. When Terry reached over and unlocked the passenger side door, the boy pulled it open and stepped in.

  “You ready?” Terry said.

  The boy shrugged. He could smell booze on Terry’s breath. “You been drinking?” he said.

  “You think I’d lift my mom’s car sober?” Terry reached under the seat and came out with a bottle of liquor. It was flat and slightly rounded so as to fit conveniently in a back pocket of a pair of pants or the inside pocket of a coat. Terry unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and handed it to the boy. “Whiskey,” he said, his eyes closed and his face winced in a sort of pucker. The boy took the bottle and pulled hard on it. The whiskey was hot and smoky in his mouth. Even hotter in this throat. He coughed quickly and took another hard sip. “Hey, go easy,” Terry said.

  “I got to catch up,” the boy said.

  “Case you ain’t realized, I got a few pounds on you,” Terry said.

  The boy smiled and drank again from the bottle.

  “Hey man, I’m serious,” Terry said. He twisted the whiskey from the boy’s hand. “We got shit to do.”

  “What you got in mind?” the boy said. He coughed into his hand.

  “We’re going to get back at those cocksuckers.”

  “The Youth?”

  “Your mom…” Terry said. He took a sip from the bottle and screwed the cap back on. “Remember those multiplication tests? The timed ones?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Man, I just could not do those things. I’d break my pencil in the middle of the test to get out of it, you know? Your mom kept me in at recess for extra help and I must’ve broken five pencils one time. So obvious—but your mom never said a word. She just smiled and told me it was okay and let me try again.”

  “Yeah?” said the boy. He almost laughed at the thought of it.

  “I’ll kill those motherfuckers.” Terry pounded a fist on the steering wheel. “Messing with your house like that.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and rolled down the window. He flipped open the top and pulled one out between his lips. He held the pack out to the boy and the boy took one. “Roll down your window,” Terry told him. “I can’t have this thing stinking to hell.” The boy did as he was told and Terry lit both of their cigarettes. He started the car, turned on the lights, and pulled out onto the road.

  The boy’s head started to spin from the nicotine and his body grew warm with the flush of alcohol. It felt wonderful. And as soon as he felt it, he was afraid the feeling would leave him.

  “Give me some more,” he said. He held out his hand. Terry reached under the seat for the bottle and handed it over.

  “Go easy,” he said. “I’m serious. We got work to do.”

  “You got a plan?” The boy took a long gulp and hissed between his teeth. “Yow,” he said. He shook his head back and forth, back and forth. A flash of nausea rolled through him and he thought he would cool it on the booze for a bit.

  “Yes,” Terry said. “I got a plan.”

  The car rolled and wound through the wooded country roads. The boy was impressed with Terry’s driving, although once he did drop two tires in the rocky ditch and the car bumped and rumbled until he jerked it back to the pavement.

  The boy knew it was dangerous, driving with a drunk. He’d seen the commercials. He’d been subject to the campaigns in school. But to care about your physical well-being, you have to care about your physical well-being. The boy’s drunk mind fantasized about crashing full speed into one of the broad pines on the side of the road—his body flying into the dashboard, through the windshield, headlong into the trees and small saplings. Pain was what his body craved. It pleaded to be burned and scalded and dashed to pieces. It longed for relief.

  They took the back way out of town toward the high school. The boy wondered what Terry had in mind, but he didn’t ask. Terry stopped at the intersection on the bypass. He looked both ways several times. He cautiously throttled the car out onto the two-lane and gently brought the car up to speed. He looked back and forth between the road and the speedometer, carefully working the throttle to keep the car at a steady speed.

  The wind boomed through the windows, setting everything loose to fluttering. The car rolled over the uneven road like a ship on the water. Terry bent his neck and took another cigarette from the pack with his lips. He couldn’t get his lighter to work in the wind so he reached down and pressed the lighter in the dash. When it popped out, he retrieved it and set his cigarette to smoldering.

  The boy looked across the car at Terry, illuminated by the odd glow from the dash. The lights from the passing cars and street lamps came in and over them, providing quick flashes of clarity. The boy stared at Terry’s hand on the wheel, the cigarette sprouting from between his fingers. Terry’s left hand took hold of the bottom of the wheel as he brought the cigarette to his mouth. The red tip went bright as he inhaled. His hand returned to the wheel and he blew the smoke in the direction of the open window. His eyes squinted and his lips were tight as he forced the smoke out of his lungs. Looking at Terry, the boy felt warm with something.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Thank you,” the boy said.

  “For what?”

  “For everything.”

  “Don’t start that.”

  “I’m serious,” the boy said.

  “You’re drunk is what you are.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Drunk or queer,” Terry said. “Take your pick.”

  The boy smiled and looked back out the windshield at the tunnel the headlights created before them.

  They passed the Haneys’ gun shop. They passed the school. Terry finally slowed the car and turned into the parking lot of Jason Becker’s apartment complex. He drove out to the far corner, where Jason’s car sat alone. Terry smiled at the boy. He turned the car around and pulled back onto the bypass. He took the next left turn and after a couple hundred yards, he pulled over. He pointed at the woods.

  “His car is that way,” Terry told him. He took out the bottle and took a long drink. He handed it to the boy. “Finish it,” he said. The boy was already reeling, but he took the bottle and did as he was told. He hardly flinched at the burn.

  They got out of the car and Terry went to the trunk. He twisted the key in the lock and it popped. Terry bent over and came out with a small backpack. He threw it over his shoulder and it rattled.

  The boy put his hand on Terry’s arm. “What’s in there?” he said.

  “I’m doing this,�
�� Terry said. “You can come or not.”

  “Not his apartment,” said the boy.

  “Are you crazy?” Terry said. “That little piece-of-shit car of his.”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said. His tongue was thick with the whiskey and his voice sounded funny to him.

  “You can come or not,” Terry said. “This ain’t for you anyway. This is for your mom.” He turned and headed into the woods. The boy stood for moment but he quickly set off after Terry. He didn’t want to be alone.

  He had trouble walking in the woods. He stumbled on downed limbs and bumped into trees. The whiskey was working hard on him. He followed the sound of Terry’s footsteps and the red glow of his cigarette. He was glad to see the woods open into the field above Jason’s apartment complex. Before he stepped into the clearing, a briar patch got hold of his pants and drove thorns into his legs. He winced and set to pulling them free from his clothing. As he pulled them from his pants, they took hold of the arms of his sweatshirt. His predicament was getting worse. He grew frustrated and stood, tearing his arms up and away from the briars. He got balanced and forced his way step after step out of the patch. The vines ripped and popped out of his clothing and clawed at his skin. He stepped out into the grass of the field and it felt good to be free. Terry was halfway across the opening and the boy jogged to catch up, rubbing at the burning in his thighs where the thorns had got to him.

  He caught up with Terry at a hedge just above the parking lot. Jason’s car sat in the lot some twenty-five yards away. Terry had the backpack down on the ground and he fished two glass bottles out of it. He went back for some socks at the bottom and quickly assembled the Molotov cocktails.

  “Whose socks you use?” the boy said.

  “My brother’s,” Terry said, smiling. “I took the newest, cleanest pair I could find.”

  The two giggled for a moment.

  Terry pushed one of the bottles at the boy, but he didn’t take it.

  “Come on,” Terry said. “It’ll be faster if we do it at the same time.”

  Still he didn’t take it.

  “Think about it,” Terry said. “All they’ve done to you?”

  The boy reached out and took the bottle in his fist. “Light it,” he said.

  Terry thumbed the lighter and held the flame to the socks. They both watched the flames climb the cotton. “Let’s do it,” Terry said. He smiled at the boy and ran around the corner of the hedge. The boy followed. Terry ran half the distance to the car and hurled the bottle, but the boy kept running. He watched Terry’s bottle crash to the pavement just under the driver’s-side door. The flames burst and waved up to the window. The boy was hardly fifteen feet from the car when he let his go. The bottle crashed into the rear bumper and set the hatchback on fire. He stood for a second, admiring his throw, and then turned and sprinted. Terry was already gone. When the boy neared the tree line, he heard Terry call his name. He followed Terry’s voice and found him hunched over, his hands on his knees.

  “Holy shit,” Terry said. “I can’t believe you hit it.”

  The boy turned and watched the car burn. Terry’s was nearly out, but flames still throbbed across the back of the car. The boy held his breath, waiting for the whole vehicle to catch, waiting for some grand explosion or finale, but the gas gradually burned off, leaving only the smoldering edges of a few bumper stickers.

  “That’s it?” said the boy.

  “That’s it,” Terry said.

  “It’s not enough.”

  “He’ll get it.”

  “It’s not enough,” said the boy.

  “It’s enough for tonight,” Terry said.

  The boy shook his head. He wanted to run back down the hill and jump on Jason’s hood. He wanted to kick his foot through the windshield and piss all over the interior.

  Terry reached over and took him hard by the arm. He looked and Terry shook his head. He motioned back to the car with his head. “Come on, man,” Terry said. “We should git.”

  He nodded.

  Back in the car, on the way home, he looked over at Terry.

  “My dad knows I been smoking dope,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Mr. Benson caught me on the railroad bed.”

  “You ain’t told on me?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “You better not,” Terry told him.

  “I won’t,” he said.

  “What did he say?”

  “I got to move down there with him.”

  “You going to?”

  “Why not?” the boy said.

  “Friends, I don’t know.”

  “What friends I got?”

  “You got me,” Terry said.

  “Yeah?”

  Terry nodded. “You always had me.”

  The boy nodded. He set his jaw and tried to swallow the knot in his throat.

  “Do I got you?” Terry said.

  “Yeah,” said the boy. “You do.”

  “Good,” Terry told him.

  16

  The boy woke in desperate need to piss. He rolled over and stood, only to immediately take a seated position on the side of the bed. It felt as though someone had driven a nail behind his left eye. His stomach was acidic and pukey. His mouth tasted as he imagined the soles of his shoes might if he had walked through an ashtray and a puddle of vomit.

  “Oh, good Christ,” he hissed. He hung his head and clenched his eyes.

  He took slow, cautious steps to the bathroom. Once there, he sat on the toilet to urinate, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He stood and retrieved his underwear from around his ankles. He went to the sink and brushed his teeth. He grabbed the bottle of mouthwash from below the counter and gargled to try to kill the whiskey he imagined was on his breath.

  Back in the hallway, he leaned against the wall, looking down the stairs.

  “Ma?” he hollered.

  “Teddy?”

  “Can you call in for me? I feel terrible.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I told you—I feel like crap.”

  “How so?” She came around the corner and looked up at him.

  “I got a headache and I think I’m going to puke.”

  “Fever?” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “Come down and have something to eat,” she said. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”

  He shook his head. “I’m going back to bed. Just call in for me.”

  “Are you going to miss anything important?”

  “Ma, come on.”

  “I think you should go.”

  “I think you should call.”

  She didn’t say anything, just stared up at him.

  “You owe me,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Just do it, Ma.”

  “What do I owe you for, mister?”

  He shook his head.

  “Say it,” she said.

  “For keeping your secret.”

  She shook her head. “Ted,” she said. She paused for a moment. “It’s not my secret.”

  He leaned back and punched the wall. “Fine,” he snapped. “Don’t call in. I don’t give a shit.” He walked back into his room and slammed the door. He grabbed the chair from his desk and jammed it just under the knob. He tested the door and the chair held. He went to his bed and pulled the covers over him. He listened for his mother at the door, but the knob never moved. Sometime later he heard her car start in the drive and back out. After that he heard his bus come and go. He lay under the covers with his eyes clenched, but sleep would not come. The headache and the nausea and the fury kept him tossing.

  Eventually he threw back the covers and got dressed. He went downstairs and poured himself a glass of water and fished a few aspirin from a bottle in the cabinet just beside the sink. He choked down the bitter, chalky tablets and went to the couch in the living room. He lay down and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch. He covered himself and reached out from unde
r the blanket for the television remote. The tube sprang to life and he went through the channels until he found a station with morning cartoons. An episode of Tom and Jerry was in full swing. A clothes iron fell from its perch and struck the cat in the face. The cat’s face took on the flat shape of the iron.

  The boy was startled awake by a loud knock at the door. He sat up quickly and rubbed at his eyes. A commercial squawked from the television and the knock came again. He stood and looked out on the driveway. His body grew rigid at the sight of the local police cruiser. He crouched back down, out of sight of the windows. The knock came again, louder and more insistent. He knew it was Duncan. It had to be.

  “Ted,” a voice hollered from the other side of the door. It said something else but he couldn’t make it out. He knew he could stay hidden. He knew he could lie on the floor and wait for Duncan to leave. But he also knew that doing so would only prolong whatever was coming.

  He went to the door, turned the bolt, and drew it open. Duncan stood at the top of the stairs.

  “Ted,” Duncan said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You look tired.”

  “I was sleeping on the couch,” he told him. “I’m sick.”

  “That’s what they said at school.”

  He nodded, realizing that his mother had called in before she left. “My mom’s not here.”

  “I know,” Duncan said. “Feel like going for a ride?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. I’m sick.”

  “Come on. Your parents wouldn’t want people seeing the cruiser in the driveway.” He pointed his thumb at the car.

  “Since when do you care what my parents want?”