You (13 page)

You start down the hallway, keeping close to the lockers. The alarm could be off because the cleaning crew is behind schedule or some ridiculously dedicated teacher is working late. You ease your way through the building, listening for voices and footsteps. The hum of faulty fluorescent lights, too low to hear during the day, masks any noise you might make, the same way they might mask the sound of someone creeping up behind you.

There's a cavernous black space behind the glass doors to the cafeteria. You know what's in there—a lot of metal picnic tables, the kind that they can fold in half and roll away, the aluminum racks where you're supposed to put the trays, not enough garbage cans. You don't check the doors to see if they're locked. Zack isn't in there. It's too dark and he likes the spotlight.

As if on cue, you hear the electric pop of the PA
system, the light tapping of a finger on the metal microphone, and then Zack's voice echoes down the corridors.

“Kyle Chase, please report to the main office.”

He knows you're here—or he's guessing. And if there was anyone else in the building, they know now too. But you know it's just you and Zack. You can feel it. It's better this way.

You continue down the hall and make a turn. You go past the science labs, past the upper-level math classes, past the stairwell where you and Jake the Jock first met, past the office where the school psychologist asked you about your scar, and make the last turn to the main hall.

Zack is waiting for you by the trophy case. He's wearing his black sport coat and a bone-white shirt, a pair of those out-of-style jeans. He stretches his arms out wide, that smirk big on his face.

“Mr. Chase.
Outstanding
, sir, simply out standing.”

So far it's going pretty much the way you thought
it would. In the hours you wandered around the mall, waiting for nine to arrive, you thought through how you'd handle this. If you rushed him, he'd see it coming. He's not much bigger than you, but no reason to make it easy for him. And if you walked up with that look on your face, he'd see that, too. No, you have to do this differently.

Zack doesn't know what you know—and he's dying to tell you. That's why he called you here.

He finds your weak spot, then keeps pushing till you crack.

You didn't think you had any, but it turns out, you've got more than you thought. And he's found them all. But you're not going to crack. And he won't see it coming.

You step out of the shadow of the hallway and into the bright foyer by the trophy case, hands in your pockets, feet scuffing on the polished tile, smiling your best smile.

“Sorry I'm late. Couldn't get my locker open.”

He gives a fake little laugh. It's the same laugh he's always used, only now it's lost its magic. “I hear a tire iron works nicely. How are you doing, sir?” He reaches his hand out and you shake it, the same old-fashioned way you shook the hand of the guy at Sears.

“Any problems getting in here?”

“Moi?”
He steps back, acting hurt and surprised. “My good man, you offend me.”

You shrug, playing it cool. “Hey, how am I supposed to know? You had a busy day, you might have been distracted.”

He looks at you and there's this glint in his eye, and you know you said too much, too soon. He leans against the edge of the glass case, crosses his ankles then crosses his arms. Mr. Casual. “Indeed. It's been a
very
busy day.”

“Really?” You put one hand up to the top of the trophy case, the other you keep in your pocket. It's not comfortable, but you hold the pose.

“Oh yeah, busy. Let's see, it started at ten this morning. I had an appointment with Mr. Loman. You know Mr. Loman, don't you?”

You shake your head.

“Sure you do. He's the assistant manager over at Sears. Great guy. See, last evening a little bird told me that you had gone in for a job interview, and I said to myself, Zack, you should see what you can do to help out your pal. So this morning I spruced myself up and went to see the man himself. We chatted for about an hour—your name came up, by the way—and in the end it turns out I'm
exactly
the kind of applicant he's looking for. Imagine that.”

If he thought this would piss you off, he miscalculated. You look up to the ceiling as if you're trying to remember if you've ever been in a Sears before. He's watching you, you can feel it. He wants a reaction from you, wants to know he's found a way in. But you give him nothing.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” he continues. “Yesterday I had that little heart-to-heart with the lacrosse team coach, Mr. Comeau. You would have liked this, Chase. We're sitting in his office and I'm all teary-eyed, recounting how I was afraid that my only friend at venerable Midlands High was selling drugs—”

“You told him I sell drugs?” You feel your cheeks grow red, the muscles along your jaw start to burn, and you remember the way the man glared at you when he spit out your name.

“Oh, I can't remember who said what, but hints were dropped and names were named—or more specifically—
your
name was named. You see, I knew I wouldn't be there today and I didn't want you to get too bored. I thought a little police action would liven up your day.”

“You set me up?”

“Mr. Chase, you make it sound so mean. It was meant as a fun little distraction, a break in
your otherwise mundane routine. I thought you'd enjoy it.”

“
Enjoy it?
Now that coach thinks I'm selling drugs.”

“Since when did
you
care what Coach Comeau thought?”

You shouldn't care, really.

He's a coach, you're a hoodie.

But you do care. And you don't know why.

“What if I
had
something in my locker, huh? Then what?”

Zack shakes his head. “I checked. A few notebooks, a dead phone, a ridiculous sweatshirt, sort of like the one you're wearing. No, nothing
verboten
, Chase. However…” He drags the word out, enjoying the effect the word has on you, your teeth clenched now and eyes narrowing. “However,” he says again, “I
sure
hope they don't check your gym locker
too
early in the morning.”

You want to run to the locker room, but you know
that that's what he wants you to do. He even inclines his head down the back hall that leads to the gym, tempting you to go. But you don't. Whatever it is—if it's anything at all—it'll be there when you're done. Instead, you ask him the obvious question.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“To
you
?” Zack's eyes widen in surprise. “What makes you think
you're
so special? This is what I do with
everyone
, Chase. I'm sure someone must have told you that.”

“But why?”

“Why do
you
do what you do, Mr. Chase?” He uncrosses his arms to give an elaborate shrug, stepping away from the trophy case. “Why do any of us do the stupid things we do? Why does Nicole spread her legs as soon as someone tells her she's pretty? Why does Josh pay me money to come to my parties? Why does my mother leave me alone for days
knowing
the kind of things I get up to? Why does Brooke come crawling back every time I throw
her away, or Victoria buy me things I don't ask for? And you, young Mr. Chase.” He stops and faces you, dropping his arms. “Why do you hang around with me?”

You didn't expect the question. And you certainly don't have an answer. If you did, you wouldn't be here.

Zack takes a short step closer. “This is who we are, who we let ourselves be. All of us, playing roles. All the world's a stage, remember? All the men and women merely players. Some are sluts, some are fools, some are bullies, and some—the very few—the truly bold—they get the spotlight.”

“And
you're
the star?” And now you laugh.

“Oh, I get a few good lines now and then, but I'm more of a director. It's much more interesting.”

“So you screw with people's lives just for the fun of it?”

“Don't blame me, Mr. Chase.” He takes another step closer. Almost close enough. “I never told you
what to do, I never tell anyone what to do. I make suggestions, I provide opportunities, and I make them
very
tempting, but when it comes down to it, everyone makes their own bad decisions. Now is it
my
fault that what they choose to do is exactly what I want them to do?”

If your head were clear, if you were thinking straight, you'd know it was true. It's always been true. Your whole life is a chain of choices—your choices. It was your choices that landed you in Midlands in the first place. You could have chosen to stay tight with the friends you had instead of hanging around with losers, but that was another choice you made. And as far as grades, nobody forced you to become the kind of student who has few choices left.

If you thought about it you'd realize that you don't have control over everything, but you control how you react. You couldn't choose the way your father treats you, but he didn't make you punch a
hole in the wall. And who forced you to trash the men's room at the mall, or sucker punch that kid last year, or smash your alarm clock, or the thousand other stupid things you've done?

How You Got That Scar on the Back of Your Hand, Part 4. The Truth. You chose to put it there.

And Ashley? You couldn't make her like you, that's her choice. But you chose not to even try.

If you were thinking clearly, all of these things would make sense, but you're not, so the only thing that makes sense is going on with your plan. He's closer now, but you're careful not to tense up. Not yet.

“So you see, I don't screw up other people's lives, Mr. Chase. They are quite eager to do it themselves. And speaking of screwing…” He lets his words trail off, knowing he's got you now.

You lower your arm from the top of the trophy case—slow, relaxed—and hook your thumb on the saggy edge of your jeans. You shift the weight, bal
ance yourself. Still, not yet.

“Ashley told me you guys were skipping school today,” you say, trying to steal the moment from him. And you say it so easy, like it's some other girl and some other guy, not Ashley and Zack. “Have a good time?”

He's surprised, his smirk dipping, but he recovers and the smirk returns, bigger than before. “Yes, Mr. Chase, we
did
have a good time. Ashley is quite a wild woman, you know, up for everything I suggested. Made a few suggestions of her own, too. Very talented. Well, you'd almost expect it with that tight little body, don't you think? Believe me, it's as good as you've imagined.”

Your jaw tightens, you can't control it. You feel your breathing change, your heart rate pick up steam.

“She mentioned you as well. Oh, not in the middle of anything. After. Well, after the second time.”

“What did she say?” Your voice surprises you.
You weren't going to say a thing.

“You confused her, Mr. Chase.” Zack takes a half step closer. “She couldn't understand why you never asked her out. All those months, all those phone calls. Don't worry, I cleared it all up for her, told her how you were questioning your sexuality and how you thought she was flat and unattractive but still a good friend. Yeah, you're all set now. And don't worry about me, I'm done with her. Too easy.”

Your fingers curl into fists and you feel your arms drawing back. Zack sees it, too, but he still stands there, hands on his hips.

“Wait just a moment,” he says in a voice that's part soothing, part assertive. “I brought a peace offering.” Slowly he lifts one hand, raising his index finger, turning his wrist to point into the trophy case. “Got it special for you, Kyle. A little
souvenir
.”

You keep your eyes on him but turn your head, then give a quick glance in the case. It's deep—three feet at least—with raised platforms and
Roman column pedestals all supporting decades' worth of trophies. Tarnished metal quarterbacks in midthrow; skirted tennis players knocking fierce backhands; wrestlers ready for you to make a move; centers rolling in the layup; newer plastic versions with similar poses; trophies topped with miniature baseballs, lacrosse sticks, and soccer balls; lowly participation awards alongside division championships; wood plaques with rows of brass nameplates next to signed game balls and squads of formal team photos.

And along the back wall of the case, taller, shinier than the rest, isolated, impossible to miss, a multi-tiered state championship trophy, a golden athlete with his arms raised in victory.

In one hand he holds a wreath, and from the other dangles a bright red lace thong.

Tied at the crotch, a white tag with a computer-printed label.

PROPERTY OF ASHLEY BIANCHI
.

You feel your breath catch and your stomach
cramp, your knees threaten to buckle, and you see your reflection sway. And you can picture Ashley, pushing through the crowd of students Zack will have summoned, seeing what you see, seeing what everybody will see, Zack cracking her with his first push.

Behind you, you can hear Zack laughing.

There's only one thing to do, so you do it.

Now.

Fist up, arm cocked back shoulder level, hips one way, then snap the other, your whole body falling forward into the punch.

Everything in this one punch.

Anger.

Frustration.

Fear.

Hate.

Love.

With a frightening crash, the glass shatters, buckling in large sheets that collapse into the case,
knocking over trophies and shredding championship banners. The punch propels you into the case, your foot bracing against the frame. Glass falls around you, but you keep leaning in until, with one last lunge, you grab the thong, yanking it free. To the victor go the spoils.