The Importance of Being Kevin

by Steven Harper

  “Oh. Okay.” I could hear the hurt in his voice, but I couldn’t face him. Not now. “Well, see you tonight.”

  “Yeah.” The phone cord was cutting off the circulation in my fingers. “Gotta rehearse, right? See you.”

  We hung up. My hand stayed on the phone for a second, then convulsed there. Rehearsal. Les would be at rehearsal.

  Nausea rushed over me in a black wave, and I barely made it to the bathroom in time. I clutched the cold toilet and threw up. Acid burned me up and down.

  This was all because I’d kissed Peter. If I hadn’t done that, Les would never have seen me and gotten those ideas. He wouldn’t have come after me like that. It was my fault.

  I threw up again and again until there was nothing to throw. I sat on the thin bathroom carpet. Just sat. And sat. I didn’t have the energy to move. Time passed. The bathroom grew darker as the sun shifted. I didn’t move. The bathroom grew darker still. I didn’t move. Finally I dragged myself to my feet. Almost time for rehearsal. My legs cramped up, and I bore the pain as my due.

  Outside I inflated my bike tire with the hand pump. I couldn’t let everyone else down. It wouldn’t be fair. I pedaled the long way into town so I could avoid the park, and I tried not to think about rehearsal, but when I arrived at the Art Center, my mouth dried up, and iron bands of fear tightened around my chest. Les was waiting beyond that iron door, and I had to go through it. I was so scared. He—

  The rear door banged open, and I jumped. My bowels went loose. I cried out and hated myself for being such a coward. Iris poked her head outside.

  “There you are,” she said. “You’re late, kiddo. Remember, you lose the role if you get more than two tardies. I don’t make exceptions.”

  I locked my bike with shaking hands. “S-sorry, Iris. Coming.”

  She followed me inside, and we walked side by side down the hallway toward the theater. I remembered how scared I’d been about the idea that this hallway might lead me to jail. Now that idea seemed a much better option. Maybe I should just drop out and go to juvie. Get it over with.

  “Are you okay, Kevin?” Iris asked. “Your face is white as milk.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Really. Just a little tired. I’m… I’m….”

  The room tilted. I fell dizzily against the cinder-block wall. Iris made a startled sound and caught me by one arm. “Kevin!”

  Then I was sitting on the floor with my head between my knees. The hallway was dark around the edges. Iris knelt beside me with her arm around my shoulders. Words built up and spilled out. I couldn’t stop them.

  “I’m so scared, I’m so scared, I’m so scared,” I chanted.

  “Kevin, what’s wrong?” Iris’s voice was filled with concern. “Tell me.”

  I had to tell someone. I couldn’t keep it in. “I was attacked. Last night. On the way home from rehearsal.”

  I waited for disgust, but Iris sounded worried instead. “Attacked? Kevin, what happened? It’s all right—you can say.”

  “I… I was….” Fear drained some of the words away. I couldn’t quite say everything. “This guy jumped me.”

  “Do you know who it was? Did you call the cops?”

  “I don’t know who it was. I didn’t call anyone.” My eyes were hot, and my nose felt swollen.

  She helped get me to my feet. “Let’s go into the green room and we’ll talk, all right?”

  A few minutes later, I was sitting on a lumpy couch in the green room, which is what theater people call the place where actors wait until they’re needed onstage, even if the walls aren’t actually green. Iris handed me a can of Coke and sat down.

  “I’ve got the others running lines,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

  I held the cool can against my wrists. It calmed me a little. “There isn’t much to tell. A guy jumped me in the park. He wanted money, but I didn’t have any. So he hit me a couple times and ran away.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  Les’s grinning face floated in front of me for a second. “Maybe,” I muttered.

  “We should call the police. Even if you can’t tell them who did it, you should file a report in case he’s caught later.”

  I tensed. “No.”

  “Kevin, I know it’s hard.” She touched my wrist. “A lot of assault victims react this way. And it’s how people like your attacker get away with it.”

  “It’s not that.” I hated lying to her. It made me feel like a worm under dog turds. “I’m sort of… on probation.”

  Iris straightened her glasses. “Probation?”

  “My PO told me I had to get a job or do a summer program like the play. So I did. If I call the cops… I’m already on their bad side. They won’t believe me—or I’ll just get in trouble again.”

  “Look, kiddo.” Her voice was gentle and made me want to cry again. I took a hard breath so I wouldn’t. Crying in public is embarrassing. “The cops won’t care that you’re on probation. You’re the victim here. What did your parents say?”

  I almost dropped the pop can. “Don’t tell my dad! He’ll pull me out of the play.”

  “All right, all right. I won’t.” She got up. “Look, I really have to get back to rehearsal. Do you want to go home, get some rest? We won’t count it as an absence.”

  “No! The play…. It helps me deal.” That hadn’t been what I meant to say, but it was true. I could be someone else for a while. Algy didn’t give a shit about Les.

  “Sure. I’ll have Les read for Algy until you’re ready.” She paused. “I saw Peter at the pop machine. He’s worried about you, but I told him we needed to talk in private.”

  I sat there for several minutes after she left, drinking the Coke. It was the only thing I’d had all day, and the sugar rush flooded my veins. Finally I got up and slipped into the backstage area. Ropes and pulleys with weights at the bottom lined the back wall, and black curtains hung in a velvet maze. Everything was painted black back there. On the stage, Meg Kimura, an Asian girl I didn’t know very well yet, was sitting on a couch. Meg was playing Cousin Cecily, my character’s eventual girlfriend. Jack, Peter’s character, was looking after her because her parents had died. We were all supposed to ignore Meg being an Asian girl in a white family. I guess lots of plays did that kind of thing now.

  Beside her on the couch sat Les. He was playing Algy, my character. I didn’t want him to do that, but I didn’t want to go out there either. I felt hot and cold, angry and scared, all at once.

  Meg said as Cecily, “I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like everyone else.”

  Les said as Algy in a really bad English accent, “Oh! I am not really wicked at all, Cousin Cecily. You mustn’t think that I am wicked.”

  I watched with a sick fascination and didn’t notice a hand reach out of the darkness behind me.

  “If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very inexcusable manner.”

  The hand landed on my shoulder. I jumped and twisted like a fucked-up cat.

  “I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.”

  Peter pressed me against the stage wall, a hand over my mouth. He was grinning his starlight grin. I felt like I’d been slammed into a cage.

  “Sh,” he whispered. “It’s just me.”

  “Oh! Of course I have been rather reckless,” Algy said.

  I grabbed Peter and clung to him there in the dark. He looked surprised.

  “In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very bad in my own small way,” Algy said.

  Peter held me at arm’s length. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure it must have been very pleasant,” said Cecily.

  I had to feel something, anything, nice. I kissed Peter. Hard. He kissed back.

  Algy said, “It is
much pleasanter being here with you.”

  The kiss ended, and Peter smiled at me. It did feel nice. “Five,” he said.

  Les whispered his own numbers in my head. Suddenly Peter’s face merged with Les’s. I felt sick. The air grew close and still. I spun and had just enough time to see shock cross Peter’s face before I fled.

  “That is a great disappointment,” Algy said behind me. “I have a business appointment that I am anxious to miss.”

  I grabbed my bike and pedaled furiously toward home. It was mostly dark out. Low black clouds hung in the sky, and lightning lanced across them ahead of me. The temperature dropped. I pushed harder as rain fell in fat drops. It turned into heavy sheets that rushed over the street and wet me through. I didn’t care. Nothing mattered. I was nothing.

  The downpour continued all the way home. When I turned into the driveway, my front tire hit a rut or a rock or something, and I wiped out. My bike went one way, I went another, and I stomach-surfed across the wet grass with an “oof.” Once I slid to a stop, I just lay there, arms cradled around my head, hoping the rain would melt me into the ground. I wasn’t sure if I was crying or not. Thunder rolled and crashed above me, but I ignored it.

  I lay there a long time in the heavy rain and gathering gloom. Eventually I heard a soft “Hey.”

  Peter. I didn’t know how to feel, though I was rock tired. My arms jacked me half-upright of their own accord. “What do you want?”

  “I was frightened, man. Iris told me you got into a bad fight. Are you… I mean….”

  “I’m fine. I’m….” Air rushed out of me. “I’m scared shitless.”

  “If you wanna talk about it, I’ll listen.” He sounded like Iris. “It’s what boyfriends are for.”

  “I dunno if I can talk about it.” Rain bucketed over us both. My feet were soaked inside my shoes, and my fingers had wrinkled up. Stupid thing to think about. “I’m scared all the time, Peter. I’m scared he’s gonna come back and… and do it again.”

  “Do what?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Look.” Peter was sitting next to me now, not caring that he was getting just as wet. That made me feel a little better. A lot better. He cared enough to sit with me in the rain. “You got into a fight. It’s shitty, but it happens, you know? You don’t have to—”

  “He raped me.”

  A long moment passed. I drew my knees up under my chin without looking at Peter. Why wasn’t he responding? Jesus, why had I said anything? Now he thinks I’m some kind of fag slut. I tensed myself to get up and run.

  Peter grabbed me in a heavy hug. “Oh my god. Kevin, I’m so sorry. Jesus, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  That gave me pause. “What? How is this your fault?”

  “I only realized it after you ran out at rehearsal—the attack happened just after I took off, didn’t it? If I hadn’t left you alone, it wouldn’t have happened.” He let me go and ran a hand over his wet face. “I’m a shit. I’m sorry, Kev.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I took his hand. “You couldn’t have known.”

  Peter wiped at his eyes. Was he crying? “Yeah, well… if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to feel guilty for a while yet.”

  I managed a small smile and noticed Peter’s Mustang parked in the mouth of the driveway. My driveway. Shit. Peter was seeing where I lived. But in comparison with everything that had happened, that didn’t seem so important.

  “How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

  “Iris had your address on the audition form.” Water dripped off his nose. “She thought someone should check on you. I took off before anyone else could volunteer. My car’s pretty fast.”

  “Yeah. Sweet ride,” I said with envy. “Geez, are you rich?”

  “Kinda.” With a sheepish grin, Peter pushed back his soaking hair. “My grandfather left me a fund.”

  I pointed at the trailer. “Yeah, well, mine didn’t.”

  “I can see that. And you know what?” He towed me to my feet and hauled me toward it. “Who gives a shit? If it’s dry, let’s go in.”

  Seconds later we stood dripping inside the front door. Peter let out a low whistle. “Hell of a book collection. Yours?”

  “Nah. I like to read okay, but my dad’s the book fiend.” I covered my discomfort at having him there in my crappy home by grabbing a pair of towels and tossing one so it landed on his head. “You can use this.”

  He rubbed it over his hair. “Look, I don’t want to sound like a bad porn movie, but we should get out of these wet clothes. You got anything I can borrow?”

  And then we were in my bare bedroom. Peter leaned against the doorway while I rooted through my dresser, throwing clothes around with wild abandon because I didn’t know what else to do. He was in my room, in my freakin’ room, and he was going to take his clothes off. Were we going to do it? Did I want him to? I wasn’t sure. Not after Les. Even before Les, I wasn’t sure. Everything was so mixed up. If he wanted to and I didn’t, would he not want to be boyfriends anymore?

  “T-try these.” I handed him some stuff, and our hands touched. My eyes met his, and all the air went out of the room.

  “Thanks.” His voice was soft. “I’ll hang the towel in the bathroom while I change. Be right back.” And he left.

  I dropped onto the bed with my head in my hands. Robbie watched me from his picture frame on the nightstand. I was kind of mad that Peter didn’t want to and also totally relieved. How could I be both at the same time? It was so fucked-up. I was so fucked-up.

  Noises came from the bathroom. I yanked off my wet clothes and pulled on dry ones. My shoes were a sloppy wreck, so I went barefoot. Peter appeared in the doorway wearing a pair of baggy basketball shorts and the biggest T-shirt I owned. It was still too small for him, and it clung to every muscle of his chest and torso. I couldn’t stop staring.

  “Way better.” He stretched out an arm that threatened to burst from the sleeve. “I think.”

  “You look great,” I said, glad I was able to say it out loud. “You should dress that way all the time.”

  Peter dropped onto the bed like I had earlier, and I noticed his face was a little red. Had I embarrassed him? Hmmm…. He picked up Robbie’s photo. “So who’s this?”

  “Don’t.” I snatched it from him angrily. “Don’t ever touch it.”

  “Oh. Sure, okay.” Peter got up, but I was looking down at the photo and didn’t see the expression on his face. “Look, maybe I should go. See you.”

  He headed for the door. A lump gathered in my throat, and I kept staring down at the photo. It was ending before it even began. The nasty inner voice said, See? You don’t deserve him or anything else. I just couldn’t keep it together. I never could.

  The empty doorway stared at me. Idiot!

  I ran into the living room with the photo still in my hand. Peter’s hand was on the knob to the front door. “Wait!” I ran up and put my free arm around him. He was warm. “I’m a shit. I don’t want you to leave.”

  We sat down on the sagging couch with Robbie’s photo amid the books on the coffee table, our arms around each other as if we might float away if we let go.

  “I’m glad you ran out when you did,” Peter whispered in my ear.

  “Why?”

  He grinned at me. “Because I was getting pretty bored standing there with my hand on the doorknob.”

  I leaped at him. “You jerk!”

  We wrestled on the couch, both laughing. Somehow I got him pinned to the cushions by the wrists. Peter smiled up at me. And then it was me and Les in the park. I leaped away and huddled on the far side of the couch.

  “Sorry…,” I muttered.

  Peter turned sideways on the couch to face me. The smile left his face, and he looked both serious and sympathetic. “This is about what happened in the park, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “And about that kid in the picture.”

  Now I looked at him. “How did—” />
  “Dude, it’s written all over you.”

  An insane image popped into my head. I was covered with tattoos of my life story, and everyone could read them.

  “Was he… you know… your first boyfriend?” Peter said.

  I stared at him, wide-eyed. Peter looked sorry he asked, but he resolutely met my gaze. And then I burst out laughing. I clutched my stomach and laughed and laughed. “Oh my god. First boyfriend. That’s great!”

  “Glad you liked it.” Peter looked a little put out.

  The laughter passed, and I wiped my eyes. “Oh man. No, he wasn’t my boyfriend. Kinda the opposite.”

  “So what about him, then?”

  I got up and went to the window. Outside, the rain came down like the clouds were trying to wash away every tragedy in the world. “I tried to kill him.”

  ACT I: SCENE V

  KEVIN

  I WAS angry, I said to Peter. Like, all the time. I had no real friends. My mom was gone. She left the second Dad got out of jail. I think she was counting time out here just like he was in there. He got home, and she took off. Couldn’t wait to get rid of a shitty kid like me. That was when I was nine.

  Anyway, I only had Dad, and I still didn’t know him very well. He wouldn’t understand anything. Besides, I was pissed at him. Pissed at him for going to jail, pissed at him for not being around, pissed at him for making Mom go away.

  What? No, I have no idea if he really made her go or not. I was just pissed. Some other shit was bugging me too, but I didn’t want to think about any of it, so I went out and made friends with some extreme east-siders, guys I knew Dad would hate. They were a little older than me—I was fifteen—and they did some wild shit. Broken bottles and crystal meth lightbulbs in abandoned single-wides was just the start of it. I drank and stole, yeah, but at least I wasn’t stupid enough to try the meth. Oh hell, that’s not true. I was too scared to go through with it, though I pretended I was hitting it.

  Then, over spring break, Hank—he was kind of the leader—said it was time for a real bash. I… I liked Hank. A lot. I also hated that I liked him so much. It was another reason to be pissed off so much. It wasn’t just Hank who gave me those kind of feelings. It was… well, you know how it goes.