Charles Benoit - You

“Oh, like I’m supposed to be scared of-”

“Yes,” Zack snaps, and for once the humor is missing from his voice. “And you are. Now go away before I decide to punch young Chase in the nose just to blame it on you.”

Jake scowls for a moment, stands a little taller, but it’s over and you all can feel it. He laughs like it’s not the big deal it is and pushes past Zack, bumping him out of the way, his crew in tow. He rounds the corner and you hear a fist dent in a locker-you can relate to that-then a moment later the crash bar to the exit being kicked open.

You don’t know what to say, so you rattle off a dozen swearwords, then snatch up your T-shirt and throw it in your backpack. Zack is standing off to the side, pushing buttons on his phone. You should say something, so you start to mumble “thanks,” but he cuts you off.

“I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m already a tad bit late for my appearance at the detention room. I’m sure you can take it from here.” He smiles, does that wave thing, and is gone.

HOW YOU GOT THAT SCAR ON THE BACK OF YOUR HAND PART 2: WHAT YOU TOLD THE SCHOOL PSYCHOLOGIST

I don’t know why everybody keeps saying that I’m angry all the time.

Okay, not every body.

My father, for one.

And I bet the bus driver, now.

But I’m not angry all the time.

Sometimes, sure.

Everybody is.

So why does everybody keep saying it’s just me?

All right, not every body.

Jesus.

It’s just an expression.

No, I’m not angry now.

But I could be if you want me to be.

I’m glad, too.

What really happened?

You read the report.

I slipped and fell into the seat and my hand went through the window.

I don’t care if you don’t believe it.

Why couldn’t it have happened that way?

Well, maybe I fell in farther than I thought.

Maybe my arm was higher, I don’t know.

Why should I tell you something different?

And get suspended?

Why do you care?

Right.

Okay, we’ll play what-if.

What if I told you that I wanted to punch that kid in the face?

The kid that was sitting there.

I don’t know, just some kid.

He pissed me off.

Something he said.

I don’t remember.

All right, something about me being stupid.

Why would I care what he thought?

Because he pissed me off, okay?

Damn.

I said I don’t remember.

I’m not getting mad.

He said something, so I went to hit him.

Professional help? Yeah, right.

Because I didn’t hit anybody.

I could have, but I didn’t.

I don’t know, I just didn’t.

Probably would have knocked him out. But I didn’t. Damn.

I hit the window instead.

No, that’s not what happened.

We were playing what-if, remember? I told you, I slipped.

There’s nothing else to talk about.

Can I go now?

It’s Friday night and you’re hanging around outside the 7-Eleven, freezing your ass off. They only let you in the store one at a time and Max is in there buying a Slurpee. It’s thirty degrees outside and he’s buying a drink made with crushed ice. And he’s taking forever about it, too, filling the cup’s domed lid one minute squirt at a time.

Derrick was a no-show, but you figured that. He and Shannon had been fighting all day at school, something he said or didn’t say or something else altogether, you didn’t want to know. He was home, on the phone no doubt. Damage control. It would be different for you and Ashley. You’d never argue with her. You’d just agree with everything she said. You’re sure she’d like that because that’s pretty much what you do now.

Ryan is outside with you, leaning up against the spot where there used to be a pay phone. You don’t remember there ever being a phone, but there had to have been one once because they still have that metal hood that says phone on the side. He’s got Kristi pulled up tight against him, her legs snaked around his, both of them holding their cigarettes off to the side as they stick their tongues down each other’s throats. There’s a vinyl banner across the front of the building-OPEN 24/7. BECAUSE THIRST NEVER SLEEPS-and the way it’s hanging it blocks the store’s spotlight, putting the two of them in a shadow. But it’s still light enough to see her grinding up against his leg like she does every time she gets near him. She’s in the eleventh grade, and she and Ryan have been banging away every chance they get for the past year.

She’s okay looking, you guess. She has mousy colored hair that’s frayed at the edges and she wears too much makeup, even by Midlands’ standards. Her voice sounds old, all gravelly and raw, and she swears more than any guy you know. Once last summer, when Ryan was visiting his dad, you two got busy in the shed in your backyard, your first time, her first time that week. After all the hype, you were surprised at how little it meant to you and disappointed that it meant even less to her.

You were in eighth grade when your parents gave you the Talk. Which was a little late, since in sixth grade you had written that report on ways to prevent sexually transmitted diseases. But they wanted to avoid any future “problems,” saying that it was important that you “got it straight.” You wanted to tell them that getting it straight wasn’t the problem, but they seemed so serious that you didn’t say a thing. And that made them more serious. In the end what they did try to explain you knew years ago, your mother wrapping it all up by saying, “Remember, Kyle, every girl is somebody’s sister.” You know what she meant, but she obviously didn’t know Kristi. Besides, Kristi is an only child.

Max walks out of the store, Slurpee in hand, grinning, and you wonder if his parents did a lot of drugs before he was born. He holds up the cup. It’s the size of a small mailbox. “I mixed the orange one and the Coke one and the energy drink one and the pineapple one all together.”

“How’s it taste?”

“Like crap. You see the guy in there?”

You look past him and at the manager behind the counter, a guy your father’s age with even less hair and a nervous way of looking around, like any second he expects some crackhead to burst in with a shotgun. Not that it’s likely, but working alone in a store like that, your mind probably wanders a lot. “Yeah?”

“See his coat?”

You look again. It’s the bright red smock they wear with a name tag and a button that says WE ID EVERYONE. “Yeah?”

Max grins. “Maybe your freaky friend Zack can borrow it sometime.”

You could tell him that he’s wrong, that it’s not a sport coat and that Zack isn’t your friend, but that would just keep him going on about coats and smocks and everything, and it’s just not worth the effort.

Kristi comes up for air and looks over at Max. “Oooh, a Slurpee. Can I have some?”

“Sure,” Max says. What else could he say? The rule is any decent-looking girl asks to share your drink or have a lick of your ice cream or take a bite of a sandwich, you say yes. It’s gross if you think about it, especially like now, Kristi’s lips all covered with Ryan’s spit, but there are some rules even you wouldn’t break. She peels herself off Ryan and runs over to Max, her feet scuffing the sidewalk like a little kid. She does the up-and-down straw thing first, then takes a long sip. Ryan makes the expected jokes about better things to suck on and she replies with the expected suggestive comments, Max giggling like he hasn’t heard them all a hundred times before, adding his expected third-wheel line so Ryan can make his well-rehearsed just-try-it-and-see-what-happens threat, and you’re wondering when the last time any one of them had an original thought was. You’re all standing there-Ryan still leaning in the ex-phone booth, Max and Kristi near the store entrance and you somewhere in between-when Jake the Jock pulls up in his car.