Charles Benoit: You

The red LED starts flashing. You pull your elbow free and glare at him in the dim light.

“Simple logic tells us that the code would have to be something that everyone authorized to enter the building could easily remember. If you haven’t noticed, teachers are not an overly bright lot.”

You can feel your fist tighten and you know what’s coming.

“But then I realized where I had seen the numbers-the last four digits of the school’s phone number. Eight, six, zero, four.” He punches the keys as he says the numbers. “And then star and, voilà !”

The beeping stops, the red LED goes off.

Your teeth are still clenched.

“Well, Mr. Chase, that was close.”

Yes, it was.

“Come,” he says, swinging the tire iron up on his shoulder. “On with the mission.”

There’s something different about the school at midnight. The fluorescent lights are on during the day, but they only add to the natural light that floods through the windows. At night they give the hallways an eerie glow. The windows on the classroom doors are black, hiding everything inside. The only sound is the rush of air from the vents overhead. It’s a different building at night.

You notice it because, for the first time, you feel welcome here.

You’re surprised at how little noise you make walking down the hall. Even Zack is quiet, both of you listening for a door to open or a distant footfall. You take the stairs to the second floor, Zack leaning forward to scope out the hallway before you continue. You come around the corner and freeze, a square-jawed Marine in dress blues saluting you from behind a glass door.

“It scares me, too,” Zack says, pointing the tire iron at the life-size cardboard cutout in the career center. “I think it’s the two different blues. Not natural.”

It’s stupid, but you laugh and the tension is broken. You start walking and there’s a lightness to your step. You’re still alert-maybe more so-but now you’re not nervous. Now you’re having fun.

“Here we are, Mr. Chase. Locker one seventy-four.”

It looks like any other locker in the row-lime green, five feet tall, ten inches wide, a built-in combination lock next to the chrome latch. No decals on the front, no graffiti. Nothing that says THIS LOCKER BELONGS TO JAKE THE JOCK.

“Are you-”

“Yes, I’m positive it’s his,” Zack says. “I observed the lummox at this locker several times this past week.”

“And you’re sure it’s not his girlfriend’s?”

“Locker three fourteen. And remember, there’s a school rule against sharing lockers.”

You reach out for the tire iron. “Probably should come at it low.”

“Yes. Don’t want to pop the lock. That would give it all away.”

You slip the flat end in the slim gap between the locker door and the frame.

“Gently. Don’t bend the metal.”

With careful pressure, you bow out the door, creating a thin opening, a sliver of light shining in on a sweater and a stack of books.

“Here.” You move your hands out of the way so Zack can grip the tire iron. Then you unzip your fly.

Zack leans back and looks away but keeps the locker pried open. “Aren’t you glad I had you chug that Gatorade?”

You’ve got good aim. You can hear the warm stream soaking the sweater and splashing down the books, a metallic ring as it finds the back wall of the locker.

Zack edges farther away. “Watch it. Stay focused on the task in hand.”

It takes a satisfyingly long time, but you finish and zip up. Zack eases the door closed, stepping around the growing yellow puddle at the foot of the locker.

“See?” he says. “I told you it would be worth it.”

And he’s right.

Mission accomplished, you backtrack your way through the building. If you had tried something like this with Max or Derrick, somehow it would have gone wrong, with Max stuck in a window or Derrick making phone calls the whole time. And if it had been Ryan he wouldn’t have been happy until he’d smashed TVs and ripped up books.

This way was best. Adventurous. Almost classy.

It feels right.

So maybe life doesn’t suck so bad after all.

Until Zack stops in front of Ashley’s locker.

“This is your girlfriend’s locker, isn’t it? Miss Bianchi?”

You wish, but you don’t tell him that. You don’t need to, since he obviously knows.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” you say, and as you say it your stomach folds in on itself and your chest turns to lead and there’s a taste in your mouth like you’re about to puke and you don’t know why.

Zack’s eyebrows arch up too far. “ Really? Gosh, I didn’t know.”

He knew.

“Wow. She’s so darn cute. And you’re such a nice guy…”

But maybe not nice enough.

“It’s a shame, you’d be perfect together,” he says, and you’re not looking at him, but you can see him shake his head, overacting on purpose just to make it worse. “Are you sure you’re not a couple?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He tsk, tsk, tsks , and adds an exaggerated sigh. “Really and truly, cross your heart and hope to die?”

You choose an appropriate F-word response, delivering it with a casual nonchalance that you hope will end the discussion, hard to do through gritted teeth.

“Fine, fine,” he says, putting his hands up in mock defense as you start walking away. “Sooo…if she’s not your girlfriend you wouldn’t mind if I called her, right?”

You glance over at him and you’re thinking:

Wrong.

She wouldn’t talk to you.

She wouldn’t have anything to do with someone like you.

You don’t even know what she’s like.

You wouldn’t treat her right.

You’re not her type.

Don’t.

You start back down the hallway toward the stairs and foreign-language classrooms and over your shoulder you say:

“Do whatever you want.”

You hear a chuckle. “I always do.”

HOW YOU GOT THAT SCAR ON THE BACK OF YOUR HAND PART 3: WHAT YOU TOLD ASHLEY IN HOMEROOM ON MONDAY

Yeah, you do remember.

Last year, in March.

Yeah, on the bus.

I told you before.

You sure?

Oh.

I don’t like to talk about it.

I just don’t.

I don’t know.

Okay, but don’t tell anybody I told you.

Just because, okay?

Do you want to hear or not?

Promise?

All right, so some asshole was making fun of this retarded kid-

I don’t know, just some asshole.

I think he transferred or something.

He was saying crap, you know, about the retard.

Sorry.

Anyway, I’m sitting across from him and I go, shut the hell up-

Yeah, more than that, of course.

Well, because you don’t like when people swear.

Yeah, real frickin’ sweet.

So anyway, he keeps it up and I’m like, shut the hell up, and he’s like, what are you gonna do, so I stand up and go to punch him in the head-

I don’t know, tenth grade maybe.

About my size, maybe bigger.

No, he was bigger than that.

I didn’t care, he was making fun of the retard.

Sorry.

So I stand up and just as I’m swinging, the bus swerves and I go flying and put my hand through the window.

Yeah, blood everywhere.

He freaked.

Naw, didn’t hurt.

Twelve stitches.

I told them I slipped.

He was too scared to say anything.

The retarded kid?

I guess he still goes here, I don’t know.

Back in March.

A couple days after your birthday.

Yeah, I heard it was a good time.

No, I wasn’t there.

I’m sure.

I was probably busy anyway.

Yeah, that happens with emails sometimes.