Before the rally started, I watched him come into the gym with Jake and Connor, so, now, my eyes scan the section of bleachers where I last saw him. I finally locate him and then lean into Coach’s microphone and say his name.
Luc is surprised and his face turns red, like mine did when Coach first called me down. He shakes his head, not wanting to participate.
I mouth the words, come on, and call him in with my fingers. He shakes his head again, and it reminds me of the night of the football game in the basement with Dad. He just needs a little push to actually get him going.
“Come on, Luc,” I say into the mic.
No, he tells me with his eyes, so I start a chant of his name and everyone quickly joins in.
“Luc! Luc! Luc!” The cry is loud and even has the heavy beat of the band’s bass drums backing it.
A couple of cheerleaders climb the bleachers and help him out of his seat. The crowd claps and shouts, and they keep it up until he’s down on the floor. No longer is he there, than does a third cheerleader come jogging over and helps him pull a jersey over his head.
He looks damn good in it and it sends a tingle of pride through me. The crowd loves it too, and the noise grows louder.
The three cheerleaders lead Luc over to where Coach and I are, and I lean into him to say, “It’s not so bad down here.”
Lucas doesn’t say anything in return, but he gives me a look that is multi-dimensional. He’s still embarrassed. Kind of annoyed. Skeptical. A little flattered and semi-digging the welcoming reaction of the crowd.
I have a feeling that it won’t take him long to get into this. I grin at him and find myself cuffing him on the back the way Dad always does me.
Paige is smiling, pleased with my choice.
Coach announces the other four players and Scott and Zane are two of them. The rest of the team sits down and one of the cheerleaders takes the mic and the control.
The five players are directed to a long table the girls have set up in the center of the floor. When Luc turns to follow them, I notice that the name Farnsworth is silk screened to the back of the jersey he’s wearing. Since his last name is Farnsworth, this isn’t odd. Or is it? Did they give him that jersey because he’s supposed to be representing me? Or did they know I’d pick him?
I’m not exactly sure what to think about this, so I just don’t think about it. There’s too much noise and chaos going on for that, anyway.
Two cheerleaders take me by the arms and lead me near the table with the rest of them. Then the pies are brought out. Big fluffy pans of whipped cream. The object is to see who can slurp down the most in one minute.
The girls help them put on plastic bibs, tie their hands behind their backs, and then the countdown begins.
“Three, two, one. Go!”
The noise in the room increases. Everyone cheering and shouting for their favorite.
Scott is really wolfing the cream down. He just opens his big mouth and rakes his face across the pan and huge amounts disappear at a time.
Zane is using more of a sucking method. Drawing it in like he has a straw in his mouth. It’s effective but not as fast as Scott’s way.
The other two players aren’t doing so bad themselves.
And Luc? He started out well. Decided he’d play and dove right in, taking a big mouthful. He swallowed it down and then went back for more. But the moment he gulps in a pile of white fluff from the second layer, he springs back like something bit him. He immediately spits out what’s in his mouth, and with a repulsed look on his face, tries to clean his tongue by rubbing it against his shoulder.
“What the hell you doing? Eat it, Luc,” I yell at him, because everyone else is way ahead of him, now, and I don’t want him to lose. Okay if he doesn’t come in first place, but I don’t want him to come in dead last. I want him to feel some form of success.
He doesn’t go back to eating. He spits again and glares at me.
Time’s up. The buzzer sounds and everyone stops. Scott wins.
The girl on the mic shouts out, “Let’s hear it, guys!” and then everyone in the audience shouts in unison, “Winner bears it, loser wears it.”
Scott is given a crown to bear. And Lucas wears his pie when a cheerleader picks it up from the table and dumps it on top of his head.
I can smell it, now, and while the top layer may have been whipped cream, the rest was shaving cream.
The arms of the other four players are untied and they are allowed to dump what is left in their pie pans on Lucas. Zane is careful to really grind his deep into Lucas’s hair and down his neck and back. And Scott nearly suffocates the kid by cramming it in his face.
The place erupts in laughter, and when Scott turns to grin at me, I want to kill him.
Lucas spits, chokes, and gags for air and finally his hands are untied and he’s given a towel to clean up with. He’s able to get a majority of it off of his face, but there’s no way it’s all coming out of his hair right now.
His eyes burn. He keeps squeezing them closed, rubbing at them, and blinking a lot. And I’m betting his nasal passage is on fire as well. He keeps blowing into the towel.
No more time is given for him to recover. He’s rushed off to game number two. It’s some dumb event where a paper cup has been threaded through a line of yarn. The strand of yarn is long and is stretched tight between two chairs. The object is to see who can blow their cup from one end to the other, first.
I want Lucas to kick their asses this time, so I yell at him to, “Go! Go! Go!” But he loses again, and I don’t think it’s all due to the effects the pie contest had on him. I think the hole in his cup wasn’t cut as big as the others, because it doesn’t slide nearly as well or fast along the string.
This time the loser gets to wear a jester’s hat and it’s placed on Luc’s head. Again, everyone laughs at him. He’s embarrassed and refuses to wear it. He yanks it off nearly as quickly as it’s put on.
For being a poor sport, Scott leads the crowd in a heavy, “Boo.”
The third event is a pinata bust. A paper-mache replica of our rival team’s mascot is hanging from the basketball hoop. A blind fold is placed on the first player and he’s spun around a few times, then allowed to swing at will with the thick wooden dowel. He makes contact with the pinata, but doesn’t break it open. The next player takes his turn with similar results.
Zane is next. A cheerleader ties on his blind fold. He claims he can still see and adjusts it. He’s turned around and around, then he takes a swing and hits only air.
Everyone laughs.
He tries a second time, and the same thing happens. The crowd loves it and continues to playfully mock him. Then he swings with all his force, and this time, he makes contact. Only it’s not with the pinata. It’s with Lucas. He hits him right in the nuts with the stick and it instantly drops Luc to his knees. He’s curled up in a ball on the gym floor in front of, literally, the entire school.
Half of the crowd groans and the other half laughs at his misfortune.
Lucas is hurt, bad. There’s no question. He can’t breathe, his eyes are squeezed tightly and the blood vessels in his neck are standing out.
There’s no way it was an accident! No way. Zane is grinning too widely for it to be. He pulls off his blindfold and pretends to be surprised.
Principal Winford steps in to save the day by making everything worse. She snatches the mic up and tells everyone that, “Because we can’t be nice to Lucas, the pep rally is over.” Then she starts to lecture.
This makes everyone boo, and I even hear shouts of, “You suck, Luc.”
I move to help my brother, but Scott drapes an arm around me and while laughing, holds me in place.
“You guys are F–ing assholes,” I tell him.
He pats me on the chest and keeps laughing. “Calm down, it’s just for fun.”
“Who’s fun?”
“Use to be yours. And it looks like Itch is enjoying it.”
I glance over at Paige an
d she’s not at all happy. She gives me a completely disgusted look, shakes her head at me, then gets up and storms out of the gym. And it suddenly occurs to me that it looks like I was in on this. Like I picked Lucas knowing this was going to happen.
Coach has crossed the gym and is now knelt down next to Lucas with his hand on his back, so I break out of Scott’s hold and follow Paige.
She’s quite a ways down the empty hall when I push open the door and step out.
“Paige,” I yell to her. She ignores me and keeps walking. “Paige!”
“What, Ryan?” she spins around to shout at me.
“Wait.”
“How could you do that to him?”
“No, Paige, you’ve got it all wrong. I . . .”
“He’s you’re brother, Ryan. Your very own brother.”
“Paige.” I’m begging her to listen as I limp as fast as I can to catch up with her, but she doesn’t stop talking to let me explain.
“How could you make a fool out of him like that? What gives you the right?”
“Paige, please.”
“Do you think just because he’s blood that he has to keep loving you?”
“No. Paige . . .” I’m getting closer to her, but I’m still at least fifteen feet away.
“Who’s next? Me? You gonna shove me down and step all over me in the most humiliating way you can possibly think of?”
“No, Paige, I’d never do that to you, and you know it.”
“I thought I knew. I thought I knew you, Ryan, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Would you please listen? Look, I’m sorry.”
“You know what, Ryan,” her voice has calmed some. “You’re chasing down the wrong person to apologize to.”
Her words stop me in my tracks. I stare at her and she shakes her head again.
“I sure hope your other friends are impressed, because I’m not,” she says, then turns and leaves me.
It hurts. It hurts that she won’t listen, or believe what she knows in her heart is true about me. And it twists my guts to watch her walk away upset at me, but she’s right, I’m chasing the wrong person. Saying sorry to her can wait.
NINETEEN
The final bell has sounded and the school has emptied before I locate Lucas. He’s alone in the guy’s locker room. He’s sitting on a bench, leaned over his knees, head hanging low, and his back is to me.
Clearly, he’s taken a shower. The mess is gone from his hair and it’s still wet. He’s put on his PE shirt, and the one he wore to school today is lying soiled and wet on the floor by his feet.
“Luc?”
“Leave me alone, Ryan,” his voice is hard.
“No. I need to talk to . . .”
“I said leave me alone.”
“Look, I had no idea they were going to do that to you, okay?”
“No, Ryan, it’s not okay!” He shouts this at the top of his lungs, then rises from the bench, spins around and punches me in the mouth.
I’m caught completely off guard by this, but even if I’d been expecting it, I still would have ended up on the floor.
The force knocks me off my wobbly feet and smashes my lower lip into my teeth. It cuts the inside of my mouth and blood begins to flow. I spit some of it out, but swallow the rest because Lucas has jumped the bench and is now standing over me.
I’m lying on my right side and I look up at him. He’s been crying. His eyes have red rings around them.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that to you?” he asks. There’s deep rooted hate in his voice and it flickers in his eyes, too. “I’ve waited my whole life for it. I’ve spent the last two years lifting weights in the basement, so that I could be strong enough to kick your ass.”
“Luc.” He’s scaring me.
“Well, guess what, Ry? Now I finally can.” He draws back and kicks me in the left thigh.
I can’t even see. The pain is blinding. Literally. Everything fades to black for a moment and I hear him say, “I wish you could remember. I wish you were as F–ed up as you are now, but could still remember.” He kicks me again in close to the same spot and the pain is so sharp, I can’t even scream. It steals my breath.
“I wish you could remember how many times you’ve beat me up in front of my friends.” He kicks me a third time, then gets his wish. A string of memories reel through my mind like they did the night of the cockroaches, only at a much slower pace.
I see my fist doubled and pounding into Lucas’s chest while Connor stands in the background of our great room. I see Lucas pinned to the grass at the park, more than one onlooker watching me punch him in the head. And I see myself shove him into a cute girl he’s just smiled at in the hall at school.
“I wish you could remember how many times you’ve told me not to talk to your friends.”
Those memories flash like a strobe light. Spitting in his face and saying those words. Slamming him, pushing him, hitting him – constantly repeating the message.
“And how you let them shove me around and say the shit they do and think it’s so funny.” Lucas kicks my leg and shouts, “That’s for never telling them to stop.” He strikes again and makes harsh contact just above my knee. That’s the place where my femur was broken the worst. The place where it came through the flesh. The place where many hours’ worth of surgery has taken place because there was hardly enough bone below the break, but above the knee cap, to affix the rod and pins to.
“That’s for the time you dragged me into that stall right over there and let Scott shove my face in the toilet. For always telling me I’m not good enough. For taking anything that belongs to me that you want.”
He keeps kicking and yelling and each time he makes mention of something, more than a few of the horrible events play in my mind. But worse than seeing what I’ve done to him, is feeling it. I can feel Lucas’s physical pain, and I fully understand it, because I’ve had plenty of my own. And I can feel and understand his humiliation and embarrassment, because I’ve suffered a lot of that lately.
“For always taking Dad’s attention and using it until there’s nothing left for me. You’re always better, Ryan. Always better than me. You get the car. You get the girl. You get the game. You get! You get! You get! It’s always been all about you and it still is.”
Sixteen years of pain and frustration has been vented on my leg, and Lucas has gone way beyond hurting me. He’s kicked me so many times I feel myself starting to convulse. But I still can’t bring myself to beg him to stop, because I know I deserve this. I’ve had this coming for a long, long time, and he has the right to finally get even.
I don’t know who finds me, or how long it takes, but my blue belongings bag will have a matching buddy when I get home.
I can’t move my lower half. Not even a little bit. I can’t even wiggle my toes, the pain is so unreal. So while everyone my age is at the homecoming game, I’m lying in a hospital bed crying with my mom holding my hand. Dad paces the room wondering who would have done this to me.
I don’t feel any better on Saturday morning, other than my mind is numb. I stare blankly at the ID band around my wrist while the nurse checks the catheter that was inserted into me last night because I can’t get up to use the bathroom. She examines the large and dark bruises on my leg and when she leaves, Mom tries to talk to me again. I don’t look at her, and I don’t respond, and this must scare her because she leaves, and twenty minutes later Gretta shows up. I don’t talk to her either.
I just want to be left alone. All alone. No parents. No medical people. No head shrink. No cockroaches crawling around with their little F–ing pictures from the past.
I’m remembering way more than I want to, and as my mind replays events from my life with Lucas, I seriously begin to wonder if the old me even had a conscience at all.
I sleep away as much of the time as I can.
I’m released from the hospital on Sunday afternoon, but I’m still not able to put any pressure on my left leg, and usi
ng crutches isn’t an option. Too many other things keep that from happening. So I’m sent home in a wheelchair and I’m sitting in it, in the great room, when Lucas comes home on Sunday evening.
According to Mom he’s been gone all weekend. Went to Jake’s house after school and has been there ever since.
He comes through the front door and I hear his breath catch when he sees me. His eyes move from the wheelchair to my leg. They move from the ID band around my wrist, then finally to my face.
The swollen lump and stitched gash on the inside of my lower lip is keeping it from setting flush against my teeth and he notices. No way not to.
He knows I’m watching him, and he won’t quite make full eye contact. He steals quick little glances at me as if to gauge what level of pissed I’m on. But he doesn’t get an answer, because there isn’t one to have. I’m just not sure where I am with all of this, yet.
In order to get anywhere in the house, he has to pass me, and as soon as he realizes this, his jaw firms and his eyes harden. They lift and he makes direct contact. I stare at him, and he at me. He doesn’t say a word as he moves by me, and I don’t say anything either. What is there to say?
My beat down and hospital stay hasn’t gone public. I guess it’s because it happened on a weekend, at a school that was all but empty, and because Luc has kept his mouth shut. This is wise on his part, because Dad is on a witch hunt for whoever hurt me.
But in reality, I wish people knew what had happened and where I’d been. I wish the news has spread like wildfire, because, with it being the way it is, it looks like I purposely stood Paige up for the homecoming dance.
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