Charles Benoit: You

“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.

You always knew it would be different with Ashley. And it still could be.

For months, you chose to do nothing. But now you choose to act, and things will be different. You’ll tell her the things you always wanted to tell her, the things you know she wants to hear. Because with you, things will be different. And you’ll never tell her about what Zack said, and you’ll make damn sure he doesn’t tell anyone else.

It’s going to be different now, you can feel it.

And that’s when you notice the blood.

Your arm sliced open from wrist to armpit, that final lunge shoving the pointed shard deep inside, holding you up.

You’re surprised at all the blood.

He looks over at you, eyes wide, mouth dropping open, his face almost as white as his shirt.

He’s surprised, too.

There’s not a lot of broken glass, though, just some tiny slivers around his feet and one big piece, busted into sharp peaks like a spiking line graph, the blood washing down it like rain on a windshield.

He doesn’t say anything clever or funny, doesn’t quote Shakespeare, he just screams. But no one can hear him, and it would be too late if they could.

You’re thinking, this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go, this shouldn’t be happening. And now things are only going to get worse.

You’re just a kid.

It can’t be your fault.

But then there’s all that blood.

So, maybe it is your fault, but it doesn’t make it any better.

And it doesn’t matter one way or the other.

Think.

When did it go wrong?

The break-in?

No, before that.

The party?

That was part of it, but that wasn’t when it started.

Zack?

Of course, yeah, it would be easy to say it was Zack. But that’s not it, is it?

Before Zack.

Before Ryan. Before Max or Derrick or that whole thing with the wallet.

Before Ashley.

Before tenth grade even began.

And you’re thinking, this can’t be it.

CHARLES BENOITis a former high school teacher and the Edgar Award-nominated author of three adult mystery novels. This is his first book for young-adult readers. He lives in Rochester, New York. You can visit him online at www.charlesbenoit.com.